“Have fun. I’m going to search the building for my coffee machine.”
“Good luck.”
“You, too.”
After a boring, frustrating work day I was back at Latham’s apartment, reassessing my career, my living arrangement, and the people in my life. My home in the suburbs didn’t feel like home. Latham’s place didn’t feel like home, either. And the fact that the Motel Mauler case was moving so slowly it was gathering dust only added fire to my blues.
I knew, with the Job, I was just in a slump. And I knew, with Latham, that I was projecting my other problems onto him. I loved him, and wanted to marry him.
But I didn’t love his apartment. And he did.
Assuming I got up the nerve to tell my mother I no longer wanted to live in Bensenville, and even more to the point, live with her due to the endless parade of naked, pendulous suitors that surrounded her, I didn’t want to move in with Latham, either.
So I had no clue what to do, or what to tell either of them.
What I wanted was to have a beer and shoot some pool. I wondered if Phin was around. I had his number at the shitty motel he stayed at, but I didn’t know if we’d developed that far into our friendship. If it even was a friendship. I don’t know what I’d label it. The only time Phin called me was when he needed a favor. And when we did hang out, it was a lazy sort of company that didn’t require effort. We barely even spoke.
I decided against going out, and decided I was going to try to make peace with Latham’s place. I drew a bath, looked for bath salts or oils or bubbles, remembered that Latham had a Y-chromosome and wouldn’t stock any of that, and tried a trick my mother taught me: hand soap, egg white, and a spoonful of honey.
Once I had a glorious bubble bath going, I tried to dim the bathroom lights. He didn’t have a dimmer. But he did have several flashlights, and three were enough to give the bathroom a sort of relaxing glow.
Latham’s music collection seemed to center around Madonna, 80s hair metal bands, and Kenny Rogers. But I found a Leonard Cohen album, put that on in the background, and climbed into my bath.
It was no good. His tub had a funny shape that I couldn’t relax in. And one of the flashlights on the sink was reflecting off the vanity mirror and hitting me right in the eyes.
I stood up in the bath and took a shower instead, and I hated Latham’s showerhead; it sprayed this fine, steamy mist, when all I wanted was to be pounded on with hot water. And he didn’t have a wand. How could any modern shower not have a shower wand?
I cut the shower short, dried off, put on one of his old t-shirts (Kenny goddman Rogers), and went to the kitchen to fix myself dinner.
Latham shopped like a guy. He had a lot of frozen meat, a lot of cheese, no fruits, veggies, or bread, and exactly three spices; salt, pepper, and Lawry’s BBQ seasoning.
I checked the shelves for pasta, found some linguini, and defrosted an unmarked pack of chicken while cobbling together a makeshift alfredo sauce. Half and half (which he used for his coffee), cream cheese, parmesan, butter, and his entire spice rack of salt, pepper, and Lawry’s.
I cooked the pasta, pan fried the chicken filets, which were small and sort of odd looking—maybe free range?—with a dusting of flour, and while it wouldn’t win a James Beard Award (those were food Awards that Herb followed like they were the Oscars), it was more comforting than the fast food crap I’d been eating too much of lately.
That is, until I detected something off about the meal. Something so off, that I had to stop eating and investigate.
I checked the empty half and half container, gave it the sniff I should have earlier.
Spoiled. The expiration date was last month.
Also in the garbage was the plastic around the chicken, and I noticed a label I hadn’t before.
Exotic Meats.
Uh-oh.
I was an unrepentant carnivore. I’d hunted deer in my younger days. I’ve been known to have an occasional buffalo burger, or fried alligator, or partridge. But as I stared at the package I remembered a conversation with Latham. After we’d finished a second bottle of wine and were watching some cooking show.
“Some of my college buddies, we send each other weird meat,” he said. “As a gag gift.” He laughed. “Sometimes, literally gagging.”
“Define weird.”
“There are companies that specialize in exotic meats. You know, like iguana. Or those chickens that have black meat. Or lion.”
“Lion? Seriously?”
“Lion is about fifty grand a pound.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. Think about it, Jack. You pay ten bucks a pound for good steak. But what do cows eat? Plants. Cheap plants. Doesn’t cost a lot to feed a cow. Now how much does it cost to feed a lion? How many other animals does it eat? That factors into the price.”
“Have you eaten lion?”
“No. But I’ve got some bobcat in the freezer that Sheldon sent me.”
I was pretty sure I’d just eaten the bobcat.
My stomach shrunk five sizes at the thought of it, and I threw the rest of my dinner in the garbage.
Then I went to brush my teeth, trying not to think of my cat, Mr. Friskers, when I heard the front door open.
Latham wasn’t due back until tomorrow.
“Latham?” I called.
No answer.
Fight or flight kicked in.
“I’m armed,” I lied. “Who’s there?”
Still no answer. But I heard footsteps on the hardwood floor.
I’d been targeted by criminals before. People I’d arrested. Friends and families of people I’d sent to jail. I’d even had a few stalkers due to my fleeting brushes with celebrity, as a cop who sometimes appeared on the news, and as the basis for that ridiculous caricature on McGlade’s stupid TV show.
