Jack Daniels Six Pack (76 page)

I tried to picture two little boys, growing up in the hell house of Bud Kork. They’d both be majorly screwed up. Chances are they relied on each other. Bonded. Maybe developed the same grotesque appetites.

“Where’s this guy now?”

“We haven’t been able to locate him. Last known address is in Michigan.”

“Record?”

Dailey paused. “Assault and battery. Burglary. Armed robbery. Rape. Did a few stints in prison. But three years ago, the guy just disappeared.”

“Have you asked his mother where he is?”

“Not yet. As of today, the special agent in charge of the Chicago office is sending me to Gary to assist Special Agent Coursey.”

Now this generous sharing of information made sense.

“You came to us, knowing we’d want go and interview her.”

Special Agent Dailey smiled. “We’re all on the same side, right?”

“Fine. What’s her name and where is she?”

Dailey played coy. I stated the obvious.

“You want something.”

“The Behavioral Science Unit is facing cutbacks. Homeland Security is getting all of the funding. We’re going to be downsized. A major bust would go a long way to preventing that.”

“You want the collar.”

Dailey nodded. “We’re willing to share. But we’d like to be in on it. If I give you the woman’s name, and you find out where her son is, we’d like to assist in the arrest.”

“Won’t that only matter if state lines have been crossed?”

“We can still be there to smile pretty for the cameras.”

I mulled it over. “We could find her on our own.”

“Maybe. But it will be tough. You don’t have access to all of the information that we do. You’d need subpoenas to obtain records. All of that will take time.”

I glanced at Herb. He shrugged.

“Deal.” We shook hands on it. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Lorna Hunt Ellison. She’s currently in the Indiana Women’s Prison in Indianapolis. Son’s name is Caleb.”

I wrote the info down, then hit the Eject button on my VCR.

“I got another tape this morning. It shows the death of the handwriting expert who helped with the Gingerbread Man case.”

Dailey raised an eyebrow. “You believe Diane Kork was killed on the first tape, correct?”

“We don’t have a body, but the tattoo matched. And someone burned down her house when I showed up. I find it hard to believe that’s coincidental.”

“So do we. And it’s also not a coincidence that the handwriting expert was killed. It appears that the Gingerbread Man’s partner is targeting people involved in that case. Who else had a hand in it?”

“Harry McGlade, obviously. And a guy named Phineas Troutt helped out. Some men from the medical examiner’s office, Phil Blasky and Max Hughes. A handful of uniforms from my district, who did legwork. Guys from the Evanston PD.”

“And us.” Agent Dailey frowned. “We’re on his list too.”

Chapter 27

I
NDIANAPOLIS WAS A
three-hour drive. Herb and I made arrangements with the warden to visit with Lorna tomorrow afternoon. Indianapolis was also the hometown of Mike Mayer, who rented the Eclipse. We could check out his house after visiting Lorna.

I still hadn’t heard from Phin. Herb vehemently disliked Harry, and not even a free meal would convince him to sup with the PI. Racking my brain for someone else to bring was an exercise in futility. I didn’t have any friends. I hadn’t dated anyone in months. My life was police work.

I wondered, ironically, whom I would ask to stand up if I ever got married. I was in the same boat as McGlade in that respect.

Not that I’d ever have to face that situation.

“You gonna eat that?”

Herb pointed at the cranberry granola bar sticking out of my jacket pocket.

I flipped him the bar. He took a tiny exploratory bite.

“This is awful.”

“I know.”

“And so tiny.”

He finished it, then traded me a five-dollar bill for singles to go on what he called a Carb Quest—a trip to the vending machines.

“Want anything?”

“No.”

“I’ll drop by later.”

“Herb . . . let me know when you get the biopsy results.”

I gave the Detroit PD a call, and asked them to give me whatever they had on Caleb Ellison. They reiterated what Dailey had told me. Ellison was a career dirtbag who dropped off the face of the earth.

“Probably in a shallow grave someplace,” said the cop I spoke with. “No big loss.”

I asked him to fax over Caleb’s record, which turned out to be a Greatest Hits package of felony arrests. Presuming Caleb wasn’t in a shallow grave someplace, he was in his late thirties, two hundred pounds, with red hair and lots of tattoos.

