Whiskey Sour2

by Joe Konrath

  He picks up the phone, no longer worried about telephone records or paper trails. It will all be over by tomorrow.

  “Hello?”

  “Diane? This is Charles.”

  “Charles?”

  “I know you’re surprised to hear from me. We didn’t split on the best of terms. How are you?”

  “Good. I’m doing good. I’m seeing someone.”

  “Good for you. I hope he’s treating you well. Look, I’m calling because my therapist…”

  “You’re in therapy?”

  “Yeah. For about six months now. She’s helping me deal with my anger.”

  He tries to keep the smile out of his voice.

  “Well, good for you, Charles. I’m happy for you.”

  “I need a favor, Diane. After you left me, I did a lot of soul-searching. My therapist says I’m a different man now, but I still carry a lot of guilt over how I hurt you. As long as I have this guilt, I won’t be much good for anyone, myself included.”

  He was reading out of a notebook filled with chicken scratches, sentences rewritten over and over until they sounded right.

  “I need to see you, Diane, to apologize in person. If I know you’ve forgiven me, then I can get on with my life.”

  “I forgive you, Charles.”

  “Then let me say it in person. Please. You don’t owe me anything, but we were in love once. It’s the final step in my recovery. Please. Let me see you once more.”

  He holds his breath, waiting for her answer.

  “Fine. When?”

  “What are you doing tonight?” the Gingerbread Man asks.

  He grins. He’ll finally get to use that soldering iron.

  Chapter 38

  I WANT MY LAWYER,“ SAID Harry McGlade.

  He sat in interrogation room C, in the same chair Phin had yesterday, Benedict and I standing over him. I had a car pick McGlade up and bring him here after we left Mrs. Marx. So far he was the only link between the two identified victims. I wasn’t about to set foot in his apartment ever again, so questioning him here was the logical course of action. I suppose the intimidation aspect was also a factor.

  But McGlade was not easily intimidated.

  “I told you, you don’t need a lawyer, McGlade. You’re just answering some questions. You aren’t being charged with anything.”

  “So what’s with the media circus? What do you think that’s doing for my reputation?”

  Before Harry arrived, I left anonymous tips with several individuals involved in reporting the news that a suspect was being brought in. They kindly waited in front of the station and took three thousand pictures of Harry as he entered. I figured it would help make McGlade cooperative.

  And if I could admit to being small, I also thought it was damn funny.

  “Do you recognize this woman?” Benedict held up the photo of the first Jane Doe.

  “How many times do I have to say it before it sinks into that Pillsbury Doughboy head? I don’t recognize her. I knew Theresa because she hired me. I knew Nancy because Theresa introduced her to me. I dated Nancy a few times.”

  “How did Theresa and Nancy know each other?”

  “I think they went to the same health club.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. Look, Nancy came in one day, said she wanted me to follow her boyfriend, said Theresa referred her to me. I didn’t pursue it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to check your cereal box?”

  Harry made a sour face and picked some crud off his jacket. There were so many wrinkles in his suit that he gave the impression of just crawling out of a washing machine, save for the fact that he was covered with stains.

  “I don’t know how they were connected, Jackie. But I do know a few big-city lawyers who get their rocks off suing cops for defamation of character and false arrest.”

  “You’re not under arrest, McGlade.”

  “Then I can leave.” McGlade stood up.

  I got in his face, glaring. “Don’t you care about these women?”

  “That’s not the point. This treatment is unnecessary, and I’m getting pissed off. All you and Tonto the Wonder Chimp had to do was drop by my office. But instead you drag me here, and I get my name splashed all over the news in connection with your lousy case. Would you hire a private investigator who was a suspect in three serial murders?”

  Of course I wouldn’t. That was the idea.

  “If you cooperate, Harry, I release a statement saying you helped us catch the guy. That without your valuable insight and expertise, we never could have cracked this case.”

  McGlade batted this around between his ears. After a few seconds, his face split into a big-toothed grin.

  “Smooth, Jackie. It’s about time you learned how to play hardball. You were so straightlaced back when we were partners.”

  Benedict jerked his thumb at Harry and gave me the eyebrow. “He was your partner? That’s awful.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy, Chubbs, but it wasn’t so bad. I got razzed a lot, getting paired with a broad. But in the end, it all worked out okay. Didn’t it, Jackie?”

  McGlade winked, then blew me a kiss.

  I made a fist, and Herb had to pull me away before I broke the little wiener’s nose.

  “Don’t let him rattle you, Jack.”

  But Harry did more than just rattle me. Much more.

