Bloody Mary

Bloody Mary (2005)

J.A. Konrath

*

Synopsis:

Lieutenant Jack Daniels is back, and this time she has to solve one of her goriest cases ever. Someone is running around Chicago dismembering women, and the spare body parts are winding up at the local morgue. In addition to the headaches of the job, she also has to deal with her mother showing up to live with her, as well as the reappearance of her ex-husband, right when she'd thought she was making progress in a relationship with a new boyfriend. Along with her binge-eating partner Herb, who's on a failing quest to find the perfect diet, we see Jack track down and convict one of the scariest serial killers in recent memory -- but not before she becomes a target of his wrath, as well.

PROLOGUE:

:

"It would be so easy to kill you while you sleep."

He rolls onto his side and faces his wife, tangling his fingers in her hair. Her face is shrouded in a dried blue mask; an anti-aging beauty product that has begun to peel. The moonlight peeking through the bedroom curtains makes her look already dead.

He wonders if other people look at their partners at night, peacefully dozing, and imagine killing them.

"I have a knife." He brushes his fingertips along her hairline. "I keep it under the bed."

Her lips part and she snores softly.

So ugly, especially for a model. All capped teeth and streaked hair.

He wedges his hand between the mattress and box spring and pulls out the knife. It has a large wooden handle, disproportionate to the thin, finely honed blade. A fillet knife.

He places it against his wife's neck, gently.

His vision blurs. The pain in his head ignites, a screw twisting into his temple. It tightens with every heartbeat.

Too many headaches in too many days. He should, will, tell the doctor. The six aspirin he took an hour ago haven't helped.

Only one thing helps when the pain gets this bad.

He caresses her chin with the edge of the knife, shaving off some of the mask. Sweat rolls down his forehead and stings his eyes.

"I can cut your throat, reach in and rip out your voice before you even have a chance to scream."

She twitches, her head tilting away. Her neck is smooth, flawless. He clenches his jaw hard enough to crush granite, teeth grinding teeth.

"Or maybe I should go through the eye. Just a quick poke, right into the brain."

He raises the blade up, trying to control the trembling in his hand. The blade wavers over her lid, creeping closer.

"All you have to do is open your eyes, so you can see it coming."

She snores.

"Come on, honey." He nudges her shoulder. "Open your eyes."

He bites down on his tongue, the inside of his mouth hot and salty. His brain is a tiny clawed demon trying to dig its way out.

"Open your goddamn eyes!"

She shifts toward him, mumbling. Her arm falls over his bare chest.

"Another headache, honey?"

"Yeah."

He places the knife behind her head, at the base of her skull. He imagines jabbing it in, the tip poking through the front of her throat.

Wouldn't she be surprised?

"Poor baby," she says into his armpit. She rubs his cheek, her fingers cool against his burning ear.

He gives her a little prod with the knife, just under her hairline. Her head jerks away.

"Ow! Honey, cut your nails."

"It's not my nails, dear. It's a knife."

She snores her response.

He nudges her again. "I said, It's a knife. You hear me?"

"Did you take some aspirin, baby?"

"Six."

"They'll work soon. You should see a doctor."

She hooks a leg over his stomach. He feels himself become aroused, unsure if it's her touch that's causing it, or the thought of peeling off her face.

Or perhaps both.

He smiles in the darkness, knuckles white on the knife handle, ready to finally give in to the nightly temptation. But as he readies the blade, he notes that the pain in his head has begun to subside. Gradually, the sharp throbbing melts away into a dull ache.

Bearable.

For now.

"I'll kill you tomorrow." He kisses her on the scalp.

The knife goes back under the mattress. He holds her tight and she makes a happy sighing sound.

When he finally falls asleep, it's to the image of cutting her open and bathing his face with her blood.

Chapter 1

"Dammit."

My fan had died. It didn't surprise me. The fan had ten years on me, and I came into the world during the Eisenhower years. It belonged in a museum, not an office.

Today was the first day of July, and hot enough to cook burgers on the sidewalk, though you probably wouldn't want to eat them afterward. My blouse clung to me, my nylons felt like sweatpants, and I'd developed a fatal case of the frizzies.

The 26th Police District of Chicago, where I slowly roasted, was temporarily without air-conditioning due to a problem with the condensers, whatever the hell they were. We were promised it would be fixed by December.

I hit the base of the fan with my stapler. Though I was the highest ranking female cop in the Violent Crimes Unit, I tended to be useless mechanically. My handyperson skills maxed out at changing a lightbulb. And even then, I had to read the instructions. The fan seemed to sense this, slowly wagging its blades at me like dusty tongues.

My partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict, walked into my office, sucking on a soda cup the size of a small garbage can. It didn't seem to be helping him cool off. Herb weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds, and had more pores on his face than I had on my whole body. Benedict's suit looked like it had been soaked in Lake Michigan and put on wet.

He waddled up and placed a moist palm on my desk, leaving a streak. I noticed droplets in his gray mustache; sweat or diet cola. His basset hound jowls glistened as if greased.

"Morning, Jack."

My birth name was Jacqueline, but when I married my ex-husband, Alan Daniels, no one could resist shortening it to Jack.

"Morning, Herb. Here to help me fix my fan?"

"Nope. I'm here to share my breakfast."

Herb set a brown paper sack on my desk.

"Donuts? Bagels? Cholesterol McMuffins?"

"Not even close."

Benedict removed a plastic bag containing, of all things, rice cakes.

"That's it?" I asked. "Where's the chocolate? Where's the canned cheese?"

"I'm watching my weight. In fact, I joined a health club."

"You're kidding."

"You know the one that advertises on TV all the time?"

"The one where you get to work out with all of those Olympic bodybuilders for only thirty bucks a month?"

"That's the one. Except I've got the Premier Membership, not the normal one."

"What's the difference?"

He named a monetary figure, and I whistled at the amount.

"But with it, I get full access to the racquetball and squash courts."

"You don't play racquetball or squash."

"Plus, my membership card is colored gold instead of blue."

I leaned back in my chair, interlacing my fingers behind my head. "Well, that's different. I'd pay extra for that. How is the place?"

"I haven't worked out there yet. Everyone that goes is in such good shape, I thought I should lose a few pounds before I start."

"I don't think they'd care, Herb. And if they do, just impress them by flashing your gold card."

"You're not being very supportive here, Jack."

"Sorry." I picked up a file to fan myself. "It's the heat."

"You need to get in shape. I've got guest passes. They've got Pilates at the club. I'm thinking of taking a class after work."

Herb smiled, biting into a rice cake. His smile faded as he chewed.

"Damn. These things taste like Styrofoam."

The phone rang.

"Jack? Phil Blasky. There's, um, a bit of a situation here at County."

County meant the Cook County Morgue. Phil was the Chief Medical Examiner.

"I know this is going to sound like a paperwork problem . . ." He paused, sucking in some air through his teeth. ". . . but I've checked and double-checked."

"What's wrong, Phil?"

"We have an extra body. Well, actually, some extra body parts."

Phil explained. I told him we'd stop by, and then shared the information with Herb.

"Could be some kind of prank. County are a strange bunch."

"Maybe. Phil doesn't think so."

"Did he say what the extra parts were?"

"Arms."

Benedict thought this over.

"Maybe someone is simply lending him a hand."

I stood up and pinched the center of my blouse, fanning in some air. "We'll take your car."

Herb recently bought a sporty new Camaro Z28, an expensive reminder of his refusal to age gracefully. Silly as he looked behind the wheel, the car had great air-conditioning, whereas my 1988 Nova did not.

We left my office and made our way downstairs and outside. It was like stepping into a toaster. Though it couldn't have been much hotter than the district building, the blistering sun amplified everything. A bank across the street flashed the current temp on its sidewalk sign. One hundred and one. And the sign was in the shade.

Herb pressed a gizmo on his key chain and his car beeped and started on its own. It was red, naturally, and so heavily waxed that the glare coming off it hurt my eyes. I climbed in the passenger side and angled both vents on my face while Herb babied the Camaro out of its parking space.

"Zero to sixty in five point two seconds."

"Have you taken it up to sixty yet?"

"I'm still breaking it in."

He put on a pair of Ray-Bans and pulled onto Addison. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the cool air. We were at County all too soon.

Cook County Morgue was located on Harrison in Chicago's medical district, near Rush-Presbyterian Hospital. It rose two stories, all dirty white stone and tinted windows. Herb pulled around back into a circular driveway, and parked next to the curb.

"I hate coming here." Herb frowned, his mustache drooping like a walrus. "I can never get the smell out of my clothes."

Years ago, when my mother walked a beat, cops would smear whiskey on their upper lip to combat the stench of the morgue.

Sanitation had improved since then; cooler temps, better ventilation, greater attention to hygiene. But the smell still stuck with you.

I made do with some cherry lip balm, a small dab under each nostril. I passed the tube to Herb.

"Cherry? Don't you have menthol?"

"It's a hundred degrees out. I wasn't worried about windburn."

He sniffed the balm, then handed it back without applying any.

"It smells too good. I'd eat it."

The heat hit me like a blow dryer when I got out of the car.

A cop walked over and eyed the Camaro -- there were always cops around County. He was young and tan and didn't give me a second glance, preferring to talk to Herb.

"Five speed?"

"Six. Three hundred ten horses."

The uniform whistled, running his finger along some pinstriping.

"What's under the hood, five point seven?"

Herb nodded. "Want to see?"

I left the boys with their toy and walked into the entrance, to the right of the automatic double doors.

The lobby, if you could call it that, consisted of a counter, a door, and a glass partition. Behind the counter was a solitary black man in hospital scrubs.

"Phil Blasky?"

He shot his thumb at the door. "In the fridge."

I signed in, received a plastic badge, and entered the main room.

Death overpowered the cherry, so strong I could taste it in the back of my mouth. It had a sickly-sour smell, like rotting carnations.

To the right, a mortician in an ill-fitting suit hefted a body off a table and onto a rolling cot. When he finished, he pulled off his latex gloves and shot them, rubber-band-style, into a garbage can.

