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

by J. A. Konrath

  The second floor hallway was tastefully furnished, the same as downstairs. The sconces on the stucco walls provided plenty of light, and the doors to the apartments all had deadbolts.

  “Why no security cameras up here?” I asked.

  “There’s a fine line between safety and privacy,” Shell said, knocking on the first door on the left. “Cameras would be a bit too intrusive.”

  The door opened, and a gorgeous brunette answered. Besides her classic Lauren Bacall looks, she also had bigger shoulder pads and hair than I did. I bit back the tinge of envy I was feeling.

  “Sandy, you know Detective Benedict. I’d like you to meet our new girl, Jacqueline Streng.”

  Sandy smiled, but it was without warmth, and she didn’t offer her hand. “Nice to meet you Jacqueline. I’m sure you’ll fit in perfectly here.” Her gaze flitted to Shell. “Shelly, my brunch date is picking me up at eleven, but won’t be able to take me home. Can I cab it?”

  “I’d prefer you call me for a ride.”

  She nodded. “I still have to get ready.”

  “We won’t keep you, Sandy.”

  Sandy closed the door, and I heard the deadbolt snick into place.

  “How many girls live here?” I asked.

  “Eight. You’ll make nine.”

  “Are they all that beautiful?” I asked.

  Shell’s eyes twinkled. “They are. That’s why you’re going to fit in perfectly here.”

  I was flattered by Shell’s compliment, but it made me think of Alan. He hadn’t said I was beautiful when he proposed to me last night. But was that a good thing or a bad thing? Did I want to be with a man who valued my looks more than my personality or intelligence? And if so, why did it make me feel so good to have someone comment on my appearance? Was I that shallow and vain?

  The stairwell door swung open, and Mizz Lizzy appeared, carrying a silver tray with two cups of coffee. Without a word she handed one to me, and to Herb. I lifted the delicate, bone china cup and took a sip. Delicious.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Mizz Lizzy ignored me. “Anything else, Shell?”

  “We’re fine for the moment.”

  She curtseyed—something I hadn’t seen done in person in quite a while—and then walked off. Shell led us to the next apartment. A blonde answered. A blonde with a perfect face and boobs that made Loni Anderson look like a man.

  “Gloria, I don’t believe you’ve met Detective Benedict. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

  “I love your mustache, Detective.” She batted her eyelashes, which were so long they had to be fake. “I love the feel of a man’s facial hair on my thighs.”

  “You and me both,” Herb said.

  “And this is our new girl, Jacqueline Streng.”

  “Do you go by Jack?” Gloria asked. “My sister’s name is Jacqueline, and we all call her Jack.”

  I shook my head. “No. I prefer Jacqueline.”

  “Too bad.” Gloria pouted, as if I’d scolded her. “Are you into girls?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know. Bi?”

  “Uh, no. I have a boyfriend.”

  “I’ve got plenty of boyfriends,” Gloria giggled. And jiggled. “But girls are nice, too.”

  “Even though I don’t have a mustache?” I said.

  Gloria gave me a gentle poke in the shoulder. “I like you. You’re funny.” She stuck out her lower lip at Shell. “Shelly, I thought you were supposed to come by this morning. Where were you?”

  Shell turned to us. “Can you excuse me just a second?”

  Without waiting for our response, he stepped inside Gloria’s apartment.

  “She looks like a Playboy model,” I said.

  Herb leaned back, talking to me softly out of the side of his mouth. “She’s cute. But is she the district quick-draw champion?”

  I suppressed a smile, but inside I was beaming. Being praised for my shooting skills felt a lot better than being called beautiful.

  “Speaking of,” Herb said. “Are you carrying right now?”

  “Beretta, in my purse.”

  “Nine millimeter?”

  “Three-eighty.”

  “Does it ever jam on you?” he asked.

  “All semi-autos occasionally jam. But nothing I can’t clear in a second or two.”

