Bloody Mary

"The condo only has one bedroom."

My guard went up. "Latham, I didn't ask if my mother could move into your condo."

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

"Hey, I didn't ask."

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

"I know, Latham. I wish there was some way."

"Is there? Some way, I mean?"

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"She needs someone around her at all times."

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

"I'm going to say good night now, Latham."

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

"Jack, all that I'm saying is that taking care of an elderly parent is a lot of work. I don't want you wasting your life--"

I opened the door.

"Caring for my mother is not wasting my life."

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

"Apparently not."

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

"I may be tooting my own horn here, Jack, but I think I'm a pretty decent guy."

"You're right," I told him. "You're tooting your own horn."

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

"Latham . . ."

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

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

From the bathroom, Mr. Friskers howled in agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

"Now I understand why so many people own dogs."

He didn't reply.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm ninety-nine percent sure he was high on Hydro."

"Water?"

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

"Which is?"

"Vitamin K. It's commonly given to patients before surgery because of its ability to aid in blood coagulation."

"This drug turns people into psychotic supermen who don't feel pain or bleed?"

"Makes you long for the sixties and good old LSD, doesn't it?"

"Who would make something like this?"

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

"You sound cynical."

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

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

"You've no doubt heard about the Big Bust."

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

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

"I've seen it. We shot a man eleven times, and he took off like Carl Lewis."

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

"My guy's still alive."

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

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

"Just get in?" I asked.

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

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

"It's ten degrees in here, and you're sweating."

He smiled. "I've been blessed with a high metabolism."

"I wish I was that lucky. How's the database coming?"

"Slow. You've had a lot of arrests."

"I've been blessed with a long career. Any matches yet with County's sign-in book?"

He shook his head. "If I find one, you'll be the second to know."

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

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

"Pardon me?"

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

"You're a good cop, Fuller. But the cops that took those slots had seniority."

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

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

"Don't have anything yet, huh?" I asked.

"Not yet, but if there's something, I'll find it."

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

"Good morning, Herb."

"Morning, Jack." He smiled, and then winked.

I eyed him suspiciously. "Everything okay, Herb?"

"Everything is wonderful. Couldn't be better."

"You're late this morning."

"I slept in." Herb winked again.

"Is something wrong with your eye?"

"No. Why?"

"You keep winking at me."

"Just in a good mood, that's all. Are we off to shake down the dealer?"

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

"Yeah. I'll stop by my office for a bag. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm absolutely perfect, Jack." And he winked at me again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Spill what?"

"Why you're so damn happy."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like you've been possessed by one of the Care Bears."

He looked at me, and winked.

"There are some things best kept private, Jack."

"That's bull, Herb. We're partners. We have no secrets."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

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

"Okay. Bernice and I were . . . intimate last night."

I stared at him.

"That's all? You're this happy because you got laid?"

He smiled. "Five times."

I did a double take.

"Five times?"

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

I looked at Benedict with newfound respect.

"You haven't been possessed by a Care Bear. You've been possessed by a porn star."

He winked at me again. "Viagra."

"Really?"

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

"Apparently it worked."

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

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

"She was begging me for mercy, Jack. But I kept a-goin'. I haven't heard her scream like that since--"

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

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

"Y'all lost?"

I smiled at him. "Five-O. Y'all holding?"

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

"I blame rap music," Herb said.

"That's much easier than blaming the parents."

"I'm serious. Think about how gang violence would be reduced if they all listened to Perry Como."

"Reduced? I think they'd riot. Hell, I'd riot."

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

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

Herb turned to me. "What's your take on this?"

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

"The calls from her apartment were to his cell phone. Maybe we'll get lucky."

The security door had a broken lock, allowing us an easy entry. The lobby reeked of heat and decay. More graffiti tags marked the walls, and someone had shattered two of the three hallway lights.

Colin Andrews rented an apartment on the first floor. The number had been removed from the door, but we figured it out by counting.

Herb rapped his knuckle on the door.

"Colin Andrews? Chicago PD."

No answer.

"Mr. Andrews, this is the police. We'd like to ask you some questions. It's in your best interest to open the door."

"How it my best interest letting cops in?"

"Because if you don't talk to us," Benedict said, "we'll start knocking on all of your neighbors' doors. It would be hard for you to live here if everyone thought you were a police snitch."

"I ain't no damn snitch."

We waited. I noticed Herb had his hand near his holster, and realized that mine had drifted there as well.

After a minute, the door opened a crack. A brown eye squinted out at us.

"What this about?"

I smiled pleasantly. "You want everyone to see you talking to us in the hall?"

He opened the door.

The apartment was air-conditioned, neat, nicely furnished. An entertainment center crammed full of state-of-the-art equipment sat next to a wide-screen TV.

Colin stood about Benedict's height, but rail thin. He wore an oversized Steelers jersey and a thick gold chain around his neck that seemed to weigh him down.

"Business must be good." I eyed his place, annoyed that the crooks always had better stuff than I did.

Colin shrugged.

"Colin?" A woman's voice came from one of the back rooms. "Who's there?"

"No one, Mama. Stay in your room."

"Mama know you deal?" I asked.

"I don't deal. That's all a big misunderstanding."

I fished through the pockets of my blazer and took out a folded head shot of Davi McCormick.

"Do you recognize this woman?"

I watched Colin's face. He glanced at the photo without changing his expression.

"Never saw her."

"She called your cell phone a few days ago."

"Don't got no cell phone."

I read the phone number to him.

"Don't got that phone no more. Lost it."

"When did you lose it?"

"Couple weeks ago."

Herb bent down, reaching for Colin's foot.

"I think you dropped something, Colin. Well -- lookee here."

Herb held up the bag of powdered sugar.

"Dog, that ain't mine!"

Herb made an innocent face. "I saw it fall out of your pocket. Didn't you, Jack?"

"I don't even deal that shit, man. I just distribute the herb."

"Where's your phone, Colin?"

"I told you, I lost the phone."

Benedict dipped a finger into the bag, then touched his tongue.

"How much you think is here? Eight, ten grams? That's what -- thirty years?"

I moved closer to Colin. "We found the arms. We know she called you."

"What arms? I don't carry, man. I'm low-key."

"Where's the phone?"

"I don't know."

Colin looked frightened. Though I couldn't arrest him for possession of a known confectionary, I decided to push my luck.

"You know the drill, Colin. On your knees, hands behind your head."

"I don't have the phone! I swear! You need to ask your people!"

"What people?"

"Cops. When I got arrested last month, they took my phone. I never got it back."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Herb was dipping back into the bag for another taste. I stepped between him and Colin.

"You're saying we have your phone?"

"I had it with me when I got booked, and when I got sprung no one knew anything about my phone."

I had a pretty good internal BS detector, and Colin was either a much better liar than I was used to, or he was telling the truth.

"Have you canceled the service?"

"Haven't got round to it."

"Why not?"

I saw fear flash across Colin's eyes.

"Colin, do you know who has your phone?"

"No."

"Colin, the person who took your phone is very dangerous. If you tell us who it is, we can protect you."

"I told you I don't know."

"Maybe a trip to the station will help jog your memory."

Colin glanced at Herb and smirked. "I don't think you be charging me with nothing."

I looked. Benedict was licking a large mound of white powder out of his palm.

"I'm testing the purity," Benedict said. His beard was dusty with sugar.

Colin went to the door and held it open.

"Y'all can go now."

"Colin . . ."

"I know my rights. If I tell you to go, you got to go."

"We want to help you, Colin."

"Yeah, right."

I handed him my card. He took it, reluctantly.

"If a police officer stole your cell phone, you can file a formal complaint. You can help us get this guy."

"Whatever."

We left the apartment.

"Jesus, Herb. Real professional."

"I couldn't help it. I haven't had anything sweet in over a week. Once I had that little taste, I couldn't stop."

He drove his point home by upending the remainder of the bag into his mouth.

"Do you know how many carbs are in that?"

"I don't care. It's like an orgy on my tongue."

"During the orgy, did you manage to pick up on what Colin said?"

He nodded, his face turning somber.

The perp had access to my handcuffs, to the county morgue, and to Colin's cell phone.

All signs pointed to the killer being a cop.

Unfortunately, this did little to narrow it down. Chicago had a police force of over seventeen thousand. I had eight hundred working out of my district, plus cops from the other districts came and went on a daily basis. So did cops from out of town, Feds, lawyers, and government officials.

Benedict seemed to sense my thoughts. "Maybe we'll be able to narrow it down once we go through the complete phone log."

"Who's Colin's carrier?"

"FoneCo. They want a subpoena before they release his records."

"We can swing by the courthouse."

Benedict probed his goatee with his tongue, seeking out stray calories.

"Should we put a team on Colin?"

I considered it. If Colin saw cops hanging around, he might freak out and try to run. Plus, who could I trust to put on him? What if I accidentally sent the killer?

"No. We should talk to the assistant State's Attorney first. Colin's court case is coming up."

I didn't like driving away knowing that Colin was hiding something, but there wasn't much I could do about it. Coming to him with a deal might loosen his tongue.

"I hope it's not a bad cop, Jack."

Me too. If cops were viewed as the enemy, the tenuous balance of power could shift. Laws would be broken out of contempt. Authority wouldn't be acknowledged. Police officers might even be attacked, or worse.

I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about rioting.

"We're probably wrong, Herb. It's probably not a cop at all."

But deep down, I knew we were right.

Chapter 13

He watches them get into the sports car and pull away. That bitch Daniels, and her fat-ass partner, Herb Benedict.

He climbs out of his car and walks toward Colin Andrews's apartment.

He expected them to eventually find Andrews, but not this quickly.

No matter. He'll just jump ahead in the plan a little.

