Jack Daniels Six Pack (19 page)

It was a typical Day-Timer, every date in the month with a page of its own. There was an address book at the beginning, which was mostly blank except for a few unlabeled phone numbers that would have to be checked out.

Going page by page, I came across many notes and appointments involving her canceled wedding. She’d met with several caterers, bakeries, florists, photographers, etc. Again, all would need to be interviewed.

Every seven days she wrote down her work schedule, which hardly varied one week to the next. Birthdays for both Elisa and Johnny Tashing, her ex, were labeled in advance. There had been two dentist appointments and a doctor’s visit, but it hadn’t been to the late Dr. Booster’s office. She’d also written in her dates with Johnny, which ended abruptly on April 29, when she wrote
PIG!
next to his name and underlined it.

Also in April were two meetings with someone named Harry. Just that name and a time—six o’clock in both cases. Once was on the twentieth, and once on the twenty-eighth. Nothing else about Harry, or Johnny, from then until present.

I called up Elisa and asked if she knew anyone named Harry, from back in April. She said she didn’t.

“Any mention of anyone named Harry in the letters?” I asked Benedict.

“Nope. But her ex-boyfriend had a real flair for the romantic. ‘Your breasts are like two ice cream scoops, and I want to lick them up.’”

“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”

“Yeah.
King Lear
.”

“Does he seem like a wacko?”

“No more so than any other hormone-crazed guy who wants to get laid. He says ‘I love you’ a lot, and it seems sincere. Most of these letters are from when they just started dating. They’d been going out for a few years.”

I set the appointment book aside and dove into the canceled checks. There was a big stack of them, dating back to 1994. Luckily they were in chronological order.

There was nothing unusual for the last few months. Rent, gas, phone, electric, groceries, clothes, all the normal things people pay for. Then, when I got to April, something abnormal.

She’d written two checks for two hundred dollars each to a man named Harry McGlade.

I frowned and showed them to Benedict.

“Sounds familiar. Cop?”

I nodded. “Used to be. Private now.”

“You know him?”

I nodded again and extended my frown. I hadn’t seen McGlade in fifteen years.

Fifteen very pleasant years.

“So Theresa must have hired him for something. I wonder what for.”

“The mind boggles. I can’t see anyone hiring Harry for anything.”

“Something to do with the boyfriend?”

I shrugged. Only one way to find out, unfortunately.

“I’ll go pay him a visit,” I conceded. “You want to tackle the boyfriend?”

“I may do just that. You sure you don’t want to tag-team them?”

“I’d rather meet with McGlade one on one.”

“I sense some history here, Jack, that you aren’t telling me about.”

“Let’s just say he’s not my favorite person.”

Which may have been the understatement of my life.

Chapter 25

T
HE ASPIRIN WASN’T HELPING MY LEG
much and I felt every bump and crack in the road during the ride to McGlade’s. A call to the phone company had confirmed his address to be the same as it was fifteen years back, when I’d last busted him.

He lived in Hyde Park, near the Museum of Science and Industry and the University of Chicago. Hyde Park wasn’t really a park at all, but a multitude of apartment buildings sectioned off from shops and stores, sort of like a housing development.

I parked in front of a hydrant next to his building. A group of teenagers hanging out on the corner made me as a cop and walked off as I struggled to get out of my car. I suppose I was just cursed to look like an authority figure.

After finding the appropriate buzzer, I pressed once and waited, half-hoping he wasn’t home.

“Harry’s House of Love. You buying or selling?”

“I’m gagging. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Violent Crimes. Buzz me in, McGlade.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Now.”

“Nope. Try again.”

“Open the door, McGlade.”

The door buzzed, but only for a second. By the time my hand reached the knob, it had stopped.

“McGlade . . .”

“When did you become a lieutenant, Jackie?”

Harry was the only person who called me Jackie.

“The nineties. Now you can either buzz me in or I can shoot the lock off and then arrest you for destruction of property.”

He buzzed, but only for a millisecond like before. I was ready for it this time, and pulled the door open.

