Whiskey Sour

by J. A. Konrath

  “We’ll go over this when you get back,” Dailey said.

  It sounded more like a threat than a promise. I left without acknowledging them, but felt no moral victory in being rude.

  They hadn’t noticed.

  Chapter 7

  HE KNOWS WHERE SHE LIVES.

  He knows where all of them live, but this one was easier to find than the others. It was just a matter of looking her up in the phone book. T. Metcalf. Did women really think they were fooling anyone by only allowing the first initial of their name to be published? Who else but women did that?

  He watches her apartment from his truck. Theresa Metcalf. The second whore to die. He’s parked across the street, binoculars aimed at her window, peering through her open blinds. There’s movement in the apartment. He knows it’s her, getting ready for work.

  He has her schedule down better than she does. As usual, she’s running late. When she finally hits the street, it will be in a rush. But she never runs, and she never calls a cab. Work is five blocks away. She always walks the same route. Human beings are creatures of habit. He’s counting on that.

  He looks at his watch again. She’s later than normal today. His palms are sweating. It’s been a thrilling morning so far; preparing the candy, leaving it for Jack, getting her address. Now comes uncertainty.

  The Gingerbread Man leaves very little up to chance, but grabbing a person has too many variables to account for them all. He’d originally intended for Theresa to be the first, but when the day came to snatch her, she’d uncharacteristically walked to work with her roommate.

  Potential witnesses, the weather, traffic, and unpredictable human nature all conspire to make an abduction very delicate and tricky. He doesn’t know if she carries Mace. He doesn’t know if she has a black belt in karate. He doesn’t know if she will scream and attract attention. All he can do is plan as best he can, and hope for luck.

  He watches the blinds close in the window. Good. She’ll be coming down the stairs in a few minutes.

  “You open?”

  He quickly drops the binoculars and looks to his right. A boy, no more than ten, is staring in at him. Black kid, big head, wide eyes.

  It had been a long time since he’d killed a child. Almost another life. Before prison. The last one was a little girl. She’d been playing in front of her house. He grabbed her on impulse. She was so fragile and small. Screamed like an angel.

  “What do you want?”

  “Bomb Pop.”

  He reaches into the cooler behind him and pulls out a Bomb Pop. First sale of the day, not including the freebie he’d given that cop earlier. It sells for two dollars. He pays a dime wholesale. Since he works independently and the truck is his, the only overhead is gasoline. Not only does he have the perfect urban camouflage, but he’s even making a profit.

  The kid pays him in change, counting it carefully. Little shit has no clue how close to death he is. Just a quick tug on the shirt, and the boy could be his. He scans down the street for witnesses and sees nary a soul.

  But not today. Today he has other plans.

  The kid lopes off, licking his ice cream.

  The front door to the apartment opens, and the whore strides out. He runs through the grab one more time in his head. Pull out in front of her. Jump out. Stick her with the needle and haul her in back. Shouldn’t take more than ten seconds. Then he’ll have her for his use, for as long as he can keep her alive.

  Tapping his foot, impatient, he lets her get a block ahead of him before he starts the truck. His hands are sweating and he has a sudden attack of the giggles. The syringe is in his pocket, filled with fifty milligrams of Seconal. Not much, but a little goes a long way. He’ll pump it straight into her arm, and it’ll begin to take effect within five seconds.

  First she’ll become drowsy and disoriented. Then she’ll begin losing muscle control. It takes about five full minutes before she will be under completely, but until then he should be able to handle her without difficulty. Seconal has a soothing effect, and so far everyone he’s used it on has remained compliant, if not downright helpful.

  He practiced on winos when he’d first gotten the Seconal. There are plenty littering the streets of Chicago, begging for handouts. The first one he gave six ccs, killing him almost instantly. He halved the dosage, and the next one never woke up. One to 1.5 milliliters turned out to be the right dose for women, depending on how chunky they were. These whores aren’t chunky. They’re racehorses. Whorses. He giggles.

  The alley is coming up. He pulls into it ahead of her, taking in everything. There’s no one nearby. Perfect. She approaches the truck without even noticing it.

  Wait! She’s crossing the street! He’s watched her walk to work almost a dozen times, and she’s never crossed until she reaches the intersection. His mind races. Call it off, or improvise?

  “Theresa?”

  He’s out of the truck, coming at her on an angle, syringe palmed in his right hand.

  “Theresa?”

  She stops and looks at him. He smiles brightly. Smiles disarm people. His pace is fast, but he puts some bounce in his step and tries to look in a hurry rather than threatening.

