Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  Sergio needed four more civilian IDs, and one from a police officer. With the civilians, a clean getaway would be relatively easy.

  But the cop would take some planning.

  He already had two in mind, though. The woman cop with the nice clothes—her name was Daniels. But she had a look about her. Enojada. Sergio guessed she was tough.

  The other prospect was the fat puerco who’d brought a bag of marshmallows to roast over the fire in the steel drum last night. Detective Herb Benedict. A buffoon. He was a disgusting example of American overindulgence, and Sergio would take great pleasure in slitting his throat from ear to ear.

  He lifted his soiled mattress and checked the floor beneath it. The plastic poncho and gloves were there, balled up. Sergio had carefully washed everything in a restaurant bathroom toilet.

  Also there, stuffed into a paper fast food bag, was the face of the gringo.

  Sergio hadn’t enjoyed doing it.

  But, strangely, he hadn’t hated it, either. Doing it to the gringo wasn’t as bad as watching it done on Señor Mendoza’s big screen television. Sergio had expected to get sick, expected to have nightmares.

  Instead, it had felt utilitarian. Coldly necessary.

  Like squashing a cockroach.

  Sergio took the gloves and utility knife, shoved them into his jacket pockets, and then opened the front door and walked outside. Mendoza hadn’t given him proper outerwear for the harsh Chicago weather. It was cold and windy, and Sergio only had a light jacket. All part of the test, he supposed. Send him into a foreign country without money or weapons or adequate clothing, to see how he performed.

  So far, Sergio believed he’d performed very well.

  Now that he had some money, he’d do even better. He flipped the collar of his jacket up, put his hands in the pockets, and started walking at a brisk pace toward the tall buildings in the distance.

  Shorty had told him of a place not far from the house that sold used clothing. Thelma’s Thrift Shop, he called it. Sergio walked a few blocks, made several turns, but he couldn’t find the store. He stopped at McDonald’s, ordered a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and cup of coffee to go, and asked the girl at the counter for directions to the shop.

  “Never heard of it,” she said.

  Stupid puta.

  Sergio set his coffee and burger on a vacant table, walked to the restroom to wash his hands and face. Before he finished, a tall white man entered and locked himself in the stall.

  Sergio yanked some paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, dried himself off, and said, “Excuse me, sir.”

  “Yeah?” the guy grunted.

  “Would you happen to know of a place called Thelma’s Thrift Shop?”

  “Sure. It’s two blocks north of here. Take a right when you walk out the door, and then just keep walking. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sergio moved closer to the stall. He reached into his pocket, pressed his thumb against the utility knife’s slide, advanced the blade all the way forward, and waited.

  And waited.

  Come on, cabron. Hurry up!

  Finally, the toilet flushed.

  Keys jingled as the man pulled his pants up.

  The little chrome knob made a quarter turn counterclockwise, and just as the tall white man was about to emerge from the stall, a greasy fat teenager wearing a McDonald’s uniform stepped into the men’s room and said, “Wow. Looks like there’s a line, huh?”

  Sergio didn’t say anything. He turned and pretended to look in the mirror for a few seconds, and then he pulled the door open and walked back toward the dining room.

  As he rounded the corner, he saw a man wearing a puffy blue ski jacket standing beside the vacant table he’d left his food and drink on. The man glanced around slyly, lifted the white paper bag containing Sergio’s Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and slinked out the door.

  For a second, Sergio thought about shouting, “Hey, that’s mine!”

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he calmly walked over to the table, grabbed his cup of coffee, walked outside, and followed the puffy blue fellow down the street.

  COLT

  FRIDAY, 12:57 P.M. EST

  After I talked to Doris Green, I drove on over to my Airstream on Lake Barkley. I hadn’t been there in a couple of weeks, but everything was just as I’d left it. Everything except the loaf of bread in the cabinet over the stove. The crust had turned from golden brown to neon green. I carried it outside and chucked it into the steel drum I use to burn my trash.

  I sat at the picnic table out there for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet. The weekend crowd would be rolling in soon with motorboats and stereos and overexcited children, but for now the lake was as peaceful as could be. I thought about walking down to the bank and dropping a line.

  Then I thought about Susan. My dead wife.

  Then I thought about Laurie. My girlfriend.

  Would she ever be more than just a girlfriend?

  I wondered if she and Susan would have gotten along. Liked each other.

  I decided they would have.

  After going back inside and making sure there weren’t any more potential mold factories in the cupboard or the refrigerator, I locked up the Airstream and drove back up to Laurie’s apartment.

  Edgar greeted me at the door, and then proceeded to strut away and pretend I didn’t exist.

  “Anybody home?” I said.

  “In here,” Laurie said.

  I emptied my pockets, set everything on the little breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, and walked to the bedroom.

  The comforter was turned back, and Laurie was lying there on her stomach reading a paperback novel.

  But it wasn’t what she was doing that got me.

  It was what she was wearing.

  That silky black negligee we’d picked out together at Victoria’s Secret a while back.

