Shaken (32 page)

And if that were the case, maybe Alan’s proposal was my last shot at happiness.

Chapter 12

A
fter meeting the rest of the girls, then washing my hands in an attempt to wipe off some of the rampant neuroses that seemed to pervade Shell’s escort agency like smoke damage, I went on my first official date with Felix Sarcotti.

Mr. Sarcotti was a wee bit older than God. His back was bent like a question mark, he walked with a black, silver-tipped cane, and his facial expression was a permanent leer.

He was also a perfect gentleman, and I had a great time accompanying him to lunch at the Signature Room, on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock Building. We had crab cakes and Waldorf salads, and he told me about the old days in the meatpacking industry, up until the closure of Union Stockyard in 1970.

I’d received instructions from both Shell and Herb prior to the date. From Shell, I was told to be polite, attentive, and complimentary. I was to ask questions, laugh at jokes, and seem interested without getting too personal. From Herb, I was told to check in with him every five minutes by using the code word
fascinating
, which signaled him to respond in my earpiece. If something was going wrong, I was to use the word
disaster
, which meant he’d come running. Also, if Mr. Sarcotti got too frisky, Herb advised me to go for the balls.

After lunch, and a polite kiss on the cheek from Mr. Sarcotti (no ball-kicking necessary), I was debriefed by Shell, who informed me that Mr. Sarcotti had spoken to him and I was his new favorite, and that the fee Mr. Sarcotti and others were paying to take me out was going toward my Armani outfit. Then I got ready for my theater and dinner date with Jeroen ten Berge.

A few minutes before my scheduled pick-up time—Shell had insisted all clients pick up their dates at the agency rather than meet them elsewhere because of the recent murders—there was a knock on my apartment door. My new apartment, by the way, was fabulous. Tidy, luxurious, well-furnished, and it came with maid service. It sure beat the hell out of dressing up like a hooker and arresting perverts.

I checked the peephole, saw it was Herb, and let him in.

Herb whistled when he walked in. “Nice threads.”

I was wearing a little black cocktail dress that Amy Peterson, one of Shell’s escorts, had lent me. “It’s a Versace,” I said. “Is that good?”

“It looks good.”

“Shell bought it for her. He apparently buys clothes for all of his escorts.”

Herb raised an eyebrow. “What do you think of that?”

“What I think is that I’ve never met a group of this many suspects outside of an Agatha Christie book. Seriously, Herb. Every one of them is nuts. Gloria thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe. Sandy’s already killed someone. Mizz Lizzy popped out of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
and looks like she’s searching for children to cook and eat. Amy has her closet arranged so it’s color-coded like a Roy G. Biv rainbow—”

“Roy G. Biv?”

I shook my head, laughing. “You know…red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.”

“Where does black fit in?”

“Black, white, and shades of gray have to go into another closet.”

“What about prints? Or plaid?”

“I didn’t ask. She started talking about astrological signs and palm reading, so I faked a headache and got out of there. Is it possible a woman is the murderer?”

“We can’t rule it out. I’ve never heard of any female serial killers, but I agree the ladies here are a bit…odd. Shell vouches for this Jeroen guy, says he’s a harmless old man, but I’ll be tagging along just the same. Can you help me with your mic?”

Half an hour later, a limo picked me up at the agency. Jeroen ten Berge was a distinguished older gentleman, silver haired, well-dressed, quick to share the champagne he had chilling. I restricted myself to one glass, then played Miss Attentive through the car ride to Ninety-fifth and Kedzie, and on into dinner at the Martinique, the restaurant attached to the Drury Lane Theater.

Jeroen—pronounced
yer-oh-in
—was a delightful man. A retired investment banker who still dabbled in the stock market, he was a treasure trove of stories and jokes, and the perfect dining companion. Halfway into our chicken vesuvio, he asked me the same thing Mr. Sarcotti had asked.

“How can a vivacious, delightful woman such as yourself still be single?”

I played coy. “I could ask you the same thing, Jeroen. An interesting man like you could probably take your pick of grateful brides. Why aren’t you married?”

