Mulrooney’s eyes begin to flutter. Alex pats him on the cheek.
“I have to enjoy myself. Doctor’s orders. But first, we need to stop at the hardware store and get some tools. Can’t skin you without tools.”
Mulrooney continues to scream as the trunk is closed.
CHAPTER 16
WHAT HAPPENED TO your hair?” The stylist frowned at me. “Did you have the hair dryer on too long?”
“Something like that.”
I disliked getting my hair done, which is why I kept it long and dyed it at home. Sitting still while someone fussed over me made me nervous.
Unfortunately, the fire had done some major damage, making it impossible to get a comb through it. So I sought professional help. This particular stylist was named Barb. Her own hair was pink, and she had enough facial piercings to set off a metal detector.
“The ends are melted here. You see that?” She held up my bangs and frowned at my reflection in the mirror.
I shrugged. “Cheap shampoo.”
“You get what you pay for. We only carry Vertex hair care products. The shampoo is seventy dollars for a thirty-two-ounce bottle.”
“Seventy dollars? Is it made out of caviar?”
“Kelp. And biotin.”
“Can I pay on installments?”
Barb smacked her gum. She didn’t find me funny.
“When I finish cutting, should we do something about these gray roots?”
I didn’t find that funny.
An hour later I’d lost six inches of hair, gained some auburn highlights, and was out almost three hundred bucks—but that included the tip and a bottle of Vertex, with biotin and kelp.
While vanity wasn’t one of my hobbies, I really liked the new cut. It softened up my appearance, and I daresay, made me look a little younger.
My next stop was an auto supply warehouse. I brought in the two side mirrors I’d picked up in the alley behind Diane Kork’s house, and a helpful guy named Mitch found the parts number.
“They’re from a Dodge Stratus, a Mitsubishi Eclipse, or a Chrysler Sebring. Coupes and sedans, going back a few years.”
“It could be from any of those?”
“It fits any of those. Parts manufacturers sell to different car companies.”
“Any way to narrow it down?”
“I could try to match the paint. There’s some flakes from where this one broke off.” He used his thumbnail to scrape some paint chips onto the white counter, then hauled out a book of colors. “I’m not sure if that’s Magnesium or Graphite Metallic.”
“Looks like plain old dark gray to me.”
Mitch rolled his eyes. “Gray is boring. No one would buy a gray car.”
He went back to his book. I neglected to tell him that I had a gray car. Or perhaps it wasn’t really gray. Perhaps it was Silver Dusk. Or Sissy Black.
“No to Graphite Metallic. And Magnesium doesn’t match either. Which means it has to be Titanium Pearl.”
“Naturally,” I said. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”
I got another eye roll. “Graphite Metallic and Magnesium are colors used by Dodge and Chrysler. If it isn’t one of those, it has to be Mitsubishi. They call their gray Titanium Pearl.”
“Are you sure?”
“Check for yourself.”
He found the appropriate page in the color book and placed the paint flakes on the swatch. Looked like a match to me.
“Thanks, Mitch.”
I used my cell to call the station. Herb hadn’t come in today, so I gave instructions to Detective Maggie Mason, who was a comer in Violent Crimes due to good instincts and a lack of any sort of social life. Like me.
“Late model Mitsubishi Eclipse, color gray, first two plate numbers Delta one. Call me when you get the search results.”
If there turned out to be too many to track down, I could get a team to start calling repair shops, to see if anyone came in to replace their side mirrors.
My next stop was Diane Kork’s house. It was in much better shape than I would have guessed, considering the inferno of the night before. The only evidence a fire had occurred were some black scorch marks on the brick, and plywood sheets nailed over the windows and doors to discourage looting.
I stood staring for a moment, wondering how the hell I’d get inside, when luck winked at me and a woman in an OSFM Windbreaker appeared from the backyard, walking a German shepherd.
I flashed my badge.
