Rusty Nail

by J. A. Konrath

  I took a stab. “Like the PTA?”

  “Actually,” Coursey lowered his voice an octave, “we’ve been informed by Homeland Security that three members of a subversive Brazilian band went through Customs at O’Hare Airport eleven days ago.”

  I held up a palm. “Guys, while being sent a videotape may have been meant to inspire terror, I really don’t think this was a terrorist act.”

  “They’re not terrorists,” said Dailey. “They call themselves the Samba Kings.”

  Coursey added, “They’re musicians.”

  I took a moment before saying, “You think the murderer is a Brazilian samba trio.”

  Dailey held up his right hand and ticked off fingers. “They’re organized. Focused. Motivated. And are in excellent physical condition, by the looks of the pictures on their CD.”

  I checked my neck for the I’m an idiot sign. I didn’t have one. But I was considering getting two of them made, with matching gray letters.

  “Gentlemen—” I began.

  “There’s more,” Dailey interrupted. “According to Interpol, both the drummer and the lead singer have priors. And there have been several dozen instances of mutilation in Brazil recently.”

  Coursey leaned in. “Cattle mutilation,” he said.

  “Maybe their maraca player is a chupacabra,” I offered.

  Dailey and Coursey exchanged a glance. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously, Lieutenant.”

  I sighed. “Sorry, guys. It’s been a rough day. Why don’t you let me memorize this report you gave me, and I’ll get back to you, say, next week?”

  Another look passed between them. I wondered if they had some kind of telepathy thing going. Probably not, as that would require a brain.

  “How about tomorrow?” said Coursey.

  “How about November?” I countered.

  “How about on Thursday?” said Dailey.

  “How about the first of never?” I returned volley.

  “Next week it is,” Coursey said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “Please do. And I’ll put out an all-points bulletin, asking my people to pay special attention to anyone speaking Portuguese.”

  The special agents gave me a blank stare.

  “That’s what they speak in Brazil,” I said.

  “We knew that,” said Dailey.

  “We went to Harvard,” said Coursey.

  “Thanks for stopping by, gentlemen.” I held up their report. “I’ll get started on this right away.”

  They left, and I placed the report in the circular file, on top of my empty coffee cup. A quick check of my watch—a Movado that Latham had given me—showed me it was nearing lunchtime, and Herb was probably done with his procedure. I gave him a call.

  “Hello?” His voice was groggy.

  “How’d the colonoscopy go? You eating a big plate of nachos yet?”

  Long pause. I heard hospital sounds in the background. A nurse talking. A doctor being paged.

  “They found something. A tumor.”

  I momentarily ran out of words.

  “Jesus, Herb.”

  “Took a biopsy. Won’t know until later.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. I gotta go.”

  He clicked off.

  I stared at the phone, unsure of what to do. Go visit him? Herb, though cuddly on the outside, was a classic stoic. Dropping by would cause embarrassment, and possibly anger. But still, a tumor was a serious thing.

  I closed my eyes. I’d had partners prior to Herb, but never one I’d cared about. Benedict was like a big brother. If Herb died . . .

  The phone rang. I screwed a cap over my feelings and answered, hoping it was Herb.

  “Did the Feebies just drop by?”

  Bains.

  “Yes, Captain. Evanston brought them in.”

  “I want you off this.”

  “You gave me forty-eight hours.”

  “I said to keep a low profile. With those two involved, it’s only a matter of time before the Weekly World News is camped outside the station. You’re off.”

  “Captain—”

  “Off.”

  I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. That didn’t do a damn thing, so I took another, and another.

  Something inside of me, some little internal switch, had been flipped, and I wasn’t sure who I was. I thought about Herb, and my mom, and my ex-husband, Alan, and Latham, and my job, and my life, and where I’d been and where I was headed.

  I thought about how hard I tried to remain in control, and what little good it did. Control didn’t matter. Fate didn’t care about how hard you tried, or how well planned you were, or how much you wanted something.