  “In the field, a second or two can be an eternity. I’ve got a .38 Colt, a Detective Special, I can loan you for this job.”

  “That only holds six rounds,” I said. My Beretta held eight.

  “But those six are guaranteed to fire.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick with the semi.”

  Herb nodded. Though I had no romantic interest in Herb at all, I found myself glancing at his left hand. As I’d guessed, there was a wedding band. The good men were always already spoken for.

  “Can I ask you a personal question, Herb?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve my mustache.”

  “It doesn’t. Do you like being married?”

  “Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “Best thing I ever did in my life. You thinking about it?”

  “My boyfriend proposed to me yesterday night.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this.

  “Congratulations. What did you say?”

  “I said I needed time. I have career goals, and I don’t know if they’ll fit with marriage.”

  “If he loves you,” Herb said, “he’ll respect your goals.”

  That’s what I’d been thinking. But it was nice to hear it said aloud. “Did your wife, when you proposed, say she needed time?” I asked.

  “She said yes before I even finished asking.” He winked at me. “I think it was the mustache.”

  Maybe that’s why I didn’t say yes to Alan right away. He didn’t have a mustache.

  Gloria’s door opened, and Shell popped out into the hallway. He had some lipstick on his neck that I was pretty sure wasn’t there before.

  “Ready to meet the rest of the girls?” he asked.

  I nodded. But part of me wondered if maybe I was crazy for pursuing this whole cop thing. Maybe I’d be happier getting married and having kids.

  And if that were the case, maybe Alan’s proposal was my last shot at happiness.

  Chapter 12

  After meeting the rest of the girls, then washing my hands in an attempt to wipe off some of the rampant neuroses that seemed to pervade Shell’s escort agency like smoke damage, I went on my first official date with Felix Sarcotti.

  Mr. Sarcotti was a wee bit older than God. His back was bent like a question mark, he walked with a black, silver-tipped cane, and his facial expression was a permanent leer.

  He was also a perfect gentleman, and I had a great time accompanying him to lunch at the Signature Room, on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock Building. We had crab cakes and Waldorf salads, and he told me about the old days in the meatpacking industry, up until the closure of Union Stockyard in 1970.

  I’d received instructions from both Shell and Herb prior to the date. From Shell, I was told to be polite, attentive, and complimentary. I was to ask questions, laugh at jokes, and seem interested without getting too personal. From Herb, I was told to check in with him every five minutes by using the code word fascinating, which signaled him to respond in my earpiece. If something was going wrong, I was to use the word disaster, which meant he’d come running. Also, if Mr. Sarcotti got too frisky, Herb advised me to go for the balls.

  After lunch, and a polite kiss on the cheek from Mr. Sarcotti (no ball-kicking necessary), I was debriefed by Shell, who informed me that Mr. Sarcotti had spoken to him and I was his new favorite, and that the fee Mr. Sarcotti and others were paying to take me out was going toward my Armani outfit. Then I got ready for my theater and dinner date with Jeroen ten Berge.

  A few minutes before my scheduled pick-up time—Shell had insisted all clients pick up their dates at the agency rather than meet them elsewhere because of the recent murders—there
was a knock on my apartment door. My new apartment, by the way, was fabulous. Tidy, luxurious, well-furnished, and it came with maid service. It sure beat the hell out of dressing up like a hooker and arresting perverts.

  I checked the peephole, saw it was Herb, and let him in.

  Herb whistled when he walked in. “Nice threads.”

  I was wearing a little black cocktail dress that Amy Peterson, one of Shell’s escorts, had lent me. “It’s a Versace,” I said. “Is that good?”

  “It looks good.”

  “Shell bought it for her. He apparently buys clothes for all of his escorts.”

  Herb raised an eyebrow. “What do you think of that?”

