Whiskey Sour

"Jack? How are you? I was thinking about you this morning, in the shower."

"You should be ashamed, a man your age."

"Chris is on his break. You could come down now. We'll go behind the storage lockers."

I laughed. "You're too much man for me, Bill, but I could use a favor. I need you to look up something from case 93-10-06782. Receipts that were found in the garbage can with a body."

"That the Jane Doe got all cut up?"

"Yeah."

"Hold on."

He put down the phone, and I heard the sliding gate unlock and imagined him walking through the aisles of shelves in the evidence room, looking for the proper case number. I finished my coffee while waiting, then regretted my haste because now I'd have to drink the awful station slop. Eventually I would break down and get a coffeemaker, because the stuff from the vending machine tasted like brewed sewage.

I put off getting more coffee and looked at the latest sheet the Feebies left. Their number one suspect match had a 48.6 percent probability rate that it was our guy. The murder and mutilation of three women with a hunting knife was unsolved, and I was ready to call the Feds and ask for more info on this case when I noticed it took place in 1953. In Nome, Alaska. I filed the paper, throwing my empty coffee cup in after it.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Ooohh, your voice makes my toes curl. I found the receipts for you, lamb chop. What do you need?"

"Look at one. Other than the date, does it have numbers in the upper corners?"

"Yeah. Two. The left-hand corner, 193, the right one 277."

"Try another receipt."

"Left 193, right 310."

"Keep going."

He read all twelve receipts, and the number in the left-hand corner was 193 in eleven out of the twelve. On the odd one, the number was 102.

"Can I do anything else for you, honey? Anything at all?"

"That should do it. Thanks, Bill."

"My pleasure."

I got on the horn with Information and was charged thirty-five cents to get the number for the 7-Eleven on Monroe and Dearborn. I already had the number somewhere, but like all public servants I'd been rigorously trained to waste taxpayers' money at every opportunity.

"Seven-Eleven," answered a voice with an Indian accent.

I found the deposition on my desk of the manager who'd been watching television while the Jane Doe was dumped in front of his store.

"Mr. Abdul Raheem?"

"No. This is Fasil Raheem. Abdul is my brother."

"This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago Violent Crimes. I'm sure your brother told you about the body discovered in your outside trash."

"He has not stopped talking about it. Is it true he chased the murderer away by showing him karate moves he learned from Van Damme movies?"

"I believe he was watching TV the whole time."

"I thought as much. What can I do for you?"

"Tell me what the two numbers are in the top corners of your receipts, please."

"Simple. The top right-hand number is the order number. The top left-hand number is the store number."

"Are you store number 193?"

"No, Lieutenant. We are store number 102. I believe store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue. Let me check the book."

He hummed to himself, tunelessly, and I felt a tingle of excitement in my gut because my hunch had paid out.

"I was correct. Store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue."

"Thank you, Mr. Raheem."

I hung up, satisfied. Benedict strolled in, handing me a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of Dr. Booster's prescription pad, except now it had writing on it.

"That was quick."

"We used fingerprint powder on it, and it clung to the depressions. No prints, but the writing stood out."

The prescription was for sixty mls of sodium secobarbital, written out by Dr. Booster.

"Handwriting matches previous prescriptions he'd written." Herb held up the Booster case file.

"So he was killed for the prescription, like we'd guessed."

"It gets better. We found something else." Benedict handed me another photocopy. "This was written twenty or so pages into it. Maybe it was just a doodle, or maybe Booster had left a note for us while the killer was there."

It was a chicken scratch, only two words, practically illegible. It said "Buddy's Son."

"So the killer is Buddy's son?"

"Could be. Or maybe his buddy's son. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything. I called Melissa Booster and she doesn't know anyone named Buddy."

I puzzled over it.

"How about the patient list? Someone with the first or last name Buddy?"

"I checked. Nothing even close."

"Let's have Booster's entire life checked out, see if he ever knew someone named Buddy."

"Tall task."

"We'll give it to the task force." I grinned, changing the subject. "I know how the killer dumped the body in the can without being seen."

Benedict raised an eyebrow. I've always wanted to be able to do that; raise one eyebrow in silent inquiry. Unfortunately, both of my brows are hooked up to the same muscle, and whenever I try to raise one I do an involuntary Groucho Marx waggle.

"He swiped a garbage can from a 7-Eleven on Lincoln, took it home, and arranged the body in it, then dropped it off at the 7-Eleven on Monroe and took the other can with him. He could have switched cans in twenty seconds, if he had a ramp and a hand truck."

"Maybe a garbageman?"

"Maybe. Check through Booster's patient list again, check out occupations; garbagemen, mailmen, delivery men, anyone who drives a truck. Check with the DMV as well, run down all truck owners on his list."

The phone rang, and I snatched it up and slapped it to my ear.

"Daniels."

"This is Detective Evens, Palatine PD. I hear you're picking through the Booster case."

I ran it down for him, ending with the discovery of the prescription pad.

"I can't believe we missed it."

"You weren't looking for it. Does the name mean anything to you?"

"Buddy? Nope. Can you fax it over, along with the prescription form? My cap's gonna rip me a new one for not finding this."

"How many interviews did you do?"

"Over thirty. Friends, neighbors, relatives. Anyone who knew the guy since high school."

"Any suspects?"

"You've got the report."

"It doesn't list hunches. Any interview strike you as an oddball?"

"Half of his family were oddballs. But not in the murdering sense. Everyone liked the guy. We couldn't find a reason someone offed him."

"I take it you'll be looking closer now."

"Now that we know he died for a prescription? Hell yeah. Now I can start pulling in dealers, junkies, a whole slew of people."

"We're looking for someone who owns or drives a truck. I could float some manpower your way, you need it."

"Nope. This murder really pissed people off here. Palatine's a nice little town. We got more than enough guys who'd like to take another crack at this case."

"Keep in touch, Evens."

"Right back at you."

I put the phone back in the cradle and sneezed. I fished out another of Herb's tissues. "So let's check out the 7-Eleven on Lincoln, see if they saw anything. Did you run into the Feebies at the lab?"

"Yeah. Thanks for sending them. I had to fake a case of diarrhea to get away from them and their nonstop monologues."

"Did it work?"

"No. They followed me into the can."

"Any prints on the candy?"

"None that we could find. But they're going to run some tests."

"How's the mouth?"

"It hurts, but I've got my taste back. You up for a bite?"

"I've got more reports to go through, then I was going to call it a day."

"Since I'm going out, I'll check the 7-Eleven on Lincoln. If memory serves, it's right next to a great Mexican place."

Herb's stomach rumbled, seconding the motion.

"See you tomorrow, Herb."

"Bye, Jack."

Benedict left. I attacked the pile of paperwork in front of me, including typing up the results of our hospital visit and our trip to Melissa Booster's. This was the computer age, but I still used a standard electric typewriter, aware that fellow officers regarded me as a dinosaur in that aspect. Even if I did go high tech, I don't see what good a computer would do me. Ten words a minute is ten words a minute, no matter what I'm typing on.

When I was done I remained sitting there, staring at the page.

There wasn't anything else I could do at work, but I had no compelling reason to go home. I had no family there, no boyfriend waiting for me. It was just a place where I kept my meager possessions, ate, and tried in vain to rest.

"All I've got is you," I told the report.

The report didn't answer.

I sighed, then got up and left, resigning myself to yet another sleepless night.

Chapter 12

HIS CELLMATE HAD SPOKEN OF THIS place, during the long, boring night hours when rambling was the only way to kill time.

"Just go to the bartender, bald guy named Floyd. Tell him you need a TV repaired."

The Gingerbread Man had taken it with the same grain of salt he took all prison bullshitting. Besides, if he ever needed someone taken care of, he was more than happy to take care of them himself. If doing time taught him anything, it was self-reliance.

But this situation is different. He doesn't want to be connected with the act in the slightest way. Doing the job personally, though rewarding, is too risky. Besides, it feels godlike to be pulling the strings while staying safely behind the scenes. It adds more awe to his persona.

The idea came to him after violating the whore. He really hurt her. Brought her so close to death so many times. Payback for the humiliation, for the defiance, for picking on the wrong guy.

After he had finished, when he was lying naked with the body, he thought of his adversary, Jack Daniels.

Had Jack gotten the candy yet? Had she eaten it? Maybe she shared it with her squad, and fifteen or twenty pigs all got deadly little surprises. He had to know.

So he placed another call from the pay phone.

"This is Peters from the Herald. I'm following up on an anonymous tip. Were any police officers injured at work today?"

"We're not disclosing any details at this time."

"So you're confirming the rumor?"

"Sorry, this is part of an ongoing investigation."

"How about off the record?"

"Off the record, we got a detective with eleven stitches in his mouth."

"A detective? My source said it was a lieutenant."

"Your source is wrong."

So Jack hadn't eaten any. All that work for nothing.

The Gingerbread Man seethed. He'd imagined her with needles in her tongue, and this was a giant letdown.

There had to be another way to get her attention. To show he was taking their rivalry seriously. To put her in the hospital without exposing himself to unnecessary risk.

And then he remembered this place.

The tavern is dark and smells like cigarette smoke, even though it's empty this time of day. Behind the bar is a skinny guy named Floyd, the man his cellmate told him about.

The Gingerbread Man hands Floyd a photograph of Jack, the one he'd taken during the crime scene visit on Monroe. He also gives him Jack's address, license plate number, the calling card, and five hundred bucks.

The normal price to beat someone senseless was four hundred, but Jack is a cop, so it's higher.

Leaving the calling card is risky, but there's been no mention of it in the papers yet. He wants Jack to know who did this to her. Even more, when this is all over, he wants the cops and the world to know that they could have stopped him, if they'd only been smarter.

But they'll only see the connection after he's long gone.

Floyd takes everything, making an obvious effort not to look directly at his face. Smart business.

"Whaddaya want done to her?" he says, eyes on a TV at the end of the bar.

"Break her knees." The Gingerbread Man grins. The idea that Jack will be forever crippled is appealing. When he calls on her, she won't be able to run.

Floyd says he'll get someone on it right away, maybe even tonight.

In the meantime, he has to dump the whore. It's been a delightfully busy day, and he's tired, but if he keeps her around too long she'll begin to stink. More than one killer has been caught because neighbors complained of the smell coming from the death house.