“Lieutenant Daniels, Violent Crimes. You with the office?”
The woman nodded, offering a hand. She was pear-shaped, short, with large blue eyes.
I hesitated, keeping one eye on the dog, which was the size of a small bear.
“Jeanna Davidson, arson investigator. Don’t mind Kevlar. He’s a sweetheart.”
The sweetheart yawned, showing me enough teeth to swallow a Volkswagen. I shook Jeanna’s hand slowly, to avoid getting mauled.
“I’m guessing this was arson.”
Jeanna nodded. “Kevlar sniffed out the accelerant. Burn pattern suggests gasoline. Were you the one we rescued?”
“Yeah. Thanks for that. Do you mind if I poke around inside?”
“Sure. Structure’s stable. Want a tour?”
“If it’s okay with Kevlar.”
We went around back and Jeanna walked up the porch. The rear entry had a makeshift door nailed to it, with a standard latch and padlock. Jeanna opened it and switched on a Maglite.
Unlike the exterior, the inside was an unholy mess. What wasn’t burned black had been soaked with water. Gray puddles (closer to Magnesium than Titanium Pearl) spread across the kitchen floor, each pool several inches deep. Jeanna led me into the dining room, and I knelt in the doorway and searched the charred floor.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Bullet casings. Someone shot at me from here.”
“Do you have any bullets on you?”
“In my gun.”
“Show one to Kevlar.”
I unholstered my .38 and removed a round, passing it over to Jeanna. She held it before the dog’s nose.
“Kevlar, scent.”
The German shepherd sniffed the bullet, which easily could have fit into one of his huge nostrils.
“Kevlar, find.”
She unclipped his leash and the dog shuffled off, snorting here and there.
“Kevlar is one of four dogs in the state’s canine arson unit. I’ve been handling him since he was a puppy.”
Jeanna spoke with the inflection of a proud mother. Since she was helping me, I made with the small talk.
“How long have you worked for the Office of the State Fire Marshal?”
“Seven years. I bring Kev in on maybe thirty investigations a year.”
“Are there many deliberate cases?”
“Last year the office investigated over a thousand. About four hundred confirmed arson. Usually we don’t need the dogs—the signs are obvious, like in here. See how this patch of carpet burned away hotter than that patch? Gas spill.”
“So why bring Kevlar along if you already know it’s arson?”
“He hates being left out.”
Kevlar whined, and Jeanna focused the flashlight on the floor in front of him. I gave the dog a pat on the head and found what he’d been sniffing: a shell casing.
“Good boy, Kevlar.”
Jeanna hugged the bear, and I dug a plastic bag from my jeans and coaxed in the cartridge.
“There might be others,” I said. “Do you mind if I borrow the flashlight?”
Jeanna handed it over and pulled a smaller, slimmer model out of her jacket. Then she commanded the dog to find more bullets. Useful dog. Much more useful than a cat.
I wandered back into the kitchen, tripping over the curtains that had almost been my shroud the night before. I played the Maglite over the entire room. Nothing jumped out at me.
I crept into the living room, and then the dining room, my Nikes quickly becoming wate
rlogged. The house had gone from Dante’s Inferno to the Addams family, dark and damp and creepy, filled with long shadows and unpleasant odors. Near the wall in the dining room stood a strange-looking pile, and I nudged it with a wet toe and saw part of a handle.
A suitcase.
I squatted and picked through the cinders. Everything was burned pretty good, but two things stood out. The first was a five-inch flat wire, curved into a half-moon shape. The second was a congealed knot that I recognized immediately by its distinctive smell.
Human hair.
“Did you find something?”
“Maybe. Can you check the cabinets in the kitchen, see if any garbage bags survived the fire?”
“Sure. Watch Kevlar for me.”
More poking produced nothing but ash and melted globs. I’d take it back for the lab guys to interpret.
Jeanna found a bag, Kevlar didn’t find any more shells, and I spent another half an hour bumping around in the dark before calling it quits and heading out into the fresh air.
