Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  It was big, bigger than it seemed from the outside. About the size of a small house, with opaque plastic partitions serving as walls. All around me were plants, rows and rows of plants, some of them as high as the glass ceiling. Flowers, in every imaginable color, trees, vines, even a table covered with brownish moss. It smelled fragrant, tropical, and the sweat had already broken out on my brow.

  There were plenty of places to hide. The safe thing to do would be to wait for backup. Or maybe burn the entire structure to the ground. The foliage looked harmless, but I knew better. Each lovely bit of flora promised a different, horrible death.

  I moved slowly, keeping my elbows tucked in, trying not to touch anything. Herb lumbered in a few steps behind me, and he went left while I stayed right. We would work the perimeter first, moving in opposite concentric circles until we reached the center.

  I crept past a bed of striking red flowers, but restrained myself from gathering up a bouquet. Beyond them was a large compost heap, a refrigerator, a workbench, a pallet of stacked brown boxes—

  I froze, my feet growing roots.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  Those weren’t boxes. They were beehives. And the bees noticed my arrival, several hundred of them swarming out of the box and over to me, to investigate the intruder.

  I tried to remember everything I’d ever learned about bees, and I’d learned a lot since almost dying from that sting years ago. They were attracted to sugar, and perfume. They attacked the color black. They attacked when provoked. They hated sudden movements, or loud noises. After a bee stung you, its stinger pulled out and it died, but the stinger continued to pump poison into your body. Bees were attracted to CO2, to your breath. Each year, a hundred people in the United States were killed by bees, mostly because of allergies like mine. Once a bee stung you, it released a pheromone that made other bees sting in the same spot. But all the experts agreed that if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.

  All of these things swirled through my head as the bees buzzed around me. One landed on my bare arm. Another flew into my face, bouncing off my nose. I held my breath, shut my eyes, and tried to stop trembling. I needed to back up, to get out of there, but my feet wouldn’t move. This was so much worse than the cockroaches. This was worse than anything I’d ever encountered. I was too scared to even speak.

  Buzzing, so close to my ear that I flinched. Bees on my hands now, on my neck, on my face. Some of them crawling. Some of them content to just stay there and find the best place to sting.

  “Afraid of bees, Lieutenant?”

  I squinted, saw the Chemist standing next to the hive, about eight feet away from me. He had a jet injector in his hand. I raised my gun.

  “If you shoot, they’ll sting you,” he said. “These are very ill-tempered bees. I don’t like keeping them around, but pure honey has quite a lot of botulism spores in it. It’s not the easiest bacteria to culture. Required a lot of trial and error. Years of it, in fact. I’ve been stung dozens of times. Painful. Normally I don’t come in here without my netting on. Why are you so frightened? Are you allergic?”

  I was trying to aim at his center mass, but my arms were shaking too badly and I couldn’t steady the gun. I was completely, utterly helpless. A bee landed on my lip and tried to crawl up my nose. I flinched, and almost started to cry.

  “Allergic, I bet. You look absolutely terrified. Quite a change from the tough cop on the phone. I tell you what—I’m going to do you a favor.”

  He took a slow step toward me, and I felt my knees begin to buckle.

  “This is loaded with ricin”—he held up the jet injector—“derived from the castor bean. It will kill you quickly. I can’t promise it will be painless, but it is a much better way to go than anaphylactic shock, gasping for breath.”

  Another step closer. Now my knees actually did give out, and I fell onto my butt. The bees didn’t like the sudden movement, and their buzzing became louder.

  “What did you do?” the Chemist asked me. He seemed oddly calm. “Did you drive the truck out of the festival, to the plant?”

  I nodded, forcing myself to do something. I thought about bravery. I’d been afraid many times before, but never to the point where it had incapacitated me. Even while in the truck, facing certain death, I’d been able to function. Why should a few lousy bees turn me into an invalid?

  “Where is the rest of your squad? I only saw the fat guy. Only two of you came for me?”

  I said, “More are coming,” and surprised myself by how strong it came out.

  “I’d better hurry then. I was thinking this was a final siege, an Alamo. But if it’s only you two, then I can kill you both and get away. Then I can start all over again.”

  He raised the jet injector and took another cautious step forward. I brought up the AMT. My hand was no longer shaking. If I died, I died. Once I accepted that, a lot of the fear went away.

  Schimmel paused, looking unsure.

  “If you shoot me, they’ll sting you.”

  “Fair trade,” I said, my teeth clenched.

  “Jackie! Duck!”

  I looked to my left, and saw McGlade standing a few yards away, holding a semiautomatic in his left hand. He fired six times. Predictably, all six shots missed Schimmel, the bullets burying themselves into the stacked wooden beehive.

  The bees weren’t happy. Innately sensing their attacker, they swarmed on Harry.

  I rolled backward just as Schimmel sprayed a cloud of ricin at the space I used to occupy. He jumped to the right, then scurried away to the rear of the greenhouse.

  I continued to crab-walk backward, to get away from the bees, but they pretty much ignored me, focusing their wrath on McGlade. He ran past me, a cloud of bees around him, and then doubled back and went in the opposite direction, the whole time screaming, “THEY’RE BITING ME! THEY’RE BITING ME!”