Next to him, resting on a stainless steel scale built into the floor, was a naked male corpse, grossly obese, with burns covering most of his torso. The LCD screen on the wall blinked 450 lbs. He smelled like bacon.

I held my breath and pulled open the heavy aluminum door, which led into the cooler.

The stench worsened in here. Bleach and blood and urine and meat gone bad.

Cook County Morgue was the largest in the Midwest. Indigents, unclaimed bodies, accident victims, suicides, and cases of foul play all came through these doors. It held about three hundred bodies.

Just my luck, they were running at capacity.

To my left, corpses lay stacked on wire shelves warehouse-style, five high and thirty wide. Stretching across the main floor was a traffic jam of tables and carts, all occupied. Some of the dead were covered with black plastic bags. Some weren't.

Unlike movie depictions of morgues, these bodies didn't lie down in peaceful, supine positions. Many of them had kept the poses they died in; arms and legs jutting out, curled up on their sides, necks at funny angles. They also didn't look like a Hollywood conception of a corpse. A real dead person had very little color. Regardless of race, the skin always seemed to fade into a light blue, and the eyes were dull and cloudy, like dusty snow globes.

The temperature hovered at fifty degrees, fans blowing around the frigid, foul air. It chilled my sweat in a most unpleasant way.

To the right, in an adjacent room, an autopsy was being performed. I focused on the figure holding the bone saw, didn't recognize him, and continued to look around.

I found Phil Blasky near the back of the room, and walked up to him carefully; the floors were sticky with various fluids, and all of them clashed with my Gucci pumps.

"Phil."

"Jack."

Phil was leaning over a steel table, squinting at something. I stood next to him, trying not to gape at the nude body of a toddler, half wrapped in a black plastic bag, lying next to him. The child was so rigid and pale, he appeared to be made out of wax.

"I went through every stiff in the place a second time. No one is missing arms."

I glanced down at the table. The arms were severed at the shoulder, laid out with their fingertips touching, the elbows bending in a big M. They belonged to a female, Caucasian, with fake pink nails. A pair of black handcuffs connected them at the wrists. There was very little blood, but the jagged edges to the wounds suggested they didn't come off easily.

"I suspect an axe." Phil poked at the wound with a gloved finger. "See the mark along the humerus, here? It took two swings to sever the appendage."

"It doesn't look humorous to me." Benedict had snuck up behind us.

"Funny," Phil said. "Never heard that one before, working with dead bodies for twenty years. Next will you make some kind of gimme a hand joke?"

"I did that one already," Herb said. "How about: It appears the suspect has been disarmed?"

"She was always such a cut-up?"

"Would you like a shoulder to cry on?"

"Can I go out on a limb here?"

"At least she'll get severance pay?"

Phil cocked an eyebrow at Herb.

"Severance?" Herb said. "Sever?"

I tuned out their act and got a closer look at the arms. Snapping on a latex glove, I pushed back the cold, hard fingers and peered at the handcuffs. They were Smith and Wesson model number 100.

"Those are police issue." Benedict poked at them with a pencil. "I've got a set just like them."

So did every other cop in our district, and probably in Chicago. They were also sold at sporting goods stores, sex shops, and Army/Navy surplus outlets, plus a zillion places over the Internet. Impossible to trace. But maybe we'd get lucky and the owner had etched his name and address on the . . .

I inhaled sharply.

This couldn't be right.

On the cuffs, next to the keyhole, were two small initials painted in red nail polish. I tugged out my .38, holstered under my blazer, and looked at the butt. It had the same two red letters.

JD.

"Herb." I kept my voice steady. "Those handcuffs are mine."

Chapter 2

I treated the morgue like a crime scene, calling in the CSU, cordoning off the area, gathering a list of employees to question.

No one had seen anything.

The Crime Scene Unit, consisting of Officer Dan Rogers -- tall, blond, goatee -- on samples and Officer Scott Hajek -- short and compact, blue eyes hidden behind glasses -- on photographs. They were young, but knew their stuff.

Rogers scanned the arms with an ALS, and they glowed flawlessly pale under the high-intensity light.

"Not a thing." Rogers scratched at his beard.

Unusual. Under Alternate Light Source, even the tiniest bit of foreign matter glowed like a hot coal. Particles, hair, dirt, bone fragments, blood, semen, bruises, bite marks -- they all fluoresced.

Dan bent down, his nose to one of the wrists.

"They've been washed. Smells like bleach."

"Are you sure? The whole morgue smells like bleach."

Rogers, in a move characteristic of his thoroughness, touched the tip of his tongue to the arm.

"Tastes like bleach too. Probably diluted with water, or it would have mottled the skin."

"Get a sample to burn. And go brush your teeth."

Rogers dug into his breast pocket for some cinnamon gum. After popping three pieces, he moved the soft blue light closer to the fingers on the right hand.

"I have a slight indentation on the index finger. Looks like she usually wore a ring."

Hajek brushed past me, zooming in on the fingers. He snapped a close-up.

"I missed the taste test." He playfully shoved Rogers. "Can I get one with you sucking on the fingers?"

Rogers showed him a finger of a different kind. Hajek's shutter clicked.

"When you're done scraping the fingernails, I need one of the fakes."

"Finished already, Lieut."

Rogers snapped off a pink press-on nail, bagged it, and handed it to me. Then he used a scalpel to take skin samples from each arm, putting them into glass tubes.

"Nothing on the handcuffs?"

"Wiped clean. I can take them back and fume them to make sure."

"Do it. You'll need these."

I took the cuff keys from my ring, where they'd been attached for the last year. Rogers undid the handcuffs and placed them in an evidence bag. Then he brought the ALS around.

"No abrasions on the wrist."

Hajek moved in, shooting a few frames.

"Thanks, guys," I said. "If you can get the pictures on my desk tomorrow, along with the prints."

"I'm on it."

Rogers dug into his bag, removing fingerprint ink and two sets of cards. I left him to his work and went off in search of Herb.

Benedict stood in the lobby, talking to one of the attendants. Herb's hand cradled a snack-size potato chip bag, half full. The other half was in his mouth.

He must have noticed the question on my face when I approached, because he said, "They're fat-free."

"Herb -- it's a morgue."

"My Pilates instructor told me to eat small snacks several times a day to keep my metabolism up."

He offered the bag.

"Try one. They're baked. One-third less sodium too."

I politely declined. "Get anything?"

"They run three eight-hour shifts, twenty-four hours. I questioned the four attendants here, and no one saw anything. Full list of employees is in my pocket."

"Won't help."

The thin black man standing next to Herb offered his hand. I took it.

"And why won't it help, Mr. . . . ?"

"Graves. Carl Graves. All them bodies come here in bags. Cops and EMTs wrap them up before dropping them off. Be real easy to put some extra parts in a bag, wheel it in, then sneak them out. No one would see a thing."

"How many bodies are dropped off every day?"

"Depends. Sometimes, five or six. Sometimes, a few dozen."

"Who has access to the morgue?"

"Cops, docs, morticians. Some days fifty people sign in."

"How many employees?"

"Around twenty, with the ME's staff."

I frowned. If the arms had been here for a few days before being discovered, we could be dealing with several hundred suspects.

"Thanks, Mr. Graves." I handed him my card. "If you hear anything, let us know."

Graves nodded, walked off.

"Anything with the arms?" Herb asked, lips flecked with bits of greasy potato.

"Nothing, other than the fact that they're my handcuffs."

"Should I read you your rights?"

"Not yet. First you have to trick me into confessing."

"Gotcha. So . . . was the rest of the body hard to dispose of?"

"Yeah. I'll never get those stains out of my carpet."

My cell rang, saving me from further interrogation.

"Daniels."

"Ms. Daniels? This is Dr. Evan Kingsbury at St. Mary's Hospital in Miami. Mary Streng was just admitted into the Emergency Room. You're listed on her insurance as a contact."

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"She's my mother. What happened?"

"She's sedated. I know you're in Chicago, but is it possible for you to get here? She needs you right now."

Chapter 3

I hadn't realized how fragile my mother had become until I saw her in that hospital bed, an IV cruelly jabbed into her pale, thin arm. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, eyes that were once bright and active now sunken and sparkless.

This couldn't be the woman who raised me, the tough-but-loving beat cop who played both mother and father in my upbringing. The woman who taught me how to read and how to shoot. The woman with such inner strength that I modeled my life on hers.

"The doctors are overreacting, Jacqueline. I'll be fine." She offered a weak smile in a voice that wasn't hers.

"Your hip is broken, Mom. You almost died."

"Didn't come close."

I held her hand, feeling the fragile bones under the skin. My veneer started to crack.

"If Mr. Griffin hadn't made the police break down your door, you'd still be lying on the bathroom floor."

"Nonsense. I would have gotten out of there soon enough."

"Mom . . . you were there for four days." The horror of it stuck in my throat. I'd called her yesterday -- our twice weekly call -- and when she hadn't answered, I assumed she was out with Mr. Griffin or one of the other elderly men she occasionally saw.

"I had water from the bathtub. I could have lasted another week or two."

"Aw, Mom . . ."

The tears came. My mother patted the back of my hand with her free one.

"Oh, Jacqueline. Don't be upset. This is what happens when you get old."

"I should have been there."

"Nonsense. You live a thousand miles away. This is my dumb fault for slipping in the shower."

"I called you yesterday. When you didn't pick up, I should have . . ."

My mother shushed me, softly.

"Sweetheart, you know you can't play the what-if game, especially in our profession. This isn't the first time this has happened."

She couldn't have hurt me more if she'd tried.

"How many times, Mom?"

"Jacqueline--"

"How many times?"

"Three or four."

I didn't need to hear that. "But you never hurt yourself, right?"

"I may have had a cast on my elbow for a while."

I fought not to yell. "And you never told me?"

"I'm not your responsibility."

"Yes . . . you are."

She sighed, her face so sad.

"Jacqueline, when your father died, you were the only family I had left. You were also the only family that I ever needed. I would never, ever allow myself to become a burden to you."

I sniffled, found my center.

"Well, get used to it. As soon as you're released, you're moving in with me."

"Absolutely not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Please, Mom."

"No. I have a very active social life. How could I get intimate with a gentleman when my daughter is in the other room?"

