Whiskey Sour

by J. A. Konrath

  “I’ll catch him.”

  “If you don’t, it’s your ass.”

  He hung up. That was two conversations with Bains in two days. Maybe now was a good time to ask for a raise.

  “Jack…” Herb caught up to me. The reporters had snagged him for a few questions after I’d jetted out. “You sure poked your stick at the hornets’ nest back there.”

  “Hopefully the hornet will come out. Can you do a crippled girl a favor?”

  “Sure. You bought dinner.”

  “See my tail?” I nodded in the direction of the two plainclothes cops, following our path twenty feet behind us. “If they were any closer they’d be wearing my clothes. Ask them to loosen up.”

  “You got it.”

  Benedict waddled up to them, giving a mini lecture on the art of being inconspicuous. I gave them a big smile and a thumbs-up to smooth it over. Don’t want to anger the guys guarding your life.

  Herb drove me home, first stopping at the Salvation Army on my request, where I wanted to replace my antiseptic aluminum hospital cane with something more distinguished. I found a polished piece of hickory that fit the description.

  “Very distinguished,” Benedict commented.

  “We ladies of good breeding demand nothing less than the best. Lend me fifty cents so I can buy it.”

  He forked over some pocket change and then insisted on seeing me into my apartment.

  “If you’re looking for a good-night kiss, I’ll whack you with my cane.”

  “Just want to make sure you can work your burglar alarm okay.”

  “Since when did a bullet wound make a person feeble-minded?”

  I couldn’t work the burglar alarm, so Herb had to show me.

  “You press the green button first, then the code.”

  “Thanks. Want a drink?”

  “Can’t. It’s Sunday.”

  I waited for more.

  “Lasagna night,” Benedict explained. “Got to get home.”

  “See you tomorrow, Herb. Thanks again.”

  “Get some rest, Jack.”

  He left me to my empty, quiet apartment. The lab team had taken half of my possessions, including the phone, which saved me from having to take it off the hook. The free press has no qualms about around-the-clock harassment.

  My leg was throbbing as if it had its own heart. I limped into the bedroom to get undressed and froze stock-still.

  Dread crawled over my body.

  My blood was still on the mattress. The bullet holes were still in the wall. The closet door was closed, and I had an unrealistic fear that the Gingerbread Man was still hiding in there. It was silly and stupid, but a fear nonetheless.

  I forced myself to open the closet, and left it open. Then I gathered up every bit of clothing that was in the closet and arranged for dry cleaning. I had no desire to wear anything that might have touched him.

  Afterward I took four Tylenol, grabbed my blanket, and went to go sleep in my rocking chair.

  Well, attempted to.

  The apartment was too quiet. So quiet that I could hear myself breathe. So quiet that when a car honked outside, I almost wet my pants.

  I turned on all the lights and flipped on the TV to keep me company. The Max Trainter Show was on — local talk soup at its basest level. Whereas other shows relied on melodrama to keep the viewer interested, Trainter went for shock value and violent confrontation. Six bouncers were on the set at all times, necessary to keep the guests from beating one another silly. Which they did, several times a show.

  I tried to relax, losing myself in the wonderful drama of human nature. A white-trash couple confronted their daughter’s lesbian lover. The lover fought back with a folding chair, which seemed as if it had been placed on stage for that very purpose. I counted four felonies and a dozen misdemeanors on screen before tiring of the show and switching it off.

  When sleep finally came, it came with nightmares.

  Chapter 22

  THE PAIN WOKE ME UP. My leg had stiffened overnight, and I felt like a piece of twisted licorice from my big toe to my bottom. I admit to some less than heroic yelping as I got out of the chair and hobbled to the bathroom in search of drugs. I’d gotten a prescription for codeine at the hospital, but hadn’t bothered to fill it, big tough girl that I am. Luckily I still had some of Don’s medication from when he’d had his wisdom teeth pulled. Vicodin. I took two.

  Showering was an awkward, painful affair that involved a garbage bag, duct tape, and more patience than I thought I had. When I was finally clean and dressed, an hour of my life was irretrievably gone.

  Using the cellular, I informed my shadow that I was awake and well. The Vicodin in my system almost prompted me into song. I felt good. Very good. The drug even seemed to cure my sniffles.

  Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.

  The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.

  The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I’m normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.

  The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.

  I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who’d just been shot.

  But that might have been the meds talking.

  Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. I’m Jack Daniels. I have an appointment.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Frank. Coffee?”

  I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it’s choppy.

  “Jack? I’m Matthew. I’ll be your Lunch Mates agent.”

  He was even cuter than Frank. Blond, baby blue eyes, a model’s square jaw. I wondered if the Gingerbread Man had actually killed me, and I’d died and gone to hunk heaven.

  I stood and took his hand. It was soft and dry, making me even more aware of how unkempt my hands were. I’d never broken the habit of biting my nails. It seemed so much easier than clipping them.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I love that sweater. It brings out your eyes.”

  “A recent purchase. The sweater, not the eyes.”

  Chuckles on both our parts. He led me through the carpeted hallways of Lunch Mates. It resembled any other office, with generic artwork on the walls and the obligatory Habitrail of cubicles where employees pecked away on computers between coffee breaks. It could have even been my workplace, except it was brighter and everyone looked happy.

  We made small talk about the weather and current news events, and then I was led into a corner office complete with view, fireplace, and a decor that made it look like a cozy den. We sat across from each other in two deep suede chairs, our knees almost touching. He reached over on the table next to us and
picked up a leather binder.

  “What we’re going to do, Jack, is have you answer a few questions about yourself and make a data sheet like this one.”

  Matthew held up a glossy piece of paper with a picture of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. It almost looked like a resume.

  “This data sheet will be given to men who would be a likely match for you. I’ll also give you data sheets of men…it is a man you’d like to meet, correct?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided to give heterosexuality one more shot.”

  He gave me a million-dollar smile, and I flashed my five-buck grin right back. The Vicodin guide to better living through chemistry.

  “So…if you and a man choose each other, we pick a place and set the date. If you’d prefer, you can fill out the data sheet yourself, but I like asking the questions because then I have a better idea of personality and compatibility.”

  “Ask away.”

  I leaned back and crossed my arms, held the pose until I realized I looked too defensive, then set my hands in my lap and crossed my legs. That was awkward as well, but I stayed that way rather than shift again so soon.

  “You mentioned you were a police officer. For how long?”

  “Twenty-three years. I’m a lieutenant. Violent Crimes.”

  “Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?”

  I took a moment too long to answer. Did I enjoy it? How could I enjoy Violent Crimes? I dealt with the worst element of society, I witnessed atrocities that regular people couldn’t even comprehend, I was overworked, under-paid, and socially retarded. But I still kept plugging away. Did I actually enjoy it?

  “I like getting the job done.” I crossed my arms in the defensive position again.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “Yes. I was divorced fifteen years ago.”

  “Children?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Pleasant laugh. “Education?”

  “Northwestern. Bachelor of Arts.”

  “What was your major?”

  What the hell was my major? “Political science.”

  “Do you have any hobbies?”

  Was insomnia a hobby? “I play pool. I like to read, when I have the time.”

  He paused frequently to write things down. I reviewed in my mind what I’d said so far and was less than impressed. I was coming off like the most boring person to ever walk the earth. Unless I wanted to get hooked up with someone who was comatose, I needed to spice up my answers.

  “I got into a fight the other day. Bar fight. See the bruises?”

  I pointed to my face and grinned. My painkiller high had overtaken my better judgment.

  “And the other day I got shot. A maniac broke into my apartment.”

  “My goodness. Where were you shot?”

  “My leg. It goes with the job. Maybe you saw me on the news yesterday.”

  And from there it went downhill. I talked about my acts of heroism. I talked about being a great kisser. The interview ended after I let him feel my muscle.

  Then he led me to another room where he took my picture and my money; a chunk large enough to knock me out of my good mood. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I was handed a sheaf of men’s data sheets, patted on the shoulder, and walked to the door.

  I was silent during the cab ride home. Gradually the painkiller wore off and my leg began to throb again. Even worse than the pain was the growing sense of humiliation. I felt like I’d won the Kentucky Derby for horses’ asses. I’m sure that when I left, Matthew had a firm opinion on why I needed a dating service in the first place. To add injury to insult, I was out almost eight hundred bucks, and all I had to show for it was a list of men who Matthew thought would be compatible with the idiot I’d become.

