I instantly recognized the familiar shape. I’d seen it many times before. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant. I think I can take it from here.”
“Do you want us to open it?”
“I think I can handle it.”
I approached the box, feeling no fear, pretty sure of what this package was. Dalton wouldn’t have sent me anything incriminating, because there was the possibility I would have gotten it before he left the country, and subsequently arrested him.
No, he didn’t send this to threaten me or harm me physically. This had a different purpose.
“What is it, Jack?” Herb was walking alongside me. “Mr. K has two signatures. One is ball gags. What’s the other?”
“Rubbing salt in his victims’ wounds.”
“That’s what this is,” I said, tearing off the box top.
As expected, there was a full bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. Dalton’s way of telling me he had won. And rubbing it in. There was also a handwritten note:
By now, I’m on my way to Cape Verde, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll likely never set foot in the U.S. again. I want you to know that I gave you a fair chance to catch me. The clues were there. You simply weren’t good enough. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You can’t win them all.
I knew I couldn’t win them all. It went with the Job.
But I really really wanted to win this one.
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 17
“Want to take a little walk?” Herb asked in my ear.
I’d just stepped out of Jeroen’s limo and was staring at Shell’s building, about to go inside.
“Where to?” I said into my bra microphone. “Around the block. Like you’ve decided to have a drink after dinner. Find a spot and park yourself at the bar.”
“Where are you?”
“Across the street.”
I resisted the urge to look for him, and instead headed east down Ohio, toward Michigan Avenue. It was close to midnight, but there were still a few folks wandering the streets. Not as many as if it were a weekend, but enough that snatching me would be risky.
Then again, the killer had snatched three other women without drawing any attention.
It was dark, hot, and humid. The city smelled like garbage. A car cruised up, slowing down as it neared me. I wobbled a little, swaying left and right, forcing myself to giggle.
“How much did you have to drink?” Herb asked.
“Just a glass of wine. I’m playing the part, making myself an easy target. You see this car?”
The car was a Cadillac. Black. The windows were slightly tinted, so I couldn’t see inside. It pulled into the alley ahead of me. I stopped, forcing myself not to reach for the gun in my purse, feeling my arteries throb with adrenaline as the passenger-side window lowered.
“Need a ride, pretty lady?”
“Shell,” I said, blowing out the breath I’d been holding.
He was wearing yet another tailored suit, this one tan corduroy with patches on the elbows, and his hair was slicked back with gel. “What are you doing out here, all by yourself?”
“My job,” I said.
He winced. “Sorry. Forgot you were a cop for a second there. Saw one of my girls walking by herself and my overly protective nature kicked in. Will you be trolling killers for a while? Or are you free for a drink?”
“This guy is starting to bug me,” Herb said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Great,” said Shell, who thought I was talking to him. “Hop in.”
Oops. “How about we grab something nearby?” I wanted to stay in the area. All three women had disappeared within a few blocks of the agency.
“There’s this classy bar on Wabash. Miller’s Pub.”
“Miller’s Pub?” I repeated, for Herb’s benefit.
“I know it,” Herb said. “I can meet you there.”
“You’re on,” I said, to both Herb and Shell.
I walked around the car, climbing into the passenger seat. Shell smelled like cologne. Somehow, that made me think of Alan, who never wore cologne. I hadn’t called Alan all day. Partly because I’d been busy. Partly because I still wasn’t sure what to say to him.
“You know what I feel like?” Shell drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the street. “Dancing. Want to go dancing?”
“I’m not really in a dancing mood, Shell.”
“Do you like music?”
“Sure.”
“How about Buddy Guy’s?”
Buddy Guy was a Chicago blues legend. He owned a club on Wabash, not too far from Miller’s.
“Buddy Guy’s,” I said. Herb didn’t respond. I wondered if he was out of radio range.
“I saw Clapton play there once. Just came in, unannounced, jammed with Buddy’s band. Amazing show.”
“Okay,” I said, raising my voice to near yelling, “let’s go to Buddy Guy’s Legends. Buddy Guy’s Legends, on Wabash.”
Shell gave me a look like I’d grown an extra head. Still no reply from Herb. I could only hope he’d heard.
A few minutes later, Shell was pulling into a multilevel parking garage on Balbo, where he found a spot on the third floor. We took the brightly lit stairwell down to street level, and walked a block to the bar.
There was a small line. We queued up behind a couple of blue-collar black guys.
A lonely-looking fat man got in line behind us. Shell paid my five-dollar cover, and once inside we took everything in, looking for a place to sit.
Everything about Buddy Guy’s screamed the blues. The dim lighting, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey, the plaintive whine of a single electric guitar, the bartender building drinks and sticking them on damp, empty trays, the sad-faced patrons, many of them sitting alone, nursing something strong. Shell and I found a corner table, so dark I had to lean close to see him. A waitress—who looked like she’d gone three hard rounds with disappointment before it knocked her down for the count—stood next to us without uttering a word, her order pad in hand. Shell got a martini. I got red wine, then excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, having to shout to be heard over the amplifier feedback.
