Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content]

by J. A. Konrath

“My shirt was on,” I said. “It was just open. Are those for me?”

  Alan held out the flowers. I took the bouquet, gave it the perfunctory sniff, and engaged in an awkward hug with my boyfriend. I still was jittery from the shock of him showing up and surprising me, and wasn’t sure what I was actually feeling. After all, Alan had never said I love you, and he’d completely forgotten my birthday.

  “Happy birthday,” Alan said. “I love you.”

  Whoa. He loved me? How was I supposed to respond to that? Say it back? Did I even want to?

  Instead of responding in kind, I held Alan at an arm’s length and searched his eyes. “My, uh, birthday was yesterday.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Alan said. “I wrote it down. It was this Tuesday.”

  “Today is Wednesday.”

  His face pinched. “Oh, geez, Jacqueline. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, even though it really wasn’t. “At least now I know why you didn’t call.”

  “Did you do anything special at least?”

  “I did a prostitution sting and found a dismembered woman in a Dumpster.”

  “Fun. Was there birthday cake?”

  I smiled, relaxing a notch. “No, there wasn’t.”

  “I missed you.”

  “Missed you, too.”

  But did I? If I really did miss Alan, why was I playing tonsil tennis with some other guy?

  “I know I’ve been kind of…distant…lately,” he said, hooding his eyes. “The fact is, I’ve been thinking a lot. About us.”

  “And what have you been thinking about?”

  Alan crouched down, like he was tying his shoe.

  But he wasn’t tying his shoe.

  He was kneeling.

  And he had a small, black box in his hand.

  “I’ve been looking a long time for a woman like you, Jacqueline. I love being with you, and when we’re apart, I think about you.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God. He was—

  “Jacqueline Streng.” Alan opened up the tiny box and took out the gold ring with the diamond in it. “Would you make me the happiest guy in the world and marry me?”

  Chapter 9

  I looked at Alan, on one knee. Looked at the ring, a nice-size, round diamond. Looked back at Alan. Then at the ring. Then Alan. Then the ring.

  “You’re supposed to answer yes or no,” Alan said. His eyes were bright, his face earnest and hopeful.

  “Alan…I…well, I’m kind of blown away right now.”

  Alan waited.

  “I mean, we’ve only been dating for a few months,” I went on. “We haven’t even lived together.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned guy. The time to live together is when we’re engaged.”

  “Shouldn’t living together come first? What if we can’t stand being around each other all the time?”

  Alan lost a bit of his sparkle. He closed the ring box and stood up. “You’re going to be thirty next year. If we want to start a family, it has to be soon.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready to have kids, Alan. That can happen later. My career—”

  “Your career? A guy was just in your living room, taking pictures of you with your shirt off. That’s the career you want?”

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “This is what I’ve been working for, Alan. You know it’s my goal to be a lieutenant—”

  “—before you’re forty. I know that, Jacqueline. But whenever you talk about your job, all I hear is how little respect you get, how they’re holding you back, how no men want to work with you except that shithead Henry—”

  “Harry.”

  “—because it’s all a big, sexist old boys’ network.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “This is my dream, Alan.”

  “And what about kids? Let’s say you do get your dream job. Are you going to quit, at the height of your career, and drop everything to have babies?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m not saying I don’t want to have a family. I’m saying I don’t think I’m ready for one right now.”

  Alan shook his head, giving me one of his patented looks of disapproval. “You want to be forty-five and pregnant? By the time the kid is in college, you’ll be in a nursing home.”

  “Of course not. I don’t want children when I’m that old.”

  “Yesterday was your birthday. In three hundred and sixty-four days you’ll have another one. You can be married and maybe pregnant by then, or working some other hooker sting for a bunch of chauvinists who don’t respect you.”

  Alan stuck the ring in his pocket and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I’m not going to start an argument trying to convince you to marry me. Either you want to, or you don’t. I love you, and I respect that you need some time to think. You’re a fantastic, wonderful woman, and I know you’ll make a terrific wife, and mother. But only if you’re ready.”

