Shaken (6 page)

“Cover the exit and call me,” I told Herb, digging my Bluetooth earpiece out of my purse and attaching it to the side of my head. “This may take a while.”

I went into the stairwell, figuring I’d start on the third floor and work my way down. The storage units here had garage-style doors, secured with padlocks. Even if he was inside his unit with the door closed behind him, all I had to do was look for the missing lock and I’d know it was his.

The stairway smelled dusty, like old drywall. I listened for movement, heard nothing, then took the concrete steps two at a time, unbuttoning the strap over the Colt in my shoulder holster. My earpiece buzzed and I pressed the tiny button.

“They need to make these headsets bigger,”
Herb said.
“It’s too small for my fingers.”

“Maybe you need to make your fingers smaller.” I was on the second floor. I eased open the door and poked my head through, just to see if our man was around. He wasn’t, so I continued up the stairs.

“If this really is Mr. K,”
Herb said,
“what’s he storing here?”

“Maybe his money.”

One of the many persistent rumors circulating about the mysterious Mr. K was that he worked as a contract killer for the Outfit. With over a hundred unsolved murders attributed to him, perhaps he actually did need a storage locker to store all of his cash. Banks kept records of large deposits, and most of the mobsters I knew didn’t pay by check.

If Mr. K
was
a hired gun, he was an iceman. I’d dealt with a few serial killers over the years, and their motives made a warped sort of sense; hurting and killing people was exciting to them. But I believed contract killers, and contract torturers, were a whole different breed. If evil really existed, did it manifest itself in psychopaths who enjoyed inflicting pain on others? Or was it a trait of otherwise normal people who committed atrocities for money, because they were just following orders? Which was worse, killing because you liked it? Or killing because you just didn’t give a shit about humanity?

I stepped out of the stairwell onto the third floor, knowing I really didn’t need an answer to that question. My job wasn’t to psychoanalyze criminals. It was to catch them. And if our suspect was really Mr. K, it would be the high point of my career to put the bastard away.

The third floor hallway was empty in both directions, and I didn’t see any open storage units. I walked slowly, looking at padlocks. Every door had either a lock, or a metal band that sealed the unrented units.

I turned the corner, then stopped. A few yards ahead, one of the doors to a storage unit was open about a foot and a half, some light pouring through the bottom.

“Third floor, unit 345,” I whispered to Herb. “Ask the manager who it belongs to.”

I listened to Herb ask, heard mild protestations and more talk of warrants, and then my partner used some very bad language and the manager became cooperative.

“Cute,”
Herb said.
“It’s rented under the name John Smith. Paid for the month, and the deposit, with cash. I’m looking at his rental agreement. Listed his place of residence as 2650 South California Avenue.”

Cute was right. That was the address of the Criminal Courts Building, adjacent to Cook County Jail.

“Check on our backup. I’m approaching 345.”

I dug out my Colt, its weigh reassuring, and approached the storage unit on the balls of my feet so my heels didn’t click. This was one of the larger units, with an orange metal door that lifted overhead on rollers. It was three-quarters of the way closed, which meant it was open about eighteen inches. When I got within three feet I squatted down, checking to see if someone was standing inside. I didn’t see legs, but toward the rear of the storage area I caught a shadow of movement.

I aimed my weapon at the door. “This is Lieutenant Daniels of the Chicago Police. I’m ordering the man in unit 345 to come out slowly, hands in the air. This is a direct command from a police officer.”

I pressed my back against the door of an adjacent unit, out of the line of fire. Then I listened.

No response. No movement.

“I repeat, a Chicago police officer is giving you an order. If you don’t come out right now, hands in the air, I will open fire.”

I wasn’t going to open fire. I could just picture the inquest and subsequent suspension and lawsuit if I shot someone through the door to a storage unit. But nine times out of ten, suspects usually followed my commands.

I waited. Apparently this was a one out of ten situation. Setting my jaw, I eased myself over to the door, getting down on one knee, looking under the space between it and the floor. Again I saw movement, near the rear.

