Jack Daniels Stories

JACK DANIELS STORIES

JA KONRATH

Copyright © 2010 Joe Konrath

Cover copyright © 2010 Carl Graves

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath.

INTRODUCTION

There have been seven Jack Daniels novels so far (Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Dirty Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, and Shaken—coming in 2010.)

The continuing cast of characters in the Jack Daniels books are one of the reasons I enjoy writing them so much. Having established early on that the series is a mixture of humor, scares, mystery, and thrills, I have complete freedom to write short stories in any and all of these sub-genres.

I use shorts to take my characters in places they wouldn't normally go in the novels. Jack can function as a traditional sleuth, solving crimes like Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple. But she can also star in nail-biting thrillers without any element of mystery. She can even be delegated to sidekick role, letting someone else take center stage.

Harry McGlade can be even goofier in short stories than he is in the books. When I write a McGlade short, I play it for laughs and cross over into parody, which would never work in the novels.

Phineas Troutt is ideal for hardboiled tales. Because he's a criminal, I can walk on the dark side with him, and have him do things that Jack, with her moral compass, would never do.

Plus, I can get away with things in short stories that I can't in my books. I don't have to worry about having lines cut, or having my characters' motivations questioned. For a writer, it's the ultimate indulgence, and the ultimate freedom.

It also allows me to do some pretty fun shit.

And for the completists who want to make sure they have every story in the Jack Daniels universe, there are four novellas (Suckers, Truck Stop, Planter's Punch, Floaters) that aren't in this collection, but are available separately on Amazon Kindle and on my website, www.JAKonrath.com. I've included excerpts at the back of this ebook. Jack is also a supporting character in my thriller novel Shot of Tequila, which takes place in the 1990s when she's still a rookie detective, still married, and her partner Herb was thin. She also appears in a cameo in my upcoming sci-fi book Timecaster Super Symmetry under my pen name Joe Kimball. Jack's grandson, a 2054 Chicago cop named Talon Avalon, is the hero of that series. His best friend is Harry McGlade the Third.

I may very well write about these characters forever...

Joe Konrath, February 2010

CONTENTS

On the Rocks - Suicide or murder? Lt. Jack Daniels solves a locked room mystery.

Whelp Wanted - P.I. Harry McGlade becomes a dognapper in order to stop a dognapper, or something like that.

Street Music - Phineas Troutt hunts a prostitute through the dangerous streets of Chicago. Are his intentions pure?

The One That Got Away - The Gingerbread Man (the villain from WHISKEY SOUR) hunts one final victim.

With a Twist - It looked like the man fell from a great height, but the body is in his living room. Jack Daniels solves another impossible crime.

Epitaph - Phin Troutt takes on a Chicago street gang with vengeance on his mind.

Taken to the Cleaners - Harry McGlade tries to solve a difficult mystery, but mostly just goofs off.

Body Shots - Jack Daniels faces her most challenging case yet; a school shooting. But does she know more about the perp than she realizes?

Suffer - Phineas Troutt has taken some questionable jobs, but will he murder a man's wife?

School Daze - P.I. Harry McGlade investigates a private school, but he's not entirely sure why.

Overproof - While shopping on the Gold Coast, Jack Daniels notices traffic has come to a stand-still. When she realizes what the problem is, she's confronted with her own mortality, and the possible deaths of hundreds.

Bereavement - How badly does Phineas Troutt need a fix? What is he willing to do?

Pot Shot - Detective Herb Benedict just wants a home cooked meal. But his plans get interrupted by a very determined sniper.

Last Request - Phineas Troutt picks up a hitchhiker, with deadly results.

The Necro File - Harry McGlade investigates some bizarre murders in this hilarious, gore-filled mini-epic. (Author's note: This is easily the funniest thing I've ever written, but it's also very offensive. Let the reader beware...)

On The Rocks

After landing my first three-book deal, I started writing short stories like crazy, trying to get my name out there. I always liked locked-room mysteries, and decided to do one featuring my newly published detective, Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Here, Jack takes a break from serial killers to solve a classic whodunnit. This sold to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and was placed in their Department of First Stories, which thrilled me because I've been a fan of EQMM since childhood.

“She sure bled a lot.”

I ignored Officer Crouch, my attention focused on the dead woman's arm. The cut had almost severed her left wrist, a flash of pink bone peeking through. Her right hand was curled around the handle of a utility knife.

I'd been in Homicide for more than ten years, and still felt an emotional punch whenever I saw a body. The day I wasn't affected was the day I hung up my badge.

I wore disposable plastic booties over my flats because the shag carpet oozed blood like a sponge wherever I stepped. The apartment's air conditioning was set on freeze, so the decomposition wasn't as bad as it might have been after a week—but it was still pretty bad. I got down on my haunches and swatted away some blowflies.

On her upper arm, six inches above the wound, was a bruise.

“What's so interesting, Lieut? It's just a suicide.”

In my blazer pocket I had some latex gloves. I snapped them on.

The victim's name was Janet Hellerman, a real estate lawyer with a private practice. She was brunette, mid thirties, Caucasian. Her satin slip was mottled with drying brown stains, and she wore nothing underneath. I put my hand on her chin, gently turned her head.

There was another bruise on her cheek.

“Johnson's getting a statement from the super.”

I stood up, smoothed down my skirt, and nodded at Herb, who had just entered the room. Detective First Class Herb Benedict was my partner. He had a gray mustache, Basset hound jowls, and a Santa Claus belly. Herb kept on the perimeter of the blood puddle; those little plastic booties were too hard for him to get on.

“Johnson's story corroborates?”

Herb nodded. “Why? You see something?”

I did, but wasn't sure how it fit. Herb had questioned both Officer Crouch and Officer Johnson, and their stories were apparently identical.

Forty minutes ago they'd arrived at apartment 3008 at the request of the victim's mother, who lived out of state. She had been unable to get in touch with her daughter for more than a week. The building superintendent unlocked the door for them, but the safety chain was on, and a sofa had been pushed in front of the door to prevent anyone from getting inside. Crouch put his shoulder to it, broke in, and they discovered the body.

Herb squinted at the corpse. “How many marks on the wrist?”

“Just one cut, deep.”

I took off the blood-soaked booties, put them in one of the many plastic baggies I keep in my pockets, and went over to the picture window, which covered most of the far wall. The view was expensive, overlooking Lake Shore Drive from forty stories up. Boaters swarmed over the surface of Lake Michigan like little white ants, and the street was a gridlock of toy cars. Summer was a busy time for Chicagoans— criminals included.

I motioned for Crouch, and he heeled like a chastened puppy. Beat cops were getting younger every year; this one barely needed to shave. He had the cop stare, though—hard eyes and a perpetual scowl, always expecting to be lied to.

“I need you to do a door-to-door. Get statements from everyone on this floor. Find out who knew the victim, who might have seen anything.”

Crouch frowned. “But she killed herself. The only way in the apartment is the one door, and it was locked from the inside, with the safety chain on. Plus there was a sofa pushed in front of it.”

“I'm sure I don't need to remind you that suicides are treated as homicides in this town, Officer.”

He rolled his eyes. I could practically read his thoughts. How did this dumb broad get to be Homicide Lieutenant? She sleep with the PC?

“Lieut, the weapon is still in her hand. Don't you think...”

I sighed. Time to school the rookie.

“How many cuts are on her wrist, Crouch?”

“One.”

“Didn't they teach you about hesitation cuts at the Academy? A suicidal person usually has to work up the courage. Where was she found?”

“On the floor.”

“Why not her bed? Or the bathtub? Or a comfy chair? If you were ending your life, would you do it standing in the middle of the living room?”

He became visibly flustered, but I wasn't through yet.

“How would you describe the temperature in this room?”

“It's freezing.”

“And all she's wearing is a slip. Little cold for that, don't you think? Did you read the suicide note?”

“She didn't leave a note.”

“They all leave notes. I've worked these streets for twenty years, and never saw a suicide where the vic didn't leave a note. But for some strange reason, there's no note here. Which is a shame because maybe her note would explain how she got the multiple contusions on her face and arm.”

Crouch was cowed, but he managed to mumble, “The door—”

“Speaking of doors,” I interrupted, “why are you still here when you were given an order to start the door-to-door? Move your ass.”

Crouch looked at his shoes and then left the apartment. Herb raised an eyebrow.

“Kinda hard on the newbie, Jack.”

“He wouldn't have questioned me if I had a penis.”

“I think you have one now. You took his.”

“If he does a good job, I'll give it back.”

Herb turned to look at the body. He rubbed his mustache.

“It could still play as suicide,” he said. “If she was hit by a sudden urge to die. Maybe she got some terrible news. She gets out of the shower, puts on a slip, cranks up the air conditioning, gets a phone call, immediately grabs the knife and with one quick slice...”

He made a cutting motion over his wrist.

“Do you buy it?” I asked.

Herb made a show of mulling it over.

“No,” he consented. “I think someone knocked her out, sliced her wrist, turned up the air so the smell wouldn't get too bad, and then...”

“Managed to escape from a locked room.”

I sighed, my shoulders sagging.

Herb's eyes scanned the view. “A window washer?”

I checked the window, but as expected it didn't open. Winds this high up weren't friendly.

“There's no other way in?” Herb asked.

“Just the one entryway.”

I walked up to it. The safety chain hung on the door at eye level, its wall mounting and three screws dangling from it. The doorframe where it had been attached was splintered and cracked from Crouch's entrance. There were three screw holes in the frame that matched the mounting, and a fourth screw still remained, sticking out of the frame about an inch.

The hinges on the door were dusty and showed no signs of tampering. A black leather sofa was pushed off to the side, near the doorway. I followed the tracks that its feet had made in the carpet. The sofa had been placed in front of the door and then shoved aside.

I opened the door, holding the knob with two fingers. It moved easily, even though it was heavy and solid. I closed it, stumped.

“How did the killer get out?” I said, mostly to myself.

“Maybe he didn't get out. Maybe the killer is still in the apartment.” Herb's eyes widened and his hand shot up, pointing over my shoulder. “Jack! Behind you!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Funny, Herb. I already searched the place.”

I peeled off the gloves and stuck them back in my pocket.

“Well, then there are only three possibilities.” Herb held up his hand, ticking off fingers. “One, Crouch and Johnson and the superintendent are all lying. Two, the killer was skinny enough to slip out of the apartment by going under the door. Or three, it was Houdini.”

“Houdini's dead.”

“Did you check? Get an alibi? ”

“I'll send a team to the cemetery.”

While we waited for the ME to arrive, Herb and I busied ourselves with tossing the place. Bank statements told us Janet Hellerman made a comfortable living and paid her bills on time. She was financing a late model Lexus, which we confirmed was parked in the lot below. Her credit card debt was minimal, with a recent charge for plane tickets. A call to Delta confirmed two seats to Montana for next week, one in her name and one in the name of Glenn Hale.

Herb called the precinct, requesting a sheet on Hale.

I checked the answering machine and listened to thirty-eight messages. Twenty were from Janet's distraught mother, wondering where she was. Two were telemarketers. One was from a friend named Sheila who wanted to get together for dinner, and the rest were real estate related.

Nothing from Hale. He wasn't on the caller ID either.

I checked her cell phone next, and listened to forty more messages; ten from mom, and thirty from home buyers. Hale hadn't left any messages, but there was a 'Glenn' listed on speed dial. The phone's call log showed that Glenn's number had called over a dozen times, but not once since last week.

“Look at this, Jack.”

I glanced over at Herb. He set a pink plastic case on the kitchen counter and opened it up. It was a woman's toolkit, the kind they sold at department stores for fifteen bucks. Each tool had a cute pink handle and a corresponding compartment that it snugged into. This kit contained a hammer, four screwdrivers, a measuring tape, and eight wrenches. There were also two empty slots; one for needle nose pliers, and one for something five inches long and rectangular.

“The utility knife,” I said.

Herb nodded. “She owned the weapon. It's looking more and more like suicide, Jack. She has a fight with Hale. He dumps her. She kills herself.”

“You find anything else?”

“Nothing really. She liked to mountain climb, apparently. There's about forty miles of rope in her closet, lots of spikes and beaners, and a picture of her clinging to a cliff. She also has an extraordinary amount of teddy bears. There were so many piled on her bed, I don't know how she could sleep on it.”

“Diary? Computer?”

“Neither. Some photo albums, a few letters that we'll have to look through.”

Someone knocked. We glanced across the breakfast bar and saw the door ease open.

Mortimer Hughes entered. Hughes was a medical examiner. He worked for the city, and his job was to visit crime scenes and declare people dead. You'd never guess his profession if you met him on the street—he had the smiling eyes and infectious enthusiasm of a television chef.

“Hello Jack, Herb, beautiful day out.” He nodded at us and set down a large tackle box that housed the many particular tools of his trade. Hughes opened it up and snugged on some plastic gloves and booties. He also brandished knee pads.

Herb and I paused in our search and watched him work. Hughes knelt beside the vic and spent ten minutes poking and prodding, humming tunelessly to himself. When he finally spoke, it was high-pitched and cheerful.

“She's dead,” Hughes said.

We waited for more.

“At least four days, probably longer. I'm guessing from hypovolemic shock. Blood loss is more than forty percent. Her right zygomatic bone is shattered, pre-mortem or early post.”

“Could she have broken her cheek falling down?” Herb asked.

“On this thick carpet? Possible—yes. Likely—no. Look at the blood pool. No arcs. No trails.”

“So she wasn't conscious when her wrist was cut?”

“That would be my assumption, unless she laid down on the floor and stayed perfectly still while bleeding to death.”

“Sexually assaulted?”

“Can't tell. I'll do a swab.”

I chose not to watch, and Herb and I went back into the kitchen. Herb pursed his lips.

“It could still be suicide. She cuts her wrist, falls over, breaks her cheek bone, dies unconscious.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“I'm not. I like the boyfriend. They're fighting, he bashes her one in the face. Maybe he can't wake her up, or he thinks he's killed her. Or he wants to kill her. He finds the toolbox, gets the utility knife, makes it look like a suicide.”

“And then magically disappears.”

Herb frowned. “That part I don't like.”

“Maybe he flushed himself down the toilet, escaped through the plumbing.”

“You can send Crouch out to get a plunger.”

“Lieutenant?”

Officer Crouch had returned. He stood by the kitchen counter, his face ashen.

“What is it, Officer?”

"I was doing the door-to-door. No one answered at the apartment right across the hall. The superintendent thought that was strange– an old lady named Mrs. Flagstone lives there, and she never leaves her home. She even sends out for groceries. So the super opens up her door and...you'd better come look.

#

Mrs. Flagstone stared up at me with milky eyes. Her tongue protruded from her lips like a hunk of raw liver. She was naked in the bathtub, her face and upper body submerged in foul water, one chubby leg hanging over the edge. The bloating was extensive. Her white hair floated around her head like a halo.

“Still think it's a suicide?” I asked Herb.

Mortimer Hughes rolled up his sleeve and put his hand into the water. He pressed her chest and bubbles exploded out of her mouth and nose.

“Didn't drown. Her lungs are full of air.”

He moved his hand higher, prodding the wrinkled skin on her neck.

“I can feel some damage to the trachea. There also appears to be a lesion around her neck. I want to get a sample of the water before I pull the drain plug.”

Hughes dove into his box. Herb, Crouch, and I left him and went into the living room. Herb called in, requesting the forensics team.

“Any hits from the other tenants?” I asked the rookie.

He flipped open his pad. “One door over, at apartment 3010, the occupant, a Mr. Stanley Mankowicz, remembers some yelling coming from the victim's place about six days ago.”

“Does he remember what time?”

“It was late, he was in bed. Mr. Mankowicz shares a wall with the vic, and has called her on several occasions to tell her to turn her television down.”

“Did he call that night?”

“He was about to, but the noise stopped.”

“Where's the super?”

“Johnson hasn't finished taking his statement.”

“Call them both in here.”

While waiting for them to arrive, I examined Mrs. Flagstone's door. Like Janet's, it had a safety chain, and like Janet's, it had been ripped from the wall and the mounting was hanging from the door. I found four screws and some splinters on the floor. There were no screws in the door frame.

A knock, and I opened the door. Officer Johnson and the super. Johnson was older than his partner, bigger, with the same dead eyes. The superintendent was a Pakistani man named Majid Patel. Mr. Patel had dark skin and red eyes and he clearly enjoyed all of this attention.

“I moved to this country ten years ago, and I have never seen a dead body before. Now I have seen two in the same day. I must call and tell my mother. I call my mother when anything exciting happens.”

“We'll let you go in a moment, Mr. Patel. I'm Lt. Jack Daniels, this is Detective Herb Benedict. We just have a few...”

“Your name is Jack Daniels? But you are not a man.”

“You're very observant,” I deadpanned. “Did you know Janet Hellerman?”

Patel winked at me. Was he flirting?

“It must be hard, Lt. Jack Daniels, to be a pretty woman with a funny name in a profession so dominated by male chauvinist pigs.” Patel offered Herb a look. “No offense.”

Herb returned a pleasant smile. “None taken. If you could please answer the Lieutenant's question.”

Patel grinned, crooked teeth and spinach remnants.

“She was a real estate lawyer. Young and good looking. Always paid her rent on time. My brother gave her a deal on her apartment, because she had nice legs.” Patel had no reservations about openly checking out mine. “Yours are very nice too, Jack Daniels. For an older lady. Are you single?”

“She's single.” Herb winked at me, gave me an elbow. I made a mental note to fire him later.

“Your brother?” I asked Patel.

“He's the building owner,” Officer Johnson chimed in. “It's the family business.”

“Did you know anything about Janet's personal life?”

“She had a shit for a boyfriend, a man named Glenn. He had an affair and she dumped him.”

“When was this?”

“About ten days ago. I know because she asked me to change the lock on her door. She had given him a key and he wouldn't return it.”

“Did you change the lock?”

“I did not. Ms. Hellerman just mentioned it to me in the elevator once. She never filled out the work order request.”

“Does the building have a doorman?”

“No. We have security cameras.”

“I'll need to see tapes going back two weeks. Can you get them for me?”

“It will not be a problem.”

Mortimer Hughes came out of the bathroom. He was holding a closed set of tweezers in one hand, his other hand cupped beneath it.

“I dug a fiber out of the victim's neck. Red, looks synthetic.”

“From a rope?” I asked.

Hughes nodded.

“Mr. Patel, we'll be down shortly for those tapes. Crouch, Johnson, help Herb and I search the apartment. Let's see if we can find the murder weapon.”

We did a thorough toss, but couldn't find any rope. Herb, however, found a pair of needle nose pliers in a closet. Pliers with pink handles.

“They were neighbors,” Herb reasoned. “Janet could have lent them to her.”

“Could have. But we both doubt it. Call base to see if they found anything on Hale.”

Herb dialed, talked for a minute, then hung up.

“Glenn Hale has been arrested three times, all assault charges. Did three months in Joliet.”

