Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  “Pleased to meet you,” Jack said. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m ready for a drink.”

  Jack mixed a whiskey sour for herself, and a bourbon on the rocks for me. Laurie opted for a glass of juice. The three of us sat at the dinette, Mr. Friskers eyeing us evilly from the coffee table in the living room.

  Jack took a long pull on her cocktail. “I guess the two of you are wondering why I looked like I’d been in a cage fight,” she said.

  “I just figured you looked that way every night after work,” I said.

  Laurie slapped at me playfully. “See what I have to put up with?” she said.

  Jack smiled. “You two are cute. Anyway, I had a shootout at work today.”

  She told us about the case she and Herb had been working on, and about an officer named James Grappa who’d been shot earlier in the evening.

  “So you think this Terrence Rush guy is The Defacer?” I asked.

  “It certainly looks that way. We know he was at the convenience store where one of the killings took place. He bought two forty ounce beers and a carton of cigarettes either shortly before or shortly after Dr. William Shipman bled to death in the alley by the store, and we found a straight razor crusted with dried blood on the dresser. We’ll know for sure when the DNA tests come back, but right now it looks like this one’s in the scrapbook.”

  “Motive?”

  “He was all hyped up on meth,” Jack said. “He needed the money to support his habit. At some point, something snapped. I’ve seen it happen before. An addict can go for years dealing on the side, prostituting, whatever, and then one day it’s just not enough. We’re thinking Rush killed at least two people, maybe more.”

  “Sounds like the same MO,” I said. “Doubtful there is more than one guy in Chicago, cutting off people’s faces.”

  “True. But…” Jack’s face scrunched up.

  “But?”

  “Well, the first vic, Dr. William Shipman, had his femoral artery cut. The second one, Sheldon Lowe, had his throat slashed.”

  “Maybe he was trying out different methods.”

  “Maybe. But that sounds awfully rational for a meth head.”

  “How’s the officer doing?” Laurie said. “What did you say his name was?”

  “James Grappa. Last I heard, he was still in surgery. The bullet pierced his right lung. So I don’t know. I’m going to call the hospital in a little while and check up on him.”

  “You’re a good cop,” I said. “You were a hero tonight. Grappa was lucky to have you around.”

  “Well, he’s probably not feeling too lucky right now. And I was the one who sent him there in the first place. You ready for another drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Laurie?”

  “Actually, do you mind if I lie down for a while? I’m really tired.”

  “Did you guys ever find a place to sleep?”

  I shook my head. “Harry wanted to play Twister and rub our feet.”

  Jack laughed, full and deep. “My sofa opens up to a bed. You two can stay here.”

  “Are you sure? We really don’t want to impose.”

  Laurie yawned. “Please, Nicholas. Impose. Or I will.” She turned to Jack. “The soonest the hotel can get us in is Monday, and there’s no other room in all of Chicago.”

  “Monday it is,” Jack said.

  I cocked my head. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I’m grateful for the company. Come on, Laurie. There’s a linen closet in the hallway.”

  Jack filled her arms with sheets, blankets and pillows, then mixed more drinks. I helped Laurie make the bed, tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.

  I killed the light in the living room, walked back to the dining area and sat with Jack at the table. She’d already poured me another Old Fitz on the rocks.

  “Laurie seems very sweet,” she said.

  “She is. Better than I deserve. So how about you? If I remember correctly, you’d recently started going out with someone when we met in Florida. Latham, was it?”

  “Yeah. We were pretty serious for a while, but then some things happened.”

  “Things have a tendency of doing that,” I said.

  “Don’t they? So I don’t know. Maybe we’ll go out again someday. Maybe not. Anyway, I have too many other things on my plate to worry about it right now.”

  I took a sip of my drink. “I heard about your mom,” I said.

  “You did?”

  “It was on the news.”

  “Right. So that’s the big thing right now. I’m looking for a long term care facility. Hard to believe how quickly things can change sometimes. She was still very active before the assault.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it is what it is. I’m dealing with it. And I should be able to take a few days off now. Maybe we can find a good place for Mom.”

  “So did you and your partner sweat the guy at all?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Defacer. Have you interrogated him yet?”

  “Herb shot him. He’s dead. Sorry, I must not have made that clear.”

  “Oh, so the case really is over for you. No trial to deal with or anything.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. It’s not the way we would have written the script if we’d had a choice, but we didn’t. Terrence Rush fired at my partner instead of getting on the ground like he was told to do. Herb will have to go through the usual rigmarole with Internal Affairs, but it was a clean shoot. I can guarantee you that.”

  “Good. I’m glad you got the son of a bitch. The streets of Chicago are safer tonight because of the great job you guys did. Cheers.”

  We clinked our glasses together.

  “Tell me more about the case you’re working on,” Jack said.

  “There’s not that much to it yet, really. Just what I told you over the phone. Wanda Crumley, mentally ill and homeless, died in a fire twenty-six years ago. For some reason, her daughter, Doris Green, is convinced that she was murdered. So I’m going to dig around until I prove her right or prove her wrong.”