So he has to do the garbage can trick again. Labor intensive, but effective. While it would be much easier just to dump her in the sewer, he wants the body to be discovered right away. The networks will eat it up.

Something for Jack to watch on TV while she's recuperating in the hospital.

Chapter 13

MY ANSWERING MACHINE WAS BLINKING WHEN I got back to my apartment. It was Don. He didn't want me back, but he did want the rest of his furniture, and for me to arrange having it put into storage. I was to call with the storage location.

Right. And then I might also slip him a few bucks.

I decided to be fair and meet him halfway. I called him back and got a deep female voice on the answering machine that identified itself as Roxy. I informed her and Don that I would move all of his things...out into the hall.

He had a lot of crap, and it took almost two hours. When I was finished the apartment looked barren. Except for my grandma's rocking chair, a bean-bag, the bed, and my cheap dinette set, every other stick of furniture was his. I was shocked to find out I only had one lamp. It was a crappy lamp too, with a switch that didn't work unless you wiggled it. I must have had more lamps before he moved in, so what the hell happened to them?

The only conclusion I could draw was that once he moved his things in, he began moving my things out. I suppose I never noticed because I never paid much attention. Or maybe it was because I was rarely home.

It's a wonder he left me.

I checked the fridge for food products and managed to put together a salami and mustard on rye. The mustard was Don's, some imported brand that cost more per ounce than silver. It was too tangy. When I was done with the sandwich I tossed the mustard into the hall with the rest of his things.

Flipping through my mental appointment book, I checked out my itinerary for tonight. It would be a titillating evening of television, then tossing and turning in bed trying to fall asleep.

Be still my beating heart.

I considered making a drink and drawing a bath, but then I was seized by a fit of spontaneity and decided to actually go out and do something. Two nights in a row. I'm such a party animal.

Changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, I once again took the route to Joe's Pool Hall. The night was crisp, and it being Friday, the streets were packed with kids. I passed a group of guys who were tossing out catcalls to every girl that passed.

They didn't catcall me at all, the little snots.

Joe's was busier than usual, but Phineas Troutt had secured a corner table, methodically pocketing ball after ball. He wore khakis and an open flannel shirt over his T-shirt. I bought two beers and carried them over.

"Are you looking for a game, or do you want to play with yourself all night?" I asked.

He banked an eight into the side pocket.

"You willing to put money on it?"

"I got two bucks says I kick your butt."

"That's a boastful two bucks."

I let him see the color of my money, tossing two singles on the rail as if they were hundreds. Phin sunk his final ball and squinted at me.

"Loser racks. And if memory serves, you lost our last game. The last several, in fact."

I handed him a beer.

"All part of the hustle. I'll own your car by midnight."

He took a pull on the bottle.

"Thanks. I'm really glad you stopped by."

"Got a thing for older cops?"

"Actually, I have to piss like a racehorse. Didn't want to leave the table because I'd lose it."

He excused himself and trotted off to the bathroom.

While he was occupied, I racked the balls and executed a sledgehammer break, pocketing a stripe and a solid. I chose to keep solids, putting in three more before Phin returned.

I pointed to the far left pocket and knocked another solid down.

"I see you've taken advantage of my absence by cheating your ass off."

I politely told him to engage in a carnal impossibility, and pocketed another solid.

Running a table isn't easy. Not only do you have to sink the balls, but you have to position the cue ball to have a shot at the next ball. I had a good eye for the game, and knew how to plan ahead, but sometimes my talent wasn't up to my knowledge.

I chalked my cue and walked over to my next shot, a tricky bank into the far corner. Just as I brought the stick back, I was shoved roughly from behind.

"What the hell?" I turned around, irritated.

Staring down at me was a very big and very ugly man. He had scar tissue for a face, and a flat, crooked nose that was no stranger to being broken. I could smell the mean on him like I could smell the booze. As he narrowed his little eyes at me, I was reminded of Bluto from Popeye fame. Except that Bluto was smaller. And a cartoon.

"You spilled my beer, you little bitch."

He said it loud enough for the whole bar to hear, spittle flecking off his fat lips.

Phin, who is no shorty himself, grabbed the guy's shoulder and looked up at him.

"Cool it, buddy. She's a cop."

The big man shrugged Phin off, focusing on me again.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Bluto snarled. Then he spit on my shoes.

We all live by rules. Cops have more rules than most, especially when dealing with irrational people. One of those rules was never to provoke them, especially when they're bigger than a small town.

But rules, as they say, are meant to be broken.

"You need a breath mint," I said evenly. "I'd suggest you go buy yourself a pack. Right now."

Bluto sneered. I was aware that people around us had stopped playing to watch. Like a fool, I hadn't worn my gun, even though regulations stated I should wear it off-duty. But I wasn't even sure that a gun would make a difference with this guy. He had to go six seven, and anything short of a bazooka probably wouldn't slow him down.

"You want me to leave, pig?" He smiled.

Then he sucker punched me in the gut.

I barely had time to clench my abs and twist my torso to deflect some of the blow. It still knocked me off my feet, and I wound up on all fours, trying to suck in a breath.

Phin was already in motion before I landed. Doing his Sammy Sosa impression, he smashed Bluto across the back of the head with the heavy end of his cue, getting for his efforts a cue in two pieces.

The big man turned on Phin, throwing a hard roundhouse that hung in the air forever. Phin ducked it and gave him a smack to the jaw that didn't even make the giant blink.

I shook away a few stars and got to my feet, knees wobbling under me. A woman didn't get to be a Violent Crimes lieutenant in America's third largest city without being able to take a punch.

Or without knowing how to punch back.

I threw a hard right into the man's kidney, trying to drive my fist through him, putting every one of my hundred and thirty-five pounds behind it.

Bluto grunted, doubling over. Phin took the opportunity to kick him in the face. Something small bounced off me that I later found out was a tooth.

The giant hit the ground, and that would have been the end of it if the bastard hadn't had friends.

They were the type of guys an asshole like this was bound to hang out with. One had black hair, slicked back, and a grubby little goatee. I counted five earrings, all of them skulls, and a matching skull pinkie ring.

The other was shorter and stocky, his fair hair in a crew cut. He wore a tank top that revealed heavily muscled arms, slathered with tattoos of guns.

I had never noticed that my favorite bar boasted a rather shitty clientele.

Tattoo Boy moved in toward Phin quick and loose, like a trained fighter. He threw a right that was so quick, I thought for sure it would take Phin out.

But Phin was fast too, and he rolled into the punch, taking it on his shoulder. I saw Phin jam an elbow into the guy's chin and then I had to deal with my own problem.

He came at me low, goatee curved in a grin. I raised my fists and clenched my teeth.

"I'm a cop, you jackass."

"I eat cops." He ran his tongue over brownish teeth and charged at me.

I brought up my knee, smacking him in the center of his ugly face, and I couldn't resist grunting, "Eat this."

I could feel his nose go mushy, but he still had enough momentum behind him to lift me up and onto the pool table. He landed on top, bleeding all over my shirt and face, throwing wild windmill punches at my sides.

As he hammered away, I tried to roll over. No good -- I was pinned. I shoved, straining with all I had, but he was too heavy.

Then his hands found my throat.

I pulled at his fingers, but couldn't pry them off. To my left, on the table, several balls were jostled by our struggle. I wrapped a hand around the eight ball and smashed it into the side of his skull.

His eyes rolled up and he crumpled onto the edge of the pool table. Odd ball, corner pocket.

I sought out Phin, who was having difficulties of his own. Bluto had gotten back up, and he gripped Phin around the neck while Tattoo Boy circled, looking to land a jab through Phin's swinging fists.

"Police! Don't move!" I yelled.

They kept moving. Some guys had no respect for authority.

I weighed the eight ball in my hand, planning on pitching a slider at Bluto's back. My baseball days were long behind me, but I figured he was so big a target I couldn't miss.

I missed.

Luckily, Phin didn't need to be rescued. He pivoted on his hip and judo-threw the big man onto his back.

Tattoo Boy moved in, but Phin swiveled around and caught him on the chin with the heel of his foot.

Tattoo Boy ate the floor. But Bluto, who seemed extremely angry at having been thrown, got to his feet and picked Phin up. Not in a bear hug, but as if Phin were a sack of potatoes. He hoisted my friend up over his head, ready for a slam dunk.

I launched myself at the giant, tackling his midsection, my head and hands sinking into doughy flab. He umphed, and dropped Phin on top of me, then began a kicking frenzy on our prostrate forms.

I caught one particularly vicious boot to the head that made my vision swim. While I scrambled to get away from the flying feet, I noticed Tattoo Boy had gotten back up, and he was approaching with a look on his face that was anything but pleasant.

This is what I get for trying to have a social life.

Phin untangled himself from me and rolled gracefully to his feet, diving at Bluto, hooking a forearm into the giant's throat.

Tattoo Boy flexed his pecs, making the machine guns dance. I got up slowly and blinked away the tiny motes dancing before my eyes.

"You're under arrest," I tried.

He laughed at me, flexing again. Must have spent a lot of the time in the gym to have definition like that.

I put up my fists and feinted with a left, bringing the right cross into his jaw. It didn't seem to bother him much. I followed up with a right-left combination, working the body. He shot out with a jab of his own, catching me above the eye.

"Jack!"

I turned to see Phin soaring at me, his face total panic. He flew past and smacked hard into Tattoo Boy. They rolled to the floor.

"Now it's your turn," Bluto spat. He grinned, exposing several gaps where teeth used to live, and picked up a bar stool like it was made of balsa.

I backpedaled until I found a stool of my own. Bluto charged, raising his stool above his head and bringing it down on me like a war hammer. I managed to block it, but the force knocked me onto my ass. Pain shot up from my coccyx to the base of my skull, traveling along my spine like a lightning bolt. My vision blurred. I blinked away tears. Never, in my whole life, had my butt hurt so much.

A huge hand reached down and grabbed my sweatshirt, hauling me up to my feet. I focused on the other hand, cocked back in a fist the size of my entire face.

Not able to twist away, I turned my head down. Knuckles met the top of my skull. Everything went black for a moment. Then I was on the floor.

I heard sirens in the distance, getting closer. Bluto was howling, holding his bleeding right hand by the wrist.

I blinked. Phin walked up to the giant, taking a pool cue from a nearby table. He bounced the heavy end of the cue off of Bluto's temple. Bluto's eyes fluttered briefly and then he crumpled to the ground.