I wasn't surprised. All evidence pointed to the boyfriend, except for the damned locked room. Maybe Herb was right and the killer just slipped under the door and...

Epiphany.

“Call the lab team. I want the whole apartment dusted. Then get an address and a place of work on Hale and send cars. Tell them to wait for the warrant.”

Herb raised an eyebrow. “A warrant? Shouldn't we question the guy first?”

“No need,” I said. “He did it, and I know how.”

#

Feeling, a bit foolishly, like Sherlock Holmes, I took everyone back into Janet's apartment. They began hurling questions at me, but I held up my hand for order.

“Here's how it went,” I began. “Janet finds out Glenn is cheating, dumps him. He comes over, wanting to get her back. She won't let him in. He uses his key, but the safety chain is on. So he busts in and breaks the chain.”

“But the chain was on when we came in the first time,” Crouch complained.

Herb hushed him, saving me the trouble.

“They argue,” I went on. “Glenn grabs her arm, hits her. She falls to the floor, unconscious. Who knows what's going through his mind? Maybe he's afraid she'll call the police, and he'll go to jail– he has a record and this state has zero tolerance for repeat offenders. Maybe he's so mad at her he thinks she deserves to die. Whatever the case, he finds Janet's toolkit and takes out the utility knife. He slits her wrist and puts the knife in her other hand.”

Five inquisitive faces hung on my every word. It was a heady experience.

“Glenn has to know he'd be a suspect,” I raised my voice, just a touch for dramatic effect. “He's got a history with Janet, and a criminal record. The only way to throw off suspicion is to make it look like no one else could have been in the room, to show the police that it had to be a suicide.”

“Jack,” Herb admonished. “You're dragging it out.”

“If you figured it out, then you'd have the right to drag it out too.”

“Are you really single?” Patel asked. He grinned again, showing more spinach.

“If she keeps stalling,” Herb told him, “I'll personally give you her number.”

I shot Herb with my eyes, then continued.

“Okay, so Glenn goes into Janet's closet and gets a length of climbing rope. He also grabs the needle nose pliers from her toolbox and heads back to the front door. The safety chain has been ripped out of the frame, and the mounting is dangling on the end. He takes a single screw,” I pointed at the screw sticking in the door frame, “and puts it back in the doorframe about halfway.”

Herb nodded, getting it. “When the mounting ripped out, it had to pull out all four screws. So the only way one could still be in the doorframe is if someone put it there.”

“Right. Then he takes the rope and loops it under a sofa leg. He goes out into the hall with the rope, and closes the door, still holding both ends of the rope. He tugs the rope through the crack under the door, and pulls the sofa right up to the door from the other side.”

“Clever,” Johnson said.

“I must insist you meet my mother,” Patel said.

“But the chain...” Crouch whined.

I smiled at Crouch. “He opens the door a few inches, and grabs the chain with the needle nose pliers. He swings the loose end over to the door frame, where it catches and rests on the screw he put in halfway.”

I watched the light finally go on in Crouch's eyes. “When Mr. Patel opened the door, it looked like the chain was on, but it really wasn't. It was just hanging on the screw. The thing that kept the door from opening was the sofa.”

“Right. So when you burst into the room, you weren't the one that broke the safety chain. It was already broken.”

Crouch nodded rapidly. “The perp just lets go of one end of the rope and pulls in the other end, freeing it from the sofa leg. Then he locks the door with his own key.”

“But poor Mrs. Flagstone,” I continued, “must have seen him in the hallway. She has her safety chain on, maybe asks him what he's doing. So he bursts into her room and strangles her with the climbing rope. The rope was red, right Herb?”

Herb grinned. “Naturally. How did you know that?”

“I guessed. Then Glenn ditches the pliers in the closet, makes a half-assed attempt to stage Mrs. Flagstone's death like a drowning, and leaves with the rope. I bet the security tapes will concur.”

“What if he isn't seen carrying the rope?”

No problem. I was on a roll.

“Then he either ditched it in a hall, or wrapped it around his waist under his shirt before leaving.”

“I'm gonna go check the tapes,” Johnson said, hurrying out.

“I'm going to call my mother,” Patel said, hurrying out.

Herb got on the phone to get a warrant, and Mortimer Hughes dropped to his hands and knees and began to search the carpeting, ostensibly for red fibers—even thought that wasn't his job.

I was feeling pretty smug, something I rarely associated with my line of work, when I noticed Officer Crouch staring at me. His face was projecting such unabashed admiration that I almost blushed.

“Lieutenant– that was just...amazing.”

“Simple detective work. You could have figured it out if you thought about it.”

“I never would have figured that out.” He glanced at his shoes, then back at me, and then he turned and left.

Herb pocketed his cell and offered me a sly grin.

“We can swing by the DA's office, pick up the warrant in an hour. Tell me, Jack. How'd you put it all together?”

“Actually, you gave me the idea. You said the only way the killer could have gotten out of the room was by slipping under the door. In a way, that's what he did.”

Herb clapped his hand on my shoulder.

“Nice job, Lieutenant. Don't get a big head. You wanna come over for supper tonight? Bernice is making pot roast. I'll let you invite Mr. Patel.”

“He'd have to call his mother first. Speaking of mothers...”

I glanced at the body of Janet Hellerman, and again felt the emotional punch. The Caller ID in the kitchen gave me the number for Janet's mom. It took some time to tell the whole story, and she cried through most of it. By the end, she was crying so much that she couldn't talk anymore.

I gave her my home number so she could call me later.

The lab team finally arrived, headed by a Detective named Perkins. Soon both apartments were swarming with tech heads— vacuuming fibers, taking samples, spraying chemicals, shining ALS, snapping pictures and shooting video.

I filled in Detective Perkins on what went down, and left him in charge of the scene.

Then Herb and I went off to get the warrant.

Whelp Wanted

Harry McGlade dates back to 1985, when I was 15. I've been a mystery fan since I was nine years old, and I thought it would be a fun genre to parody. On a summer afternoon at my friend Jim Coursey's house, we sat at his Apple IIe (with the green phosphorus monitor) and giggled like fiends writing one stupid PI cliché after another. I picked the name Harry McGlade out of a phone book. For the next dozen years, I wrote over a hundred McGlade short stories. None of them were any good, but they did garner me my very first rejection letters, including one in 1989 from Playboy. This story was sold to the now-defunct Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine. I wrote it just after my first novel came out in 2004.

I was halfway through a meatball sandwich when a man came into my office and offered me money to steal a dog.

A lot of money.

“Are you an animal lover, Mr. McGlade?”

“Depends on the animal. And call me Harry.”

He offered his hand. I stuck out mine, and watched him frown when he noticed the marinara stains. He abruptly pulled back, reaching instead into the inner pocket of his blazer. The suit he wore was tailored and looked expensive, and his skin was tanned to a shade only money can buy.

“This is Marcus.” His hand extended again, holding a photograph. “He's a Shar-pei.”

Marcus was one of those unfortunate Chinese wrinkle dogs, the kind that look like a great big raisin with fur. He was light brown, and his face had so many folds of skin that his eyes were completely covered.

I bet the poor pooch walked into a lot of walls.

“Cute,” I said, because the man wanted to hire me.

“Marcus is a champion show dog. He's won four AKC competitions. Several judges have commented that he's the finest example of the breed they've ever seen.”

I wanted to say something about Marcus needing a good starch and press, but instead inquired about the dog's worth.

“With the winnings, and stud fees, he's worth upwards of ten thousand dollars.”

I whistled. The dog was worth more than I was.

“So, what's the deal, Mr...”

“Thorpe. Vincent Thorpe. I'm willing to double your usual fee if you can get him back.”

I took another bite of meatball, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and leaned back in my swivel chair. The chair groaned in disapproval.

“Tell me a little about Marcus, Mr. Thorpe. Curly fries?”

“Pardon me?”

I gestured to the bag on my desk. “Did you want any curly fries? Potatoes make me bloaty.”

He shook his head. I snatched a fry, bloating be damned.

“I've, um, raised Marcus since he was a pup. He has one of the best pedigrees in the sport. Since Samson passed away, there has quite literally been no competition.”

“Samson?”

“Another Shar-pei. Came from the same littler as Marcus, owned by a man named Glen Ricketts. Magnificent dog. We went neck and neck several times.”

“Hold on, a second. I'd like to take notes.”

I pulled out my notepad and a pencil. On the first piece of paper, I wrote, “Dog.”

“Do you know who has Marcus now?”

“Another breeder named Abigail Cummings. She borrowed Marcus to service her Shar-pei, Julia. When I went to pick him up, she insisted she didn't have him, and claimed she didn't know what I was talking about.”

I jotted this down. My fingers made a grease spot on the page.

“Did you try the police?”

“Yes. They searched her house, but didn't find Marcus. She's insisting I made a mistake.”

“Did Abigail give you money to borrow Marcus? Sign any contracts?”

“No. I lent him to her as a favor. And she kept him.”

“How do you know her?”

“Casually, from the American Kennel Club. Her Shar-pei, Julia, is a truly magnificent bitch. You should see her haunches.”

I let that one go.

“Why did you lend out Marcus if you only knew her casually?”

“She called me a few days ago, promised me the pick of the litter if I lent her Marcus. I never should have done it. I should have just given her a straw.”

“A straw?”

“Of Marcus's semen. I milk him by...”

I held up my palm and scribbled out the word 'straw.' It was more info than I wanted. “Let's move on.”

Thorpe pressed his lips together so tightly they lost color. His eyes got sticky.

“Please, Harry. Marcus is more than just a dog to me. He's my best friend.”

I didn't doubt it. You don't milk a casual acquaintance.

“Maybe you could hire an attorney.”

“That takes too long. If I go through legal channels, it could be months before my case is called. And even then, I'd need some kind of proof that she had him, so I'd have to hire a private investigator anyway.”

I scraped away a coffee stain on my desk with my thumbnail.

“I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorpe. But hiring me to bust into someone's home and steal a dog...I'm guessing that breaks all sorts of laws. I could have my license revoked, I could go to jail—”

“I'll triple your fee.”

“I take cash, checks, or major credit cards.”

#

Night Vision Goggles use a microprocessor to magnify ambient light and allow a user to see in almost total blackness.

They're also pricey as hell, so I had to make due with a flashlight and some old binoculars.

It was a little past eleven in the evening, and I was sitting in the bough of a tree, staring into the backyard of Abigail Cummings. I'd been there for almost two hours. The night was typical for July in Chicago; hot, sticky, and humid. The black ski mask I wore was so damp with sweat it threatened to drown me.

Plus, I was bloaty.

I let the binocs hang around my neck and flashed the light at my notepad to review my stake-out report.

9:14pm—Climbed tree.

9:40pm—Drank two sodas.

10:15pm—Foot fell asleep.

Not too exciting so far. I took out my pencil and added, “11:04pm—really regret drinking those sodas.”

To keep my mind off of my bladder, I spent a few minutes trying to balance the pencil on the tip of my finger. It worked, until I dropped the pencil.

I checked my watch. 11:09. I attempted to write “dropped my pencil” on my notepad, but you can guess how that turned out.

I was all set to call it a night, when I saw movement in the backyard.

It was a woman, sixty-something, her short white hair glowing in the porch light.

Next to her, on a leash, was Marcus.

“Is someone in my tree?”

I fought panic, and through Herculean effort managed to keep my pants dry.

“No,” I answered.

She wasn't fooled.

“I'm calling the police!”

“Wait!” My voice must have sounded desperate, because she paused in her race back to the house.

“I'm from the US Department of Foliage. I was taking samples of your tree. It seems to be infested with the Japanese Saganaki Beetle.”

“Why are you wearing that mask?”

“Uh...so they don't recognize me. Hold on, I need to ask you a few sapling questions.”

I eased down, careful to avoid straining myself. When I reached ground, the dog trotted over and amiably sniffed at my pants.

“I'm afraid I don't know much about agriculture.”

From the tree, Ms. Cummings was nothing to look at. Up close, she made me wish I was still in the tree.

The woman was almost as wrinkly as the dog. But unlike her canine companion, she had tried to fill in those wrinkles with make-up. From the amount, she must have used a paint roller. The eye shadow alone was thick enough to stop a bullet. Add to that a voice like raking gravel, and she was quite the catch.

I tried to think of something to ask her, to keep the beetle ploy going. But this was getting too complicated, so I just took out my gun.

“The dog.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“The what?”

“That thing on your leash that's wagging its tail. Hand it over.”

“Why do you want my dog?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. I don't want you to shoot me, but I also don't want to hand over my dog to a homicidal maniac.”

“I'm not a homicidal maniac.”

“You're wearing a ski mask in ninety degree weather, hopping from one foot to the other like some kind of monkey.”

“I had too much soda. Give me the damn leash.”

She handed me the damn leash. So far so good.

“Okay. You just stand right here, and count to a thousand before you go back inside, or else I'll shoot you.”

“Aren't you leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Not to second-guess you, Mr. Dognapper, but how can you shoot me, if you've already gone?”

Know-it-all.

“I think you need a bit more blush on your cheeks. There are some folks in Wisconsin who can't see it from there.”

Her lips down turned. With all the lipstick, they looked like two cartoon hot dogs.

“This is Max Factor.”

“I won't tell Max if you don't. Now start counting.”

I was out of there before she got to six.

#

After I got back to my office, I took care of some personal business, washed my hands, and called the client. He agreed to come right over.

“Mr. McGlade, I can't tell you how...oh, yuck.”

“Watch where you're stepping. Marcus decided to mark his territory.”

Thorpe made an unhappy face, then he took off his shoe and left it by the door.

“Mr. McGlade, thank you for...yuck.”

“He's marked a couple spots. I told you to watch out.”

He removed the other shoe.

“Did you bring the money?”

“I did, and I—wait a second!”

“You might as well just throw away the sock, because those stains...”

“That's not Marcus!”

I looked at the dog, who was sniffing around my desk, searching for another place to make a deposit.

“Of course it's your dog. Look at that face. He's a poster boy for Retin-A.”

“That's not a he. It's a she.”

“Really?” I peeked under the dog's tail and frowned. “I'll be damned.”

“You took the wrong dog, Mr. McGlade. This is Abigail's bitch, Julia.”

“It's an honest mistake, Mr. Thorpe. Anyone could have made it.”

“No, not anyone, Mr. McGlade. Most semi-literate adults know the difference between boys and girls. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

“Ease up, Thorpe. When I meet a new dog, I don't lift up a hind leg and stick my face down there to check out the plumbing.”

“This is just...oh, yuck.”

“The garbage can is over there.”

Thorpe removed his sock, and I wracked my brain to figure out how this could be salvaged.

“Any chance you want to keep this dog instead? You said she was a magnificent broad.”

“Bitch, Mr. McGlade. It's what we call female dogs.”

“I was trying to put a polite spin on it.”

“I want Marcus. That was the deal.”

“Okay, okay, let me think.”

I thought.

Julia had her nose in the garbage can, sniffing Thorpe's sock. If I could only switch dogs somehow.

That was it.

“I'll switch dogs somehow,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Like a hostage trade. I'll call up Ms. Cummings, and trade Julia for Marcus.”

“Do you think it'll work?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I picked up the phone.

#

“Ms. Cummings? I have your dog.”

“I know. I watched you steal him an hour ago.”

For someone who looked like a mime, she was sure full of comments.

“If you'd like your dog back, we can make a deal.”

“Is my little Poopsie okay? Are you taking care of her?”

“She's fine. I can see why you call her Poopsie.”

“Does Miss Julia still have the trots? Poor thing.”

I stared at the land mines dotting my floor. “Yeah. I'm all broken up about it.”

“Make sure she eats well. Only braised liver and the leanest pork.”

Julia was currently snacking on a tuna sandwich I'd dropped under the desk sometime last week.

“I'll do that. Look, I want to make a trade.”

I had to play it cool here, if she knew I knew about Marcus, she'd know Thorpe was the one who hired me.

“What kind of trade?”

“I don't want a female dog. I want a male.”

“Did Vincent Thorpe hire you?”

Dammit.

“Uh, never heard of him.”

“Mr. Thorpe claims I have his dog, Marcus. But the last time I saw Marcus was at an AKC show last April. I have no idea where his dog is.”

“That's not how he tells it.”

Nice, Harry. I tried to regroup.

“Look, Cummings, you have twelve hours to come up with a male dog. I also want sixty dollars, cash.”

Thorpe nudged me and mouthed, “Sixty dollars?”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Carpet cleaning.”

“I don't know if I can find a male dog in just 12 hours, Mr. Dognapper.”

“Then I turn Julia into a set of luggage.”

I heard her gasp. “You horrible man!”

“I'll do it, too. She's got enough hide on her to make two suitcases and a carry-on. The wrinkled look is hot this year.”

I scratched Julia on the head, and she licked my chin. Her breath made me teary-eyed.

“Please don't hurt my dog.”

“I'll call you tomorrow morning with the details. If you contact the police, I'll mail you Julia's tail.”

“I...I already called the police. I called them right after you left.”

Hell. “Well, don't call the police again. I have a friend at the Post Office who gives me a discount rate. I'm there twice a week, mailing doggie parts.”

I hit the disconnect.

“Did it work?” Thorpe asked.

“Like a charm. Go home and get some rest. In about twelve hours, you'll have your dog back.”

#

The trick was finding an exchange location where I wouldn't be conspicuous in a ski mask. Chicago had several ice rinks, but I didn't think any of them allowed dogs.

I decided on the alley behind the Congress Hotel, off of Michigan Avenue. I got there two hours early to check the place out.

Time crawled by. I kept track of it in my notepad.

9:02am—Arrive at scene. Don't see any cops. Pull on ski mask and wait.

9:11am—It sure is hot.

9:33am—Julia finds some rotting fruit behind the dumpster. Eats it.

10:01am—Boy, is it hot.

10:20am—I think I'm getting a heat rash in this mask. Am I allergic to wool?

10:38am—Julia finds a dead rat. Eats it.

10:40am—Sure is a hot one.

11:02am—Play fetch with the dog, using my pencil.

Julia ate the pencil. I was going to jot this down on the pad, but you can guess how that went.

“Julia!”

The dog jerked on the leash, tugging me to my feet. Abigail Cummings had arrived. She wore a pink linen pants suit, and more make-up than the Rockettes. All of them, combined. I fought the urge to carve my initials in her cheek with my fingernail.

Dog and dog owner had a happy little reunion, hugging and licking, and I was getting ready to sigh in relief when I noticed the pooch Abigail had brought with her.

“I'm no expert, but isn't that a Collie?”

“A Collie/Shepherd mix. I picked him up at the shelter.”

“That's not Marcus.”

Abigail frowned at me. “I told you before, Mr. Dognapper. I don't have Vincent Thorpe's dog.”

Her bottom lip began to quiver, and her eyes went glassy. I realized, to my befuddlement, that I actually believed her.

“Fine. Give me the mutt.”

Abigail handed me the leash. I stared down at the dog. It was a male, but I doubted I could fool Thorpe into thinking it was Marcus. Even if I shaved off all the fur and shortened the legs with a saw.

