Rusty Nail

by J. A. Konrath

  Harry grinned and held her hand. “I don’t like letting her out of my sight for very long.”

  Holly grinned back. Love sure was disgusting.

  “Anyway, Jack, I haven’t been shooting in forever. Would you like to fire off a few rounds?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Drop by the station tomorrow, around five. We’ll hit the range.”

  I had no idea why she was making an effort, and an even lesser idea of why I was reciprocating. Because I had no friends? Because I still didn’t understand why such an incredible woman was marrying Harry?

  Or was it because I’d take an obscene amount of delight in outscoring her ass on the firing range?

  We had dessert, more coffee, and then Holly got up to visit the ladies’ room.

  “Well?” Harry elbowed me in the arm. “What do you think of her? What a filly, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Harry. She’s a real filly.”

  “How about you, Jim?”

  “Phin.”

  “Phin. Pretty prime piece of real estate I’m developing, huh?”

  “She’s lovely.” Phin looked at me, for only the second time of the night, a question in his eyes.

  Harry slurped some coffee, spilling it onto his shirt. “I’m the luckiest man who ever lived, that’s for sure. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, and the sex is mind-blowing. She doesn’t wear underwear. Can you believe it? I’m writing a letter to Penthouse.”

  Holly returned, McGlade made a big show of picking up the check, and everyone hugged everyone else, some more enthusiastically than others. The valet got Harry’s car first, and he and Holly drove off honking and waving.

  “That was surreal,” Phin said as we stood in the lobby.

  “How so?”

  “McGlade. That guy is an idiot. Actually, calling him an idiot isn’t fair to all the other idiots. What in God’s name is she doing with him?”

  “McGlade’s rich. She could be gold-digging.”

  “Maybe that’s it. She obviously doesn’t love him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Come on, Jack. Who could love that guy? If I had to spend ten minutes alone with him I’d eat my gun. Or make him eat it.”

  The valet pulled my car up.

  “I read somewhere that beautiful women are often lonely because men are afraid to approach them.”

  That received a snort. “Get real, Jack. Did you look around the restaurant? Everything with a Y chromosome was ogling her. Holly hasn’t lacked for companionship a single day of her life.”

  That made me feel much better.

  “You need a ride someplace?”

  “No. I’m good. See you Monday, Jack.”

  “Thanks for coming, Phin. I owe you one.”

  “It was fun. Hey, you don’t like McGlade, right?”

  “He’s like the brother I never wanted.”

  “If he met with some kind of fatal accident, would that be a problem?”

  I couldn’t tell if Phin was joking or not. I tipped the valet, climbed into my beater, and opened my window.

  “You can’t kill him until I’m off the TV series.”

  “Got it. You looked nice tonight, Jack.”

  “I’m glad someone noticed,” I said. But I said it after I’d already pulled away.

  CHAPTER 28

  SERGEANT HERB BENEDICT gives his sleeping wife a pat on the rump and climbs out of bed. It’s a hair past midnight, and midnight is the perfect time to have a midnight snack.

  He creeps to the door—the house is old and the wooden floors creak like the shrieks of the damned. Bernice is a light sleeper. She made a wonderful rib roast for dinner, and there’s very little left. If he wakes her, he’ll have to share.

  Herb takes the stairs slowly, as if stepping on eggshells. He doesn’t put on any lights. He doesn’t need to. He’s lived in this house for decades, and can navigate entirely by feel.

  The kitchen floor is slippery under his bare feet. Bernice waxes the tile once a week, and Herb’s soles are dry and calloused. More than once he’s almost taken a dive during a late-night refrigerator raid.

  He manages to keep his balance this time, pulling the Tupperware bowl of meat and potatoes from the fridge, deciding whether the microwave is necessary, or if straight from the container will suffice.

  The kitchen is cold, so he goes with the microwave. He sets it for a minute—just enough to get the chill out of the food—and opens the utensil drawer, feeling for a fork.

  A creaking sound comes from the living room.

  Herb freezes. Instantly he knows the noise came from a person, and that person can’t be Bernice because he would have heard her coming down the stairs. The lights are off, but there’s illumination coming through the small window of the microwave. Herb squints across the kitchen and into the dining room, where he sees the drapes ruffling.

  The window is open, the wind blowing in. That’s why the kitchen is cold. That’s how someone got into his house.

  Benedict’s gun is upstairs, next to the bed. He keeps it there on the off chance someone ever tried to break in. He’s aware of the irony. Who knew he should have armed himself to go eat leftovers?

  Another squeak. Closer. The person is right around the corner, less than ten feet away. Herb considers his options. Most burglars don’t want to be confronted. They run at the very thought of the house being occupied. A loud shout will scare this type of criminal away.

  But this might not be a burglar. It might be someone with a grudge. Someone Herb arrested in the past, looking to settle a score.

  Or someone else. Someone planning on making a new videotape to give to Jack.

  He chances a quick glance at the microwave. Thirty seconds left. Then there will be a loud beep to signal the food is ready. Herb had planned to open the microwave door a few seconds early, so the sound didn’t wake Bernice. Now he decides to use the beep to his advantage. When the microwave beeps, the light will go off. Maybe the combination will mask Herb’s movement, giving him a chance to strike first.