Phin tossed the cue to the floor and picked up his beer from the table rail. In all the excitement, it hadn't fallen off. I looked to the right and saw Tattoo Boy sprawled out like a throw rug, his leg at a funny angle.

And the good guys win it in overtime.

"You okay?" Phin asked.

"Assholes ruined the best pool game of my life."

He took a sip of beer and then handed me the bottle. I drained the rest.

People began to gather, coming out of their hiding places now that the trouble was over. I took a few tentative steps forward, testing my body. I hurt in a dozen places, especially my butt and my head, but nothing seemed broken.

Cop mode switched on, and I went to Tattoo Boy and patted him down for weapons. He had a switchblade, which I took. I did the same with Goatee, and got a knife and a set of brass knuckles for my efforts.

Finally, I bent over the sleeping giant and my heart skipped a beat.

In his jacket pocket, broken in three large pieces, was a gingerbread man cookie.

Chapter 14

THE QUESTIONING BEGAN AT THE HOSPITAL. After a doctor looked me over and declared I'd live, I joined my fellow officers in the interrogation process. Captain Bains had shown up, as had Benedict, the Feebies, several people from the mayor's office, and the assistant district attorney.

We went by the book and wore our kid gloves to avoid messing up a possible conviction. A judge was called and warrants were issued to search the suspects' homes. Lawyers were present during questioning, and in a rare turn of events, they felt full confessions were in the best interests of their clients.

The guy with the earrings had sustained a concussion from the eight-ball sandwich I'd fed him, and he'd be out for a while. But Bluto and Tattoo Boy were conscious and able to talk. And talk they did.

But when all was said and done, with all of our caution and persistence, we were left with little more than when we'd begun.

Bluto and his buddies had been hired to break my legs. They'd been given a photo of me, my address, and cash to share among them. I'd been tailed to Joe's from my apartment, which they'd been watching, and after finishing their intended beating they were supposed to leave the gingerbread man cookie with me.

They didn't know the man who hired them. They didn't know about the Jane Doe murder. Their residences were searched and came up clean. Their alibis for the time of Jane Doe's murder were tight. Their only crime, other than assault and battery on a police officer, was extreme stupidity at having stumbled into so much trouble for so little cash. It wouldn't even begin to cover their doctor bills, let alone legal representation.

They'd been brokered by a man named Floyd Schmidt, who operated a goon-for-hire service out of a bar on Maxwell Street. Floyd was initially uncooperative when we brought him in, but he quickly agreed to talk about anything and everything to avoid being implicated in the Jane Doe murder.

A man had come to see him at the bar, offering five hundred dollars to cripple me. Floyd could give no description other than the fact that he was white, average height, between twenty and forty years old.

"I swear, I never looked at the guy. This business, you look at people, they get uncomfortable, don't want to use your services."

No one was too surprised.

The gingerbread man cookie was the same type as the one found with Jane Doe's body. The picture of me had been processed by someone in a private darkroom rather than a commercial house. We managed to recover two of the original hundred-dollar bills used to pay for Floyd's service. We used an ALS to try and photograph fingerprints, but only lifted a set from Bluto.

In other words, we had zip.

I was exhausted, aching, and generally cranky. Herb suggested I go home. Seeing no reason to argue, I did.

And of course, I couldn't sleep.

Some Tylenol helped with my various aches, many of which had stiffened up since the fight. But even with my energy meter at 0.0, I couldn't completely relax.

He was out there. He knew where I lived. He knew I was after him.

He even took a picture of me.

While it was a close-up, I could tell it was taken at night, while raining, and I'd been wearing my trench coat. It was yet to be determined the type of camera and lens he'd used, but I knew when he'd taken it. At the Jane Doe crime scene.

The Gingerbread Man had been there. He'd picked me out as his adversary. And now he was playing some kind of warped game.

The Feebies had touched on it during a break in the interrogation process.

"There's a high certainty that this man was also the one who gave you the candy," Dailey had said.

"Vicky should have a printout this afternoon on similar product-tampering cases."

"This man has singled you out as his enemy. Be prepared for some personal contact anytime soon. A letter, or a phone call. Maybe he'll even meet you face-to-face, without you knowing it's him."

"You should be under surveillance, Lieutenant."

I politely declined, saying it hadn't escalated to that level yet.

But now, alone in bed, I couldn't help but feel a bit paranoid. In all the years I'd been hunting down killers, I'd never had one decide to hunt me.

The thought left me anything but drowsy.

I replayed the videotape of the Jane Doe crime scene in my head, an easy feat to do because I'd seen it dozens of times. I hadn't noticed any of the onlookers carrying a camera, but another viewing was certainly warranted.

I switched over from my back to my side, which was a bad thing to do because I immediately took note that Don wasn't next to me. When I'd arrived at the apartment a little earlier his furniture and things had been removed from the hallway. It had been Don, rather than a thief, because he'd left me a message written on my door in black marker.

"Your an asshole, Jack," had been the message.

Spelling was never one of Don's strong points.

But I still missed him. Or maybe not him exactly. I missed having a warm body lying next to me. I suppose we had more of an arrangement than a relationship. I got to hold him at night, and he got a free apartment.

There have been marriages built on less.

I flipped onto my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to let sleep overtake me. Gradually, slowly, eventually, drowsiness set in, pulling me into sleepyland.

Then the phone rang.

I bolted out of bed like a startled fawn and had the phone to my face before I was fully awake.

"Daniels."

"Hope I didn't wake you, Jack. We've got another one."

I closed my eyes and gave my head a shake. The clock told me it was a little past noon.

"Where?"

"A 7-Eleven on Addison," Benedict said. "About a block away from you."

I blinked and nodded, weighing the news.

"Be there in five."

"There's something else. Maybe you should prepare yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"He left another note. It's addressed to you."

"What does it say?"

Herb cleared his throat and read in a monotone.

""Number Two. Dear Jack, I saw you at Joe's. Not bad for a bitch. I didn't get my money's worth, but it was fun anyway. Too bad that bald guy helped you out. I think you would look beautiful in a wheelchair. But there's still time for that.""

I said, "Christ."

"There's more. "I will keep killing these sluts. It's my mission. I've left you another present, but it's deeply hidden. Run, run, as fast as you can, Jack. You can't catch me...but I'll catch you. The Gingerbread Man.""

"The crowd, Herb. Make sure we get close-ups of everyone. I bet the little weasel is there right now, watching. See you in a bit."

It only took a few minutes to throw on a suit and get over there. I didn't even need to drive. The crime scene was practically in my backyard.

Four squad cars had preceded me, parked in front of the entrance to the store, cutting off the lot. Several uniforms were securing the scene, taping it off. Another was keeping the crowd and the growing number of reporters at bay. I hung my badge around my neck and entered the circus.

Herb, who always managed to beat me to crime scenes even if they were only a block away from me, was standing next to the garbage can at the storefront. The lid was off, and something bloody was sticking out into the air. In Herb's hand was the note, bagged in a large Ziploc.

I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped my runny nose, trying to overtly scan the crowd. If I was obvious about it, I might scare our man away. And I was sure he was nearby, watching.

No one jumped out at me.

"You look like a train wreck," Herb offered.

"Thanks for caring."

I turned my attention to the garbage can. It was another woman, her ass rising up out of the refuse like a bloody mountain. Without trying to absorb too much detail, I could see that her buttocks, vagina, and rectum had been mutilated almost beyond recognition.

My stomach began to twist and I looked away, grateful that my nasal congestion masked the death smell.

This was someone's daughter. She'd suffered, died, and was now rotting away. All for the amusement of some sick son of a bitch.

"Who found her?" I asked Benedict.

"Owner. Guy named Fitzpatrick. He's the one who called it in. Patrolman recognized the MO, called up our district."

Which was an indication of how big this case was. Districts in Chicago were incredibly jurisdictional, and only an order from the police superintendent could force them to relinquish cases to one another. The order had been given after last night's fiasco.

"Witnesses?" I asked.

"Not yet."

"Owner inside?"

A nod.

I left the body and pushed open the glass door, Herb in tow. Fitzpatrick was sitting in a chair behind the counter, a sad expression painted on his face. He was portly, balding, and had several food and beverage stains on his work shirt. Two uniforms flanked him, one of them taking notes.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick," I announced, "I'm Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict."

"Help yourself to some coffee, Lieutenant. Everyone else has. They say I'll be closed all day."

Much as I longed to pity the man and his temporary loss of income, I held firm and didn't break into tears.

"We should have things taken care of here in an hour or so," I told him. "Besides, with the news coverage, the whole neighborhood will be by later to see your shop. I'm sure more than one of them will buy something."

He brightened greatly at the entrepreneurial potentialities. Maybe he was thinking of having T-shirts made up.

"When did you notice the body, Mr. Fitzpatrick?"

"I noticed the lid was off. Sometimes kids, they steal them. God knows what they do with garbage can lids."

"What time was this?"

"At five to twelve, maybe a little after. There was no one in the store, so I went outside to look for the lid and I saw..." He made a gesture with his hands at the garbage can through the storefront window. "Then I came in and called 911."

The patrolman on his left, with a name tag proclaiming he was Officer Meadows, glanced at his notebook.

"Call came at eleven fifty-seven. Jefferson and I arrived on the scene at twelve oh three."

"Did you notice anything unusual beforehand?" I asked Fitzpatrick.

"No, nothing really."

"How about earlier today? Did any garbage trucks come into your lot? Vans? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing, except some guy who almost died in my store about an hour ago."

Benedict did his eyebrow thing, prompting an explanation.

"Some kid. Teenager. Had some kind of fit or seizure or something. Threw himself down on the floor by the pop machine, started shaking and foaming at the mouth. I thought he was gonna die right there."

"Did you call for an ambulance?"

"I was gonna. But the kid told me not to. Had these attacks all the time. After a minute or two he just got up and left, no problem."

I nodded at Herb, who went off to phone Mr. Raheem at the first 7-Eleven to check for a similar happenstance. Some guy foaming at the mouth would easily draw attention away from the parking lot.

"Can I have the surveillance tapes?" I pressed. "The ones for the last two hours?"

"Sure. But that kid didn't dump no body. I watched him leave."

"How much later did you notice the lid off the garbage can?"

"Few minutes, I guess."

I turned to Meadows. "Print him after he gives the deposition."

