“Or a perp’s wallet out of his pants.” He handed the aforementioned wallet to me. “I’ll send you my bill in the mail. I’m saving up to buy a monkey.”
Years ago, Harry had a fish tank. Not a single one survived. Hopefully a primate would fare better.
“Good luck with that,” I told him.
“I think it would be fun to have a pet that could fetch me beer. Plus I could give him a tin cup, pretend to be blind, and make a few bucks on the L train.”
“Quite the plan,” Herb said.
“Yeah. But in total honesty, I’ll probably just blow the money on malt liquor and lap dances.”
“Thanks for your help, McGlade.”
He nodded at me, gave Herb the finger, and walked off down the street. Every once in a while, McGlade came through for me. But I was incredibly grateful not to be working with him anymore. I couldn’t imagine going down that route ever again.
I tapped Herb and we quickly got into my car, driving away before Dalton figured out Harry had ripped him off. Then I double-parked two streets over and examined our prize.
The wallet looked like any other men’s wallet. Brown leather, trifold, worn in. Dalton had a Platinum American Express, a Visa bank card, and a driver’s license in the various pockets. In the billfold compartment he had three hundred and forty dollars and a strip of paper with a twelve-digit number on it. There was a familiar logo in the corner.
“Federal Express,” I said. “He FedExed something.”
“Recently?” Herb said.
The paper was from an express U.S. airbill. Normally, it was attached to a full receipt that listed the sender and the recipient, along with a description of contents, packaging, and services. This had been torn off, so only the tracking number remained. It appeared new—things that were in wallets for a long time tended to have a faded, frayed look. The fold was still crisp. The colors still fine.
“I think so. Let’s see.”
Using my iPhone, I got online and accessed the FedEx Web site. Personally, I loved the iPhone, but part of me missed the good old days when phones had huge antennas and weighed two pounds.
“I ever tell you about the time a cell phone saved my life?” I asked Herb.
“About a million billion times.”
“I think I need a new partner. Someone who appreciates my classic stories.”
I used the touch screen to punch in the tracking number. It told me no information was available, indicating the package wasn’t in their system yet.
“His condo,” Herb said, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “It had a FedEx box in the lobby.”
I got on the radio and told Dispatch to send a car to Spill and keep an eye on John Dalton, filling in the particulars. Then Herb and I headed back to 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Traffic seemed excruciatingly slow. I thought about calling the nearest squad car and having them check it out before we got there, but that involved all sorts of potential legal trouble. If Dalton had put something dangerous in the FedEx box, we’d need a warrant to take it. In order to get a warrant, we’d have to prove he put something in the box, and the only way we could prove that was with a receipt that we’d stolen. Better to just handle it ourselves.
I parked in front of Dalton’s condo, hopped out of my Nova, and hurried up to the doorman.
“Has FedEx come yet?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
Shit. “Do you know the driver? Know his name?”
“Naw. Different guy every time.”
Double shit. I hurried back to the car just as Herb was pulling himself out. “Get in. We need to call FedEx, find out what truck the package is on.”
After three minutes of navigating the plethora of phone tree options, I got a human being and explained that I was a cop in need of finding a package. After another ten minutes on hold, I was redirected to someone in authority. Rather than giving me a run-around, FedEx was surprisingly helpful. As soon as the tracking number was uploaded into the system—which should be within the next half hour—the local station would locate the package and wait for me to pick it up and take a look. No warrant, no judge, no hassle. Apparently, when you sent something FedEx, they could view the contents at their discretion if it was suspicious. A call from a police officer was enough to induce suspicion.
So Herb and I sat there, engine running, me refreshing the FedEx Web site every few minutes, waiting for the tracking number to be updated. When it finally was recognized by their system, I called the number they gave me, and they contacted the driver. I was able to speak to him directly.
“Got it right here, Officer.” He had a nasally Chicago accent, pure South Side. “It’s a small box, about two pounds. It dangerous?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. According to the Web, the package was set to be delivered tomorrow to a Chicago zip code. If it were a bomb, it probably wouldn’t go off until it reached its destination. “Does it have an odor? Is it leaking?”
“Ask if it’s ticking,” Herb said. I shushed him.
“Seems like a normal package. If you want to come take a look, I’m on Division, in the Dominick’s parking lot.”
“We’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “You might want to, uh, wait outside the truck. Maybe a few yards away. Who is the package addressed to?”
“Gotta be a fake,” the driver said. “Is there any real person in the world actually named Jack Daniels?”
Present day
2010, August 10
“Oh…man.”
“What is it, Harry?” Phin checked the rearview and stared at Harry, who was on the phone with the warden of Stateville Correctional Center. At Harry’s prodding, and with a few calls from Herb’s superiors, they’d placed Victor Brotsky in the isolation unit and had searched his cell.
“Brotsky had an iPhone hidden in his mattress,” Harry said. He looked ashen. “There’s some kind of live webcam video image on it. A woman tied up in a small room.”
Phin squeezed the SUV’s steering wheel hard enough for his forearms to shake. “Is it Jack?”
“Brunette, forties, hogtied with a gag in her mouth. Could be Jack.”
