CHASER
Retired cop Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels and her husband, former criminal Phineas Troutt, have made a lot of enemies over the years. But none worse than The Cowboy, a gunslinging nutcase who wants to slaughter them both, and Hugo Troutt, who has been plotting revenge against his younger brother for over a decade.
Separately, these baddies are formidable. Together, they are unstoppable.
But Jack has even more hell to deal with. She and her former partner, private eye Harry McGlade, are in L.A. chasing an insane plastic surgeon who specializes in disfiguring his victims. And Jack’s colleague Tom Mankowski has problems of his own with a snuff film auteur named Erinyes.
With four psychopaths on the prowl, Jack, Phin, Harry, and Tom will need to call on some old friends if they hope to get out of LaLa Land alive…
This thirteenth Jack Daniels novel brings together villains from Konrath’s thrillers WHITE RUSSIAN, EVERYBODY DIES, and WEBCAM, along with heroes from SHOT OF TEQUILA, THE LIST, WHAT HAPPENED TO LORI, and FLEE, for the ultimate West Coast showdown.
CHASER by JA Konrath
The hunt is on… but who’s hunting whom?
CHASER
A Jack Daniels Thriller
J.A. KONRATH
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Begin reading CHASER
Preview of OLD FASHIONED by J.A. Konrath
Joe Konrath’s Complete Bibliography
Other recommended titles
AUTHOR'S NOTE
My last Jack Daniels thriller, SHOT GIRL, was a serious, grim, difficult book to write.
I also recently wrote a book called WHAT HAPPENED TO LORI, which took a year of research and another year to write.
I’m very proud of those books, but I got sort of burned out.
So I decided to invite the whole gang over to cheer myself up.
While CHASER doesn’t require any knowledge of my previous work and can be read as a standalone, there are links in the text every time a character or situation refers to things that happened in the Konrath Extended Universe. These serve as reminders for those who have read me, and also inform those who haven’t read all of my backlist, showing how CHASER fits in with previous titles. If this annoys you, ignore it.
Also a caveat; this book exists to amuse. Lots of jokes. Lots of crazy situations.
I happily dedicate CHASER to my longtime readers, past, present, and future.
I had too much fun with this one. I hope you do, too.
JACK
Descending to LAX
As my daughter and husband napped, I spent the long and uncomfortable flight thinking about tracking down Plastic.
Some people collected toys, or antiques, or coins.
I collected psychos.
Back in my younger, single-woman days, the collecting was intentional. I used to be a Chicago Homicide Lieutenant. Chasing wackos was my job, and I had some success with it.
But my growing reputation intrigued some of the types of people I hunted, making me and my loved ones targets. New identities couldn’t even help.
They always found us. The wicked never rest.
Sometimes I felt targeted by fate, condemned to fight monsters.
Mostly I felt tired and scared.
The latest in the endless carousel of whackjobs was a rogue surgeon nicknamed Plastic. He wasn’t a serial killer, as far as I knew.
In some ways, he was worse.
“What’s that sound, Mommy?”
Sam, awake, her hand on my knee brace. The concern on her face made her look older than six.
I recognized that face. She resembled me more and more every day.
“That’s the landing gear locking into place, pumpkin.”
“We’re landing?”
“We’re landing.”
“Do you have more peanuts?”
Phin, also awake and sitting opposite our daughter, ruffled Sam’s hair. “You had four bags. Your poop is going to look like a giant peanut.”
She giggled.
I reached in front of Sam, held Phin’s hand. Tight.
I didn’t like landings.
And what came after the landing, I disliked even more.
“Solid?” Solid was Phin’s codeword for okay. Since I’d been shot, Phin’s constant need for updates on my mental, physical, and emotional health had concerned Samantha, who began asking follow-up questions.
To make it more awkward, I’d been lying to both of them, saying I was fine. My husband knew I was lying, which really pissed him off.
I wished I was as good at relationships as I was at catching nutcases.
“Semi-solid,” I answered. Shades of grey. Let him know I’m feeling nervous, but not how nervous.
“Did you sleep at all?” Phin had been out for the past two hours.
I shook my head.
He opened his mouth to say more, I gave him a look to not say it in front of our child.
I’m such a shit.
The pilot came on, saying pilot stuff. A female pilot, which was refreshing.
Persevere, girl.
I need to do the same.
“Does Uncle Harry have a Gamemaster 2?”
“Probably. Uncle Harry has everything.”
“Does he still have Waddlebutt?”
“Yeah.” Waddlebutt was a chinstrap penguin. “And Uncle Harry got a new friend for him.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
Sam’s face crinkled up in worry. “I miss Duffy.”
Duffy, our hound, and Mr. Friskers, our calico cat from hell, were staying with my mother, who was recovering from several strokes, assisted by her new roommate, an elderly woman named Sowa.
“We’ll see Duffy, and Grandma, and Mr. Friskers, again very soon.”
“I want to see Duffy and Grandma. I’m okay not seeing Mr. Friskers.”
No shit. Bad kitty.