  Silently, Herb reaches back into the utensil drawer and finds a paring knife. Long-bladed weapons aren’t good in a fight. They get caught on clothing. The large blade makes penetration more difficult, and easier to defend against. A short blade is easier to control and wield, and can do more than enough damage.

  Herb takes one for each hand.

  The microwave reaches 15 seconds left . . . 14 . . . 13 . . .

  Benedict spreads his feet apart, widening his stance.

  12 . . . 11 . . . 10 . . .

  The kitchen is dark, but he knows every inch of it. He imagines the three steps he’ll have to take before the quick right turn into the living room.

  9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . .

  He bends his knees and crouches down. He’ll hit low, use his weight to knock the person over.

  6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . .

  Herb takes a deep breath, holds it, clenching the knives as hard as he can.

  3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

  Benedict is already two steps into his run. Before he can make the turn into the living room he bumps straight into the man standing next to the refrigerator.

  Momentum takes Herb forward, but the shock of hitting someone sooner than expected, plus the slippery floor, makes him lose his balance. He falls facefirst, trying to break his fall with his knuckles, realizing at the last possible moment that falling on two paring knives is a bad idea.

  Herb manages to stretch one knife in front of him.

  The other penetrates his chest and slips between two ribs, puncturing his right lung.

  The pain is instant and intense. A sharp, searing pain, accompanied by a sudden urge to cough.

  Ahead of Herb, the intruder also hits the floor. It’s followed by a clanging sound, something metal hitting the tile. A crowbar? A gun?

  “Herb?”

  Bernice. She heard the sound. Herb tries to warn her, but he can’t ta
ke a breath. Nothing comes out, only painful wheezing. He pulls at the knife in his chest, and it comes out with a wet sucking sound.

  A foot catches Herb in the face. Herb lashes out with the knife, finding a calf, digging the blade in.

  There’s a scream, low and loud, and the leg is pulled away. Herb hears limping footsteps heading into the living room. And then he hears something that almost stops his heart: the stairs creaking.

  Bernice is coming down.

  Herb tries to get up. He’s struggling to breathe, and there’s a wet hissing sound coming from the hole in his chest. He presses his palm to it, pain be damned, and manages to get to his knees.

  The light goes on in the hallway.

  “Herb!”

  Bernice’s voice, panicked. There’s a grunting sound. Something breaks, sounds like glass.

  Not Bernice please God please not my wife . . .

  Herb crawls across the tile, desperate. Another light goes on, in the living room. He sees what the intruder dropped. A hunting knife, the blade over ten inches long.

  Footsteps, getting closer. Herb raises the paring knife, ready to fight.

  Bernice walks into the kitchen. She’s holding Herb’s gun.

  “Oh my God, Herbert!”

  Herb tries to speak. Can’t. Bernice reads the question on his face.

  “He’s gone. He saw the gun and broke through the living room window.”

  Herb coughs, blood bubbling from his lips. He collapses onto the floor and is conscious long enough to notice the note on the floor, next to the hunting knife.

  CHAPTER 29

  FOR THE SECOND time in twelve hours, the phone woke me up. I squinted at the clock in the darkness. One a.m. I’d been asleep for almost an hour.

  The phone rang again. I slapped it to my cheek.

  “Daniels.”

  “Jack? It’s Bernice Benedict. Someone just broke into our house.”

  I went from groggy to alert in record time.

  “Are you okay? Where’s Herb?”

  “He’s been stabbed in the chest.”

  She sounded scared, but in control. Cops’ wives were tough.

  “Have you called 911?”

  “An ambulance is on the way. The man who broke in, he left a handwritten note. It says ‘All shall be punished.’ ”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. If you’re already on your way to the hospital, leave the back door open.”

  I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and made it to Herb’s place in nine minutes. Scores of squad cars jammed the side streets; cops took care of their own.

  I parked on his lawn and caught Benedict being shoved into the rear of an ambulance. His pajama top was open, and an EMT pressed a large piece of gauze to his bloody chest. Herb’s face was literally gray, but he was awake.

  “How you doing, partner?”

  He rolled his eyes, which buoyed me with relief. The dying don’t bother with sarcasm. He whispered something, more a gargle than a whisper. I leaned over, my ear to his lips.

  “. . . stabbed the guy . . . leg . . .”

  “Description?”

  “. . . dark . . . Bernice . . .”

  “She saw him?

  His eyes said yes.

  “I’m going to check out the scene. I’ll visit you later.”

  I patted his cheek, and he whispered something again.

  “. . . crow wave.”

  “What?”

  “. . . microwave . . . don’t touch my rib roast.”

  Bernice stood in the doorway, talking to three cops. She was in her midfifties, short and a shade too plump for this era. Her gray hair was in a bun, and she hugged her robe around her, cold or scared or both. I approached, and when Bernice noticed me she grasped my hands.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Though I didn’t see how she could be.

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Yes. Short red hair. Acne scars. Chubby. I don’t know about height—he was limping and hunched over. In his late twenties or early thirties.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “A black sweatshirt, black jeans, gloves.”