  A BOOM to my right, and a sharp cry. Beanbag rounds were used to induce what law enforcement officers called “pain compliance.” They weren’t lethal, but they hurt so badly you wished they were. I limped after the sound and saw Schimmel writhing around on the ground, next to a small aquarium. The jet injector lay a few feet away. Herb was standing over him.

  “Where’d you hit him?” I asked.

  “Stomach. Want me to peg him a few more times?”

  “No need. I think he’s been subdued.”

  Schimmel moaned, doubling up into the fetal position.

  “You got cuffs?” Herb asked.

  “No. You?”

  “No. There’s probably something back in the chopper. I’ll—”

  The Chemist rolled up to his knees and reached for the aquarium beside him, lifting. Before he had a chance to throw it at us, Herb fired another beanbag into his legs.

  Schimmel fell, the aquarium crashing down on top of him, dumping water and rocks and brightly colored shells onto his body.

  He gasped once.

  And then he began to scream.

  CHAPTER 46

  I FOUND OUT LATER that the brightly colored creatures in that aquarium were called cone snails, and their toxin was among the most poisonous in the animal kingdom.

  The snails apparently hadn’t liked their environment being disturbed in such a rough fashion, and moments after landing on Schimmel, they showed their disapproval.

  First came screaming. Then convulsions. Then spitting blood.

  Carey Schimmel died right before the ambulance arrived, but I think their four-minute response time would have pleased him.

  Along with the ambulance, the police arrived in full force. Crime scene units. The SRT. K9 units. I think they came for closure more than anything else, to see the corpse of the man who had caused them so much pain. Though the police dog did sniff out a corpse in Schimmel’s compost heap—one that was quickly ID’ed as retired cop Jason Alger, as evidenced by his missing fingers.

  As the paramedics loaded a very puffy-looking Harry McGlade into their truck, I asked them to wait a moment so I could
speak to the annoying guy who once again wound up saving the day.

  “Nice job, McGlade.”

  “Thankth.”

  His pronunciation wasn’t too good, because while he was running around screaming, a bee had flown into his mouth and stung his tongue.

  “Where’d you get the gun?” I asked him.

  “Chopper. Took it from the cockpit when you guys were playing around with the launcher.”

  “So your hand wasn’t stuck on the ladder?”

  He smiled, looking a lot like a lumpy pumpkin. “I knew you’d need my help.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll speak to the mayor as soon as I get back to the office. I’ll make sure you get your bar.”

  He shook his head. “No bar.”

  “I thought you wanted a liquor license.”

  “I’m not a bar owner,” Harry sputtered. He stared at me, hard. “I’m a private eye.”

  I grinned. “What happened to being a poet?”

  “I’m that too. Want to hear one?”

  “If it’s quick.”

  “This one is called ‘Grandma.’ Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “My grandma wears a diaper. I really hate to wipe her.”

  He waited for my reaction. “Stick to private investigation,” I told him, then went off to find Herb. He was just getting off the phone with his wife.

  “What’s the verdict?” I asked.

  “Starting tomorrow, I’m back in Homicide. Bernice said it would be selfish of me to waste all of this talent in Robbery.”

  We embraced. It felt good.

  “Welcome back.”

  “She also said there were zero casualties. The plant and the water absorbed most of the blast. The mayor of Skokie is giving her, me, you, and that idiot McGlade keys to the city.”

  “I’d settle for a new purse. Mine blew up in that truck.”

  “It could have been a lot worse.”

  “Are you kidding? That purse was a Gucci.”

  Herb offered to share a cab back to Skokie, to pick up our cars, but I couldn’t pick up my car without my car keys, which were in my purse. Along with all of my cash and credit cards.

  “Can you even get in your house?” Herb asked.

  “No.”

  “You want to stay with us tonight, until you get everything worked out?”

  I looked past Herb to Special Agent Rick Reilly, who was headed in our direction.

  “No need,” I said. “I know someone who won’t mind giving me a ride and putting me up for the night.”

  “You sure?” Herb asked.

  I thought about it. Thought about it really hard.

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you soon, partner.”

  “Bye, Herb.”

  He waddled off, and I waited for Rick to approach.

  CHAPTER 47

  “THANKS FOR CALLING ME. I know we didn’t part on exactly the best of terms.”

  The Eisenhower Expressway was packed as usual, even on a Sunday. But rather than frustrate me, the stop-and-go traffic had a rhythm to it that was kind of soothing.

  “This doesn’t mean anything,” I told him. “I just needed a ride and a place to sleep.”

  “I understand.”

  We were silent for a while.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “A little. Twisted my ankle, got a bump on the head.”

  He took his right hand off the steering wheel and went to touch my head. I flinched away from it.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s . . . too soon. We need to take this slow. I’m not even sure if this is the right thing to do.” I laughed humorlessly. “Mom is going to hate me.”

  Wilbur smiled. “Your mother is a tough cookie, but she could never hate you.”

  “She sure hates you.”

