Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (4 page)
“So you agree with me?”
He nodded.
“Why does that make me feel even worse?”
Mr. Griffin, with the spring-loaded pelvis, hugged me, and I hugged him back, and we spent a moment trying to understand the unfairness of it all.
“Should I get a motel room?” I asked. “Try to force her hand?”
“She doesn’t want you here right now, Jacqueline. It’s best if you go home. I’ll talk to her. This will all work out.”
I nodded, but deep down I knew differently.
The three-hour plane ride back to Chicago seemed to take a million years.
I made it home a little after three in the morning. I live in Wrigleyville, in an apartment on Addison and Racine. It’s a loud neighborhood, the streets always full of Cubs fans and barhopping kids, many of whom like to spend their evenings directly under my window, shouting at one another. As a consolation, the rent is too high.
Exhaustion hammered at me like the tide, but sleep and I weren’t close friends. On good nights, I could get two hours of REM before stress woke me up.
Tonight wouldn’t be a good night.
I blame my job, since it’s easier than blaming myself. I’ve been to several general pracs, but haven’t broken down and seen a shrink yet. The latest wonder drug, Ambien, worked for me, but with consequences—the next morning I swam in an unending groggy haze that severely impaired my ability to serve and protect. So I only took it as a last resort. Besides, insomnia gave me an edge; less sleep equaled more productivity. Plus, my boyfriend found baggy eyes sexy.
There was a message from him on the machine. I let it play as I undressed.
“Hi, Jack. The conference is going well. Accountants are actually a fun bunch, once you get a few drinks in them. Naw, I’m kidding—we become even more boring. I just had a two-hour argument with some guy about accruals. I’ll be back in Chicago tomorrow night, so tell your other suitors you’re mine for the evening. I have an important question to run by you. Miss you. Love you. Hope you’re keeping the city safe. Bye-bye.”
I smirked. I met Latham Conger, head accountant at Oldendorff and Associates, ten months ago, through a dating service that Herb had conned me into joining. Latham was pleasant, attractive, attentive, employed, and heterosexual. Which, for a forty-something woman in Chicago, was like winning the lottery. He also loved me, and wasn’t put off that I didn’t return the sentiment yet.
I liked Latham, a lot. And I might love him someday. But my heart muscle atrophied when Alan left me, and I haven’t been able to get it up to speed since.
I pulled on an old T-shirt and climbed into bed. Latham’s cologne clung to the pillows, and I hugged one to my chest, thinking about his phone call.
I have an important question to run by you.
What could that mean?
As if I didn’t have enough on my mind.
Rest, as expected, defied me. I tossed. I turned. I did deep breathing and relaxation exercises that brought me close to sleep, and perhaps actually into sleep for short periods of time, but I always jerked myself awake after a few minutes.
I felt immense relief when my alarm went off and it was time to go to work.
After showering and changing into a yellow blouse, a tan jacket, and matching slacks, I did a quick makeup job with extra attention to eye concealer and headed for work.
Eight in the morning, and already the temp hovered in the nineties. Chicago, a city that didn’t smell good on average days, reeked in heat like this. I had to pass an alley on the way to my car, and the smell from the garbage cans hit me like a punch.
Kitty-corner to the 26th District, a gourmet coffee place had set up shop. I got a Colombian dark roast, black, for myself, and almost ordered a double chocolate hazelnut cappuccino for Herb until I remembered his diet. He also got a dark roast.
Caffeine in hand, I entered my building and was surprised to find it cool. In fact, it was downright chilly.
Violent Crimes Division was on the third floor. Herb sat in his office, hand in a box of fat-free chocolate cookies. He brightened when he saw me.
“Jack? Why aren’t you in Florida? Is your mom okay?”
Rather than get into it, I nodded a yes and handed him his cup.
“Coffee, thank God. I’m freezing.”
“I see they fixed the air-conditioning.”
“They did, but the temperature regulator isn’t working. They can’t shut it off.”
“Feels good.”
“Give it ten minutes, and you’ll start seeing your breath. I tried opening a window, but I can’t handle the Dumpster smell. This is just what I needed.” Herb took a sip, then made a face. “What’s this?”
“It’s coffee. That’s what it tastes like without cream and sugar.”
“It’s supposed to be this bitter?”
“Yeah.”
Herb dug through his desk and pulled out a fistful of little pink packets.
“Well, I’m glad your mother’s okay, and it’s good that you’re back. Index got a match on the prints.”
As Herb added carcinogens to his brew, I leafed through the reports on his desk.
The arms belonged to Davi McCormick of 3800 North Lake Shore Drive. Arrested once for solicitation, but clean for the last five years. Mug shots were known to be unflattering, but hers looked good enough to print. Davi was an attractive woman, much more so than the average prostitute.
I read her case details and it made sense. At the time of her arrest, she’d been working for Madame Pardieu, a high-class escort service that charged up to a grand a night. That would account for the nice neighborhood.
“Does she look familiar?” Herb asked. His jowls were stuffed with fat-free cookies, giving him a chipmunkish appearance.
“Yeah, she does.”
“You’ve probably seen her a few dozen times. When we got her name I cross-reffed with Missing Persons, and found a report from yesterday, called in by her agent. She’s Sure-a-Tex Girl.”
Sure-a-Tex was a brand of tampon marketed to the younger crowd. Sure-a-Tex Girl, wearing a not very subtle red cape, flew to the rescue of women who started their period in extreme situations, such as mountain climbing or white-water rafting. The product came in a variety of designer colors, including neon green and hot pink.
“Did you contact the agent?”
“He’ll be here any minute.” Herb took a sip of coffee and searched his desk for more saccharine.