  “My money’s on wrong,” Jack said.

  “Mine, too. But my client said she needs some kind of closure. To know what happened, for her own peace of mind. If I can help her achieve that, then that’ll be a good thing.”

  “Absolutely. And if you don’t, her closure will be that she tried.”

  “That’s the hope. I’ll start with the Medical Examiner’s office and work backwards from there. Thanks for paving the way there.”

  “Professional courtesy,” Jack said, raising her glass.

  We clinked and drank.

  “Of course the whole thing might turn out to be inconclusive. Twenty-six years is a long time. We might never know exactly what happened to Wanda Crumley.”

  Jack got up and grabbed a box of Wheat Thins from the pantry, poured some in a bowl and set them on the table between us.

  “Maybe you can meet my partner sometime while you’re here. His wife’s going to be out of town, and he’ll be on administrative leave for at least a few days. He’ll probably be bored to tears. Maybe the four of us can go out for pizza or something.”

  “Is he anything like McGlade?”

  “No. Herb is a decent human being. And he’s too fat to play Twister.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to try some real Chicago pizza. By the way, I hate to ask, but I still could use a gun.”

  “That’s serious shit, Colt. Borrowing a firearm.”

  “I can understand if you don’t trust me.”

  She cracked a small grin. “Do I need to quiz you on the rules of firearm safety?”

  “A gun is always loaded. Don’t point it at anything you don’t intend to destroy. Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire. And make sure you know what’s behind your target.”

  “You any good?”

  “I can usually hit what I aim at.”

  “Wait here.”r />
  Jack got up and walked to the bedroom. A moment later she came back carrying something. It was a gun, of course, but I didn’t know what kind until she set it on the table and unfolded the oily white rag it was wrapped in. It was a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, the type police agencies all over the country once issued to every officer on every beat.

  “This is like what I carry,” Jack said. “A Colt Detective Special.”

  “Nice.”

  “It hasn’t been fired in twenty years, but I keep it cleaned and oiled.”

  “Older model. The ejector rod isn’t shrouded.”

  “You know your Colts.”

  “You could say they run in my family.”

  Jack smiled. “This one does, too. It was my mother’s, from when she was on the force. It’s the gun I learned to shoot with.”

  Jack opened the cylinder, showing me it was empty, then handed it to me.

  “Are you sure you want to let me borrow this?”

  “I know you’ll take good care of it.”

  “Of course. And my Florida carry permit is good here, just in case I need it.”

  “I was wondering about that.”

  But she hadn’t asked. Which meant she was willing to let me carry it, even illegally.

  Maybe we were friends after all.

  I hefted the gun and looked it over. It was a little heavier than the one I usually carry, probably because of the checkered walnut grips. But it was nice and solid.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Can I try the pull?”

  “Please do.”

  I swung out the cylinder, making sure it was empty even though she’d already shown me it was, and then snapped it back in and dry fired several times, pointing at the floor. The trigger action was smooth, the sights looked good. I cocked the hammer with my thumb, greatly shortening the pull, and it fired easier than a child’s cap gun.

  “Good weapon,” I said.

  “Only as good as the person who wields it. I have a shoulder holster you can use, and some extra cartridges to throw in your glove box or whatever.”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. You play cards?”

  “Anything but 52 pick-up.”

  She found a well-used pack of Bicycles, and we ended up playing rummy and she won thirty dollars of my hard earned cash. After that, we each had one more drink and we finished off the crackers and said goodnight and went to bed.

  I slept with one arm around Laurie, and the gun under my pillow, where I knew it would be safe.

  DANIELS

  SUNDAY, 6:18 A.M. CST

  Insomnia is like a million microscopic monkeys dancing through your nervous system. Screaming laughing primates with nothing better to do than to annoy you into sleeplessness. You turn one way and then the other, but there’s no escape. Finally, three hours after the hoedown starts, you throw the covers back and stomp into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

  Only today I had houseguests, so I tiptoed instead.

  Nicholas and Laurie were spooned together on the sofa bed, resting peacefully. I was happy for them, and a little bit jealous. They were sleeping, while I couldn’t. They had each other, while I was alone. Get over it, I told myself. Love hurts. Love stinks. And a thousand other rock and roll songs written by whiny little malcontents, titles that eluded my irritable, sleep-deprived brain at the moment.

  I dumped some grounds into the filter basket and filled the reservoir with water from the tap. Walked to the bathroom and stood under the hot shower for about fifteen minutes, hoping to steam-clean last night’s bourbon out of my system. I drank some coffee and put my makeup on and crawled into some suitable clothes, black Donna Karan cardigan and slacks and some black Gucci pumps. Drank some more coffee, placed my spare holster, a box of fifty rounds, and an extra apartment key for Colt on the kitchen counter, then left to start my day.

