Okay, Jack. You’re here. Now what?
I ordered an orange juice, playing out various possibilities. As long as Dalton was kept under surveillance, we could arrest him once we had enough evidence to satisfy probable cause.
The term probable cause was misused a lot on TV shows and in books. In U.S. law, it meant a cop could only arrest a suspect if there was information sufficient to convince the cop that a perp had committed a crime, or that evidence of a crime or contraband would be found if a search was conducted. This would justify a search warrant or an arrest warrant, and it had to be able to stand up in court, at a probable cause hearing.
I had a reasonable suspicion that Dalton had abducted a child, and was possibly the enigmatic Mr. K. As a law enforcement officer, that allowed me to detain Dalton for brief periods to question him, and search him if I suspected he had a weapon on him. But it didn’t allow me to bring him in. All he’d given me was double-talk and innuendo, and the case would get kicked before even making it to the arraignment. Even if I perjured myself, lying to the judge and testifying that Dalton had said or done things he really hadn’t, I’d still be required to prove those things at the hearing. The fact that Dalton had survived this long without a single blemish on his record showed he was unlikely to make mistakes, and having his lawyers meet him at the storage area was smart. I couldn’t get to him, either legally or illegally.
Herb walked in, pulling up a stool next to me.
“I left the key under your car,” he said, referring to the concrete milk jug. “Anything happening?”
“Nothing so far. The guy is leaving the country tomorrow, and is possibly about to murder a child, and he’s sitting there without a care in the world.”
Herb picked up the plastic table tent that served as a menu. “Hmm. They have batter-fried bacon.”
I frowned at him. “Wouldn’t it be faster just to inject the cholesterol directly into your arteries?”
“Probably not. Doesn’t matter, though. As of right now, I’m officially on a diet. It was pretty embarrassing not being able to sit up in your car.”
“Good for you,” I said.
The bartender came back, and Herb ordered some fried zucchini sticks. When I gave him the stink eye, Herb said, “What? They’re vegetables.”
I turned my attention back to Dalton. If one of the leads panned out, we could grab him. But I couldn’t count on that. If he really was Mr. K, I couldn’t let him leave the country. It violated everything I stood for.
So how could I make him stay?
“If we saw him committing a crime, we could arrest him,” Herb said. My partner often seemed able to read my mind.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“We could plant drugs on him.”
“Drugs?”
“I saw that on The Shield.”
“Good idea. Give me that bag of cocaine you always carry around with you.”
Herb frowned. “Maybe I could get some out of the evidence locker.”
“You’d have to sign for it. Internal Affairs would love that.”
“Don’t you know any dealers we could shake down?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“No. We’re not very good crooked cops.”
Both Herb and I knew this was fantasy talk, not real. While we’d both bent a few rules in our days, planting evidence just wasn’t going to happen.
“I could try to provoke him into taking a swing at me,” Herb said.
“Dalton wouldn’t do it. And if you tried it in front of his lawyers, you’d be facing a harassment lawsuit.”
But that got me thinking. I pulled out my cell.
“Who are you calling?” Herb asked.
“We’re cops. Our hands are tied. What we need is help from someone who isn’t so encumbered by the law.”
“Jack, you’re not really considering…”
He picked up on the first ring. “Hiya, Jackie. Is this a booty call? I think I can squeeze you in tonight. When you stop by, wear something slutty. And bring a pizza.”
I rolled my eyes. “That isn’t going to happen. But I do need your help.”
“I like needy women.”
“I’m at Spill. Get over here as fast as you can, Harry.”
Present day
2010, August 10
I had to stop rubbing my wrists against the concrete because I was crying again. It was both shocking and disheartening how a little salt on some superficial wounds hurt so much. I blew air out of my nose, clearing my nasal passages, trying once more to get my breathing under control. The countdown clock drew my eyes yet again.
1:12:19…1:12:18…
I peered over my shoulder, looking to see the amount of nylon cord I’d managed to cut through, feeling a surge of panic when I saw I hadn’t even gotten a third of the way through one of the ropes, and my wrists were wound around several times.
Doing a quick mental calculation, I realized I wasn’t going to free myself in time. I had to speed this up, or I would still be tied up when the clock reached zero.
Snorting in a big, wet breath, my eyes blurry with tears, I sawed my burning wrists against the concrete with renewed fervor brought about by raw fear. My salted wounds hurt more than just about anything I’d ever felt.
But I knew the Catherine Wheel would be a lot worse.
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 17
Everyone kept staring at me when I got to the office that morning. No one said anything to my face, or even made direct eye contact. But I kept catching sideways glances and seeing whispered exchanges, to the point where I was feeling sort of paranoid. I wondered if I had my Armani suit on backwards, or toilet paper stuck to my shoe. A quick mirror check in the restroom didn’t answer any questions for me; I thought I looked fine.