  When we were partners, I actually thought he was an okay guy, hygiene aside. He pulled his weight, watched my back, and we had one of the best arrest records in the district.

  This was right after my promotion to detective third class, and I was out to prove to the brass that I could play with the big boys. I worked twice as hard as the men, for only half the respect. To compensate for this, whenever I had any downtime, I worked cold cases. Murder had no statute of limitations, and unsolveds were never officially closed.

  A particular case commanded a good deal of my attention; the rape/murder of a fifteen-year-old girl in Grant Park. Witnesses claimed to have seen her talking with a homeless man in a red baseball cap half an hour before her death. This angle had been extensively followed up, and led nowhere.

  I chose to look closer at her ex-boyfriend. Straight-A student, no record, plenty of friends. His alibi for the night of the murder was shaky, but no one could believe he was a killer.

  He did, however, collect baseball caps. He had samples from every team in the Major League, with two notable exceptions: Boston and Cincinnati. I thought it a little funny, that an avid collector would be missing the only two hats in MLB that were red.

  It took a year, and cost me my marriage, but I pieced together a good case against the kid. Before I sought a warrant, I shared my findings with my partner, to get his opinion.

  Harry repaid my trust by getting a warrant first, then arresting the suspect himself on my day off.

  Not only did Harry get credit for the collar and a subsequent promotion, but when I complained to my lieutenant, McGlade trumpeted that he made the arrest to protect me.

  “He was a dangerous murderer. Sending a woman after him would have been really stupid.”

  The department rallied around him, and the chauvinism in my department plumbed new depths. All of my hard work, all of my fighting to be treated as an equal in a male-dominated profession, gone because my partner was a sexist, backstabbing jerk.

  It was years before I earned back the respect of my squad. But I couldn’t ever forgive Harry.

  I took a deep breath, unclenched my fist, and put on a big smile.

  “Remind me again why you were kicked off the force, McGlade.”

  His smile lost some wattage. “I wasn’t kicked off. I quit.”

  “You mean you quit after you were forced to take a leave of absence. Something to do with taking bribes, wasn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t on the take. Someone set me up.”

  “And who’d want to do that to a sweet guy like you?”

  He frowned. “Was it you, Ja
ckie?”

  “No, Harry. But I wasn’t too sad to hear about it. Whatever happened to those bribery charges?”

  “Dropped when I left.”

  “Isn’t your PI license up for renewal soon?”

  McGlade folded his arms and scowled.

  “I take one bust from you fifteen years ago and you want to mess with my livelihood?”

  “No, McGlade. I want you to help us catch a murderer. Now sit, and tell us about your investigation of Talon Butterfield.” I forced a tight smile and added, “Please.”

  Harry weighed my sincerity, then sat down.

  “Not much to tell. Nancy pretended to go out of town for the weekend, had me follow him to see what he did. He went barhopping, picked up some little honey, and took her straight back to their place. Did it right on Nancy’s bed. I had to climb the fire escape to take pictures.”

  “And how many times did you see Nancy after that?”

  “I don’t know. Three or four. I think she used me to help get over Talon. I was happy to be of service.”

  “Did you have sexual relations with Nancy Marx?” Herb asked.

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I shagged her a few times. In fact, we shared a room the night of the Trainter show.”

  “The Trainter show?”

  “Yeah. That was the first time.”

  “What about the Trainter show?” I asked. What did any of this have to do with the local talk show?

  “When you’re on the show, they give you a free hotel room the night before. Nancy shared her room with me.”

  “Nancy was on The Max Trainter Show?”

  “Sure. She and Theresa both. A show about cheating fiancés. You guys didn’t know this? Some detectives you are.”

  “Think carefully, McGlade. Who else was on that show?”

  “I don’t remember, Jackie. It was five, six months ago. The show was about women who were dumping their men because they cheated on them. There were one or two other girls, I think. It was a wild show, even for Trainter. They had to bleep most of it. Max and I are old beer buddies. I’m the one who persuaded them to go on, dump their guys on TV.”

  “Look at the picture again, McGlade. Was this woman on the show?”

  I showed him the first Jane Doe photo.

  “Are you deaf? I don’t know. You’re showing me a computer enhanced photograph of a dead chick, who I might have seen on a show months ago. I’m not good with faces.” He grinned at me. “So, have you finally forgiven me, Jackie? Maybe we could have a few drinks later.”

  “You’re free to go, McGlade.”

  Harry stood up and brushed his pants. The wrinkles didn’t come out.

  “Just make sure I’m mentioned in your press statement, or I’ll have to bring a lawsuit against this fine police establishment.”