Without hesitating, I gripped the underside of the door and jerked it, sending it upward on its rollers, extending my gun hand with my finger on the trigger, moving fast into the space, ready for anything.

But I wasn’t ready for this. In twenty years on the force, this was the most horrible thing I’d ever seen.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

“Jack?”
Herb said in my earpiece. He said some other things as well, but I didn’t hear them because I was bent over, throwing up my breakfast all over my Jimmy Choos—something I hadn’t done since I was a rookie working Vice.

When I recovered, I checked the hallway both left and right, sweeping the area even though the perp was obviously gone. The only thing the storage unit contained was the IV stand, an empty tripod, the machine, and the misshapen, naked, dead man with the slit throat.

Then the dead man opened his eyes. I couldn’t hear his agonizing moan through the ball gag, but his pinched face spoke of unbearable pain.

I hurried to him, hitting the button on the infernal machine to stop the rotation even though I was potentially contaminating a crime scene. Then I pressed my hand to the gushing wound in the man’s neck, even as he thrashed away from my touch.

“Herb! Call an ambulance! And cover the exit, our perp—”

“Holy shit.”

I heard Herb twice, first in both ears and then in one. I turned and saw him standing there, jaw open, staring at me and the vic.

Herb did what I’d done. He turned and puked.

My mind seemed to both slow down and speed up at the same time. If Herb was up here, there was no one covering the exit. We needed to catch that son of a bitch. But we also needed to save this poor bastard, which meant calling an ambulance. And I couldn’t take my hand off his neck, or off my gun, in case the perp came back.

“HERB!” I shouted with all I had. “AMBULANCE!”

He pulled it together, calling the paramedics on his radio, then calling backup to tell them to cover the car parked outside. Hot blood gushed through my fingers, down my arm.

“Backup’s still a minute away,” Herb said.

I thought about ordering him downstairs to try to head Mr. K off—because there was no doubt this was Mr. K—but I wouldn’t send him after that maniac without backup.

“Cover the hallway,” I said, tucking my gun into my holster and unbuckling the ball gag on the victim because he was blowing air through the hole in his neck.

As soon as the gag dropped free, he cried out in a voice that would haunt my nightmares forever.

“LET ME DIE! LET ME DIE!”

But I couldn’t let him die, even though he eventually did. I kept pressure on his neck wound, trying not to look at him, trying not to cry, not even able to talk soothingly to him as his life mercifully slipped away.

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 16

“W
hat we’re proposing,” Herb said, the beer in front of him untouched, “is deeper undercover than you’ve ever been before.”

We were in a local pub on Addison, sitting at a high, round table on high, round bar stools, squinting at each other in the low lighting and talking over the ten TVs showing local sports.

“We’re thinking at least two weeks,” Herb continued.

Harry snorted into his glass of Old Style, spraying foam across the table. “You not only want Jackie to pretend to be an escort, but to do it for more than a day or two? Gimme a break.”

I steeled my eyes at McGlade, wondering what I’d done in a previous life to deserve him. Maybe I’d been Joseph Stalin, or some other genocidal maniac.

“I’ve been doing undercover stings for two weeks now, McGlade. I can handle it.”

“You’ve been playing street whores, Jackie. All you need is a short skirt. Escorts are classy ladies. They dress nice. They talk nice. They look nice. You don’t wear makeup, and when you do doll yourself up, you put on your eye shadow with a paint roller and look like Big Bird from
Sesame Street
. And your clothes? Was Montgomery Wards having a sale on suits in the teenage boys department?”

It was Sears, not Wards. But I wasn’t about to give him any more ammo.

“We’re done,” Herb said. He was talking to Harry.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“We want Jacqueline for this. Not you. I already cleared it. Go talk to your captain about reassignment.”

Harry blinked. Then he blinked again. “But Jackie’s my partner.”

“
Was
your partner. For this case, she’s my partner. Now I’ll let you sit here and finish your beer, but keep your mouth shut. I’m sick of hearing it.”

Harry got down off his bar stool, sticking out his chin. “I get it. You’re grumpy because your wife doesn’t give you any, and you didn’t have time this morning to rub one out in the shower. So now you’re pulling rank, getting your rocks off that way. Well, I’ve got better things to do than hang out in this dumb bar with you dumb people.” He nodded at me. “Good night, Jackie.”

