The elevator was fast, and a minute later we were on the twentieth floor knocking on the oak door to unit 20a.
The man who answered was unremarkable. Average height, looks, build. He wore the same black suit we saw him in at the storage facility, but up close I could see it was tailored. His tie was still on, cinched tight on his neck. The bulge in his coat from earlier, the one I thought was a gun, was no longer there. He was clean shaven, the barest hint of gray stubble on his chin. I also noticed his skin was tight—too tight to be natural on a man his age. Mr. Dalton was no stranger to plastic surgery.
He looked at us as a fish might peer out from an aquarium, without interest or expression.
“May I help you, Detectives?”
Herb and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us had told the doorman who we were here to visit, so no doubt Dalton had an arrangement with him, asking to be informed whenever a cop came into the building.
“John Dalton?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, nod, or react in the slightest. “Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago PD. This is my partner, Detective Benedict. We’d like to ask you some questions about your whereabouts earlier today.”
“Daniels, you said?” For the first time, his face showed an expression—a slight crinkling around the eyes that might have been amusement. “The Homicide lieutenant?”
My fictionalized exploits had been televised as a grade D television series. I hadn’t been portrayed on the show in a positive light.
“May we come in?”
Dalton stepped aside, holding the door for us, then softly closing it. He led us down a short hallway, lined with framed black and white photos. A cornfield. A city skyline. A house on some tropical beach.
The condo was tastefully furnished, cherry wood paneling and floors, Persian rugs, stylish furniture that looked straight from the showroom. Dalton led us into the living room and offered us a sofa facing a bay window with a spectacular lake view. We declined the seat. Then we waited. Waiting is a standard interrogation technique. People find silence uncomfortable and tend to fill it when they can.
Dalton, however, said nothing. He simply stood there, watching us with his slack expression.
“Did you visit Merle’s U-Store-It earlier today?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Might I ask why you were there?”
“To store something.” Again, a tiny, bemused squint.
“And what did you store?”
“Don’t you mean to ask if I stored a dead body there?”
“Why would you say that?” Herb asked, his voice the essence of cool.
“You’re Homicide detectives. Am I wrong to assume you’re investigating a murder?”
I went with it, curious to see where this would lead. “Did you store a dead body there?”
“Did you see me store a dead body there?”
Herb and I exchanged a look. Did Dalton know we’d followed him?
“Please answer the question, Mr. Dalton,” I said.
“Now, that would be quite an accomplishment, wouldn’t it? Hiding a body in a storage locker. One would probably need a container of some sort. Something on wheels. Or perhaps not. The manager there isn’t very attentive, is he? Perhaps a savvy murderer could carry a body in without even being noticed.”
“Mr. Dalton, please answer—”
“I’m tired of this question,” Dalton said. “Ask me a better one.”
I knew Herb felt the same thing I felt. This was our killer. This might even be Mr. K. But we were guests, without a warrant, and although we could probably drag him down to the station to answer questions, no doubt he would lawyer-up and probably sue us and the city. Dalton apparently had money, and he radiated confidence. He wouldn’t confess.
But he might screw up if we kept him talking.
“I’d like to show you some pictures on my laptop, Mr. Dalton. It will take a moment.”
“Feel free.”
I placed the computer on a coffee table and booted up Windows. Then I took a memory stick out of my purse—one that contained the photos from the storage locker crime scene, and the crime scene from Seventy-fifth Street—and accessed my slide show viewer.
The first was of the man found earlier, at the U-Store-It. He hadn’t been ID’ed yet. I winced, seeing his misshapen body again.
“Do you recognize him?” Herb asked, taking over because he must have sensed my revulsion.
“I don’t. Perhaps I might, if he wasn’t so puffy.”
“He had his arms and legs broken and was tied to a wheel that spun him around.”
“The Catherine Wheel,” Dalton said.
“You’re familiar with it?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“I confess a fascination with the macabre, and have quite an extensive collection of books about torture and death, and those who commit such atrocities. I also have several that feature you, Lieutenant. I’m sure there are many who have followed your career. A very many, including some very bad people. May I ask you a question about the Kork family? Is Alex still in prison?”
The Korks were one of the many cases I’d had that still gave me nightmares. That is, when I was even able to get to sleep. “No. A maximum security mental health facility.”
“Well, let’s hope all of those despicable people you put away never get out. I bet they’d be most upset with you.”
“How about this man?” I asked, flipping forward a few jpegs. An ugly image splashed across my desktop, of a crime scene lit with kliegs, illuminating a poor bastard whose intestines had been removed from his body an inch at a time by being wound around a stick.
“Ah, the Guinea Worm,” Dalton said. “Quite a terrible way to die.”
“You’re familiar with it?” Herb asked.
“You know the term drawn and quartered? The drawn part is being disemboweled. Here, let me show you.”
Dalton led me and Herb to a bookcase. He removed a hardcover from the shelf with the title The History of Torture and Punishment, and quickly flipped to a page that showed a graphic drawing of a man in agony, his insides being pulled out. The caption below read “Guinea Worm.”