“What about my money?” I asked.

She dug into her purse and pulled out a check.

“I can't take a check.”

“It's good. I swear.”

“How am I supposed to remain incognito if I deposit a check?”

Abigail did the lip quiver thing again.

“Oh my goodness, I didn't even think of that. Please don't make Julia into baggage.”

More tears.

“Calm down. Don't cry. You'll ruin your...uh...make-up.”

I offered her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and handed it back to me.

It looked like it had been tie-dyed.

“I think I have two or three dollars in my purse,” she rasped in her smoker voice. “Is that okay?”

What the hell. I took it.

“I'll take those Tic-Tacs, too.”

She handed them over. Wint-O-Green.

“Can we go now?”

“Go ahead.”

She turned to leave the alley, and a thought occurred to me.

“Ms. Cummings! When the police came to visit you to look for Marcus, did you have an alibi?”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded vigorously.

“That's the point. The day Vincent said he brought the dog to my house, I wasn't home. I was enjoying the third day of an Alaskan Cruise.”

#

Vincent Thorpe was waiting for me when I got back to my office. He carefully scanned the floor before approaching my desk.

“That's not Marcus! That's not even a Shar-pei!”

“We'll discuss that later.”

“Where's Marcus?”

“There have been some complications.”

“Complications?” Thorpe leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your face?”

“I think I'm allergic to wool.”

“It looks like you rubbed your cheeks with sandpaper.”

I wrote, “I hate him” on my notepad.

“Look, Mr. Thorpe, Abigail Cummings doesn't have Marcus. But I may have an idea who does.”

“Who?”

“First, I need to ask you a few questions...”

#

My face was too sore for the ski mask again, so I opted for a nylon stocking.

It was hot.

I shifted positions on the branch I was sitting on, and took another look through the binoculars.

Nothing. The backyard was quiet. But thirty feet away, next to a holly bush, was either a small, brown anthill, or evidence that there was a dog on the premises.

I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.

9:46pm—Climbed tree.

9:55pm—My face hurts.

10:07pm—It really hurts bad.

10:22pm—I think I'll go see a doctor.

10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.

I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”

Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.

I didn't even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.

Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.

The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.

“Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”

“Who are you? What do...”

I cocked the gun.

“Kneel!”

He knelt.

“Good. Now lift up that dog's back leg.”

“What?”

“Now!”

Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.

It was Marcus.

“Leash,” I ordered.

He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.

Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.

“Do you know who I am, Glen?”

He shook his head, terrified.

“Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I'm here?”

He shook his head again.

“Don't lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”

“No,” he whimpered.

“Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your membership revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I'm going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”

He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.

“Hold on!”

Glen's eyes were defeated, pleading.

“What?”

“You mean I can't own a dog, ever again?”

“Not ever.”

“But...but...dogs are my life. I love dogs.”

“And that's why you should have never stole someone else's.”

He sniffled, loud and wet.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren't my favorite thing to watch. But this joker had brought it upon himself.

“Buy a cat,” I told him.

Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.

#

“Marcus!”

I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.

“Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”

“Cash is good.”

He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.

“Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”

“Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest competitors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”

“But what about Ms. Cummings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn't she involved somehow?”

“The phone was easy—Ms. Cummings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker's croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. Cummings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”

Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.

“So it wasn't actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”

“It's the nice ones you have to watch.”

“So, now what? Should I call the police?”

“No need. Glen won't be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”

I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.

“He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don't I, boy?”

There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.

“Kind of unsanitary, isn't it?”

“Are you kidding? A dog's saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”

“I was speaking for Marcus.”

Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where's that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”

“At my apartment.”

“See? You've made a new friend, yourself.”

“Nope. I've got a six o'clock appointment at the animal shelter. I'm getting him gassed.”

Thorpe shot me surprised look.

“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don't you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”

I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?

“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”

When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.

I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.

? SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1?Street Music

Street Music is my favorite story of any I've written. Phineas Trout was the hero of my first novel, an unpublished mystery called Dead On My Feet, written back in 1992. It was unabashedly hardboiled, and it helped me land my first agent. The book never sold, probably because it was unabashedly hardboiled. Phin starred in two more unpublished novels, and then I relegated him to the role of sidekick in the Jack Daniels series, which did wind up selling. I'm intrigued by the idea of a hero dying of cancer, and how having no hope left could erode a man's morality. I wrote this story right after selling Whiskey Sour, and soon after sold it to Ellery Queen.

Mitch couldn't answer me with the barrel of my gun in his mouth, so I pulled it out.

“I don't know! I swear!”

If that was the truth, I had no use for it. After three days of questioning dozens of hookers, junkies, and other fine examples of Chicago's populace, Mitch was my only link to Jasmine. I was seriously jonesing; I hadn't done a line since Thursday. Plus, the pain in my side felt like a baby alligator was trying to eat its way out of my pancreas.

I gave Mitch's chin a little tap with the butt of the Glock.

“I really don't know!”

“She's one of yours, Mitch. I thought big, tough pimps like you ran a tight ship.”

His black face was shiny with sweat and a little blood. Sure, he was scared. But he wasn't stupid. Telling me Jasmine's whereabouts would put a dent in his income.

I raised the gun back to hit him again.

“She went rogue on me, man! She ditched!”

I paused. If Jasmine had left Mitch, his reluctance to talk about it made some sense. Mack Daddies don't like word to get out that they're losing their game.

“How much money do you have on you?”

“About four hundos. It's yours, man. Front pants pocket.”

“I'm not putting my hand in there. Take it out.”

Mitch managed to stop shaking long enough to retrieve a fat money clip. I took the cash, and threw the clip—a gold emblem in the shape of a female breast–onto the sidewalk.

“You letting me go?” Mitch asked.

“You're free to pimp another day. Go run to the bus station, see if you can find some other fresh meat to bust out.”

When I let go of his lapels, his spine seemed to grow back. He adjusted the collar on his velour jump suit and made sure his baseball hat was tilted to the correct odd angle.

“Ain't like that. I treat my girls good. Plenty of sweet love and all the rock they can smoke.”

“Leave. Now. Before I decide to do society a favor.”

He sneered, spun on his three hundred dollar sneakers, and did his pimp strut away from me.

I probably should have killed him; I had too many enemies already. But, tough as I am, shooting fourteen-year-old kids in the back isn't my style.

The four hundred was enough to score some coke, but not very much. I thought about calling Manny, my dealer, and getting a sample to help kill the pain, but every minute I wasted gave Jasmine a chance to slip farther away.

Pain relief would have to wait. I pressed my hand to my left side and exited the alley and wondered where the hell I should look next.

I'd already checked Jasmine's apartment, her boyfriend's apartment, her parent's house, her known pick-up spots, and three local crack houses.

To rule out other options, I had to call in a marker.

It was September, about seventy with clear skies, so I took a walk down the block. The first payphone I came to had gum jammed in the coin slot. The second one smelled like a urinal, but I made do.

“Violent Crimes, Daniels.”

“Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”

“Phin? Haven't seen you at the pool hall lately. Afraid I'll kick your ass?”

My lips twisted in a tight grin. Jacqueline Daniels was a police Lieutenant who busted me a few years back. We had an on-again-off-again eight ball game Monday nights. I'd missed a few.

“I'm sort of preoccupied with something.”

“Chemo again?”

“No, work. Listen, you know what I do, right?”

“You're a freelance thug.”

“I prefer the term problem solver. I keep it clean.”

“I'm guessing that's because we haven't caught you in the act, yet.”

“And you never will. Look, Jack, I need a favor.”

“I can't do anything illegal, Phin. You know that.”

“Nothing shady. I just have to rule some stuff out. I'm looking for a woman. Hooker. Name is Janet Cumberland, goes by the street nick Jasmine. Any recent arrests or deaths with that name?”

There was a pause on the line. I could only guess Jack's thoughts.

“Give me half an hour,” she decided. “Got a number where I can call you back?”

I killed time at a hot dog stand, sipping black coffee mixed with ten crushed Tylenol tablets; they worked faster when they were pre-dissolved.

The phone rang eighteen minutes later.

“No one at the morgue matching that name, and her last arrest was three months ago.”

“Do you have a place of residence?”

Jack read off the apartment number I'd already checked.

“How about known acquaintances?”

“She's one of Mitch D's girls. Been arrested a few times with another prostitute named Georgia Williamson, street name is Ajax. Kind of an odd name for a hooker.”

“She one of Mitch's, too?”

“Lemme check. No, looks like she's solo.”

“Got an addy?”

Jack gave it to me.

“There's also a note in Janet's file, says her parents are looking for her. That your angle? Even if you find her, the recit rate with crack is over 95 percent. They'll stick her in rehab and a week later she'll be on the street again.”

“Thanks for the help, Jack. Next time we play pool, beer's on me.”

“You're on, Phin. How's the—”

“Hurts,” I interrupted. “But my doc says it won't for much longer.”

“The tumor is shrinking? That's great news!”

I didn't correct her. The tumor was growing like a weed. I wouldn't be in pain much longer because I didn't have much longer.

Which is why I had to find Jasmine, and fast.

She had to die first.

#

Georgia Williams, aka Ajax, lived on 81st and Stoney, in a particularly mean part of Chicago's South Side. Night was rolling in, bringing with it the bangers, junkies, ballers, wanna-bes, and thugs. None of them were thrilled to see a white guy on their turf, and some flashed their iron as I drove by.

Ajax's place wasn't easy to find, and asking for directions didn't strike me as a smart idea. Maybe in neighborhoods this bad, whole buildings got stolen.

Finally, I narrowed it down to a decrepit apartment without any street number. I parked in front, set the alarm on my Bronco, and made sure I had one in the chamber.

“You lost, white boy?”

I ignored the three gang members—Gangster Disciples according to their colors—and headed for the building. The front door had a security lock, but it was long broken. There was a large puddle of something in front of the staircase, which I walked around.

Ajax lived in 206. I took the stairs two at a time, followed a hall decorated with graffiti and vomit, and found her door.

“Georgia Williams? Chicago PD!”

Another door opened opposite me, fearful old eyes peeking out through the crack.

“Is Ms. Williams home?” I asked the neighbor.

The door closed again.

I kicked away a broken bottle that was near my feet, and knocked again.

“Georgia Williams! Open the door!”

“You got ID?”

A woman's voice, cold and firm. I held a brass star, $12.95 on eBay, up to the peephole.

“Where's your partner?” asked the voice.

“Watching the car. We're looking for a friend of yours. Jasmine. She's in big trouble.”

“She sure is.”

“Can I come in?”

I heard a deadbolt snick back. Then another. The door swung inward, revealing a black girl of no more than sixteen. She wore jeans, a white blouse. Her face was garishly made-up. Stuck to her hip was a sleeping infant.

“Can't be long. Gotta go to work.”

Ajax stepped to the side, and I entered her apartment. Expecting squalor, I was surprised to find the place clean and modestly furnished. The ceiling had some water damage, and one wall was losing its plaster, but there were nice curtains and matching furniture and even some framed art. This was the apartment of someone who hadn't given up yet.

“I'll be straight with you, Georgia. If we don't find Jasmine soon, it's very likely she'll be killed. You know about Artie Collins?”

She nodded, once.

“If you know where she is, it's in her best interest to tell me.”

“Sorry, cop. I don't know nothing.”

I took out my Glock, watched her eyes get big.

“Do you have a license for this firearm I found on your premises, Georgia?”

“Aw, this is—”

I got in her face, sneering.

“I'll tell you what this is. Six months in County, minimum. With your record, the judge won't even think twice. And say goodbye to your baby; when I get done wrecking this place, DCFS will declare you so unfit you won't be allowed within two hundred yards of anyone under aged ten.”

Her lips trembled, but there were no tears.

“You bastards are all the same.”

“I want Jasmine, Ajax. She's dead if I don't find her.”

I gave her credit for toughness. She held out. I had to topple a dresser and put my foot through her TV before she broke down.

“Stop it! She's with her boyfriend!”

“Nice try. I already checked Melvin Kincaid.”

“Not Mel. She found a new guy. Named Buster something.”

“Buster what?”

“I dunno.”

I chucked a vase at the wall. The baby in her arms was wiggling, hysterical.

“I don't have his last name! But I got a number.”

Georgia went for her purse on the bed, but I shoved the Glock in her face.

“I'll look.”

The purse was the size of a cigarette pack, with rhinestone studs and spaghetti straps. A hooker purse. I didn't figure there could be much of a weapon in there, and was once again surprised. A .22 ATM spilled onto the bed.

“I'm sure this has a license.”

Georgia didn't answer. I rifled through the packs of mint gum and condoms until I found a matchbook with a phone number written on the back.

“This it?”

“Yeah.”

“Can't you shut that kid up?”

Georgia cooed the baby, rocking it back and forth, while I picked up her .22 and removed the bullets. I tossed the gun back on the bed, and put the lead and the matchbook in my pocket.

She got my evil face when I walked past her.

“If you warn her I'm coming, I'll know it was you.”

“I won't say a damn thing, officer.”

“I know you won't.”

I fished out three of the hundreds I took from Mitch D, and shoved them into her hand. It was a lot more than the TV was worth.

“By the way, why do they call you Ajax?”

She shrugged.

“I've robbed a few tricks.”

“Meaning?”

“Ajax cleans out the johns.”

When I got back outside, the three Disciples had multiplied into six, and they were standing in front of my truck.

“This is a nice truck, white boy. Can we have it?”

My Glock 21 held thirteen forty-five caliber rounds. More than enough. But Jack was the one who gave me this address, and if I killed any of these bozos she'd eventually get the word.

Dying of cancer was bad enough. Dying of cancer in prison was not on my to-do list.

Stuck in my belt, nestled along my spine, was a combat baton. Sixteen inches long, made of a tightly coiled steel spring. Because it could bend, it didn't break bones.

But it did hurt like crazy.

The Disciples had apparently expected me to tremble in fear, because I clocked three of them across the heads before they went into attack mode.

The first one to draw was a thin kid who watched too many rap videos. He pulled a 9mm out of his baggy pants and thrust it at me sideways, with the back of his hand facing skyward.

Not only did this mess up your aim, but your grip was severely compromised. I gave him a tap across the back of the knuckles, and the gun hit the pavement. A second smack in the forehead opened up a nice gash. As with his buddies, the blood running into his eyes made him blind and worthless. I turned on the last two.

One had a blade. He held it underhanded, tip up, showing me he knew how to use it. After two feints, he thrust it at my face.

I turned, catching the tip on my cheek, and gave him an elbow to the nose. When he stumbled back, he also got a tap across the eyebrows.

The last guy was fifty yards away, sprinting for reinforcements.

I climbed in my Bronco and hauled out of there before they arrived.

#

“Hi, Jack, I need one more favor.”

“You already owe me a night of beer.”

“I'll also spring for pizza. I need an address to go with this number.”

“Lemme have it.”

I read it to her, hoping Georgia was honest with me. I didn't want to pay another visit to Stoney Island.

“Buster McDonalds. Four-four-two-three Irving Park, apartment seven-oh-six.”

“Thanks again, Jack.”

“Listen, Phin, I asked around about Janet Cumberland. The word on the street is that Artie Collins put a contract out on her.”

“I'll be careful.”

There was a long pause on the line. I cut off her thought.

“I don't work for mobsters, Jack. I don't kill people for money.”

“Watch yourself, Phin.”

She hung up.

I stopped at a drive-thru, filled up on grease, and had ten more aspirin. My side ached to the touch. I had stronger stuff, doctor prescribed, but that dulled the senses and took away my edge. I thought about scoring some coke, but the hundred I had left wouldn't buy much, and time was winding down.

I had to find Jasmine.

Buster's neighborhood was several rungs above Ajax's as far as quality of life went. No junkies shooting up in the alleys, hookers on the corners, or roving gangs of teens with firearms.

There were, however, lots of kids drunk out of their minds, moving in great human waves from bar to bar. The area was a hot spot for night life, and Friday night meant the partying was mandatory.

Even the hydrants were taken, so I parked in an alley, blocking the entrance. I took the duffle bag from the passenger seat and climbed out into the night air.

The temp had dropped, and I imagined I could smell Lake Michigan, even though it was miles away. There were voices, shouting, laughing, cars honking. I stood in the shadows.

The security door on Buster's apartment had a lock that was intact and functioning, unlike Ajax's. I spotted someone walking out and caught the door before it closed, and then I took the elevator to the seventh floor.

The cop impersonation wouldn't work this time; Jasmine was on the run and wouldn't open the door for anybody.

But I had a key.

It was another online purchase. There were thirty-four major lock companies in the US, and they made ninety-five percent of all the locks in America. These lock companies each had a few dozen models, and each of the models had a master key that opened up every lock in the series.

Locksmiths could buy these master keys. So could anyone with a credit card who knew the right website.

The lock on Buster's apartment was a Schlage. I took a large key ring from my duffel bag and got the door open on the third try.

Jasmine and Buster were on a futon, watching TV. I was on him before he had a chance to get up.

When he reached for me, I grabbed his wrist and twisted. Then, using his arm like a lever, I forced him face down into the carpeting.

“Buster!”

I didn't have time to deal with Jasmine yet, so she got a kick in the gut. She went down. I took out roll of duct tape and secured Buster's wrists behind him. When that was done, I wound it around his legs a few times.

“Jazz, run!”

His mouth was next.

Jasmine had curled up in the corner of the room, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She was a little thing, no older than Ajax, wearing sweatpants and an extra large t-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back and fear distorted her features.

I made it worse by showing her my Glock.

“Tell me about Artie Collins.”

She shrunk back, making herself smaller.

“You're going to kill me.”

“No one is killing anyone. Why does Artie want you dead?”

“The book.”

“What book?”

She pointed to the table next to the futon. I picked up a ledger, scanned a few pages.

Financial figures, from two of Artie's clubs. I guessed that these were the ones the IRS didn't see.

“Stupid move, lady. Why'd you take these from him?”

“He's a pig,” she spat, anger overriding terror. “Artie doesn't like it straight. He's a real freak. He did things to me, things no one has ever done.”

“So you stole this?”

“I didn't know what it was. I wanted to hurt him, it was right there in the dresser. So I took it.”

Gutsy, but dumb. Stealing from one of the most connected guys in the Midwest was a good way to shorten your life expectancy.

“Artie is offering ten thousand dollars for you. And there's a bonus if it's messy.”

I put the book in the duffle bag, and then removed a knife.

#

Artie Collins was a slug, and everyone knew it. He had his public side; the restaurants, the riverboat gambling, the night clubs, but anyone worth their street smarts knew he also peddled kiddie porn, smack cut with rat poison, and owned a handful of cops and judges.

Standing before me, he even looked like a slug, from his sweaty, fat face, to the sharkskin suit in dark brown, of all colors.

“I don't know you,” he said.

“Better that way.”

“I like to know who I'm doing business with.”

“This is a one time deal. Two ships in the night.”

He seemed to consider that, and laughed.

