Jack Daniels Six Pack (11 page)

“You spilled my beer, you little bitch.”

He said it loud enough for the whole bar to hear, spittle flecking off his fat lips.

Phin, who is no shorty himself, grabbed the guy’s shoulder and looked up at him.

“Cool it, buddy. She’s a cop.”

The big man shrugged Phin off, focusing on me again.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Bluto snarled. Then he spit on my shoes.

We all live by rules. Cops have more rules than most, especially when dealing with irrational people. One of those rules was never to provoke them, especially when they’re bigger than a small town.

But rules, as they say, are meant to be broken.

“You need a breath mint,” I said evenly. “I’d suggest you go buy yourself a pack. Right now.”

Bluto sneered. I was aware that people around us had stopped playing to watch. Like a fool, I hadn’t worn my gun, even though regulations stated I should wear it off-duty. But I wasn’t even sure that a gun would make a difference with this guy. He had to go six seven, and anything short of a bazooka probably wouldn’t slow him down.

“You want me to leave, pig?” He smiled.

Then he sucker punched me in the gut.

I barely had time to clench my abs and twist my torso to deflect some of the blow. It still knocked me off my feet, and I wound up on all fours, trying to suck in a breath.

Phin was already in motion before I landed. Doing his Sammy Sosa impression, he smashed Bluto across the back of the head with the heavy end of his cue, getting for his efforts a cue in two pieces.

The big man turned on Phin, throwing a hard roundhouse that hung in the air forever. Phin ducked it and gave him a smack to the jaw that didn’t even make the giant blink.

I shook away a few stars and got to my feet, knees wobbling under me. A woman didn’t get to be a Violent Crimes lieutenant in America’s third largest city without being able to take a punch.

Or without knowing how to punch back.

I threw a hard right into the man’s kidney, trying to drive my fist through him, putting every one of my hundred and thirty-five pounds behind it.

Bluto grunted, doubling over. Phin took the opportunity to kick him in the face. Something small bounced off me that I later found out was a tooth.

The giant hit the ground, and that would have been the end of it if the bastard hadn’t had friends.

They were the type of guys an asshole like this was bound to hang out with. One had black hair, slicked back, and a grubby little goatee. I counted five earrings, all of them skulls, and a matching skull pinkie ring.

The other was shorter and stocky, his fair hair in a crew cut. He wore a tank top that revealed heavily muscled arms, slathered with tattoos of guns.

I had never noticed that my favorite bar boasted a rather shitty clientele.

Tattoo Boy moved in toward Phin quick and loose, like a trained fighter. He threw a right that was so quick, I thought for sure it would take Phin out.

But Phin was fast too, and he rolled into the punch, taking it on his shoulder. I saw Phin jam an elbow into the guy’s chin and then I had to deal with my own problem.

He came at me low, goatee curved in a grin. I raised my fists and clenched my teeth.

“I’m a cop, you jackass.”

“I eat cops.” He ran his tongue over brownish teeth and charged at me.

I brought up my knee, smacking him in the center of his ugly face, and I couldn’t resist grunting, “Eat this.”

I could feel his nose go mushy, but he still had enough momentum behind him to lift me up and onto the pool table. He landed on top, bleeding all over my shirt and face, throwing wild windmill punches at my sides.

As he hammered away, I tried to roll over. No good—I was pinned. I shoved, straining with all I had, but he was too heavy.

Then his hands found my throat.

I pulled at his fingers, but couldn’t pry them off. To my left, on the table, several balls were jostled by our struggle. I wrapped a hand around the eight ball and smashed it into the side of his skull.

His eyes rolled up and he crumpled onto the edge of the pool table. Odd ball, corner pocket.

I sought out Phin, who was having difficulties of his own. Bluto had gotten back up, and he gripped Phin around the neck while Tattoo Boy circled, looking to land a jab through Phin’s swinging fists.

“Police! Don’t move!” I yelled.

They kept moving. Some guys had no respect for authority.

I weighed the eight ball in my hand, planning on pitching a slider at Bluto’s back. My baseball days were long behind me, but I figured he was so big a target I couldn’t miss.