"I didn't do nothing!" Fitzpatrick thrust his jaw at me.

"We're doing that to rule out your prints if we find any on the garbage can."

He nodded, as if he knew that all along. I went back out into the fray, my headache pulsing with every heartbeat, my eyes feeling as if they'd been rubbed in sand. Maxwell Hughes was peering at the body in the can with professional detachment that can only come from constantly being around corpses. On his nod, two gloved assistants tipped the garbage can over.

The girl plopped onto the sidewalk, cocooned in a shell of bloody garbage. Two uniforms moved in, bagging and tagging, while Hughes knelt down and searched for a pulse that he knew wasn't there.

I walked over, staring down at the body, trying to imagine it walking and talking and being a person. I couldn't do it. Death robs people of their personalities. It turns them into, for lack of a more sympathetic word, an object rather than a human being.

This girl had hobbies and dreams and hopes and friends. But none of that meant a thing anymore. All that was left was the further indignity of an autopsy, in the hopes that her corpse would somehow lead to her killer.

From dreamer to evidence. And it was no easy trip.

I'd seen a thing or two. Shotgun deaths. Gangland murders. A guy who killed his kid with a hot iron. But as the garbage was peeled away, I had to turn away for fear of losing my stomach.

It was obscene, the traumas inflicted on this poor girl.

"We're missing some parts," Hughes said to his men. "I'm looking for two ears, four fingers, and all ten toes. Check inside cans and wrappers."

"Tell me this was done after death," I said to Max.

"I don't think I can appease you there, Jack." He spoke sadly. "See these cuts on her palms? From her own fingernails digging in while she clenched her fists. Consistent with most torture deaths. I don't see any ligature mark around her neck like the first one either. My guess would be she died of shock as a result of massive blood loss."

I blinked away the image of organs oozing up through the slits in her belly.

"Lieutenant," someone said.

Happy to focus on something else, I gave attention to one of the patrolmen sifting through the trash. He was holding, in his gloved hand, a gingerbread man cookie.

I wiped my nose and rubbed my temples and stared a challenge into the crowd of onlookers, daring one of them to meet my gaze. None did.

"I talked to Mr. Raheem." Herb was putting away his cell phone. "He also had a kid in the store who had some kind of attack, about two hours before Donovan found the body."

I gave myself a mental kick in the ass for missing that.

"The surveillance tape?"

"We've got it in Evidence. We checked it up until an hour before the body was found. Maybe we should check the whole thing."

"We know this guy hires outside help. He proved that with me last night. He might have hired the same kid to do both distractions..."

"Then maybe he has a partner."

"And maybe we have a lead."

It was still iffy at best. The kid might not have a record, and we might never find him. Even if we did, there was a chance that he was hired the same way Floyd was, with little or no information about our perp.

But at least now we had something to do other than wait for new victims.

Herb eyed me sympathetically. "You want to meet me later, get some rest first?"

"Naw. Wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. I could use something to eat, though. Hungry?"

"When am I not hungry?"

I looked at his stitches. "Doesn't it hurt to eat?"

"Hurts like hell. But a man doesn't give up breathing just because he has a cold. I know a place that serves great falafel."

"Falafel?"

"No, I don't feel awful." Herb grinned. "I feel pretty good."

I gave him deadpan. Herb pouted.

"Come on, Jack. I've been waiting two weeks to use that joke."

"Should have kept waiting."

We took Herb's car, buying some White Castle cheeseburgers at a drive-thru and eating them back at my office. I called up Evidence, and Bill was only too happy to bring up the surveillance tape from the first 7-Eleven.

"I hear you're a free woman again, sugar buns." Bill grinned at me, showing off his unnaturally white dentures.

"I'm not free, but my rates are reasonable."

"How much for, say -- three and a half minutes?"

"I don't talk money. You'll have to settle it with my business manager."

"You can have her for two bucks," Herb said. "That includes my cut."

Bill grinned wickedly, and I watched in amazement as the sixty-eight-year-old rolled his hips. They made a cracking sound.

"Unfortunately," I cut in before he pounced, "the taxpayers require my time first."

"You're a tease, Jack, getting an old man all hot and bothered and then turning him away."

He pinched my cheek and walked out.

I turned to Herb. "Thanks for informing Bill of my recent availability."

"Payback for siccing the Feds on me. You want the last burger?"

I shook my head and popped the tape in the VCR. As expected, the quality was poor. It was black and white, grainy from having been reused several hundred times, and speeded up so one six-hour tape could accommodate an entire day.

There was a time code in the lower left-hand corner, in military time, and I rewound to 1800 hours and let it play.

Lo and behold, at 18:42 a young man entered the store, made a beeline for the magazine rack, and then fell over and started shaking like a leaf. The two other patrons who were in the store, along with the clerk, went over to take a closer look.

The seizure lasted almost two minutes, or about twenty seconds on the speeded-up copy we had, and then the kid got up and left the store, keeping his head down, avoiding the overhead camera with obvious experience.

"If that was a real seizure, I'm trying out for the ballet," Benedict said.

I pushed the image of Herb in tights out of my mind and rewound the tape, letting it run in slow motion so it was closer to real time. As evidence, the tape was practically inadmissible. The picture quality was that bad. I took it out and plunked in the tape from the 7-Eleven earlier today, hoping for a better quality.

Sometimes wishes come true.

This time the tape was in color, crystal clear. Rather than the annoying pan back and forth of the previous tape, this tape used four different cameras to record four different parts of the store, which broke the screen up into quarters.

"This is more like it," Herb said.

I rewound to the part where the kid walked in, and he gave us a perfect full frontal face shot. Then he went from one screen to the next, and we watched as he popped something into his mouth and went into the familiar convulsions.

"Looks like he's spitting something up."

"Alka-Seltzer. It's an old trick, makes you look like you're foaming at the mouth."

"Let's get some uniforms up here to look at this."

Benedict got on the horn and rounded up half a dozen or so officers on duty. They piled into my office and watched the tape. No one recognized the kid.

"This has got to be an MO he's used before," I told them. "Probably shoplifting, maybe causing a distraction while his partner made off with some goods. Ask around, see if anyone's heard of a petty thief who fakes seizures."

After they'd left, the desk sergeant called and informed me that we now had a composite sketch of our suspect, drawn from descriptions given by Steve the pharmacist and Floyd the leg-breaker broker. Herb went down to get it, because the vending machines were en route. I put in the video of the first crime scene and scanned it for gawkers with cameras. Nothing.

Benedict came back a few minutes later, sans foodstuffs but with telltale chocolate smears in his mustache. He handed me the sketch, which was vague enough to look a little like every average middle-aged white man in the world. The eyes were closer together than most, and the head was more triangular, giving the perp a ratlike appearance. But under low lighting conditions, after a couple of drinks, the picture might have been of Don, or Phin, or half my squad. We could rule out Herb because the face was lean.

The phone rang, and Benedict graciously picked it up for me.

"It's Bains." He hung up the receiver only seconds after putting it to his ear. "He requests the company of your presence in his office as soon as you have a moment."

I got up and stretched, wincing as all of my aches and pains came to life. Perhaps the captain wanted to discuss the fight last night, or our progress on the case, or my brush-off of the Feds, or my unauthorized overtime, or to tell me he liked my outfit.

I was right on four of the five.

"Jack, have a seat."

I sat across his desk and faced the man. Captain Steven Bains was short, stout, about ten years my senior, and had a hair weave that looked unrealistic because it had no gray in it, whereas his mustache did. He finished peering at the paper in front of him and removed his reading glasses to look at me.

"You weren't carrying last night."

"I know. Maybe it was a good thing, because if I had my piece I might have killed one or more of them."

"Wear it from now on. It looks like this guy is gunning for you."

I nodded.

"Tell me about the second victim."

I ran it down for him, and he asked questions when appropriate.

"The pressure is mounting," he said when I finished. "The police superintendent and the mayor's office want to turn the case over to the Feds."

I made a face. "We're not lacking for manpower or resources. The only thing we're lacking is leads, because this guy doesn't give us any to follow."

"That's why I refused. But after the media kicks into gear today, it won't be long before my authority is usurped. If you want to keep this one, Jack, you'll have to dig up something more to go on."

"We're doing a restruct of the second vic. Maybe we'll get an ID."

"Hedge that bet."

I knew what he meant. In 99.9 percent of murder cases, the killer knows the victim, and links can be found. But the Gingerbread Man could be picking up random women. If that were the case, even positive IDs might not help us catch him.

"Any idea what he meant in the note, about leaving you another hidden present?"

"No. Another victim, maybe? But he doesn't hide them, he likes to put them in public places. Maybe..."

I rolled it around in my noggin. I left you another present, but it's deeply hidden. He's implying that the present was there, with the body, hidden deep. Deep in the body?

"What if he hid something inside the bodies?"

"Wouldn't the autopsy have picked it up?"

"Maybe not something deeply hidden."

Bains picked up the phone and got the assistant Medical Examiner, Phil Blasky. He asked him to recheck the first Jane Doe, looking for anything that might have been placed inside the body.

"He's on it." Bains hung up and scratched his mustache. "Special Agents Coursey and Dailey spoke with me yesterday."

I waited.

"They told me they don't believe you're giving them your full cooperation."

I chose my words carefully. "The FBI would profile Hitler as Jewish."

Bains smiled briefly, an unusual move for him.

"No one likes an asshole, Jack, until you have to move your bowels."

"I'll do my best."

"And the letters, I want them analyzed."

"They're at the lab now."

"I meant by a handwriting expert."

"We're already sure that the letters match."

"That's only part of it. The mayor's office is sending an expert to look over the letters to get a profile of our suspect."

I made a face. "Another profile? Are we going to consult a psychic next?"

"I'm sure you'll give him your full cooperation, Lieutenant." Bains said it with the full weight of his authority. Then he dismissed me, and I stood up to leave.

"Jack?"

"Cap?"

"Watch out for the overtime too. You're no help to the case when you're too exhausted to see straight."

I left, irritated. Being on the force for over twenty years, I'd had my share of big cases, and the corresponding media and political pressure. But being forced to work with the FBI, and now some snake oil handwriting expert, made my work all the more difficult.

"Look at it this way," Benedict said when I filled him in. "You get paid whether you catch the guy or not."

"Your attitude leaves something to be desired, Detective."