“Okay then, Mystery Man. You told my boys you had something for me.”

I reached into my jacket. Artie didn't flinch; he knew his men had frisked me earlier and taken my gun. I took out a wad of Polaroids and handed them over.

Artie glanced through them, smiling like a carved pumpkin. He flashed one at me. Jasmine naked and tied up, the knife going in.

“That's a good one. A real Kodak moment.”

I said nothing. Artie finished viewing my camera work and carefully stuck the pics in his blazer.

“These are nice, but I still need to know where she's at.”

“The bottom of the Chicago river.”

“I meant, where she was hiding. She had something of mine.”

I nodded, once again going into my jacket. When Artie saw the ledger I thought he'd crap sunshine.

“She told me some things when I was working on her.”

“I'll bet she did,” Artie laughed.

He gave the ledger a cursory flip through, then tossed it onto his desk. I took a breath, let it out slow. The moment stretched. Finally, Artie waggled a fat, hot dog finger at me.

“You're good, my friend. I could use a man of your talents.”

“I'm freelance.”

“I offer benefits. A 401K. Dental. Plus whores and drugs, of course. I'd pay some good money to see you work a girl over like you did to that whore.”

“You said you'd also pay good money for whoever brought you proof of Jasmine's death.”

He nodded, slowly.

“You sure you don't want to work for me?”

“I don't play well with others.”

Artie made a show of walking in a complete circle around me, checking me out. This wasn't going down as easy as I'd hoped.

“Brave man, to come in here all by yourself.”

“My partner's outside.”

“Partner, huh? Let's say, for the sake of argument, I had my boys kill you. What would your partner do? Come running into my place, guns blazing?”

He chuckled, and the two goons in the room with us giggled like stoned teenagers.

“No. He'd put the word out on the street that you're a liar. Then the next time you need a little favor from the outside, your reputation as a square guy would be sullied.”

“Sullied!” Artie laughed again. He had a laugh like a frog. “That's rich. Would you work for a man with a sullied reputation, Jimmy?”

The thug named Jimmy shrugged, wisely choosing not to answer.

“You're right, of course.” Artie said when the chuckles faded. “I have a good rep in this town, and my word is bond. Max.”

The other thug handed me a briefcase. Leather. A good weight.

“There was supposed to be a bonus for making it messy.”

“Oh, it's in there, my friend. I'm sure you'll be quite pleased. You can count it, if you like.”

I shook my head.

“I trust you.”

I turned to walk out, but Artie's men stayed in front of the door.

If Artie was more psychotic than I guessed, he could easily kill me right there, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop him. I lied about having a partner, and the line about his street rep was just ego stroking.

I braced myself, deciding to go for the guy on the left first.

“One more thing, Mystery Man,” Artie said to my back. “You wouldn't have made any copies of that ledger, maybe to try and grease me for more money sometime in the future?”

I turned around, gave Artie my cold stare.

“You think I would mess with you?”

His eyes drilled into me. They no longer held any amusement. They were the dark, hard eyes of a man who has killed many people, who has done awful things.

But I'd done some awful things, too. And I made sure he saw it in me.

“No,” Artie finally decided. “No, you wouldn't mess with me.”

I tilted my head, slightly.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Collins.”

The thugs parted, and I walked out the door.

#

When I got a safe distance away, I counted the money.

Fifteen thousand bucks.

I dropped by Manny's, spent two gees on coke, and did a few lines.

The pain in my side became a dim memory.

Unlike pills, cocaine took away the pain and let me keep my edge.

These days, my edge was all I had.

I didn't have to wait for someone to leave Buster's apartment this time; he buzzed me in.

“Jazz is in the shower,” he told me.

“Did you dump the bag?”

“In the river, like you told me. And I mailed out those photocopies to the cop with the alcohol name.”

He gave me a beer, and Jasmine walked into the living room, wrapped in a towel. Her face and collarbone were still stained red from the stage blood.

“What now?” she asked.

“You're dead. Get the hell out of town.”

I handed her a bag filled with five thousand dollars. She looked inside, then showed it to Buster.

“Jesus!” Buster yelped. “Thanks, man!”

Jasmine raised an eyebrow at me. “Why are you doing this?”

“If you're seen around here, Artie will know I lied. He won't be pleased. Take this and go back home. Your parents are looking for you.”

Jasmine's voice was small. The voice of a teenager, not a strung-out street whore.

“Thank you.”

“Since you're so grateful, you can do me one a small favor.”

“Anything.”

“Your friend. Ajax. I think she wants out of the life. Take her with you.”

“You got it, Buddy!” Buster pumped my hand, grinning ear to ear. “Why don't you hang out for a while? We'll tilt a few.”

“Thanks, but I have some things to do.”

Jasmine stood on her tiptoes, gave me a wet peck on the cheek. Then she whispered in my ear.

“You could have killed me, kept it all. Why didn't you?”

She didn't get it, but that was okay. Most people went through their whole lives without ever realizing how precious life was. Jasmine didn't understand that.

But someday she might.

“I don't kill people for money,” I told her instead.

Then I left.

#

All things considered, I did pretty good. The blood, latex scars, and fake knife cost less than a hundred bucks. Pizza and beer for Jack came out to fifty. The money I gave to Ajax wasn't mine in the first place, and I already owned the master keys, the badge, and the Polaroid camera.

The cash would keep me in drugs for a while.

It might even take me up until the very end.

As for Artie Collins…word on the street, his bosses weren't happy about his arrest. Artie wasn't going to last very long in prison.

I did another line and laid back on my bed, letting the exhilaration wash over me. It took away the pain.

All the pain.

Outside my window, the city sounds invaded. Honking horns. Screeching tires. A man coughing. A woman shouting. The el train rushing past, clackety-clacking down the tracks louder than a thunder clap.

To most people, it was background noise.

But to me, it was music.

The One That Got Away

Brilliance Audio does the books on tape for the Jack series, and every year they let me read an extra short story to include with the audio version. Sort of like a DVD bonus. This was included on the audio of Whiskey Sour. I thought it would be interesting to revisit the Gingerbread Man, the villain from that book, through the point-of-view of a victim.

A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.

Stained PVC pipes.

White and green wires hanging on nails.

What she sees.

Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.

Can't.

The memory comes, jolting.

Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue. Not a single john in sight.

When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.

Didn't have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.

But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.

Freak eyes.

Moni didn't do freaks. She'd made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren't out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn't going to take a beating for it.

She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.

No handle.

Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.

And now...

Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.

She's in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.

Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don't move. They're bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.

Her clothes are gone.

Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.

She takes in her surroundings. It's bright, brighter than a basement should be. Two big lights on stands point down at her.

Between them is a tripod. A camcorder.

Next to the tripod, a table. Moni can see several knives on top. A hammer. A drill. A blowtorch. A cleaver.

The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.

Hair. Long, pink hair.

Moni screams.

Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who's been missing for a week.

Street talk was she'd gone straight, quit the life.

Street talk was wrong.

Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.

The twine doesn't budge.

Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.

Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her. Sticky brown stains that smell like meat gone bad.

Charlene's blood.

Moni's breath catches. Her gaze drifts to the table again, even though she doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see what this freak is going to use on her.

“I'm dead,” she thinks. “And it's gonna be bad.”

Moni doesn't like herself. Hasn't for a while. It's tough to find self-respect when one does the things she does for money. But even though she ruined her life with drugs, even though she hates the twenty-dollar-a-pop whore she's become, Moni doesn't want to die.

Not yet.

And not like this.

Moni closes her eyes. She breathes in. Breathes out. Wills her muscles to relax.

“I hope you didn't pass out.”

Every muscle in Moni's body contracts in shock. The freak is looking down at her, smiling.

He'd been standing right behind Moni the whole time. Out of her line of sight.

“Please let me go.”

His laugh is an evil thing. She knows, looking at his eyes, he won't cut her free until her heart has stopped.

“Keep begging. I like it. I like the begging almost as much as I like the screaming.”

He walks around her, over to the table. Takes his time fondling his tools.

“What should we start with? I'll let you pick.”

Moni doesn't answer. She thinks back to when she was a child, before all of the bad stuff in her life happened, before hope was just another four-letter word. She remembers the little girl she used to be, bright and full of energy, wanting to grow up and be a lawyer like all of those fancy-dressed women on TV.

“If I get through this,” Moni promises God, “I'll quit the street and go back to school. I swear.”

“Are you praying?” The freak grins. He's got the blowtorch in his hand. “God doesn't answer prayers here.”

He fiddles with the camcorder, then kneels between her open legs. The torch ignites with the strike of a match. It's the shape of a small fire extinguisher. The blue flame shooting from the nozzle hisses like a leaky tire.

“I won't lie to you. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it smells delicious. Just like cooking bacon.”

Moni wonders how she can possibly brace herself for the oncoming pain, and realizes that she can't. There's nothing she can do. All of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, have led up to this sick final moment in her life, being burned alive in some psycho's basement.

She clenches her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut.

A bell chimes.

“Dammit.”

The freak pauses, the flame a foot away from her thighs.

The bell chimes again. A doorbell, coming from upstairs.

Moni begins to cry out, but he guesses her intent, bringing his fist down hard onto her face.

Moni sees blurry motes, tastes blood. A moment later he's shoving something in her mouth. Her halter top, wedging it in so far it sticks to the back of her throat.

“Be right back, bitch. The Fed-Ex guy is bringing me something for you.”

The freak walks off, up the stairs, out of sight.

Moni tries to scream, choking on the cloth. She shakes and pulls and bucks but there's no release from the twine and the gag won't come out and any second he'll be coming back down the stairs to use that awful blowtorch...

The blowtorch.

Moni stops struggling. Listens for the hissing sound.

It's behind her.

She twists, cranes her neck around, sees the torch sitting on the floor only a few inches from her head.

It's still on.

Moni scoots her body toward it. Strains against the ropes. Stretches her limbs to the limit.

The top of her head touches the steel canister.

Moni's unsure of how much time she has, unsure if this will work, knowing she has less than a one-in-a-zillion chance but she has to try something and maybe dear god just maybe this will work.

She cocks her head back and snaps it against the blowtorch. The torch teeters, falls onto its side, and begins a slow, agonizing roll over to her right hand.

“Please,” Moni begs the universe. “Please.”

The torch rolls close–too close–the flame brushing Moni's arm and the horrible heat singeing hair and burning skin.

Moni screams into her gag, jerks her elbow, tries to force the searing flame closer to the rope.

The pain blinds her, takes her to a place beyond sensation, where her only thought, her only goal, is to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP!

Her arm is suddenly loose.

Moni grabs the blowtorch, ignoring the burning twine that's still wrapped tightly around her wrist. She points the flame at her left hand, severs the rope. Then her feet.

She's free!

No time to dress. No time to hide. Up the stairs, two at a time, ready to dive out of a window naked and screaming and–

“What the hell?”

The freak is at the top of the stairs, pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife out of a cardboard box. He notices Moni and confusion registers on his face.

It quickly morphs into rage.

Moni doesn't hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak's head, and then he's falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.

Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob...

And pauses.

The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.

There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.

Girls like Charlene.

Cops don't help whores. Cops don't care.

But Moni does.

Next to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.

Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.

It's early morning. The sidewalk is cold under her bare feet. She's shaken, and her burned arm throbs, but she feels lighter than air.

A car stops.

A john, cruising. Rolls down the window and asks if she's for sale.

“Not anymore,” Moni says.

She walks away, not looking back.

With a Twist

Another locked room mystery, this one even more complicated. What's fun about Jack is that I can put her in different sub genres without changing her character. She can function as Sherlock Holmes, or Spenser, or Kay Scarpetta, depending on the story. This won 2nd place in the Ellery Queen Reader's Choice Contest.

“His skull is shattered, and his spinal column looks like a Dutch pretzel.” Phil Blasky straightened from his crouch and locked eyes with me, his expression neutral. “This man has fallen from a great height.”

I glanced up from my notepad, not having written a word. “You're positive?”

“I've autopsied enough jumpers in my tenure as ME to know a pancake when I see one, Jack.”

I stared at the body, arms and legs akimbo, splayed out on a living room carpet damp with bodily fluids. On impulse I looked up, focusing on a ceiling that couldn't be any higher than eight feet.

“Maybe he jumped off the couch.” This from my partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict. His left hand scratched his expansive stomach, his light blue shirt dotted with mustard stains. It was 11am, so how the mustard got there was anybody's guess.

I frowned at Herb, then located a patch of dry beige carpeting and knelt next to the corpse, careful not to stain my heels or pants. The victim was named Edward Wyatt, and this was his house. He was Caucasian, 67 years old, and as dead as dead can be. The smell wasn't too bad—this was a fresh one—but the wake would definitely be a closed casket.

“What do you make of the blood spatters, Phil?”

“Unremarkable star-configuration, arcing away from the nexus of the body in all directions. Droplets coating the walls and ceiling. Notice the double pattern—see the large spot here, next to the body? It has it's own larger radius of spatters.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he bounced once, when he hit the carpet. Consistent with jumpers, leaving a primary then a secondary spatter.”

Benedict cleared his throat. “You're telling us this is authentic? That he fell five stories into a living room?”

“I'm telling you it looks that way.”

I've been with the Chicago Police Department for twenty years, half of those with the Violent Crimes unit, and have seen a few things. But this was flat-out weird. I almost ordered my team to do a house sweep for Rod Serling.

“Could somebody have dumped him here? After he died someplace else?”

“That seems reasonable, but I don't notice any tissue or fluid missing. If he were scraped off the street, there would be blood left behind. If anything, there's too much blood in this room.”

I would have asked how it was possible for him to know that, but Phil knew more about dead people than Mick Jagger knew about rock and roll.

“Also,” Phil motioned us closer, “take a look at this.”

He crouched, holding some tweezers, and used a gloved hand to gently lift the corpse's head. After some prodding and poking, he removed a small fiber.

“Beige carpeting, deeply embedded in his flesh. The deceased has hundreds of these fibers in the skin, consistent with...”

I finished the sentence for him. “...falling from a great height.”

“However improbable it seems. It's as if someone took off the roof, and he jumped out of a plane and landed in his living room. And don't forget about the doors.”

I felt a headache coming on. The house had two entry points, the front door and the rear door. Each had been dead-bolted from the inside—no outside entry was possible. The locks were privacy locks, similar to the ones on hotel rooms; there were no keyholes, just a latch. The first officers on the scene had to break through a window to get in; the windows had all been locked from the inside.

“Lt. Daniels?” A uniform, name of Perez, motioned me over to a corner of the room. “There's a note.”

I watched my step, making my way to the room-length book shelf, crammed full of several hundred paperbacks. Their spines were splashed with blood, but I could make out some authors: Carr, Chandler, Chesterton. Perez pointed to a pristine sheet of white typing paper, tacked to the shelf between Sladek and Stout. The handwriting on it was done in black marker. I snugged on a pair of latex gloves I keep in my blazer pocket, and picked up the note.

God doesn't understand. Eternal peace I desire. The only way out is death. Answers come to those who seek. Can't get through another day. Let me rest. Until we meet in heaven. Edward.

I pondered the message for a moment, then returned to Benedict and Blasky.

“What about a steamroller?” Herb was asking. “That would crush a body, right?”

“It wouldn't explain the spatters. Also, unless there's a steamroller in the closet, I don't see how...”

I interrupted. “I'm looking around, Herb. When the techies get here, I want video of everything.”

“That a suicide note?” Herb pointed his chin at the paper I held.

“Yeah. Strange, though. Take a peek and let me know if you spot the anomaly.”

“Anomaly? You've been watching too many of those cop shows on TV.”

I winked at him. “I'll let you know if I find the steamroller.”

Notebook in hand, I went to explore the house. It was a modest two bedroom split-level, in a good neighborhood on the upper north side. Nine-one-one had gotten an anonymous call from a nearby payphone, someone stating that he'd walked past the house and smelled a horrible stench. The officers who caught the call claimed to hear gunshots, and entered through a window. They discovered the body, but found no evidence of any gun or shooter.

I checked the back door again. Still locked, the deadbolt in place. The door was old, its white paint fading, contrast to the new decorative trim around the frame.

I checked the linoleum floor and found it clean, polished, pristine.

Running my finger along the door frame, I picked up dust, dirt, and some white powder. I sniffed. Plaster. The hinges were solid, tarnished with age. The knob was heavy brass, and the deadbolt shiny steel. Both in perfect working order.

I turned the deadbolt and opened the door. It must have been warped with age, because it only opened 3/4 of the way and then rubbed against the kitchen floor. I walked outside.

The backyard consisted of a well-kept vegetable garden and twelve tall bushes that lined the perimeter fence, offering privacy from the neighbors. I examined the outside of the door and found nothing unusual. The door frame had trim that matched the interior. The porch was clean. I knelt on the welcome mat and examined the strike panel and the lock mechanisms. Both were solid, normal.

I stood, brushed some sawdust from my knee, and went back into the house.

The windows seemed normal, untampered with. There was broken glass on the floor by the window where the uniforms had entered. Other than being shattered, it also appeared normal.

The front door was unlocked; after breaching the residence through the window, the uniforms had opened the door to let the rest of the crew inside. I examined the door, and didn't find anything unusual.

The kitchen was small, tidy. A Dell puzzle magazine rested on the table, next to the salt and pepper. Another sat by the sink. The dishwasher contained eight clean mason jars, with lids, and a turkey baster. Nothing else. No garbage in the garbage can. The refrigerator was empty except for a box of baking soda. The freezer contained three full trays of ice cubes.

I checked cabinets, found a few glasses and dishes, but no food. The drawers held silverware, some dishtowels, and a full box of Swedish Fish cherry gummy candy.

I left the kitchen for the den, sat at the late Edward Wyatt's desk, and inched my way through it. There was a bankbook for a savings account. It held $188,679.42—up until last month when the account had been emptied out.

I kept digging and found a file full of receipts dating back ten years. Last month, the victim had apparently toured Europe, staying in London, Paris, Rome, and Berlin. Bills for fancy restaurants abounded. The most recent purchases included several hundred dollars at a local hardware store, a dinner for two at the 95th Floor that cost over six-hundred dollars, a one week stay at the Four Seasons hotel in Chicago, a digital video recorder and an expensive new stereo, and a bill for wall-to-wall carpeting; the beige shag Mr. Wyatt was currently staining had been installed last month.

I also found several grocery lists, and the handwriting seemed to match the handwriting on the suicide note.

Next to the desk, on a cabinet, sat a Chicago phonebook. It was open to BURGLAR ALARMS.

The den also had a cabinet which contained some games (Monopoly, chess, Clue, backgammon) and jigsaw puzzles, including an old Rubik's Cube. I remember solving mine, back in the 1980s, by pulling the stickers off the sides. This one had also been solved, and the stickers appeared intact.