I missed.

Luckily, Phin didn’t need to be rescued. He pivoted on his hip and judo- threw the big man onto his back.

Tattoo Boy moved in, but Phin swiveled around and caught him on the chin with the heel of his foot.

Tattoo Boy ate the floor. But Bluto, who seemed extremely angry at having been thrown, got to his feet and picked Phin up. Not in a bear hug, but as if Phin were a sack of potatoes. He hoisted my friend up over his head, ready for a slam dunk.

I launched myself at the giant, tackling his midsection, my head and hands sinking into doughy flab. He umphed, and dropped Phin on top of me, then began a kicking frenzy on our prostrate forms.

I caught one particularly vicious boot to the head that made my vision swim. While I scrambled to get away from the flying feet, I noticed Tattoo Boy had gotten back up, and he was approaching with a look on his face that was anything but pleasant.

This is what I get for trying to have a social life.

Phin untangled himself from me and rolled gracefully to his feet, diving at Bluto, hooking a forearm into the giant’s throat.

Tattoo Boy flexed his pecs, making the machine guns dance. I got up slowly and blinked away the tiny motes dancing before my eyes.

“You’re under arrest,” I tried.

He laughed at me, flexing again. Must have spent a lot of the time in the gym to have definition like that.

I put up my fists and feinted with a left, bringing the right cross into his jaw. It didn’t seem to bother him much. I followed up with a right-left combination, working the body. He shot out with a jab of his own, catching me above the eye.

“Jack!”

I turned to see Phin soaring at me, his face total panic. He flew past and smacked hard into Tattoo Boy. They rolled to the floor.

“Now it’s your turn,” Bluto spat. He grinned, exposing several gaps where teeth used to live, and picked up a bar stool like it was made of balsa.

I backpedaled until I found a stool of my own. Bluto charged, raising his stool above his head and bringing it down on me like a war hammer. I managed to block it, but the force knocked me onto my ass. Pain shot up from my coccyx to the base of my skull, traveling along my spine like a lightning bolt. My vision blurred. I blinked away tears. Never, in my whole life, had my butt hurt so much.

A huge hand reached down and grabbed my sweatshirt, hauling me up to my feet. I focused on the other hand, cocked back in a fist the size of my entire face.

Not able to twist away, I turned my head down. Knuckles met the top of my skull. Everything went black for a moment. Then I was on the floor.

I heard sirens in the distance, getting closer. Bluto was howling, holding his bleeding right hand by the wrist.

I blinked. Phin walked up to the giant, taking a pool cue from a nearby table. He bounced the heavy end of the cue off of Bluto’s temple. Bluto’s eyes fluttered briefly and then he crumpled to the ground.

Phin tossed the cue to the floor and picked up his beer from the table rail. In all the excitement, it hadn’t fallen off. I looked to the right and saw Tattoo Boy sprawled out like a throw rug, his leg at a funny angle.

And the good guys win it in overtime.

“You okay?” Phin asked.

“Assholes ruined the best pool game of my life.”

He took a sip of beer and then handed me the bottle. I drained the rest.

People began to gather, coming out of their hiding places now that the trouble was over. I took a few tentative steps forward, testing my body. I hurt in a dozen places, especially my butt and my head, but nothing seemed broken.

Cop mode switched on, and I went to Tattoo Boy and patted him down for weapons. He had a switchblade, which I took. I did the same with Goatee, and got a knife and a set of brass knuckles for my efforts.

Finally, I bent over the sleeping giant and my heart skipped a beat.

In his jacket pocket, broken in three large pieces, was a gingerbread man cookie.

Chapter 14

T
HE QUESTIONING BEGAN AT THE HOSPITAL
. After a doctor looked me over and declared I’d live, I joined my fellow officers in the interrogation process. Captain Bains had shown up, as had Benedict, the Feebies, several people from the mayor’s office, and the assistant state’s attorney.

We went by the book and wore our kid gloves to avoid messing up a possible conviction. A judge was called and warrants were issued to search the suspects’ homes. Lawyers were present during questioning, and in a rare turn of events, they felt full confessions were in the best interests of their clients.