The lobby was dim, the carpet worn, the heat barely on. I saw a roach scurry along the wall and blend into the peeling paint.

Harry was on the fifth floor, and since I hadn’t brought my cane, I took the elevator. When I located his apartment, the door was already open. He was standing in the middle of his den, pulling on a pair of pink paisley boxer shorts.

“Normally I don’t dress until later in the day, but I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

He was as I’d remembered. A little older. A little chubbier. But he still had the same three-day beard, the same unkempt shock of brown hair, the same twinkling brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you.

“Christ, Jackie, you look old. Aren’t they paying you enough to afford Botox?”

Exactly as I remembered.

I took a step inside and looked around. It was a pigsty. Laundry and garbage and junk covered every inch of the floor. Empty cans and wrappers and moldy socks and sour food were strewn around in such abandon that it seemed like someone had blown up a landfill.

“Jesus, McGlade. Do you ever clean up?”

“Nah. I pay a girl to come in once a week. But every time she comes over we just hump the whole time and she never has a chance to clean anything. Want to go into the kitchen, have a seat?”

“I’m afraid I’d stick to something and never be able to leave.”

“No need to be rude,” Harry said. Then he belched. I closed the door behind me and noticed the aquarium against the wall. That must have been where the smell was coming from. Moldering fish corpses and chunks of multicolored rotting things bubbled around in the brown water, buoyed by the tank aerator. I watched a corn dog float by.

“Some kind of fish disease wiped out my whole gang within twenty-four hours,” McGlade explained.

“There’s a shocker.”

“I like it more now. There’s always something new growing, and I save a bundle on fish food.”

I pulled my eyes away.

“I’m here to talk about Theresa Metcalf. She was a client of yours. Back in April.”

“Got a picture? I can’t place the name.”

Theresa’s roommate had given us some snapshots, but I’d forgotten them back at the station. Instead, I handed McGlade one of Theresa done up by the makeup artist, with the digitally added eyes. It was as close to lifelike as we could get it.

“Yuck. Ugly.”

“She’s dead.”

“Then she’d smell bad too.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Not offhand. No. But then I have a hard time remembering last week. How long has it been, Jackie?”

“Not long enough.”

McGlade raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

I took the picture back, careful not to touch his hand.

“If you don’t feel like cooperating . . . ” I began.

“You’ll drag me in. Can’t it wait? I was watching the new
Snow White
DVD, the director’s cut with the extra footage. The gang-bang scene is next.”

I frowned, wondering how to play it. I needed the information, but taking McGlade in would mean having to drive with him.

“Do you keep files?” I asked.

“Sure. At the office.”

I let out a breath. My head was beginning to hurt, probably because I’d inhaled something toxic, and I was quickly losing the little patience I’d brought along. I took another cautious step forward, and something crunched underfoot.

“Hey, watch out for the pizza, Jack. I’m not done with it.”

“Get dressed,” I ordered. “We’re going to your office.”

“Kiss my piles. It’s my day off. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then you’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“For being an asshole.”

“You can’t do that. I’ve got an Asshole License.”

“Okay. How about for assaulting an officer?”

“I haven’t laid a hand on you.”

“Seeing you in your underwear qualifies as assault.”

McGlade shook his head.

“When are you going to get over it, Jackie? It was a long time ago. I paid for it, didn’t I?”

“You have the right to remain silent, and I sincerely hope you do.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Good. Resist arrest. Maybe you’ll find someone down at County General that likes your boxer shorts more than I do.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. You win, O Mighty Lieutenant. We’ll go. Just help me find some socks.”

“Find them yourself.”

He bent over and picked some pants up off the floor. After sniffing the crotch, he deemed them okay and put them on. Years ago, I learned that the best way to deal with Harry was excruciating patience, punctuated by occasional outbursts of hostility. It still held true.

“What’s the big deal anyway?” he asked, smelling a sock.

“She was murdered.”

Harry gagged and dropped the sock back on the floor.

“I didn’t do it.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. It was the Gingerbread Man.”

