Jack Daniels Six Pack (45 page)

His headache is explosive.

The morning began on a bad note. Holly, his bitch of a wife, had some stupid complaint about the living room curtains. He told her, several times, to buy new curtains if she hated these, but she couldn’t shut her goddamn mouth and kept yapping and yapping and finally he had to leave because if he didn’t he would have gutted her right there.

He needs a substitute, fast. Normally, he’d drop in the station and use the computer to locate a neighborhood hooker. But the pain is so bad he’s practically blind with it, and he needs relief ASAP.

Luckily, the streets are littered with disposables.

He tails a jogger for a block. Blonde, nice ass. She blends into the crowd, and he loses her.

Another woman. Business suit. High heels. He idles alongside, visualizing how to grab her. She walks into a coffee shop.

Fuller fidgets in his seat, sweating even though the air is cranked to the max. He turns down an alley, searching, scanning . . .

Finding.

She’s walking out the rear door to her apartment building. Twenty-something, wearing flip-flops and a large T-shirt over bikini bottoms, a towel on her shoulder. Planning on walking to Oak Street Beach, just a few blocks away.

He guns the engine and hits her from behind.

She bounces off the front bumper, skids along the pavement face-first. Fuller jams the truck into park, jumps out.

“My God! Are you okay?” In case anyone is watching. There doesn’t seem to be.

The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.

“We have to get you to a hospital.”

He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they’re pulling out into traffic.

“What happened?” she moans.

Fuller hits her. Again. And again.

She slumps over in the seat.

He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It’s one of Chicago’s oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.

“We’re in luck,” Fuller says. “It’s dead.”

The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred-year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.

Plenty of room for privacy.

He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.

Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.

Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.

When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman’s arm.

Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.

He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field’s monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.

The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.

He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.

It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.

His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.

Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.

Pain-free.

On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.

The mortician doesn’t pick up.

Alarms go off in Fuller’s head. Rushlo
always
picks up. That’s part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo’s Funeral Home.

Another call.

No answer.

Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?

Rushlo won’t talk. He’s sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.

But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.

Jack’s earrings.

He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?

Worry creeps up Barry’s shoulders and crouches there.

He calls Rushlo again.

No answer.

He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.

Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.

It’s over. Time to leave the country.

Fuller’s bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.

“You need shoes to enter, sir.”

Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.

“Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I’ll beat your ass right here.”

The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.

“I need to open my security box. Now.”

The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.

“I’ll need a bag.”

The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash—shakedowns from his patrolman days—a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.

A meter maid is writing him a ticket.

“Sorry, sister. I’m on the job.”

She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.

Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancún. It leaves in three hours.

Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.

Fuller doesn’t want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they’re on to him, they’ll be staking out his house.

But he can’t leave the country without killing that bitch he married. That just wouldn’t do.

He dials home, rehearsing the lines in his head.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Holly. It’s me.”

“What do you want?”

No fear in her tone. No nervousness or hesitation.

“Everything okay, babe? You sound strange.”

“Everything is not okay. These damn curtains are driving me insane. How could we have lived with them for so long, Barry? They’re hideous.”

So far, she seems normal.

“Hon, I’m expecting some guys from the office to drop by later. Are they there yet?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe parked out front?”

“Why would they be parked out front?”

“Can you check for me, babe? It’s important.”

“Just a second.” Rustling, footsteps. “I’m looking at the street. No one out front.”

Fuller considers this. Maybe they haven’t found out about him yet. Maybe he can go home, do the bitch, and be able to pack his bags and some things.

He instantly rejects the idea as too dangerous.

“Baby, do you remember where we bought our bedroom set?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Meet me there in an hour.”

“What for?”

Fuller smiles. “We’re shopping for curtains.”

“Really?”

“Really. Oh, and bring me a change of clothes and some shoes.”

“Why? What are you talking about?”

“Long story. Some street lunatic threw up on me, and I’m wearing my workout sweats. Just bring me shorts, a T-shirt, and my Nikes. Meet me in Home Furnishings.”

“Okay, Barry. See you in an hour.”

Fuller puts the cell phone away and turns right, heading for State Street. He’ll kill her inside Marshall Field’s. She’s a clotheshorse, and it won’t take much to get her to try on an outfit. He’ll break her neck in one of the dressing rooms. It’s not the fillet knife that he always wanted to use, but it should be satisfying enough.

Hands-on treatment always is.

CHAPTER 19

“She’s on the move.”

Holly Fuller walked out of her apartment building and hailed a Yellow Cab.

Herb pulled into traffic behind her. I removed the earpiece, shoved it in my blazer pocket. After McGlade made Rushlo sing, we secured a quick subpoena to tap Fuller’s home phone. A fake telemarketing call to the Fuller household proved Barry wasn’t there. Since it was his day off, we decided to keep vigil until we heard from him.

