Whiskey Sour

by J. A. Konrath

  Chapter 30

  BENEDICT WAS THE ONE WHO TALKED me into keeping my date.

  “All we can do now is wait for the reports to come in. Go have lunch.” “There are a million things to do.”

  “And a million people to do them. This is your job, Jack, not your life. Go eat. Everything will be here when you get back.”

  “My clothes are still at the cleaners.”

  “You look fine. Go. That’s an order. Bains made me the senior on this investigation, remember?”

  Traffic was good. I made it to the restaurant ten minutes early, and parked in front of a hydrant. The place did a moderate lunch, and the lobby was bustling when I entered. Jimmy Wong’s was a Chicago landmark of sorts, famous in its day. The decor was pure 1950s, a throwback to the Rat Pack era. It even had the requisite wall of fame. I eyed a signed picture of Klinger from M*A*S*H and checked my hair in the glass. After some brief finger fluffing, I went to the host desk.

  A Chinese man wearing a red bow tie informed me that my date had not yet arrived, and directed me to the bar, where I could wait. I ordered a Diet Coke, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes passed. The last thing I needed was time to sit and dwell.

  I watched him come in, seeing his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He wore a tailored suit, dark blue pinstripe, with a light blue shirt. His smile was pleasant and seemed genuine when his gaze fell on me. He had a good walk, confident, with a slight bounce, toes pointed straight ahead and not out to the sides like a duck. I never found duck walkers attractive.

  I stood to meet him, hoping my smile didn’t look dopey.

  “How do you do, Jack.” He offered his hand, his grip firm but gentle.

  “Very nice to meet you, Latham. Great suit.”

  “Do you think so? Thanks.”

  We let the host seat us at a dimly lit corner booth. Almost immediately a busboy set down a pot of tea. Neither of us touched the pot, or our menus. I tried to look relaxed, but wasn’t sure if I was succeeding.

  “So, where do you work?” I asked. It seemed like a good way to get the conversational ball rolling.

  “I work for Mariel Oldendorff and Associates. Head accountant. It’s about as exciting as it sounds. You’re a police captain?”

  “Lieutenant, actually.”

  “What kind of police work do you do?”

  “Uh, violent crimes.”

  “Oh. Interesting, I bet. Are you undercover now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know. Those old clothes. I haven’t seen an Izod in years.”

  Ouch. “Oh, it’s laundry day. Everything I own is at the dry cleaners, with the exception of this ensemble. Believe it or not, these jeans are Bon Jour.”

  “Really?”

  I showed him the stitching on the pocket, regretting it immediately. Three minutes into the date and I’m showing the guy my ass.

  “This is great.” He was grinning.

  “That I’m twenty years behind in fashion?”

  “That you’re confident enough to come as you are. The last woman I went out with wore way too much hair spray and perfume. When she lit a cigarette I ducked for cover because I thought she was going to ignite.”

  I laughed.

  “I knew a guy like that. I swore he used to bathe in Aqua Velva. When we slow danced I got high off the fumes.”

  He had a pleasant, easy smile, and deep-set wrinkles when he crinkled his eyes. Definitely cute; even better than his picture.

  “So why did you become a cop?”

  “Because I like…” I searched for the word. “…fairness. My mom was a cop. She always did the right thing. That’s what I want to do.”

  “You find fulfillment in fairness?”

  My life had never been so succinctly defined before. “I like justice, and I like doing my part to make sure things turn out the right way. How about you?”

  “I’m not that deep. I’m fulfilled by simple pleasures. Music. Food. Good conversation. Right here, right now, I’m happy.”

  He leaned in closer. Was he actually flirting? I felt the familiar schoolgirl tingle in the pit of my belly, and I realized I was interested in him. I leaned closer too.

  “I wish I was like that. More carefree.”

  “Anyone can be. People aren’t carved out of marble. We’re all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.”

  That’s when I noticed my ex-boyfriend Don walking over to us. Dragging him along was a woman so pumped up with muscles, it looked like someone had stuck a tube up her rear and inflated her. Roxy, his personal trainer and new roommate.

  “Speaking of outside influences,” I said to Latham, “there’s about to be a scene.”

  The couple stood next to our table, Roxy big and blonde and angry, Don embarrassed and maybe a bit scared.

  “You’re right, Donnie, she is old.” She snorted through her large nostrils, giving me a blast of warm air.

  Four million people and two thousand restaurants in Chicago…

  “Take it somewhere else, Roxy. We’re busy.”

  “Roxy…” Don tugged on her well-defined arm. “Just leave it alone.”

  But Roxy wasn’t having any. Perhaps the steroids had gotten to her brain. She puffed up her chest and struck an impressive pose.