"It's just a job, Jack. Don't take it personally. It's what you do to make money, so you can live your life. I want to catch this guy as much as you do. You saw what he did to those women. Hell, look what he did to my mouth. But when I walk out that door, I leave work behind."

"This particular work seems to be following me wherever I go."

Herb frowned. "Get some rest. Take a day off. Call up that dating service and find a nice guy and get laid. Do something, for God's sake, other than police work. Fifty years from now, when you're dead and buried, you want the epitaph on your tombstone to read "She was a good cop"?"

I thought about it.

"Fine," I decided. "I'll take the afternoon off. Can you manage the store while I'm gone?"

"Consider it done."

"I'll see you later."

"Live your life, Jack. You've only got one."

I nodded and left.

When I got home, I spent the next four hours thinking about the case.

Chapter 15

IT'S ALL IN THE PLANNING.

If you plan out every detail, you can get away with anything. The trick is to delay the gratification until the planning is complete. That's why he's been caught in the past -- because the thrill of the crime overrode common sense. But that won't happen again. He now thinks of planning as an appetizer. Foreplay. It has become fun in its own right.

He's planned this spree so well that he'll be able to kill all four girls within a week, while still allowing himself time to enjoy each one. It's a tight schedule, made even tighter by the sudden interest he's taken in Jack Daniels, but the months of plotting and watching and waiting are paying off. By next week he'll be history, a Chicago legend, leaving behind a legacy of terror and unanswered questions.

He had to dispose of T. Metcalf that morning, wanting to keep her a bit longer but unable to deal with the smell. It's risky, dumping the body that way twice in a row, but it adds to his supernatural mystique. He's looking forward to the headlines.

Charles sits on his basement floor amid the barrels of gasoline, and stares at the gory red spot where he violated the corpse only hours ago. Tomorrow he'll have another one to take her place. Until then, he has more planning to do.

Jack is the cause of it.

He's expected all along to attack the cop in charge of his case. But he's dwelling on Jack more than he expected to.

Maybe the media is the cause of it, and all the attention he's getting makes him want to show off. Television mocked him, now it fears him. Justice.

Or maybe, after weeks of scheming and plotting, the idea that Jack wants to stop him before he's finished makes her just as bad as those whores who forced him to undertake this mission in the first place.

What is Jack doing now? How is the case progressing? Is she living in fear, worried she'll be attacked again? Does she feel helpless and powerless? Is she angry because she can't do anything to stop him?

Maybe he'll give her a call and find out. It's time to kick it up a notch, give her some personal treatment. She wants to go up against him? Fine. She's going to regret that decision, for the rest of her life.

Which won't be very long.

But why call, when he can drop by? After all, he knows where she lives.

The Gingerbread Man closes his eyes and begins to plan.

Chapter 16

I WOUND UP TAKING A NAP, which was a mixed blessing. It refreshed me somewhat, and gave me some much-needed rest, but when my eyes opened, it was only five o'clock in the evening and I knew I'd never get to sleep come bedtime.

So I smoothed the wrinkles from my suit, took some pain medication and some cold medication, and went back to the only office in the city that never closed.

Herb was gone when I arrived, home with his wife and his life, work no longer on his mind. The ME's report was waiting for me on my desk, another rush job courtesy of the mayor's office, and I took a sip from my vending machine coffee and sat down to peruse the atrocities inflicted on another poor girl.

The first bit of news that leaped out at me was the time of death. The ME placed it at about seven P.M. the previous night. The killer had kept the body around for a lot longer than he'd kept the first one.

He'd hurt this one a lot more as well. This girl had thirty-seven wounds of various lengths and depths, but the ME indicated that several of the wounds had been reopened. Microscopic steel fragments matched those from the previous vic, indicating the same knife had been used. Histamine levels, coupled with a partially bitten-off tongue and the fingernail marks on the palms that Hughes pointed out, indicated they were premortem. She'd been tortured, the ME estimated for as long as four hours.

Death was caused by massive blood loss. Hopefully shock had spared her some pain. There were fibers found in wounds on her wrists and ankles, twine once again.

She was missing all of her toes, her labia minora and majora, four fingers, and both ears. None of them were recovered. No semen was found, but the obvious sexual nature of the crime inferred that rape might have occurred, and the perp either pulled out or used a condom.

Her urine contained traces of sodium secobarbital, the needle puncture mark on her upper left arm.

No identification was found, and the girl was officially dubbed Jane Doe #2. An expert mortician worked on her face and hair for almost two hours to make it appear as lifelike as possible. Then a digital photograph was taken, and the eyes were electronically drawn in on a computer.

This restruct picture was given to the media in time for the six o'clock news, along with a similar photo of the first Jane Doe. If anyone knew either girl, or had any information related to the case, they were asked to call the task force number. Herb had set up a unit of six desk officers to field calls, all of whom had been sufficiently briefed on the case to be able to weed out the crackpots and thrill-seekers.

The second note had been written in the same ink, on the same paper. No prints, hairs, or fibers were found on the note.

The two 7-Elevens were eight blocks apart. I thought about putting plainclothes cops on stakeouts of every convenience store in Chicago, but we would have needed five hundred people to cover the hundred-plus stores around the clock. Instead I put teams on the fifteen stores within a twenty-block radius of the first crime scene, and then drafted a flier to hand out. It told convenience store employees to keep their eyes out for anyone trying to steal garbage cans, drop off garbage cans, or fake a seizure in their shops.

After drawing up the letter, I called down to the desk sergeant and had her round up all the uniforms in the building. The night shift was treated to the same video of the Alka-Seltzer kid as the day shift, with similar results. No one recognized the suspect or the MO.

I hadn't even hit a third of the cops in the district yet, but my optimism was beginning to sag. Mug shots were now filed on computer rather than in books, and I did a quick search of young white male shoplifters and came up with more than eight thousand hits. Even with help it would take a zillion years.

I took a deep breath and let it out slow. If there was any connective tissue between what we had so far and our perp, I was too dense to see it. I was no closer to catching this guy than the day I'd taken the case.

I put in the videotape of the second crime scene and viewed it, seeing for the first time Benedict remove the note from the body, which had been stapled to Jane Doe #2's buttocks. After that it only got grimmer, made even worse because the picture quality was so good.

The first crime scene was videotaped at night while raining, by someone who had problems differentiating between focus and zoom. This video was clean, clear, and in your face. When the tape ended I had no desire to watch it again right away.

But I did watch it again. And again after that, numbing myself to the gore and trying to find something, anything, that might give me a clue.

During the fifth or sixth viewing, my mind began to wander. Was this how I was destined to spend the rest of my life? Benedict was home right now, with his wife. Maybe they were watching TV together, or making love. Or, most likely, eating. But whatever they were doing, it was together. They were sharing their lives. I was here, alone, watching the end of someone else's.

So what's the alternative? Go home, clean myself up, and hit the bars? Sure, I could let myself get picked up, kill the lonelies for a night. But I needed something more substantial than a quick, informal lay.

What I needed, what I've been missing for damn near fifteen years, was to be in love. And I didn't think I'd find it at the bars.

I thought, wistfully, about my ex-husband, Alan.

Alan was something special, that one-in-a-million guy who liked holding hands and sending flowers. He rarely lost his temper, was a whiz in the kitchen, and loved me so completely that I was never cold, even during the brutal Chicago winter.

I take full responsibility for ruining our marriage.

I met him on the job, back in the days when I walked a beat. He came up to me on the street, told me someone had lifted his wallet. I couldn't say he was especially handsome, but he had the kindest eyes I'd ever seen.

We dated for six months before he proposed.

In the beginning, our marriage was great. Alan was a freelance artist, so he was able to make his own schedule, ensuring that we always had time to be together.

Until my promotion to the Violent Crimes Unit.

Prior to this, Alan and I had planned to have children. We were going to have a boy named Jay and a girl named Melody, and buy a house with a big backyard, in a good school district.

But much as I wanted that, I also wanted a career. Maternity leave meant time away from work, and a newly ranked detective third class needed collars to make second grade.

My work week jumped from forty hours to sixty.

Alan was patient. He understood my ambition. He tried to wait until I was ready. Then a major career setback forced me to spend even more time on the job.

Alan left me a week before I made detective second. That was also the week my insomnia started.

I buried the memories. Regret wasn't going to get me anywhere. Only one thing would.

I picked up the phone, put it back down, and picked it up again. Swallowing what little pride I had left was harder than I thought, but I managed. The taxpayers financed a call to Information, and ten seconds later I was dialing Lunch Mates, hoping they'd be closed at this hour.

"Thanks for calling Lunch Mates. This is Sheila, how may I help you?"

Her voice was so buoyantly optimistic that I felt a wee bit better about my decision to call a dating service.

"I guess I wanted to make an appointment, or schedule a visit. I didn't really expect you to still be open."

"We have late hours. After all, human relationships don't just run from nine to five. May I have your name, miss?"

"Jacqueline Daniels. Jack, for short."

She tittered politely. "Wonderful name. Your occupation, please?"

"Police officer."

"We have many clients in the law enforcement field. Were you looking for a match also within the department?"

"Christ, no...I mean..."

"No problem. It's hard to date in the same profession. That's why all those famous actors and actresses are always getting divorced. Sexual orientation?"

"Pardon me?"

"Are you looking to meet a man or a woman?"

"A man."

"Wonderful. We have many good men to choose from."

Her ability to put people at ease probably made all the losers she dealt with feel a lot better about themselves. It was sure working with me.

"Are you free at any time soon to come in for an orientation?"

"Yeah, uh, maybe tomorrow? Lunchtime, if possible?"

"How about twelve o'clock?"

"Fine."

She gave me directions, we made a little more small talk, and she'd bolstered my ego enough to make me feel good about hiring a service to find men because I was too incompetent to find one on my own.

"See you tomorrow at noon, Ms. Daniels. We'll get all of your information then, along with giving you an overview of our company. We'll also be taking a picture of you. You're free to bring in any pictures of yourself, if you'd like."

Other than my driver's license, I didn't think I had any pictures of myself.

"Will there be a videotape?"

More musical laughter. "Oh, no. We don't make videos of our clients. We simply get to know them, then come up with likely matches to meet for lunch. We have thirty-five agents here, and each handles between fifty to a hundred clients. Our agents set up lunch dates within their own client list. If they go through their whole list without a suitable match, the client is given to another agent."