  I didn’t know if I was ready.

  “Stay,” I said. What I left unsaid was, convince me this is the right thing to do.

  “I can’t make this decision for you, Jacqueline. I know I’m ready. Most people our age are ready. Every single one of my friends is married.”

  “So you want to get married because all of your friends are?”

  “I want to get married because I love you. But the clock is ticking. For both of us.”

  Alan reached the door, paused for a moment, then left. I considered going after him, but he was right. I did need to think about this.

  I always assumed I’d get married and have children someday, but never really stopped to think how that would fit with my career. How could I rise up in the ranks if I needed to take a year off for maternity leave? How seriously would I be taken by the brass if I had to interrupt a high-profile murder investigation so I could stay home with my kid who had the chicken pox?

  But, by the same token, I was almost thirty. I needed to make this decision, and soon. The fact was, if I didn’t take this chance with Alan, I might never have another one.

  Alan was right. The clock was ticking.

  And boy, did I hate ticking clocks.

  Chapter 10

  1989, August 17

  Everyone kept staring at me when I got to the office that morning. No one said anything to my face, or even made direct eye contact. But I kept catching sideways glances and seeing whispered exchanges, to the point where I was feeling sort of paranoid. I wondered if I had my Armani suit on backwards, or toilet paper stuck to my shoe. A quick mirror check in the restroom didn’t answer any questions for me; I thought I looked fine.

  I’d been to the third floor, Homicide, only a few times. It was a large area, the desks all out in the open. After weaving through a few aisles, I found Detective Herb Benedict pecking away at a keyboard and squinting into a green monochrome monitor. Next to him was a box of a dozen donuts, half of them missing. Like Shell, I had no idea where Herb put those extra calories. But I was more impressed by his computer. That he had his own, rather than had to share it, meant he must have been more important than I’d guessed. Those things cost more than my car.

  Herb looked up at me, raising an eyebrow. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  I set the files I was holding—the prior victims—on his desk. “Reporting for duty, Detective.”

  He seemed puzzled, and then his eyes went wide.

  “Jacqueline? Uh…wow. I actually didn’t recognize you. That’s some suit.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t mention Shell bought it, having no idea if that violated some sort of ethics code or rule. “Nice computer.”

  Herb smiled. “Thanks. Can you believe it has twenty megabytes of memory?”

  “That’s insane,” I said, shaking my head. “Who would ever need that much?”

  “The world is changing so fast I can’t even keep up. Do you know what a cellular radio phone is?”

  “Those big, clunky portable things that l
ook like bricks with huge antennas? Like Michael Douglas used in Wall Street?”

  Herb nodded. “They sell for a cool four grand. But I heard they’re working on making them more affordable. Technology experts predict one out of a thousand people will have a cell phone by the year twenty-ten.”

  “In just twenty years? No way. I can’t even imagine needing one. And it’s not like I could fit that giant thing in my purse.”

  “Maybe they’ll get smaller,” Herb said. He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Did you review the vics’ files?”

  I nodded. I’d been up late last night, poring over the files. The three victims had all died in similar fashions, of internal bleeding. All had been drugged, and dismembered. All had been found in Dumpsters, without heads. Alongside one of the bodies was a bloody ball gag. That last detail popped out at me. I remembered that lecture from the police academy, about Unknown Subject K.

  “Have you ever encountered a victim where a ball gag was used?” I asked.

  Herb’s eyes twinkled. “You’re thinking about Mr. K, aren’t you?”

  “It’s one of his signatures.”

  “Possible. It’s also possible all the unsolveds that involved gags are being incorrectly lumped together and attributed to some imaginary boogeyman.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I like keeping an open mind. I find that if I pursue an investigation with a bias, I might miss something important because it doesn’t fit with my theory. Ready to visit Shell’s office?”