We probably should have gotten rid of that unpleasant cat years ago, but somewhere in between loyalty and routine is everyday life. And everyday life conspires to resist change.
That’s why most of us stay stuck with what we’re stuck with.
We landed. We taxied. We waited.
We waited some more.
Then the doors opened, and I stayed seated even as Phin tugged me up.
“I’ll wait.”
Navigating airplane aisles was never easy. In leg braces it was awful.
Plus, I was in no hurry to see Harry McGlade again.
Harrison Harold McGlade, my former CPD partner, was an acquired taste. Like sour beer. Or Limburger.
But all too soon we were the last passengers onboard, and I did my awkward cripple-walk out of the plane, my patient family kind enough not to stare or offer help, and then we emerged in LAX to see…
“Phin! Jack! It’s been too long!”
Harry McGlade, wearing so much aftershave that TSA shouldn’t have allowed him inside of an airport because he posed a fire hazard, gave us a bear hug as we inched into baggage claim.
Then he squatted down to Sam’s height and held up his prosthetic hand for a high five. She smacked it.
“Hi, Uncle Harry. You smell like the stuff Mommy uses to clean the toilets.”
“Good to see you too, sweetheart. Glad you could all come out to the coast and spend some time with me and Harry Jr.”
“We needed the money,” I told him.
“And the money is cray-cray, Jackie. You guys check any bags?”
“All our stuff blew away,” Sam said.
“Good. I hate waiting for bags.” He ruffled Sam’s hair and stood back up. “It’s about an hour drive to my hacienda. I got a limo.”
“Where’s the Crimebago?” Phin asked.
“The RV is a bitch to park at the airport.
Limo is easier. Also, slight change of plans, Tom Mankowski is joining us tonight.”
Warning bells went off in my head.
“I’m happy to see Tom, but you’re the only one I’m helping, Harry. I have no interest in getting involved with Erinyes.”
“Actually, Jackie, I don’t think it’s up to you.”
Harry motioned me aside. I gave Phin a silent signal to distract Sam, and followed McGlade to a phone charging station. I did a quick check of the crowd, but the only one who looked suspicious was the guy I was talking to.
“So what’s with the ugly ass leg braces? I thought you were all healed.”
“Did you pull me over here to insult my leg braces?”
“Partly, yes. Christ, they’re hideous. How does Phin even get an erection with you wearing those? When I saw you hobble over my dick shrunk three sizes.”
“You want to see what these leg braces feel like when I kick you in the balls?”
“Strangely, yes. Maybe later. But I want to talk to you about Tom and Erinyes.”
McGlade pulled a cell phone out of his inner suit jacket pocket. “You know Erinyes is sending Tom snuff vids.”
“Yeah. He told me.”
“Well, Tom’s also been monitoring a few darknet snuff sites. He was hoping that maybe Erinyes was just stealing footage, rather than creating it. But he found this. Brace yourself. It’s awful.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to see it, Harry.”
McGlade stared at me, as serious as I’ve ever seen him. His face had become clammy. “You have to.”
He pressed play. A video started, a close up of a woman’s bare breasts.
Then a hot branding iron came into frame.
“Harry, I can’t.”
“Keep watching.”
There was branding. There would have also been screaming, but thankfully McGlade had the sound off.
“Why are you making me—”
“It’s right here. Watch.”
The camera tilted up, to show the woman’s face.
My face. Wracked with pain.
“Jesus,” I said. “She looks just like me. What the hell is this, Harry?”
“Tom will explain it when he comes over. But for now, look at the bright side.”
Another serial killer fixated on me? Another chance to put my family in danger? Another chance to be stalked by a psychopath? “This has no bright side.”
“Sure there is, Jackie. We’re getting the whole gang back together.” Harry grinned, wide as a zebra’s ass. “I can already feel it. This is going to be the adventure of a lifetime…”
PLASTIC
Somewhere in L.A.
Scrub-scrub-scrubbity-scrub.
Fingernails, the side of each finger, the webbing, the back of the hand, the palm.
Two minutes each. Don’t skimp. We don’t want an infection.
The water is hot, so the antibacterial soap lathers.
Hot enough to hurt.
But not really hurt.
Plastic knows there are different kinds of pain.
Tripping in your kitchen, falling and breaking an ankle, begins at a six out of ten. Intense, sharp, explosive.
But it can only get better from there.
Right?
Wrong.
Plastic knows this all too well.
The very first time walking on the injury is actually worse; the reactivation of nerves around the damaged bone and tissue, coupled with the sick anticipation, the inevitability, of the oncoming hurt, can actually crank the pain level up to a seven.
But same action, different circumstances, is far worse.
Being tripped in the school cafeteria and breaking an ankle starts as a six. Same sharp intensity. But when your milk falls on you just as the pain hits, just as the tears come, and it is accompanied by fifty kids pointing and laughing and snapping pictures, the pain goes to an eight. Being carried off on a stretcher, hiding your red face in shame, then seeing the Facebook group entirely devoted to Bawling Milk Baby cranks it to nine.
Going back to school on crutches, the teasing hurts worse than the fractured talus.