The guy with the earrings had sustained a concussion from the eight-ball sandwich I’d fed him, and he’d be out for a while. But Bluto and Tattoo Boy were conscious and able to talk. And talk they did.

But when all was said and done, with all of our caution and persistence, we were left with little more than when we’d begun.

Bluto and his buddies had been hired to break my legs. They’d been given a photo of me, my address, and cash to share among them. I’d been tailed to Joe’s from my apartment, which they’d been watching, and after finishing their intended beating they were supposed to leave the gingerbread man cookie with me.

They didn’t know the man who hired them. They didn’t know about the Jane Doe murder. Their residences were searched and came up clean. Their alibis for the time of Jane Doe’s murder were tight. Their only crime, other than assault and battery on a police officer, was extreme stupidity at having stumbled into so much trouble for so little cash. It wouldn’t even begin to cover their doctor bills, let alone legal representation.

They’d been brokered by a man named Floyd Schmidt, who operated a goon-for-hire service out of a bar on Maxwell Street. Floyd was initially uncooperative when we brought him in, but he quickly agreed to talk about anything and everything to avoid being implicated in the Jane Doe murder.

A man had come to see him at the bar, offering five hundred dollars to cripple me. Floyd could give no description other than the fact that he was white, average height, between twenty and forty years old.

“I swear, I never looked at the guy. This business, you look at people, they get uncomfortable, don’t want to use your services.”

No one was too surprised.

The gingerbread man cookie was the same type as the one found with Jane Doe’s body. The picture of me had been processed by someone in a private darkroom rather than a commercial house. We managed to recover two of the original hundred-dollar bills used to pay for Floyd’s service. We used an ALS to try and photograph fingerprints, but only lifted a set from Bluto.

In other words, we had zip.

I was exhausted, aching, and generally cranky. Herb suggested I go home. Seeing no reason to argue, I did.

And of course, I couldn’t sleep.

Some Tylenol helped with my various aches, many of which had stiffened up since the fight. But even with my energy meter at 0.0, I couldn’t completely relax.

He was out there. He knew where I lived. He knew I was after him.

He even took a picture of me.

While it was a close-up, I could tell it was taken at night, while raining, and I’d been wearing my trench coat. It was yet to be determined the type of camera and lens he’d used, but I knew when he’d taken it. At the Jane Doe crime scene.

The Gingerbread Man had been there. He’d picked me out as his adversary. And now he was playing some kind of warped game.

The Feebies had touched on it during a break in the interrogation process.

“There’s a high certainty that this man was also the one who gave you the candy,” Dailey had said.

“Vicky should have a printout this afternoon on similar product-tampering cases.”

“This man has singled you out as his enemy. Be prepared for some personal contact anytime soon. A letter, or a phone call. Maybe he’ll even meet you face-to-face, without you knowing it’s him.”

“You should be under surveillance, Lieutenant.”

I politely declined, saying it hadn’t escalated to that level yet.

But now, alone in bed, I couldn’t help but feel a bit paranoid. In all the years I’d been hunting down killers, I’d never had one decide to hunt me.

The thought left me anything but drowsy.

I replayed the videotape of the Jane Doe crime scene in my head, an easy feat to do because I’d seen it dozens of times. I hadn’t noticed any of the onlookers carrying a camera, but another viewing was certainly warranted.

I switched over from my back to my side, which was a bad thing to do because I immediately took note that Don wasn’t next to me. When I’d arrived at the apartment a little earlier his furniture and things had been removed from the hallway. It had been Don, rather than a thief, because he’d left me a message written on my door in black marker.

“Your an asshole, Jack,” had been the message.

Spelling was never one of Don’s strong points.

But I still missed him. Or maybe not him exactly. I missed having a warm body lying next to me. I suppose we had more of an arrangement than a relationship. I got to hold him at night, and he got a free apartment.

There have been marriages built on less.

I flipped onto my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to let sleep overtake me. Gradually, slowly, eventually, drowsiness set in, pulling me into sleepyland.

Then the phone rang.

I bolted out of bed like a startled fawn and had the phone to my face before I was fully awake.

“Daniels.”