I’d been to the third floor, Homicide, only a few times. It was a large area, the desks all out in the open. After weaving through a few aisles, I found Detective Herb Benedict pecking away at a keyboard and squinting into a green monochrome monitor. Next to him was a box of a dozen donuts, half of them missing. Like Shell, I had no idea where Herb put those extra calories. But I was more impressed by his computer. That he had his own, rather than had to share it, meant he must have been more important than I’d guessed. Those things cost more than my car.
Herb looked up at me, raising an eyebrow. “May I help you, ma’am?”
I set the files I was holding—the prior victims—on his desk. “Reporting for duty, Detective.”
He seemed puzzled, and then his eyes went wide.
“Jacqueline? Uh…wow. I actually didn’t recognize you. That’s some suit.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t mention Shell bought it, having no idea if that violated some sort of ethics code or rule. “Nice computer.”
Herb smiled. “Thanks. Can you believe it has twenty megabytes of memory?”
“That’s insane,” I said, shaking my head. “Who would ever need that much?”
“The world is changing so fast I can’t even keep up. Do you know what a cellular radio phone is?”
“Those big, clunky portable things that look like bricks with huge antennas? Like Michael Douglas used in Wall Street?”
Herb nodded. “They sell for a cool four grand. But I heard they’re working on making them more affordable. Technology experts predict one out of a thousand people will have a cell phone by the year twenty-ten.”
“In just twenty years? No way. I can’t even imagine needing one. And it’s not like I could fit that giant thing in my purse.”
“Maybe they’ll get smaller,” Herb said. He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Did you review the vics’ files?”
I nodded. I’d been up late last night, poring over the files. The three victims had all died in similar fashions, of internal bleeding. All had been drugged, and dismembered. All had been found in Dumpsters, without heads. Alongside one of the bodies was a bloody ball gag. That last detail popped out at me. I
remembered that lecture from the police academy, about Unknown Subject K.
“Have you ever encountered a victim where a ball gag was used?” I asked.
Herb’s eyes twinkled. “You’re thinking about Mr. K, aren’t you?”
“It’s one of his signatures.”
“Possible. It’s also possible all the unsolveds that involved gags are being incorrectly lumped together and attributed to some imaginary boogeyman.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I like keeping an open mind. I find that if I pursue an investigation with a bias, I might miss something important because it doesn’t fit with my theory. Ready to visit Shell’s office?”
“Yeah.”
Herb let me drive, which blew my mind. In my time on patrol, and being partners with McGlade, I never drove. Perhaps Herb was confident enough that it didn’t bother him to let a woman take control. Or perhaps he was just lazy.
“A Chevy Nova,” Herb said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Nice. Roomy, too.”
“I figure I’ll keep it another year, then trade up to something nicer. Where we headed?”
“River North. Rush and Ohio.”
I pulled out of the police parking lot and melded into traffic. For August, it was cooler than normal. There was still the muggy humidity from being close to Lake Michigan, but it wasn’t devastating my hair and makeup like it normally did this time of year.
“So what other thoughts did you have, looking at the files?” Herb said.
“All three of the victims went on dates with two of the same men. Both older. Both rich, without records.”
“Would you consider them suspects?”
“No.” I smiled at Herb. “But I like to keep an open mind.”
“Any link among the women?”
“They were all escorts. Two were white, one was of Asian descent. All three were very pretty. Two were college-educated, and the third was working on her bachelor’s degree, part-time. And all three earned more per year than I do. Plus there was something else I found interesting.”
“What’s that?”
I turned onto Michigan, hitting the gas. The car was a bit sluggish—one of the reasons I was going to replace it soon. “The girl who didn’t work for Shell worked for a company called Elite Escorts. It’s a small operation, just a dozen girls. Like Shell’s. I called a few other services last night, and most of them are big. Fifty, a hundred girls. The Dodd Agency—the one Shell said has been aggressively pursuing his girls—is one of the biggies.”
“Why would they be involved? They’re a big fish. Shell is a small fry.”
“Don’t you know your Darwin?” I asked. “The big fish eat the small ones. That’s how they get big.”
Michigan Avenue was stop-and-go, crammed with people in cars and on foot. This area was quintessential Chicago to me. Shops and hotels. Further ahead, the Art Institute, Grant Park, the Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium. Soldier Field, where the Bears played. The Magnificent Mile, with beaches and one of the most memorable city skylines in the world. My kind of town, and the reason I would never ever move to the suburbs.
There wasn’t a single place to park on Michigan, even illegally, so we looped up to Grand, turned right, and got onto Rush.
“Turn in the alley, here. Shell said we can park around back.”
Herb directed me into a little three-car lot behind the buildings, two spots already taken with a Cadillac and a black Honda.
I pulled in and stepped out into the alley, smoothed my pants, adjusted my shoulder pads, and picked up Shell’s box of lights and his backdrop. Herb took the box from me.
“Yuck,” he said, making a face. The garbage smell was bad enough to melt my eyeballs. I held a hand over my nose and mouth, and we hurried out onto Rush Street.