I placed the wet bag in my trunk and called Mason.
“How’s the search for the car going?”
“Narrowed it down to six gray Mitsubishi Eclipses with Illinois plates beginning with D one. Ran priors on five of the registered owners, came up clean except for traffic violations.”
“Send out some squads to visually check the cars for missing mirrors. What about the sixth?”
“Owned by a car rental place.”
She gave me the address, on Irving Park. It wasn’t too far, so I decided to check it out.
The office was typical for Chicago; a tiny building next to a cramped parking lot crammed with vehicles. The lobby was the size of my closet. A stained coffeemaker with a quarter-full carafe sat next to the unoccupied counter. A floor plant, brown and shriveled up, sat in an oversized plastic pot, next to a magazine rack that contained a single copy of Car and Driver and nothing else. I rang the bell.
“Just a second.”
He took his time. I stared at the coffee, cooking away on the warmer, probably since the morning. Against my better judgment I poured myself a Styrofoam cupful. It had the consistency of mud, which was pretty much how it tasted.
Should have trusted my better judgment.
I dumped it on the dead plant. Probably wasn’t the first to do it. Probably was the reason the plant had died.
“Help you?”
The guy was older, several days’ growth of beard on his face, grease embedded in his wrinkles and fingernails. He wore equally stained overalls, and a sewn-on name tag that said Al.
I flashed my star.
“Have you rented out a gray Mitsubishi Eclipse lately?”
He stared, then shook his head.
“Nope.” Then he said, “I did rent out a Titanium Pearl Eclipse, though.”
I bit back my first response.
“We have reason to believe it was involved in an accident. Can you show me who rented it?”
“Lemme get the book.”
Al plodded off, and eventually plodded back, nose pressed into a cracked binder. This time he had on a pair of bifocals thicker than ice cubes.
“Rented it out last week to a fella named Mayer. Mike Mayer.”
“You get a copy of his driver’s license?”
He handed me the book. “That’s the law, ain’t it?”
I checked out the info on Mr. Mayer. White, thirty-seven years old, had an Indiana license that said he lived in Indianapolis. The car was rented for the next two weeks. There wasn’t a credit card receipt. I wondered why.
“Paid cash. I’ve got the card number, though. In case of damage.”
“Where’s that?”
Al frowned, and disappeared again. I spent the time counting the cigarette butts in the dead plant. Nine, plus a cigar stub, a lottery ticket, and something that looked like a Tootsie Roll. I hoped it was a Tootsie Roll.
“We keep the card numbers on file in here.” He set a metal lock box down on the counter and fumbled with the combination.
Three eternities later, squinting through his glasses, Al had found the slip.
“Were you here when Mr. Mayer rented the car?”
“I’m the only one works the counter.”
“A testament to your efficiency. Can you describe Mr. Mayer?”
“Looked like his driver’s license picture, I reckon.”
“I’d like to hear it from your own mouth.”
“Thin. My height. Blond beard. Sunglasses, those kind that look like mirrors. Curly hair.”
He sounded like a dead ringer for the guy who dropped off the videotape at the station. I had a Xerox in the car, and asked Al to wait for a moment. He grunted.
When I returned with the picture, Al was gone. I rang the bell. He took his time.
“Busy day,” he said. “Lots of work.”
I made a show of looking around. “Yeah. They’re lining up out the door for rentals.”
“Rentals are just a side business. We’re part of Manny’s Car Repair Shop. Mostly use the rentals for loaners. Insurance reimburses us.”
“Is Mr. Mayer getting his car repaired here?”
“Nope. Just the rental.”
“Do you get a lot of people who rent cars without leaving one to be fixed?”
“Some. Not a lot.”
I handed Al a copy of the Identikit picture, the one that looked like the Unabomber.
“Looks like the Unabomber,” Al said.
“Is that Mr. Mayer?”