  “What I think is that I’ve never met a group of this many suspects outside of an Agatha Christie book. Seriously, Herb. Every one of them is nuts. Gloria thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe. Sandy’s already killed someone. Mizz Lizzy popped out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and looks like she’s searching for children to cook and eat. Amy has her closet arranged so it’s color-coded like a Roy G. Biv rainbow—”

  “Roy G. Biv?”

  I shook my head, laughing. “You know…red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.”

  “Where does black fit in?”

  “Black, white, and shades of gray have to go into another closet.”

  “What about prints? Or plaid?”

  “I didn’t ask. She started talking about astrological signs and palm reading, so I faked a headache and got out of there. Is it possible a woman is the murderer?”

  “We can’t rule it out. I’ve never heard of any female serial killers, but I agree the ladies here are a bit…odd. Shell vouches for this Jeroen guy, says he’s a harmless old man, but I’ll be tagging along just the same. Can you help me with your mic?”

  Half an hour later, a limo picked me up at the agency. Jeroen ten Berge was a distinguished older gentleman, silver haired, well-dressed, quick to share the champagne he had chilling. I restricted myself to one glass, then played Miss Attentive through the car ride to Ninety-fifth and Kedzie, and on into dinner at the Martinique, the restaurant attached to the Drury Lane Theater.

  Jeroen—pronounced yer-oh-in—was a delightful man. A retired investment banker who still dabbled in the stock market, he was a treasure trove of stories and jokes, and the perfect dining companion. Halfway into our chicken vesuvio, he asked me the same thing Mr. Sarcotti had asked.

  “How can a vivacious, delightful woman such as yourself still be single?”

  I played coy. “I could ask you the same thing, Jeroen. An interesting man like you could probably take your pick of grateful brides. Why aren’t you married?”

  His face sank. “I was, for thirty-eight wonderful years. My wife passed in ’86. Breast cancer.”

  I regretted the question. Especially since Shell warned me not to get too personal.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Maria was the best thing that ever happened to me. My best friend. My lover. My soul mate. I was so lucky to have so many good years with her, even if the last few were hard.” He leaned closer, put his hand on mine. “Life isn’t worth living unless you have someone to share it with, Jacqueline. The good times, and the bad times. In sickness and in health. Even toward the end, she could still make my heart flutter when I looked at her.”

  “She sounds lovely,” I said, meaning it.

  “I’m a rich, successful man, Jacqueline. But I would trade it all—the money, the houses, the entire stock portfolio—for just one more day with Maria. Success means nothing unless you have someone to share it with.”

  Jeroen’s eyes glassed over. I gave his hand a squeeze, and we finished our meal in silence. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and checked in with Herb.

  “I made my date cry,” I said into my bra-concealed microphone.

  “Remember you’re a cop, not an escort,” Herb said in my ear piece. He hadn’t been able to secure tickets to the show, or afford the restaurant, so he was in the parking lot eating a sandwich his wife had packed for him. “Besides, it sounds like he was a very lucky guy to have a woman he cared so much for.”

  “Would you do that, Herb? Give up your career for your wife?”

  “I’d give up anything for my wife.”

  After dinner, we watched the musical comedy They’re Playing Our Song. Jeroen had seen it in New York, and cheerily mouthed the song lyrics along with the performers. By the end of the play he was no longer maudlin, and during the limo ride back, he convinced me to have another glass of champagne. When he dropped me off and said goodnight, I got a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  I was left wanting more. Not from Jeroen. From life. I wanted someone who would give up everything for me.

  But would I be willing to do the same for someone else?

  For Alan?

  Chapter 13

  “Want to take a little walk?” Herb asked in my ear.

  I’d just stepped out of Jeroen’s limo and was staring at Shell’s building, about to go inside.

  “Where to?” I said into my bra microphone.

  “Around the block. Like you’ve decided to have a drink after dinner. Find a spot and park yourself at the bar.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Across the street.”

  I resisted the urge to look for him, and instead headed east down Ohio, toward Michigan Avenue. It was close to midnight, but there were still a few folks wandering the streets. Not as many as if it were a weekend, but enough that snatching me would be risky.