I switched gears, and hunted and pecked my way through the reports I’d been neglecting, beginning with the fire from two days ago.

Three hours later I was bleary-eyed and falling asleep. The phone snapped me out of my stupor.

“Hi, Jack. It’s Phin.”

That was a relief. “Hey. Thanks for calling.”

“Where are we meeting?”

“At Mon Ami Gabi, a French steakhouse in Lincoln Park. Three o’clock. Reservations are under the name Buttshitz.”

“Unfortunate name.”

“It’s not real. Harry thinks he’s funny.”

“See you at three.”

He hung up. I yawned, stretched, checked my watch. Twelve thirty. Back to the thrill-a-minute fast lane of report writing.

The writing was so white-knuckle exhilarating that I actually did fall asleep. Someone nudged me out of slumber an undetermined time later.

“Jack. You asleep?”

I peeled my eyes open, focused on Herb. “Not anymore.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m heading home.”

I felt a brief flash of panic and checked my watch. Ten after three.

“Shit. I’m late.” I focused on Herb. “Why are you heading home so early?”

“I got my biopsy results.” His face split into a broad grin. “Benign. Bernice and I are going to celebrate.”

I cracked a huge grin and gave my partner a hug. “That’s great, Herb. Congrats. Tomorrow, early, we go to Indiana.”

I rushed past Herb, flew down the stairs, hopped in my Nova, stuck the cherry on top, and hit the siren.

Even with traffic parting for me, I didn’t get to Mon Ami until a quarter to four. I did a quick once-over in the rearview, threw the valet my keys, and entered the posh Beldon Stratford Hotel.

The restaurant occupied the left of the lobby, up some carpeted stairs. It was an upscale French steakhouse; probably a redundant description, considering there aren’t any budget French steakhouses. Small, intimate, with starched tablecloths and a wine cart worth more than a Mercedes. I sheepishly gave the tuxedo-clad hostess the reservation name, and she led me past a dozen or so tables, all occupied.

During the ride over, my mind filled with worst-case scenarios, most of them centered around Phin murdering Harry.

Color me surprised when I spotted their table and heard gales of laughter.

“Jackie!” Harry pointed at me, speaking much too loudly for the venue. “Come! Sit! Meet my beloved.”

I eyed Phin, who was looking pretty good in a charcoal jacket and a light-blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. He offered me a pleasant smile.

Harry stood up to greet me, an unprecedented move, and Phin stood as well. McGlade clasped my hand as if I’d just returned from war, his face glowing with happiness. He wore another wrinkled suit, but his shirt was starched, and the handkerchief in his breast pocket matched his tie.

Harry’s beloved didn’t stand up, but she flashed me a dazzling smile. I practically did a double take.

This woman was actually cute. Great skin, a delicate nose, full lips, high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, thick black hair in a bob cut.

“Jack Daniels, meet my fiancée, Holly Frakes.”

Holly offered a hand, her nails to die for. She had a strong, firm grip.

“So this is the famous Jack Daniels. Quite a difference from your TV counterpart. I love the suit.”

“Thanks.” I wished I’d dressed up a little more. Her cream silk blouse was gorgeous, displaying her figure to good effect. I glanced at her lower body and noted a matching skirt, and a handbag that was unmistakably Prada. A Prada purse cost more than everything I owned put together.

“Nice to meet you, Holly. That’s a lovely outfit as well.”

Holly’s smile blazed brighter. “Emanuel Ungaro. I just love Ungaro, don’t you?”

“Only from afar.” Emanuel Ungaro hadn’t appeared on the Home Shopping Club yet. I wasn’t holding my breath.

I sat down between the men, placed the napkin in my lap, and glanced at Phin again.

Phin was staring at Holly.

“Holly was just telling us a skip trace story.” McGlade patted her on the hand. “Go ahead, baby.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?” I asked.

“Private investigator. Like Harry. I occasionally chase bail jumpers to keep things interesting. Where was I, hon?”

“You had him cornered in the alley.”

“Right. So the punk didn’t want to be brought in, even though I had my gun out. He told me to go ahead and shoot him.”

“What was his crime?” Phin had puppy-dog eyes.

“Assault. He liked to hit women. Now, personally, I wouldn’t have minded pumping a few rounds into this son of a bitch. He deserved it. But he wasn’t armed, and the local police department probably wouldn’t have supported such an action. So I fired twice, over his head, to get his attention. Guy just stares at me, not moving.”