“No shit? No wonder you’ve got your undies in a knot. If you told me that earlier, I would have been much more helpful.”

“I bet.”

Harry picked the sock back up and put it on.

“Can we stop for coffee on the way?”

“No.”

“Maybe a bagel too.”

“No.”

“I know a great place nearby. If you don’t like it, I’ll pick up the tab.”

“I hate it already,” I said.

McGlade found a stained shirt and a suit jacket that didn’t match his pants. He buttoned up the shirt incorrectly and had to redo it. I needed more aspirin.

“So what’s with the limp?” Harry asked as we walked to my car. “Boyfriend wearing you out?”

“I got shot.”

“Who would shoot a sweetheart like you? You sure you can drive okay? We could take my car. It’s a lot nicer than yours.”

“Shut up and get in. The more you talk, the more I feel like arresting you again.”

“So nasty, Jackie. When was the last time you got laid? Pretty thing like you should be able to find a guy.”

Following Harry’s lousy directions, our meandering took us to a corner bakery, where I got coffee and McGlade got a large orange pop and blueberry bagel.

“Hell, where did I leave my wallet?”

I paid. From there, it was to his office, a merciful five blocks away.

“I’m on the sixth floor. Sorry, Jackie—no elevator. Want a piggyback ride?”

I ignored him, tackling the stairs with as much dignity as I could. It wasn’t much. By the third flight I was a sweating, shaking mess.

“You don’t mind if I go on ahead, do you, Jackie? No offense, but I don’t like watching the Special Olympics either.”

I nodded, gasping for breath.

“Just three more flights, last office on the left. I’ll come check your progress in ten minutes or so.”

He trotted off, and I bit back the pain and doubled my efforts. I reached the top sopping wet with perspiration. A circle of blood had seeped up through my pants leg. I had to put my head between my knees so I didn’t pass out.

McGlade had left the office door open for me. He was sitting at his desk, leafing through a magazine called
Plucky Beaver
. It had nothing to do with wildlife.

“Glad you could drop by, Jackie. You want some club soda for those pants? I think I’ve got some bandages too.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble, just take a minute.”

“Thanks,” I managed. Though God knew why I was thanking him. I took a seat opposite his desk and struggled out of my sweater. His office was tidy compared to his apartment. Almost respectable. The blinds matched the carpet, four lamps shared the floor with several healthy ficus trees, and his desk and file cabinet were stained oak. The only Harryesque touch was the painting on the wall, a cubist portrait of a nude woman with large blue triangles for nipples.

I got my breathing under control, and Harry returned with a roll of gauze and a bottle of liquid.

“Out of club soda. I’ve got Diet Sprite. Does that take stains out?”

“I don’t think so.”

Harry shrugged and took a pull off the bottle. I took the gauze and was directed to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was freshly bandaged and the bloodstain had been scrubbed out.

“Did you find her file yet?”

“Huh? I hadn’t been looking. Check out this Rack of the Month.” Harry showed me the centerfold. “Think those are real?”

“McGlade . . . ”

“Think of her back problems . . . ”

“Harry. The files.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He tore himself away from the magazine and went to a file cabinet in the corner of the room.

“What month was it?”

“April.”

From the top drawer of the file cabinet he removed an open box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. He upended it over his desk, and a sheaf of papers spilled out. I picked one up and he snatched it from my hand.

“Don’t mess with my organization. This is a complicated filing system.”

“It looks like you just stuffed all of your April reports in an empty cereal box.”

“To the layman, yes, that’s what it looks like. But to my computerlike brain it is infinitely more complex. Aha!”

He held up a slip of paper.

“That’s a coupon for baby oil,” I told him.

He put it in his jacket pocket and kept searching.

“Let’s see. Metcalf. Theresa Metcalf. Here we go.”

He scanned through the report, which had been handwritten on notebook paper. I took a glance at it myself and couldn’t make out the chicken scratches.

“Okay. She hired me to follow her boyfriend. I can’t make out his name. It looks like Tommy. Or Johnny. I think it was Tommy.”