There's an empty plastic soda bottle next to the security door. He snatches it up and enters the building.

It's hot. Dark. He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket, and they make a snapping sound. They're tight on his large, sweaty hands.

He has a slight headache, but the aspirin is keeping it under control. He's here for business, not pleasure.

But his arousal is apparent.

He knocks on Andrews's door.

"Chicago Police Department."

Silence. He knocks again.

"Open the door, this is the police."

"You ain't getting in without a warrant."

A male voice. Scared.

"We have a warrant," the killer lies.

"Slip it under the door."

He looks left, then right. All clear.

Taking one step back, he sets his shoulder, and then charges the door.

The frame snaps like balsa wood. Colin Andrews sprawls backward, hands clutched to a bleeding nose. The killer enters and shuts the door, shoving it hard so it fits back into the splintered jamb.

"Colin? Who's there?"

He grins. A woman. He hadn't expected that.

This is gonna be fun.

Colin is on the floor, scrambling backward, eyes wide as dinner plates.

He considers kicking him, decides he doesn't want to get blood on his pants, and pulls out his throwaway piece: a 9mm Firestar that he liberated from the evidence locker at the same time he'd taken Colin's cell phone.

The gun presses against Colin's forehead.

"Ask her to join the party."

Colin opens his mouth. No words come out.

He taps him on the skull, hard, with the butt of the gun.

"Get her in here, now."

The blubbering begins. Colin calls for his mama, voice cracking though the sobs.

Colin's mother is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. She's younger than the killer expected. Prettier too.

"Hi, Mama." He blows her a kiss. "Go sit on the sofa. The three of us are going to have a conversation."

Mama cops an attitude, hands rising to her hips. "What the--"

"Mama, sit down!" Colin screams at her, blood and tears rolling down his face.

His mother nods, then sits.

"Okay, here's the dealio." The cop smiles at his use of street slang. "I'm going to ask some questions. I get answers I like, I go away and never come back. I don't get answers I like . . ."

He slaps the gun across Colin's face, knocking him to the floor.

"Do we understand each other?"

He looks at the mother. Her eyes are cold, but she nods.

Colin is hugging the floor like a security blanket, trembling. The killer nudges him with his foot.

"Do you know who I am, Colin?"

Colin stares up. Nods.

"Tell me who I am."

"When I got brung in, you the one that locked me up."

"That's right, Colin. Do you remember what I said to you?"

Colin swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a basketball.

"You told me not to cancel my phone service."

"Or else?"

"Or else you'd hang my ass from the nearest lamppost."

"Good, Colin. You remembered. Did you believe me, when I said it?"

"I didn't cancel the service! I didn't!"

"I know, Colin. That's why you're not swinging from the streetlight out in front. But you did talk to the cops about me, didn't you?"

Colin shakes his head so fast it's comical.

"I din't say nothin'!"

"Are you sure?"

"Jesus, I din't say nothin'!"

"Get up, go sit next to Mama on the couch."

Colin pulls himself off the floor, plops down next to his mother. The cop knows he's broken him. Knows he's telling the truth.

He checks his watch. There's still a little time for some fun.

"Is your boy lying to me, Mama?"

She puts an arm around Colin's shoulders as he cries into his hands.

"Colin don't tell no lies."

The killer admires the defiance in her eyes. He becomes even more aroused. "He doesn't? But Colin deals drugs, doesn't he?"

She strokes Colin's head, as if petting a dog.

"I heard him, when those other cops came. He din't tell them nothin'."

The cop moves closer to the sofa. He feels ready to burst.

"You seem like a smart lady. If you and your boy want to live through this, you're gonna have to do something for me. You know what it is?"

Colin's mama stares at him, nods.

"There's a condom in my front pocket. Take it out."

Her hands are hot in his pants.

"Put it on me and get to work, Mama. Make me happy and I'll spare your life."

She's not the best he's ever had, and the condom limits some of the sensation, but she's much better than his bitch of a wife.

"Hey, Colin, I think your mama's done this before. She's got some good moves."

A few minutes pass. The only sounds are Colin's sobs and the killer's breathing, which gets faster and faster.

"That's right. Yeah. Good."

As he nears climax, he places the base of the plastic bottle he's been holding against the top of the woman's head. He puts the barrel of the 9mm into the bottle opening.

"That's it!"

His hips spasm, and at the same moment he fires into the bottle, the slug shooting straight through her forehead, embedding itself in the sofa.

The bottle traps most of the noise, and the sound is no louder than a hand clap.

Colin's head snaps up, staring as his mother falls away.

"Don't look so surprised, Colin. You know you can't trust cops."

He tosses aside the bottle, now filled with swirling white smoke. Then he picks up a sofa cushion and shoves it into Colin's face, jamming the gun into the fabric.

Four shots. Colin goes slack.

Condom still on, the killer zips up his pants, picks up the plastic bottle, and leaves the apartment. There's no one in the hallway, and no one outside.

His headache, happily, is gone.

The cop hops into his car and checks his watch. He's on his lunch break, and has already used up fifty-five minutes.

He speeds back to the station. After ten blocks, the condom goes out the window. A few blocks later, so does the soda bottle.

On his way back to the district house, the killer stops in front of the Wabash Bridge and pulls over to the curb. Palming the gun, he gets out and walks over to the Chicago River.

No one gives him a second glance as he drops the gun into the greenish water.

When he arrives back at the station, he doesn't see Benedict's Camaro in the parking lot. He's beaten them back.

The cop parks and walks into the building, wondering whom he hates more, Jack or that fat piece-of-shit Herb.

He climbs the stairs, heading for Benedict's office. His plan, such as it is, is deceptively simple.

He'll keep killing women and leaving various things belonging to Jack and Herb at the crime scenes.

Eventually, they might get close to figuring it out. When that time comes, he'll kill them both, making it look like they've killed each other.

Then he'll solve these current murders himself, framing his mortician friend Derrick Rushlo.

Sadly, Derrick won't make it to trial.

Simple. Effective. And so much fun.

The killer makes sure no one notices as he slips into Herb's office.

He's looking for something, anything, that Herb will recognize when he sees it on the next victim. A tie clip, a wrist watch, a picture of his ugly wife . . .

"Here we are."

In Herb's desk drawer, he finds a library card. Without hesitating, he picks it up.

"May I help you, Officer?"

His head snaps around. Benedict is walking into the office, holding a large coffee. One of his eyebrows is raised in silent inquiry.

"Hi, Detective Benedict. I was dropping these off for you."

In one smooth motion he slips the library card into his chest pocket and removes a small bottle of pills. He hands it to Benedict.

"Non-aspirin pain reliever?" Herb reads.

"Remember that bottle I borrowed last month?"

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." Benedict slaps him on the shoulder, like they're best buddies.

"Well, back to work," he says. "TOSAP."

"That's what we get paid for." Herb chuckles. "To Serve and Protect."

Too bad there's no one to protect you from me, old man.

Leaving Herb's office, he bumps into Jack, causing her to spill some coffee.

"Good afternoon, Officer."

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

Bitch.

Well, if things go as planned, Herb and Jack won't be around to irritate him for much longer.

He walks back to his desk, sits down, and takes a deep, full breath.

Close one.

He thinks about Herb Benedict, thinks about killing the man. He's never killed someone that big before. It might actually be a challenge.

A challenge could be fun.

He decides, when the time comes, he'll do it hands on. Mano a mano. No gun. No knife. He'll beat him to death.

As for Lieutenant Daniels . . .

The good lieutenant is tough, and strong. She'll be good for a whole evening's entertainment, in his little plastic room on the South Side.

And maybe, if he's careful, he could make her last the whole weekend.

Chapter 14

It took most of the afternoon to set up the surveillance.

After playing catch-the-subpoena at the courthouse, Herb and I managed to get access to the call log from Colin Andrews's cell phone. There were only three numbers on the list. One was to Davi McCormick's place, one was to a call girl named Eileen Hutton, and one was to a TracFone owned by someone named John Smith.

Eileen Hutton had a record -- she worked for a high-roller escort service similar to Davi's. A search of her apartment found it empty and without any signs of foul play, and a call to her employer found them worried sick because Eileen had missed her last two dates.

A TracFone was one of those prepaid cell phones that could be bought at drugstores, electronics stores, or on the Internet. They're a cop's worst nightmare. It's simple to set up an anonymous account by using a fake name and then buying phone cards with cash.

We obtained another subpoena and secured the records from the TracFone that the killer had been calling. No calls listed going out, and the only calls coming in were from Colin's cell.

After talking at length with several people at the phone company, it proved impossible to set up any kind of tracking or tracing of the phone. But we were able to track the prepaid cards being used for minutes. The phone had been bought two months ago at an Osco Drug on Wabash and Columbus. Two weeks after that, a twenty-minute phone card had been purchased at the same place.

According to the recent bill, those minutes were due to expire tomorrow. Which meant a new phone card would have to be purchased, hopefully from the same drugstore.

Since we suspected the killer to be a cop, I was climbing the walls trying to figure out who to put on the surveillance teams. I played the sexism card, and put two teams of three female officers on eight-hour shifts. If the killer was a woman, I might have been blowing the entire stakeout, but I just couldn't reconcile a woman cutting off someone's arms.

Anyone who bought a phone card or a new phone at the Osco would be tailed. Anyone with access to the county morgue -- cops, morticians, doctors -- would be red-flagged and I'd get an immediate call.

According to the store, they sold between five and ten phone cards a day. I hoped three officers on the scene would be enough, but I did have the resources for more.

"We're getting close," Herb said.

"It's still a shot in the dark, Herb. The person who owns the TracFone might not even be an accomplice. It could be someone who doesn't even know the perp."