Reluctantly, I played my trump card.

"I spoke with your doctors. They don't feel that you're able to take care of yourself."

Mom's face hardened.

"What? That's ridiculous."

"They'll only release you from the hospital into my custody."

"Was it that Dr. Kingsbury? Smarmy little bastard, talking to me like I'm a three-year-old."

"You don't have a choice, Mom."

"I always have a choice."

"It's either me, or assisted living."

I watched my words sink in. My mother's biggest, and only, fear was going into a nursing home. Before meeting my father, she worked briefly as an activity director in a continuing care facility, and swore that she'd jump in front of a bus before ever checking into one of the "death hotels," as she called them.

"No way in hell."

"Mom, I can invoke power of attorney."

"My mind is sound."

I made myself keep going, even though I hated this.

"I have friends in the courts, Mom."

My mom turned away, shaking her head.

"You wouldn't do that to me."

"Look at me, Mom. How far do you think I would go to protect you?"

Mom continued to stare at the wall. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

"Bullying an old lady. Is that how I raised you, Jacqueline?"

"No, Mom. You raised me to care. Just like you said: You're the only family I've ever had. You took care of me for eighteen years." I squeezed her hand. "It's my turn to take care of you."

Mom pulled her hand away.

"I'd like to be alone."

"Please. Don't be like this."

She pressed the button to page the nurse.

"Mom . . . please."

A white-clothed figure poked her head into the room.

"How are we doing, Mrs. Streng?"

"I'm very tired. I'd like to take a nap."

The nurse looked at me, sympathetic.

I stood up, briefly fussed with the get-well flower arrangement I'd brought, and then turned to leave.

"Nurse," Mom's voice cracked. "Please make sure I don't have any visitors for the next few days."

"Perhaps you'll feel differently tomorrow, Mrs. Streng."

"No. I'm sure I won't."

The tears came again. I took a deep breath and stopped my chest from quivering.

"I love you, Mom."

For the first time ever, she didn't respond with "I love you too."

The nurse put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle push.

I took one more look at my mother, and walked out of her room.

Chapter 4

Mom lived in Dade City, a pleasant town that seemed out of place in Florida. Rather than tourist-crammed beaches and mega theme parks, Dade boasted gently rolling hills, actual woods, and so many antique malls you couldn't spit without hitting one.

The night had arrived, hot and thick like a soggy blanket, but I kept the windows down. The rental had decent air-conditioning, but I didn't feel I deserved it.

I'd been to her place twice before, and always missed the turn onto her street. Tonight was no exception. I pressed through three lefts and found it on the second pass.

Her condo had a matching numbered space in the parking lot. Overnight bag slung over my shoulder, her keys in my hand, I was just about to enter the lobby when I stopped, mid-step.

Was I doing the right thing?

A quick image of Mom facedown in the bathtub spurred me on.

The Highlands were retirement condos, regardless of what the brochures promised. No one under fifty-five lived here. A full-time staff kept the pool clean, ran errands for the tenants, and tended the prerequisite eighteen-hole golf course. They also had EMT training, a necessity since the elderly often acted, well, elderly. But even though they were available twenty-four hours a day, they didn't routinely check on their residents.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor, and found a painfully thin old man in a bright Hawaiian shirt crouched before my mother's open door, fiddling with a screwdriver.

"Hello?"

He peered at me through thick glasses; first the upper half, then tilting his head up so he could squint through the bifocals. The man had a bald head so speckled with age spots it was a dead ringer for a sparrow's egg.

"Mmm? Oh, hello."

The man stood, with much creaking of bones. Fully erect, he wasn't much taller than when he'd been squatting; his back curved like a question mark. He smiled, flashing bright white dentures, and offered his hand.

"You must be Jacqueline. Sal Griffin. I'm a friend of your mother's."

I forced down my smile. Mom often told me stories of her trysts with Mr. Griffin, and usually described him as "insatiable," "unrelenting," and "He's a machine; his pelvis is spring-loaded." I'd always pictured him as a distinguished, Sean Connery type. Instead, standing before me was a bald Don Knotts.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Griffin."

"The police made a bit of a mess." He motioned to the door. "I'm putting in a new jamb."

"Don't they have people here that can fix it?"

"Sure. But I wanted to make sure it was done right. Excuse me, where are my manners? Let me take that for you."

Mr. Griffin reached for my carry-on. I thought about protesting, fearful he might hurt himself lifting it, but then let him play the gentleman. He led me into the condo, flipping on lights as he walked.

The place was clean, tidy, well-kept. I resisted the immediate urge to check the fridge and the cupboards to make sure Mom was eating right.

"I spoke with your mother a little while ago. She mentioned you might be coming."

He set my bag down on the dining room table.

"How long ago? I've tried to call a few times since leaving the hospital, but she has a Do Not Disturb on the line."

"Oh, about five minutes. She called me. I've never heard her so upset before."

"We had a . . . disagreement."

He frowned, nodding.

"Proud woman, your mother. When I had the police break in, earlier today, her first words to me were to get the hell out of her bathroom, because she didn't want me to see her like that."

I smirked. "That sounds like Mom."

"I'm sorry she was there for so long. I just got back into town this morning. If I'd have even considered . . ."

"Thank you for coming to her rescue, Mr. Griffin. I'm the one who should be feeling guilty. She's fallen before."

"I know. Eight or nine times. I installed the safety bar in her shower."

I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. "Eight or nine? She told me four."

"I'm not surprised. You'd have just . . ."

His voice trailed off. We both knew what was unsaid. If I'd known she'd been falling a lot, I'd have forced her to move in with me earlier.

"Well, I appreciate all you've done for her. Thank you."

Mr. Griffin shrugged. "Beautiful woman, your mother. Nice to finally meet you. She talks about you incessantly."

"It must be irritating."

"Not at all. I'd love to hear your version of how you got that guy who killed all those women, the Gingerbread Man. The way your mom tells it, that private investigator fella, the one who was the hero in the TV movie, he really didn't do a damn thing."

"True."

"And you're much prettier than that fat actress they got to play you."

"Thank you, again."

"Though I will admit, that scene in the sewer, where you grabbed that fella's leg and begged for him to save you . . ." Mr. Griffin chuckled. "That was pretty funny."

I frowned. That wasn't how it happened, but I figured I got off easy. In the original screenplay, the writer had me wet my pants in that scene. I had to threaten legal action to get that taken out.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's fine."

Mr. Griffin grinned. "It's hard, having your pride trampled on."

Then he winked at me. Clever old coot. I was about to explain the difference between having a bruised ego and having a broken hip, when a beeping sound interrupted us.

"My phone. Pardon me."

He removed a cell from his baggy shorts.

"Hello? . . . Hi, how are you feeling, Mary? . . . Yes, she's here right now. . . . Hmm. I see. Would you like to talk to her? Perhaps you should tell her that yourself. I wouldn't feel comfortable . . . Yes. Okay. I understand. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He folded up the phone and put it away, his wrinkled face pained.

"Just tell me."

"Your mother said that she'd prefer it if you didn't stay at her place."

I think I flinched.

"She's just angry right now, Jacqueline. Angry and hurt. I'll talk to her."

"She was stuck on the bathroom floor, in pain, for four days--"

"I know."

"--lying in her own mess--"

"I know."

"She could have died, Mr. Griffin. I can't let that happen to my mother again."

Mr. Griffin put a hand on my shoulder, patted.

"You have to understand something about getting old, Jacqueline. We can't hold on to our health. It's impossible. But we try like mad to hold on to our dignity."

My eyes teared up, but I refused to cry.

"I just want my mom to be safe. Dignity doesn't matter."

"But it does, Jacqueline. Once dignity is gone, the will to live isn't far behind."

I walked away, heading for my overnight bag.

"Fine. I'll stay at a hotel."

"You can, but your mother was quite clear. She refuses to speak to you until you stop bullying her. I'm sorry."

I clenched my teeth and my fists, wanting to scream. Instead of picking up my carry-on, I walked past it and headed for the bathroom. Seeing where it happened, seeing the mess, would help steel my resolve.

The bathroom was spotless.

"I cleaned it up earlier." Mr. Griffin put his hand on my shoulder again. "She'll come around. Just give her time. Asking for help just isn't your mother's way."

I spun, ready for a fight.

"Neither of you seem to think she needs help."

Now it was his turn to look sad.

"Oh, she does. Yes, she does."

"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.

Chapter 5

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.

"Maybe someone pinched them."

That seemed more likely. I didn't carry a purse, and most of my outfits had oversized pockets to hold all of my essentials, cuffs included. Even a mediocre thief could have gotten them from me without much effort.

"But why me?"

I used Herb's phone to call Fuller back into the office. He'd been particularly helpful on the Gingerbread Man case, and I needed an extra man.

"Officer, I'd like you to cross-reference my previous case files with the names from County's sign-in book. You know how to build a database?"

Fuller snorted.

"You think because I can bench three-fifty I can't work a spreadsheet?"

"You can bench three-fifty?" Herb asked. "I almost weigh three-fifty."

"It's not that hard. Just a combination of diet, exercise, and supplementing."

"Maybe that's why I'm not getting results. I'm not supplementing."

I thought of a hundred things to say, but managed to keep a lid on them.

Fuller walked next to Herb and leaned against his desk. The desk creaked. "I stack to boost my metabolism. Plus I use chromium, L-carnitine, CLA, and I protein-load before working out. If you want, I could take you through my NFL routine sometime."

Herb beamed in a way that he usually reserved for chili dogs. "That'd be great! Can I get a list of those supplements you're taking?"

"Sure. See, an ECA stack is a combination of--"

"Officer Fuller," I interrupted, "we could really use that database."

"Gotcha, Lieut. I'll get right on it."

Fuller left. Herb gave me a frown.

"What's wrong, Jack?"

"I wanted to stop the conversation before the two of you started flexing."

"Too much guy talk, huh? Sorry, didn't mean to exclude you."

Herb said it without sarcasm, but the comment chafed. Being a woman in the CPD meant constant, unrelenting exclusion. It didn't matter that I was the number-one marksman in the district. It didn't matter that I had a black belt in tae kwon do. Herb wouldn't ever think to ask me about my workout routine. Unconscious sexism.