That sounded like being the last kid picked for a backyard football game. I could picture some poor fat girl being traded from agent to agent every month, and the image made me wince.

"Well, I'll see you soon then."

"Good evening, Ms. Daniels."

I hung up, my confidence still high. Then I realized I'd forgotten to ask about the cost of this service. That helped kill the optimism buzz.

I knew an ex-cop who used an expression whenever something bad happened. He was a real creep, but as the years passed I've come to respect the honesty of his words. Whenever he'd failed a test, or gotten a reprimand, he always said, "It's just one more layer on the shit cake."

With all the layers I'd built up over my life, I suppose one more didn't matter too much.

The phone rang, and I slapped the receiver to my face.

"Jack? I was wondering if you'd still be there."

It was the assistant ME, Dr. Phil Blasky. He was one of the best in the business, we used him on practically every high-profile case. In person, he was a thin bald man with an egg-shaped head, but his voice was a rich opera baritone, similar to that of James Earl Jones.

"Hi, Phil. Looks like we're both burning the midnight oil."

"You've gotten the second Jane Doe reports? I messengered them over."

"Just reviewed them. I guess the mayor is pressuring you folks as much as us."

"Jack..." Phil's voice dropped an octave, which made it low enough to rattle teeth. "I've been working late to investigate that lead Bains told me about. Checking the bodies for anything hidden in them. I found something in the stab wound of the second Jane Doe, and then went back to the first one and found the same thing."

"What?"

Phil took a breath. "It's semen, Jack."

"Pardon me?"

"The guy's sperm. I found it in the deepest stab wound on each victim. Got a chemical hit while swabbing them out. I never would have found it if I hadn't been told to look."

I let this sink in. "You mean he raped the stab wounds?"

"The wounds have some tearing along the edges, so that's a good assumption."

"While they were still alive?"

"We're not sure. But there's a possibility of it, yes."

"Where?" I had to ask.

"Both of them in the stomach."

"Can we type him?"

"The lab is trying now. But that's a long shot. It's mixed in with a lot of blood, and has been decomposing for days."

This was the present he said he'd left me. Jesus.

"Thanks, Phil."

"Catch this psycho, Jack."

Phil ended the call.

I gripped the phone until that annoying off-the-hook signal came on and reminded me to hang up. The images swirling around in my brain were almost too horrible to imagine.

I'd been stabbed once, years ago, by a gang-banger with a switch blade. Knife went into my belly. I had minor surgery to stop the bleeding, was off my feet for a month. The pain had been one of the worst I'd ever experienced, a combination of a cramp, an ulcer, and a third-degree burn. The thought of a man violating that wound...

I shuddered. Then I got up and rewound the crime scene tape to watch for the umpteenth time, my determination fiercer than ever.

Chapter 17

HE CALLS FIRST, FROM A PAY phone a block away. A machine answers. Perfect. He drops the receiver, not bothering to hang it up, and walks over to the front door of Jack's apartment building.

With a discreet look in either direction, he begins to press buzzers. On the eighth button he gets someone on the intercom.

"I'm from Booker's Heating and Cooling. Here to look at the furnace."

He's buzzed in.

It's an old building, straight middle class. The halls are clean and recently painted, but there's no doorman, no security camera, and the lighting is low wattage to save the landlord on his electric bill.

It can't get any easier.

Jack lives on the third floor, apartment 302. He takes the stairs, reasoning he's less likely to encounter someone in the stairwell than on the elevator. But even if he does, he's dressed for the part; a stained brown jumpsuit, a toolbox, and a name tag that reads "Marvin."

The Gingerbread Man makes it to Jack's floor without seeing a soul. The hallway extends out in either direction in an L shape, and he easily locates the right apartment.

He knocks on it softly. There's always the chance that Jack is home and just didn't pick up her phone. There's also the possibility that she has a dog. Knocking should make the dog bark, unless it's very well trained.

But no one answers, and nothing barks. He takes a thin billfold out of his back pocket and opens it up, selecting an appropriate tension wrench and lock pick.

Foreplay.

Opening deadbolts is almost as easy as opening car doors. He has the penal system to thank. He went to jail on a B&E charge. Even though he had killed before, he was naive in the ways of properly committing a crime. Prison turned out to be the perfect school for honing his skills.

It takes him forty seconds to knock back the tumblers. The deadbolt turns with a satisfying snick, and the Gingerbread Man enters the home of the cop assigned to catch him. He locks the door and looks around.

It's perfect. No dog, no witnesses, and Jack has even been good enough to leave the lights on for him. He tugs on his latex gloves and giggles. Now for phase two of the plan.

He does a quick tour of the apartment, not knowing how much time he has until she gets home. It doesn't take long to deduce the bedroom closet is the best hiding place. It's roomy, has a hamper that he can sit on, and is only a few steps away from the bed. Plus, there's no window in the bedroom, no chance of anyone looking in. He gets to work.

Opening his aluminum toolbox, he takes out the rechargeable drill and a quarter-inch bit. He makes a hole in the closet door about three feet from the floor. Then he rubs off the splinters on both sides with a small file, and uses a roll of duct tape to pick up all the sawdust on the carpet. Next he sprays some WD-40 on the closet hinges, until it opens and closes as silent as death.

Satisfied with the setup, he goes to the bathroom and empties his bladder.

He enters the closet and shuts the door behind him. The adrenaline is pumping like hot oil through his veins. Sitting on the hamper, he has a perfect view of Jack's bed from the hole in the closet door. He removes the gun from the bag, an old .22 with the serial numbers filed off, and practices opening the door and creeping up to the bed.

On the third try he's confident he can sneak up to the sleeping lieutenant without making a sound.

He sits back on his perch in the closet and waits, letting the fantasy build. Hopefully he won't have to use the gun. He needs it just until he can jab her with the Seconal needle. Once he's sure she's completely out, he can tie her up and take his time with her.

He becomes aroused thinking about it.

His video camera is in the toolbox. He didn't take the bulky tripod, but the thought of doing it handheld is exciting. He can get some intimate and gory close-ups.

His eyes gradually adjust to the dark. He removes a sandwich he's brought along and eats, planning the evening's festivities in his head.

He didn't bring his hunting knife -- didn't want to risk getting stopped on the street with that incriminating piece of evidence on him. But he has the twine, some pliers, a soldering iron, and the drill. When it comes time to give Jack her present, he's pretty sure she has a knife in the kitchen large enough to make a deep hole.

It's a shame he'll have to gag her -- he so wants to hear her scream.

He finishes the sandwich, wondering if Jack has a cheese grater.

The front door opens.

He grips the gun in his hand, making sure it's cocked. His palms are sweaty in the latex gloves. His heart beats so loud that he thinks he can hear it.

"Relax," he tells himself.

Eye pressed to the hole in the closet, he waits for Jack's entrance.

Chapter 18

I ENTERED MY HUMBLE ABODE AT close to ten o'clock, lugging take-out Chinese. A full night loomed ahead of me, and I hoped a full stomach would get me drowsy.

But when I looked at the pineapple chicken, my stomach turned. I put it in the fridge for later, making myself a stiff whiskey sour instead.

My stomach didn't like that either, but it helped take some of the edge off. In fact, when I finished it I actually yawned. Encouraged by this good omen, I headed for bed.

I stripped down to my underwear, letting my clothes fall where they may. I put my gun on the nightstand next to my bed and replaced my bra with an old T-shirt. Then I climbed under the covers and killed the lights.

My mind had to be blank. That was the key. If I had nothing to think about, I had nothing to keep me awake. I imagined a vast field of wheat, blowing in the breeze, enclosed by a tall fence. Outside the fence were a million and one thoughts -- the case, the dating service, the Jane Does, and on and on. But my fence was too tall, too strong, and I wouldn't let them in.

I was on the very edge of sleep, ready to tumble fully into it, when the phone rang.

"Daniels."

"Jacqueline? I assumed you'd be up."

I blinked twice. Much as I craved sleep, some things were more important.

"Hi, Mom. How's everything?"

"Everything's wonderful, sweetheart. Except that scoundrel Mr. Griffin won't fix this hole in my porch screen, and I've got mosquitoes the size of geese flying around my room. I didn't wake you, did I? I know you're a night owl, and long distance is free after ten o'clock."

I yawned. "I'm up. You know you can call anytime, Mom. How's the weather in Orlando?"

"Beautiful. Hold on a second."

There was a smacking sound, and a cry of triumph. "I finally found something People magazine is good for -- swatting mosquitoes. How's Don?"

"I left him."

"Good. He was an idiot. Believe me, dear, I understand the need for sex as much as anyone. That's the only reason I let that old fool Mr. Griffin keep coming by. But you can do so much better. You take after me -- beautiful, intelligent, and a crack shot. You know, the first four years I was a police officer, they wouldn't even let me wear a gun?"

I smiled at the familiar story. "And when you finally did get one, you scored higher than every guy in the district at the range."

"Who would have ever guessed that one day I'd look back on my forties as if they were my youth." Her voice dropped an octave. "Jacqueline, I fell yesterday."

I sat up in bed, alarms going off in my heart. She didn't say it casually. She said it like all seventy-year-olds say it, with weight and reverence.

"You fell? How? Are you okay?"

"In the shower. Just a bruised hip. Nothing broken. I went back and forth about telling you."

"You should have called right away."

"So you could put your life on hold to fly out here and take care of me? You think I'd allow that?"

Mary Streng was the queen of self-reliance. Dad died when I was eleven. Heart attack. The day after we put him in the ground, Mom got a job with the CPD. She started in Records, eventually moved up to Dispatch, and by the end of her twenty years she'd risen to detective third class and worked property crimes.

No, she wouldn't have allowed me to fly out there.

"You still should have called."

"I saw a show about this on Oprah. Adult-age children, caring for their feeble parents."

"You're far from feeble, Mom."

"Role reversal, they called it. There was a woman on who changed her mother's diapers. I'll eat my .38 before I let it come to that, Jacqueline."

"Please, Mom. You don't have to talk like this."

"Well, that's still a ways off. All I did was bruise my hip. I can still get around. It just limits some of the things I can do with that naughty Mr. Griffin."

"Mom..."

"Look, I just wanted to tell you. I have to go now. Real Sex 38 is almost on HBO. I'll call you soon. Love you."

And she hung up.

Sleep was miles away.

I remember my father like I remember old movies; just a few quotable lines and a general impression. He died when I was too young to get to know him as a person.