  Then again, the killer had snatched three other women without drawing any attention.

  It was dark, hot, and humid. The city smelled like garbage. A car cruised up, slowing down as it neared me. I wobbled a little, swaying left and right, forcing myself to giggle.

  “How much did you have to drink?” Herb asked.

  “Just a glass of wine. I’m playing the part, making myself an easy target. You see this car?”

  The car was a Cadillac. Black. The windows were slightly tinted, so I couldn’t see inside. It pulled into the alley ahead of me. I stopped, forcing myself not to reach for the gun in my purse, feeling my arteries throb with adrenaline as the passenger-side window lowered.

  “Need a ride, pretty lady?”

  “Shell,” I said, blowing out the breath I’d been holding. He was wearing yet another tailored suit, this one tan corduroy with patches on the elbows, and his hair was slicked back with gel. “What are you doing out here, all by yourself?”

  “My job,” I said.

  He winced. “Sorry. Forgot you were a cop for a second there. Saw one of my girls walking by herself and my overly protective nature kicked in. Will you be trolling killers for a while? Or are you free for a drink?”

  “This guy is starting to bug me,” Herb said.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “Great,” said Shell, who thought I was talking to him. “Hop in.”

  Oops. “How about we grab something nearby?” I wanted to stay in the area. All three women had disappeared within a few blocks of the agency.

  “There’s this classy bar on Wabash. Miller’s Pub.”

  “Miller’s Pub?” I repeated, for Herb’s benefit.

  “I know it,” Herb said. “I can meet you there.”

  “You’re on,” I said, to both Herb and Shell.

  I walked around the car, climbing into the passenger seat. Shell smelled like cologne. Somehow, that made me think of Alan, who never wore cologne. I hadn’t called Alan all day. Partly because I’d been busy. Partly because I still wasn’t sure what to say to him.

  “You know what I feel like?” Shell drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the street. “Dancing. Want to go dancing?”

  “I’m not really in a dancing mood, Shell.”

  “Do you like music?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about Buddy Guy’s?”

  Buddy Guy was a Chicago blues legend. He owned a club on Wabash, not too far f
rom Miller’s.

  “Buddy Guy’s,” I said. Herb didn’t respond. I wondered if he was out of radio range.

  “I saw Clapton play there once. Just came in, unannounced, jammed with Buddy’s band. Amazing show.”

  “Okay,” I said, raising my voice to near yelling, “let’s go to Buddy Guy’s Legends. Buddy Guy’s Legends, on Wabash.”

  Shell gave me a look like I’d grown an extra head. Still no reply from Herb. I could only hope he’d heard.

  A few minutes later, Shell was pulling into a multilevel parking garage on Balbo, where he found a spot on the third floor. We took the brightly lit stairwell down to street level, and walked a block to the bar.

  There was a small line. We queued up behind a couple of blue-collar black guys.

  A lonely-looking fat man got in line behind us. Shell paid my five-dollar cover, and once inside we took everything in, looking for a place to sit.

  Everything about Buddy Guy’s screamed the blues. The dim lighting, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey, the plaintive whine of a single electric guitar, the bartender building drinks and sticking them on damp, empty trays, the sad-faced patrons, many of them sitting alone, nursing something strong. Shell and I found a corner table, so dark I had to lean close to see him. A waitress—who looked like she’d gone three hard rounds with disappointment before it knocked her down for the count—stood next to us without uttering a word, her order pad in hand. Shell got a martini. I got red wine, then excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, having to shout to be heard over the amplifier feedback.

  It was quieter in there, but not by much. I fussed with my mic and earpiece, trying to reach Herb, but didn’t get any indication he heard me. Either he was still looking for parking, or he’d gone to Miller’s. The smart thing to do was have a quick drink, then head back to the agency. I really didn’t think Shell was the killer, especially since he was the one who sought out police help. Besides, I had my Beretta in my purse.