  He shot me with his thumb and index finger, flipped the mirror the bird, and walked out of the door. A second later he walked back in.

  “You got a couple bucks for a cab?”

  I fished in my pocket and came up with some change.

  “Here.” I handed it to him. “Take the bus.”

  “Cold, Jackie. That’s cold.”

  But he took the money and once again left. I’m sure the press was waiting for him outside, and I could only hope he’d make himself look like an idiot in front of them.

  I probably didn’t have to hope too hard.

  “It can’t be this simple,” Benedict stated.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  We went into a conference room down the hall and grabbed a phone. A minute later I was on the horn with the network where The Max Trainter Show was taped. After being bounced around a few times I was put in touch with the technical director, a guy named Ira Herskovitz. Once I’d informed him of the situation, he agreed to send over a dub of the show in question. I told him to send the unedited master. He refused, stating that the master tapes never left the building.

  I was the cop, so I won. A squad car with sirens blaring went to pick it up, and when it arrived twenty minutes later I already had a 3/4“ videotape recorder set up in my office.

  “Cross your fingers,” I said to Herb.

  I pressed the play button.

  Color bars and tone. A graphic with the show name, date, number, and director. Opening titles. Cue Max.

  Trainter introduced the first guest, Ella. Ella was actually Theresa Metcalf.

  Theresa dumped her fiancé, Johnny Tashing, in front of the studio audience. Tashing had been unaware of the reason he was on the show, and when Theresa confronted him about his affair and tossed her engagement ring in his face, the crowd cheered. Tashing looked destroyed.

  Next was Norma. Norma was our first Jane Doe, no doubt about it. She also dumped her cheating fiancé. He called her several naughty slang terms, and stormed off the stage.

  Third was Laura, aka Nancy Marx. Her fiancé, a guy we guessed was Talon Butterfield, was similarly dumped with much audience applause. Talon grinned a lot and shrugged his shoulders.

  Then Nancy’s new boyfriend was introduced. He came out, gave her roses and a peck on the cheek, and was abruptly attacked by Talon. Talon got in a good smack to the face, but the new man knocked him down with an uppercut before the bouncers separated them.

  The guy with the quick fists was our favorite private detective, Harry McGlade.

  The last guest came on. The fourth woman. The one we hadn’t seen yet. Her name was Brandy, and she was breaking up with her husband because he didn’t come home some nights during the week. She suspected an affair, and couldn’t take it anymore.

  When her husband came out, I paused the tape.

  There, frozen on the screen in midstride, was the Gingerbread Man.

  “That’s our guy.”

  Herb got on the phone with the studio, demanding the real names and addresses of the guests on this show. I let the tape run, watching as Brandy confronted the guy, watching as she dumped him, watching as the other girls on the panel called him names and teased him badly, watching as he picked up his chair, threw it at her, went into a screaming, swearing animal rage and attacked everybody on the set. Four bouncers and three security guards were needed to restrain him, and when he was hauled off the stage, the audience was on its feet cheering.

  “Charles and Diane Kork,” Benedict said. “Address in Evanston. Don’t know if it’s current.”

  I stood up and turned to face the eighteen other people in the room who were huddled around the TV.

  “I need anything we can find on Charles Kork. Criminal record, DMV, phone, credit cards, aliases, everything. I want to know his life story and I want it now.”

  The next twenty minutes were a stampede of activity, phone calls, and computer checks. My team would call out info as it came.

  “Got a record. Two stretches for assault and attempted.”

  “Divorce papers, finalized three months ago.”

  “I have a Diane Kork at an apartment on Goethe.”

  “DMV has a Charles Kork owning a 1992 Jeep.”

  “Evanston address checks out. Kork still seems to be living there.”

  Herb got on the phone again, dialing Diane Kork’s number.

  “Answering machine.”

  “Warrants,” I told him. I played authority figure and divvied up assignments, including picking teams to send to Diane’s place and to the killer’s.

  Sometimes this was how it worked. Tracking countless leads into dead ends, and suddenly it all came together. The end of the road.

  Dr. Mulrooney had talked about something setting our man off. I guess getting dumped on national television qualified as a good triggering event.

  “Kork is on Ashland and Fifty-third,” Herb said. “You want to go there, or Diane’s?”

  “There. Let’s move. I want eight men, full armor, now.”

  The adrenaline was pumping so hard, I didn’t even feel the pain in my leg. Herb and I helped ea
ch other into our Kevlar vests, snugging Velcro and adjusting the shoulders. Then we strapped on lapel radios and earpieces and headed for the patrol cars.