  I put the Vicodin in the medicine cabinet and took four aspirin. My cell phone rang, and I flipped it to my face, half hoping it was my surveillance team calling to say the Gingerbread Man was standing behind me with a gun. I would have let him shoot me.

  “Jack? Herb. I know you’re resting, but you’ll want to hear this. We’ve got a positive ID on the second girl. Her roommate called in. Are you up to move on it?”

  “I’m up. I’ll see you in ten.”

  I called my team and told them the news. Much as the job was wearing me down, it did help me to forget my life, which was what I needed at that moment.

  Clearheaded, I managed to start my car on the third try. During the drive I tried to shake the image of being the last kid picked for a backyard football game.

  I couldn’t.

  Chapter 23

  HE KNOWS WHAT JACK IS DOING. All those lies. All those insults. She’s trying to flush him out. Force him to make a mistake. It’s a clever move on Jack’s part, and even helps her save face after the pain she suffered the other night.

  But it still burns. The city isn’t likely to tremble in fear if they have an image of the Gingerbread Man being cowardly. He has to correct that image, and make Jack pay for the lies. It’s all about power. That’s all it has always been about.

  He knew he was different at a very young age, after he tied up the family cat with yarn and poked at it with a stick until its insides oozed out. Father beat him with a studded belt when he found out, demanding to know how he could do such a horrible thing.

  But it isn’t horrible to him. It’s exciting. Thrilling. The fact that he knows it’s wrong makes it even more so.

  Throughout adolescence he continues to pull the legs off frogs, and throw lit matches at his sister, and call people up and say he’s going to kill them. Because it’s fun.

  Sometimes he tries to determine why he is the way he is. Throughout his life he’s never felt anything. Certainly no love for anyone other than himself. No guilt, no empathy, no passion, no pity, no happiness. It’s a sad thing not to know how to laugh, when everyone around you is laughing. Humans could have been a completely different species, for all that he understands their interactions, their society, their culture.

  As he grows, he learns how to fake emotions so he doesn’t stand out. He’s a spectator in a strange world, a chameleon that can blend into the scenery but is never truly part of it.

  Until he learns to feel something, by killing the cat.

  It’s enthralling to kill the cat. It makes his heart pound and his palms sweat. The feeble escape attempts of the cat are genuinely amusing, and Charles laughs for the very first time. And when the cat finally dies, when it’s lying there inside out with its blood turning the ground to mud, he feels something more than amusement. He feels sexual arousal.

  Why does the death of a simple kitty cat bring out all of this in him? Charles has only one answer — power. Power over life and death. Power over suffering. Suddenly, he can feel. The blind can see and the deaf can hear and he knows what his purpose is.

  All of these people, with their silly relationships and their bullshit lives, are only here for his amusement. He isn’t less than they are. He is more. More intelligent. More evolved. More powerful. He embraces the feeling like a miracle drug.

  As he gets older, he learns to hide his obsession from others. Neighborhood pets disappear, but it rarely leads back to him. He has a little place, out in the woods, where he takes the animals. Where no one will hear the screeching. Where he can bury them when he’s finished.

  Fantasy often accompanies his mutilations. He imagines himself the ruler of the world, with all creatures trembling before his might. Like Satan on a throne of bones, torturing the meek, laughing at their pain. Dragging it on, sometimes for days, keeping the animal alive.

  Or sometimes the animals represent people. His classmates. His teachers.

  Father.

  It’s invigorating to pretend that the dog he’s tied up and castrating is his father.

  From what he’s read about serial killers like himself, there are several features they all share. Kind of like a big fraternity, everyone conforming to a basic set of rules.

  Most apply to him as we
ll.

  Fantasy plays a big part in recreational murder; in fact the stalking and the planning and the dwelling on it are almost as much fun as actually ending someone’s life.

  Most budding serial murderers show evidence of the triad when they’re children; bed-wetting, starting fires, and hurting animals. He lays claim to all three, wetting the bed until his late teens.

  There are also stressors and escalation.