  I made it to the Shipman’s residence around eight, sat at the curb and watched the house for signs of life. While I waited, I decided to call the hospital and check on James Grappa. His nurse said he was stable. Still critical, but stable. That’s all they’re allowed to tell you over the phone, even when you’re the cop who performed CPR and stuck your finger in the gushing bullet hole. Still, it was good news. Critical is a lot better than dead.

  At 8:21 Brenda Shipman opened her storm door, stepped out onto the porch and picked up the morning paper. I climbed out of my car and headed her way, calling from the sidewalk before she made it back inside.

  “Mrs. Shipman?”

  “Yes?” She had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

  “Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, CPD. Can I have a word with you?”

  I mounted the porch and showed her my badge.

  “I have an appointment with the funeral director at nine-thirty,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. This will only take a minute.”

  She invited me inside, led me to a breakfast nook with a bistro table and a bay window. The kitchen was fabulous. Stainless steel, oak, jade green granite. If I had something like that, I might actually learn how to cook.

  Ms. Shipman poured us each a cup of coffee and then sat at the table across from me.

  “I’ve already talked to several police officers,” she said.

  “I know you have. I’m the lead detective on the case, and I just wanted to let you know that a suspect has been killed.”

  “I saw that on the news. Are you sure he’s the one who killed my husband?”

  “No, we’re not. It fits, but all the evidence hasn’t come in yet.”

  She gazed out the window. She seemed distracted. Preoccupied. Not uncommon among recent widows and widowers, especially those whose spouses were victims of violent crimes.

  “I need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Shipman.”

  She looked at her watch. “Of course, but I really will have to be going soon.”

  “Did Mr. Shipman have any enemies that you know of? Anyone you can think of who might have wanted to do him harm?”

  “No. Anyway, it was a robbery, right? The killer took his wallet.”

  “Sometimes these things are staged. Not likely, but possible. So I’m just trying to cover all the bases. Was he getting along okay with his partners at work?”

  “John and Mark. He loved those guys. The three of them had been buddies since elementary school. They did everything together. Grammar school. High school. College. Med school. And we were all friends, you know. Our families. We hung out all the time.”

  “How about patients?” I said. “Or other employees there at the dermatology office. Did anyone ever get angry at him or threaten him or anything? Has he ever been sued?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that. Everyone liked Bill. He was a peaceful guy, and he had a great sense of humor. God, I miss him so much. Already.”

  She reached over and grabbed a tissue from the box on the windowsill. Her tears seemed genuine, but I still had to ask.

  “How was your marriage going, Mrs. Shipman?”

  She dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Good. I mean, we had our ups and downs like everyone else, but mostly it was good.”

  “How about the last few weeks? Up or down?”

  “What do you want me to say, Lieutenant? Bill hadn’t been quite as—how should I put this—affectionate as usual, but I figured it was a temporary thing. I hoped it was, anyway. It’s not like we were getting a divorce or anything. We were just having a dry spell. It happens.”

  “Did you suspect him of having an affair?”

  She hesitated. “You know, don’t you?”

  “That you hired a private investigator to follow him?”

  “He wasn’t cheating, and he wasn’t doing anything illegal. All those nights he called and said he was staying late at the office? He really did stay late at the office. He cared about his patients, and he stayed until everyone was taken care of for the day. Sometimes he didn’t get home until ten, and then he was right back at it a
t eight-thirty the next morning. I should have trusted him. Hiring the PI was a huge mistake on my part.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” I said. “We all make mistakes. It’s part of being human. One more question, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Okay. One more.”

  “How is your financial situation?”

  She grabbed her cup, walked to the sink, dumped the coffee out and started rinsing it with water.

  “You think I killed my husband for the insurance money?” she said. “We each have a million dollar policy. That’s a lot of money to most people. But Bill was making over half that each and every year. I would have made out much better with a divorce. But I didn’t want that either. I didn’t want him dead, and I didn’t want the marriage to end. I loved my husband. I loved him more than anything else in the world.”

  She dropped the cup, and I heard it shatter against the bottom of the sink. She hung her head and started weeping. I believed that she loved her husband. I didn’t think she’d killed him.

  But I’d been wrong before.

  “Mrs. Shipman,” I asked. “Before I go, can I ask who it was you hired to follow your husband?”

  “What?”

  “The private investigator. What was his name?”

  “Oh. Him. He was a horrid little man named Harry McGlade.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Shipman.”

  I left a business card on the table, got up and padded back to the front door and let myself out.

  Sometimes being a cop really sucked.

  DEL CHIVO

  SUNDAY, 9:36 A.M. CST

  Today would be the day.

  Sergio was going to kill two police officers. Shorty had gotten a gun for him, an old revolver with six bullets.

  That was two more than he needed.

  His plan was simple. He’d already used the hacksaw to cut the deadbolt on the vacant shop near the police station. It had been a heavy duty lock, and it had taken Sergio over an hour, but it gave him complete access to the store, and a perfect view of the station house.

  When he saw the Marshmallow Man’s car, he’d calmly walk out the front door, shoot him and possibly his angry female partner, and then rush over to them and take their noses, and if he had time, their ears as well.