  “How did your business appointment go?” she asked.

  “Too soon to tell. She’s calling me back.” I indicated the paperback. “Good book?”

  “It’s a love story.”

  “But is it any good?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off those long brown legs and that beautiful, heart-shaped bottom of hers.

  “I’m predicting a happy ending,” I said.

  She turned over and tossed the book onto the bedside table. I slipped out of my topsiders, sat beside her, kissed her on the lips.

  “Let’s not even talk about the ending yet,” she said. “I’m enjoying the subtle, enticing beginning, and I’m looking forward to the deep, penetrating middle.”

  I kissed her again, and just as things were getting heated up my cell rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” Laurie said.

  Part of me, mostly the lower part, wanted to listen to her. But my upper half, the part with the brain that knew I had to pay bills, won out. I tried to take out my cell without Laurie seeing, just to check the number.

  It was Doris Green.

  “Shit, babe, I need to take this.”

  Laurie pulled away, annoyed.

  “This is Colt.”

  “It’s Doris Green. I’ve been thinking it over.”

  The silence dragged. Laurie went into the bathroom.

  “Are you still there, Doris?”

  “Yes, Nicholas. I’ve decided I want to hire you. I believe you’ll do your best, and if anyone can find out what happened to my mother, it’s you.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “I can stop by with your retainer whenever it’s convenient.”

  Laurie came out of the bathroom. She was wearing her ratty old bathrobe. It was like a neon sign that blinked no longer in the mood.

  “Anytime is fine,” I said. “My schedule has suddenly opened up.”

  “I can meet you back at the Pool Hall in an hour.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Th
ank you, Nicholas. Closure… well, I’ve always wanted closure. See you soon.”

  She hung up. I understood what Doris meant by closure. Even if I didn’t solve this, I hoped her hiring me gave her the closure she needed.

  “I’m taking the job,” I said to Laurie. “I’ll be leaving for Chicago tomorrow.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  I told her about the case.

  “I’m sure it won’t take long,” I said. “And we can certainly use the money.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ll have a job by the time you get back.”

  “Want to come with me?”

  Her face brightened. “Really? You want me to go to Chicago with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll have to get someone to take care of Edgar. I guess I could ask Anne.”

  Anne Waterbury was Laurie’s neighbor across the hall.

  “So how about it? I’ll be working, of course, but maybe we can find some time to have a little fun while we’re there. And maybe you can even help me with the investigation.”

  “Will it be dangerous?”

  “No. Even if it was a murder, which I doubt, it happened twenty-six years ago. The killer’s probably long gone by now, maybe even dead. I wouldn’t have invited you along if I thought it was going to be dangerous.”

  Laurie sat up. “This is exciting!” she said. “Can we start packing right now?”

  “We could. But I was thinking…”

  I tugged on the belt to her ratty robe, hoping to catch another glimpse of her lingerie.

  Laurie batted my hand away. “Let’s wait until Chicago. It’ll be better.”

  “I don’t see how it could be. It’s always great.”

  “Is it cold there now? I don’t have a coat. I should go buy a coat.”

  She hurried back into the bathroom to get dressed.

  Win some, lose some.

  I’d never been to Chicago, but I had a friend of sorts there, a police lieutenant named Jacqueline Daniels. She’d flown into Jacksonville a year ago last Halloween to visit her mother in Dade City, opting to drive a little further rather than deal with the airport in Orlando. She’d seen Kelly’s Pool Hall on Grills, Game Rooms, and Greasy Spoons, and the two of us just happened to end up there at the same time. Had some drinks, played some pool, battled an armed robber who’d attached himself and a sawed-off shotgun to the back of the bartender’s neck. All in a day’s work, as they say. Over the course of a few hours, Jack Daniels and I got to know each other pretty well. It wasn’t a friendship, exactly. But it wasn’t a bad place to start.

  I scrolled through the contacts programmed into my cell phone and found her number. I looked at my watch, reminded myself that it was an hour earlier there.

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Daniels.”

  “Hey, Jack. This is Nicholas Colt.”

  “Who?”

  “Colt. Private eye. Pool hall in Florida. Guy with a shotgun.”

  “Give me something more concrete.”

  “You’re wildly in love with me but can’t admit it.”

  “Ah. Now I remember. The giant, unwarranted ego.”

  “Unwarranted?”

  “What do you want, Colt? I’m busy.”

  “You said to give you a call if I was ever in Chicago.”

  “I did?”

  “I’m pretty sure you did.”

  “You’re also pretty sure you’re attractive, funny, and competent.”

  “Is it Hate A Private Eye Day and I missed it on my calendar?”

  Jack sighed. “I actually do hate a particular private eye, but it probably isn’t fair taking it out on you. You’re in town?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll be packing my bags tonight. I’m planning on leaving in the morning.”

  “So what do you want? A ride from the airport? You don’t want to go out, do you? I’m sort of with this guy, kind of.”

  “Sounds like a serious commitment.”

  “Just cut to it. I’m losing patience.”