"If we look at the call logs, it works out. The perp called Davi's place at two forty-five P.M. She called him back at six fifteen. Then, at nine twenty, the perp calls the TracFone. In Eileen's case, the perp calls her yesterday at ten thirty A.M., then again at three twelve P.M. Three hours later, at six oh two, he calls the TracFone."

"You think he's abducting these women, then calling someone to join the party?"

"Or to help with the disposal."

I mulled it over. My eyes drifted to the phone. I'd called Latham three times, and he hadn't called back. I fought the urge to check my messages again.

I'd also called my mother, twice. She still wasn't accepting my calls.

I wonder if Alexander Graham Bell knew, back when he invented the telephone, how much control his device would have over the lives of so many people. Especially mine.

I switched gears. "We might be missing a connection between Davi and Eileen."

Benedict flipped through his notes. "There doesn't have to be a connection. Both have priors. The killer could have been searching for likely victims by going through arrest records. All cops have computer access."

Chicago had several psychiatrists specifically for its law enforcement officers. Cops had the same problems as everyone, but they tended to be amplified. I'd called the three doctors in the city's employ, and all gave me the same lecture about patient confidentiality. The off-the-record question of "Do you know of any cops who might be capable of this?" was met with three enthusiastic "yes" answers.

Herb popped something into his mouth, chasing it with old coffee. He looked at his watch.

"I've got to hit the road, Jack. These things kick in pretty fast."

"You took a Viagra? Herb, can't you give the poor woman a rest?"

"Do you want to try one? For Latham?"

I crossed my arms.

"Latham's fine in that area, thanks."

"You sound defensive."

"I'm not defensive."

"Jack, all couples have problems sometimes. I'm sure he finds you very attractive."

"We're not having any problems in bed, Herb. That is, when we find the time to go to bed."

"I thought, last night . . ."

"Did you hear about the shooting at the Cubby Bear?"

I watched Herb put two and two together in his head.

"You know, I was thinking that might be you, but when you didn't say anything this morning . . ."

I gave Herb a quick rundown of the events last night, ending with my argument with Latham.

"So I didn't get laid last night, because he was acting like a jerk."

"Wanting to move in with the woman he loves is him acting like a jerk?"

"I . . . uh . . ."

"He's told you he loves you, right?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

"Have you said it back?"

"I . . . uh . . ."

"You called him today?"

This I could answer.

"Three times. He hasn't called me back."

"When you called him, did you apologize for acting like a horse's ass?"

"Why should I apologize? He wants to stick my mother in a nursing home."

"He wants to figure out how to share his life with you, and you told him he was tooting his own horn."

Oops.

"Jack." Herb turned a shade of red usually reserved for apples. "I don't mean to cut out on you, but I have to run, and you might want to avert your eyes."

"Why? Oh -- the Viagra's kicking in?"

"I just pitched a tent in my pants."

Herb picked up a manila folder and held it out well in front of his lap.

"That stuff really works," I said, for lack of anything better.

"Good night, Jack. Now if you'll excuse me."

"Good night, Herb. Give Bernice my best. Er, I mean, your best. Have a nice evening. Have fun. I'll shut up now."

Herb slunk out the door while I counted the ceiling tiles.

After he made his embarrassing exit, I picked up the phone, swallowed pride, and called Latham. His machine picked up.

"Hi, Latham. Look, I . . ."

Say you're sorry, I told myself. Say it.

But nothing came out.

". . . I'll call you tomorrow."

Why the hell had I choked? Why was apologizing such a big deal? I could admit to myself I'd made a mistake, why couldn't I admit it to Latham?

"Lieutenant?"

I looked up, saw Fuller standing in my doorway.

"Come in."

He set a computer printout on my desk.

"I finished the database. There weren't any connections between your previous cases and County's sign-in book."

"Thanks. I'll go over it later."

I'd intended that to be a dismissal, but he stayed put.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Look, Lieut, I . . . I'd just like to help."

I considered it. The only person I really trusted was Herb. But Fuller had been extremely helpful to many of my investigations, going above and beyond his normal duties. I didn't know very much about him, personally, but as a cop he was smart, efficient, and always 100 percent professional.

I made a judgment call, and decided to let him in.

"Okay, there is something you can do. I want you to add some names to the database."

"Sure. What names?"

"Start with this district, then the surrounding districts, until you get all twenty-six."

Fuller furrowed his brow. "Cops? You think this might be a cop?"

I had to play this carefully, lest the rumor mill begin to turn.

"No. But if I find out which cops visited the morgue during the past week, I'll be able to start questioning them to see if they noticed anything strange."

"Got it."

"There's no rush. You can get started tomorrow."

He nodded, offered a grin, and left my office.

I finished typing the report of the interview with Colin Andrews (leaving out the powdered sugar fiasco), and then decided to head home. Perhaps Latham had left a message on my answering machine.

He hadn't. Neither had Mom. But Mr. Friskers, the lovable ball of fluff, had shredded both of the living room curtains.

"Tomorrow," I promised, "you get declawed."

I changed into an oversized T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, cat litter sticking to the bottoms of my feet. I swept it all up, dumped it back into the litter box, and was surprised to find that Mr. Friskers had made several deposits of his own.

"Good kitty," I called to him, wherever he was hiding.

I went to the fridge to get him some milk, and stepped barefoot into another deposit he'd made, on the floor.

This required a shower. After the shower, I finished cleaning the kitchen, gave the cat some milk and food, and searched my cabinets for dinner. I found a can of soup. I wasn't in the mood for soup, especially mushroom, but it was expiring next month, so I ate it before I had to throw it out.

Halfway through, Mr. Friskers wandered in.

"I like the curtains," I told him. "Very feng shui. The whole room flows much better."

He ignored me, sticking his face in the milk.

I didn't finish the soup, so I set that on the floor for him as well, then I went into the bedroom and stared at my nemesis, the bed.

My sheets were in the dryer. I put them back on, climbed in, and closed my eyes.

It took all of five seconds for me to realize that I had a better chance of winning lotto than falling asleep. So instead, I flipped on the television.

Reruns. Sports. Crap. Movie that I've seen before. Crap. Crap. Reruns. Crap. Home Shopping Network.

I finally let it rest on an infomercial about the antiaging effects of juicing. A tiny ninety-year-old man did dozens of push-ups and exclaimed how celery shakes were life's elixir.

Did anyone buy that?

I did, and sprung for the rush delivery.

I also bought a Speedy Iron, guaranteed to do the job in half the time, a Bacon Magic, since the show proved beyond any scientific doubt that bacon was a health food, and a new home waxing system that promised it wouldn't hurt as much as the four other new home waxing systems gathering dust in my bathroom closet.

The only thing that saved me from plunking down serious cash for a countertop rotisserie oven was the fact that my counter space was barely large enough for a toaster. I toyed with the idea of buying one anyway, and keeping it in the bedroom. Even though I'm a single woman and rarely home, the novelty of roasting two entire chickens at the same time more than made up for that.

I drifted off sometime in the middle of a seminar on how to improve your memory, and slept on and off until seven A.M., when the phone rang.

I bolted up in bed, hoping it was Latham or Mom.

"Lieutenant? This is Officer Sue Petersen on the Osco stakeout. I just followed a man who bought a twenty-dollar phone card. ID'ed him as one Derrick Rushlo, thirty-six years of age. He's the owner of the Rushlo Funeral Home on Grand Avenue."

"Hold on a second."

I'd left Fuller's report in the kitchen. Rushlo's name was on the second page. He'd been to the county morgue last week.

"Are you still watching him?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Stay on him. Call if he moves. I'll be there within the hour."

Chapter 15

The Rushlo Funeral Home faced the busy street of Grand Avenue, its storefront only ten yards wide. It was book-ended by a thrift shop on the left and a dental office on the right, all three of them done in the same cream-colored brick. On either side of the ornate front door were matching bushes in large concrete pots, carefully pruned to resemble corkscrews.

Herb and I entered. It looked like the inside of any funeral home; tasteful, somewhat opulent, with deep rugs and fancy lighting fixtures. The air-conditioning smelled faintly of lilacs.

"You okay, Herb?" Benedict had been walking funny.

"I strained a muscle in my back."

"Working out?"

"Making nookie. Viagra ought to come with a warning label."

We passed two parlors, and located the arrangement office at the end of the hall. Empty.

"May I help you?"

He'd come from a side door, next to the office. A squat man with a carefully trimmed beard that accentuated his double chin. He wore black slacks, a solid blue dress shirt, and a paisley tie, which hugged his expansive stomach.

"Derrick Rushlo?" Herb asked.

The man nodded, shaking Herb's hand.

"I'm Detective Benedict, Chicago Police Department."

Rushlo's eyes were bright blue, and spaced widely apart. The left one was lazy, and it appeared to be staring at me while the other stared at Herb. When Benedict mentioned the CPD, both eyes bugged out.

"I'm Lieutenant Daniels."

Rushlo hesitated, offered his hand, then let it fall when he realized I wasn't going to offer mine.

"Do you know why we're here, Derrick?"

"I haven't a clue, Lieutenant." His voice was high-pitched, breathy.

"We'd like to take a look around, if you wouldn't mind giving us a tour."

He blinked a few times in rapid succession.

"Normally, I wouldn't mind. But I'm in the middle of an embalming right now. If you could come back in . . ."

Benedict held up the search warrant.

"Now would be good."

Rushlo nodded, his chins bobbling.

"The embalming area is back there?" I indicated the door he had come through.

"Uh, yes. Come on."

We followed him behind the scenes. White tile replaced the beige carpet, and the area lacked adequate lighting. We walked through a hallway, which led to a large loft complete with two garage doors. A hearse and a van were parked off to the side. A gurney rested by the far wall.