  “Yeah.”

  Herb let me drive, which blew my mind. In my time on patrol, and being partners with McGlade, I never drove. Perhaps Herb was confident enough that it didn’t bother him to let a woman take control. Or perhaps he was just lazy.

  “A Chevy Nova,” Herb said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Nice. Roomy, too.”

  “I figure I’ll keep it another year, then trade up to something nicer. Where we headed?”

  “River North. Rush and Ohio.”

  I pulled out of the police parking lot and melded into traffic. For August, it was cooler than normal. There was still the muggy humidity from being close to Lake Michigan, but it wasn’t devastating my hair and makeup like it normally did this time of year.

  “So what other thoughts did you have, looking at the files?” Herb said.

  “All three of the victims went on dates with two of the same men. Both older. Both rich, without records.”

  “Would you consider them suspects?”

  “No.” I smiled at Herb. “But I like to keep an open mind.”

  “Any link among the women?”

  “They were all escorts. Two were white, one was of Asian descent. All three were very pretty. Two were college-educated, and the third was working on her bachelor’s degree, part-time. And all three earned more per year than I do. Plus there was something else I found interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  I turned onto Michigan, hitting the gas. The car was a bit sluggish—one of the reasons I was going to replace it soon. “The girl who didn’t work for Shell worked for a company called Elite Escorts. It’s a small operation, just a dozen girls. Like Shell’s. I called a few other services last night, and most of them are big. Fifty, a hundred girls. The Dodd Agency—the one Shell said has been aggressively pursuing his girls—is one of the biggies.”

  “Why would they be involved? They’re a big fish. Shell is a small fry.”

  “Don’t you know your Darwin?” I asked. “The big fish eat the small ones. That’s how they get big.”

  Michigan Avenue was stop-and-go, crammed with people in cars and on foot. This area was quintessential Chicago to me. Shops and hotels. Further ahead, the Art Institute, Grant Park, the Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium. Soldier Field, where the Bears played. The Magnificent Mile, with beaches and one of the most memorable city skylines in the world. My kind of town, and the reason I would never ever move to the suburbs.

  There wasn’t a single place to park on Michigan, even illegally, so we looped up to Grand, turned right, and got onto Rush.

  “Turn in the alley, here. Shell said we can park around back.”

  Herb directed me into a little three-car lot behind the buildings, two spots already taken with a Cadillac and a black Honda.

  I pulled in and stepped out into the alley, smoothed my pants, adjusted my shoulder pads, and picked up Shell’s box of lights and his backdrop. Herb took the box from me.

  “Yuck,” he said, making a face. The garbage smell was bad enough to melt my eyeballs. I held a hand over my nose and mouth, and we hurried out onto Rush Street.

  Together we walked past Pizzeria Uno—where deep-dish pizza was invented back in the 1950s—up to a small boutique-style building shared by an art gallery and Classy Companions, Shell’s agency. After climbing the concrete steps and entering the enclosed porch through a door on spring hinges, we were slapped by a blast of frigid air. The buzzers along the security door had options for the two businesses, and several tenants living above them.

  “Other people live in the building,” I said to Herb, thinking I hadn’t seen anything about tenants in the reports. Statistics showed that over ninety percent of murders were committed by someone who knew the victim.

  “Women. All of Shell’s ladies,” Herb said, pressing the buzzer. “This is where you’ll be staying for the duration of the case.”

  After a moment, the speaker above the buzzers said, “Classy Companions.” It was a female voice, deep and husky.

  “Detective Herb Benedict, and Officer Jacqueline Streng,” Herb answered.

  The door buzzed, and we went in. The hallway divided the bottom floor into two halves. On one side was the gallery, on the other, the agency. The door to Classy Companions was heavy wood, the company name stenciled on at eye-level. Herb pointed over our heads and I looked up, seeing the security camera.

  “Is that new?” I asked.

  “Shell put it in after the first murder.”