I left the den and found the door to the basement. It was small, unfinished. The floor was bare concrete, and a florescent lamp attached to an overhead beam provided adequate light. A utility sink sat in a corner, next to a washer and dryer. On the other side was a workbench, clean and tidy. The drawers contained the average assortment of hand tools; wrenches, hammers, screwdrivers, saws, chisels. Atop the workbench was an electric reciprocating saw that looked practically new.

A closet was tucked away in the corner. Inside I found an old volleyball net, a large roll of carpet padding, a croquet set, some scraps of decorative trim, and half a can of blue paint. Also, hanging on a makeshift rack, were three badminton rackets, an extra-large super-soaker squirt gun, and a plastic lawn chair.

After snooping until there was nothing left to snoop, I met Herb back in the living room.

“Find anything?” Herb asked.

I described through my search, ending with the Swedish Fish.

“That was the only food?” Herb asked.

“Seems to be.”

“Are we taking it as evidence?”

“I'm not sure yet. Why?”

“I love Swedish Fish.”

“If I poured chocolate syrup on the corpse, would you eat that too?”

“You found chocolate syrup?”

I switched gears. “You figure out the note?”

Herb smiled. “Yeah. Funny how the note is perfectly clean when everything around it, and behind it, is soaked in blood.”

“Find anything else?”

“I tossed the bedrooms upstairs, found some basics; clothes, shoes, linen. Bathroom contained bathroom stuff; towels, toiletries, a lot of puzzle magazines. Another bookshelf—non-fiction this time. Some prescription meds in the cabinet.” Benedict checked his pad. “Diflucan, Abarelix, Taxotere, and Docetexel.”

“Cancer drugs,” Phil Blasky said. He held Wyatt's right arm. “That explains this plastic catheter implanted in his vein and this rash on his neck. This man has been on long term chemotherapy.”

A picture began to form in my head, but I didn't have all the pieces yet.

“Herb, did you find any religious paraphernalia? Bibles, crucifixes, prayer books, things like that?”

“No. There were some books upstairs, but mostly philosophy and logic puzzles. In fact, there was a whole shelf dedicated to Free-Thinking.”

“As opposed to thinking that costs money?”

“That's a term atheists use.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

“I found receipts for a new stereo and camcorder. Were they upstairs?” I asked.

“The stereo was, set-up in the bedroom next to that big bay window. I didn't see any camcorders.”

“Let me see that note again.”

The suicide letter had been placed in a clear plastic bag. I read it twice, then had to laugh. “Quite a few religious references for a Free-Thinker.”

“If he was dying of cancer, maybe he found God.”

“Or maybe he found a way to die on his terms.”

“Meaning?”

“The terms of a man who loved mysteries, games, and puzzles. Look at the first letter of each sentence.”

Herb read silently, his lips moving. “G-E-T-A-C-L-U-E. Cute. You know, I became a cop because it required very little lateral thinking.”

“I thought it was because vendors gave you free donuts.”

“Shhh. Hold on...I'm forming a hypothesis.”

“I'll alert the media.”

Phil Blasky snorted. “You guys have a drink minimum for this show?”

Herb ignored us. “Wyatt obviously had some help, because the note was placed on top of the blood. But was his help in the form of assisted suicide? Or murder?”

“It doesn't matter to us—they're treated the same way.”

“Exactly. So if this is a game for us to figure out, and the clues have been staged, will the clues lead us to what really happened, or to what Wyatt or the killer would like us to believe really happened?”

The word 'game' made me remember the cabinet in the den. I returned to it, finding the Parker Brothers classic board game, Clue. Inside the box, instead of cards, pieces, and a game board, was a cryptogram magazine.

“I'm going out to the car to get my deermilker cap,” Herb said.

“It's deerstalker. While you're out there, call the Irregulars.”

I removed the magazine and flipped through it, noting that all of the puzzles had been solved. Nothing else appeared unusual. I went through it again, slower, and noticed that page 20 had been circled.

“Herb, grab all puzzle magazines you can find. I'll meet you back here in five.”

I did a quick search of the first floor and gathered up eight magazines. Each had a different page number circled. Herb waddled down the stairs a moment later.

“I've got twelve of them.”

“Did he circle page numbers?”

“Yeah.”

We took the magazines over to the dining room table and spread them out. Herb made a list of the page number circled in each issue.

“Let's try chronological order,” I said. “The earliest issue is February of last year. Write down the page numbers beginning with that one.”

I watched Herb jot down 7, 19, 22, 14, 26, 13, 4, 19, 12, 16, 13, 22, 4, 7, 12, 12, 14, 6, 24, and 19.

Herb rubbed his mustache. “No number higher than twenty-six. Could be an alphabet code.” He hummed the alphabet, stopping at the seventh letter. “Number seven is G.”

“Yeah, but nineteen is S and twenty-two is V. What word starts with GSV?”

“Maybe it's reverse chronological order. Start with the latest magazine.”

I did some quick calculating. “That would be SXF. Not too many words begin like that.”

“Are you hungry? I'm getting hungry.”

“We'll eat after we figure this out.”

“How about reverse alphabet code? Z is one, Y is two, and so on.”

I couldn't do that in my head, and had to write down the alphabet and match up letters to numbers. Then I began to decode.

“You nailed it, Herb. The message is T-H-E-M-A-N-W-H-O-K-N-E-W-T-O-O-M-U-C-H. The Man Who Knew Too Much.”

“That Hitchcock movie. Maybe he's got a copy lying around.”

We searched, and didn't find a single video or DVD. My hands were pruning in the latex gloves. I snapped the gloves off and stuffed them in my pocket. The air felt good.

“Was it based off a book?” Herb asked. “The guy's got plenty of books.”

“Could have been. Let me ask the expert.” I pulled out my cell and called the smartest mystery expert I knew; my mother.

“Jacqueline! I'm so happy to hear from you. It's about time I get out of bed.”

I felt a pang of alarm. “Mom, it's almost noon. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, dear.”

“But you've been alone in bed all day...”

“Did I say I was alone?” There was a slapping sound, and my mother said, “Behave, it's my daughter.”

I felt myself flush, but worked through it.

“Mom, do you remember that old Hitchcock movie? The Man Who Knew Too Much?”

“The Leslie Banks original, or the Jimmy Stewart remake?”

“Either. Was it based off a book?”

“Not that I'm aware of. I can check, if you like. I have both versions.”

“Can you? It's important.”

Herb nudged me. “Can I have that Swedish Fish candy?”

I nodded, and Herb waddled off.

“Jacqueline? On the Leslie Banks version, the back of the box lists the screenwriter, but doesn't mention it is based on a book. And...neither does the Jimmy Stewart version.”

Damn.

“Can you give me the screenwriter's name?”

“Two folks, Charles Bennett and D.B. Wyndham-Lewis. Why is this so important?”

“It's a case. I'll tell you about it later. I was hoping The Man Who Knew Too Much was a book.”

“It is a book. By G.K. Chesterton, written in the early 1920s. But that had nothing to do with the movie.”

“Chesterton? Thanks, Mom.”

“Chesterton was a wonderful author. He did quite a few locked-room mysteries. Not too many writers do those anymore.”

“I'll call you tonight. Be good.”

“I most certainly won't.”

I put away the phone and went to the blood-stained bookshelf. The Chesterton book was easy to find. I put the gloves back on and picked it up. Wedged between pages sixty-two and sixty-three was a thin, plastic flash video card, a recent technology that was used instead of film in digital video cameras. And camcorders...

I met Herb in the kitchen. He had his mouth full of red gummy candy. I held up my prize.

“I found a video card.”

Herb said something that might have been, “Really?” but I couldn't be sure with his teeth glued together.

“Is your new laptop in your car?”

He nodded, chewing.

“Do you have a card reader?”

He nodded again, shoving the candy box into his pants pocket and easing though the back door.

Two minutes later Herb's laptop was booting up. I pushed the flash card into his reader slot, and the appropriate program opened the file and began to play the contents.

On Herb's screen, a very-much-alive Edward Wyatt smiled at us.

“Hello,” the dead man said. “Congratulations on reaching this point. I thought it fitting, having spent my life enjoying puzzles, to end my life with a puzzle as well. Though I commend you for your brainpower thus far, I regret to say that this video won't be providing you with any clues as to how this seemingly impossible act was committed. But I will say it has been done of my own, free will. My oncologist has given me less than a month to live, and I'm afraid it won't be a pleasant month. I've chosen to end things early.”

“Pause it,” I said.

Herb pressed a button. “What?”

“Go back just a few frames, in slow motion.”

Herb did. I pointed at the screen. “See that? The camera moved. Someone's holding it.”

Herb nodded. “Assisted suicide. I wonder if he moved the camera on purpose, to let us know he had help.”

“Let it finish playing.”

Herb hit a button, and Wyatt began again.

“Undoubtedly, by this point you know I've had help.”

Benedict and I exchanged a look.

“Of course,” Wyatt continued, “I wouldn't want to put my helper in any legal jeopardy. This friend graciously helped me fulfill my last wish, and I'd hate for this special person to be arrested for what is entirely my idea, my wishes, my decision, and my fault. But I also know a little about how the law works, and I know this person might indeed become a target of Chicago's finest. Steps have been taken to make sure this person is never found. These steps are already in motion.”

Herb paused the recording and looked at me. “I'm fine stopping right here. He says it was suicide, I believe him, let's clear the case and grab a bite to eat.”

I folded my arms. “You're kidding. How did the body get inside when everything was locked? How could he have jumped to his death in his living room? Who's the helper? Don't you want answers to these questions?”

“Not really. I don't like mysteries.”

“You're fired.”

Herb ignored me. I fire him several times a week. He let the recording play.

“However,” Wyatt went on, “all good mysteries have a sense of closure. With me dead, and my helper gone, how will you know if you've figured out everything? There's a way. If you're a sharpie, and you've found all the clues, there will be confirmation. Good luck. And don't be discouraged...this is, after all, supposed to be fun.”

Benedict snorted his opinion on the matter. The recording ended, and I closed my eyes in thought.

“Herb—the stereo upstairs. Was it on or off?”

“Off.”

“Fully off? Or on standby?”

“I'll check.”

Benedict wandered out of the kitchen, and I went back into the basement. I found a hammer in the workbench drawer and brought it to the back door. Once again, when I opened the door, it caught on the linoleum flooring. The floor remained shiny, even where the door touched it.

The lack of scuff marks struck me as a pretty decent clue.

Since the door looked old, but the decorative trim around the frame appear new, I decided to remove a section of trim. After a full thirty seconds of searching for a nail to pull, I realized there were no nails holding the trim on.

How interesting.

Using the claw end of the hammer, I wedged off a piece of side trim. And in doing so, I solved the locked-room part of the mystery.

Three gunshots exploded from the floor above, shattering my smugness. I tugged my .38 from my shoulder holster and sprinted up the stairs, flanked by Perez.

“Herb!”

Three more gunshots, impossibly loud. Coming from the room at the end of the hall. I crouched in the doorway, my pistol coming up.

“Jack! All clear!” Herb stood by the stereo, a CD clutched in one hand, the other grasping his chest. “Damn, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

I put two and two together quickly enough, but Officer Henry Perez wasn't endowed with the same preternatural detecting abilities.

“Where's the gun?” he croaked, arms and legs locked in full Weaver stance. “Who's got the gun?”

“Easy, Officer.” I put a hand on his elbow and eased his arms down. “There is no gun.”

Perez's face wrinkled up. “No gun? That sounded just like...”

Herb finished his sentence, “...the gunshots you heard when you arrived on the scene. I know. It's all right here.”

Herb held up the CD.

“It's a recording of gunshots,” I told Perez. “It was used to get you to break into the house. Probable cause. Or else you never would have gone in—the 911 call talked about a bad smell, but the corpse is fresh and there is no smell.”

Perez seemed reluctant to holster his weapon. I ignored him, holding out my hand for the CD. It was a Maxell recordable CD-R. On the front, in written black marker, was the number 209. I held the disc up to the light, checking for prints. It looked clean.

“Maybe this is one of those clues the dear, departed Edward Wyatt mentioned in his video.” Herb said. “You ready to get some lunch?”

“I figured out how the doors were locked from the inside,” I said.

We went downstairs and I showed Herb the fruits of my labors, prying off another piece of trim.

“Smart. What made you think of it, Jack?”

“The trim is glued on, rather than nailed. Which made me wonder why, and what it covered up.”

“Impressive, Oh Great One. Did you also happen to notice the number?”

“What number?”

“Written on the back of the trim, in black marker.” Herb pointed at the number 847.

“What did Wyatt say in his recording? About being a sharpie? What's the most popular black marker?”

“A Sharpie.” Herb grunted his disapproval. “Wyatt's lucky he's dead, because if he were still alive I'd smack him around for making us jump through these hoops.”

“Are you saying you'd rather be interviewing a domestic battery?”

“I'm saying my brain hurts. I'm going to need to watch a few hours of prime time to dumb myself back down. Isn't that reality show on tonight? The one where the seven contestants eat live bugs on a tropical island to marry a millionaire who's really a janitor? My IQ drops ten points each time I watch that show.”

I stared at the black marker writing. “Eight four seven is a local area code. The two zero nine could be a prefix.”

“Almost a phone number. Maybe there's another clue with the last four digits.”

We went back to the game of Clue, but nothing was written on or inside the box. Another ten minutes were wasted going through the pile of puzzle magazines.

“Okay, what have we figured out so far?” I said, thinking out loud. “We figured out the gunshots that brought us to the scene, and we figured out the locked room part. But we still don't know how he fell to his death in the living room.”

“He must have jumped off a building somewhere else, and then his partner brought the body here and staged the scene.”

I rubbed my eyes, getting a smudge of eyeliner on my gloves.

“It's a damn good staging. ME said the blood spatters indicate he fell into that room. Plus there are carpet fibers embedded in his face.”

“Maybe,” Herb got a gleam in his eye, “he jumped onto that carpet at another location, then both the carpet and the body were put back into the room.”

“The entire living room is carpeted, Herb.”

“Maybe the helper cut out a section, then put it back in.”

We went back into the living room, wound plastic food wrap around our shoes and pants, and spent half an hour crawling over the damp carpet, looking for seams that meant it had been cut out. It was a dead end.

“Damn it.” Herb stripped off some bloody cling wrap. “I was sure that's how he did it.”

I shrugged. My neck hurt from being on all fours, and some of the blood had gotten through the plastic and stained my pants. “Maybe the fibers embedded in the body won't match the fibers from this carpet.”

Herb sighed. “And maybe the blood found squirted all over the room won't match, either. But we both know that everything will match. This guy was so meticulous...”

“Hold it! You said 'squirted.'”

“It's a perfectly good word.”

“I think I know why the living room looks that way. Come into the kitchen.”

I opened the dishwasher, showing Herb the mason jars and turkey baster. Herb remained dubious.

“That turkey baster wouldn't work. Not powerful enough.”

“But what about one of those air-pump squirt guns? The kind that holds a gallon of water, and can shoot a stream twenty feet?”

I led Herb into the basement closet, holding up the squirt gun I'd seen earlier. Written on the handle, in black marker, was the word 'Charlie.'"

“Okay, so we've got two three-digit numbers, and a name. Now what? We still don't know how the fibers got embedded in the victim.”

Herb rubbed his chin, thinking or doing a fair imitation of it. “Maybe the helper embedded the fibers by hand after death?”

“Phil would have caught that. I think Wyatt actually leapt to his death and landed on carpeting.”

“I've got it,” Herb said. He explained.

"Herb, that's perfect! But there's no way you can put black marker on something that isn't here. What else do we have?

“Got me. That revelation taxed my mental abilities for the month.”

“The only other obvious clue is the Swedish Fish candy.”

Herb pulled the box out of his pocket. The package, and contents, seemed normal. So normal that Herb ate another handful.

I racked my brain, trying to find something we'd missed. So far, all the clues made sense except for that damn candy.

“I'm going back upstairs,” Herb said. “Want to order a pizza?”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not kidding. I have to eat something. We might be here for the rest of our lives.”

“Herb, you can't have a pizza delivered to a crime scene.”

“How about Chinese food? I haven't had Mu Shu Pork since Thursday. You want anything?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“You're not getting any of mine.”

“Get me a small order of beef with pea pods.”

“That sounds good. How about a large order and we split it?”

“What about the Mu Shu pork?”

Herb patted his expansive belly. “I'll get that too. You think I got this fat just looking at food?” He turned, heading for the stairs. “Where's Wyatt's phone book?”

“It's on his desk.” Insight struck. “Herb! That might be another clue!”

“Chinese food?”

“The phone book! It's open to a page.”

I squeezed past my portly partner and raced up the stairs. The phone book was where I left it, BURGLAR ALARMS covering the left-hand page. I went through each of the listings, put there was no black marker. I checked the other page, and didn't see anything unusual. But on the very top of the right hand page was spillover from the previous entry. A listing called CHARLIE'S, with the phone number 847-209-7219.

When I noted what subject came alphabetically before BURGLAR ALARMS in the phonebook, I grinned like an idiot. Then I pulled out my cell and called the number. After four rings and a click, a male voice answered.

“This is Charlie.”

“This is Lieutenant Jack Daniels of the Chicago Police Department.”

“That was fast. Edward would have been pleased.”

“You helped murder him?”

“No. He killed himself. I helped set up all of the other stuff, but I had nothing to do with killing him. I've got proof, too. Footage of him jumping to his death.”

“Off of your crane. Or platform. What is it you use?”

“A hundred foot platform. He went quick—in less than four seconds. He preferred it to the agony of cancer.”

Herb sidled up to me, putting his ear next to the phone.

“How did Wyatt find you?” I asked Charlie.

“The want ads. He saw I was selling my business. I guess that's how he came up with this whole idea. Pretty clever, don't you think? He bought me out, plus paid me to assist in setting up the scene. Nice guy. I liked him a lot.”

“You know, of course, we'll have to arrest you.”

“I know. Which is why my office phone forwarded this call to my cell. I'm on my way out of the country. Edward paid me enough to lay low for a while.”

“One hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars.” I remembered the number from the empty bank account.

“No, not nearly. Edward lived very well for the last month of his life. He spent a lot of money. And good for him—what good is a life savings if you can't have some fun with it?”

“Not much,” Herb said.

I shushed him.

“Can I assume, Lieutenant, that you've figured everything out? Found all the clues? If you know everything, I'm supposed to give you a reward. Edward has this list of questions. Are you ready?”

Not knowing what else to say, I agreed.

“Okay, question number one; how were the doors locked from the inside?”

“You removed the entire door and frame while the door was already locked. Edward, or you, used a reciprocating saw to cut around the door frame. Then one of you glued new trim to the inside of the frame. When the door was pulled back into place, the trim covered the inside cut marks. Then you nailed the frame in place from the outside, and put more trim around the edges to cover the outside cut.”

“What gave it away?”

“Sawdust on the outside matt, a receipt from the hardware store, a new electric saw in the basement, and extra trim in the closet. Plus, the door didn't open all the way.”

“Edward purposely left all the clues except that last one. The door was heavy, and I couldn't fit it back in the hole perfectly. Question number two; how did it appear Edward jumped to his death in his living room?”