  “This is a business trip, and I was wondering if you might be able to help me out with a few things.”

  “What things?”

  I told her about the case, about the house fire twenty-six years ago, about Doris Green refusing to accept the fact that her mother’s death was probably an accident.

  “Sounds like there must be more to it,” Jack said. “Like maybe Doris Green isn’t telling you everything she knows.”

  “That’s what I thought. Anyway, it would be great if I could get in to see the remains, talk to the Medical Examiner.”

  “I could call in a favor. Do you know if our guys up here are actively investigating this case?”

  “Supposedly,” I said. “But you know how that goes. A twenty-six-year-old death—one that looks an awful lot like an accident—is going to be put on the back burner nine times out of ten. That’s just the way it is.”

  “The back burner?”

  “Sorry. No pun intended.”

  “Hard to tell sometimes with you. I can make a call. Can’t promise anything. Let me know when you arrive.”

  “Thanks. Oh—and I know this is a lot to ask—but I was also wondering if you could loan me a piece while I’m up there.”

  “You need a gun?”

  “Well, I hope not, but you never know. Just don’t want to go through the hassle of trying to bring mine on the airplane.”

  “Sure. I’ll let you use my throw-away piece. The one with the serial numbers filed off that I can plant on stupid private eyes who ask me stupid questions.”

  “That will work.”

  “Find your own damn gun, Colt. I’m not going to let any shit you do in my city get back to me.”

  “I was thinking, you know, professional courtesy.”

  “I reserve that for professionals.”

  “So that’s a no, then?”

  “It’s a big goddamn no.”

  “Could you maybe lend me a butter knife or something? These new TSA regulations are a bitch.”

  Jack finally laughed. Score one for the attractive, competent, funny egomaniac.

  “I’ll tell you what, Nicholas. There is a guy I used to work with. I’m sure he could rent you, or sell you, what you’re looking for.”

  “You recommend him?”

  “I’m sure you’ll adore one another.”

  She gave me his contact information, then we said goodbye and hung up.

  DEL CHIVO

  FRIDAY, 12:07 P.M. CST

  The man wearing the puffy blue ski jacket had taken a right out of the door at McDonald’s, and Sergio had followed him several blocks north.

  Past Thelma’s Thrift Store.

  The man walked fast. Sergio’s thin jacket was no match for the brisk Chicago wind, his cheap sneakers not prepared for the cold, concrete sidewalk. If not for this cheeseburger thief, this lowlife scumbag, Sergio would have had a nice warm coat by now and some new shoes and thicker socks. His anger increased with every blistering step.

  Finally, the man slowed down, veered toward the curb, and sat on a bench inside a Plexiglas shelter at a bus stop. Sergio sat beside him.

  “Buenos noches,” Sergio said.

  The man laughed. He reached into the white paper bag, pulled out the cardboard container, flipped the lid open, and lifted the Quarter Pounder with Cheese out of the box.

  “Been a long time since I took Spanish,” he said. “But doesn’t buenos noches mean goodnight? Shouldn’t we be saying buenos tardes right now, for good afternoon?”

  He took a bite of the burger.

  “I’m very hungry,” Sergio said. “So hungry I can’t even think straight right now. I was wondering if you might like to share your food with me.”

  The man looked at Sergio with an expression he might have used upon seeing a dog turd on the sidewalk.

  “Where you from, boy?”

  “I was born in El Salvador.”

  “Is it the custom down there to stare a
t people while they eat? Is that what you guys do? Go around begging for scraps? You’re in America now, my friend, and we just don’t do that here.”

  “Please, just one bite. Then I’ll go away and leave you alone. You will never see me again.”

  The man shook his head in disgust, and then he stuffed another mouthful of Sergio’s Quarter Pounder into his fat gringo face.

  But he never got the chance to swallow it.

  DANIELS

  FRIDAY, 12:18 P.M. CST

  I called Felencia Chase on the way to CigsMart.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department,” I said. “I was wondering—”

  “Again? I already told you guys I can’t make a donation right now. How many times are you going to call this number?”

  She must have gotten a solicitation from the Fraternal Order of Police recently.

  “This isn’t about a donation, ma’am. This is about a murder that was committed not far from your place of employment last night.”

  There was a short pause.

  “A murder?” she said. “Sorry, I thought—”

  “It’s okay. I just have a few questions for you. Do you have time right now?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “The man who was killed had dinner there at Genario’s last night. His name was William Shipman, and he was there with two other men. I spoke with Michael Genario a while ago, and he told me that you were the server.”

  “Yeah, those guys come in every Thursday night. They’re all doctors. One of them got killed?”

  “Yeah. At the CigsMart on Addison.”

  “I heard something about that on the news,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was one of our customers.”

  “You didn’t recognize the name?”

  “Bill? Is that him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t make the connection. But yes, I did wait on them last night. They always leave a good tip.”

  I steered into the parking lot at CigsMart, found a place, cut the engine.

  “Do you remember if the three men left the restaurant together?” I said.