But my mom...my mom was everything to me. She was my best friend, my mentor, my hero. She was the reason I became a cop.

Mothers shouldn't be allowed to get old and fragile.

I purposely pushed it out of my head to avoid getting maudlin. Instead, I focused on my Lunch Mates appointment tomorrow. They'd be taking a picture, and I still looked like I'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. What guy would go out with a woman with bruises all over her face?

I got up and went to the bathroom, checking the vanity. Maybe a little foundation here, a little concealer there...

So the face would be okay, but what to wear?

I mentally ran through my wardrobe. My best outfit was the Armani. I normally couldn't afford designer clothing, and had picked this up at an outlet store. The price tag was hefty, even with the discount, but it gave me confidence when I put it on. I had several blouses that matched, and wondered if I should go with the loose silk one, or the tighter cotton one.

Only one way to find out.

I went to the closet.

Chapter 19

EXCITEMENT HAS GIVEN WAY TO FRUSTRATION, and finally anger. Juices flowing, locked and loaded, he's only moments away from sneaking out of the closet to pounce on her, when the phone rings.

He endures a syrupy conversation between Jack and her mom, so thick in parts that he feels like gagging. Then he waits stock-still for Jack to go back to sleep.

But she doesn't.

The little bitch stares at the ceiling, tossing and turning like her panties are a few sizes too small.

For an hour, he waits.

And for an hour, Daniels refuses to snooze.

Every few minutes she'll close her eyes, and just when he's ready to move, they'll spring open again.

The most infuriating part is that her gun is right next to her on the nightstand. He knows that Jack will shoot him before he can even get the door open.

He could try to fire through the closet, but that's too risky. It's only a .22, and if he misses, he's pretty sure that Jack won't.

He grinds his teeth in rage, then forces himself to stop because it's noisy. The muscles in his neck and back are cramping. His eyes are beginning to blur from peeking through that tiny hole. And worst of all, he has to piss again.

Then, like an answered prayer, Jack gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. Away from her gun. The time to strike is now.

He's about to ease open the closet when the bitch is back again. But instead of going to bed, she's coming this way.

The Gingerbread Man stifles a giggle. Imagine Jack's shock when she opens up her closet and he shoves a gun in her face.

Standing erect, he grips the pistol and prepares to spring.

Chapter 20

I WAS HEADED FOR THE CLOSET when I remembered my new sweater. It was a brown wool pullover, L.L.Bean, and it made me look soft and feminine. That would work just fine, and then I could save the Armani for the actual date, assuming I get one.

I went over to my dresser to find the sweater, along with a pair of jeans. Satisfied I wouldn't look like another desperate nine-to-fiver for my picture tomorrow, I turned to go back to bed, when something made the hair on my neck stand up.

Someone was in the closet.

I wasn't sure how I knew. A vaguely defined sense. An alarm on an instinctive, subconscious level. But I felt paralyzed, a deer in headlights, and my stomach dropped down to my ankles.

Then, action.

Hoping I didn't give myself away during my brief catatonic pause, I took two steps toward the nightstand and my gun.

Like a whisper, the closet door rolled open behind me. My intruder yelled, "Don't move!"

I moved anyway. I dove for the pistol, my hand wrapping around the butt just as the shot rang out. I felt a sudden pressure in my thigh, like I'd gotten kicked.

I belly flopped on the bed and rolled, gun in hand, squeezing off two shots in the general direction of the closet. A shadowy figure ducked the bullets and scurried out my bedroom door.

Keeping my gun trained on the doorway, I felt behind me for the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on.

My leg was covered with blood.

The entry wound was four inches above my knee, on the inside of the thigh. The flow was steady, but not pulsing. There was no pain, only numbness. But the pain would come, I was sure of that.

I picked up the phone to dial 911, but there wasn't any dial tone.

"Hi, Jack."

It hit me almost as hard as the bullet had. This wasn't some burglar, after my cash and VCR. It was him -- the Gingerbread Man. And he was on the phone in my kitchen. I hit the disconnect button twice, but couldn't get a dial tone with the extension off the hook.

"Hello, Charles."

"How do you -- oh, you must have traced the prescription. Clever, Jack. But you have to know I wouldn't be dumb enough to leave my real name."

His voice was soft, gravelly.

"Yeah, you're a regular Einstein. How long were you stuck in that closet, sitting on my dirty laundry?"

"I hope I didn't hit an artery. I wouldn't want the fun to end so soon."

"Maybe you should come in here and check for yourself."

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll check on you soon enough. After you've lost some blood, and your reactions have slowed down."

The pain hit. Red and angry, making my vision swim. It felt as if I'd been impaled by a white-hot pickax. I held the phone between my ear and shoulder and clamped my hand down over the wound. Hopefully someone in the building heard the shots.

"I hope you stick around." Speaking through my teeth. "Cops should be here any second."

"Why should they come? A few loud bangs? Could have been a television turned up too loud, or a car backfiring."

"I'm calling from my cell phone right now."

"You mean this one, in your purse next to the microwave?"

Dammit. I tried to sit up, my bed soggy with blood. The killer was right. If I lost too much, I'd pass out. Then he'd come back and finish the job.

"Ooh, look -- pictures. This must be Mom. Maybe when I'm done with you, I'll take a trip to Florida. She fell, I understand. So sad. But I bet I can get her on her feet again."

I bit back my response, focusing all my energy into getting off the bed. The pain made me cry out, but I managed to get on my feet and limp over to my dresser. I pulled out a braided belt and looped it around my leg, over the wound.

"What do you think, Jack? Should I pay Mom a visit?"

"You know what I think, Charles?" I jerked the tourniquet tight and winced. The room began to spin. "I think you're a sad, small little man who didn't get enough love when he was a baby. Either that, or you were dropped on your head."

He giggled.

"You don't know what you're talking about. People like me are labeled as psychotics. But it's a cruel world, Jack. Only the strong thrive. And I'm one of the strong. I'm no more psychotic than a shark, or a lion, or any other predator at the top of the food chain. And I'm head and shoulders above you and the rest of the world because I know what I want, and I know how to take it."

"Dropped down a whole flight of stairs, it sounds like."

I had to sit, or risk passing out. The pain was a writhing, living thing, full blown and making any movement agony.

"You sound sleepy, Jack. Maybe you should lie back, take a little nap."

It didn't seem like bad advice to me. My breath was coming a little quicker, and I was cold, but beyond the pain a kind of peace was settling in. A nap might do me good.

"Shock," I said aloud.

I wiped some sweat off my face and gave my cheek a slap. I was going into hypovolemic shock, a condition caused by extensive fluid loss. If I passed out, I was dead.

But in my condition, there was no way I could attack him. So what the hell could I do?

I had more bullets in my dresser. I half hopped, half dragged myself over to the drawer and replaced the two rounds I'd fired. I had a plan, kind of, but to make it work I had to keep him distracted.

"So what's the real reason you're killing these girls, Charles? Did your scoutmaster get too frisky on a camping trip?"

"Cliche, Jack. Everyone wants to look for the reason. Like there's a switch that can be turned on to make a person a killer. But maybe it has nothing to do with environment, or genetics. Maybe I simply enjoy it. I know that I'll enjoy giving you my special present. Think I can use that bullet hole in your leg?"

"Possible," I mumbled, pulling myself to the door. "It's a really small hole."

My bedroom led out into a short hall. The kitchen was to the left, out of view. But that wasn't my goal. It was a straight shot into the living room, and to my window with the view looking out over Addison.

"You little bitch." Men never took teasing about their penis size well. "I'm going to make you scream so loud, your throat bleeds."

"Promises, promises." I held my gun in both hands, took aim, and fired four shots into my window.

The glass exploded outward, hopefully peppering the sidewalk below. It was night, and my neighborhood was always crawling with barhopping kids. If that didn't warrant a call to 911, I didn't know what else would.

Apparently my assailant thought the same thing.

"We'll finish this later, Jack." His voice was curt. "See you soon."

And he finally hung up the phone. I cocked my ear and heard my front door slam shut.

I was still on the floor, gun clenched in my fist and fighting to stay awake, when the cops arrived.

Chapter 21

EVERYONE AGREED I'D BEEN LUCKY.

The bullet entered my thigh at the sartorius muscle and exited through a muscle called the gracilis. The wound was clean, without bullet fragmenting or ricocheting, narrowly missing the femoral artery. I needed three units of blood, but the scar would be minimal. I should be out of bed in a day or so.

Since my arrival at the hospital last night I'd been reconstructing the entire episode in my head, trying to remember every detail of our conversation. Herb helped, taking everything down, asking questions to help jar my memory.

We moved on the leads quickly.

First, my mom was effectively protected. At the onset I'd insisted upon nothing less than moving her to a safe house. Mom would have none of it, naturally. We compromised; she would stay at a friend's house for a few days. I didn't have to ask to know that she meant the ubiquitous Mr. Griffin. I met him once last year; he was stooped over, walked with a cane, and had arthritis in both hands. A far cry from the man my mother described as "Insatiable -- he's like a machine."

Hopefully he'd mind her bad hip.

My door showed no signs of forced entry, nor did the door to the apartment building. He could have somehow gotten a key, or more likely, knew how to pick locks.

Every tenant in the building was questioned, and someone had buzzed in an unknown maintenance man earlier that day to work on the furnace. This was being checked out.

My apartment was gone over with a fine-toothed comb, literally. A great deal of excitement was generated over the discovery of some semen stains on the bedroom carpet, until I reminded everyone that I used to have a sex life.

All fingerprints found were either mine or Don's. There were enough hairs and fibers picked up to take weeks to sort through, and I wasn't very optimistic. Even if they did manage to find one of the killer's hairs out of the several thousand vacuumed up, it wouldn't help too much -- unless he had his name and address written on it.

I installed a burglar alarm.

In a tremendous show of faith in me, or as some saw it, a tremendous lack of ambition, Captain Bains refused to bend to political pressure and kept me on as head of the case. His logic was simple. I was the strongest link to the killer. Chances were high that the Gingerbread Man would contact me again.

A round-the-clock surveillance was begun on me, and I received a cellular phone with their number on speed dial. Three teams would rotate the watch, and I was to inform them of everywhere I went. The code word we'd picked was "peachy." If I was in trouble, I'd use the code word and the cavalry would come rushing in.