  Fate had its own agenda.

  I was forty-six years old. My job, the thing I devoted my life to, was in trouble. My best friend might be dying. My mother was in a coma. And I had screwed up the one thing that I did have some control over; I loved a great guy, and I blew it. And if I wanted to admit it, to take the hard inward glance that made me ask why, I knew the answer.

  Deep down, I wanted to be miserable. I wanted to be miserable, because that’s what I deserved, because I hated myself.

  Which was a pretty crummy way to live. And not something I wanted to continue.

  I picked up the phone, dialing from memory.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. I know a lot of time has passed, and I’m sure you’ve moved on, but I haven’t. I still love you. Can I come over?”

  “Who is this? Do I know you?”

  The voice wasn’t Latham’s.

  “Ah, hell.” I disconnected and tried again, dialing more carefully.

  “You’ve reached Latham Conger, I can’t come to the phone, please leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  Say something, Jack.

  The silence stretched.

  Open your mouth.

  Dead air, each passing second like a kick in the gut.

  Dammit, woman, do you want to be miserable your whole life?

  “Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry for everything. I love you. I’d like to see you again. Please call.”

  There. I did it. I actually did something for myself. It brought a small smile to my face.

  But my shoulders bunched up again when I realized I’d be up all night, waiting for him to call.

  Once again, control was out of my hands.

  CHAPTER 7

  I STOPPED BY Henderson House on the way home from work, but there had been no change. Mom hadn’t opened her eyes again. I sat with her for an hour. No talking this time, just holding her hand.

  Twice I checked my cell phone, to make sure it was on. It was.

  After a pillow fluff, I turned to leave and had a good startle seeing Tony Coglioso standing in the doorway. His eyes seemed glazed, far away.

  “Tony?”

  “Hi, Jack. How’s she doing?”

  “The same. How about your dad?”

  “The same.”

  I wondered if I should apologize for barging in on him yesterday, and then thought that maybe he was the one who should apologize for being so rude, and finally accepted that neither of us needed to say the s word because, hey, our parents were dying.

  “You look nice,” Tony said, not quite focusing on me.

  I figured I looked like hell, but thanked him anyway.

  Tony smiled. “See you soon.” Then he walked off.

  Strange. Maybe he was drunk, or high on something. Or maybe he stopped by to ask me out, checked the merchandise, and decided to pass.

  I fluffed Mom’s pillow again, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and headed to the elevator. No Tony in the hall, no Tony in the lobby, and no Tony in the parking lot. It didn’t matter. My mind was on Latham, not Tony, so I didn’t dwell.

  After a quick check to make sure my cell phone hadn’t accidentally switched off du
ring my walk to the car, I headed home.

  Mr. Friskers gave me a warm welcome, howling and running away when I walked through the door. I reset the alarm and turned the dead bolt. Time to plan my big evening.

  I made dinner, maxing out my culinary skills with a BLT. Then I fed the feral cat, plugged my cell into the charger, set my .38 next to my bed, swapped my outfit for a T-shirt and fresh panties, scrubbed my face, ate my BLT, brushed my teeth, and switched on the TV. Network drivel was better than brainwashing when it came to clearing a woman’s mind. I hopped on the bed, content to play station roulette.

  Next to the TV, still in the Jewel bag, were the Kork videotapes.

  They might as well have been blinking like a beacon.

  You were pulled from the case, Jack. You don’t need to watch more people being tortured. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.

  I put on a game show, but stared at the bag. I switched to a cooking show, but kept looking at the bag. I tried a sitcom starring the stand-up comedian du jour.

  That damn bag kept demanding my attention.

  I crawled out of bed. Picked up the bag and carried it into the kitchen.

  Mr. Friskers had his face crammed in his bowl. He hissed at my interruption of his gluttony. I hissed back and set the bag on the counter, next to the sink. The cat ran up and swiped a claw at my leg.