Plastic heard a story, maybe an urban legend or fake news, where a serial killer made his victims place their hands on a hot stovetop burner, the kind with the coil that glows orange.
Horrible, for sure. Barbaric, undoubtedly. But temporary.
The pain peaks, then recedes, leaving only scars.
The worst pain is the pain that goes on and on. No relief from it, even in sleep.
That’s the kind of pain Plastic causes.
I understand the Hippocratic oath.
I took the Hippocratic oath.
But where’s the fun in that?
Plastic rinses, raising his hands, letting the water drip down his elbows. He dries with a sterile towel, then puts on gown and gloves, following the aseptic technique he learned years ago.
This would be so much easier with an assistant.
Maybe. Someday.
He bumps the button with an elbow, and light floods the operating theater.
His patient, a Chad with a jawline that appears chiseled from Grecian marble, has opened his eyes and is struggling to get off the table.
Won’t be able to do it, bro. Straps are too tight.
Plastic puts on his surgical cap, and loupe eyeglasses with 2.5s magnifiers make his irises look like brown golf balls. Then he pulls up his face mask, careful to mind his nose, still tender from his last self-surgery.
“Hello, Chad.”
“What’s going on? What happened?” His voice is groggy from the propofol drip. It can make patients irritatingly loopy.
Plastic prefers them alert and very self-aware. But there is time for that later.
A whole lifetime.
“I’ll tell you what happened. You were born beautiful. For your entire life, you’ve had advantages based on your looks. More friends than average. More lovers than average. More job opportunities. People think you’re smarter, kinder, and wealthier than the majority of the world, just because you’re handsome. Because you’re AP. But that’s where I come in.”
Plastic smiles under his mask.
“I’m going to fix it, Chad, so you’re never handsome again.”
JACK
The house Harry McGlade rented in the Hollywood Hills had two swimming pools and a maid.
“Seems… unnecessary,” I told him.
“Are you kidding me? Maid service is the best thing you can ever spend money on that doesn’t require a condom. Consuela not only does all the cleaning, she’s also a babysitter, a therapist, a shooting buddy, a bridge partner, and she advises me on mutual funds.”
“Not the maid. I was talking about the two pools.”
“You’re just saying that because you have metal braces on your legs, and they’d rust in the water. Or you’d sink to the bottom. “
“The braces come off. I’m saying it because you’re living here by yourself. Why do you need two pools?”
“Technically I have three. The one overlooking the cliff is the guest pool. The one with the waterfall is the party pool, where all the dirty stuff happens. Don’t let your daughter swim in there unless she’s up to date on her vaccinations. Inside, next to the hot tub, I have a kiddie pool. Keep Sam out of that one, too, until Consuela cleans it. Waddlebutt and his new best buddy are having a soak, and they aren’t the cleanest pair.”
I remembered that about Waddlebutt. The penguin could shit like a super soaker. “You want to share the new pet’s name?”
“I’ll save that for when I introduce him to everyone. I like the suspense, and the drama of a big reveal. After a miniature horse, a psychotic monkey, a drug addicted parrot, a giant potbellied pig, and a stone-collecting penguin, I finally have the perfect pet.”
I had my doubts.
I glanced inside through one of the huge bay windows. Sam and Phin were in the den, playing Twilight Zone pinball.
I’d met Phin over a decade ago, o
ur paths crossing because I was a cop, and he deferred to the other side of the law. Some say that women are attracted to bad boys, then try and change them.
I didn’t want him to change. All I wanted was to take him off the market.
At least, until he realized the same thing I did; that I wasn’t worth the effort and he could find better elsewhere.
He’d had better elsewhere. Phin had an ex-girlfriend in Chicago named Pasha, a doctor who was pretty enough to be a swimsuit model.
I knew she still had a thing for him.
Knew he still kept tabs on her.
Not a secret. Phin told me. He was honest. Loyal. Faithful.
A former criminal, former drug addict, and still so morally superior to me in so many ways.
I needed to fix things between us.
Things that had grown bad because of me.
I’d come to LA with my family for three reasons.
First, because we were currently without a home, thanks to a hurricane.
Second, to have some private time with my husband to remind him I was worth staying with. Which I’d do, right after I came up with a good reason.
Third, because Harry had offered me a shit ton of money to help him catch that psychotic plastic surgeon. We needed a shit ton of money, not only to get another house, but to pay for my continuing rehab. I’d been shot in the back, and no longer had a police pension because I faked my own death and we were living under assumed names to avoid being tracked down by the many psychopaths I’d encountered during my law enforcement career as a Chicago Homicide Lieutenant.
Pretty convoluted, I know. Welcome to my life.
“You okay, Jackie? You looked like you went away for a minute there.”
“Yeah. Just contemplating my backstory. You ever do that?”
“You mean like think about how I’m the most famous private detective on the planet and have a huge webcast following and a book deal and movie offers? Or you mean think about the bad stuff, like the time I lost my hand and had it replaced with this high-tech robotic prosthetic?”
Harry lifted up his fake hand and extended his robo index finger.
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