  “You got a lot of nerve, tossing his stuff in the hall like that. Maybe you’d like to show me some of that nerve outside.”

  Latham frowned. “I don’t think —”

  “It’s okay, Latham.” I patted his arm. “I can handle this one.”

  I stood up, giving Roxy cop eyes. I had to look up to do so. She had a few inches on me.

  “Showing off for your boyfriend isn’t worth getting arrested, Roxy. Take off.”

  Don tried to pull her away, but she was practically his size.

  “You scared, bitch? Scared I’ll beat your ass in front of your pimp here?”

  I smiled and pointed at her chin. “You missed a spot shaving.”

  She swung at me, but I was ready. In a single, efficient move I slipped the punch and came up behind her. Using her momentum I got her wrist in a hammerlock and shoved her on top of the table, pinning her down with my weight.

  “Assaulting a cop is a felony, Roxy. Three to five, hard. If this big show of testosterone is simply because you need an apology, I’ll offer it. I’m sorry. Now take off, or I’ll stop being this nice. Got it?”

  I gave her wrist a little extra twist to make my point. Roxy grunted and gave me an enthusiastic nod. When I let her up, she was beet red, and Don was studying his shoes. Neither said another word, and they moped off without further incident.

  I sat back down and wondered how badly I’d ruined my chances with Latham. Could I be any less demure?

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I’m really not a violent person.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Latham looked flushed. “This is actually the most exciting date I’ve ever had in my life. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I get off at six. Can I make you dinner?”

  “Uh, that would be great.”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  He grinned. The waiter came by and we ordered our entrees.

  Maybe all that money I spent on Lunch Mates was a good investment after all.

  Chapter 31

  HE KEEPS FALLING ASLEEP, WAITING FOR something to happen.

  The discovery of the body in the cooler is exciting, but he has to stay too far back for fear of being seen. By the time the excitement dies down, Jack is back inside her office.

  And now, the effects of a sleepless night are taking their toll. His eyelids keep closing. His head keeps lolling forward. Even the anger, the fuel that spurs him on, has been replaced by fatigue.

  He uses the cigarette lighter to keep himself awake.

  Charles knows he’s grasping at straws. The surveillance on Jack is tight. Even th
e weak point, the shift change, proceeds smoothly. No matter where Jack goes, there’s a team following her. But there has to be some kind of way.

  He almost nods off, and again has to apply the lighter. He concentrates his efforts on his chest, where the burns will be out of the public view. Pain works so much better than caffeine.

  Lunchtime comes, and his stomach rumbles. He hadn’t expected to go on a stakeout, or he would have packed something. There’s ice cream in the truck’s freezer, but he hates ice cream. Maybe he can step out and grab a bite at —

  The sedan he’s following takes off. Jack is on the move. He starts the truck and follows, having to keep closer than he had last night because traffic is heavier. Once, he loses them at a red light, but they continue down the same street and he’s able to catch up.

  The destination is Jimmy Wong’s on Wabash. Did Jack and her fat partner come here for a bite? He parks at a bus stop and watches.

  An hour passes. He opens the door a crack and pisses on the street. He eats a Popsicle. He burns his chest again. He thinks about having Jack to himself, keeping her alive for days. Jack is the closest anyone has ever come to understanding him. Having her undivided attention would be delicious.

  He knows Jack will just die for it.

  Jack leaves the restaurant — not with Herb Benedict, but with another man. They shake hands, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. Friend? Lover? Brother?

  There’s only one way to be sure.

  The man begins to walk away. Charles starts the truck and tails him for a block.

  “Hey, buddy.” He rolls down the window, pulling up close. The syringe is in his pocket. “I’m lost. Can you tell me how to get to Belmont?”

  Chapter 32

  I WAS FEELING PRETTY GOOD ABOUT myself. In one fell swoop I’d shaken off the vestiges of Don and had met a man who was attractive, interested, and much better suited for me. Even being grilled by Herb upon my arrival at the station hadn’t hurt my mood.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What for?”

  “I seem to recall sending you off to Lunch Mates in the first place. The thank-you doesn’t have to be formal. You can express your gratitude in a gift.”

  “Something to eat, perchance?”

  “By happy coincidence, I’ve got a Mario’s pizza menu in my pocket.”

  Benedict handed over the menu with instructions on what he liked on his pie. I wasn’t shocked to find out he liked everything.

  Formalities aside, we dove into the paperwork pool, gathering and collating information, trying to gain a better perspective on our perp.

  We had yet to get any reports back on the third victim. The ME did a cursory inspection on site and drew several conclusions. She was a white female, late twenties to mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, between five four and five six based on the length of the femur. She’d been hacked apart, Maxwell Hughes guessed, by some kind of heavy-bladed knife or sword. All of the dismemberment appeared to be postmortem. Her right hand was missing, as was a good deal of tissue.