"This is the, uh, back area. Feel free to look around."

"We'd like to see the embalming room."

His features sank, but he led us to another door.

When I stepped inside, I winced. It smelled like the morgue, but fresher. Brown spills marred the floor and the walls. Several buckets, crusted with dried bits of something, were stacked in the corner. An embalming machine, which looked like a giant-sized version of the juicer I bought last night, sat on a table. Behind it, bottles of red liquid in various shades lined the shelves.

In the center of the room stood a large, stainless steel table. It had gutters on all four sides, which drained into a slop sink at the foot. The table was currently occupied, a bloody sheet covering the body.

"Take that off."

Rushlo hesitated, then tugged the cover to the side and let it drop to the floor.

On the table were the remains of a woman. Caucasian, young, eviscerated from her pubis to her sternum. Her body cavity was empty, and I could see the ribs from the inside.

She had roughly the same build as Eileen Hutton, but I couldn't make a positive ID because her head was missing.

"Who is this?"

"Her name is Felicia Wymann. Just got her in yesterday."

"She's an autopsy?" I asked. That would explain why her organs had been removed.

"Yes. Not local, though. She's from Wisconsin. Hit and run. I know the family, and they asked me to take care of her. I've got the paperwork right here."

Herb looked over the death certificate, and I took a closer look at the corpse. The skin around the neck stump was smooth; it looked to me as if the head had come off cleanly. The likelihood of that happening from a car was slim.

Even more unlikely were the marks on her hands. Her fingertips were just fleshy stumps; they'd been cut off.

I looked higher, and discovered several bruises on her shoulders and arms. Angry, oval shapes. Some had flesh missing.

Bite marks.

Her legs were splayed open, knees bent as if she were giving birth. I noticed some soft tissue damage to the vagina, felt my stomach becoming unhappy, and looked away.

"Where's her head?" I asked.

"Her head? Um, it was crushed in the wreck."

"Shouldn't it still be here?"

"I cremated the head and vital organs earlier today. The family wanted her cremated."

"Why didn't you cremate her as well?"

Rushlo scratched the back of his neck.

"I was going to do that later today." One eye on me, one on Herb. "The crematory is sort of on the fritz, and it works better in sections."

"Where's the autopsy report?" Herb asked.

"The autopsy report? I have no idea. It should be around. You'd be surprised how often paperwork gets misplaced."

He giggled, manic.

"Do you have a cell phone, Derrick?"

"Um, sure. Doesn't everybody?"

"Is it the kind that you buy phone cards for, so there's no contract with the provider?"

He opened his mouth, lips forming a yes, but he stopped himself.

"I think I'd like a lawyer."

"You're not under arrest, Derrick. Why would you need a lawyer?"

He folded his arms.

"I'm not saying anything else without my attorney present."

I glanced at the corpse, 90 percent sure it was Eileen Hutton. I recalled seeing a hairbrush when we'd searched her apartment. All I needed was one strand of hair with the end bulb still attached, and I could get a DNA match.

But, contrary to cop shows on television, DNA testing took weeks, even the rush jobs.

In the meantime, we couldn't arrest Rushlo for anything. I needed something immediately incriminating. We needed to find the TracFone.

"I'm going to call my lawyer now."

He walked out of the room. I nodded at Herb, who followed. He'd watch who Rushlo called, making sure he didn't alert whoever his accomplice was.

I pulled on some latex gloves and began by searching the cabinets lining the rear wall. I found tubing, trocars, scalpels, a box of something called "eye caps," gallon jugs of various fluids, and a few extra scrubs.

The closet held a foul-smelling mop and bucket, some dirty rags, and several containers of bleach. Looking at the bleach, I thought of Davi's severed arms. Nausea be damned, I went back to the corpse and sniffed her cold hand.

Bleach. She'd been washed down, the same as Davi.

Several stained embalming books sat on the counter, along with a tray of sharp instruments. One drawer was stuffed with a large wad of cotton. Another had several unopened packs of large, curved needles.

In the final drawer, near the back, rested a small metal box with a wire handle. A cash box. It had a combination lock on the front.

I took it out, gave it a tiny shake. Something bumped around inside. Something that didn't sound like cash.

I picked up a clean-looking scalpel and spent about a minute trying to pry open the top. It held.

I left the prep room with the box, and found Herb and Rushlo in the arrangement office. Rushlo sat behind his desk, looking six kinds of nervous. Herb busied himself searching the bookshelves.

"What's in the box, Derrick?"

I tossed it onto his desk. The thud made him jump.

"That's private."

"We have a blanket warrant. That entitles us to search anything we're interested in. Open it up."

"I don't want to."

"Did he contact a lawyer?"

Benedict nodded.

"Not cooperating with us is just making it harder on yourself, Derrick. Open the box."

He folded his arms and tucked his chin into his chest, like a petulant child.

"I've got a crowbar in the Camaro. Want me to get it?"

"Thanks, Herb."

Benedict waddled off. I sat in the chair across from Rushlo, leaning toward him.

"Let me tell you what I think, Derrick. I think you faked that death certificate. I think that woman in the embalming room is actually Eileen Hutton. I think I'll be able to prove that. The head may be gone, and the fingerprints may be gone, but we've got more than enough DNA to make a positive ID."

Rushlo began to rock back and forth, humming to himself.

"You're going to be charged with first-degree murder, Derrick. The jury will take one look at the pictures of that poor girl, and you'll get the death penalty."

More humming.

"We know about the TracFone. We know you have a partner. Your only chance at getting through this is by giving us a name."

"I'm not saying anything until my attorney gets here."

"You think your attorney is going to help you get out of this? You've got a murder victim in there. Give me a name."

Silence.

Benedict returned, holding his pry bar.

"May I?"

I handed him the box. He worked the thin side of the tool into the crack, and then popped the cover open.

It took me a second to understand what I was seeing. At first I thought they were white prunes.

But they weren't prunes. They were ears.

And the silver hoop earrings in the lobes were mine.

Chapter 16

"You should talk to them, Derrick."

Derrick Rushlo sat in Interrogation Room E, arms crossed, one eye focused intently on the ceiling and the other staring off into space. He continued to hum tunelessly.

His lawyer, a cousin named Gary Pludenza, had been trying for the last hour to get Rushlo to take the deal.

I leaned closer to Rushlo, talking softly so he had to strain to hear me.

"Prison isn't a nice place, Derrick. I promise, you're not going to like it. We know you've got a partner. Tell us who your partner is, and I can promise you a reduced sentence. Or else you're looking at life."

Rushlo kept humming to himself.

"Here, Derrick." I took my driver's license out of my wallet and showed him the photo, keeping my thumb over my address. "See what I'm wearing in the picture? Those same silver hoop earrings we found in your office."

Derrick said nothing, but the humming stopped. I would have liked to say we had his prints on the jewelry, but they'd been wiped clean.

"We know you falsified that death certificate. That's not Felicia Wymann from Wisconsin. We checked. No one named Felicia Wymann died recently. There was no autopsy."

I'd mentioned that three times already, trying to hammer it into his head.

"Now look at these."

I showed him two pictures, one of Eileen Hutton in a bathing suit, and one of the corpse's right shoulder.

"See the birthmark, Derrick? The pear-shaped one right here and here? It's identical in both pictures. And soon, we'll have the DNA tests back, and they'll prove without a doubt that the woman on that table is not Felicia Wymann. It's Eileen Hutton."

Silence. I tried a different tactic, and slammed my palm down on the table. Both Derrick and his lawyer jumped.

"Don't you get it, Rushlo? You're going to spend the next fifty years sharing a twelve-by-twelve cell with some body-building rapist who's going to trade your ass for cigarettes. We found the TracFone. We've got you connected to two homicides. Is your partner worth that?"

Pludenza gave me a weak smile. "Can I speak to my client privately, for a moment?"

I stormed out of the room, my anger not entirely playacting. I needed some coffee, but had no idea where the vending machine was. Because Herb and I were convinced Rushlo's accomplice was a cop, possibly from our station, we'd brought him to the 12th District rather than the 26th. For all I knew, the bad cop might be from the 12th, so we tried to do this on the hush-hush.

I flipped a mental coin and chose to go right. After turning two corners, I found a coffee machine.

Unfortunately, all I had in my wallet were two nickels and a twenty-dollar bill.

"How's the interrogation going?"

Herb walked toward me, coming down the hall. He held a stack of papers.

"Do you have seventy-five cents?"

"That's what you need to break him? Seventy-five cents?"

"For coffee, Herb."

He fished around in his pants pockets and came up with a crusty penny and a stick of gum covered in lint. He ate the gum.

"Nailed the ID on the body," Herb said, chewing. "Eileen Hutton broke her leg in a skiing accident two years ago. We got her X-rays, and they match with the ones Blasky just took at County."

Herb offered me the papers. Even though the faxes weren't perfect, the match clearly was.

"How soon before he finishes the autopsy?"

"He's almost done -- the organs are missing, so it's going quick. He estimates she's been dead for about eighteen hours. Neck wound is consistent with some kind of wire or garrote. He's got pictures and casts of the bite wounds, and is confident he can match them up with a suspect's teeth. Found semen. Should be able to type it if the guy's a secretor -- Phil said it's only a few hours old."

"I thought she was killed eighteen hours ago."

Herb gave me a pained look, and I put two and two together.

"Rushlo?"

"Yeah. He's got the new high score on my personal Yuck Scale."

I got an involuntary image of Derrick, naked and grunting on top of Eileen's corpse, and immediately buried it. While the concept unnerved me, it didn't completely surprise me. Being a cop for so long, I had zero faith in humanity.

"Necrophilia isn't a crime, right?" I asked.