“There is a parasite known as the guinea worm,” Dalton said, “which gets into the bloodstream and then bursts out of a vein in the leg. The only way to remove the creature is to tie it to a stick and slowly pull it out, bit by bit. Imagine someone doing the same thing with your intestines. Most painful.”
I was stunned. This man was practically telling us he did it. Was he presenting some sort of warped challenge to us? Daring the police to catch him?
Next he turned to a full-page sketch of someone dying on the Catherine Wheel.
“I bet the two could be combined,” Dalton said. “As the victim turned, his intestines could also be wound around a stick. The best of both worlds.”
I looked away, eyeing some of his other books. They were all true crime, except for two novels. One was called Blue Murder. The other, The Passenger.
Dalton noticed my gaze. “Are you familiar with author Andrew Z. Thomas?”
I nodded. “A bestselling thriller writer. He became a serial killer.”
“He allegedly joined forces with another killer named Luther Kite. They were both involved in the Kinnakeet Ferry Massacre of 2003, among other unsavory murders.”
I remembered the crime back when it came over the wires, and I still recalled the pictures of the duo. Thomas was average-looking, not the serial killer type at all. But Luther looked like he stepped out of a horror movie. Gaunt, pale face. Dark eyes. Black, greasy hair.
“How about this one?” Herb asked, pulling a title from the shelf.
The book was a dog-eared paperback entitled Unknown Subject K.
“Yes, I’ve heard of him. Supposedly, he’s killed more than the top ten other famous murderers put together. Some think he’s an urban legend, created by the FBI.” Dalton stared at me, his eyes crinkling. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“I think he’s make-belie
ve,” I said carefully. “No one could have committed all of the atrocities that have been attributed to him.”
Now Dalton actually did grin. It was small, no more than a slight upturn of his lips, and seemed oddly out of place on his emotionless face. “Are you sure about that?”
“Did you recognize the man in the last photo I showed you, Mr. Dalton?” I asked, despising his smile.
“The Guinea Worm fellow?”
“The man has been identified as Jimmy ‘The Nose’ Gambucci. He was a member of the Lambini crime family. Do you have any associations with organized crime?”
“Are you asking if I could call up Tony Lambini, have him talk to his powerful friends, and get you fired? Why would I do that, Lieutenant? Do you perceive yourself as a threat to me?”
This conversation had gone from bizarre to downright surreal.
“Mr. Dalton,” I said, figuring I had nothing to lose. “Are you Mr. K?”
Dalton touched his index finger to his chin, then pointed it at his hallway. “Did you see my photographs, when you were coming in? The one on the end is of my chateau in Cape Verde. It’s one of the few hospitable countries in the world that doesn’t have extradition treaties with the United States. Do you know what that means?”
“It means bad guys can go there,” Herb said, “and we’re not allowed to bring them back.”
“A gold star for the chubby sidekick,” Dalton said. Then he turned to me. “I’ve worked hard for my entire life, Ms. Daniels, and am ready for retirement. I’m leaving for Cape Verde tomorrow. After I go, I don’t plan on ever returning. If I am this elusive Mr. K, you have a little over twenty-four hours to come up with enough evidence to arrest me, or else I’m afraid his identity will forever remain a mystery to all but a select few.”
I replayed everything he’d said since we’d walked in. Was it enough to take him down to the station? If so, would it be enough to get a warrant to search his house?
No. Dalton hadn’t actually admitted to anything. And I had no doubt he’d be free an hour after I brought him in.
“Let me tell you what I think of Mr. K,” I said evenly. “He’s a parasite, just like a guinea worm. And like the guinea worm, he needs to be drawn out into the open and exterminated.”
Dalton leaned in close. “I’ve followed your lackluster career, Lieutenant. You aren’t good enough to catch him.”
“We’ll see.”
I picked up my laptop and left the condo with Herb at my heels, swearing to myself I’d put this creep away if it was the last thing I ever did.
Chapter 5
“What are we supposed to do next?” Herb asked.
We were exiting Dalton’s building and walking back to my Nova.
“The only thing we can do,” I answered. “We watch him. Follow him. Hope he makes a move.”
“You think he’ll make a move?” We waited for a cab to pass, then crossed the street. “He’s leaving the country tomorrow. You think he’ll do something to screw that up?”
“I think he’s a disturbed old guy who wants to play some kind of game. And if he does screw up, I want to be there.”
I unlocked my car, started the engine, and cranked on the air-conditioning. The chassis rocked when Herb sat down. After checking for traffic, I pulled out onto the street, turned onto Lake Shore Drive, and parked next to the 1300 building, near the underground garage. It didn’t matter if Dalton saw us—he practically challenged us to follow him, and no doubt knew we would.
I called a detective in my district, Tom Mankowski, and asked him to check the passenger lists on all flights to Cape Verde over the next three days, looking for Dalton’s name. I also asked him if he could confirm Dalton had a residence there.
Then we waited.
“So how’s Latham doing?” Herb asked. “Fully recovered yet?”
“He’s good.”