  Cause of death was unknown. There was a large abrasion on her head consistent with a blow by a heavy object. There was also a stab wound in the left upper thigh, and we all could guess what it contained.

  Other than that, there were few similarities to the other victims. She had ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, but the body bore no evidence of torture. The others hadn’t been hacked up like this. The method of disposal was different. The killer had completely changed his MO. The million-dollar question was, Why?

  My concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. It was a bony little man wearing a brown bow tie and matching sweater vest. He had fair blond hair balanced delicately on an ovalish skull. Tiny eyes were distorted behind thick glasses, and a thin mustache rested on his lip like a string of uneaten spaghetti.

  “Detective Daniels?”

  “Lieutenant. That’s Detective Herb Benedict.”

  He came in without being asked. “I’m Dr. Francis Mulrooney.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  He stood there, expecting more. “The handwriting expert?” He flashed a grin. I held my applause and picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Bill? Jack. Can you have someone run up the notes from the Jane Does? Thanks.”

  I motioned for Francis to have a seat, and Herb scooted his bulk to the side to let him near the desk.

  “So far on the case we’ve —”

  Mulrooney held out his palm. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anything until I’ve seen the samples. It could influence my judgment.”

  I gave Herb a look. He returned it. The FBI was bad enough. Why not just go medieval and hire a phrenologist?

  “It’s always exciting to work with the police.” Mulrooney grinned. His teeth were uneven. “Is this a forgery case? Never mind, don’t tell me. I’d rather see if I can figure it out. Forgery fascinates me. You see, handwriting is like fingerprints, and no two samples are exactly the same. But it’s also a window into the part of the brain that understands and comprehends language. Your signature changes, for example, when you’re under stress or if you succumb to mental problems. So, is this a forgery case?”

  A uniform walked in, carrying the notes. The first two were in cellophane envelopes, each stained murky brown with dried blood. The third was sandwiched in an old encyclopedia.

  “We store it in a book in the freezer,” I told Mulrooney. “The cold takes away all the moisture without ruining the physical evidence. If we let the blood dry naturally, the paper will begin to rot.”

  All the color drained from Mulrooney’s face, making his thin blond mustache appear translucent.

  “Excuse me a second.” He stood and bolted for the door. The uniform shrugged and followed him out.

  “Think he’ll be back?” Herb asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  The pizza came, and Benedict attacked it with a ferocity often seen on PBS specials involving carnivores.

  “Doesn’t your tongue hurt?”

  “Not so much anymore. I think eating all the time has sped up the healing process. Maybe it will work with your leg.”

  Benedict offered me a slice so stacked with toppings, it had begun to topple. I declined, consuming several aspirin instead.

  Our resident handwriting expert reappeared, his cockiness replaced by a serious expression.

  “I apologize.” He drew his hand across his mouth. “When I got the call I wasn’t told what I’d be analyzing. Is this the Gingerbread Man case?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat back down, averting his gaze from the pizza Herb was devouring.

  “I’ve read about it. Terrible. If I may?”

  I offered him the notes, as well as a photocopy of the one left for the Tribune; the original was still at the lab. Mulrooney slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves. From his vest pocket he removed a leather case.

  “Can I take them from the cellophane?”

  I nodded, making note of it on the evidence seals. First he simply read the notes, frowning. Then he unzipped his case and removed a jeweler’s loupe and some long tweezers.

  I watched him work, going over the notes line by line, scribbling in a pad constantly, handling them with the utmost care and professionalism.

  After about fifteen minutes, during which Herb had finished his pizza and joined in the observation, Dr. Mulrooney let out a deep breath and sat back in his chair.

  “You’ve got one sick puppy here.” He met my gaze, intense. “First I’ll tell you what I know for sure. The same person wrote all four notes. Block printing is not as easy to analyze as script, and in court it’s harder to prove, but there’s enough here to be absolutely sure of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s right-handed. He clubs, which means that the ends of his pen strokes are thicker than the beginnings. That’s a characteristic usually found in sadistic personalities. You can see it on the down strokes of his t, l, f, i, and on the bottoms
of the y and b.”

  He showed us examples. I found myself becoming interested.

  “The t”s have descending bars, which are also clubbed. This can be a sign of mental imbalance. Many violent schizophrenics have descending t bars. In the second note he also mentions us, which might indicate disassociative identity disorder. But I don’t believe in multiple personalities. It’s a psychiatric fairy tale. I think the us was deliberate, either a ploy or a nod to an accomplice.“