I was picking at a hamburger that tasted like it had been steamed, when Herb came into my room, his fourth visit in twenty-four hours.

"I see I've arrived coincidentally at dinnertime." He pulled up a chair.

"Some coincidence. You're the one who filled out my menu card."

"Is it good?"

"I'm not sure. Somehow they've managed to drain every nuance of flavor from it."

"Hmm. May I?"

I allowed him access to my food.

"It tastes like it's been steamed." This fact didn't stop him from polishing it off, along with my applesauce, my green vegetable, and the rest of my juice.

"I saw some gum stuck under the table there, if you want dessert."

"I love a free meal."

"Free? They're charging me forty-five dollars for that feast there. A forty-five-dollar hamburger. It gives me a headache thinking about it."

"Want me to call for some aspirin?"

"I can't afford the aspirin. I'd have to put them on layaway. Now help me up so I can use the can."

"I thought you weren't allowed out of bed until tomorrow."

"You want to warm up my bedpan for me?"

Herb helped me up. The pain in my leg made my eyes water, but I kept my footing. The best way to describe it was like a charley horse, but sharper. Maybe I'd break down and get some aspirin after all.

When I'd finished bathroom duty I sat in a visitor's chair opposite Herb, wincing when my knee bent.

"Are you sure..."

"I'm fine," I told him. "I don't want my leg to get any stiffer than it is. I want out of this hospital. I hate waiting around like this."

"This is your first time, isn't it?"

"I've been shot at before. This is the first time the bullet hit home. You were..."

"Almost twenty years ago now. Took it right in the upper thigh."

"You mean the ass."

"I prefer to say upper thigh. Or lower back. Gang-banger got me from behind. It still itches sometimes in dry weather."

"Really? And I thought you were just unsticking your underwear all the time."

"I do that too. Jack..." Herb got serious on me. "We found another body about an hour ago."

My heart sank. "Another girl?"

"No. A boy. Stabbed twenty-three times with a hunting knife, left in a Dumpster behind Marshall Fields on Wabash. Blasky's doing the autopsy now."

"How do we know it's our perp?"

"There was another gingerbread man cookie. We ran the kid's prints, ID'd him as Leroy Parker. Two shoplifting convictions, wanted in connection with half a dozen more counts. His description and MO match the kid who pulled the seizure distractions. Perp also left another note."

Herb handed me a photocopy. The Gingerbread Man's familiar scrawl filled the page.

"If I was only faster yesterday..."

"Our job is to catch him, Jack, not blame ourselves or take responsibility for what he does."

The nurse came, and went into a lecture about how I shouldn't be out of bed. To assuage her wrath I allowed myself to be helped back in.

"No more getting out of bed, Ms. Daniels, or I'll have you tied down."

"Kinky. I may like that."

The nurse picked up my tray and smiled her nurse's smile. "At least your appetite is healthy."

I eyed Benedict. "Just like Mom used to steam."

The nurse left, and I made Herb get me my clothes.

"You're not leaving."

"I'm leaving. I hate being coddled. I'm a grown woman, and I can fend for myself. Now help me put on my pants."

After ten minutes of sweating, grunting pain, I managed to get changed into the clothes Herb had brought me the night before. I was even able to tie my own shoes without ripping my stitches.

"There's a media circus waiting outside the front entrance for you to come out," Herb said. "Should we find a back way?"

"Hell, no. Our man isn't making any mistakes, but maybe if I piss him off enough, he will."

"So -- you're going to anger the psycho?"

"Not at all." I called the surveillance team and told them I was getting out of there. "I'm simply going to give an honest, bare-bones interview."

After fighting with two doctors and four nurses, I was finally discharged against hospital recommendation and had to sign a paper absolving them of responsibility if I died after stepping off their property. Then I ran a brush through my hair, wiped the crud from my eyes, grabbed my aluminum hospital cane, and went to meet the press.

Benedict hadn't been exaggerating about the media circus. At least two dozen reporters were hanging around outside the hospital entrance, all waiting around for the off chance that I'd appear. I'd had big cases before, and had been on TV. At first I was impressed. But then I saw myself on the tube, which added twenty pounds, made me look short, and somehow distorted my fine speaking voice into something squeaky.

"I have some things to say, and then afterward I can answer a few questions," I told the crowd, giving them a chance to switch on their cameras and focus. "First of all, I was shot by the criminal that the press is calling the Gingerbread Man. He'd broken into my apartment last night. As you can see, my injury isn't serious. He couldn't aim the gun properly, because he was hysterical, crying for his mama."

Herb gave me a slight nudge in the ribs, but I was just warming up.

"Besides the obvious emotional problems, the killer is also very stupid. The only reason we haven't caught him yet is because he's been lucky, and because he's a coward who runs away when confronted. I fully expect that with the combined efforts of the Chicago Police Department and the FBI, we should have him in custody soon. Now I'll take questions."

The questioning went well. When it was over I'd also called the killer a bed-wetter, said he was impotent, and predicted that when we found him, he'd probably be picking his nose. I explained I felt no anger toward his attack on me; rather I felt sorry for him, like a sick dog. When asked if I was afraid of him going after me, I laughed and said he would be too scared to make another attempt.

At that point my cellular phone began to ring, and I had a pretty good idea who it was. I excused myself from further questions and walked away from the crowd before answering.

"Daniels."

"Why didn't you clear this with me before broadcasting live on five channels?"

Captain Bains.

"I was live? Did I sound squeaky?"

"You sounded like you're provoking him. Dime-store psychology is not the way to run a headline case."

"You left me in charge, Captain. This is how I want to run it."

"And when this guy kills a dozen people because he's mad you called him a mama's boy, how do you figure we'll still be employed after the lawsuits come rolling in?"

"I'm provoking him to come after me. The only one I put in danger is myself."

"And what if you don't catch him? You just promised the city you'll have him in custody soon."

"I'll catch him."

"If you don't, it's your ass."

He hung up. That was two conversations with Bains in two days. Maybe now was a good time to ask for a raise.

"Jack..." Herb caught up to me. The reporters had snagged him for a few questions after I'd jetted out. "You sure poked your stick at the hornets' nest back there."

"Hopefully the hornet will come out. Can you do a crippled girl a favor?"

"Sure. You bought dinner."

"See my tail?" I nodded in the direction of the two plainclothes cops, following our path twenty feet behind us. "If they were any closer they'd be wearing my clothes. Ask them to loosen up."

"You got it."

Benedict waddled up to them, giving a mini lecture on the art of being inconspicuous. I gave them a big smile and a thumbs-up to smooth it over. Don't want to anger the guys guarding your life.

Herb drove me home, first stopping at the Salvation Army on my request, where I wanted to replace my antiseptic aluminum hospital cane with something more distinguished. I found a polished piece of hickory that fit the description.

"Very distinguished," Benedict commented.

"We ladies of good breeding demand nothing less than the best. Lend me fifty cents so I can buy it."

He forked over some pocket change and then insisted on seeing me into my apartment.

"If you're looking for a good-night kiss, I'll whack you with my cane."

"Just want to make sure you can work your burglar alarm okay."

"Since when did a bullet wound make a person feeble-minded?"

I couldn't work the burglar alarm, so Herb had to show me.

"You press the green button first, then the code."

"Thanks. Want a drink?"

"Can't. It's Sunday."

I waited for more.

"Lasagna night," Benedict explained. "Got to get home."

"See you tomorrow, Herb. Thanks again."

"Get some rest, Jack."

He left me to my empty, quiet apartment. The lab team had taken half of my possessions, including the phone, which saved me from having to take it off the hook. The free press has no qualms about around-the-clock harassment.

My leg was throbbing as if it had its own heart. I limped into the bedroom to get undressed and froze stock-still.

Dread crawled over my body.

My blood was still on the mattress. The bullet holes were still in the wall. The closet door was closed, and I had an unrealistic fear that the Gingerbread Man was still hiding in there. It was silly and stupid, but a fear nonetheless.

I forced myself to open the closet, and left it open. Then I gathered up every bit of clothing that was in the closet and arranged for dry cleaning. I had no desire to wear anything that might have touched him.

Afterward I took four Tylenol, grabbed my blanket, and went to go sleep in my rocking chair.

Well, attempted to.

The apartment was too quiet. So quiet that I could hear myself breathe. So quiet that when a car honked outside, I almost wet my pants.

I turned on all the lights and flipped on the TV to keep me company. The Max Trainter Show was on -- local talk soup at its basest level. Whereas other shows relied on melodrama to keep the viewer interested, Trainter went for shock value and violent confrontation. Six bouncers were on the set at all times, necessary to keep the guests from beating one another silly. Which they did, several times a show.

I tried to relax, losing myself in the wonderful drama of human nature. A white-trash couple confronted their daughter's lesbian lover. The lover fought back with a folding chair, which seemed as if it had been placed on stage for that very purpose. I counted four felonies and a dozen misdemeanors on screen before tiring of the show and switching it off.

When sleep finally came, it came with nightmares.

Chapter 22

THE PAIN WOKE ME UP. My leg had stiffened overnight, and I felt like a piece of twisted licorice from my big toe to my bottom. I admit to some less than heroic yelping as I got out of the chair and hobbled to the bathroom in search of drugs. I'd gotten a prescription for codeine at the hospital, but hadn't bothered to fill it, big tough girl that I am. Luckily I still had some of Don's medication from when he'd had his wisdom teeth pulled. Vicodin. I took two.

Showering was an awkward, painful affair that involved a garbage bag, duct tape, and more patience than I thought I had. When I was finally clean and dressed, an hour of my life was irretrievably gone.

Using the cellular, I informed my shadow that I was awake and well. The Vicodin in my system almost prompted me into song. I felt good. Very good. The drug even seemed to cure my sniffles.

Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.

The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.

The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I'm normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.

The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.

I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who'd just been shot.

But that might have been the meds talking.

Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. I'm Jack Daniels. I have an appointment."

"Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Frank. Coffee?"

I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it's choppy.

"Jack? I'm Matthew. I'll be your Lunch Mates agent."

He was even cuter than Frank. Blond, baby blue eyes, a model's square jaw. I wondered if the Gingerbread Man had actually killed me, and I'd died and gone to hunk heaven.

I stood and took his hand. It was soft and dry, making me even more aware of how unkempt my hands were. I'd never broken the habit of biting my nails. It seemed so much easier than clipping them.