It was quieter in there, but not by much. I fussed with my mic and earpiece, trying to reach Herb, but didn’t get any indication he heard me. Either he was still looking for parking, or he’d gone to Miller’s. The smart thing to do was have a quick drink, then head back to the agency. I really didn’t think Shell was the killer, especially since he was the one who sought out police help. Besides, I had my Beretta in my purse.
I met Shell back at our table. Our drinks still hadn’t come. I spotted them, sitting lonely on the bar, our waitress nowhere to be seen. Shell bent close and said something, but I couldn’t hear anything because we were too close to the speakers. The drinks eventually came. The gravelly-voiced singer bemoaned his cheating woman, his lost job, his dead dog, and his worsening bursitis. I just closed my eyes and let the music take me where it wanted. The wine was cheap and bitter. After two sips, I didn’t want any more.
Shell slammed his martini, smiled, and then pointed at my glass with a raised eyebrow. I shook my head. He raised his hand to signal our waitress, and I leaned over to stop him, to tell him I was tired and wanted to go.
As I leaned forward, the whole bar seemed to rock, like we were on a boat during a storm. I felt as if I was falling. I reached out, trying to stop the world from moving, knocking over my wine glass. My head hit Shell’s shoulder, and he grinned at me, and as he grinned his face got darker and darker until all I saw was a rolling, swirling blackness that swallowed me up.
Present day
2010, August 10
“Got a match,” Herb said, hanging up the phone. “The prints, and McGlade’s picture, belong to a man named Luther Kite.”
They were still five minutes from the prison, even with Phin blowing through red lights and stop signs and crushing the accelerator.
“Why
does that name sound familiar?” Harry asked.
“Remember the Kinnakeet Ferry Massacre? It made the national headlines seven years ago. Involved that horror author, Andrew Z. Thomas, who went nuts and started killing people back in the nineties. Kite has an outstanding warrant for his connection to the murders, and he’s the prime suspect for a killing spree across North Carolina right before the ferry slaughter. Hung a woman off a lighthouse.”
“Record?” Phin asked, eyes stuck to the road.
“Not much. Arrested for animal cruelty. Resulted in a fine. Seems he skinned some cats.”
Phin waited for Harry to say something flippant, but McGlade remained eerily silent.
“Kite and Thomas have been on the lam for seven years,” Herb continued. “We know there were two people watching the house, and gassing you and Jack while you sleep sounds like something a writer would dream up. Now that we’ve got a solid connection, we should get the media involved.”
Phin nodded. Herb got on the phone again, began making calls. By the time he was finished, everyone in Chicago, Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin would be looking for Jack, Andrew Z. Thomas, and Luther Kite.
Phin hoped it would be enough.
Three years ago
2007, August 8
Herb and I sat in my car, parked outside Dalton’s building. It was going on ten p.m., and he hadn’t come home yet. A team followed him from Spill to Bradstreet’s palatial estate in the neighboring suburb of Evanston.
“I tell you,” Herb said, “that bottle of Jack Daniels is looking better and better.”
I agreed. I could use a drink. Herb and I were both tired, depressed, and discouraged. Nothing was panning out. The boy hadn’t matched any recent missing person reports, and hadn’t been identified yet. We’d even given the picture to the TV stations to air, but so far, no hits.
Tom and a rotating crew of ten cops were continuing to call storage facilities within a thirty-mile radius, asking about locker 515, with not a single promising lead. Hajek, from the crime lab, had done a full workup of the photo, and the only thing he could tell us was it appeared to have been altered somehow. Hajek believed the color and contrast had been enhanced. He had passed it on to a colleague who knew more about photographic manipulation, and we were waiting to hear back.
Still no ID on the John Doe who died on the Catherine Wheel. And after calling four different judges and pleading our case, none would sign an arrest warrant for Dalton or a search warrant for his condo.
Things weren’t looking good for our heroes. Which is why I brightened up when Herb said, “Let’s break in.”
“You serious?” I asked.
“He’s probably playing it safe, spending the night at the lawyer’s. Maybe we’ll find something in his home.”
“Wouldn’t stand up,” I said. Any evidence we found would be inadmissible in court.
“I care about the kid, not a conviction. Besides, the wallet gave me an idea. What if his passport is in his house?”
I nodded, getting it. If we swiped Dalton’s passport, he wouldn’t be able to leave the country. Those things took weeks to renew. That would give us more time to hang something on him.
“First we break into his car, then we try to frame him, then we steal his wallet, now we’re going to burgle his residence. Not our finest day, Herb.”
“While we’re inside, I may also piss on his sofa.”
I had a gym bag in the trunk. I took out my sweats and put the cement-filled milk jug and some yellow tape inside. Then walked across the street to 1300 North Lake Shore. It was a new doorman, and we flashed our badges and took the elevator to Dalton’s condo. As far as disciplinary action went, I doubted we’d get into any trouble for this little action. Dalton wouldn’t be able to press charges from Cape Verde. That is, if he even knew we were the ones who broke in.