Then he left our table, and sat down one table over.

“Was that guy dropped down the stairs as a baby?” Herb asked me.

“I think he was dropped down an escalator, and fell for three hours.”

Herb smiled at me. I decided I liked him, in a big brother kind of way.

I also liked our drinking companion, Shell. But in a way that decidedly wasn’t big brotherish. The guy I was dating, Alan, was a moody, artsy type, and his neuroses merged well with mine. Shell was polished and cocksure and easy to look at. The type of guy I secretly wanted to go out with in college, but who intimidated me with their charisma.

I was determined not to be intimidated this time. Even if it meant I had to sleep with him to get over it.

“So you think I can do this?” I was looking at Shell, not Herb.

Shell leaned over the table, his hands sliding forward so his knuckles brushed mine. “I do. I think you’ll be perfect.”

Herb drained half his beer, spilling a bit on his tie. “This isn’t like streetwalker stings, Jacqueline. Your obnoxious partner is right. We don’t know who’s doing this to Shell’s girls. Could be a client. Could be someone on the inside. Could be a stranger, stalking from the shadows. You’ll need to live the part. It means rooming with the other girls, talking to them like you’re one of them, actually
becoming
one of them. It means going out on dates.”

“But I don’t have to…”

“Make love to them?” Shell asked, offering a sly smile. “No. We’re a legitimate escort service. A real estate broker needs arm candy for his high school reunion. Mortgage banker needs a date to his niece’s wedding. Lonely widower doesn’t want to eat out alone. That type of thing. It’s all legitimate, and our clients are aware they aren’t allowed to hit on the girls unless the girl makes the first move.”

“How often does that happen?” I asked.

In the background, the bar broke out into cheers and applause.

“Some of our clients are rich, powerful men,” Shell said. “Some are famous. Whatever two consenting adults decide to do privately has nothing to do with me or my business, and it’s all off the clock.”

“Can you do this, Jacqueline?” Herb said.

I stared at Shell. “Yes.”

“You’d be living with the other girls. You might be away from home for a while.”

I thought about my crappy Wrigleyville apartment. “Not a problem.”

“If you have a pet, a cat—”

I shook my head. “I hate cats. I’d never own a cat.”

“Do you have any objections to starting tomorrow?” Herb asked. “Your captain said Homicide can have you on loan for as long as we need you.”

I struggled to suppress a giggle. Me? Working Homicide? That had only been my goal since joining the force.

“Tomorrow sounds fine,” I said, keeping a straight face.

“Great!” Shell clasped my hands, in a way that was both formal yet intimate. “Welcome to Classy Companions.”

“We’ll get started in the morning,” Herb said. “I can pick you up.”

“I’ve got a car,” I said. It was a Nova, only a few years old.

“Okay. Meet me at the station at eight a.m.”

“Sounds good.” I glanced at Shell. “What should I wear?”

“Something nice,” he said.

“How nice are we talking, here?”

“I’ll take care of that.” He gave my hands an extra squeeze. “I’ll meet you both tomorrow,” Herb said. “In the meantime, I’ve pulled the victims’ files. I’d like you to take a look, see if you spot anything we missed. I’m anxious to hear your take on this.”

Herb pulled some files from his briefcase. He stacked them onto the table, pushing them over to me. If he’d called me the most beautiful woman on the planet, it couldn’t have flattered me more. My respect for Herb kept going up and up.

“I’ll get started on these right away,” I promised.

The waitress brought the bill to Herb, and he squinted at it, making a face.

“We didn’t order thirty-two shots of tequila.”

She smacked her gum and cocked out a hip. “Your friend did. The one who was sitting at the table next to you. He bought shots for everyone in the bar, but said for us to skip you guys because you were driving.”

Shell smiled politely and took the bill. I looked around for Harry, but he’d wisely made a quick exit. Annoying as he was, the guy did have a certain lowbrow style.

“See you tomorrow,” Herb said, standing up. “Partner.”