  “You’ve reviewed all the tapes?”

  “Yeah. There will be a VCR in your room for you to review them as well.”

  Herb knocked, and again we needed to be buzzed in. The lobby was plush, all pastels and soft lighting. The carpet was so thick my heels sank into it. I saw a few sofas and loveseats, a waiting area boasting a coffee table piled with magazines, assorted floor plants, and a stunning fresh flower arrangement on the front desk that reminded me of the flowers Alan had given me last night when he proposed—flowers I’d forgotten to put in a vase.

  The woman behind the desk was old, in her forties, graying and plump. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she already had a smile on, anticipating our approach.

  “Hello, Detective.” When she looked at me, her wattage went down a notch, but most of the smile stayed. “And you must be Jacqueline. That’s the same outfit as in your pictures.”

  I forced a polite grin. “Nice to meet you, Mrs….?”

  “Mizz,” she corrected, “Elizabeth White. Everyone here calls me Mizz Lizzy.” She picked up a pink phone on her desk and hit a button. “Mr. Compton? Detective Benedict and the woman are here.”

  Mizz Lizzy didn’t try to engage us in further conversation, instead burying her nose in a Rolodex. I’d been around enough catty women to apply the adjective to her. She either didn’t like cops, or didn’t like me.

  After a minute of Herb and I staring at each other, Shell entered. He was wearing a different tailored suit than the night before, and he looked terrific, approaching with a big grin, taking the lighting box from Herb and the backdrop from me.

  “Good morning, Herb, Jacqueline. Did Mizz Lizzy offer you coffee?”

  “I’d love a cup,” I said. I really wasn’t a big coffee drinker, but I liked the idea of the older woman serving me.

  “Cream and sugar?” she asked.

  “Black.”

  “Anything for you, Detective?”

  �
��Black coffee sounds great,” Herb replied.

  Mizz Lizzy swiveled out from behind her desk and waddled off into another room. Shell set down the equipment and beamed at me. “You look terrific. I hope you’re up for a long day, because we’ve already booked you twice. You have a lunch date with Felix Sarcotti, and dinner and the theater tonight with Jeroen ten Berge.”

  I recognized the two names from the victims’ files. Both men had dated all three of the deceased.

  “That was fast,” I said. “They saw my picture already?”

  “They’re both longtime clients, and insist on seeing any new girl as soon as she comes in. I messengered your photos to them this morning, and they’re both eager to meet you. But we have much to do before lunch. We need to get started right away. Mizz Lizzy!” Shell called into the other room. “Bring the coffee up to Sandy’s room, if you would!”

  Shell put his hands lightly on my arms, his face bright and enthusiastic. “You’re going to like Sandy, I think. She’s really fascinating. She’s also had a…shall we say…checkered past.”

  “A police record?” I asked.

  “No. She was never actually charged with a crime.”

  I looked at Herb, confused. His eyes bored into mine. “Sandy Sechrest, twenty-five years old. Four years ago she killed a man.”

  Chapter 11

  “It was deemed self-defense,” Herb said. “Charges weren’t filed.”

  We were discussing one of Shell’s escorts, Sandy Sechrest, while climbing the carpeted stairs to the apartments where the women lived. As with the front door and the lobby, the stairwell had a locked security door.

  “What were the particulars?” I asked.

  “Live-in boyfriend,” Herb said. “History of violence. Roughed her up, threatening to kill her. She stabbed him in the throat with a steak knife. Witnesses heard the incident through the apartment walls, and she had defensive wounds on her body indicative of abuse.”

  “This was just after Sandy joined the agency,” Shell said. “That’s when I decided the girls would be safest if they all lived under one roof. The security here is good. All of the doors are reinforced. The girls have to sign their visitors in. In each room there’s also a panic button, directly linked to the building’s burglar alarm system. No numbers on the apartments, so even if a stalker managed to get up here, he wouldn’t know who lived where. I take the girls’ safety very seriously.”