Together we walked past Pizzeria Uno—where deep-dish pizza was invented back in the 1950s—up to a small boutique-style building shared by an art gallery and Classy Companions, Shell’s agency. After climbing the concrete steps and entering the enclosed porch through a door on spring hinges, we were slapped by a blast of frigid air. The buzzers along the security door had options for the two businesses, and several tenants living above them.
“Other people live in the building,” I said to Herb, thinking I hadn’t seen anything about tenants in the reports. Statistics showed that over ninety percent of murders were committed by someone who knew the victim.
“Women. All of Shell’s ladies,” Herb said, pressing the buzzer. “This is where you’ll be staying for the duration of the case.”
After a moment, the speaker above the buzzers said, “Classy Companions.” It was a female voice, deep and husky.
“Detective Herb Benedict, and Officer Jacqueline Streng,” Herb answered.
The door buzzed, and we went in. The hallway divided the bottom floor into two halves. On one side was the gallery, on the other, the agency. The door to Classy Companions was heavy wood, the company name stenciled on at eye-level. Herb pointed over our heads and I looked up, seeing the security camera.
“Is that new?” I asked.
“Shell put it in after the first murder.”
“You’ve reviewed all the tapes?”
“Yeah. There will be a VCR in your room for you to review them as well.”
Herb knocked, and again we needed to be buzzed in. The lobby was plush, all pastels and soft lighting. The carpet was so thick my heels sank into it. I saw a few sofas and loveseats, a waiting area boasting a coffee table piled with magazines, assorted floor plants, and a stunning fresh flower arrangement on the front desk that reminded me of the flowers Alan had given me last night when he proposed—flowers I’d forgotten to put in a vase.
The woman behind the desk was old, in her forties, graying and plump. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she already had a smile on, anticipating our approach.
“Hello, Detective.” When she looked at me, her wattage went down a notch, but most of the smile stayed. “And you must be Jacqueline. That’s the same outfit as in your pictures.”
I forced a polite grin. “Nice to meet you, Mrs….?”
“Mizz,” she corrected, “Elizabeth White. Everyone here calls me Mizz Lizzy.” She picked up a pink phone on her desk and hit a button. “Mr. Compton? Detective Benedict and the woman are here.”
Mizz Lizzy didn’t try to engage us in further conversation, instead burying her nose in a Rolodex. I’d been around enough catty women to apply the adjective to her. She either didn’t like cops, or didn’t like me.
After a minute of Herb and I staring at each other, Shell entered. He was wearing a different tailored suit than the night before, and he looked terrific, approaching with a big grin, taking the lighting box from Herb and the backdrop from me.
“Good morning, Herb, Jacqueline. Did Mizz Lizzy offer you coffee?”
“I’d love a cup,” I said. I really wasn’t a big coffee drinker, but I liked the idea of the older woman serving me.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked.
“Black.”
“Anything for you, Detective?”
“Black coffee sounds great,” Herb replied.
Mizz Lizzy swiveled out from behind her desk and waddled off into another room. Shell set down the equipment and beamed at me. “You look terrific. I hope you’re up for a long day, because we’ve already booked you twice. You have a lunch date with Felix Sarcotti, and dinner and the theater tonight with Jeroen ten Berge.”
I recognized the two names from the victims’ files. Both men had dated all three of the deceased.
“That was fast,” I said.
“They saw my picture already?”
“They’re both longtime clients, and insist on seeing any new girl as soon as she comes in. I messengered your photos to them this morning, and they’re both eager to meet you. But we have much to do before lunch. We need to get started right away. Mizz Lizzy!” Shell called into the other room. “Bring the coffee u
p to Sandy’s room, if you would!”
Shell put his hands lightly on my arms, his face bright and enthusiastic. “You’re going to like Sandy, I think. She’s really fascinating. She’s also had a…shall we say…checkered past.”
“A police record?” I asked.
“No. She was never actually charged with a crime.”
I looked at Herb, confused. His eyes bored into mine. “Sandy Sechrest, twenty-five years old. Four years ago she killed a man.”
Present day
2010, August 10
“How about this guy?” Phin called out while squinting at the computer. For the past half hour, he and Herb had been looking at Jack’s arrest record, cross-referencing perps’ names on the World Wide Web to see if anything recent or interesting came up. They’d gotten as far as the Bs, then Herb waddled off to check if the ninhydrin had dried.
“What’s Jack’s network password?” Harry asked, walking into the room. “I need to print my guy out.”
“It’s crimefighter.”
“Lame,” Harry said, leaning over Phin’s shoulder. “Who’s that fugly bastard?”
“His name is Victor Brotsky.”
Brotsky was fifty-eight years old, pudgy, sweaty, unshaven, with a lazy eye that made him look even crazier than his police record proved he was. The reason Phin was interested in him was twofold. First, he’d recently been denied parole, and rightfully so—the guy was a butcher. The second was an article from three months ago that appeared in the Chicago Record written by someone named Alex Chapa, which showed up in a Google search. SERIAL KILLER DONATES $50K TO CHARITY.
“What’s up?” Herb said, coming into the room.
Shaken [JD 07] Page 11