  “I thought it was you. Charles, remember?”

  He says it at normal speaking level, which is too low for the twenty-foot distance between them.

  “Pardon me?”

  She cranes her neck forward a bit. Her posture isn’t defensive, but her expression is confused. She isn’t sure if she recognizes him or not.

  He takes two more steps. “I’m sorry, you don’t remember me, do you? I’m Charles.”

  Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to place him. “Sorry, I…” She shrugs.

  “You mean you don’t even remember the truck?” He takes three more steps and makes a grand sweeping gesture toward his ice cream truck. “I thought you’d remember the truck.”

  “Look — I’m late for work…”

  “At Montezuma’s. That’s where you work, right?”

  “Have I served you before?”

  “No.” The Gingerbread Man grins. The smile is genuine now. “But you will.”

  The girl doesn’t like his leer and subconsciously shifts her weight away from his approaching form. He detects the subtle change, and knows that if she bolts or screams, he won’t get a second chance.

  “Here, let me…” Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a handful of quarters. Trying to look clumsy, he lets the change spill from his hand and all over the curb.

  “Aw…my boss is gonna kill me!”

  He kneels down and begins picking up coins, hoping he looks really pathetic.

  He must, because she only watches for a few seconds before coming over to help.

  “Thanks. This is a whole morning’s work here.”

  She crouches down, picking up a quarter. “What did you say your name was?”

  He checks for witnesses. A guy on the end of the street, walking past, not paying attention.

  “Charles.”

  “And where do I know you from?”

  She reaches out to hand him some coins. He snatches her wrist and yanks her to him, jabbing the needle home, hugging her close so to any casual observer it looks like an embrace.

  She tries to twist, but he has sixty pounds on her and his hold has taken away her leverage. Leaving the syringe still sticking in her arm, he brings his hand up to the back of her head and crushes her face to his, drowning out the cry welling up inside her with a kiss.

  He tastes fear. She has the nerve to try to bite him, and that gets him excited. He likes to bite too. He sinks his teeth into her lower lip, and then her body begins to relax.

  Half pulling, half carrying, he gets her over to the truck. A cab rolls past, but doesn’t slow down. Once she’s in back, he handcuffs her to the metal bar he’s bolted to his freezer. Then he removes the needle from her arm and puts it back in his pocket.

  Theresa Metcalf shakes her head, as if she is trying to clear it. When she notic
es the handcuffs, she screams.

  In the driver’s seat, Charles flips on the music. A recorded pipe organ version of “The Candyman” trumpets through the speakers at full volume. He checks his mirrors and carefully backs out of the alley. She screams again, but he’s confident that he’s her only audience.

  “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” He giggles.

  Quite a day. Quite a day indeed. And quite a night it will be as well.

  He’s bought three new videotapes. He’s planning on filling them all.

  “Wait till we get back to my place,” he tells T. Metcalf. “Then you’ll have something to scream about.”

  She is too drowsy to hear him.

  Chapter 8

  HOW DID YOU KNOW,“ HERB SAID, smacking his lips, ”that I was in the mood for candy?“

  I glanced over at Benedict. He was clutching a bag of chocolate, eyes twinkling.

  “Do you keep an emergency supply in your jacket?” I asked.

  “Me? These are yours. They were on the seat.”

  “Where?”

  “In your car here, on the passenger seat.”

  I started the Nova and frowned, puzzled.

  “They’re not mine. Was there a note?”

  “Nope. Just candy. Maybe it was Don.”

  I shook my head and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Don left.”

  Benedict mulled it over, cradling the candy in his hand. “How do you feel about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. No.”

  “Remind me never to get romantically involved with you.”

  I turned left on Jackson and headed toward Mercy Hospital, where Herb had traced the Seconal prescription and where the late Dr. Booster had kept an office until the ninth of August. The Booster case was still listed as open, even though the investigation had gone cold. The detective in charge was a Palatine cop named Evens. Herb had left him a message, telling him to get in touch.

  “So who gave you the candy?”

  I shrugged. “Haven’t the slightest. Maybe someone put it in my car by accident.”

  “Accidents like that never happen to me.”

  “Have you checked your car? Maybe you have a bag too. Maybe your entire backseat is crammed full of chocolate products.”

  “Stop it. You’re getting me excited.”

  I tried to think it through. My car was unlocked when we got in. Had I left it unlocked? I must have. How likely was it that someone broke into my car just to leave me candy? Especially in a police parking lot.