Latham, my fiancé, was still recuperating from a bout with botulism. He was almost back to normal, and we were going on vacation later in the month, renting a cabin on Rice Lake in Wisconsin. I had to testify at a murder trial next week, but that wouldn’t take more than a day or two. Then I was free of police work for seven glorious days. Though, knowing my luck, I’d probably run into some psychopath during the trip.
“How’s the wife?” I asked Herb.
“Good.”
We kept waiting.
“Think we’ve run out of things to talk about?” Herb asked.
“No, not at all,” I answered.
Neither of us spoke for fifteen minutes. We watched a bike courier ride up to Dalton’s building. He unhooked a bag attached to his rear bumper with bungee cords, and walked past the doorman.
“Remember when we first met?” Herb asked.
“Not really.”
“Sure you do. It was with that guy…the escort murder guy. Shell.”
“Can we talk about something else?” I didn’t like thinking about Shell.
“Sorry. Didn’t know it was still a soft spot.”
“It’s not,” I lied. “What about it?”
“That was eighteen years ago. We’ve been working together for a long time.”
“Sure have.”
“I’ve probably spent more time with you than I have with my wife.”
My eyes wandered away from the building and over to Herb. “You’re not going to tell me you’re in love with me, are you Herb?”
Herb smirked. “I wouldn’t want to ruin what you’ve got going on with Latham.”
“That’s kind of you, because I’d hate to break up your marriage.”
“Also, and I don’t mean this to be an insult—”
“Translation: here comes the insult.”
“—but you’re a little too much like one of the guys. It would be like sleeping with my brother.”
“You have a brother? And he has boobs?”
“We’re getting off tangent here. What I wanted to say was—”
“I want to hear about your D-cup brother.”
“—we’ve been partners for a long time—”
“Is he my size? Maybe we could swap designer clothes.”
“—and you’re my best friend.”
His words sunk right through my skin, into my bone marrow, where they nestled warmly.
“Really?” I said. “Best friend?”
“Really. I just wanted to say that. And it’s okay if you don’t say it back.”
“Herb, I don’t want to burst your bubble, here—”
“Please don’t hurt my feelings, Jack. I break easily.”
“—but this isn’t the first time you’ve said this to me.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Herb, you say this whenever we go out and you have more than five drinks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Not the part about your brother with the rack, but the best friend bit.”
“Do not.”
“Do too. Has to be over a dozen times now.” I looked at him. “Have you been hitting the sauce today?”
“Not yet. But I may step out and get a bottle of something to kill my embarrassment.”
“Counterproductive. Halfway into the bottle, you’ll be pouring your heart out to me again, wanting to get matching T-shirts and friendship bracelets.”
We waited some more.
“Jack?” Herb said after a few minutes.
“Yeah?”
“So when I’ve had too many drinks, and I say this to you…”
“Yeah?”
“How do you respond?”
I looked him straight in the eyes. “That you’re my best friend too, and I love you like a sister.”
“You have a sister? And she has a penis?”
“We should set her up with your brother,” I said. “They’d be perfect for each other.”
“They’d probably just wind up being friends. Hey, there’s the Caddy.”
Herb pointed, and sure enough Dalton’s DTS was on the move. He squealed tires, swi
nging onto the road, fishtailing before rocketing forward.
I threw the car into drive and gunned the engine. Hitting the gas in my Nova was akin to yelling at a mouse on a treadmill in an attempt to make it run faster. There were no squealing tires when I pulled out after him, and the engine made a sound somewhere between a whine of pain and a resigned sigh of defeat. I turned onto Division Street, hoping for a tailwind.
“Remind me again why we take your car,” Herb said.
“Just keep your eye on him.”
“He’s too far ahead. I think he just crossed the border into Pennsylvania.”
My Nova moved noticeably faster when Herb wasn’t in the car, but I didn’t say anything and risk insulting my bestest friend.
“I think he turned,” Herb said.
“Where?”
“Up there, at the Washington Monument.”
“You’re funny, like oral thrush is funny.”
We drove another block.
“Try pressing the accelerator,” Herb suggested.
“I am pressing the accelerator.”
“Do you need me to open the hood, wind the rubber band?”
“It’s not a rubber band,” I said, passing a minivan. “It’s a mouse on a treadmill.”
“I think your mouse is sleeping. Or dead.”
I tapped the brakes and hit the horn to tell a cabbie what I thought of his driving, but the horn didn’t want to respond. “Where’d he turn?”
“Clybourn. Right.”
“Do you think he’s—?”
“Yeah. I do.”
We were heading straight for Merle’s U-Store-It. Was Dalton trying to clear out his storage locker? What if he did it before we got there?
“Put the cherry on the roof,” I said. A little while back, my antique stick-on police siren had fallen off, and I’d been given a slightly less-antique siren. Instead of a suction cup, this new one had a magnet to keep it attached.
“Where is it?” Herb asked.
“On the floor, behind my seat.”
Herb took a glance at his expansive waistline, then at me. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t reach that.”
“Pretend it’s a big box of cupcakes.”
“What kind of cupcakes?”
Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Page 30