  “Black leather?”

  “White rubber. Like a doctor wears.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Bernice laid it out for me: waking up when she heard a noise, calling for her husband, hearing a man scream, grabbing the gun and coming downstairs, finding the suspect in the living room. When he saw the gun, he busted out through the window.

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  “No. I was in a hurry to find Herb.”

  Something in her tone made me wonder if there was more. “Anything else, Bernice?”

  “Yes. He spoke to me, before he ran off.”

  “What did he say?”

  Bernice didn’t flinch. “He said, I’ll be back, bitch.”

  I left Bernice in the capable hands of Chicago’s finest and entered her house. The Crime Scene Unit hadn’t arrived yet, and the first-on-the-scene officer was reluctant to let me in, even though I pulled rank. He was worried about contaminating evidence, which wasn’t an unfounded concern. A few recent high-profile court losses due to compromised scenes had made many of the higher-ups unhappy.

  I assured him I’d be careful, and wandered through the living room, mindful where I stepped, taking everything in.

  The entry point was through a living room window. A hole had been cut in the glass, wide enough to accommodate an arm. Then the latch had been turned and the window raised. Silent and effective. It was an MO I’d seen before—the Gingerbread Man had used it.

  The perp had exited through another window, smashing the glass. There was blood on the window frame, on the wood floor trailing up to it. I followed the blood into the kitchen, found the note and the hunting knife. The note seemed to match the first note left for us, and the hunting knife appeared to be the same one used in the Diane Kork video.

  There was more blood here, Herb’s and the intruder’s, smeared around in a pattern that suggested a struggle. Two paring knives were slathered with the stuff.

  I looked in the microwave, found the Tupperware bowl full of rib roast. I didn’t see how touching it would in any way, shape, or form hurt a conviction, so I put it in the refrigerator.

  Careful to avoid the blood, I left the kitchen and followed the blood spatters, through the living room, up to the window. Hanging on a jagged shard of glass were three red hairs.

  Caleb Ellison, who lived with Charles Kork for ten years, had red hair.

  The CSU arrived. Pictures were taken. Video was shot. Samples were acquired. I left after an hour, heading to St. Vernon to check on Herb. He hadn’t come out of surgery yet. I sat with Bernice, holding her hand, trying to get my mind around everything.

  It didn’t make sense.

  The note and the hunting knife looked to be matches, but other than that, this crime didn’t seem at all related to the deaths of Diane Kork and Francis Mulrooney. There were too many discrepancies. The MO was all wrong.

  Diane and Francis were abductions. No evidence had been left. Their deaths had been videotaped. Their killer wore black leather gloves. Everything pointed to him having a blond beard.

  But in this case, the killer was a redhead who wore latex gloves, tried to kill his victims in their homes without recording it on tape, and left a truckload of physical evidence.

  Why so many differences? Was the killer escalating? Or getting sloppy? Or was this a hasty attempt, thrown together at the last minute?

  By four a.m., Herb was out of surgery, and his doctor came to see us. I didn’t like the fact that he appeared grim.

  “We repaired the damage to his lung and inserted a tube to reverse the pneumothorax—the collapsed lung—but while on the table your husband suffered a myocardial infarction.”

  Bernice’s only reaction was to blink.

  “He had a heart attack?” I asked.

  “We were able to resuscitate, and he
’s in Recovery now. We anticipated this might happen. A chest CT before surgery revealed large amounts of calcium deposits on his arterial walls. So after closing him up I ordered an MRA and found evidence of coronary artery disease. He’s going to need angioplasty at the least—I need to run some more tests. There’s enough plaque to qualify for bypass surgery.”

  Bernice began to cry, and I didn’t feel so hot myself.

  “I want to see my husband.”

  The doctor nodded. “One visitor only. He’s still in critical condition.”

  Bernice hugged me, and the doctor escorted her out of the waiting room. I sat for another hour, pestered the nurse to visit Herb, got turned down, and went home, worried sick.

  CHAPTER 30

  SLEEPING WASN’T AN option, so I left for Indianapolis early, the rising sun in my face as I headed southeast. There was a little bite of winter lingering in the air, a frigid breeze that made a jacket necessary. I wore my three-quarter-length London Fog trenchcoat, black Levi’s, and a black and red blouse by Kathleen B that I picked up in a small boutique in Aurora. The blouse was made of material called poodle fabric, and had the thickness of a sweater without the bulk. For shoes, I went with Nikes—no woman likes to drive long distances in heels.

  I did a lot of thinking during the trip. If I truly was happy being miserable, as I suspected, then I’d just attained a state of euphoria.

  My father died when I was young. My mom raised me, but she’d worked full-time as a police officer, and from eleven years old on I spent a lot of time alone, locked in our little apartment. I loved Mom, and appreciated all she’d done for me, but I didn’t need a therapist to know I had abandonment issues. Control issues too. Chasing bad guys helped keep the issues at bay. It was easier than dragging them out into the sunlight and dealing with them.

  But at times like these, when the world felt like it was falling apart around me, when it didn’t look like the bad guys would ever get caught, when I needed more than ever to be strong—I always seemed to come up short.