“He'd been drawing his own blood for a few weeks, using the catheter in his arm, and saving it in the refrigerator in mason jars. Then he used a turkey baster to fill a super soaker squirt gun with his blood, and sprayed the living room. I assume he read enough mysteries to know how to mimic blood spatters. He even faked the bounce that happens when a jumper hits.”

“Excellent. How did the carpet fibers get on the body?”

“He visited Charlie's Bungee Jumping Emporium in Palatine and did a swan dive onto a pile of carpet remainders. We found carpet padding in the basement, but no remainders, and usually the installers give you all the extra pieces. A clue by omission.”

“Very good. Question number three; where did the gunshots come from?”

“The stereo upstairs. That was also a new purchase. The stereo faced the window, so you must have hit the PLAY button from the street, using the remote.”

“I did. The remote is in a garbage can next to the payphone I called from, if anyone wants it back. Did you find anything else interesting?”

I explained the suicide note, the Clue game, and the puzzle magazines.

“How about the Swedish Fish candy?” he asked.

“We have no idea what that means.”

“That was Edward's favorite clue. I'd tell you, but I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. Anyway, there's a surprise for you in John Dickson Carr's book The Three Coffins. Don't bother calling me back—I'm throwing away this phone as soon as I hang up. Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

And he was gone.

We found the Carr book without difficulty. In the pages were a folded cashier's check, and another flash card. We played the card on Herb's computer.

Edward Wyatt, standing atop a large bungee platform, smiled at the camera, winked, and said, “Congratulations on figuring it out. In order to make absolutely, positively sure that there's no doubt I'm doing this of my own free will, without assistance or coercion, I give you this proof.”

He jumped. The camera followed him down onto a pile of beige carpet remainders. I winced when he bounced.

“So that's it?” Herb whined. “We spend our entire afternoon, without any food, on a plain, old suicide?”

“I don't think this one qualifies as plain or old. Plus, a twenty grand check for the KITLOD Fund is a nice return for our time.”

“I think I'd rather be killed in the line of duty than forced to go through one of these again. And he didn't tell you the reason for the Swedish Fish?”

“No. It doesn't seem to fit at all. Almost as if...” I began to laugh.

“What's funny?”

“Don't you get it? Wyatt planted a box of little red candy fish, knowing it would confuse us. It was meant to throw us off the trail.”

“I still don't get it.”

“You need to read more mysteries, Herb.”

“So, you're not going to tell me?”

“You'll figure it out. Now let's go grab that Chinese food.” I smiled, pleased with myself. “Preferably a place that sells herring.”

Epitaph

I've been a longtime David Morrell fan, so when he co-founded the International Thriller Writers organization and asked me to join, I complied even though I'm not much of a joiner. I'm glad I did, because they published an anthology called Thriller, edited by James Patterson, and I won a wild card spot among the many bestselling authors in the collection. This story was later nominated for a British Dagger award, but what excited me most was to share the covers with F. Paul Wilson's Repairman Jack, Phin's literary ancestor.

There's an art to getting your ass kicked.

Guys on either side held my arms, stretching me out crucifixion-style. The joker who worked me over swung wildly, without planting his feet or putting his body into it. He spent most of his energy swearing and screaming when he should have been focusing on inflicting maximum damage.

Amateur.

Not that I was complaining. What he lacked in professionalism, he made up for in mean.

He moved in and rabbit-punched me in the side. I flexed my abs and tried to shift to take the blow in the center of my stomach, rather than the more vulnerable kidneys.

I exhaled hard when his fist landed. Saw stars.

He stepped away to pop me in the face. Rather than tense up, I relaxed, trying to absorb the contact by letting my neck snap back.

It still hurt like hell.

I tasted blood, wasn't sure if it came from my nose or my mouth. Probably both. My left eye had already swollen shut.

“Hijo calvo de una perra!”

You bald son of a bitch. Real original. His breath was ragged now, shoulders slumping, face glowing with sweat.

Gang-bangers these days aren't in very good shape. I blame TV and junk food.

One final punch—a half-hearted smack to my broken nose—and then I was released.

I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high-fives.

When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark, quiet. I felt something scurry over my foot.

Rats, licking up my dripping blood.

Nice neighborhood.

I hurt a lot, but pain and I were old acquaintances. I took a deep breath, let it out slow, did some poking and prodding. Nothing seemed seriously damaged.

I'd been lucky.

I spat. The bloody saliva clung to my swollen lower lip and dribbled onto my T-shirt. I tried a few steps forward, managed to keep my balance, and continued to walk out of the alley, onto the sidewalk, and to the corner bus stop.

I sat.

The Kings took my wallet, which had no ID or credit cards, but did have a few hundred in cash. I kept an emergency fiver in my shoe. The bus arrived, and the portly driver raised an eyebrow at my appearance.

“Do you need a doctor, buddy?”

“I've got plenty of doctors.”

He shrugged and took my money.

On the ride back, my fellow passengers made heroic efforts to avoid looking at me. I leaned forward, so the blood pooled between my feet rather than stained my clothing any further. These were my good jeans.

When my stop came up, I gave everyone a cheery wave goodbye and stumbled out of the bus.

The corner of State and Cermak was all lit up, twinkling in both English and Chinese. Unlike NY and LA, each of which had sprawling Chinatowns, Chicago has more of a Chinablock. Blink while you're driving west on 22nd and you'll miss it.

Though Caucasian, I found a kind of peace in Chinatown that I didn't find among the Anglos. Since my diagnosis, I've pretty much disowned society. Living here was like living in a foreign country—or a least a square block of a foreign country.

I kept a room at the Lucky Lucky Hotel, tucked away between a crumbling apartment building and a Chinese butcher shop, on State and 25th. The hotel did most of its business at an hourly rate, though I couldn't think of a more repulsive place to take a woman, even if you were renting her as well as the room. The halls stank like mildew and worse and the plaster snowed on you when you climbed the stairs and obscene graffiti lined the halls and the whole building leaned slightly to the right.

I got a decent rent; free—as long as I kept out the drug dealers. Which I did, except for the ones who dealt to me.

I nodded at the proprietor, Kenny-Jen-Bang-Ko, and asked for my key. Kenny was three times my age, clean-shaven save for several black moles on his cheeks that sprouted long, white hairs. He tugged at these hairs while contemplating me.

“How is other guy?” Kenny asked.

“Drinking a forty of malt liquor that he bought with my money.”

He nodded, as if that was the answer he'd been expecting. “You want pizza?”

Kenny gestured to a box on the counter. The slices were so old and shrunken they looked like Doritos.

“I thought the Chinese hated fast food.”

“Pizza not fast. Took thirty minutes. Anchovy and red pepper.”

I declined.

My room was one squeaky stair flight up. I unlocked the door and lumbered over to the bathroom, looking into the cracked mirror above the sink.

Ouch.

My left eye had completely closed, and the surrounding tissue bulged out like a peach. Purple bruising competed with angry red swelling along my cheeks and forehead. My nose was a glob of strawberry jelly, and blood had crusted black along my lips and down my neck.

It looked like Jackson Pollack kicked my ass.

I stripped off the T-shirt, peeled off my shoes and jeans, and turned the shower up to scald.

It hurt, but got most of the crap off.

After the shower I popped five Tylenol, chased them with a shot of tequila, and spent ten minutes in front of the mirror, tears streaming down my face, forcing my nose back into place.

I had some coke, but wouldn't be able to sniff anything with my sniffer all clotted up, and I was too exhausted to shoot any. I made do with the tequila, thinking that tomorrow I'd have that codeine prescription refilled.

Since the pain wouldn't let me sleep, I decided to do a little work.

Using a dirty fork, I pried up the floorboards near the radiator and took out a plastic bag full of what appeared to be little gray stones. The granules were the size and consistency of aquarium gravel.

I placed the bag on the floor, then removed the Lee Load-All, the scale, a container of gunpowder, some wads, and a box of empty 12 gauge shells.

Everything went over to my kitchen table. I snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves, clamped the loader onto my counter top, and spent an hour carefully filling ten shells. When I finished, I loaded five of them into my Mossberg 935, the barrel and stock of which had been cut down for easier concealment.

I liked shotguns—you had more leeway when aiming, the cops couldn't trace them like they could trace bullets, and nothing put the fear of god into a guy like the sound of racking a shell into the chamber.

For this job, I didn't have a choice.

By the time I was done, my nose had taken the gold medal in throbbing, with my eye coming close with the silver. I swallowed five more Tylenol and four shots of tequila, then laid down on my cot and fell asleep.

With sleep came the dream.

It happened every night, so vivid I could smell Donna's perfume. We were still together, living in the suburbs. She was smiling at me, running her fingers through my hair.

“Phin, the caterer wants to know if we're going with the split pea or the wedding ball soup.”

“Explain the wedding ball soup to me again.”

“It's a chicken stock with tiny veal meatballs in it.”

“That sounds good to you?”

“It's very good. I've had it before.”

“Then let's go with that.”

She kissed me; playful, loving.

I woke up drenched in sweat.

If someone had told me that happy memories would one day be a source of incredible pain, I wouldn't have believed it.

Things change.

Sun peeked in through my dirty window, making me squint. I stretched, wincing because my whole body hurt—my whole body except for my left side, where a team of doctors severed the nerves during an operation called a chordotomy. The surgery had been purely palliative. The area felt dead, even though the cancer still thrived inside my pancreas. And elsewhere, by now.

The chordotomy offered enough pain relief to allow me to function, and tequila, cocaine, and codeine made up for the remainder.

I dressed in some baggy sweatpants, my bloody gym shoes (with a new five dollar bill in the sole), and a clean white T-shirt. I strapped my leather shotgun sling under my armpits, and placed the Mossberg in the holster. It hung directly between my shoulder blades, barrel up, and could be freed by reaching my right hand behind me at waist-level.

A baggy black trench coat went on over the rig, concealing the shotgun and the leather straps that held it in place.

I pocketed the five extra shells, the bag of gray granules, a Glock 21 with two extra clips of .45 rounds, and a six inch butterfly knife. Then I hung an iron crowbar on an extra strap sewn into the lining of my coat, and headed out to greet the morning.

Chinatown smelled like a combination of soy sauce and garbage. It was worse in the summer, when stenches seemed to settle in and stick to your clothes. Though not yet seven in the morning, the temperature already hovered in the low 90s. The sun made my face hurt.

I walked up State, past Cermak, and went east. The Sing Lung Bakery had opened for business an hour earlier. The manager, a squat Mandarin Chinese named Ti, did a double-take when I entered.

“Phin! Your face is horrible!” He rushed around the counter to meet me, hands and shirt dusty with flour.

“My mom liked it okay.”

Ti's features twisted in concern. “Was it them? The ones who butchered my daughter?”

I gave him a brief nod.

Ti hung his head. “I am sorry to bring this suffering upon you. They are very bad men.”

I shrugged, which hurt. “It was my fault. I got careless.”

That was an understatement. After combing Chicago for almost a week, I'd discovered the bangers had gone underground. I got one guy to talk, and after a bit of friendly persuasion he gladly offered some vital info; Sunny's killers were due to appear in court on an unrelated charge.

I'd gone to the Daly Center, where the prelim hearing was being held, and watched from the sidelines. After matching their names to faces, I followed them back to their hidey-hole.

My mistake had been to stick around. A white guy in a Hispanic neighborhood tends to stand out. Having just been to court, which required walking through a metal detector, I had no weapons on me.

Stupid. Ti and Sunny deserved someone smarter.

Ti had found me through the grapevine, where I got most of my business. Phineas Troutt, Problem Solver. No job too dirty, no fee too high.

I'd met him in a parking lot across the street, and he laid out the whole sad, sick story of what these animals had done to his little girl.

“Cops do nothing. Sunny's friend too scared to press charges.”

Sunny's friend had managed to escape with only ten missing teeth, six stab wounds, and a torn rectum. Sunny hadn't been as lucky.

Ti agreed to my price without question. Not too many people haggled with paid killers.

“You finish job today?” Ti asked, reaching into his glass display counter for a pastry.

“Yeah.”

“In the way we talk about?”

“In the way we talked about.”

Ti bowed and thanked me. Then he stuffed two pastries into a bag and held them out.

“Duck egg moon cake, and red bean ball with sesame. Please take.”

I took.

“Tell me when you find them.”

“I'll be back later today. Keep an eye on the news. You might see something you'll like.”

I left the bakery and headed for the bus. Ti had paid me enough to afford a cab, or even a limo, but cabs and limos kept records. Besides, I preferred to save my money for more important things, like drugs and hookers. I try to live every day as if it's my last.

After all, it very well might be.

The bus arrived, and again everyone took great pains not to stare. The trip was short, only about two miles, taking me to a neighborhood known as Pilsen, on Racine and 18th.

I left my duck egg moon cake and my red bean ball on the bus for some other lucky passenger to enjoy, and then stepped out into Little Mexico.

It smelled like a combination of salsa and garbage.

There weren't many people out—too early for shoppers and commuters. The stores here had Spanish signs, not bothering with English translations: zapatos, ropa, restuarante, tiendas de comestibles, bancos, teléfonos de la célula. I passed the alley where I'd gotten the shit kicked out of me, kept heading north, and located the apartment building where my three amigos were staying. I tried the front door.

They hadn't left it open for me.

Though the gray paint was faded and peeling, the door was heavy aluminum, and the lock solid. But the jamb, as I'd remembered from yesterday's visit, was old wood. I removed the crowbar from my jacket lining, gave a discreet look in either direction, and pried open the door in less time than it took to open it with a key, the frame splintering and cracking.

The Kings occupied the basement apartment to the left of the entrance, facing the street. Last night I'd counted seven—five men and two women—including my three targets. Of course, there may be other people inside that I'd missed.

This was going to be interesting.

Unlike the front door, their apartment door was a joke. They apparently thought being gang members meant they didn't need decent security.

They thought wrong.

I took out my Glock and tried to stop hyperventilating. Breaking into someone's place is scary as hell. It always is.

One hard kick and the door burst inward.

A guy on the couch, sleeping in front of the TV. Not one of my marks. He woke up and stared at me. It took a millisecond to register the gang tattoo, a five pointed crown, on the back of his hand.

I shot him in his forehead.

If the busted door didn't wake everyone up, the .45 did, sounding like thunder in the small room.

Movement to my right. A woman in the kitchen, in panties and a Dago-T, too much make-up and baby fat.

“Te vayas!” I hissed at her.

She took the message and ran out the door.

A man stumbled into the hall, tripping and falling to the thin carpet. One of mine, the guy who held my right arm while I'd been worked over. He clutched a stiletto. I was on him in two quick steps, putting one in his elbow and one through the back of his knee when he fell.

He screamed falsetto.

I walked down the hall in a crouch, and a bullet zinged over my head and buried itself in the ceiling. I kissed the floor, looked left, and saw the shooter in the bathroom; the guy who held my other arm and laughed every time I got smacked.

I stuck the Glock in my jeans and reached behind me, unslinging the Mossberg.

He fired again, missed, and I aimed the shotgun and peppered his face.

Unlike lead shot, the gray granules didn't have deep penetrating power. Instead of blowing his head off, they peeled off his lips, cheeks, and eyes.

He ate linoleum, blind and choking on blood.

Movement behind me. I fell sideways and rolled onto my back. A kid, about thirteen, stood in the hall a few feet away. He wore Latin Kings colors; black to represent death, gold to represent life.

His hand ended in a pistol.

I racked the shotgun, aimed low.

If the kid were old enough to be sexually active, he wasn't anymore.

He dropped to his knees, still holding the gun.

I was on him in two steps, driving a knee into his nose. He went down and out.

Three more guys burst out of the bedroom.

Apparently I'd counted wrong.

Two were young, muscular, brandishing knives. The third was the guy who'd worked me over the night before. The one who called me a bald son of a bitch.

They were on me before I could rack the shotgun again.

The first one slashed at me with his pig-sticker, and I parried with the barrel of the Mossberg. He jabbed again, slicing me across the knuckles of my right hand.

I threw the shotgun at his face and went for my Glock.

He was fast.

I was faster.

Bang bang and he was a paycheck for the coroner. I spun left, aimed at the second guy. He was already in mid-jump, launching himself at me with a battle cry and switchblades in both hands.

One gun beats two knives.

He took three in the chest and two in the neck before he dropped.

The last guy, the guy who broke my nose, grabbed my shotgun and dove behind the couch.

Chck chck. He ejected the shell and racked another into the chamber. I pulled the Glock's magazine and slammed a fresh one home.

“Hijo calvo de una perra!”

Again with the bald son of a bitch taunt. I worked through my hurt feelings and crawled to an end table, tipping it over and getting behind it.

The shotgun boomed. Had it been loaded with shot, it would have torn through the cheap particle board and turned me into ground beef. Or ground hijo calvo de una perra. But at that distance, the granules didn't do much more than make a loud noise.

The banger apparently didn't learn from experience, because he tried twice more with similar results, and then the shotgun was empty.

I stood up from behind the table, my heart a lump in my throat and my hands shaking with adrenalin.

The King turned and ran.

His back was an easy target.

I took a quick look around, making sure everyone was down or out, and then went to retrieve my shotgun. I loaded five more shells and approached the downed leader, who was sucking carpet and whimpering. The wounds in his back were ugly, but he still made a feeble effort to crawl away.

I bent down, turned him over, and shoved the barrel of the Mossburg between his bloody lips.

“You remember Sunny Lung,” I said, and fired.

It wasn't pretty. It also wasn't fatal. The granules blew out his cheeks, and tore into his throat, but somehow the guy managed to keep breathing.

I gave him one more, jamming the gun further down the wreck of his face.

That did the trick.

The second perp, the one I'd blinded, had passed out on the bathroom floor. His face didn't look like a face anymore, and blood bubbles were coming out of the hole where his mouth would have been.

“Sunny Lung sends her regards,” I said.

This time I pushed the gun in deep, and the first shot did the trick, blowing through his throat.

The last guy, the one who made like Pavarotti when I took out his knee, left a blood smear from the hall into the kitchen. He cowered in the corner, a dishrag pressed to his leg.

“Don't kill me, man! Don't kill me!”

“I bet Sunny Lung said the same thing.”

The Mossberg thundered twice; once to the chest, and once to the head.

It wasn't enough. What was left alive gasped for air.

I removed the bag of granules from my pocket, took out a handful, and shoved them down his throat until he stopped breathing.

Then I went to the bathroom and threw up in the sink.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Time to go. I washed my hands, and then rinsed off the barrel of the Mossberg, holstering it in my rig.

In the hallway, the kid I emasculated was clutching himself between the legs, sobbing.

“There's always the priesthood,” I told him, and got out of there.

#

My nose was still clogged, but I managed to get enough coke up there to damper the pain. Before closing time I stopped by the bakery, and Ti greeted me with a somber nod.

“Saw the news. They said it was a massacre.”

“Wasn't pretty.”