“Is she…alive?” Phin asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Harry’s face was slack. “Yeah. But there’s a digital clock next to her. It’s…counting down.”
“How long?” whispered Herb.
“Less than thirty minutes.”
Phin hit the gas. They were on Joliet Road, about eight miles away from the prison.
“Maybe it isn’t her,” Harry said.
Phin hoped that was the case. But he knew better. It wouldn’t be the first time one of Jack’s old cases had come back to haunt her. Imagining Jack tied up, in front of a camera, to be killed for some psycho’s amusement, made Phin’s stomach hurt worse than a year’s worth of chemotherapy. In a way, though, it was better to know where Jack was than to not have a clue. When you know your enemy, you can fight your enemy.
“This Victor Brotsky,” Phin said to Herb. “How bad was he?”
“The worst of the worst. If he’s got Jack…” Herb’s voice cracked.
But Victor Brotsky couldn’t have Jack. He was locked up.
However, he might know who did have Jack.
And if he did, nothing on this planet could save Victor Brotsky from Phineas Troutt.
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 17
After meeting the rest of the girls, then washing my hands in an attempt to wipe off some of the rampant neuroses that seemed to pervade Shell’s escort agency like smoke damage, I went on my first official date with Felix Sarcotti.
Mr. Sarcotti was a wee bit older than God. His back was bent like a question mark, he walked with a black, silver-tipped cane, and his facial expression was a permanent leer.
He was also a perfect gentleman, and I had a great time accompanying him to lunch at the Signature Room, on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock Bu
ilding. We had crab cakes and Waldorf salads, and he told me about the old days in the meatpacking industry, up until the closure of Union Stockyard in 1970.
I’d received instructions from both Shell and Herb prior to the date. From Shell, I was told to be polite, attentive, and complimentary. I was to ask questions, laugh at jokes, and seem interested without getting too personal. From Herb, I was told to check in with him every five minutes by using the code word fascinating, which signaled him to respond in my earpiece. If something was going wrong, I was to use the word disaster, which meant he’d come running. Also, if Mr. Sarcotti got too frisky, Herb advised me to go for the balls.
After lunch, and a polite kiss on the cheek from Mr. Sarcotti (no ball-kicking necessary), I was debriefed by Shell, who informed me that Mr. Sarcotti had spoken to him and I was his new favorite, and that the fee Mr. Sarcotti and others were paying to take me out was going toward my Armani outfit. Then I got ready for my theater and dinner date with Jeroen ten Berge.
A few minutes before my scheduled pick-up time—Shell had insisted all clients pick up their dates at the agency rather than meet them elsewhere because of the recent murders—there was a knock on my apartment door. My new apartment, by the way, was fabulous. Tidy, luxurious, well-furnished, and it came with maid service. It sure beat the hell out of dressing up like a hooker and arresting perverts.
I checked the peephole, saw it was Herb, and let him in.
Herb whistled when he walked in. “Nice threads.”
I was wearing a little black cocktail dress that Amy Peterson, one of Shell’s escorts, had lent me. “It’s a Versace,” I said. “Is that good?”
“It looks good.”
“Shell bought it for her. He apparently buys clothes for all of his escorts.”
Herb raised an eyebrow.
“What do you think of that?”
“What I think is that I’ve never met a group of this many suspects outside of an Agatha Christie book. Seriously, Herb. Every one of them is nuts. Gloria thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe. Sandy’s already killed someone. Mizz Lizzy popped out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and looks like she’s searching for children to cook and eat. Amy has her closet arranged so it’s color-coded like a Roy G. Biv rainbow—”
“Roy G. Biv?”
I shook my head, laughing. “You know…red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.”
“Where does black fit in?”
“Black, white, and shades of gray have to go into another closet.”
“What about prints? Or plaid?”
“I didn’t ask. She started talking about astrological signs and palm reading, so I faked a headache and got out of there. Is it possible a woman is the murderer?”
“We can’t rule it out. I’ve never heard of any female serial killers, but I agree the ladies here are a bit…odd. Shell vouches for this Jeroen guy, says he’s a harmless old man, but I’ll be tagging along just the same. Can you help me with your mic?”
Half an hour later, a limo picked me up at the agency. Jeroen ten Berge was a distinguished older gentleman, silver haired, well-dressed, quick to share the champagne he had chilling. I restricted myself to one glass, then played Miss Attentive through the car ride to Ninety-fifth and Kedzie, and on into dinner at the Martinique, the restaurant attached to the Drury Lane Theater.
Jeroen—pronounced yer-oh-in—was a delightful man. A retired investment banker who still dabbled in the stock market, he was a treasure trove of stories and jokes, and the perfect dining companion. Halfway into our chicken vesuvio, he asked me the same thing Mr. Sarcotti had asked.
“How can a vivacious, delightful woman such as yourself still be single?”
I played coy. “I could ask you the same thing, Jeroen. An interesting man like you could probably take your pick of grateful brides. Why aren’t you married?”
His face sank. “I was, for thirty-eight wonderful years. My wife passed in ’86. Breast cancer.”