"If not, it should be. He hasn't cracked yet?"

"Hasn't said a word. You want to take a shot?"

Herb nodded. We walked back to the interrogation room and Herb popped his head inside.

"Ready to deal?"

The lawyer sighed, loud and long.

"I'm sorry, Detective. He refuses to say anything."

Herb sat in the chair across from Rushlo, and I stood behind him, wearing my no-BS face.

"We just got some X-rays, Derrick. They confirm the woman is Eileen Hutton. We're going to charge you with first-degree murder. I've spoken with the assistant state's attorney, and if you make a statement and name the partner, we'll go easy on you."

Rushlo began to hum again. I felt an urge to whack him upside the head.

"Are you not talking because you're worried about your partner? Or are you embarrassed to admit what you did to Eileen after you received the body?"

Rushlo's lawyer furrowed his brow.

"What do they mean, Derrick? What did you do to the body?"

I dropped the papers on the table. "We have evidence that your client had sexual relations with the corpse, roughly two hours ago."

I'd never seen a lawyer look so completely disgusted. In a way, it was refreshing.

"Derrick -- I think you need to get other representation."

Rushlo turned to him, panicked.

"You're my cousin! You can't desert me!"

"I don't know if I can handle this, Derrick. My specialty is DUIs, not humping dead bodies."

"I don't have anyone else!"

The lawyer gathered up his things and stood.

"I'll make some calls, see if I can find someone. Don't say anything without counsel present."

He made a sick face, then left the room.

I wanted to keep going at Rushlo, but no lawyer meant no questions. We booked him, taking prints and mugs, and tossed him into a holding cell.

"Dammit, Herb. I really don't think he's going to give up his partner."

"We can check Rushlo's background. Try to narrow it down."

"That will take time. And meanwhile, we've got a crazy cop running around, slicing up call girls."

"How about a mole ploy?"

I considered it.

"What if one of the cops here is the killer? Maybe that's why Rushlo is so scared."

Herb rubbed his mustache.

"Bring in someone from the outside? Stick a wire on him, stick him in the cell, maybe he could get Rushlo to give up a name."

"Do you know anyone other than cops? Someone who would know how to get information out of him?"

"I know a few retired cops. I could make a few calls. How about you?"

I shook my head. "No one."

"How about your ex-partner? That McGlade guy?"

"No. He'd find some way to make everything worse."

"We've only got tonight, Jack. Tomorrow they'll ship Rushlo to the county lock-up. We wouldn't be able to get a mole in there."

"McGlade is an idiot."

"He used to be a cop. Plus he owes you one, from the way they depicted you in that awful TV movie. Remember how they made you into a binge eater, constantly shoving things into your mouth? That must have been humiliating."

I thought about McGlade's suspended PI license, and knew I could use that to get him to help. But, dammit, it was using a machine gun to kill a gnat.

"If the choice is working with Harry, or letting a maniac run free, I'm not sure which is the worse of the two."

"Call him."

"Maybe I can dress up as a man and do it myself. I can paint on a mustache with mascara."

"Call him."

"Ah, hell."

I needed to dial directory assistance to get McGlade's number. As his phone rang, I silently hoped he wouldn't pick up.

"This is Harry McGlade, World's Greatest Private Detective, featured in the television movie Fatal Autonomy. Talk to me."

I swallowed a gallon of pride. "Harry, it's Jack."

"Jackie! Calling to give me good news about my license?"

"Sort of. I need a favor."

"Consider it done, sugar. I had no idea you wanted to ride the Harry Rocket, but I'm more than happy to give you a taste. I usually like them younger, though."

"Even if you tied me down, McGlade, I'd chew off my own arms to get away. I need you to run the mole ploy for me."

"Gimme details."

I filled Harry in, lowering my voice when a pair of cops walked past.

"And if I help you out with the stiff-sticker, you'll get me my license back?"

"You have my word."

"I'll be there in half an hour, ready to be wired. See you soon."

Harry hung up. Herb gave me a pat on the shoulder.

"It's for the greater good, Jack."

I took a deep breath and rubbed my temples.

"That's what Oppenheimer said."

Chapter 17

"Want to help me tape on the wire?"

McGlade waggled his eyebrows at me. He'd unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a flabby chest completely carpeted with curly brown hair. It was like looking at a gorilla, if the gorilla used Rogaine.

"Is it a full moon?" Herb asked.

"Could be," McGlade answered. "Does the full moon turn you into a fat pig?"

Herb narrowed his eyes. Harry had a wonderful way of immediately getting on a person's bad side.

"Don't get angry, Porky." Harry grinned. "It's just a joke."

Herb folded his arms. "For your information, I just lost ten pounds."

"You didn't lose them -- they're hiding in your ass."

I stepped between them and used some tape to attach the lavaliere microphone to Harry's chest. More tape than necessary.

"You're so gentle, Jackie. You're turning me on."

Harry put his hand on my hip, and I pinched his nipple hard enough to draw milk. He yelped and dropped his hand.

Herb shook his head in disbelief; Harry got that reaction a lot. "You were right, Jack. He's an idiot."

"Herb," I warned.

"A fourteen-karat, card-carrying idiot. How did you survive all those years with him as a partner?"

"Why are you in such a bad mood?" Harry asked. "Your local grocery store run out of Sara Lee?"

Benedict pointed a finger in McGlade's face. "You make one more fat joke . . ."

"And you'll do what? Eat me?"

Benedict got in McGlade's face, and I had to pull him away.

"Can you both please act like professionals?"

"Careful, Jackie, when he's done with me he may still be hungry."

Benedict grabbed a fistful of Harry's chest hair and yanked out a patch. McGlade screamed, then went for his shoulder holster.

"Sit!" I ordered Harry. "And back off, Herb."

Harry glowered at Herb, then sat back down. Benedict rolled his eyes and walked over to the other side of the room, giving Harry his back.

"Here's the deal, McGlade. We know Rushlo's got an accomplice, and we believe it's a cop. We need a name."

"No problem."

"You have to play it cool in there, try to get him to open up. You've read the file."

"Yeah. He's a mortician, and he likes his sex partners at room temperature. I'll get the info, Jackie. I'm good at this."

Benedict chortled.

"You may scoff, Detective Butterball, but I've worked undercover many times before. In fact, I'm a master of disguise. Guess who I am now."

Benedict took the bait and looked. Harry crossed his eyes and scrunched his neck down, giving himself a big double chin.

"I lost ten pounds on the donut diet," Harry grunted.

Herb made a fist, looked at me, and then excused himself from the room.

"The guy's got no sense of humor, Jackie. He probably eats to compensate for an inadequate sex life."

"I don't think that's Herb's problem. Let's get a level."

I turned on the receiver, a black box the size of a car radio, and adjusted the volume. The room filled with the squelch of feedback.

"Take a few steps back, McGlade, and say something."

McGlade walked near the door, singing about his lovely bunch of coconuts. He came in clear, lousy voice aside.

"The desk sergeant is going to put you in the holding tank. I want Rushlo to give up a name, but any other info you get out of him, I'll be recording. You know what he looks like?"

"I saw the mugs. He looks like a toad with a Lincoln beard."

"Probably not wise to use that as your opening line. What's your approach going to be?"

Harry grinned, his smile as wide as a zebra's hindquarters. "Trust me."

I had a sudden need for an antacid.

I put the bracelets on Harry and led him to the holding area. After signing him in, I took off the cuffs and let the desk sergeant escort him to his cell.

When I returned to the office we'd appropriated, Herb was already there, signing a piece of paper. It was the authorization to give a prisoner a full body-cavity search. McGlade's name was on the top. I took the paper and crumpled it up.

"Herb, you're being childish."

"Yeah. He'd probably just enjoy it anyway."

The radio made a clanging sound. Cell door closing. I hit the Record button.

Footsteps. White noise. Shuffling.

"Hey man, got any smokes?" Harry's voice.

"No. Sorry." Rushlo.

"I don't believe this shit. I shouldn't even be in here. She said she was sixteen, man. It was so worth the hassle, though. The younger the beaver, the softer the pelt, right? Right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

A grunt, perhaps McGlade sitting down.

"You guess? I can tell you like sex, just looking at you. You've got that vibe. I bet you're a real lady-killer."

Herb sighed and shook his head. "I know people who work at the zoo, Jack. We could have sent a trained monkey in there instead."

I shushed him.

"Actually, I'm not very good with women."

"You're kidding, right? With a face like that, I bet you get laid all the time. When was the last piece of ass you tagged? Come on, don't be shy. When was it? Last week? Yesterday?"

Seconds of silence went by.

"You're not a virgin, are you?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. So when was the last time you got some?"

"This morning."

"I knew it! I knew it the moment I saw you. I bet you like that kinky shit too. Little rope action, little spanky-spanky. Am I right?"

"Sort of."

"Look at you, smiling like that. What's your kink?"

"It's . . . private."

Hand-clapping sounds, and McGlade laughing.

"I bet it's real private. I can see it in your eyes. Well, your one eye. Your other eye is all screwed up. I bet you have a hard time watching 3-D movies."

Herb sighed again.

"So what's your kink, man? Kids? Animals? Getting pooped on?"

"Nothing like that."

"Tell me."

"I don't really talk about it."

"Got it. Secret stuff. I'm cool with that. What's you're name, man?"

"Derrick."

"Hi, Derrick. My name's Barnum. Call me P.T."

"Unbelievable," Herb said.

"What do you do, Derrick?"

"I own a funeral home."

"Funeral home, huh? How's business?"

"Business is dying."

They both chuckled. Herb and I managed to restrain ourselves.