Holly had a totally engaging way of telling a story, her eyes wide and her hands in constant motion, adding greater impact to her words.

I instantly disliked her. There was a bottle of red wine on the table, and I filled my glass and took a healthy slug.

“So I fire another round, between his legs.”

“How far away were you?” Phin asked.

“Twenty feet.”

“Holly’s an expert marksman.” Harry beamed.

“Marksperson,” Holly corrected. “I’ve won a few trophies. No big deal.”

“So have I. I’m the Area champ.”

Was that me talking? Jesus, Jack, are we that insecure? “What do you carry?” Holly asked me.

“A .38 Colt.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What is that, a two-inch barrel?”

I knew what she was hinting at. A .38 snub nose was no good for sharpshooting.

“In my job, I’ve never had to hit anything farther than ten feet away. The shorter barrel means a quicker draw. For handgun competitions I shoot a .22 LR, Smith and Wesson Model 2206.”

“Capable weapon. I prefer the Number 41 Rimfire.”

“Doesn’t that have a shorter barrel?”

“Half inch less than the 2206, and five ounces heavier. But I like the thumb-rest on the grips, and think it’s a better balanced weapon.”

She knew her firearms. Which made her even more annoying.

“So what happened next?” Phin asked.

Holly grinned. “Well, I probably missed his peter by two inches, and that would have scared the spaghetti out of most men, but this guy still just stands there. Now the only way I can collect from the bondsman is if I bring him in, and he outweighed me by about a hundred pounds and wasn’t afraid of guns.”

Harry’s smile threatened to crack his face. “I love this next part. Tell them what you did, baby.”

“I put away my gun, walked up to the prick, and asked him if he was right-handed or left-handed.”

“And what did he say?” This from Harry, who had somehow turned into Ed McMahon.

“He called me a bitch, and told me it was none of my business.”

“So what did you do?”

I know what I did. I drank more wine.

Holly sipped some wine too. Both Phin and Harry reached for the bottle to pour her more. Phin won.

I set my empty glass on the table.

No one filled it.

“Well, I told the guy that I was originally planning on just breaking his bad arm. But since he wouldn’t tell me which that was, I’d have to break them both.”

Harry clapped again, and let out an inappropriate whoop.

“So what did he do?”

“He laughed in my face.”

“And what did you do?”

Holly’s smile was tight-lipped. “I broke both of his arms.”

Harry laughed, and Phin joined in. A waitress came by and filled my wine-glass, asking if we’d like another bottle. I gave her a vigorous nod.

Harry nudged me. “Holly’s a martial arts expert.”

“Really?” I feigned interest. “Which discipline?”

She shrugged. “Tae kwon do. Third dan black belt, but I don’t practice much anymore.”

I was only a first dan black belt. I drank more wine, then tried the bread. Excellent bread.

“So where did you two meet?” This from Phin.

McGlade puffed out his chest. “Eye-Con. It’s the largest private investigator convention of the year. Held in Chicago this year, in February. I sat next to her during a lecture about listening devices, and she recognized my name from the TV series.”

“You just met two months ago?” I formed the words around the bread in my mouth. “Isn’t it kind of soon to leap into marriage?”

“Why wait?” Holly reached over and held McGlade’s hand. “We’re not getting any younger.”

I went fishing. “That’s ridiculous. You’re how old, thirty?”

“Thanks so much.” Holly patted my forearm. “I’m thirty-eight.”

Now I
really
hated her.

The waitress came again, with more wine, and after an elaborate wine presentation she discussed the daily specials. I tuned her out, trying to understand what the hell Holly saw in Harry. He was probably rich because of the series, but all the money in the world didn’t make up for the fact that McGlade was one of the most obnoxious, offensive, and annoying people to ever drag his knuckles, and Holly seemed, well, perfect.

We ordered. Holly regaled the boys with more tales of heroics. I drank. After my fourth glass, I came right out and asked.

“Holly, you have to tell me. What in God’s name are you doing with McGlade?”

“What do you mean?”

I mutely gestured with both hands, finally saying, “Well, look at him.”

Holly placed a hand on Harry’s head and ruffled his curly brown hair.