Or perhaps I was just being overly touchy because of the situation with my mom.

Pulitzer returned, looking a little better.

"I thought of something, but I don't know if it will help or not."

We waited.

"If Davi was doing anything illegal, it wouldn't matter now, right? Because she's gone? It's silly, but I still feel protective of her."

"Drugs?" I asked.

Pulitzer's shoulders slumped.

"Cocaine. Recreational, as far as I knew. It didn't affect her work."

"Do you know where she got her drugs?"

"No idea."

Again, we waited.

"I really have no idea. I want to help, but I'm not into that scene. I could put you in touch with some of my other models who might know, but I wouldn't want them getting into trouble."

Pulitzer reached up to rub the back of his neck, exposing a bandage beneath the cuff on his right wrist.

"How did you get that?" Herb asked, pointing it out.

"Hmm? Oh. Mr. Friskers."

"Mr. Friskers?"

"Davi's cat. I hate that damn thing. Mean as hell. I went over to Davi's apartment before I called the police. She gave me a set of keys. I figured, I don't know, maybe she had a heart attack, or fell and broke her leg so she couldn't get to the phone."

I felt Herb's eyes on me. I kept focus on Pulitzer.

"We'll need to check the apartment. The keys would save us some time."

Pulitzer dug into his pants and handed me a key ring.

"Be careful. That thing is like a little T. rex."

After assuring Pulitzer we wouldn't pursue any narcotics possession charges with his models, he gave us the names of three who used coke.

"Is there anything else? I wasn't able to reschedule my afternoon meeting. Big client. I want to help Davi, but I really can't miss this."

"Thank you, Mr. Pulitzer. We'll be in touch."

We shook hands.

"Please catch the guy that did this. Davi is -- was -- a real sweetheart."

After he left, I stood up and tried to stomp some blood back into my toes, which felt frostbitten.

"You up for a drive, Herb?"

"Hell, yes. My nose hairs have icicles hanging from them."

"We can only hope those are icicles."

Keys in hand, we headed for his car to check out Davi's apartment.

The summer heat felt wonderful for the first five minutes. Then Herb cranked the air-conditioning.

Chapter 6

It's a bad one.

He looks around his office, a knuckle jabbed against his temple, trying to will the pain away.

Does anyone notice? They must. His neck muscles are tight enough to strum, he's drenched in sweat, and he can't control the trembling.

He's never experienced pain this intense. Not even his injury hurt this much. It's as if his head is in a vise, being slowly tightened until his eyes are ready to pop out. The pills he took earlier aren't doing a damn thing.

Maybe his wife is right. He should see a doctor. But the idea terrifies him. What if the doctor finds something seriously wrong? What if he needs surgery? He'd rather deal with the pain than let some quack poke around in his brain.

"You okay?"

A coworker. Female. Plain-looking, heavy hips, short brown hair in a spiky Peter Pan style.

"Headache." He manages a sickly grin.

"Do you need some aspirin?"

He decides to kill her.

"Yeah, thanks."

She walks to her desk. He imagines her, kneeling on the floor in his plastic room. She's crying, of course. Maybe he's taken a belt to her first, to loosen her up. Leaving marks on this one will be okay. Since she works with him, he can't allow her body to be discovered.

"Tylenol?" she calls over the cubicle wall.

"Fine."

How should she die? Her haircut inspires him. He will draw his knife across her forehead, pull back the skin to expose the bone. Work a finger in there, then two and three.

Skin stretches. His hands are large, but he should be able to get his entire hand between her skull and her scalp.

"Like a warm, wet glove," he says, shivering.

"What's like a glove?"

She's holding out the Tylenol bottle, one eyebrow raised.

"I want to thank you for this."

"No problem. I used to get migraines. I would have killed somebody to take the pain away."

Me too.

"You know, Sally, we've worked in the same building for a few years now, and I don't know anything about you."

She smiles. Her front teeth are crooked. He can picture her mouth stretched open, screaming and bloody, as he practices some amateur dentistry with a ball-peen hammer.

"I'm married, with two kids, Amanda and Jenna. Amanda is eight and Jenna just turned five."

He forces a grin, his hopes shattered. Who would have guessed an ugly thing like her had a family? He doubts he'll be able to get her alone, and even if he manages, she'll be missed.

"How about you? Married?"

"Yes. No kids, though. My wife is a model, and she doesn't want to ruin her body. You know, hips spreading, stretch marks, saggy tits."

Ugly Sally's smile slips a degree.

"Yeah, well, it happens. But I think it's worth it."

"Look, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the Tylenol."

"No problem. TOSAP."

He inwardly cringes at the slogan. "Yeah. TOSAP."

Ugly Sally waddles away, and he works the cap off the bottle and dry-swallows six Tylenol. The throbbing, which abated slightly during his murder-fantasies, comes back harder than ever.

He needs to kill somebody. As soon as possible.

The pain-relieving properties of murder were discovered by him at a young age, when he was in his third foster home. Ironically, he'd been removed from his previous home for being neglected -- the couple who had taken him in had also taken in eight other children, for the monthly check from the government. They would blow it all on drugs and let the children go without food. Well-meaning Social Services had whisked him away from the neglect, and handed him over to a psychotic alcoholic instead.

After a particularly nasty beating with a car antenna, he and his younger foster brother were locked in a closet.

He'd really been hurting. But along with the pain was a sense of helplessness, of frustration.

He took that frustration out on his foster brother, in the dark, muffled confines of the closet. The more he hurt the smaller boy, the more his own pain went away.

His new foster father went to jail for the murder.

When the headaches began, he knew just how to deal with them.

After four clicks of the mouse, his monitor fills with eligibles.

He finds a girl, one who lives just a few blocks away. Address seems to be current. He calls, using his cell.

A woman answers, her voice deep and throaty.

Perfect.

Chapter 7

The doorman at Davi McCormick's apartment building wore a heavy wool blazer, dark red, complete with gold epaulets and matching buttons. In this heat he looked positively miserable.

"Last time I saw Ms. McCormick was Sunday evening, right before Murry took over. Murry works the six P.M. to two A.M. shift, and she left the building about fifteen minutes before that."

"Do you remember what she wore?"

"A black cocktail dress, heels, diamond-stud earrings. Her hair was up. As I held open the door I told her she looked beautiful and asked where she was going."

"What did she answer?"

"She said, Big date. Real big. And then laughed. Is she okay?"

Herb gave him the news, then got the phone numbers for Murry and the morning doorman. He called them during the elevator ride. Neither had seen Davi since Sunday.

Pulitzer's key got us inside. I could have fit three of my apartments inside of Davi's, with room left over to park my car.

"I'll take the bedroom," I told Herb.

Then we heard the scream.

I tugged my .38 from the holster strapped to my left armpit, senses heightened.

Movement, to the right. Both Herb and I swung our guns over.

A cat, wearing a large disposable diaper, bounded out from under the dining room table and into the hallway, screaming like a train whistle.

Herb exhaled. "I just had about four heart attacks."

"That must be Mr. Friskers."

"Either that or a small, furry toddler. Did you check out the diaper?"

"Yeah. Talk about pampering your pets."

I tucked my gun back under my blazer and fished a pair of latex gloves from my pocket.

"We've got an hour," I told Herb, indicating when the CSU would arrive.

Davi's bedroom was the bedroom of a typical young woman, albeit one with money. Her unmade bed had a stuffed animal infestation, over a dozen of them swarming on top of the pink comforter. A framed Nagel print hung on the far wall. The near wall was obscured by a collage of pictures, most of them Davi, snipped from magazines.

A large pile of clothing rested near the closet, and a makeup mirror -- the kind movie stars have with bare lightbulbs surrounding the frame -- hung above the dresser. Cosmetics rested on every flat surface in the room.

On the nightstand, next to the bed, a phone/answering machine combo blinked, indicating twelve messages. I scrolled through the caller ID numbers. Four of them read "blocked call," the last from 4:33 P.M. Sunday night.

I played the messages. All were from Pulitzer but one: a long-distance call from Davi's mother. The blocked calls didn't seem to correspond to any messages.

Davi's walk-in closet was so crammed full of clothing I could barely walk in. Some of it occupied hangers, but most of it rested in large heaps on the floor. Rummaging through the piles yielded nothing but an empty cat carrier.

A quick search of her drawers found more clothes, makeup, and a nickel bag of cocaine. I placed it in one of the evidence bags I always keep in my pocket. Then I pulled every drawer completely out and checked to see if anything was hidden behind them or taped under them. I'd been doing that ever since seeing a Hill Street Blues episode where a cop found a clue that way. Maybe someone somewhere saw the same episode.

No such luck today.

Under the bed I discovered two stray stuffed animals, a cat toy, and several years' worth of dust. Nothing hidden between the mattress and box spring. Nothing behind the Nagel print.

I returned to the phone and hit Redial, copying down the last number called and disconnecting before it went through. Then I copied down all of the numbers on the caller ID.

"Jack!"

I've been partners with Herb for over a decade, but had never heard such raw panic in his voice before. I rushed out of the bedroom, gun drawn.

Herb stood in the living room, stock-still. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Perched on Herb's head was Mr. Friskers, claws dug in tight.

"He leaped off the curtains. His claws are like fishhooks."

I took a step closer. Mr. Friskers hissed and arched his back.

Herb screamed.

"Get it off before he scalps me, Jack!"

"You can't pull him off?"

"His claws are stuck in my skull bone."

Only years of training and consummate professionalism prevented me from breaking down in hysterical laughter.

"You want me to call Animal Control?" I tried to say it straight, but a giggle escaped.

"No. I want you to shoot him."

"Herb . . ."

"Shoot the cat, Jack. Please. I'm begging you. It's not just the pain. There's gotta be several days' worth of cat mess in that diaper. The smell is making my eyes water."

I'd never owned a cat and had zero experience with the species. But I did recall an old TV commercial where the cat came running when it got fed. Couldn't hurt to try.

"I'll be right back."

"Don't leave me, Jack."

"I'm just going to get my camera."

"That's not even close to being funny."