I regretted the question. Especially since Shell warned me not to get too personal.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Maria was the best thing that ever happened to me. My best friend. My lover. My soul mate. I was so lucky to have so many good years with her, even if the last few were hard.” He leaned closer, put his hand on mine. “Life isn’t worth living unless you have someone to share it with, Jacqueline. The good times, and the bad times. In sickness and in health. Even toward the end, she could still make my heart flutter when I looked at her.”
“She sounds lovely,” I said, meaning it.
“I’m a rich, successful man, Jacqueline. But I would trade it all—the money, the houses, the entire stock portfolio—for just one more day with Maria. Success means nothing unless you have someone to share it with.”
Jeroen’s eyes glassed over. I gave his hand a squeeze, and we finished our meal in silence. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and checked in with Herb.
“I made my date cry,” I said into my bra-concealed microphone.
“Remember you’re a cop, not an escort,” Herb said in my ear piece. He hadn’t been able to secure tickets to the show, or afford the restaurant, so he was in the parking lot eating a sandwich his wife had packed for him. “Besides, it sounds like he was a very lucky guy to have a woman he cared so much for.”
“Would you do that, Herb? Give up your career for your wife?”
“I’d give up anything for my wife.”
After dinner, we watched the musical comedy They’re Playing Our Song. Jeroen had seen it in New York, and cheerily mouthed the song lyrics along with the performers. By the end of the play he was no longer maudlin, and during the limo ride back, he convinced me to have another glass of champagne. When he dropped me off and said goodnight, I got a chaste kiss on the cheek.
I was left wanting more. Not from Jeroen. From life. I wanted someone who would give up everything for me.
But would I be willing to do the same for someone else?
For Alan?
Present day
2010, August 10
O0:15:03…00:15:02…00:15:01…
Fifteen minutes to live.
As I watched the clock, I was oddly philosophical. Once I realized death was inevitable, a cold sort of calm came over me. I was sure there would be fear and panic later, but for the moment, I was retaining some objectivity.
I kind of felt like I was still in college, waiting to get the results of a test. I’d lived for forty-nine years. I’d done things, both good and not so good. I’d tried my best, worked my ass off, pursued and reached my goals.
Now I wanted my final grade.
Did I lead an A+ life?
An A?
At least a B+?
I’d taken some very bad people off the streets. I’d helped a lot of innocent folks. I’d saved some lives. I was a pretty good cop.
On a more personal level, I had loved and been loved. Made friends. Had some fun. Saw some interesting things. Learned a lot.
Was that enough for a B?
My marriage had failed. I’d lost people close to me. Made some big mistakes. Had some big regrets.
Does that get me at least a B-?
Of all my regrets, the one that hurt the most, especially now, was never having children. I’d always been so busy. So dedicated to my job. So intent on saving the world. It would have been nice to have a kid, to pass on some of this wisdom I’d learned, to…
Oh shit.
The memory came stampeding back, making me catch my breath. The memory of last night, clear and focused and full-blown. Standing in the bedroom, looking at Phin in bed, drowsy from his chemotherapy and medication, wanting so badly to tell him about the pregnancy test I just took.
The positive pregnancy test.
I was going to be a mother.
Phin was going to be a father.
I hadn’t expected to see the double line on the little test stick. In truth, I thought the reason for my missed period was the onset of menopause.<
br />
But it wasn’t menopause. It was a baby.
A tiny human being, growing inside me.
A miniature version of me. A child. A legacy.
A miracle.
The weight of this realization came crashing down on me, hard. With thirteen minutes left on the countdown clock, I quit being melancholy and reflective, and began to saw the rope with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain in my tortured wrists.
I had to get out of there. For the two of us.
Three years ago
2007, August 8
A few seconds after we pulled into the Dominick’s parking lot, the Special Response Team showed up. The FedEx guy, a scruffy redhead named Gordy, had placed Dalton’s package in an empty parking spot, then stood a safe distance away, alongside me and Herb, to watch the bomb squad have at it.
“I hope it’s not a big box of anthrax,” Gordy said. “I sniffed that sucker. Sniffed it good. Do you think it could be anthrax?”
“No.”
“Smallpox?”
“No.”
“Botulism? We just had a botulism epidemic in the city.”
“It’s not botulism,” I said, pretty sure of myself. “Ebola?”
I gave the guy a WTF look. “Ebola?”
“I saw it on the Science Channel. You start bleeding blood from your pores. Then your skin comes off. I hope it isn’t Ebola.”
I hoped it wasn’t Ebola, too. But I didn’t think it was any sort of disease. Or explosive. Mr. K didn’t operate like that. He was hands-on.
The SRT, in full bomb suits, performed a battery of tests on the box, using various pieces of expensive-looking equipment. I recognized a portable X-ray unit and a boroscope—a flexible camera usually used by doctors giving rectal exams. After ten minutes of poking and prodding, the SRT sergeant tugged off his helmet and chest plate and approached us.
“Is it Ebola?” Gordy asked.
“It’s a bottle, Lieutenant.” He gave Gordy a sideways glance and then handed me the boroscope, showing me the color screen. “Looks like the seal is intact.”
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