Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (10 page)

“I know. I mean, I’d want her to, if she’s with you, but the place is only one bedroom. There wouldn’t be any room for her.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask.”

“That came out wrong.” Latham touched my cheek. “Look, Jack, I really want to be with you. This whole
I- sleep- over- at- your- place, you- sleep- over- at- my- place
thing, we’re too old for that, you know what I mean?”

“I know, Latham. I wish there was some way.”

“Is there? Some way, I mean?”

I didn’t like where this was going, but I baited him anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“How about she stays here, at your place? It’s only a twenty-minute drive away.”

“She needs someone around her at all times.”

“Okay, fine. There are facilities. Good ones. Your mother could get the assistance she needs, the medical care, and we could visit her every—”

“I’m going to say good night now, Latham.”

I took him by the crook of the arm and escorted him to the front door.

“Jack, all that I’m saying is that taking care of an elderly parent is a lot of work. I don’t want you wasting your life—”

I opened the door.

“Caring for my mother is not wasting my life.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Look, Jack, it’s been an awful night and I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Apparently not.”

Latham’s eyes got hard. I’d never really seen him angry before, and I didn’t like the preview.

“I may be tooting my own horn here, Jack, but I think I’m a pretty decent guy.”

“You’re right,” I told him. “You’re tooting your own horn.”

I felt terrible the moment it left my lips, but before I could apologize, Latham was halfway down the hall.

“Latham . . .”

He disappeared through the stairwell door, not giving me a backward glance.

Nice one, Jack. You just screwed up a relationship with the last decent guy in the Midwest.

From the bathroom, Mr. Friskers howled in agreement.

I walked back into my apartment, finished my drink, Latham’s drink, and one more on top of that. Pleasantly tipsy, I let the screaming cat out of the john, took off my makeup, curled up on my sheetless bed, and slept for forty-five wonderful minutes before jerking awake.

For the next three hours, sleep was a stop-and-go affair, short stretches interspersed with bouts of anxiety, nagging questions, and doubt.

When I finally got up for work, the mirror was not kind.

I forced myself through some push-ups and sit-ups, took a cool shower, and dressed in a tan Perry Ellis blazer, matching skirt, and a striped blouse.

Venturing into my living room, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had a busy night. To my endless amusement, Mr. Friskers had clawed most of the paint off my grandmother’s antique rocking chair. He perched on the sofa, staring, while I inspected the damage.

“Now I understand why so many people own dogs.”

He didn’t reply.

I cleaned up the kitty litter as best I could, poured him another bowl of food, forced down some Frosted Flakes, and went out to face the day.

Chicago was a furnace, hot enough to make my eyeliner run. Stopping for coffee seemed absurd, but I needed the caffeine. I bought an extra for Herb.

The district house still had an air-conditioning problem, which felt great for about two minutes, and then became painful.

Herb wasn’t in his office, which was unusual. He always beat me to work. I set his coffee on his desk, then returned to my office and did some follow-up calls about the incident last night.

The gut-shot bouncer had stabilized, and the perp, defying all expectations, still clung to life. I left word with the doctor to call when toxicology finished the blood work, but she said it wasn’t necessary.

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he was high on Hydro.”

“Water?”

“No. Hydro is the nickname for a new street drug. It’s a mean mix of phencyclidene hydrochloride, phentermine hydrochloride, and oxycodone hydrochloride; basically angel dust, speed, and codeine. Why anyone would want to mix those is beyond me. Plus, someone is cutting the drug with mephyton phyonadione.”

“Which is?”

“Vitamin K. It’s commonly given to patients before surgery because of its ability to aid in blood coagulation.”

“This drug turns people into psychotic supermen who don’t feel pain or bleed?”

“Makes you long for the sixties and good old LSD, doesn’t it?”

“Who would make something like this?”

“After working the ER for six years, I’ve lost count of the different ways people attempt to destroy themselves. I just patch them up so they can go do it again.”

“You sound cynical.”

“I’m the one who stitched up all the holes you put in this guy, and you’re calling me a cynic?”

She had a point. Curiosity prompting me onward, I called the DEA.

“You’ve no doubt heard about the Big Bust.”

The Big Bust the agent referred to was a capture of almost a billion dollars in heroin off the Florida coast. One of the largest drug seizures in history.

“That left a vacuum in the market,” he went on. “The junkies still needed something to shoot, so a West Coast drug ring hired some chemists to cook up a replacement. We’ve already shut down three Hydro labs, but they’re popping up all over the place. It’s a bad high too. Causes some major freak-outs.”

“I’ve seen it. We shot a man eleven times, and he took off like Carl Lewis.”

“Eleven? Not even close to the record. Two cops in Compton cornered a Hydro-head with a Mac-10, took twenty-eight shots to bring him down. Bad drug.”

“My guy’s still alive.”

“So’s this guy. Has to be fed through a tube, though. We’re thinking of using him as our new antidrug poster boy.”

My faith in human nature restored, I checked Herb’s office again. No Herb. I took his coffee, mine long gone, then went to check on Officer Fuller and the database.

“Just get in?” I asked.

He was hunched over his computer, squinting at a spreadsheet. I must have surprised him, because he flinched when he heard my voice.

“Oh, hi, Lieut. No, been here for a while. Why?”

“It’s ten degrees in here, and you’re sweating.”

He smiled. “I’ve been blessed with a high metabolism.”