I located the canned cat food in a cabinet. When I opened one of the tins, Herb screamed again. Mr. Friskers appeared in the kitchen a heartbeat later.

"You were just hungry, weren't you, kitty?"

The cat yowled at me. I set the can on the floor and watched him inhale the food.

Herb came through the doorway. His gun was out, pointing at Mr. Friskers.

"Herb, put that away."

"It's evil, Jack. It has to die."

Mr. Friskers looked at Herb, hissed, then bolted out of the room. Herb holstered his weapon.

"Am I bleeding?"

"A little." I handed him some paper towels. "Find anything?"

"Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, a few personal letters. You?"

"A few grams of cocaine."

"Give it to the cat. Maybe it will calm him down."

I gave Herb a fake smile. "Funny, for someone bleeding to death. Want to stop by the ER on the way back for your rabies shot?"

Herb narrowed his eyes, then looked past me, through the kitchen.

"The crime scene unit will be here soon."

"So?"

A yowl pierced the room, and Mr. Friskers shot past us and pounced his diaper-clad ass onto the counter. He sat there, hissing. His tail, which poked out through the center of the diaper, swished back and forth like a cobra.

"I'll try Animal Control." I took out my cell.

The news wasn't good.

"Sorry, Lieutenant. The heat wave has all of us doing triple time. Soonest we could pick it up is Monday."

"We might all be eaten by then."

"It's the best I can do. You can try the Humane Society."

I tried the Humane Society.

"Sorry, Officer. We couldn't come for at least a week. When the temperature gets this high, animals are hit hardest. We don't even have any room for another."

Herb nudged me.

"Tell them this cat is evil. If you shaved its head, you'd see a 666."

I relayed the info, but they weren't swayed. Herb suggested calling the Crocodile Hunter, but neither of us knew his number.

"We can't let him stay here, Jack."

I agreed. A cat could mess up a scene in a dozen ways. Not just by destroying evidence -- it could get in the team's way, hurt someone, or even get hurt itself if it inhaled the wrong chemical.

"You want him?" I asked.

Herb frowned and tore off another paper towel to blot his scalp.

I reached a tentative hand out to stroke the cat, and he bared claws and took a swipe at me.

"Try offering him your head," Herb suggested. "He'll jump on and we can walk him out."

I left the kitchen and went into Davi's bedroom, returning a moment later with the cat carrier and some ski gloves.

Herb raised an eyebrow. "Should I start dialing 911 now?"

"No need to worry. Animals love me, because they can sense my pure heart."

Without hesitating, I grabbed Mr. Friskers around the body. He countered by screaming louder than humanly possible and locking his fangs onto my right index finger. The gloves protected me, and I managed to get him in the carrier without losing a digit.

"So now we throw him in Lake Michigan, right?"

"I'm sure one of Davi's friends will take him."

"And in the meantime?"

I let out a big, dramatic sigh.

"I guess I'll have to keep him for a few days."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Jack. I don't want the next murder I investigate to be yours."

"He's just scared and grumpy. You'd be grumpy too if you had the same diaper on for four days. Right, little guy?"

I poked my gloved finger into the cat carrier, and Mr. Friskers pounced on it, biting and scratching.

"Try showing him your pure heart," Herb suggested.

The cat screamed for the entire ride back to the office.

Chapter 8

"My place is just up the next block."

"This isn't a very nice neighborhood."

"On purpose. My wife would never think to look for me here."

He smiles at the girl. Eileen Hutton. Young, pretty, perfect body. She knew it, too, which is why this date cost a cool thousand bucks.

She won't get the chance to spend it.

They're driving south on Kedzie, property values dropping block by block. The flophouse where he takes his women is dilapidated, filthy, and came complete with a handful of winos lounging in front. When he parks in the adjacent alley, she doesn't want to get out of the car.

"What's wrong?" He grins. His head feels ready to burst, an incessant pounding that's making his vision blur. Sweat streaks down his face in rivers. Hopefully, she'll think it's just the heat.

"I don't feel comfortable here."

"Don't you trust me? I'm one of the good guys."

He unlocks the glove compartment, takes out a silver cigarette case. Lined up inside are six rolled joints. He lights one up, hands it to her.

"I married my wife for money, and believe me, she's got a lot. She won't put out, though. So I have to get it on the side, and I have to be discreet about it. You understand."

She puffs and nods.

Enjoy it, baby. It's your last.

No one gives them a glance as they walk into the building. The hallway smells like piss and worse. Lighting is at a minimum. She holds his arm until they get to his room.

His hand is trembling as he unlocks the door.

Almost there. Just a few more minutes.

They enter and she turns in a full circle, taking it all in. "Wow! What's your kink, man?"

The floors and walls are lined with clear plastic sheets. The only piece of furniture in the room is a bed, and that's also similarly covered.

"I like plastic."

"I can tell." She smiles in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. Annoying bitch. He's going to enjoy slicing her up.

"I want you to wear something for me."

"Let me guess. A plastic garbage bag?"

"No. These."

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Silver hoops, antique-looking.

"Those are pretty."

She removes the dangly gold ones she has on, shoves them into her little spaghetti strap designer purse. When she puts the first hoop in, he begins to pant. His expression must scare her, because she stops smiling.

"You know, I usually don't make dates on my own. I normally go through the escort service."

"Don't worry. You trust me, remember?"

She nods, but it's uncertain.

"These earrings look beautiful on you, Eileen."

"Thanks. Um, how did you get my number, anyway?"

"I have ways."

"Yeah. I guess you do."

"The bathroom is over there. I'd really like it if you came out wearing nothing but those earrings."

She gives him a half smile, hesitates, then trots off to the bathroom like a good little whore.

He undresses, folding his clothes neatly and putting them on the floor of the closet, next to the axe. His other instruments are laid out on a stained towel.

What to use, what to use?

He selects a garrote for the murder and a box cutter for the detail work. The garrote is something he picked up at work -- a twenty-inch strand of piano wire, the ends twisted around wooden pegs. He hasn't tried it yet. Should be fun.

She comes out of the bathroom, strutting. Her confidence is back. Her naked body is flawless.

But it won't be for long.

"Well, you're a big one, aren't you? What do you want to do first, big boy?"

Severing her head is harder than he'd have guessed. He has to prop his knee up against her back for leverage, and then use a sawing motion with the garrote to get through the spine.

There's a lot of blood.

When he's finished, he goes to work with the utility knife.

He attends to her eagerly, like a starving man. The feeling is more than sexual. It's euphoric. Mind-altering.

Pain-relieving.

The moment he walked behind her and stretched the wire across her pretty little throat, the pain vanished. His vision cleared, his jaw unclenched, and a feeling of pure relief a thousand times better than any orgasm flooded through him.

He doesn't understand why. He doesn't care why. The throbbing is gone, replaced by a mad giggling fit as he works harder and faster with the utility knife.

It soon escalates into a mindless frenzy.

Afterward, he takes a shower. The water is tepid and smells like rust. He doesn't care.

The pain is gone.

How long it will stay gone is unknown to him. Sometimes it lasts for weeks. Sometimes, only a few hours.

He takes what he can get.

He scrubs his nails with a toothbrush and a lot of soap, cleaning out all of the gore and little bits. He notices similar bits in his mouth, spits something bloody onto the shower floor.

Must have really gotten crazy there.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees how crazy he's actually been.

It's a mess. Worse than he's ever done.

He sits on the bed, naked, in a Thinker pose, staring at the body. He doesn't even remember doing half of these things to her. And using only a one-inch blade and pure strength. Impressive.

"I am one scary son of a bitch," he says to himself.

Careful to avoid the blood pool, he pads over to the closet and quickly dresses. On his cell phone, he presses 3 on speed dial.

"I've got another one."

Chuckles on the other end. "Busy little bee, aren't you?"

"Come get her."

"I'm already out the door."

He stands in the corner. Staring at the mess. Memorizing it.

Twenty minutes later, there's a knock.

"Who the hell is it?"

"The password is psycho. Open up."

He grins, letting Derrick inside. The man is short, compact, with acne scars on his chubby cheeks and a lazy eye that always looks to the left.

Derrick views the room and whistles.

"Damn! This is some piece of work. I'm going to need a shovel to clean this up."

"So?" He hands Derrick fifty dollars. "Go buy a shovel."

"Be right back, tiger."

In half an hour, Derrick returns. He wheels in the cart, the body bag resting on top.

"I thought you went to get a shovel."

"It's in the bag."

Derrick gets to work, rolling up the body and the mess in the plastic tarps lining the floor.

"Boy, you really did a number on her," Derrick says. "Where's her heart?"

The killer belches, pounds his chest.

Derrick laughs. "Talk about having heartburn."

The joke is lost on him. He's becoming anxious. Now that the rage has passed, he has to make sure everything goes according to plan.

"How are you going to dispose of her?"

"This one I think I'll cremate. I can't risk one of my famous two-for-one specials. The casket would leak."

"I want these to be found at the morgue, same as before."

The killer hands him a plastic bag.

"Ears? That's a riot." Derrick brings the bag to his mouth and yells, "Hello! Can you hear me?"

Idiot. But beggars can't be choosers.

"Leave the earrings on. They're important."

"No problem. These will be easier to sneak in than those arms. Hell, I could keep them in my pocket."

"Her things are in the bathroom. Take what you want. There's a grand in her purse."

"Righto, chief."

The cleanup continues for another fifteen minutes. The body and bloody tarps are zipped up in the bag.

"I'll line the room with new plastic sometime next week."

"Sooner."

"Sooner? You got the itch again already?"

"Not yet. But it could come back."

Derrick didn't know about the headaches. He thought he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill sex killer.

"Damn. I'm glad I'm not a good-looking chick with you loose in this city."

That won't save you. When the time comes, I'll gut you as well.

They leave the room, Derrick pushing the cart, the killer walking alongside. A few liquor-stained eyes peek at them, then quickly turn away. Derrick's van is parked in the alley, behind the killer's car. He pushes the cart into the rear, spring-loaded legs collapsing as he eases it in.

"Hey, you think, maybe, next time you do one of these women . . ."

"You want to watch?"