"Hey, wait a second! A funeral home! Is that your kink, man? You boning the stiffs? That's freaking great, man! I bet you get a lot of tail working in a funeral home, and none of it ever says no. Am I right?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Why not? Nothing wrong with grabbing a little afternoon delight at work. I always wanted to nail a corpse."

"Really?"

"Sure. Don't have to buy her dinner, don't have to bother with foreplay, and she wouldn't want to talk afterward. Sounds like the perfect woman. Tell me the truth: How is it?"

Another long pause.

"It's beautiful."

"Not cold?"

"I use a heating pad to warm them up."

"That's genius, man! When we get out of here, maybe you'd let me stop by some time? I'd, you know, pay for the privilege. As soon as we both get out . . . hey, what's wrong, man?"

"I'm never going to get out of here." Rushlo's voice was cracking.

"Why not? What are you in for?"

"Murder."

"No shit! You killed somebody?"

"No. I didn't kill anybody. They think I did."

"Well, if you didn't do it, they'll let you out. Do you know who did it?"

Sniffling. "Yes."

"Did you tell them?"

"No. He'll kill me if I tell."

"Won't the cops protect you?"

"He is a cop."

"No shit? Man, that sucks. You wanna tell me his name?"

"No. Why?"

"I'll give you twenty bucks."

Herb slapped himself on the forehead.

"Why do you want to know his name? Are you a cop?"

"Sure, I'm a cop. I'm even wearing a wire. They sent me in here to see if I could make you talk."

Herb nudged me. "When this is over, let's leave McGlade in there. He's too stupid to be allowed in society."

"You're not a cop." Rushlo talking.

"Of course I'm not a cop. I hate cops. Hey . . . you wanna hear a secret?"

"Sure."

"I killed a cop once." Harry was whispering. I turned up the volume.

"Are you kidding?"

"No shit, man. I was on a street corner, talking to this cute little girl, and this cop starts hassling me. I didn't need that kind of hassle, know what I mean? He wants to pat me down, and I'm carrying."

"You had a gun?"

"Hell yeah, I had a gun. So before he gets a chance to take it away from me, I put him down. Bam Bam! Two in the face. Maybe you read about it, happened a few weeks ago. You wanna hear the cool part?"

"Sure."

"I liked it."

"Wow."

"Yeah, I'm a stone-cold demon, man. I'm the real deal. Hey . . . you rich? I heard funeral homes make a lot of money."

"I have money."

"Maybe I can help you out."

"How?"

"Maybe I could take care of this cop for you. Sneak up on his pig ass and give him a little Bam Bam."

Nice, Harry. I was actually a little impressed.

"I don't think I want to kill him."

"He's a pig, man. All pigs should die."

"I don't know."

"Would he kill you, if he had the chance?"

"Yes."

"You've got to take this guy out."

"But he's my friend."

Harry's laughter made the speakers shake.

"Do all your friends want to kill you?"

"No. Most of my friends are dead."

Benedict snorted. "There's a shock."

"Well, maybe you and me can make this one dead too, Derrick."

"I don't know."

"Your call, man. I'll tell you something, though -- if this guy's a cop, and you think you're safe in here, you're crazy."

"He's not from this station."

"Don't matter. He can still get to you. Sneak in when you're sleeping, stick you a few times, and then blame it on one of the convicts. Or put something in your food. Or pay one of the other cons to do it. There's a million ways."

"Jesus."

"You could maybe ask to go into protective custody, but that's even worse. Then he'd have a shot at you when you're alone. You should let me take the porker out."

Another long pause.

"I can't."

"I could do it for twenty grand. You got twenty grand?"

"Yes."

"Groovy. Let me whack the guy. Tell the cops he forced you to help him, and they'll let you go. You could be back at work and getting it on with dear, departed Aunt Sally in a day or two."

"I can't."

"Whatever, man. You're the one who's gonna get iced."

There was no talking for over a minute. Only Rushlo's off-key humming.

"What if . . . what if I said yes?"

"Half the money up front, the other half when it's over."

"How?"

"Cash. You talk to your lawyer, have him deliver it to me."

"And what if you can't do it?"

"I can do it. Trust me."

"He's a big guy."

"Size don't matter if you aim for the head. What's the pig's name?"

I noticed I was holding my breath.

"Hey man, if you want me to kill the guy, I got to know his name."

"It's Barry."

Herb and I looked at each other. There was only one Barry we knew on the job. I tried to make it fit, to picture the cop on my team as the one responsible for these atrocities.

"Barry what? Barry Houdini? Barry Flintstone? Barry Manilow? You gotta give me more than that."

Fuller had access to my office, and to Colin Andrews's phone. Fuller was angry I passed him over for promotion. Fuller kept butting into this investigation, offering to help.

"I don't want to say any more. I can't say any more. I'm sorry."

"You already said too much, you little squealer." McGlade's tone had become harsh, menacing. "Barry knew you'd try something. He sent me to take care of you."

Rushlo made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.

"Leave me alone!"

"Barry can't afford to keep you around."

"I'm sorry! Tell him I'm sorry!"

"Tell who you're sorry?"

"Fuller! Tell him I'd never betray him."

"Get him out of there," I told Herb, the phone already in my hand. We needed to find Barry Fuller, fast.

Before anyone else died.

Chapter 18

Barry Fuller cruises Irving Park Road. He's off duty, dressed in civvies and driving his SUV.

His headache is explosive.

The morning began on a bad note. Holly, his bitch of a wife, had some stupid complaint about the living room curtains. He told her, several times, to buy new curtains if she hated these, but she couldn't shut her goddamn mouth and kept yapping and yapping and finally he had to leave because if he didn't he would have gutted her right there.

He needs a substitute, fast. Normally, he'd drop in the station and use the computer to locate a neighborhood hooker. But the pain is so bad he's practically blind with it, and he needs relief ASAP.

Luckily, the streets are littered with disposables.

He tails a jogger for a block. Blonde, nice ass. She blends into the crowd, and he loses her.

Another woman. Business suit. High heels. He idles alongside, visualizing how to grab her. She walks into a coffee shop.

Fuller fidgets in his seat, sweating even though the air is cranked to the max. He turns down an alley, searching, scanning . . .

Finding.

She's walking out the rear door to her apartment building. Twenty-something, wearing flip-flops and a large T-shirt over bikini bottoms, a towel on her shoulder. Planning on walking to Oak Street Beach, just a few blocks away.

He guns the engine and hits her from behind.

She bounces off the front bumper, skids along the pavement face-first. Fuller jams the truck into park, jumps out.

"My God! Are you okay?" In case anyone is watching. There doesn't seem to be.

The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.

"We have to get you to a hospital."

He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they're pulling out into traffic.

"What happened?" she moans.

Fuller hits her. Again. And again.

She slumps over in the seat.

He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It's one of Chicago's oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.

"We're in luck," Fuller says. "It's dead."

The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred-year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.

Plenty of room for privacy.

He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.

Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.

Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.

When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman's arm.

Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.

He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field's monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.

The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.

He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.

It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.

His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.

Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.

Pain-free.

On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.

The mortician doesn't pick up.

Alarms go off in Fuller's head. Rushlo always picks up. That's part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo's Funeral Home.

Another call.

No answer.

Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?

Rushlo won't talk. He's sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.

But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.

Jack's earrings.

He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?

Worry creeps up Barry's shoulders and crouches there.

He calls Rushlo again.

No answer.

He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.

Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.

It's over. Time to leave the country.

Fuller's bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.

"You need shoes to enter, sir."

Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.

"Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I'll beat your ass right here."

The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.

"I need to open my security box. Now."

The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.

"I'll need a bag."

The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash -- shakedowns from his patrolman days -- a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.

A meter maid is writing him a ticket.

"Sorry, sister. I'm on the job."

She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.

Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancun. It leaves in three hours.

Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.

Fuller doesn't want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they're on to him, they'll be staking out his house.

But he can't leave the country without killing that bitch he married. That just wouldn't do.

He dials home, rehearsing the lines in his head.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Holly. It's me."

"What do you want?"

No fear in her tone. No nervousness or hesitation.

"Everything okay, babe? You sound strange."

"Everything is not okay. These damn curtains are driving me insane. How could we have lived with them for so long, Barry? They're hideous."

So far, she seems normal.

"Hon, I'm expecting some guys from the office to drop by later. Are they there yet?"

"Nope."

"Maybe parked out front?"

"Why would they be parked out front?"

"Can you check for me, babe? It's important."

"Just a second." Rustling, footsteps. "I'm looking at the street. No one out front."

Fuller considers this. Maybe they haven't found out about him yet. Maybe he can go home, do the bitch, and be able to pack his bags and some things.

He instantly rejects the idea as too dangerous.

"Baby, do you remember where we bought our bedroom set?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Meet me there in an hour."

"What for?"

Fuller smiles. "We're shopping for curtains."

"Really?"

"Really. Oh, and bring me a change of clothes and some shoes."

"Why? What are you talking about?"

"Long story. Some street lunatic threw up on me, and I'm wearing my workout sweats. Just bring me shorts, a T-shirt, and my Nikes. Meet me in Home Furnishings."

"Okay, Barry. See you in an hour."

Fuller puts the cell phone away and turns right, heading for State Street. He'll kill her inside Marshall Field's. She's a clotheshorse, and it won't take much to get her to try on an outfit. He'll break her neck in one of the dressing rooms. It's not the fillet knife that he always wanted to use, but it should be satisfying enough.

Hands-on treatment always is.

Chapter 19

"She's on the move."

Holly Fuller walked out of her apartment building and hailed a Yellow Cab.

Herb pulled into traffic behind her. I removed the earpiece, shoved it in my blazer pocket. After McGlade made Rushlo sing, we secured a quick subpoena to tap Fuller's home phone. A fake telemarketing call to the Fuller household proved Barry wasn't there. Since it was his day off, we decided to keep vigil until we heard from him.