Normally, my .38 went with me everywhere. It was never more than three steps away. But I still wasn’t used to Latham’s apartment, and when I undressed in the bedroom and slipped on a robe, I’d left my gun on the bed, which was down the hall.
To get to it, I’d have go past the living room, and the front door.
I looked around the bathroom for a weapon. A good one was usually the lid on top of the toilet tank. It was removable, and heavy enough to crack a skull. But Latham had one of those modern toilets with no tank that was attached to the plumbing in the wall. Looked sleek and modern, but didn’t help a girl when she needed to bash an intruder’s face in.
The seat itself was substantial, but was attached with heavy screws.
I looked for a metal towel bar, only found plastic. That left me with the shower curtain rod.
I pulled it down, sliding off the curtain rings. Lightweight aluminum, too long to swing. But it was all I had.
Here goes nothing.
I crept out of the bathroom.
HARRY
So I was at the police station for five hours, giving statements, and I hated the police station. I know, right? How could I hate it so much when I worked at a police station for years?
Well, being on the cop end of things wasn’t too painful. But being on the victim end, talking to one moron after another, repeating the same thing over and over, it was like an endless commercial break when all you wanted was for your show to come on. Seriously, why does cable TV even have commercials? We frickin’ PAY for cable. Shouldn’t it be ad-free?
Anyway, they did finally investigate the building across the street, they told me they didn’t find anything. And made me tell my story yet again, like I was the one who shot up my own apartment.
The dick condo manager pulled through, which left me with mixed emotions. On one hand, I didn’t like the guy, and he’d been causing me a lot of grief. On the other, basic humanity.
Basic humanity won. Barely. So I called it a win.
While answering the Endless Parade of Stupid Questions by Dumb Cops, I managed to find a cleaning service that hadn’t banned me, and a local shop selling bulletproof gl
ass windows that cost slightly more per pound than pure silver, and made appointments.
There was an upside to all the waiting around; by the time the cops were done with me, my Corvette was ready to be picked up at the auto pound. After an endless line waiting behind some really whiny people (“I just want to get his things from the car! He’s dead! They’re all dead!”) I got my baby back and then headed to my office to pick up some gear.
Harry McGlade Investigators Co. Inc. Ltd. (I was still working on the name) was in the heart of downtown in a classic old building that used to be called a skyscraper before actual skyscrapers were being built. The owners thought being seventy years old was prestigious and classy and meant they could charge high rent. I didn’t mind, because the building had fulltime security, was kept clean, and all the utilities worked.
I took the elevator to my floor, and let myself in via the keypad next to the SORRY CLOSED sign on the door.
Inside, all of the drywall had been yanked out, and so had the carpets, which made it look pretty shabby. But the mold smell was gone, replaced by a lemony antiseptic scent that gave me a tiny buzz.
I went into my storeroom and found an appropriate disguise; blue jumpsuit, hard hat, tool belt, and a clipboard with an invoice pad of paper clipped to it. I also looked at my collection of fake IDs, and went with a driver’s license, union card, and name tag for Frank Smith.
The picture of Frank Smith was actually a picture of me, with a mustache. Which meant I needed a mustache. Which meant I had to shave the mustache I was currently growing in order to glue on the fake one.
That all took about ten minutes, and then I grabbed a few other items and went off to see if I could find out who just tried to kill me.
The art to being somewhere you aren’t allowed, like backstage at a rock concert, or a fancy wedding reception, or one of those snooty clubs that always has a line around the block even though it sucks and charges $300 bottle service for Absolut Citron—c’mon, that’s less than thirty bucks at the liquor store, what are you paying for, asshole, a loud DJ and a possible chance of running into John Stamos? I mean, I love Stamos as much as anyone, but that’s too much for vodka, which unlike whiskey, rum, or tequila, isn’t barrel-aged, and let me take a moment to explain what a charred wood cask—which, again, doesn’t play any part at all in vodka production—does to alcohol to enhance the complex flavors.
Wait, my train of thought ran away. Something about vodka backstage?
Oh, yeah, being places you aren’t supposed to be. The secret is to look like you belong there. The look like you belong there look is acting self-absorbed, not focusing on anything in particular, and being ready with some passable story and/or credentials if someone stops you.
A police badge gets you in lots of places. A press pass gets you in lots of places. And, believe it or not, a clipboard and nametag gets you in a lot of places.
I was going the clipboard and nametag route to get into Celebrity Asshat Tower, because I thought it had the best chance of success, and because I rocked the jumpsuit and tool belt look. So I parked at my condo and walked across the street to the tower, trying to look like a guy who was late for something.
When I approached the tower, I saw a couple of uniformed cops standing outside the door.
“What business do you have in this building,” the one on the left asked.
“Condensers.”
No one knew what condensers were, including me, so that was a good cover.
“What floor?”
“Eleven.”
“Stay off ten. It’s closed.”
“Why?”
“Just stay off ten.”
“Like I give a shit about ten,” I said, mentally noting that I needed to get to ten.
They let me through. Good thing I hadn’t brought my fake badge along and tried to pretend I was still blue, because they probably would have sniffed out the phony.