Derrick's face lights up. "Yeah! I mean, I'm no stranger to this shit. I'm not as, uh, extreme, as you are. But I've done things."

You pimple-faced freak. I know about the things you've done. You make my stomach turn.

"We'll see. A tag-team match might be fun."

"A tag-team. Yeah, I like that."

He claps Derrick on the shoulder, forces a grin. He knows the hardest thing about getting away with murder is disposing of the body, and having a mortician under his thumb makes things a lot easier. Still, there's no way he'll ever let Derrick see him in action. He might have to get rid of him sooner than expected.

"Hey, I'll call you when I drop the ears off at County."

"Make sure you wash them, first. I don't want to leave trace."

"Got it. See you, man."

Derrick climbs into his van and pulls away. The killer takes a deep breath, sucking in foul alley air that reeks of garbage.

It doesn't bother him at all.

Nothing does.

Chapter 9

"That cat's driving me crazy."

Herb pushed away from the computer and shot Mr. Friskers a look. Mr. Friskers howled his reply.

"He probably wants to be let out of the carrier."

"I'd sooner let Manson out. What are you going to do with him, anyway?"

I rubbed my temples, trying to work out the tension. We'd gotten back to the station two hours ago, and the cat hadn't shut up for any longer than it took to catch his breath.

"I've called all of Davi's model friends, her ex-boyfriend, and her mom. No one wants the cat."

"What a surprise. He's such a lovable bundle of joy."

"I also called a few pet stores. Apparently the heat wave doesn't affect a cat's promiscuity -- the stray population is the highest it's ever been, and no one is accepting any more cats."

Herb stroked his mustache, an indication he was lost in thought.

"Stray . . . that's not a bad idea. Just let the little monster free to prowl the city. That's what he's howling about anyway."

I considered it. On one hand, a cat that wore diapers probably wouldn't last too long on the street. On the other hand, Mr. Friskers was so damn mean he might do fine. I wouldn't even put it past him to join a gang and start robbing banks.

"Fine. We'll release the cat into the wild. You coming?"

"I'm staying. Kiss him good-bye for me."

I picked up the carrier, which caused Mr. Friskers to increase the pitch of his howling. A brief, chilly elevator ride later, we were in the back parking lot.

"Okay, my loud friend. This is where we go our separate ways." I unlatched the door on the cat carrier and opened it up. "Go. Be free."

Mr. Friskers stayed where he was.

"Go on. You got your wish."

The cat howled again, but didn't move.

Figuring he just needed a little help, I lifted up the cat carrier and tilted it forward. The cat spread out all four paws and clung to the sides, refusing to be dumped out.

I knelt down and peered into the carrier. "What's the problem, cat?"

He stared back, as if asking me the same question.

I thought about leaving him there. He'd get the hint eventually. Chances are he'd run off as soon as I was out of sight.

Then I thought about my mother.

Sometimes the ones who need help the most are the ones who refuse to accept it.

"Fine," I said, latching the carrier door. "You're stuck with me, then."

He yowled his reply.

Herb wasn't impressed to see his nemesis still hanging around.

"I thought you were going to let the cat out of the bag."

"I did. He wouldn't go."

"Did you try poking him with a stick?"

"No, I didn't. Maybe I should check a taser out of the armory and zap him a few times."

"Want me to go get it?"

"I'll save it as a last resort."

Herb took a bite out of a rice cake. He made a face, found a packet of saccharine in his pocket, and dumped it onto the remaining half.

"Want one?"

"Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back."

Herb took another bite, then added more sweetener. "At least the cat finally quieted down."

I looked into the carrier. Mr. Friskers had curled up into a little ball of fur.

"He's sleeping. Maybe we can get some work done."

"Those few minutes of silence were all I needed. I got a name to go with that last number Davi called. Cell phone, belongs to a man named Colin Andrews. Twenty-three, black, lives on 95th and Wabash."

"He's got a record?"

"A long one. He's a dealer."

"Davi's coke supplier?"

"All of his charges are for marijuana, but that'd be my assumption. And he was a guest of the city just a few weeks ago. Guess which district."

For the first time since the case began, I had that flutter feeling in my stomach that indicated we were getting close.

"You're kidding. Here?"

"The old two-six. For possession."

The ducks weren't perfect yet, but they were forming a row. If Colin Andrews had been in our building, he could have had an opportunity to pick up my handcuffs.

"Who booked him?"

"Hanson." Herb pressed a few computer keys. "She's gone for the day. Speaking of which, I need to leave early."

"Big plans?"

Herb gave me a grin that was positively wicked. I understood.

"Ah, those kind of plans. That requires leaving early?"

"In this instance, yes."

"Okay then, Romeo. We can get rolling on Andrews tomorrow."

"Good. You know" -- Herb eyed the cat -- "I drive by the Chicago River on the way home."

"Thanks for the offer. I think I'll let him live for the time being."

Herb said good night and left my office.

"Just me and you, Mr. Friskers."

At the mention of his name, the cat awoke and commenced howling.

I tried to ignore him, and attempted to finish up a report on a suicide from last week. After struggling through that, I went through my in-box and played pass-along with some current homicides that seemed open and shut.

My position in the Chicago Police Department allowed me more wiggle room than many of my contemporaries. As far as I knew, I was one of the only lieutenants in the Detective Division -- the title had been mostly phased out around the time Homicide morphed into Violent Crimes. There are lieutenant inspectors, who are one silver bar below captain, but those are supervisory positions and I had no desire to give up investigative work. My rank allows me to skip morning roll call, operate in other districts without jurisdictional issues, give commands when needed, and pick and choose my cases.

It took over twenty years to gain this autonomy, and I enjoyed it. Which is probably why no one in the office knocked on my door to complain about the cat noise. Rank has its privileges.

In the midst of filing, my cell rang. Latham.

"Hi, Latham. Back in town?"

"I'm back, Jack. What are you wearing?"

I smiled. "A plaid flannel shirt and overalls."

"Stop it -- I'm getting turned on. Might I request the honor of your presence tonight for dinner?"

"I'll have to check with my boyfriend first."

"Screw him."

"I was planning on it. Is six o'clock okay?"

"It's perfect. I was thinking someplace nice."

"Heels-and-a-dress nice?"

"Ooh, I like that even more than the overalls."

"Does this have anything to do with that important question you mentioned on my answering machine?"

"Maybe, maybe so. Are you beating the confession out of some criminal right now?"

"That's a cat. Long story. I'll tell you when you pick me up."

"Great. I'll be the guy knocking on your door with flowers. See you soon."

He hung up, leaving me sitting there with a dopey grin on my face. I was glad Latham was back home, and not just because I hadn't had sex in three weeks. Latham made me feel special. He was funny, considerate, attractive, successful, romantic, and in love with me. What wasn't to like?

Though, I had to admit, part of me kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had to have something wrong with him. But so far, the annoyances were only minor. Snoring. Back hair. Leaving the toilet seat up. A juvenile affection for bad horror movies and '80s pop songs.

He probably had wives in four other states. Or his mummified mother tied to a rocking chair in the attic.

Speaking of mothers . . .

I called Florida, but the Do Not Disturb was still on her room phone. I spoke with a nurse, and Mom's condition had improved, though she still seemed mad as hell. I asked the nurse to pass on an "I love you, Mom," and hung up, spirits dampened.

"I won't bend," I told Mr. Friskers. "She needs my help."

He howled, which I took to be agreement.

With only two hours to make myself gorgeous before my guy showed up, I decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped at a pet supply superstore and bought the essentials: litter box, litter, cat food, and a mouse toy stuffed with catnip. I asked an employee if they had muzzles for cats, but she looked so disgusted I'd even suggest such a thing that I left without getting an answer.

My apartment was where I'd left it, and it took two trips to bring everything up from my car. I kept the air-conditioning off to save money, which meant my place was roughly the same temperature as hell, but more humid.

The city of Chicago paid me a respectable wage for my services, but Mom's condo payment took a big bite. I had a private arrangement with her bank; she'd get a token monthly bill, easily covered by her pension and Social Security, and I took care of the lion's share.

In my quest to pinch pennies, I'd turned my apartment into a greenhouse. It was so hot I had wild orchids sprouting on the sofa. I set the air to tundra and took a cold shower, but the water never got any cooler than lukewarm. Wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, I attended to the Mr. Friskers situation.

My skiing days long behind me, I did own a pair of black leather gloves that would offer me some protection. I slipped them on, ready for battle.

Mr. Friskers sat patiently in the carrier, probably plotting the downfall of the United States. I opened the door latch, but he made no attempt to howl or attack.

Perhaps he'd worn himself out.

I took two bowls from the clean side of the sink and poured water into one. The other I filled with some of the dry cat food I'd purchased. I set the bowls on the floor in front of him.

Mr. Friskers walked out of the carrier, sniffed the food, and gave me a look of utter disappointment.

"Your cream-from-the-bottle days are over, buddy. And come to think of it--"

I reached down and grabbed him by the diaper. He morphed into the Tasmanian Devil, whirling and clawing and spitting and hissing, catching me a good one on the right forearm. But I proved to be the stronger mammal, and managed to pull off the tabs and remove the diaper before losing too much blood.

The aroma was heady. When the dizziness passed, I wrapped the diaper in a plastic garbage bag, then wrapped that garbage bag in another garbage bag, and walked it out into my hallway, depositing the package down the garbage chute.

When I returned, the cat was lapping at the water dish. Without the diaper, he looked less demonic, and more like a plain old cat. After slaking his thirst, he again sniffed at the food dish. He gave me a look that on a human would have counted as a sneer.

"This guy likes it," I told him, pointing to the cat on the bag of food.

He seemed to consider it, then began to eat.

Now for phase two.

I set the cat box on the floor and read the instructions on the back of the kitty litter bag. Simple enough. I tore the corner and filled the box, getting a noseful of sweet, perfumey dust.

Mr. Friskers looked up from the food dish, cocking his head at me.

"Okay. Time for your first lesson."

I picked him up gently, and he allowed it, going limp in my hands. But when I tried to set him down in the cat box, he dervished on me, twisting and screaming and kicking up a spray of litter. I had to let go of him, for fear of losing an eye, and he bounded out of the kitchen and down the hall.