The phone call disturbed me. Fuller seemed extra careful not to mention the name of the store where he wanted to meet his wife. And why would he need a change of clothes? Did he know we had Rushlo? I hoped not. Barry Fuller was not the kind of man who would be easy to subdue if forewarned.

I picked up the receiver on Herb's police band.

"This is Two-Delta-Seven, tailing Yellow Cab number six-four-seven-niner Thomas X-ray. Passenger is Holly Fuller, thirty-two, blonde, five-eight, hundred and ten pounds. She's wearing a red and orange summer dress, and carrying a red Nike gym bag. They're turning south onto Michigan Avenue. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over."

"Roger, Two-Delta-Seven. Twelve-Homer-Nineteen flanking South on Wabash, over."

"Roger, both. Sixteen-Angel-Niner turning east on Grand to intercept, over."

My team was unmarked, but a plain white sedan still screamed COP to all who saw it, so I ordered them to hang back. Even if we lost her, a call to the cab company would tell us where she was dropped off.

"Think she's headed for Water Tower Place?" Herb asked.

"Could be. Or State Street. Seems like a woman with expensive tastes. Her shoes are Ferragamos."

"You could tell through the binocs?"

"I've had my eye on that same pair for two months. Five hundred and fifty dollars."

"Do they come with a trip to Rio?"

"Don't pretend to understand fashion, Herb. And I won't make any comments about this big red penis you're driving around in."

Herb humphed.

"My Camaro? I bought this solely for comfort."

"So did Holly Fuller."

Traffic was tight, befitting a weekend on the Magnificent Mile. This was the best-known part of Chicago. The skyscrapers, John Hancock and the AON Center (formerly Amoco, and before that, Standard Oil). Nieman Marcus and Saks. Navy Pier. The Art Institute. Orchestra Hall. Further south, Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium.

The sidewalks were packed -- not quite shoulder to shoulder, but personal space was at a premium. The sun beat down on everyone and everything, and I couldn't use the binoculars because I kept catching glints off of cars and hurting my eyes.

"She passed Water Tower. Continuing south on Michigan. Ease up, Herb -- you're riding her bumper. There's a pedal next to the gas that I don't think you've tried yet."

Benedict slowed down, let the cab gain several car lengths.

"Jack . . . what if we have to take him down?"

I knew how he felt. Cops were fiercely protective of their own. Arresting one, or shooting one, was a hard idea to get your head around. The us-against-them mentality ran deep in the force. Us-against-us was anathema.

"Then we do our job. We take him down."

"I can't believe it's Barry. I can't believe he could do that. I consider him a friend, for chrissakes."

I couldn't believe it either. I tried to replay every meeting I'd ever had with Barry Fuller, tried to recall any signs or hints that he was a serial killer.

There were none. Fuller had fooled us all.

"You know as well as I do, Herb. The scariest monsters have the best masks."

Benedict made his mouth into a thin, tight line.

"He's supposed to be one of the good guys."

"Good guys don't slice up hookers."

The taxi hung a right onto Randolph, and then another right onto State. It stopped in front of Marshall Field's.

"The passenger has been dropped off at the northwest corner of State and Randolph. All units converge, but remain out of sight until target is spotted, over."

Holly Fuller paid the driver and walked into the department store, while Benedict double-parked. I shoved my earpiece in and pinned the lapel mike to my blouse. After informing our backup that Holly was in the building, Herb and I hurried into Field's.

The store was packed. An equal mix of men and women, their attire running the gamut from business formal to T-shirts and sandals. Heat waves were good for business, especially if you had decent air-conditioning.

We spotted Holly stepping onto the escalator, and lagged behind thirty seconds before following. A lighted sign informed us Home Furnishings occupied the fifth floor.

There was a line for the escalator, and we wedged ourselves on, surrounded by shoppers.

"Do you see her?"

"There. Eleven o'clock."

I followed his index finger and spotted Holly on the escalator two floors above us. She was easy to spot, which made me aware of how conspicuous Herb and I were. Benedict didn't exactly blend in.

"I'll need you to stay on the third floor, Herb. See if you can spot Fuller coming up. Lay low."

Benedict nodded. I spoke into the mike, requesting further backup to converge on all exits at my command.

Benedict got off the escalator. I pressed onward and upward. On the fifth floor, I searched for Holly and found her examining Oriental rugs. A quick survey of the area failed to reveal Fuller, but the several dozen shoppers milling about made me very uneasy. Too many people, only one me.

I didn't like this. Not a bit.

I could feel my heartbeat kick up a notch. My palms got damp and my mouth got dry. A crowded department store was not a place for a shoot-out.

I blended into the crowd, pretending to examine loveseats. A saleswoman came up, asked if I needed assistance. I told her no, keeping distance from Holly as she left rugs for window dressings.

Best-case scenario, I sneak up on Fuller, he surrenders without incident.

Worst-case -- well, take your pick. He's a homicidal maniac and a trained marksman. He knows everything I'll do before I do it. Knows he's surrounded, exits blocked. Knows he has a much better chance to make a stand when there are this many bystanders hanging around.

"Any sign of the target?"

I received a round of negatives in my earpiece.

"The locale is too crowded. We'll tail him as he leaves, over."

That calmed me a bit. We could just hang back, take him down when he's back on the street, where there were fewer . . .

"I've got him." Benedict, from the third floor. "Taking the escalator. Dressed in green gym shorts and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He's also barefoot, over."

"Hold your positions. We will not engage until he's off site. Repeat, hold your positions. Over."

I changed directions, facing the escalator. A minute passed, and I realized I'd been holding my breath. I let it out, slow.

Fuller rose up out of the floor, seeming much bigger than he looked around the office. His manner was edgy, irritated, and his eyes darted this way and that. I squatted behind a display of bath towels, watched him through a gap in the terry-cloth layers.

He passed within twenty feet of me, beelining to window dressings.

"The target's on the fifth floor. I have him in my sights, over."

Holly had her back to him, absorbed in examining a valence. Fuller spotted her, quickened his pace. He reached his hands out before him, huge hands, at neck level.

I stood up, adrenaline surging. It was too far away to take a shot. I broke into a jog, hand going for my gun, and then skidded on my heels when Fuller put his hands over Holly's eyes and played guess who.

She giggled, turned around, and kissed him on tiptoes. Fuller held out his hand, and Holly handed him the Nike bag she'd been carrying. They exchanged a few sentences, another kiss, and then he led her away from window dressings, back to the escalator.

I spun around, absorbed in the price tag on a bronze floor lamp.

"Target and his wife are heading for the escalators. Going up. Everyone stand their ground, over."

I gave them half a minute's lead, then followed the pair up a floor. Women's Evening Wear.

"They're on the sixth floor, looking at cocktail dresses. He's picking one up off the rack, handing it to her. She's shaking her head. He's laughing. Now they're walking over to the dressing rooms. They just went in."

I examined my options. Keep my distance and wait for them to come out, or move in closer to make sure he isn't adding to his body count.

They seemed fine. No animosity. Smiling and kissing.

I decided to hang back. It was just a husband and wife, out shopping. Even as crazy as Fuller seemed, he probably wasn't going to kill his wife in the middle of a busy department store.

Right?

Chapter 20

He's ready to kill the bitch. The excitement of it makes him giddy, light-headed. As soon as she opens that door, shows off that pretty little Dolce & Gabbana dress, he's going to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until his thumbs meet his index fingers.

He knocks on her dressing room door. "You okay in there, honey?"

"Just a second. This isn't the right kind of bra, I have to take it off. You really like this dress?"

"I have to see you in it."

"I didn't know you cared about fashion, Barry."

Fuller grins, thinking about the corpse in the back of his SUV.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me, dear."

Fuller wipes some sweat from his forehead, hands shaking. The store's swamped with customers, and there's no one chaperoning the dressing room. He'll be able to kill his wife in less than thirty seconds, and then slip out before anyone knows what is happening. Remember to take her ring and tennis bracelet, he tells himself. Might not hurt to stop at the jewelry department on his way out and max his credit card on diamonds. He won't get even half their value at the pawn shop, but he doesn't plan on sticking around to pay the bill.

"You ready, honey?" Holly's voice is like a dinner bell.

"I'm ready."

"The shoes don't match."

"I don't care. Let me in so I can look at you."

The door opens. Fuller goes in.

Holly smiles at him, the same fake smile she gives photographers.

"What do you think?"

Fuller smiles back, full wattage, his eyes wide and the muscles in his neck stretched taut.

"I'll show you what I think."

He reaches for her neck.

Chapter 21

I learned to trust my instincts years ago, as a rookie. If a situation didn't feel right, it usually wasn't.

Something about the eager way Fuller followed his wife into the dressing room set me on edge. I'd never met a man eager to play fashion show, and the quick way he convinced Holly to try on the dress made me suspicious.

"Change of plan. All units converge on the sixth floor, at the northeast dressing room. We're taking the target down. Repeat, we're taking the target down. Over."

I hung my star around my neck and tugged out my .38, which was happy to be free of its claustrophobic holster.

Several patrons stared at me, mouths open. I warned them to stay back.

Two steps into the dressing room, I heard gurgling and grunting. A muffled scream. I followed the sounds, found the right door. Locked.

I kicked off my flats, planted my left foot, and snap-kicked the door at knob level, grunting with the force of my effort.

The jamb splintered. The door swung inward. My gun came up.

Fuller had Holly by the throat. He spun her around, in the path of my .38, and I jerked the shot high, firing at the ceiling.

I recovered quickly, leveling the gun, bringing my left hand up to steady it. Fuller's massive forearm was locked around Holly's throat. Her face was a mess of tears, mascara, and spit, and her eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

Fuller was smiling.