We stood outside his door, and I gave it a gentle knock. When no one answered, I asked Herb, “Did you hear a scream coming from inside, prompting us to enter without a warrant?”
“I heard a scream, and also smelled smoke,” Herb said. “It’s our duty as police officers to break in and try to save lives. Plus, the door was already broken when we got here.”
I hefted the milk jug. “Did you notice a burglar alarm when we were here earlier?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
I reared back and swung the makeshift battering ram with everything I had, just to the right of the doorknob. There was a loud CRACK and the door burst inward, the jamb throwing splinters. I went in low and fast, drawing my Colt from my shoulder holster, quickly scanning the hallway. Then I made my way through the rest of the condo, Herb at my heels. When we deemed it empty, Herb got started putting some yellow CRIME SCENE tape over the doorway. If anyone walked by and noticed the door, the tape would prevent them from calling the cops, because the cops obviously already knew about it.
Though Dalton’s condo was massive—far bigger than my house in Bensenville—it was pretty easy to search because there wasn’t anything there. Even though it was fully furnished, there were no personal items of any kind, other than books. No letters, or bills, or photo albums. No computer. No clothing. No passport.
“Fridge is empty,” Herb said.
I went back to the hallway, staring at the pictures on the walls. Dalton had said he’d taken those photos. I didn’t have much of an artistic eye, but they seemed a bit drab and lifeless to me. Even the shot of his house on the beach made a tropical paradise seem rather bland.
There were six pictures total, three on each side. Besides the house, there was a shot of an empty cornfield, a shot of the Chicago skyline, one of some trees in the winter, and one of a sunset over a lake. The only one with a human figure was of a house, with a woman sitting on the porch. The picture was taken far enough away that the woman’s features were tough to make out, beyond the fact that she had long, dark hair and was Caucasian. She could have been anywhere from eighteen to fifty, and the clothing she wore—a blouse and shorts—didn’t lend itself to being dated.
On a hunch, I took the picture from the wall and then spent a minute removing it from the frame. The back of the photo had something written on it.
“What do you think?” I asked Herb, who was peering over my shoulder.
“No idea. Maybe it’s one of his victims?”
“If Dalton is Mr. K, he’s too careful for that. He wouldn’t ever let anything lead back to him.”
“A girlfriend? Relative?”
“Not a very personal photo. Normally, if you take a picture of someone you care about, don’t you move in for a closer shot?”
Herb shrugged. “Maybe the woman doesn’t matter. He’s got the whole house in the frame. Maybe the house is what’s important. Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything, and is no more personal than the cornfield or the sunset.”
I frowned. My subconscious was nagging at me, trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t get it to come forward. While I was thinking, I began to liberate the other photos from their frames. Herb joined in. We didn’t discover any more writing, or anything else that would have been useful, like a signed confession, or a map showing where bodies were buried.
My cell rang. I slapped it to my face.
“Daniels.”
“Lieut, it’s Tom Mankowski. We may have a hit on the storage locker.”
“What did you find, Tom?”
“National Storage. They’ve got a unit rented out to John Smith. Unit 515.”
Smith was the name Dalton had used for his victim at the U-Store-It on Fullerton.
“We’ll meet you there,” I said.
Then Herb and I hurried for the elevator.
Present day
2010, August 10
I had no idea how long the digital countdown clock had been blinking 00:00:00. It may have only been for a few seconds. It may have been several minutes. I was so totally absorbed in trying to get free that I’d blocked out all other fears, thoughts, and senses.
So it was quite a shock when I saw Mr. K standing there, staring down at me.
“Hello, Jack. It’s been a while.”
My wrists—bleeding profusely now—still weren’t free.
I didn’t make it. I was too late.
Then Mr. K pulled something out of his pocket. Small and white, and possibly the most horrifying thing I’d ever been shown.
My pregnancy test.
“Isn’t this delightful,” he said. “Now I get to kill two for the price of one.”
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 17
I woke up groggy, disoriented, nauseous.
I didn’t know where I was, didn’t remember how I got there. The floor beneath me was cold, concrete, suggesting a basement or garage. It was too dark to see anything. My hands fluttered around me, trying to judge the size of the area, and I realized with a start that I was completely naked.
This was bad. Real bad.
What the hell happened to me?
I filled my lungs, ready to shout for help, and then stopped myself right before any sound came out.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to let whoever had me know I was awake.
Though I’d been in some hairy situations during my rookie years, I couldn’t say any of them was life and death. Once, my partner Harry and I had been shot at, but the perp had been so far away there had been no real danger. Another time, a suspect took a swing at me when I asked to see some ID. I’d slipped the blow, and what followed was the only time I’d ever used my police baton, hitting him in the knee hard enough to break it.
But neither of those were as nerve-jangling as waking up naked in some unknown basement.
I listened, hearing some machine hum in the background. Sniffing the air, I detected something foul. Beneath the mildew and dampness there was a cloying, rotten meat smell that reminded me of the morgue.
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