  “Mind if I…?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Benedict ripped open the plastic bag and withdrew a mini bar, holding it up to his nose.

  “Smells okay. I don’t think they’re laced with arsenic.”

  “Would that even matter to you?”

  “Probably not.”

  My partner opened up the candy and popped the entire bar into his mouth. He chewed for almost a full minute, making cooing noises.

  “Maybe it was Bill, in Evidence.” Benedict’s mouth was still half full. “He’s always been sweet on you. This could be his way of expressing his love.”

  “Bill is almost seventy.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Jack. Want one?”

  “I’ll pass. But feel free.”

  He grunted a thanks and opened another.

  “There’s no one you know who would give you candy?”

  “Nobody. I’m all alone in this big cruel world.”

  “Geez, Jack. That’s really sad.”

  “If there were an award for the world’s biggest loser, I wouldn’t even win that.”

  “At least you don’t dwell on it.”

  I hit the gas and cruised through an intersection just as a yellow light was turning red. It was an unnecessary risk, but I didn’t get to be a lieutenant in the male-dominated world of Chicago law enforcement without taking chances.

  “You could try Lunch Mates,” Herb said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a dating service.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I’m serious.” He took a bite of the candy, smacking appreciatively. “You make an appointment to meet with an agent and answer questions about yourself. Then they arrange for you to meet for lunch with a compatible man. It’s all prearranged so there’s no pressure.”

  “I could also meet men by putting on some hot pants and walking along Twenty-third and Stony. At least I’d be the payee instead of the payer.”

  Benedict popped the rest of the chocolate into his mouth.

  “I just read an article about it in the Chicago Reader. It seems like a good idea.”

  “Only weirdos meet people like that.”

  “Not at all. Just people with full-time careers who are sick of the bar scene.”

  “They’d match me with some weirdo.”

  “I think that both parties have to agree to meet before the lunch takes place. What have you got to lose?”

  “My dignity, my self-respect…”

  “Bullshit. You don’t have any dignity or self-respect.”

  “Jesus.”

  I hung a left and swung into the parking lot of Mercy, where I parked in a loading zone. As Benedict and I extracted ourselves from the less-than-spacious confines of my beater, a parking lot attendant sauntered over, oozing attitude. I flashed my badge. Instant respect.

  We strolled up to the doctors’ building, a large oppressive brick edifice that competed for the ugly award with the equally oppressive hospital. They stood side by side, large and brown, with crumbling brickwork and rusty fire escapes. Chicago was a city filled with great architecture, but every garden had a few weeds.

  “I see you couldn’t leave your compulsion behind,” I said to Herb, indicating the candy in his hands.

  “I was thinking about passing it around the children’s ward. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I must say I’m touched by your unselfish nature.”

  “Bernice says if I gain any more weight, she’s cutting off the nookie.”

  “The No Nookie Diet.”

  It was a welcome shock to find the interior of the doctors’ building both brightly lit and pleasant. After consulting the front desk, we were directed to the fifth floor.

  Dr. Booster had been a general practitioner. He shared an office with Dr. Emilia Kuzdorff and Dr. Ralph Potts, an OB-GYN and a pediatrician, respectively. We got into the elevator with an attractive blond woman and her sniffling daughter. Watching the child sniffle made me aware that I had a slight runny nose as well. Serves me right for not dressing properly.

  I searched my pocket for a Kleenex — while on the job, I didn’t carry a purse. Too cumbersome. That’s why I favored blazers with big pockets. Today I was wearing a gray Donna Karan and a matching skirt, with a blue blouse and black flats. Heels were another hindrance to the job.

  Sadly, my pockets were without any tissue. I briefly considered using Benedict’s tie, which was a green-and-orange–striped monstrosity that was too wide by at least thirty years. It was also covered with chocolate stains. Herb may be out of style, but he’s messy to make up for it.

  Benedict must have guessed my intent, because he produced a pack of tissue from his pocket for me.

  We located office 514 with no major difficulties. Dr. Booster’s name was still on the plaque next to the door. The waiting room was full of screaming children and frustrated mothers. I approached the front desk and got the attention of a nurse.

  “I’m Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict. We have a few questions concerning Dr. Booster.”

  She looked up at me with the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. It took me a moment to realize they must be contacts.

  “Have you caught him?”

  “No, ma’am. Not yet. You knew
Dr. Booster?”

  “I worked for him for seven years. He was a good doctor. He didn’t deserve that.”

  “Can I get your name, ma’am?” Benedict had his notepad already in hand.