Phil Blasky’s postmortem report was the shortest I’d ever read, due to the amount of material he had to work with. An elevated histamine level and platelet count indicated the victim had been bleeding prior to her arms being severed. Tests for several dozen drugs came back negative. Lipid levels normal. No evidence of heart disease, STDs, or pregnancy. Everything else about the arms was unspectacular.
Phil noted that the handcuffs were put on after death; axe marks indicated the swings came from the front, with the arms splayed out crucifixion-style.
Officer Dan Rogers knocked on my open door. I invited him in.
“Got the GC results from the burned skin samples.” He handed me a file. “My tongue was correct. The arms were diluted with bleach.”
“No trace of anything else?”
“Nope. Bleach will clean up just about anything. That’s why it’s used by HazMat teams. Hey, Lieut, you got any aspirin? I’ve got a headache that’s making my eyes water.”
I found a bottle in my desk and tossed it to him. He shook out five, and swallowed them dry.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Call me if I can be any more help. I like CSU, but
Detective Rogers
has a nice ring to it too.”
Rogers left. Herb made a grunting, satisfied sound, and tossed his empty cookie box into the garbage, on top of three other such cookie boxes.
“Herb, not that I want to question your dieting efforts, but how many boxes of those cookies have you eaten today?”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say you could hibernate with all I’ve seen you eat in the last ten minutes.”
“So what? They’re fat-free.”
“Chocolate syrup is fat-free too. Look at the calories.”
He fished out the box he’d tossed and squinted at the nutrition panel. “Ah, hell. No wonder I’ve gained four pounds on this diet.”
“You need to watch the carbohydrates, not the fat.”
“Oh. These only have fifteen grams of carbs.”
“Per serving. How many servings per box?”
“Ah, hell.”
A knock. I turned to see Officer Fuller in the doorway. Fuller was an ex-pro football player, tall and wide, and he towered over his companion, a short, balding man wearing Armani and too much Obsession for Men.
“This is Marvin Pulitzer.”
Marvin smiled, his caps unnaturally white, and offered his hand to me. I took it, and discovered he was palming something.
“Pulitzer Prizes Talent Agency. Very pleased to meet you, Miss . . . ?”
“Lieutenant. Jacqueline Daniels.”
He held on to me a moment longer than necessary. When I got my hand back I saw he’d given me his card.
“You’ve got great bone structure, Lieutenant. Do you model?”
“I did
Vogue
a few issues back.”
Pulitzer narrowed his eyes, then smiled again.
“Joking. I get it. Funny. But seriously, I just landed this new account. They’re looking for distinguished, mature women. You should come in, take some test shots.”
“What’s the company?”
“Ever-Weave.”
I confessed to never hearing of them.
“They sell protective undergarments. You know, adult-sized diapers.”
Fuller chortled, deep and throaty. I dismissed him.
“Think it over. You wouldn’t have to pose wearing the product. You just have to stand there, looking embarrassed.”
No kidding.
“I don’t think I’m quite ready to delve into the glamorous world of modeling, Mr. Pulitzer. Come in and have a seat.”
Pulitzer and Herb exchanged greetings, and then he sat in a chair between us on the right side of the desk.
“So, where’s Davi?”
Herb handed Pulitzer the mug shot.
“This is Davi McCormick?”
“Yeah. Oh, Christ, she’s in trouble, isn’t she? What did she do? Has she called a lawyer yet?”
Pulitzer pulled out a cell phone the size of a matchbook and flipped it open, dialing with his pinky.
“She doesn’t need a lawyer, Mr. Pulitzer. The county medical examiner found Davi’s severed arms in the morgue yesterday morning.”
“Her . . . arms?”
Herb handed him another picture. Pulitzer lost all color.
“Oh shit! Those are Davi’s? Shit! What the hell happened to her?”
“When was the last time you spoke with Davi?”
“Four days ago. We did lunch at Wildfire. Right after that I had to catch a flight to New York.”
“What did you talk about during lunch?”
“The usual stuff. Upcoming gigs. Auditions.”
“Did Davi seem nervous, or afraid?”
“No, everything was completely normal.”
Herb and I took turns interrogating Pulitzer. We confirmed his trip, and asked several dozen questions about Davi, her friends and family, her state of mind, her life.
“She has no enemies. Not one. Which, in a competitive business like this, is amazing. She’s just a nice girl.”
“You called in a missing person’s report yesterday.”
“Yeah. She missed a shoot two days ago. Davi never missed a shoot. I called her. Even dropped by her place. She just disappeared. Jesus, who could have done something like that to her?”
Pulitzer had to take a time-out to reschedule his afternoon appointments. While he was on the phone, Herb and I conferred.
“Davi was a celebrity. She may have had stalkers.”
“We’ll call Sure-a-Tex.”
I added it to my notes.
“We also need to call Davi’s parents, check with her friends, and try to pinpoint her movements for the last week.”
Pulitzer finished his call and asked where he could get some water. I pointed him to the washroom.
Herb took a sip of coffee, then reached for more sweetener. The pile of pink wrappers on his desk was almost as high as his cup.
“If it’s someone who knew Davi, where do your handcuffs come in?”
“Coincidence? They could have fallen out of my pocket, someone picks them up and pawns them?”
“I don’t buy it.”
“It’s thin. But the only people with access to my office are cleaning people and cops.”
The maintenance staff was carefully screened during the hiring process, and cops were, well, cops. I didn’t know anyone working out of the two-six with a grudge against me, and I especially didn’t think I had any murderers on my squad. The process to become a police officer included psych profiles, mental evals, and endless personality tests and interviews. Wackos were supposedly weeded out early on.