“You did as we said?”

“I did, Ti. Your daughter got her revenge. She's the one that killed them. All three.”

I fished out the bag of granules and handed it to her father. Sunny's cremated remains.

“Xie xie,” Ti said, thanking me in Mandarin. He held out an envelope filled with cash.

Ti looked uncomfortable, and I had drugs to buy, so I took the money and left without another word.

An hour later I'd filled my codeine prescription, picked up two bottles of tequila and a skinny hooker with track marks on her arms, and had a party back at my place. I popped and drank and screwed and snorted, trying to blot out the memory of the last two days. And of the last six months.

That's when I'd been diagnosed. A week before my wedding day. My gift to my bride-to-be was running away so she wouldn't have to watch me die of cancer.

Those Latin Kings this morning, they got off easy. They didn't see it coming.

Seeing it coming is so much worse.

Taken to the Cleaners

Harry is my favorite character to write for. I love the idea of an idiotic, selfish jerk as a protagonist. He's too obnoxious and unsympathetic to carry a book on his own, but I think he makes a great foil for Jack, so he appears in every novel. Some readers hate him. Some readers adore him. This story sold to The Strand Magazine in 2005.

“I want you to kill the man that my husband hired to kill the man that I hired to kill my husband.”

If I had been paying attention, I still wouldn't have understood what she wanted me to do. But I was busy looking at her legs, which weren't adequately covered by her skirt. She had great legs, curvy without being heavy, tan and long, and she had them crossed in that sexy way that women cross their legs, knee over knee, not the ugly way that guys do it, with the ankle on the knee, though if she did cross her legs that way it would have been sexy too.

“Mr. McGlade, did you hear what I just said?”

“Hmm? Yeah, sure I did, baby. The man, the husband, I got it.”

“So you'll do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill the man that my husband—”

I held up my hand. “Whoa. Hold it right there. I'm just a plain old private eye. That's what is says on the door you just walked through. The door even has a big magnifying glass silhouette logo thingy painted on it, which I paid way too much money for, just so no one gets confused. I don't kill people for money. Absolutely, positively, no way.” I leaned forward a little. “But, for the sake of argument, how much money are we talking about here?”

“I don't know where else to turn.”

The tears came, and she buried her face in her hands, giving me the opportunity to look at her legs again. Marietta Garbonzo had found me through the ad I placed in the Chicago phone book. The ad used the expensive magnifying glass logo, along with the tagline, Harry McGlade Investigators: We'll Do Whatever it Takes. It brought in more customers than my last tagline: No Job Too Small, No Fee Too High, or the one prior to that, We'll Investigate Your Privates.

Mrs. Garbonzo had never been to a private eye before, and she was playing her role to the hilt. Besides the short skirt and tight blouse, she had gone to town with the hair and make-up; her blonde locks curled and sprayed, her lips painted deep, glossy red, her purple eye shadow so thick that she managed to get some on her collar.

“My husband beats me, Mr. McGlade. Do you know why?”

“Beats me,” I said, shrugging. Her wailing kicked in again. I wondered where she worked out. Legs like that, she must work out.

“He's insane, Mr. McGlade. We've been married for a year, and Roy always had a temper. I once saw him attack another man with a tire iron. They were having an argument, Roy went out to the car, grabbed a crow bar from the trunk, then came back and practically killed him.”

“Where do you work out?”

“Excuse me?”

“Exercise. Do you belong to a gym, or work out at home?”

“Mr. McGlade, I'm trying to tell you about my husband.”

“I know, the insane guy who beats you. Probably shouldn't have married a guy who used a tire iron for anything other than changing tires.”

“I married too young. But while we were dating, he treated me kindly. It was only after we married that the abuse began.”

She turned her head away and unbuttoned her blouse. My gaze shifted from her legs to her chest. She had a nice chest, packed tight into a silky black bra with lace around the edges and an underwire that displayed things to a good effect, both lifting and separating.

“See these bruises?”

“Hmm?”

“It's humiliating to reveal them, but I don't know where else to go.”

“Does he hit you anywhere else? You can show me, I'm a professional.”

The tears returned. “I hired a man to kill him, Mr. McGlade. I hired a man to kill my husband. But somehow Roy found out about it, and he hired a man to kill the man I hired. So I'd like you to kill his man so my man can kill him.”

I removed the bottle of whiskey from my desk that I keep there for medicinal purposes, like getting drunk. I unscrewed the cap, wiped off the bottle neck with my tie, and handed it to her.

“You're not making sense, Mrs. Garbonzo. Have a swig of this.”

“I shouldn't. When I drink I lose my inhibitions.”

“Keep the bottle.”

She took a sip, coughing after it went down.

“I already paid the assassin. I paid him a lot of money, and he won't refund it. But I'm afraid he'll die before he kills my husband, so I need someone to kill the man who is after him.”

“Shouldn't you tell the guy you hired that he's got a hit on him?”

“I called him. He says not to worry. But I am worried, Mr. McGlade.”

“As I said before, I don't kill people for money.”

“Even if you're killing someone who kills people for money?”

“But I'd be killing someone who is killing someone who kills people for money. What prevents that killer from hiring someone to kill me because he's killing someone who is killing someone that I...hand me that bottle.”

I took a swig.

“Please, Mr. McGlade. I'm a desperate woman. I'll do anything.”

She walked around the desk and stood before me, shivering in her bra, her breath coming out in short gasps through red, wet lips. Her hands rested on my shoulders, squeezing, and she bent forward.

“My laundry,” I said.

“What?”

“Do my laundry.”

“Mr. McGlade, I'm offering you my body.”

“And it's a tempting offer, Mrs. Garbonzo. But that will take, what, five minutes? I've got about six loads of laundry back at my place, they take an hour for each cycle.”

“Isn't there a dry cleaner in your neighborhood?”

“A hassle. I'd have to write my name on all the labels, on every sock, on the elastic band of my whitey tighties, plus haul six bags of clothes down the street. You want me to help you? I get five hundred a day, plus expenses. And you do my laundry.”

“And you'll kill him?”

“No. I don't kill people for money. Or for laundry. But I'll protect your guy from getting whacked.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGlade.”

She leaned down to kiss me. Not wanting to appear rude, I let her. And so she didn't feel unwanted, I stuck my hand up her skirt.

“You won't tell the police, will you Mr. McGlade?”

“Look, baby, I'm not your priest and I'm not your lawyer and I'm not your shrink. I'm just a man. A man who will keep his mouth shut, except when I'm eating. Or talking, or sleeping, because sometimes I sleep with my mouth open because I have the apnea.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGlade.”

“I'll take the first week in advance, Visa and MasterCard are fine. Here are my spare keys.”

“Your keys?”

“For my apartment. It's in Hyde Park. I don't have a hamper, so I leave my dirty clothes all over the floor. Do the bed sheets too—those haven't been washed since, well, ever. Washer and dryer are in the basement of the building, washer costs seventy-five cents, dryer costs fifty cents for each thirty minutes, and the heavy things like jeans and sweaters take about a buck fifty to dry. Make yourself at home, but don't touch anything, sit on anything, eat any of my food, or turn on the TV.”

I gave her my address, and she gave me a check and all of her info. The info was surprising.

“You hired a killer from the personal ads in Famous Soldier Magazine?”

“I didn't know where else to go.”

“How about the police? A divorce attorney?”

“My husband is a rich and powerful man, Mr. McGlade. You don't recognize his name?”

I flipped though my mental Rolodex. “Roy Garbonzo? Is he the Roy Garbonzo that owns Happy Roy's Chicken Shack?”

“Yes.”

“He seems so happy on those commercials.”

“He's a beast, Mr. McGlade.”

“The guy is like a hundred and thirty years old. And on those commercials, he's always laughing and signing and dancing with that claymation chicken. He's the guy that's abusing you?”

“Would you like to see the proof again?”

“If it isn't too much trouble.”

She grabbed my face in one hand, squeezing my cheeks together.

“Happy Roy is a vicious psycho, Mr. McGlade. He's a brutal, misogynist pig who enjoys inflicting pain.”

“He's probably rich too.”

Mrs. Garbonzo narrowed her eyes. “He's wealthy, yes. What are you implying?”

“I like his extra spicy recipe. Do you get to take chicken home for free? You probably have a fridge stuffed full of it, am I right?”

She released my face and buttoned up her blouse.

“I have to go. My husband gets paranoid when I go out.”

“Maybe because when you go out, you hire people to kill him.”

She picked up her purse and headed for the door. “I expect you to call me when you've made some progress.”

“That includes ironing,” I called after her. “And hanging the stuff up. I don't have any hangers, so you'll have to buy some.”

After she left, I turned off all the office lights and closed the blinds, because what I had to do next, I had to do in complete privacy.

I took a nap.

When I awoke a few hours later, I went to the bank, cashed Mrs. Garbonzo's check, and went to start earning my money.

My first instinct was to dive head-first into the belly of the beast and confront Mrs. Garbonzo's hired hitman help. My second instinct was to get some nachos, maybe a beer or two.

I went with my second instinct. The nachos were good, spicy but not so much that all you tasted was peppers. After the third beer I hopped in my ride and headed for the assassin's headquarters, which turned out to be in a well-to-do suburb of Chicago called Barrington. The development I pulled into boasted some amazingly huge houses, complete with big lawns and swimming pools and trimmed bushes that looked like corkscrews and lollipops. I double-checked the address I'd scribbled down, then pulled into a long circular driveway and up to a home that was bigger than the public school I attended, and I came from the city where they grew schools big.

The hitman biz must be booming.

I half expected some sort of maid or butler to answer the door, but instead I was greeted by a fifty-something woman, her facelift sporting a deep tan. I appraised her.

“If you stay out in the sun, the wrinkles will come back.”

“Then I'll just have more work done.” Her voice was steady, cultured. “Are you here to clean the pool?”

“I'm here to speak to William Johansenn.”

“Billy? Sure, he's in the basement.”

She let me in. Perhaps all rich suburban women were fearless and let strange guys into their homes. Or perhaps this one simply didn't care. I didn't get a chance to ask, because she walked off just as I entered.

“Lady? Where's the basement?”

“Down the hall, stairs to the right,” she said without turning around.

I took a long, tiled hallway past a powder room, a den, and a door that opened to a descending staircase. Heavy metal music blared up at me.

“Billy!” I called down.

My effort was fruitless—with the noise, I couldn't even hear myself. The lights were off, and squinting did nothing to penetrate the darkness.

Surprising a paid assassin in his own lair wasn't on the list of 100 things I longed to do before I die, but I didn't see much of a choice. I beer-belched, then went down the stairs.

The basement was furnished, though furnished didn't seem to be the right word. The floor had carpet, and the walls had paint, and there seemed to be furniture, but I couldn't really tell because everything was covered with food wrappers, pop cans, dirty clothing, and discarded magazines. It looked like a 7-Eleven exploded.

William “Billy” Johansenn was asleep on a waterbed, a copy of Creem open on his chest. He had a galaxy of pimples dotting his forehead and six curly hairs sprouting from his chin.

He couldn't have been a day over sixteen.

I killed the stereo. Billy continued to snore. Among the clutter on the floor were several issues of Famous Soldier, along with various gun and hunting magazines. I poked through his drawers and found a cheap Rambo knife, a CO2 powered BB gun, and a dog-eared copy of the infamous How to be a Hitman book from Paladin Press.

I gave the kid a shake, then another. The third shake got him to open his eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” he said, defiant.

“I'm your wake-up call.”

I slapped the kid, making his eyes cross.

“Hey! You hit me!”

“A woman hired you to kill her husband.”

“I don't know what you're—”

He got another smack. “That's for lying.”

“You can't hit me,” he whined. “I'll sue you.”

I hit him twice more; once because I didn't like being threatened by punk kids, and once because I didn't like lawyers. When I pulled my palm back for threesies, the kid broke.

“Please! Stop it! I admit it!”

I released his t-shirt and let him blubber for a minute. His blue eyes matched those of the woman upstairs. Not many professional killers lived in their mother's basement, and I wondered how Marietta Garbonzo could have been this naive.

“I'm guessing you never met Mrs. Garbonzo in person.”

“I only talked to her on the phone. She sent the money to a P.O. Box. That's how the pros do it.”

“So how did she get your home address?”

“She wouldn't give me the money without my address. She said if I didn't trust her, why should she trust me?”

Here was my proof that each new generation of teenagers was stupider than the last. I blame MTV.

“How much did she give you?”

He smiled, showing me a mouth full of braces. “Fifty large.”

“And how were you going to do it? With your BB gun?”

“I was going to follow him around and then...you know...shove him.”

“Shove him?”

“He's an old guy. I was thinking I'd shove him down some stairs, or into traffic. I dunno.”

“Have you shoved a lot of old people into traffic, Billy boy?”

He must not have liked the look in my eyes, because he shrunk two sizes.

“No! Never! I never killed anybody!”

“So why put an ad in the magazine?”

“I dunno. Something to do.”

I considered hitting him again, but didn't know what purpose it would serve.

I hit him anyway.

“Ow! My lip's caught in my braces!”

“You pimple-faced little moron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in right now? Not only did you accept money to commit a felony, but now you've got a price on your head. Did Mrs. Garbonzo tell you about the guy her husband hired to kill you?”

He nodded, his Adam's apple wiggling like a fish.

“Are-are you here to kill me?”

“No.”

“But you've got a gun.” He pointed to the butt of my Magnum, jutting out of my shoulder holster.

“I'm a private detective.”

“Is that a real gun?”

“Yes.”

“Can I touch it?”

“No.”

“Come on. Lemme touch it.”

This is what happens when you spare the rod and spoil the child.

“Look kid, I know that you're a loser that nobody likes, and that you're a virgin and will probably stay one for the next ten years, but do you want to die?”

“Ten years?”

“Answer the question.”

“No. I don't want to die.”

I sighed. “That's a start. Where's the money?”

“I've got a secret place. In the wall.”

He rolled off the bed, eager, and pried a piece of paneling away from the plaster in a less-cluttered corner of the room. His hand reached in, and came out with a brown paper shopping bag.

“Is it all there?”

Billy shook his head. “I spent three hundred on a wicked MP3 player.”

“Hand over the money. And the MP3 player.”

Billy showed a bit of reluctance, so I smacked him again to help with his motivation.

It helped. He also gave me fresh batteries for the player.

“Now what?” he sniffled.

“Now we tell your parents.”

“Do we have to?”

“You'd prefer the cops?”

He shook his head. “No. No cops.”

“That blonde upstairs with the face like a snare drum, that your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's go have a talk with her.”

Mrs. Johansenn was perched in front of a sixty inch television, watching a soap.

“Nice TV. High definition?”

“Plasma.”

“Nice. Billy has something he wants to tell you.”

Billy stared at his shoes. “Mom, I bought an ad in the back of Famous Soldier Magazine, and some lady gave me fifty thousand dollars to kill her husband.”

Mrs. Johansenn hit the mute button on the remote, shaking her head in obvious disappointment.

“Billy, dammit, this is too much. You're a hired killer?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You're father is going to have a stroke when he hears this.”

“Do we have to tell Dad?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I gave the money back.”

“Who are you?” Billy's mom squinted at me.

“I'm Harry McGlade. I'm a private eye. I was hired to find Billy. Someone is trying to kill him.”

Mrs. Johansenn rolled her eyes. “Oh, this gets better and better. I need to call Sal.”

“You husband?”

“My lawyer.”

“Ma'am, a lawyer isn't going to do much to save Billy's life, unless he's standing between him and a bullet.”

“So what then, the police?”

“Not the cops, Mom! I don't want to go to jail!”

“He won't survive in prison,” I said. “The lifers will pass him around like a bong at a college party. They'll trade him for candy bars and cigarettes.”

“I don't want to be traded for candy bars, Mom!”

Mrs. Johansenn frowned, forming new wrinkles. “Then what should we do, Mr. McGlade?”

I paused for a moment, then I grinned.

“I get five-hundred a day, plus expenses.”

#

I celebrated my recent windfall with a nice dinner at a nice restaurant. I was more of a burger and fries guy than a steak and lobster guy, but the steak and lobster went down easy, and after leaving a 17% tip I headed to Evanston to visit the Chicken King.

Roy Garbonzo's estate made the Johansenn's look like a third world mud hut. He had his own private access road, a giant wrought iron perimeter fence, and a uniformed guard posted at the gate. I was wondering how to play it when the aforementioned uniformed guard knocked on my window.

“I need to see Roy Garbonzo,” I told him. “My son choked to death on a Sunny Meal toy.”

“He's expecting you, Mr. McGlade.”

The gate rolled back, and I drove up to the mansion. It looked like five mansions stuck together. I parked between two massive Doric columns and pressed the buzzer next to the giant double doors. Before anyone answered, a startling thought flashed through my head.

How did the guard know my name?

“It's a set up,” I said aloud. I yanked the Magnum out of my shoulder holster and dove into one of the hydrangea bushes flanking the entryway just as the knob turned.

I peeked through the lavender blooms, finger on the trigger, watching the door swing open. A sinister-looking man wearing a tuxedo stepped out of the house and peered down his nose at me.

“Would Mr. McGlade care for a drink?”

“You're a butler,” I said.

“Observant of you, sir.”

“You work for Roy Garbonzo.”

“An excellent deduction, sir. A drink?”

“Uh—whiskey, rocks.”

“Would you care to have it in the parlor, sir, or would you prefer to remain squatting in the Neidersachen?”

“I thought it was a hydrangea.”

“It's a hydrangea Neidersachen, sir.”

“It's pretty,” I said. “But I think I'll take that drink inside.”

“Very good, sir.”

I extricated myself from the Neidersachen, brushed off some clinging leaves, and followed Jeeves through the tiled foyer, through the carpeted library, and into the parlor, which had wood floors and an ornate Persian rug big enough to park a bus on.

“Please have a seat, sir. Mr. Garbonzo will be with your shortly. Were you planning on shooting him?”

“Excuse me?”

“You're holding a gun, sir.”

I glanced down at my hand, still clenched around my Magnum.

“Sorry. Forgot.”

I holstered the .44 and sat in a high-backed leather chair, which was so plush I sank four inches. Waddles returned with my whiskey, and I sipped it and stared at the paintings hanging on the walls. One in particular caught my interest, of a nude woman eating grapes.

“Admiring the Degas?” a familiar voice boomed from behind.

I turned and saw Happy Roy the vicious misogynist psycho, all five foot two inches of him, walking up to me. He wore an expensive silk suit, but like most old men the waist was too high, making him seem more hunched over than he actually was. On his feet were slippers, and his glasses had black plastic frames and looked thick enough to stop a bullet.

“Her name is Degas?” I asked. “Silly name for a chick.”

He held out his hand and I shook it, noticing his knuckles were swollen and bruised.

“Degas is the painter, Mr. McGlade. My business advisors thought it was a good investment. Do you like it?”

“Not really. She's got too much in back, not enough up front, and her face is a double-bagger.”

“A double-bagger?”