"Hello, Lieutenant."

I aimed at his head.

"Drop her, Barry!"

"I don't think so."

His arm tightened. Holly went from red to purple.

My hands had begun to shake. I tightened my finger on the trigger.

"Dammit, Barry! We can work this out! Don't make me shoot you!"

I heard Fuller's shots a millisecond after I felt them, ripping through Holly's belly and slamming into mine. It was like getting kicked in the stomach.

I fired on reflex, my slug winging Fuller in the forehead.

All three of us went down.

The dressing room was carpeted, and the floor felt plush under my back. Comfortable. I looked down at my belly and saw blood and bits of flesh. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized my outfit was ruined, and that amused me for some reason.

To my left, lying less than two feet away, Holly Fuller stared at me. She blinked. Opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was blood.

"Don't talk," I told her.

She nodded, once. Then she closed one eye, and the other continued to stare at me as her life left her body.

Behind her, Fuller was laid out on his back. His head spurted blood with his heartbeat, and I saw bits of bone tangled in his hair. His right hand was clenched around a bloody semiautomatic.

"Die," I whispered.

He didn't.

I heard screams, and then Herb's plump face was staring down at me, filled with anguish. I wanted to tell him not to be so sad, but I couldn't get the words to form.

He pried the .38 from my hand, and touched my cheek.

"It's going to be okay, Jack. It's going to be okay."

Not for Holly Fuller, I thought. And then it was getting too hard to keep my eyes open, so I went to sleep.

Chapter 22

When I woke up, Latham was holding my hand. He smiled at me.

"Hiya, sport. You got out of surgery an hour ago. Had two bullets removed from your abdominal wall."

I looked around, took in all the standard hospital surroundings, and then went to sleep again.

The second time I awoke, Herb was there.

"Good morning, Jack. How you feeling?"

"Stomach hurts," I said. Or tried to say. What came out was something that sounded like, "S'hurt."

"I'll have the doctor up your morphine."

I shook my head and tried to say no.

"Thirsty?"

I nodded. Benedict poured me some water from a pitcher and held the glass. I took two sips, and two more sips dribbled down my face.

"Day?" I managed.

"Friday. You've been out about twenty-four hours."

"Olly?"

Herb shook his head.

"Uller?"

"He's in recovery. I'll tell you more when you're feeling better."

"Ell me."

"This is how we figured it -- lemme know if it's right. Fuller was holding Holly around the neck. Did you know he had a gun?"

I shook my head.

"He had it pressed to her back, and tried to shoot you through his wife. The slugs ripped through her and got lodged in your stomach muscles. I guess it pays to do sit-ups."

I grunted. It wasn't sit-ups. Holly's body slowed them down, so they didn't penetrate deep.

"Your round took off part of his head, above his right eye. Mostly skull. The docs picked bone splinters out of his brain for the better part of ten hours. Also, they found something else."

"What?"

"Fuller had a brain tumor. About the size of a cherry. They removed that as well. He's in stable condition."

I mumbled for more water, and we did the slurping/spilling thing again. A small voice whispered to me that I should have shot Fuller immediately, before he had a chance to kill his wife.

"Latham should be back any minute. Went on a burrito run. All of these flowers are from him."

Herb made a grand, sweeping gesture, and for the first time I noticed all of the bouquets surrounding the bed, replete with stuffed animals and Mylar balloons.

"He hasn't left your side since you got here, Jack. He's like Lassie."

"Case?" I asked. I wasn't up to talking about Latham.

"Airtight. We found a body in the back of Fuller's truck. She's wrapped in plastic, and his prints are all over her, not that it makes a difference at this point. The State's Attorney is making a case for the two other women, Eileen Hutton and Davi McCormick, plus the Andrewses."

"Huh?"

"Oh, yeah. You didn't know. The dealer, and his mother. Both shot. Witnesses saw a large Caucasian man leaving the scene. Fuller was making so many mistakes, it's almost like he wanted to be caught."

I took a deep breath, smelling rubbing alcohol and iodine. My arm itched where the IV was jabbed in, and I scratched the skin above the hole. My stomach hurt; not from the inside, like an ulcer, but from the outside, as if someone had kicked me. I pulled down my sheet and pulled my hospital gown to the side. Herb carefully examined his shoes, while I poked and prodded at the large gauze bandage taped to my lower body.

The poking made me realize how badly I needed to go to the bathroom, and I managed to sit up and plant my feet on the floor. The tile was cold.

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom."

"I don't know if you should."

"You want to cup your hands and hold them next to my knees?"

Herb helped me into the bathroom.

When finished, I was a little dizzy, and held on to the sink until the room stopped twirling. The woman in the mirror looked like hell. Hair, a disaster. Face, scrubbed clean of makeup, letting age and exhaustion shine through. Pallor, not much better than one of Derrick Rushlo's dates.

So when I stepped out of the bathroom, it was a given that my boyfriend would be standing there.

He was wearing a smile that could charitably be called dopey, and in his hands was yet another floral arrangement, this one blooming from a coffee mug with a rainbow on it.

"Hi, Jack. You look great."

And I could tell that he meant it.

Maybe it was the drugs, or the pain, or the guilt, but I burst into tears right there. He held me, softly, so as not to hurt me. But I hugged him tight, with everything I had, not ever wanting to let go.

"I'm so happy you're okay, Jack. I'm sorry I didn't call you back. I love you."

I sniffled, making a mess of his sport coat.

"I love you too, Latham. God, I love you too."

Chapter 23

The hottest summer on record eventually fizzled out, easing into autumn's first frost. One hundred and three degrees to thirty in three short months. It confirmed my belief that the Midwest would be much more hospitable if we moved it six hundred miles south.

It was a chilly Tuesday morning, and Mr. Friskers was clawing the hide off a pumpkin Latham had bought earlier in the week. The cat hadn't exactly cozied up to me, but he didn't attack me constantly either. It was more an uneasy alliance than a friendship, but I was grateful for his presence.

The twelve weeks had been tough.

I hadn't been back to work yet, and even though I was in love with the most patient, decent, understanding man in the northern hemisphere, I felt like I was losing my mind.

"Want some milk, cat?"

Mr. Friskers halted his attack on the intruder gourd and squinted at me. I went to the fridge, found the 2 percent, and poured some into his bowl. He waited until I backed away before stuffing his face.

I yawned, and gave my head a quick shake, trying to dispel the drowsies. I'd fallen into the habit of taking a sleeping pill every night, and the grogginess took time to wear off.

I yawned again, wondered if I was hungry, and when I'd last eaten. Dinner, last night. Two bites of pizza, with Latham. The leftovers were in the fridge, but cold pizza didn't sound like a good breakfast. I thought about making myself eggs, dismissed it as too difficult, and plodded back into the bedroom and onto the bed.

Picked up the remote. Put it back down. Picked it up again.

Mistake. Channel 5 was on, covering the prelims for the Fuller trial. I switched it off and stared at the ceiling, trying to stop the thoughts from coming.

They came anyway.

"I know," I said aloud. "I should have pulled the trigger sooner."

I would have loved to say I was talking to Holly Fuller. A large part of me wished that I would see her every time I closed my eyes, or dream about her whenever I nabbed a few precious winks.

But the truth was, I had a hard time remembering what she looked like. Her face had been replaced with my own.

I didn't need a shrink degree to know what that meant. When Holly died, I not only disappointed her, but myself as well.

It's tough being your own worst critic.

Someone knocked on my door, shave-and-a-haircut.

"Can you get that?" I yelled at the cat.

The cat didn't respond, so I tied my bathrobe closed, forced myself out of bed, and padded to the door.

My mother smiled at me through the peephole.

"Mom!"

I couldn't open the door fast enough. When I hugged her, I felt like a little girl again, even though I was four inches taller than she was. I buried my nose in her shoulder, smelling the same detergent she's been using for forty years. She wore a fuzzy white turtleneck and some baggy jeans, and her right hand clenched the hook of an aluminum cane.

"Jacqueline, honey, it's great to see you."

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"We wanted it to be a surprise."

I blinked. "We?"

"Hello, Jack."

The voice made me catch my breath. I stepped away from my mother, looking at the man next to her, holding a single red rose.

"Hello, Alan."

My ex-husband smiled boyishly at me. The past ten years had been kind. He'd kept his hair, still thick and blond, and his waistline, still trim. There were more lines around his eyes and mouth than I remembered, but he looked almost exactly the same as he did the day he left me.

"Alan was kind enough to pick me up at the airport. We've been planning this for about two weeks."

I cinched my robe tighter, and spoke to my mother while my eyes were on him.

"Mom, maybe you should have told me first."

"Nonsense. You would have said no."

"Mom . . ."

"You're both adults, Jacqueline. I didn't think it would be a problem. Now, are you going to invite us in, or are we going to have a reunion in your hallway?"

Alan raised his eyebrows at me, still smiling. I gave him my back and walked into my apartment.

"Do you have any coffee, Jacqueline?"

"I'll make some."

I entered the kitchen, lips pursed. Coffee used to be an important part of my day, but now that I lived without a schedule caffeine wasn't necessary. I managed to remember how the machine worked, and got a pot going as Alan came in and leaned against the breakfast bar.

"Is this awkward?" he asked. He wore blue Dockers, a white button-down shirt, and a familiar faded brown bomber jacket.

"Don't you think so?"

"No."

I wanted to say something, to hurt him, but didn't have the energy. Maybe after some coffee.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine. Okay. Good."

"I heard you got shot again."

"I wasn't aware that you knew about the first time."

"Your mother keeps me informed."

I folded my arms. "Since when?"

"Since always."