“I thought Ted Kaczynski was the Unabomber.”
He had to be putting me on. No one was this slow outside of HEE HAW.
“Does this resemble Mr. Mayer?”
He squinted. “Yeah. Could be.”
“Anything else you remember about Mr. Mayer?”
“He had a cold. Talked quiet. Did some coughing.”
I thought about it. I could have called in a Crime Scene Unit, dusted the place, but a hundred people have probably left their prints in the last week.
“I’ll need copies of all these papers.”
Al grunted. “I figured.”
While Sling Blade loped off to figure out the copy machine, I called Mason back and gave her Mayer’s info. She put me on hold and called Indianapolis PD.
Mason got back to me before Al did.
“No record. Guy’s clean.”
“How about the phone number he left?”
“Disconnected. Didn’t pay his bill.”
I waited another five minutes, and Al finally returned with my copies. I gave him my card.
“Thanks. When Mr. Mayer comes back, please try to detain him and give me a call.”
“Detain him how? Like tie him up?”
“Tell him there was a problem with his credit card. Then call me.”
“Might not stop in. Might just park the car in the lot and drop the keys in the slot.”
“If he does that, call me as well.”
“Might drop it off when I’m not here.”
“You said you’re always here.”
“Might get sick.”
“Do you get sick a lot, Al?”
“Might have caught Mr. Mayer’s cold.”
I drilled Al with a cop stare.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Al?”
He smiled, revealing three missing teeth. “Gotta have fun where you can get it, Lieutenant.”
After leaving Al, I really needed a beer.
And I knew just the place to get one.
CHAPTER 17
ALEX OPENS THE bottled water, takes a greedy sip, then pours some on the pliers. The handles are supposed to have no-slip grips, but Alex’s gloved hands have already slipped off them half a dozen times.
It’s hard. Much harder than expected.
“Want some water? I’ve got an extra bottle.”
No answer.
Alex takes another deep gulp, picks up the pliers, and gets back to work.
Again, it’s a strain. Teeth clen
ching. Muscles bunching. But Alex manages to pull an unbroken fifteen-inch strip of skin from Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s bare chest. The longest one yet.
Mulrooney screams his approval.
Almost done with the front, Alex thinks. Have to start on the back next.
Lots of skin there.
CHAPTER 18
BEFORE I ALLOWED myself any alcohol, I dropped off the bag and the shell casing at the Illinois Forensic Science Center. It used to be called the Chicago Crime Lab, up until it merged with the Staties in ’96. One of the officers who worked there, Scott Hajek, had helped me on a few cases, and promised he’d do a rush job on the ballistics and burn analysis.
A rush job meant at least a week. More than enough time to have a beer.
Joe’s Pool Hall was kitty-corner to my apartment in Wrigleyville. The after-work crowd hadn’t converged yet, and I managed to snag a table near the rear and a cue that still had a tip.
I drank a Sam Adams and settled in, running a rack and trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. I had a lot on my mind, plus shooting stick with a burned hand threw me off my game.
A waitress brought me another beer, and when I pulled out a buck to tip her, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.
“Asshole customer,” she said without me asking.
I tipped her an extra buck.
Halfway through the next set, a guy I knew came over and stood by the table, watching.
“Came to watch a pro?” I asked.
“No. Came to watch you.”
His name was Phineas Troutt. Younger than me by a decade. Blue eyes set in a hard face. Tall, with the type of muscles one got from working rather than working out. Last I’d seen him, he was bald from the chemotherapy. I took the blond fuzz growing on his head to be a good sign.
I ran the table, Phin racked the next set, and we lagged for the break. He won.
“Hair looks nice.” Phin executed a sledgehammer break that sunk two solids and a stripe. He chose solids.
“Thanks. It’s the shampoo. You should pick some up.”
He touched his head.
“Maybe when it grows out a little more.”
“It’s called Vertex. Only seventy bucks a bottle.”
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