“I'd make her wear two bags over her head, in case one fell off.”

The Chicken King laughed. “I always thought she was ugly too. Apparently, this little lady was the ideal beauty hundreds of years ago.”

“Or maybe Degas just liked ugly, pear-shaped chicks. How did you know I was coming, Mr. Garbonzo?”

He sat in the chair across from me, sinking in so deep he had trouble seeing over his knees.

“Please, call me Happy Roy. I've been having my wife followed, Mr. McGlade. The man I hired tailed her to your office. Does that surprise you?”

“Why should I be surprised? I remember that she came to my office.”

“What I meant was, are you surprised I'm having my wife followed?”

I considered it. “No. She's young, beautiful, and you look like a Caucasian version of one of the California Raisins.”

“I remember those commercials. That's where I got the idea for the claymation chicken in the Chicken Shack spots. Expensive to produce, those commercials.”

“Enough of the small talk. I want you to call off your goon.”

“My goon?”

“The person your wife hired to whack you, he's a teenage kid living in the suburbs. He's not a real threat.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“So you don't need to have that kid killed.”

“Mr. McGlade, I'm not having anyone killed. I'm Happy Roy. I don't kill people. I promote world peace through deep fried poultry. I simply told my wife that I hired a killer, even though I didn't.”

“You lied to her?”

Happy Roy let out a big, dramatic sigh. “When I found out she wanted me dead, I was justifiably annoyed. I confronted her, we got into an argument, and I told her that I'd have her assassin killed. I was trying to get her to call it off on her own.”

I absorbed this information, drinking more whiskey. When the whiskey ran out, I sucked on an ice cube.

“Tho wmer mmmpt wooor—”

“Excuse me? I can't understand you with that ice in your mouth.”

I spit out the ice. “She said you abuse her. That you're insane.”

“The only thing insane about me is my upcoming promotion. Buy a box of chicken, get a second box for half price.”

I wondered if I should tell him about the bruises she had, but chose to keep silent.

“What about divorce?”

“I love Marietta, Mr. McGlade. I know she's too young for me. I know she's a devious, back-stabbing maneater. That just makes her more adorable.”

“She wants you dead.”

“All spouses have their quirks.”

I leaned forward, an effort because my butt was sunk so low in the chair.

“Happy Roy, I have no doubt that Marietta will kill you if she can. When this doesn't pan out, she'll try something else. Eventually, she'll hook up with a real assassin.”

Happy Roy's eye became hooded, dark. “She's my wife, Mr. McGlade. I'll deal with her my way.”

“By beating her?”

“This conversation is over. I'll have my butler show you to the door.”

I pried myself out of the chair. “You're disgustingly rich, powerful, and not a bad looking guy for someone older than God. Let Marietta go and find some other bimbo to play with.”

“Good bye, Mr. McGlade. Feel free to keep working for my wife.”

“Are you trying to pay me off, so I drop this case?”

“No. Not at all.”

“If you were thinking about paying me off, how much money would we be talking?”

“I'm not trying to pay you off, Mr. McGlade.”

I got in the smaller man's face. “You might be able to afford fat Degas and huge estates, but I'm a person, Happy Roy. And no matter how rich you get, you'll never be able to buy a human being. Because it's illegal, Happy Roy. Buying people is illegal.”

“I'm not trying to buy you!”

“I'll find my own way out.”

I stormed out of the parlor, through the library, into the dining room, into another parlor, or maybe it was a den, and then I wound up in the kitchen somehow. I tried to back track, wandered into the dining room, and then found myself back in one of the parlors, but I couldn't tell if it was the first parlor or the second parlor. I didn't see that painting of the naked heifer, but Happy Roy may have taken it down just to confuse me.

“Hello?” I called out. “I'm a little lost here.”

No one answered.

I went back into the dining room, then the kitchen, and took another door which led down a hallway which led to a bathroom, which was fine because I needed to go to the bathroom anyway.

When the lizard had been adequately drained, I discovered some very interesting prescription drugs, just lying there, in the medicine cabinet.

And then it all made sense.

Forty minutes later I found the front door and headed back to my apartment.

Time to drop the truth on Little Miss Marietta.

#

At first, I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was so...clean. Not only were all of my clothes picked up, but the apartment had been vacuumed—a real feat since I didn't think I owned a vacuum cleaner.

“Mrs. Garbonzo? You here?”

I walked into the bedroom. The bed had been made, and the closet door was open, revealing over a dozen shirts on hangers.

In the kitchen, the sink was empty of dishes for the first time since I rented the place fifteen years ago. There was even a fresh smell of lilacs and orange zest in the air.

The door opened and I swung around, hand going to my gun. Mrs. Garbonzo entered, carrying a plastic laundry basket overflowing with my socks. She flinched when she saw me.

“Mr. McGlade. I didn't expect you back so soon.”

“Surprised, Marietta? I thought you might be.”

“Did you take care of the guy?”

“Sit down. We need to talk.”

She set the basket down on my kitchen counter, and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar stools. Her blouse had been untucked from her skirt, the shirt tails tied in a knot around her flat stomach.

“You lied to me, Marietta.”

“Lied?” She batted her eyelashes. “How?”

There was a bottle of window cleaner next to the sink that I'd never seen before. I picked it up.

“How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?”

“Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with glass cleaner?”

I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing buttons.

“I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They're so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar. See?”

I shot two quick streams at the marks, then used my sleeve to wipe them off.

They didn't wipe off.

I tried again, to similar effect.

Marietta sneered at me. “Are you finished?”

“So what's that purple stuff on your collar?”

“Eye shadow.” She pointed at her eyes. “That's why it matches my eye shadow.”

“Big deal. So you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn't beat up a quadriplegic.”

“My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade.”

“Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first, I thought they were swollen from hitting you. But he didn't hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain. So much pain, he'd never be able to hit you.”

Marietta put her hands on her hips.

“He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade.”

“A belt?”

“These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?”

She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry, red scabs stretched across her back.

I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to be sure.

“Ow!”

“Sorry. Had to check.”

Marietta faced me. “I've paid you, I've done your laundry, and I've cleaned your apartment. Did you take care of the assassin for me?”

“Your husband didn't hire an assassin.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“I know it for a fact. The guy you hired is a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced kid. He couldn't whack anyone. He couldn't even whack a mole.”

I smiled at my pun.

Marietta made a face. “I thought he sounded young on the phone. He really won't do it?”

“He lives in his parent's basement.”

The tears came. “I gave him a lot of money. Everything I've been able to hide from Roy during six years of marriage.”

I thought about mentioning I got the money back, but decided against it.

“Look, Marietta, just divorce the guy.”

“I can't. He threatened to kill me if I divorced him.”

“You can run away. Hire a lawyer.”

She sniffled. “Pre-nup.”

“Pre-nup?”

“I signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I divorce Roy, I don't get a penny. And after six years of abuse, I deserve more than that.” She licked her lips. “But if he dies, I get it all.”

“Don't you think killing the guy is a little extreme?”

She threw herself at me, teary-eyed and heaving. “Please, Harry. You have to help me. I'll give you half—half of the entire chicken empire. Help me kill the son of a bitch.”

“Marietta...”

“I cleaned your place, you promised you'd help.” She added a little grinding action to her hug. “Please kill him for me.”

I looked around the kitchen. She did do a pretty good job. I wondered, briefly, if I'd make a decent Chicken King.

“I'll tell you what, Marietta. I don't do that kind of thing. But I know someone who can help. Do you want me to make a phone call?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

I pried myself out of her grasp and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory.

“Hi, partner. It's me. Look, I've got a woman here who wants to kill her husband. I told her I'm not interested, but I thought maybe you'd be able to set something up. Say, tomorrow, around noon? You can meet her at the Hilton. Rent a room under the name Lipshultz. No, schultz, with a U-L. Okay, she'll be there.”

I hung up. “Got it all set for you, sugar.”

She squeezed me tight and kissed my neck. “Thanks, Harry. Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to repay you?” Her breath was hot in my ear. “Anything at all?”

“You can start by folding those socks. And maybe some dusting. Yeah, dusting would be good.”

She smiled wickedly and caressed my cheek. “I was thinking of something a little more intimate.”

“I was thinking about dinner.”

“Dinner would be wonderful.”

“I'm sure it will be. Have the place dusted by the time I get back.”

#

Marietta Garbonzo called me the next night, around eight in the evening.

“You son of a bitch! You set me up! You didn't call a hitman! You called a cop!”

“You can't go around murdering people, sweetheart. It's wrong on so many levels.”

“But what about all of the washing? The cleaning? The dusting? And what about after dinner? What we did? How could you betray me after that?”

“You expect me to throw away all of my principles because we spent five minutes doing the worm? It was fun, but not worth twenty to life.”

“You bastard. When I get out of here I'll...”

I hung up and went back to the Sharper Image catalog I'd been thumbing through. I had my eye on one of those massaging easy chairs. That would set me back two grand. Earlier that day, I bought a sixty inch plasma TV. The money I took from William “Billy” Johansenn was being put to good use.

I plopped down in front of the TV, found the wrestling channel, and settled in to watch two hours of pay-per-view sports entertainment. The Iron Commie had Captain Frankenbeef in a suplex when I felt the gun press against the back of my head.

“Hello, Mr. McGlade.”

“Happy Roy?”

“Yes. Stand up, slowly. Then turn around.”

I followed instructions. Happy Roy held a four barreled COP .357, a nasty weapon that could do a lot of damage at close range.

“How'd you get in?” I asked.

“You gave a key to my wife, you moron. I took it from her last night, when she got home.” His face got mean. “After you slept with her.”

“Technically, we didn't do any sleeping.”

The gun trembled in Happy Roy's hand.

“She's in jail now, Mr. McGlade. Because of you.”

“She wanted to kill you, Happy Roy. You should thank me.”

“You idiot!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I wanted to kill her myself. With my own two hands. Now I have to get her out of jail before I can do it. Do you have any idea what Johnny Cochrane charges an hour?”

“Whatever it is, you can afford it.”

Happy Roy's voice cracked. “I'm practically broke. Those damn claymation commercials are costing me a fortune, and no one is buying the tie-in products. I've got ten thousand Happy Roy t-shirts, moldering away in a warehouse. Plus the burger chains with their processed chicken strips are forcing me into bankruptcy.”

“Those new Wendy's strips are pretty good.”

“Shut up! Put your hands over your head. No quick moves.”

“What about your mansion? Can't you sell that?”

“It's a rental.”

“Really? Do you mind if I ask what you pay a month?”

“Enough! We're going for a ride, Mr. McGlade. I'm going to introduce you to one of our extra large deep fryers, up close and personal.”

“You told me I could keep working with your wife.”

“I said you could work with her, not set her up!”

“Six of one, half a dozen of...”

"I'm the Chicken King, goddammit! I'm an American icon! Nobody crosses me and gets away with it!

I'd had enough of the Chicken King's crazy ranting, so I reached for the gun. Happy Roy tried to squeeze the trigger, but I easily yanked it away before he had the chance.

“Let me give you a little lesson in firearms, Happy Roy. A COP .357 has a twenty pound trigger pull. Much too hard to fire for a guy with arthritis.”

Happy Roy reached for his belt, fighting with the buckle. “You bastard! I'll beat the fear of Happy Roy into you, you son of a bitch! No one crosses...”

I tapped him on the head with his gun, and the Chicken King collapsed. After checking for a pulse, I went for the phone and dialed my Lieutenant friend.

“Hi, Jack. Me again. Marietta Garbonzo's husband just broke into my place, tried to kill me. Yeah, Happy Roy himself. No, he doesn't look so happy right now. Can you send someone by? And can you make it quick? He's bleeding all over my carpet, and I just had it cleaned. Thanks.”

I hung up and stared down at the Chicken King, who was mumbling something into the carpet.

“You say something, Happy Roy?”

“I should have stayed single.”

“No kidding,” I said. “Relationships can be murder.”

Body Shots

Amazon.com introduced a program in 2005 called Amazon Shorts, where customers could download short stories for 49 cents. I wrote this story specifically for Amazon. It was an attempt to really take Jack to the brink, by making the situation get worse and worse no matter how hard she tried to fix things. It's as dark as Jack has gotten, so far…

“And can you mega-size that meal deal?”

I reach over from the passenger seat and give my partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, a poke in the ribs, except I don't actually feel his ribs because they're encased in a substantial layer of fat—the result of many years of mega-sizing his fast food meals.

“What?” he asks. “You want me to mega-size your fat-free yogurt?”

“No. You told me to point it out whenever I saw you overeating.”

“How am I overeating?”

“You just mega-sized a triple bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.”

Herb shrugs, multiple chins wiggling.

“So? It's just one meal.”

“The mega-size french fries come in a carton bigger than your head. The shake is the size of a rain barrel.”

“Be realistic here, Jack. It's only 49 cents. You can't buy anything for 49 cents these days.”

“How about another heart attack? How much is that—”

My words are cut off by two quick pops from the drive-thru speaker. Though October, Chicago has been blessed with unseasonably warm weather, and my passenger window is wide open, the sound reaching me through there as well. It's coming from the restaurant.

Only one thing makes a sound like that.

Herb hits the radio. “This is Car 118, officer needs assistance. Shots fired at the Burger Barn on Kedzie and Wabash.”

I beat Herb out of the car, pulling my star from the pocket of my jacket and my .38 from my shoulder holster. I'm wearing flats and a beige skirt. A cool wind kicks up and brings goosebumps to my legs. The shoes are Kate Spade. The jacket and skirt are Donna Karan. The holster is Smith and Wesson.

As I near the building, I can make out screams, followed by another gunshot. A spatter of blood and tissue blossoms on the inside of the drive-thru window, blocking my view of the interior.

I hold up my pinky—my signal to Herb that there are casualties—and hurry past the window in a crouch, stopping before the glass doors. I tug the lanyard out of the badge case and loop it over my head. On one knee, I crane my neck around the brick jamb and peek into the restaurant.

I spot a single perp, Caucasian male, mid-thirties. I can't make out his hair color because he's wearing a black football helmet complete with face gear. Jeans, black combat boots, and a gray trench coat complete the ensemble. And under the trench coat...

An ammo belt.

Two strips of leather crisscross his chest, bandolero style. Instead of bullets in the webbing, I count eight clips. Four more clips are stuck into his waistband. I assume they're for the 9mm Beretta in his hand, currently pointed at a family cowering under a plastiform table.

A mother and two kids.

Before my mind can register what is happening, he fires six times. The bullets tear through the table and into the mother's back. Blood sprays onto the children she's been shielding, and then erupts from the children in fireworks patterns.

I tear my eyes away from the horror and scan for more hostiles, but see only potential victims—at least twenty. Behind me, I hear footfalls and Herb's labored breathing.

“At least four down. One perp, heavily armed.”

“You want to be old yeller?”

I shake my head and swallow. “I want the shot.”

“On three.”

Herb flashes one, two, three fingers, then I shove through the door first, rolling to the side, coming up in a shooting position just as Herb yells, “POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!”

The gunman swings toward Herb, I let out a slow breath and squeeze—angle up to discourage ricochets, aiming at the body mass, no ricochet because the shot is true, squeeze, the perp recoiling and stepping back once, twice, dropping the green duffle bag that's slung over his shoulder, squeeze, screams from everywhere at once, Herb's gun going off behind me, squeeze, watching the impact but not seeing blood—

Vest.

I scream, “Vest!” and roll to the side as the gunman takes aim, firing where I was, orange tile chips peppering the side of my face like BBs.

I come up in a kneeling position behind a rectangular trash can enclosure, look at Herb and see that he's out of the line of fire, gone to ground.

I stick my head around the garbage island, watch as the perp vaults the counter, shooting a teenaged cashier who's hugging the shake machine and sobbing. The back of the teen's head opens up and empties onto the greasy floor.

“Everybody out!” I yell.

There's a stampede to the door, and I glance back and see Herb get tackled by a wall of people, then I take a deep breath and bolt for the counter.

The gunman appears, holding a screaming employee dressed in a Burger Barn uniform, using the kid as a human shield. Her face is streaked with tears, and there's a dark patch in the front of her jeans where she's wet herself. The Beretta is jammed against her forehead.

The perp says, “Drop the gun, Jack.”

His voice is a low baritone, and it's eerily calm. His blue eyes lock on mine, and they hold my gaze. He doesn't seem psychotic at all, which terrifies me.

How does he know my name?

I stand up, adopt a Weaver stance, aiming for the face shot.

The gunman doesn't wait for me. He fires.

There's a sudden explosion of blood and tissue and the girl's eyes roll up and the perp ducks behind some fryers before her body hits the floor.

Too fast. This is all happening too fast.

I chance a look at the door, don't see Herb among the panicking people. I can't wait—there are probably more employees in the back. I dig into my blazer pocket and find some loose bullets, jamming them into my revolver. When I leap over the counter, my gun is at full cock.

No one by the grill. I glance left, see a body slumped next to the drive-thru window. Glance right, see a dead man on his back, most of his face gone. Stare forward, see a long stainless steel prep table. There's a young guy hiding under it. I tug him out and push him toward the counter, mouthing at him to “Run.”

Movement ahead. The freezer door opens, and my finger almost pulls the trigger. It's another employee. Behind him, the perp.

The perp is grinning.

“Let's try this again,” he says. “Drop the gun or I shoot.”

I can't drop my gun. I'm not allowed to. It's one of the first things they teach you at the police academy.

“Let's talk this through,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“No talk.”

He fires, and I watch another kid die in front of me.

I aim high, putting two rounds into the gunman's helmet, where they make dents and little else. He's already running away, pushing through the emergency exit, the alarm sounding off.

I tear after him, slipping on blood, falling to my hands and knees but holding onto my weapon. I crawl forward, my feet scrambling for purchase through the slickness, and then I'm opening the door, scanning the parking lot left and right.

He's standing ten feet away, aiming his Beretta at me.

I throw myself backward and feel the wind of the shots pass my face.

“Jack!” Herb, from the front of the restaurant.

“He went out the back!”

My hands, slippery with blood and sweat, are shaking like dying birds. I force myself to do a slow count to five, force my bunched muscles to relax, then nudge open the back door.

He's waiting for me.

He fires again, the bullet tugging at my shoulder pad, stinging like I've been whacked with a cane. I scoot backward on my ass, turn over, and crawl for the counter, more shots zinging over me before the back door closes under its own weight, having to climb over the girl he just killed, the scent of blood and death running up my nostrils and down the back of my throat.

I lean against the counter, pull back my jacket, feeling the burn, glancing at my wound and judging it superficial.

A soft voice, muffled, to my right.

“Hey!”

I see the green duffle bag that the perp dropped.

“Hello? Are you there, Jacqueline?”

The voice is coming from the bag. I go to it, tug back the zipper.

Gun. Another Beretta. Loose bullets, more than a hundred. And a walkie-talkie.

“Jack,” the walkie barks.

How the hell does he know my name?

“Can you hear me, Jacqueline?”