“I wish I was that lucky. How’s the database coming?”

“Slow. You’ve had a lot of arrests.”

“I’ve been blessed with a long career. Any matches yet with County’s sign-in book?”

He shook his head. “If I find one, you’ll be the second to know.”

“Thanks, Officer. Carmichael is retiring this October, which means a slot in the Detective Division is opening up.”

Fuller mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t make out.

“Pardon me?”

“Just saying a silent prayer, Lieut. I’ve been trying to get into DD for over a year, and you guys keep passing me over.”

“You’re a good cop, Fuller. But the cops that took those slots had seniority.”

He mumbled something again, and I got the distinct impression I’d been insulted. I let it go. Fuller had a right to be disappointed—he went above and beyond the call of duty to help Herb and me whenever possible, even off the clock. Fuller had a nose for homicide, especially the violent ones, and more than once his input had proven valuable.

Still, he’d only been a cop for three years, and no one rose up the ranks that quickly. The system didn’t allow it.

“Don’t have anything yet, huh?” I asked.

“Not yet, but if there’s something, I’ll find it.”

I thanked him, and noticed Benedict out of the corner of my eye. Actually, I’d heard him before seeing him. He was whistling.

“Good morning, Herb.”

“Morning, Jack.” He smiled, and then winked.

I eyed him suspiciously. “Everything okay, Herb?”

“Everything is wonderful. Couldn’t be better.”

“You’re late this morning.”

“I slept in.” Herb winked again.

“Is something wrong with your eye?”

“No. Why?”

“You keep winking at me.”

“Just in a good mood, that’s all. Are we off to shake down the dealer?”

He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“Yeah. I’ll stop by my office for a bag. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m absolutely perfect, Jack.” And he winked at me again.

I went to my desk, followed by some weird alternate-universe version of my partner, and retrieved a plastic bag filled with powdered sugar. Davi’s supposed dealer probably wouldn’t be forthcoming with the police. The bag would help him loosen his tongue.

I handed it to Herb. In this day and age, it was risky for a woman to frisk a man, and vice versa. Sexual harassment laws protected criminals too.

After a quick stroll through the desert that was our parking lot, we got into Herb’s Camaro and he cranked up the air. It was only a matter of time before the constant flux between hot and cold would give me pneumonia.

Herb pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, heading south. Chicago didn’t seem to be bothered by the heat. People littered the walkways along the beach, and a few suicidal individuals were even jogging. Out on Lake Michigan, hundreds of boats competed for space. It looked as if someone sprinkled some kosher salt on a gigantic polished mirror.

Herb began whistling again, keeping tempo by drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“All right,” I said after five minutes of biting my tongue. “Spill it.”

“Spill what?”

“Why you’re so damn happy.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like you’ve been possessed by one of the Care Bears.”

He looked at me, and winked.

“There are some things best kept private, Jack.”

“That’s bull, Herb. We’re partners. We have no secrets.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Herb winked at me again. I made a fist, ready to slug him.

“Okay. Bernice and I were . . . intimate last night.”

I stared at him.

“That’s all? You’re this happy because you got laid?”

He smiled. “Five times.”

I did a double take.

“Five times?”

He nodded. “Three last night, and then two more this morning.”

I looked at Benedict with newfound respect.

“You haven’t been possessed by a Care Bear. You’ve been possessed by a porn star.”

He winked at me again. “Viagra.”

“Really?”

“Bernice and I have been doing the once-a-week thing for thirty years. So last night I decided to spice things up a bit.”

“Apparently it worked.”

“I was a dynamo, Jack. You should see the scratch marks on my back.”

I had no idea how to respond to that. Pat him on the shoulder? Tell him to nail her once for me? I settled on, “That’s great.”

“She was begging me for mercy, Jack. But I kept a-goin’. I haven’t heard her scream like that since—”

“Herb,” I interrupted, “you were right. Maybe we should keep some things private.”

Colin Andrews’s neighborhood was primarily low-income. Gang-bangers flashing colors eyed us, trying to figure out what business a white couple in a new sports car had in their hood. At a stoplight, a kid with baggy pants pimp-walked up to the passenger side and tapped on my window.

“Y’all lost?”

I smiled at him. “Five-O. Y’all holding?”

He put his hands in the air and backed off, smiling at me with gold caps. The way he wore his bandanna told me he was a Gangsta Disciple. Couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

“I blame rap music,” Herb said.

“That’s much easier than blaming the parents.”

“I’m serious. Think about how gang violence would be reduced if they all listened to Perry Como.”

“Reduced? I think they’d riot. Hell, I’d riot.”

Ninety-sixth Street had more potholes than asphalt, and Herb cringed every time his car took a dip. Andrews’s apartment building was the nicest one on the block, but that didn’t mean much. Graffiti still colored the sidewalk and walls, and three divots in the front door were obvious bullet holes.

Herb parked directly in front of the building, on the street. Our leather badge cases had cords attached, and we hung our stars around our necks. I got out of the car, feeling the same sense of uneasiness I always felt when on the South Side, being a white female cop. None of those traits were looked upon with respect here.

Herb turned to me. “What’s your take on this?”

I knew what he meant. It was unlikely Davi McCormick got her drugs from Colin, unless he made frequent visits to the Gold Coast—dealers tend to stay local. And two severed arms planted in the county morgue wasn’t your typical gang-related or drug-related crime.