I spit out some kitty litter. The bag hadn't lied; the granules clumped like magic.

"We'll get to lesson two later," I called after the cat.

I picked some litter out of my damp hair and attended to my makeup. For work, I made do with a light coat of powder, some eyeliner, and a slash of lipstick. Tonight I went all out -- base and mascara and eye shadow and lipliner and a touch of color on my cheeks and a final brush of translucent powder with highlighting bits of glitter in it.

Satisfied I looked as good as I could with my bone structure, I went into the bedroom to pick out special occasion underwear. I put on black satin French-cut panties and my only good bra, a cleavage-enhancer that Latham had only seen me in twice before.

I hated my clothes closet for more than simple fashion reasons, so I didn't dally choosing an outfit. I went with a classic black dress, low cut and strapless. It was calf length, but had a dramatic slit on the right side up to mid-thigh. I liked it because it hung rather than clung, meaning I didn't have to suck in my tummy all night.

I was searching through my sock drawer in a fruitless effort to find a pair of nylons without a run, when I noticed Mr. Friskers on my bed, clawing at my sheets. He wasn't tearing them, just kind of gathering them in a ball as if burying something.

"Hey, cat. What are you . . . aw, dammit."

So much for the litter box.

I stripped the bed and went to the kitchen for some stain remover. Cat litter blanketed most of the kitchen floor, trailing into the living room. Not a bad effort for an animal without opposable thumbs.

It was coming up on six, and I hadn't even started on my hair yet. I hurried back to the bedroom, dumped some cleanser on the stain, then did a quick blow-dry.

My intercom went off. I hit the button to buzz Latham through the lobby door, squeezed into my least-runny pair of hose, and managed to tug on some two-inch heels just as the knock came.

Mirror-check. Not bad. I gave my hair a final finger-fluff and went to let Latham in.

Only it wasn't Latham after all.

Chapter 10

"Hiya, Jackie. Wow, you're all dressed up and looking girly. How'd you know I was coming?"

Harry McGlade had gained a few pounds since I'd last seen him a few months back, on my solitary visit to the set of Fatal Autonomy: Harry McGlade Meets the Gingerbread Man. He wore his usual three days' growth of beard and a wrinkled yellow suit jacket over a solid red T-shirt.

"I didn't know the Miami Vice look was back."

Harry grinned. "I don't have socks on, either. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"No."

"Come on, Jackie. You can't still be mad."

"I'm not mad," I lied. "I'm getting ready for a date. Why don't you stop by sometime after Christmas? Of 2012?"

"Jackie, partner--"

"We're not partners anymore, McGlade."

Harry spread out his hands. "Look, I'm sorry. I thought the screen credit would make you happy."

I'd visited a location shoot because McGlade had insisted on me meeting the director and the actor playing me. "So they get the authenticity right," he'd told me.

It turned out my character was there for comic relief, and so stupid she had mismatched shoes for half the film. I cringed, recalling the scene where the idiot with my name read a suspect his Fernando rights.

I crossed my arms, anger rising. "You had me listed as a technical consultant on a movie that failed to accurately portray one single aspect of police procedure."

"Heh, heh. Remember the Fernando rights scene? Biggest laugh in the flick."

I tried to slam the door, but Harry shoved a foot inside.

"Jackie! Please! I really need to talk to you. It's hugely important."

I pushed harder, leaning into it.

"It's life or death! Please! These loafers are Italian!"

If I knew Harry, and unfortunately that was the case, he'd continue bothering me until I gave in. I considered arresting him, but as much as that would amuse me, Latham would be here any minute and I didn't want to spend our date at the district house booking McGlade.

"Thirty seconds, McGlade, then you go."

"Sixty."

"Thirty."

"Forty-five."

"Twenty."

"Fine. Thirty seconds, then I'm out of here."

I released the door. Harry grinned.

"Thanks, Jackie. You going to let me in?"

I stood to the side, allowing him entrance. He sauntered in, trailing a fog of Brut.

"So, this is your place, huh? Kind of dumpy."

"You have twenty-five seconds left."

Harry stopped fingering my couch and faced me.

"Okay, I'll get to the point. I need a favor. You know a sergeant out of the one-two, name of Pierce?"

"No."

"Well, he's--"

My buzzer sounded. Nice timing, Latham. I hit the intercom button.

"I'll be right down, Latham."

"Could I come up? These need to get in some water."

I pressed Talk, unsure of what to say. I really didn't want Latham to have to deal with McGlade.

"Jackie!" Harry yelled. "Come back to bed!"

I punched McGlade in the ribs, hard. Though I didn't weigh a lot, I was working on my second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and knew how to hit. McGlade yelped.

"Jack, who was that?"

"Harry McGlade. He's just leaving."

McGlade pulled a face. "You promised me thirty seconds!"

"Jack," Latham sounded flustered. "We can go out tomorrow, if you've got something going on."

"No! Come on up."

I buzzed him in, then jabbed a finger at McGlade's spongy chest.

"You. Out."

"But you said . . ."

"If you don't leave right now, I promise that I'll dedicate my life to making sure you never get whatever favor it is you want from me."

McGlade considered it.

"So if I leave, you'll do the favor?"

"I don't even know what the favor is."

"When would be a good time to discuss it?" Harry dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a PDA. "I think I'm free for lunch tomorrow."

"Fine. Lunch tomorrow. But you have to leave right now."

I shoved Harry out the door, hurried to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup, and swallowed two aspirin; McGlade never failed to induce a headache.

When the knock came, I did my damnedest to put on a nice smile.

"Hi, Latham."

Latham stood in my hallway, a dozen roses in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. Standing next to him, arm around his shoulders, was Harry.

"Good news, Jack. We can cancel lunch tomorrow. Your boyfriend invited me to dinner with you guys."

Latham shrugged.

"He said it was life or death."

I gave Harry a look I normally reserved for rapists and murderers.

"McGlade . . ."

"I won't stay long. And I'll pay. The best bar and grill in the city is right around the corner."

"Wait out here," I told him, tugging Latham into my apartment and closing the door.

Latham looked good. He wore a dark gray suit, a light gray shirt, and a rich blue silk tie. Businessman chic.

"So that's Harry, huh? He's older and fatter than the guy who played him on TV."

"He's stupider too. Are those for me?"

Latham handed me the roses. I took a compulsory sniff.

"They're gorgeous."

"You're gorgeous."

Latham moved in for the kiss, and when his lips touched mine I felt it all the way down to my toes. I had a sudden urge to forget about dinner, and McGlade, and drag Latham into the bedroom. And I might have done just that, if my bed hadn't been covered with cat stains.

"We should put those in some water." Latham brought the roses into the kitchen, stopping when he saw the mess.

"What happened in here? It looks like Pompeii after Vesuvius."

"Long story. I'll tell you over a romantic dinner."

"Jackie!" McGlade pounded on the door. "What's taking so long? You guys bumping uglies in there?"

Latham laughed. "Romantic dinner, hmm?"

"My gun's in my purse. Want me to shoot him?"

"Let him pay for dinner first."

I found a vase in the cabinet while Latham cut an inch off the bottom of the stems. When the flowers were arranged, I kissed him again, then wiped a smudge of my lipstick off his lips.

"So what's this big thing you wanted to ask me, Latham?"

Latham smiled, eyes twinkling.

"I'll tell you soon enough."

Chapter 11

"So this was back in the '80s, and crack was still pretty new to the streets, and me and Jackie catch an officer down squeal at this known crack house."

Latham nudged me. "You two used to ride together?"

I took a large swig of Sam Adams and frowned.

"No one else would ride with Harry, so I got stuck with him."

"That's true. It's because I was reckless."

"It's because you're obnoxious. Every partner Harry ever had put in for a transfer."

Harry shook his head. "Wrong. Steinwank got shot."

"Steinwank shot himself in the foot to get away from you."

"Whatever. Anyway, we pull up to this crack house, and sure enough, there's a uniform down on the sidewalk right in front."

I drank more beer and looked around the room. We'd wound up at the Cubby Bear, a Chicago bar and grill across the street from Wrigley Field, just a few blocks from my apartment. Harry's face was a mess of BBQ sauce, and he gnawed at his two-dozenth buffalo wing while he spoke.

"So Jack gets out of the car, checks the guy. He's out."

"Was he shot?" Latham asked. He'd been humoring McGlade for the last half an hour, and I wished he'd quit it. Neither he nor Harry had gotten around to telling me the reasons they wanted to talk to me, and I was antsy, overdressed, and getting very bored with the cigarette smoke and loud noise and college kids bumping the back of my chair.

"That's the thing. He wasn't shot, but he's got this big goose egg on his head. Won't wake up -- the guy's even snoring. Anyway, Jackie uses this as probable cause for entering the crack house. She marches right inside, which was suicidal. Crack houses are like fortresses. I even remember a raid where Vice nabbed a rocket launcher. Those guys don't play around."

Latham looked at me with such frank admiration I almost blushed.

"They didn't have a rocket launcher," I said.

"Let me finish the story. So anyway, because I'm Jackie's partner, I go in after her. Jackie's in there, screaming and waving her gun, and scares the absolute shit out of them. They practically trip over themselves trying to surrender. We made eighteen felony arrests, all by ourselves, not a single shot fired. Even made the nightly news."

"What about the cop?"

"That's the best part. Turned out the cop was there to score some coke for his personal use, and he tripped on a shoelace and knocked himself out."

Harry laughed, slapping his thigh and staining it with sauce.

"That's a great story," Latham said. He took a pull on his beer. "Jack really doesn't talk about herself."

"Do you know about the time she loaned out to Vice to go undercover as a hooker?"

"No. I'd like to hear that one."

I didn't mind hearing stories about my past so much as I minded Latham getting chummy with Harry McGlade, whom I couldn't stand for a handful of reasons. This was a good time to change topics.

"So what's the problem you're having with Sergeant Pierce?" I asked Harry.

"Oh. I tagged his wife."

"Tagged?"

"Slipped her the Harry Special, with extra sauce. She's a fine woman -- too good for him." Harry licked his fingers and reached for the last wing.