The phone call disturbed me. Fuller seemed extra careful not to mention the name of the store where he wanted to meet his wife. And why would he need a change of clothes? Did he know we had Rushlo? I hoped not. Barry Fuller was not the kind of man who would be easy to subdue if forewarned.

I picked up the receiver on Herb’s police band.

“This is Two-Delta-Seven, tailing Yellow Cab number six-four-seven-niner Thomas X-ray. Passenger is Holly Fuller, thirty-two, blonde, five-eight, hundred and ten pounds. She’s wearing a red and orange summer dress, and carrying a red Nike gym bag. They’re turning south onto Michigan Avenue. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over.”

“Roger, Two-Delta-Seven. Twelve-Homer-Nineteen flanking South on Wabash, over.”

“Roger, both. Sixteen-Angel-Niner turning east on Grand to intercept, over.”

My team was unmarked, but a plain white sedan still screamed
COP
to all who saw it, so I ordered them to hang back. Even if we lost her, a call to the cab company would tell us where she was dropped off.

“Think she’s headed for Water Tower Place?” Herb asked.

“Could be. Or State Street. Seems like a woman with expensive tastes. Her shoes are Ferragamos.”

“You could tell through the binocs?”

“I’ve had my eye on that same pair for two months. Five hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Do they come with a trip to Rio?”

“Don’t pretend to understand fashion, Herb. And I won’t make any comments about this big red penis you’re driving around in.”

Herb humphed.

“My Camaro? I bought this solely for comfort.”

“So did Holly Fuller.”

Traffic was tight, befitting a weekend on the Magnificent Mile. This was the best-known part of Chicago. The skyscrapers, John Hancock and the AON Center (formerly Amoco, and before that, Standard Oil). Nieman Marcus and Saks. Navy Pier. The Art Institute. Orchestra Hall. Further south, Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium.

The sidewalks were packed—not quite shoulder to shoulder, but personal space was at a premium. The sun beat down on everyone and everything, and I couldn’t use the binoculars because I kept catching glints off of cars and hurting my eyes.

“She passed Water Tower. Continuing south on Michigan. Ease up, Herb—you’re riding her bumper. There’s a pedal next to the gas that I don’t think you’ve tried yet.”

Benedict slowed down, let the cab gain several car lengths.

“Jack . . . what if we have to take him down?”

I knew how he felt. Cops were fiercely protective of their own. Arresting one, or shooting one, was a hard idea to get your head around. The us-against-them mentality ran deep in the force. Us-against-us was anathema.

“Then we do our job. We take him down.”

“I can’t believe it’s Barry. I can’t believe he could do that. I consider him a friend, for chrissakes.”

I couldn’t believe it either. I tried to replay every meeting I’d ever had with Barry Fuller, tried to recall any signs or hints that he was a serial killer.

There were none. Fuller had fooled us all.

“You know as well as I do, Herb. The scariest monsters have the best masks.”

Benedict made his mouth into a thin, tight line.

“He’s supposed to be one of the good guys.”

“Good guys don’t slice up hookers.”

The taxi hung a right onto Randolph, and then another right onto State. It stopped in front of Marshall Field’s.

“The passenger has been dropped off at the northwest corner of State and Randolph. All units converge, but remain out of sight until target is spotted, over.”

Holly Fuller paid the driver and walked into the department store, while Benedict double-parked. I shoved my earpiece in and pinned the lapel mike to my blouse. After informing our backup that Holly was in the building, Herb and I hurried into Field’s.

The store was packed. An equal mix of men and women, their attire running the gamut from business formal to T-shirts and sandals. Heat waves were good for business, especially if you had decent air-conditioning.

We spotted Holly stepping onto the escalator, and lagged behind thirty seconds before following. A lighted sign informed us Home Furnishings occupied the fifth floor.

There was a line for the escalator, and we wedged ourselves on, surrounded by shoppers.

“Do you see her?”

“There. Eleven o’clock.”

I followed his index finger and spotted Holly on the escalator two floors above us. She was easy to spot, which made me aware of how conspicuous Herb and I were. Benedict didn’t exactly blend in.

“I’ll need you to stay on the third floor, Herb. See if you can spot Fuller coming up. Lay low.”

Benedict nodded. I spoke into the mike, requesting further backup to converge on all exits at my command.

Benedict got off the escalator. I pressed onward and upward. On the fifth floor, I searched for Holly and found her examining Oriental rugs. A quick survey of the area failed to reveal Fuller, but the several dozen shoppers milling about made me very uneasy. Too many people, only one me.