  “Staying would have been bad for her. She wasn’t getting the love she deserved, and I was holding her back.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She always wanted to be a police officer. Talked about it when we were dating. But when we got married, she dropped the subject. Married women don’t have careers, she said. I’m a wife and a mother now. When I left, I offered to support both of you. Your mother took child support, but she wouldn’t take alimony. Proud woman. Strong. Like you.”

  “Wilbur, I’m really not comfortable with you talking about me like you know me. How do you know I’m strong?”

  “I know.”

  I turned away from him, closed my eyes until we arrived at his house. I thought about Rick, about his final attempt at the Schimmel residence to make a play for me, and how empty it felt. Then I thought about Latham, about the opportunity I’d blown by not immediately saying yes to his proposal, and if there was anything I could do to make it up to him.

  I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew the car door was opening. Wilbur held the door, grinning foolishly.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. I didn’t want to seem grateful.

  “It’s a pleasure. Are you hungry?”

  “No. Just tired.”

  “I have an extra bedroom. It hasn’t been used in a while, but I have some clean linen in the closet.”

  I restrained myself from saying thank you, and followed Wilbur into his house.

  “It’s the last door at the end of the hall. Let me get you some fresh sheets.”

  I frankly didn’t care if the sheets were fresh or soiled, as long as they weren’t covered with bees. I was so tired I could sleep on anything. But when I entered the room and flipped on the switch, all of my exhaustion disappeared.

  There were three large picture frames on the wall, each containing dozens of photographs in individual borders. And I was the subject of every picture.

  The first frame was all from my youth. Baby pictures. School pictures. I’d seen most of them before, in my mother’s photo albums.

  But the second frame contained entirely new pictures. New to me, at least. They were from my teenage years. I wasn’t posing for any of these; they’d been taken from the side, from behind things like cars or trees, or from a distance using a long lens. There were a few closer, clearer shots; pictures of me at my high school graduation, college graduation, police academy graduation, shaking the mayor’s hand.

  In the third frame, my wedding. My eyes welled up. I had no wedding pictures, and to see me in my wedding dress was an unbelievable gift. It was a little blurry, as if taken in a rush, but I touched the glass and a sob escaped my throat. Next to it, me walking down the aisle, with Mom. Exchanging rings with Alan. Even one of us kissing.

  “Oh, my. I’m sorry, Jacqueline. I should have told you about those.”

  I looked at Wilbur, standing in the doorway with some folded sheets. “You were . . . at my wedding?”

  “I had to stay in the background. I didn’t want your mother to see me. Jacqueline, I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of crazy stalker—”

  “And at my graduations?”

  “Yes. I didn’t mean any harm. I was so proud of you and—”

  I opened up my arms and held him, held him so tight, I thought I might break him.

  “You actually do care, don’t you?”

  “Of course I care. You’re my daughter. I never stopped loving you.”

  I sniffled, rubbed my eyes, regained a little composure.

  “I missed you at my wedding.”

  “I was there. Hiding in the shadows.”

  “I missed dancing with you. I remember thinking, at the reception, that there was no father-daughter dance, and it made me sad.”

  Wilbur said, “Hold that thought,” and then turned on the clock radio next to the dresser. An oldies station came on, a classic Sinatra tune. Wilbur bowed.

  “May I have this dance?”

  I giggled, suddenly feeling like a little girl again. “I think I can squeeze you in.”

  He was a better d
ancer than I was, and after a few failed attempts at spins, we settled for holding each other and moving in small circles.

  “You know,” I said, “I’m seeing someone else now.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Latham.”

  “The accountant? The one from the Gingerbread Man case?”

  I held him at arm’s length.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Want to see my scrapbooks with all of your press clippings?”

  I laughed, hugging him again.

  “Maybe later, Dad.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I said, putting my head on his shoulder. “Later, for sure.”

  EPILOGUE

  Three Weeks Later

  I WATCHED LATHAM FROM BEHIND. He was standing between a set of parallel bars, his effervescent physical therapist urging him to take another step. He did, followed by another, and another, until he reached the end of the bars and had to turn around. I walked up behind him and kissed his cheek.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Are you here to save me, Jack? It’s like a prison camp. Terrible food, unbearable torture.”

  “Can I borrow him for a minute, Julie?” I asked the therapist.

  “Just for a minute. Then we have to do our sets.”

  Latham rolled his eyes in mock horror. “God, I hate sets. Carry me out of here, Jack. I don’t need to walk anymore. Walking is overrated.”

  “Latham, I need to be serious for a moment. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  I breathed deep, let it out slow.

  “I know we said we weren’t going to talk about engagements and marriage until you’re a hundred percent again. But that’s not working for me.”

  Latham stared at me so deeply I felt he could read my thoughts.

  “What are you saying, Jack?”

  I clapped my hands once, and the mariachi trio entered, filling the hospital gym with music. Latham grinned at me when I got down on one knee. I was much more nervous than I thought I’d be.

  “Latham Conger, I care about you more than any man I’ve ever met, and I don’t want to wait to be engaged because every minute we’re not together is a minute I’m dying inside.”