"And you need me because . . . ?"

"Apparently -- and Mrs. Pierce failed to mention this before we did the worm -- her husband plays golf with the mayor."

"And?"

"And now the City of Big Shoulders refuses to let me renew my PI license."

I was about to express my amusement at this fortuitous news, when the pop-pop of handgun fire cut through the bar.

Harry and I, both instantly recognizing the sound, dropped to the floor. I yanked Latham down with me.

"You get a fix?" McGlade had his gun already out. A .44 Magnum, one of the biggest hand cannons on the market. Insert Freudian overcompensation joke here.

"Near the entrance," I told him, thumbing open my purse and yanking out my S&W .38.

Another gunshot. Half of the crowd still didn't know what was happening, and stood around looking confused or oblivious. I peered through the sea of legs and spied the perp by the front door. He was white, thin, his face nearly as disheveled as his clothing. He had a semiautomatic in his hand -- looked like a 9mm -- and was waving it around without direction.

At his feet, the bouncer lay in a widening pool of blood.

"Looks homeless and whacked out on something. Nine mil. One person down that I can see."

"I'll flank him. Cover me."

Harry scooted off to the right, heading for the far wall. I dug out my badge with my left hand.

"Stay down," I told Latham. Then I stood up and raised my badge over my head.

"Police! Everybody get down!"

The people around me screamed, yelled, ran, panicked, and some actually listened. The rock music playing through the house speakers stopped. I slipped off my heels and drew a bead on the perp, who stared up at the ceiling with his mouth open.

"Drop the weapon!"

No response. I couldn't tell if he even heard me. I glanced to the right but couldn't see Harry with all of the people running around.

Three steps closer, right arm at full extension, left arm supporting it from underneath, my gun fully cocked. I aimed for his heart.

"Drop the weapon, sir!"

He might as well have been deaf. I closed the distance between us to less than fifteen feet. An easy shot. I didn't have extra rounds, and I hoped six would be enough.

"This is your last warning, sir! Drop the weapon!"

He didn't move. I had no other options.

Breathe in, breathe out, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Three rounds, a tight grouping in the chest.

He staggered back, stared at me, raised his 9mm.

Harry's cannon went off just as I fired my last three bullets.

I hit high, two in the shoulder and one in the neck.

Harry hit all over the place. His slugs were larger, faster, and ripped through the perp like stones through tissue paper.

The guy went down, hard. I moved in, kicked away his gun. There were cuffs in my purse, but I didn't think I'd need them; he looked like chicken Parmesan with a slice of Swiss cheese on top.

I turned my attention to the fallen bouncer. Stomach wound. Pulse strong, but irregular. I heard sirens coming closer, looked around for something to stop the bleeding.

"Well, shit on my head and call me a toilet."

Harry tapped me on the shoulder. He'd been removing the spent brass from his cylinder, and when I looked up at him he pointed forward with his chin.

The perp, our perp, was running out the front door.

I glanced at Harry. He shrugged.

We went after the guy.

I bolted out the door, barefoot, the heat pressing down on me. The blood trail went left, and I saw the shooter sprinting through traffic -- a helluva lot faster than should have been possible.

Harry whistled. "Damn. You miss every shot?"

"I landed all six. How did you miss with a barrel that long?"

"All mine were sweet. That guy had more holes than a golf course."

We jogged after him.

The pavement was hot underfoot, and little bits of rock and debris dug into my soles. For the first time in my life I was grateful for my ugly calluses.

"Jesus!" McGlade huffed next to me. "I'm not used to exercise in the vertical position."

"Have another buffalo wing."

The perp rounded the north entrance to Wrigley Field, bystanders giving him a wide berth. He was bleeding, but not as much as I would have guessed. Maybe the layers of filthy clothes were absorbing it all.

McGlade dropped a few paces behind me, lost to a coughing jag. I lengthened my stride. My dress clung to my legs, but the slit was big enough to give me room. I still had the gun in my right hand, where it was beginning to get heavy. With my left hand I tried to adjust my underwire, which dug painfully into my ribs.

I took a short detour to avoid a broken beer bottle, turned a corner, and almost wet myself.

The perp had changed directions and was charging straight at me.

I skidded to a halt, losing some skin on my pinkie toes, and recovered quickly enough to fall into a front stance; right leg straight behind me, left leg forward, knee slightly bent, left fist clenched and parallel with the leg. A blocking position.

Tae kwon do originated in Korea. Students progress through ten belts before reaching black. Testing for each belt was broken down into four parts: forms, which were memorized steps similar to karate's katas, breaking boards, which partially accounted for my callused feet, Korean terminology, and sparring.

My forte was sparring.

The perp swung with his right arm, bringing it down overhead in a chopping motion.

I blocked easily, spun, and back-kicked him in the spine, adding to his momentum.

He ate pavement, hard, then rolled onto his side. The sidewalk under him was soaked with blood. I stared into his eyes -- nothing but pupil, focused on someplace other than the here and now. His chest wounds oozed like a squeezed sponge.

I'd seen corpses in better shape.

But this guy didn't die. He sat up, trying to get to his feet.

I switched the grip on my gun and tapped him, butt-first, on the forehead.

He fell back, then sat up again, head wound gushing.

For years I'd heard the stories about PCP crazies breaking out of handcuffs, jumping off ten-story buildings and surviving, getting shot a dozen times and still putting up a fight. But I'd never believed them.

Until now.

Wheezing, coming from behind me. Harry trotted up, gasping for air like an asthmatic who'd just snorted pollen.

The perp looked at Harry, screamed something unintelligible, and launched himself at the PI.

Harry screamed as well, an octave higher, and whipped his Magnum across the perp's face.

Again the guy went down.

Again the guy sat up.

McGlade took a step back. "This isn't right, Jackie. Maybe we should just let him go."

"If he gets away, he'll bleed to death."

"And that would be bad?"

The man made it to his knees, and then his feet. I didn't want to hit him with the gun again, so I went with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head.

He went down. Came up.

Harry scratched his chin. "It's like one of those old toys. The little egg-shaped people that wobble but don't fall down."

"Weebles. But I don't remember them being this bloody."

Harry hummed the Weebles theme from the old commercial.

"I think I've got an idea." He turned and began walking away.

"You going to rent a tank?"

"No. Just need a running start."

McGlade took four quick steps toward the guy, then punted him square in the stones.

The perp's howl punched through the hot Chicago night and seemed to echo on forever.

"There." McGlade smoothed out his jacket. "That would knock the Terminator out."

He was right. The guy wheezed, then toppled over, hands clutched between his legs.

"He's all yours, Jackie. You can go ahead and read him his Fernando rights."

I fitted him for bracelets, then left McGlade with the perp while I went to find backup.

Chapter 12

The cab spit us out at my place just after four in the morning. Latham, gentleman that he was, stuck with me through two debriefings and a trip to the ER to get some glass removed from my foot. He walked me up to my apartment, and I gave him a hug.

"Some romantic evening, huh?"

He smiled, kissed my nose.

"Are you kidding? On our first date I get kidnapped by a serial killer, and tonight I get to see you save a bar full of yuppies from a drug-crazed maniac. Are you free tomorrow? Maybe we can find a bank robbery in progress."

He slipped his hand around the small of my back, pulled me gently against him.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked.

"That's the best idea I've heard all day."

I opened the door, knowing that I had no sheets and wondering if I was too old to do it on the sofa.

"Too late for a drink?" I asked. "Too early?"

"I'd drink muscatel from a dog bowl right now."

"Settle for a whiskey sour?"

Latham nodded.

I went into the kitchen, frowned at the gigantic mess, and built two serviceable highballs. Latham stood in the living room, his jacket off. A good sign.

"Do you like it here?" he asked, as I handed him his drink.

"Here with you?"

"Here in this apartment. I know you don't really like the neighborhood, and I know some -- well -- bad things happened here."

"I guess I never really thought about it. Why do you ask?"

He smiled; a little-boy smile tinged with mischief.

"I just bought a condo on the lake. Big place, plenty of room, killer view."

"That's great." I took a sip of my drink. "What about the house?"

"Sold. Move in with me, Jack."

Before I had a chance to answer, I noticed Mr. Friskers perched on top of my television, ready to pounce.

"Latham, don't move."

"But I have to move, I signed the papers--"

"Shh." I put my finger to my lips. "It's the cat. He looks like he's about to jump on you."

"Hey, I like cats. If you want to bring a cat along, that's fine with -- Jesus Christ!"

Mr. Friskers launched through the air like a calico missile and attached himself to Latham's face, all four claws locking in.

Latham screamed something, but I couldn't hear it through the fur. I grabbed the cat and gently tried to tug him free. Latham's reaction was muffled, but came through.

"No! Stop pulling! Stop pulling!"

I let go, frantic. On the floor, next to the sofa, was the catnip mouse I'd bought at the pet store. I picked it up and held it under the cat's nose.

"Good kitty. Let go of his face. Let go of his face, kitty."

Mr. Friskers sniffed once, twice, then went totally limp. I carried him into the bathroom, keeping the catnip up to his nose, and then set both of them down in the bathtub and locked the door.

I found Latham in the kitchen, liberally applying paper towels.

"Oh, wow, are you okay, Latham?"

He forced a smile.

"I may need a transfusion."

"I'm sorry. I should have warned you."

"I thought it was illegal to keep mountain lions as pets."

I gave him the short version, helping him dab at his wounds. They weren't as bad as Herb's, so perhaps Mr. Friskers was mellowing down.

"So you're not keeping him?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Good. I mean, if he was part of the package, I'd accept him. But I wouldn't want to take off my pants with him in the room."

I opened my mouth to say something, but I wasn't sure what to say. Moving in with Latham would be great. He was right -- I didn't like the neighborhood, and I didn't like my apartment, and having him to hold every night would go a long way toward helping my insomnia.

But instead of focusing on all of that, I focused on my mom, stranded on the floor of her bathroom.

"Latham, I'd love to move in with you--"

"That's great!"

"--but I can't. When my mom gets out of the hospital, she's coming to live with me."

I winced, watching the disappointment slowly seep into his face.