His face sank. “I was, for thirty-eight wonderful years. My wife passed in ’86. Breast cancer.”

I regretted the question. Especially since Shell warned me not to get too personal.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Maria was the best thing that ever happened to me. My best friend. My lover. My soul mate. I was so lucky to have so many good years with her, even if the last few were hard.” He leaned closer, put his hand on mine. “Life isn’t worth living unless you have someone to share it with, Jacqueline. The good times, and the bad times. In sickness and in health. Even toward the end, she could still make my heart flutter when I looked at her.”

“She sounds lovely,” I said, meaning it.

“I’m a rich, successful man, Jacqueline. But I would trade it all—the money, the houses, the entire stock portfolio—for just one more day with Maria. Success means nothing unless you have someone to share it with.”

Jeroen’s eyes glassed over. I gave his hand a squeeze, and we finished our meal in silence. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and checked in with Herb.

“I made my date cry,” I said into my bra-concealed microphone.

“Remember you’re a cop, not an escort,” Herb said in my ear piece. He hadn’t been able to secure tickets to the show, or afford the restaurant, so he was in the parking lot eating a sandwich his wife had packed for him. “Besides, it sounds like he was a very lucky guy to have a woman he cared so much for.”

“Would you do that, Herb? Give up your career for your wife?”

“I’d give up anything for my wife.”

After dinner, we watched the musical comedy
They’re Playing Our Song
. Jeroen had seen it in New York, and cheerily mouthed the song lyrics along with the performers. By the end of the play he was no longer maudlin, and during the limo ride back, he convinced me to have another glass of champagne. When he dropped me off and said goodnight, I got a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I was left wanting more. Not from Jeroen. From life. I wanted someone who would give up everything for me.

But would I be willing to do the same for someone else?

For Alan?

Chapter 13

“W
ant to take a little walk?”
Herb asked in my ear.

I’d just stepped out of Jeroen’s limo and was staring at Shell’s building, about to go inside.

“Where to?” I said into my bra microphone.

“Around the block. Like you’ve decided to have a drink after dinner. Find a spot and park yourself at the bar.”

“Where are you?”

“Across the street.”

I resisted the urge to look for him, and instead headed east down Ohio, toward Michigan Avenue. It was close to midnight, but there were still a few folks wandering the streets. Not as many as if it were a weekend, but enough that snatching me would be risky.

Then again, the killer had snatched three other women without drawing any attention.

It was dark, hot, and humid. The city smelled like garbage. A car cruised up, slowing down as it neared me. I wobbled a little, swaying left and right, forcing myself to giggle.

“How much did you have to drink?”
Herb asked.

“Just a glass of wine. I’m playing the part, making myself an easy target. You see this car?”

The car was a Cadillac. Black. The windows were slightly tinted, so I couldn’t see inside. It pulled into the alley ahead of me. I stopped, forcing myself not to reach for the gun in my purse, feeling my arteries throb with adrenaline as the passenger-side window lowered.

“Need a ride, pretty lady?”

“Shell,” I said, blowing out the breath I’d been holding. He was wearing yet another tailored suit, this one tan corduroy with patches on the elbows, and his hair was slicked back with gel. “What are you doing out here, all by yourself?”

“My job,” I said.

He winced. “Sorry. Forgot you were a cop for a second there. Saw one of my girls walking by herself and my overly protective nature kicked in. Will you be trolling killers for a while? Or are you free for a drink?”

“This guy is starting to bug me,”
Herb said.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Great,” said Shell, who thought I was talking to him. “Hop in.”

Oops. “How about we grab something nearby?” I wanted to stay in the area. All three women had disappeared within a few blocks of the agency.

“There’s this classy bar on Wabash. Miller’s Pub.”

“Miller’s Pub?” I repeated, for Herb’s benefit.

“I know it,”
Herb said.
“I can meet you there.”

“You’re on,” I said, to both Herb and Shell.

I walked around the car, climbing into the passenger seat. Shell smelled like cologne. Somehow, that made me think of Alan, who never wore cologne. I hadn’t called Alan all day. Partly because I’d been busy. Partly because I still wasn’t sure what to say to him.