  I jumped back, knocking the bag over and spilling files onto the floor. My ankle sprouted three shallow cuts, not too far from the other set of shallow cuts that had already healed, but lower than the fresh cuts a few inches higher.

  “Dammit, cat!”

  It was always my left leg too. He’d clawed me a dozen times, but never on the right leg. Sadism, with an agenda.

  I tore off a paper towel, dabbing it at the blood while picking up papers with my free hand. My fist closed around the Diane Kork file, and I paused.

  An image, unbidden, flashed into my head, of the first time I’d seen Diane Kork, half naked and bleeding in Charles Kork’s basement. I remembered her pleading, crying face. Her ugly wounds, weeping blood. And something else. Something familiar.

  I paged through the file, but there weren’t any pictures of her wounds. Made sense; the case was closed, and evidence was no longer needed.

  But I did have images of Diane. Videotape #12, “Slipping the Knife to the Wife.”

  “You’re off the case, Jack,” I said aloud.

  I didn’t listen to myself.

  I found tape #12 and took it into the bedroom. I hit Play and then Fast-forward, cycling through Diane being tied up, up to the scene where he sliced off her clothes.

  I paused the tape.

  The image jittered, two lines of snow framing the edges of the screen, but I could clearly see what I’d been looking for: a heart-shaped tattoo, the size of a dime, on Diane’s hip bone just below the bikini line.

  I stared for a moment, then went back to the kitchen and dug out the copy of the tape of the latest murder—the original was still at the lab.

  I swapped cassettes and again viewed the slow approach to the Kork house, the walk into the basement, and the zoom in on the naked victim.

  I couldn’t see any tattoos because the woman was sitting, and the crease in her lap obscured her bikini line.

  I let the tape play in slow motion, watching her struggle and die frame by frame, and five minutes into her pain she arched her back and her pelvis came briefly into view.

  Pause.

  The heart tattoo was the same.

  I felt my breath catch, and hashed out the possibilities. Either the killer had put a fake tattoo there to make it look like Diane Kork, or else the victim was indeed Diane Kork.

  I had Diane’s phone number in my jacket pocket, from when I’d called Information earlier. When I dialed it, I got her answering machine for the second time.

  “Shit.”

  Two options. I could call the station, have them send a car over to check out Diane’s place. Or I could go myself, even though Bains had ordered me off the case.

  Diane lived on Hamilton, and I was more than a mile closer to her than anyone at the 26th District.

  I slid into some Levi’s, shrugged on a sweater, strapped on my .38, and was out the door before I gave it any more thought.

  CHAPTER 8

  ALEX CHECKS THE caller ID. It’s Jack Daniels.

  Alex knows the number.

  Alex knows a lot about Jack. Jack has been part of the plan from the very beginning.

  It’s a little after ten p.m. and the lights are off in Diane’s house. This has been a good base of operations, but Alex knows it can’t last. Jack will come by eventually. She might even be on her way now.

  What to do, what to do?

  “An ounce of prevention,” Alex says, and smiles. In the bedroom are a suitcase and a trunk. Alex begins to pack—clothes, shoes, gear, the video recorder, all of the equipment. Alex takes it through the back door, through the yard, and into the tiny, unattached garage adjacent to the alley.

  The trunk goes into the backseat of the rental car, and Alex finds a tire iron and a length of garden hose in the garage.

  The car has a safety device in the gas tank that prevents siphoning, but Alex breaks through it with the crowbar. The hose snakes down the tank, and a few foul-tasting sucks on the other end brings forth the gas.

  Alex fills two old buckets and a washtub, then removes the hose.

  It takes two trips to carry the gas back to the house. Slosh-slosh-slosh. First the bedroom. Then the kitchen. Then the den. The place is filthy with Alex’s fingerprints, and this is much faster than wiping it all down.

  When the gas has been poured, Alex begins to search Diane’s cabinets for matches. There’s a box on top of the refrigerator. Alex takes a deep breath, tastes gasoline fumes, and smiles.