Then again, if they’d been any good, they would have at least patted me down.
Inside there was a security guy, sitting behind a desk. I walked straight to the elevators like I did it all the time.
“Hold up,” he called to me.
I stopped. Where was this joker when some guy came in with a rifle?
“Name?” he asked.
Ah, hell. He had a clipboard. Which gave me the crazy idea that maybe he was the impersonator. I wondered if I should call him on it, then decided not to press my luck.
“Frank,” I said.
He scanned his clipboard. “You’re not on my list.”
“I work with John?”
Common enough name. Everyone knew someone named John.
“John who?”
“Hey, I work with the guy. I don’t know his life story.”
“What kind of work you do?”
“I’m here about the condensers on eleven.”
“What’s wrong with the condensers?”
“You know anything about heating and cooling?”
“Yeah. I installed air conditioners for ten years.”
Shit.
“This got nothing to do with heating and cooling,” I said. “It’s the radio condensers.”
“Radio condensers?”
“You know,” I said, “because everyone is switching from analog to digital.”
He nodded. That’s another secret to bullshitting; say just enough that people recognize. The average person knows that everything is going digital, but has no clue what that means.
“What do condensers have to do with signal processing?” he asked.
Shit. They hired Nikola goddamn Tesla to be their security guy. I moved along to my next trick.
“Good work,” I said. “I’m Marty with the home office. The big guy wanted me to come over and see how easy it is to just walk in. Were you here earlier, during the security breach?”
“Yeah, but…”
“You let some maniac get in the building with a rifle. How’d he sneak that past you? Hide it up his ass?”
“He was dressed as a construction worker.”
“So you think closing the barn door after the cow already left—and shot up the city—is going to let you keep your job?”
Bright Boy went sheepish. “Am I fired?”
“I don’t hire and fire. I just report back. And in my report, you stopped me. I’d call that a check in the don’t fire column. Now I need to check out ten.”
“Want me to show you where it happened?”
“And leave your post? Do I need to put that in my report too?”
“I’d prefer you left that out.”
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And do me a favor.” I motioned him to come closer, like I was going to whisper something. When he leaned in, I yelled, “If they’re carrying a rifle, don’t let them into the damn building!”
Harry McGlade: Master of Bullshitting.
I got into the elevator, and it spit me out on the tenth floor. For a building only a few months away from officially opening, it was in sad shape. Walls weren’t all up. Wires and pipes everywhere. Bare ceiling. Stacks of wood and drywall. And lots of garbage; fast food cartons, empty pop bottles, candy wrappers, and chip bags. I didn’t notice any apple cores or banana peels. I guess construction workers weren’t overly concerned with their health.
I walked around, checking windows, trying to find my condo, and was quickly able to locate the sniper’s perch. The CPD hadn’t even cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape. I began to suspect that they hadn’t taken my attempted execution seriously.
I knew my city’s grim stats; five hundred murders annually, and more than four thousand incidents of gun violence. The shooting this morning was probably one of a dozen that happened today. But I was a former cop, and I was a celebrity. Didn’t either warrant a little extra effort?
Or… maybe the Chicago Police Department wasn’t pleased with my past performance, and my current hit TV show that depicted them as a bunch of buffoons.
Could the
y really be that petty?
The sniper had cut an eight inch hole in the window, which had been patched with duct tape. The glass was thick, but they made hole saws with diamond bits that could be attached to cordless drills, and it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to accomplish.
I looked around for spent brass, and found over a dozen casings, all .270 Winchester. I gathered them all up and put them in a baggie that I wore, inside-out, on my hand like a glove. Then I hunted around for other clues, and found two cigarette butts. Kools. Those went into another baggie.
Important private eye tip: carry baggies.
I looked around for the glass circle he’d cut out of the window, and didn’t see it. A guy who was careless enough to leave spent brass and butts would have left that too, and glass is great for lifting fingerprints. But it wasn’t around. I bet it popped through and fell ten stories.
I didn’t find anything else, so I left. The security guard met me as I exited the elevator.
“So… how’d it go?”
I could read his face and see he was worried about his job. And he should be. He was supposed to be watching the building, and let in some guy with a rifle. A guy who almost killed me. And then, to add a cherry on top of his gross incompetence sundae, he let me get past him as well.
“Did you get a look at the shooter?” I asked.
He nodded. “White guy, thirties, thin, dressed in work clothes. Dirty, torn jeans, flannel shirt, boots.”
“Beard?”
“Hadn’t shaved in a few days.”
“Hair color?”
“Brown.”
“Eyes?”
“Sunglasses.”
“Anything else about him? Tattoos? Missing teeth? Walk with a limp?”
“Naw. Just a normal looking guy.”
I had a sudden idea. I was going under the assumption that the shooter was my crazy telephone Darth Vader Jigsaw stalker. I showed him a pic on my phone of the guy with Cherry at the trailer park. “This him?”
“Naw.”
So much for sudden ideas. I put my phone away and turned to leave.
“Hey, sir,” he called after me. “So, your report. What’s it going to say about me?”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 44