“You know what I feel like?” Shell drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the street. “Dancing. Want to go dancing?”

“I’m not really in a dancing mood, Shell.”

“Do you like music?”

“Sure.”

“How about Buddy Guy’s?”

Buddy Guy was a Chicago blues legend. He owned a club on Wabash, not too far from Miller’s.

“Buddy Guy’s,” I said. Herb didn’t respond. I wondered if he was out of radio range.

“I saw Clapton play there once. Just came in, unannounced, jammed with Buddy’s band. Amazing show.”

“Okay,” I said, raising my voice to near yelling, “let’s go to Buddy Guy’s Legends. Buddy Guy’s Legends, on Wabash.”

Shell gave me a look like I’d grown an extra head. Still no reply from Herb. I could only hope he’d heard.

A few minutes later, Shell was pulling into a multilevel parking garage on Balbo, where he found a spot on the third floor. We took the brightly lit stairwell down to street level, and walked a block to the bar.

There was a small line. We queued up behind a couple of blue-collar black guys.

A lonely-looking fat man got in line behind us. Shell paid my five-dollar cover, and once inside we took everything in, looking for a place to sit.

Everything about Buddy Guy’s screamed
the blues
. The dim lighting, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey, the plaintive whine of a single electric guitar, the bartender building drinks and sticking them on damp, empty trays, the sad-faced patrons, many of them sitting alone, nursing something strong. Shell and I found a corner table, so dark I had to lean close to see him. A waitress—who looked like she’d gone three hard rounds with disappointment before it knocked her down for the count—stood next to us without uttering a word, her order pad in hand. Shell got a martini. I got red wine, then excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, having to shout to be heard over the amplifier feedback.

It was quieter in there, but not by much. I fussed with my mic and earpiece, trying to reach Herb, but didn’t get any indication he heard me. Either he was still looking for parking, or he’d gone to Miller’s. The smart thing to do was have a quick drink, then head back to the agency. I really didn’t think Shell was the killer, especially since he was the one who sought out police help. Besides, I had my Beretta in my purse.

I met Shell back at our table. Our drinks still hadn’t come. I spotted them, sitting lonely on the bar, our waitress nowhere to be seen. Shell bent close and said something, but I couldn’t hear anything because we were too close to the speakers. The drinks eventually came. The gravelly-voiced singer bemoaned his cheating woman, his lost job, his dead dog, and his worsening bursitis. I just closed my eyes and let the music take me where it wanted. The wine was cheap and bitter. After two sips, I didn’t want any more.

Shell slammed his martini, smiled, and then pointed at my glass with a raised eyebrow. I shook my head. He raised his hand to signal our waitress, and I leaned over to stop him, to tell him I was tired and wanted to go.

As I leaned forward, the whole bar seemed to rock, like we were on a boat during a storm. I felt as if I was falling. I reached out, trying to stop the world from moving, knocking over my wine glass. My head hit Shell’s shoulder, and he grinned at me, and as he grinned his face got darker and darker until all I saw was a rolling, swirling blackness that swallowed me up.

Chapter 14

I
woke up groggy, disoriented, nauseous.

I didn’t know where I was, didn’t remember how I got there. The floor beneath me was cold, concrete, suggesting a basement or garage. It was too dark to see anything. My hands fluttered around me, trying to judge the size of the area, and I realized with a start that I was completely naked.

This was bad. Real bad.

What the hell happened to me?

I filled my lungs, ready to shout for help, and then stopped myself right before any sound came out.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to let whoever had me know I was awake.

Though I’d been in some hairy situations during my rookie years, I couldn’t say any of them was life and death. Once, my partner Harry and I had been shot at, but the perp had been so far away there had been no real danger. Another time, a suspect took a swing at me when I asked to see some ID. I’d slipped the blow, and what followed was the only time I’d ever used my police baton, hitting him in the knee hard enough to break it.

But neither of those were as nerve-jangling as waking up naked in some unknown basement.