  The doorbell rings.

  Jack.

  Alex selects a matchstick and drags it along the side of the box, annoyed at the interruption.

  Arson should be savored.

  The match is dropped, igniting the linoleum floor with a soft whoomp.

  Next to the sink is a semiautomatic pistol. Alex picks it up and walks into the living room, through a path in the flames, and waits patiently for Jack.

  CHAPTER 9

  I RANG DIANE Kork’s doorbell again, not expecting an answer. The tattoo match in both videos was enough to suggest a crime had been committed, giving me probable cause to enter her house without a warrant. The front door was heavy wood, dead-bolted, and I doubted even my best tae kwon do spin-kick would open it.

  The neighborhood was dark, quiet, parked cars lining the unlit street. Kork’s house was typical for Chicago, a two-story red brick duplex with a black iron fence encircling a postage-stamp-sized lot. Similar buildings bookended this one, less than two yards between them. I walked down the porch stairs and took the narrow walkway to the rear of the house, looking for a basement window to break.

  The windows along the side had decorative bars on them. I followed the perimeter, advancing into the backyard, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. We were in the heart of downtown, but with the lack of any lights it might as well have been the woods.

  The backyard also had a porch, with two small windows framing the back door. I climbed the wooden stairs, tugging my .38 from my holster, keeping my elbow bent and the barrel pointed up.

  Two things hit me at once: the smell of smoke, and the orange light flickering through a crack in the drapes.

  Fire.

  I tried the door. Locked, but the knob was cool. Switching the grip on my revolver, I tapped the glass out of the left-hand window and yanked the curtains through, smoothing them over the ragged shards.

  “Police! Is there anyone in here?”

  No answer. I tasted hot, foul air, shoved my gun back in my holster, yanked out my cell, and dialed 911. Then I pulled myself through the window.

  I fell into the kitchen hands first, palming the linoleum floor and dragging myself along until my fee
t followed. Two countertops, and the floor in front of me, were ablaze, and the flames seemed to notice my arrival and launched themselves at me.

  Smart move, Jack, breaking a window and feeding the flames with O2.

  I reached behind me in a panic, pulling the heavy drapes over my head, feeling bits of glass caress my hair, just as the fire surrounded me.

  It got stifling hot, like I’d crawled into an oven. My fingers singed, and I released the burning drapes and rolled toward the door, becoming tangled in flaming, smoking fabric.

  My head popped through the front, and a patch of my hair stuck to the melting floor. I peeked through one eye, noting I’d rolled through the worst of it, but the curtains cocooning me were sporting some serious flames of their own. Plus, whatever the curtains were made of, it didn’t burn cleanly, and choking brown fumes clouded my eyes and provoked a coughing fit.

  First things first. I freed my left arm and tried to unwind the curtains, grabbing for the patches of fabric that weren’t on fire yet.

  A wave of heat turned my attention to the right, and I witnessed the flames lick up the wall, enveloping the window I’d gone through. No exit there.

  My eyes were useless now, my nose running like I’d turned on a faucet, and my coughs racked with phlegm. What kind of material were these curtains made from? Arsenic? I knew I’d choke to death before I burned to death, so I tore away the fabric, kicking and clawing, getting singed over and over until I was finally free.

  I coughed, and spit, and crawled through the doorway. My left hand screamed at me, and I squinted at it but couldn’t make out the burns from the soot. I made a fist. It hurt, but was still functional.

  Still on my knees, I took a quick look around and figured out I was in the living room. The ceiling was obscured by a thick cloud of gray smoke, and the walls looked like reverse waterfalls; flames flowing upward rather than water coming down. And the noise—a sort of low roaring sound, mixed in with the crackle of a billion dry leaves. Loud enough to mask my coughing. The sound of raging fire.

  Twenty feet away, I saw the lower half of a doorway. I scrambled toward it on all fours, ignoring the pain in my burned hand, getting within fifteen feet . . . ten feet . . .