Read Jack Daniels Six Pack Online
Authors: J. A. Konrath
Jack Daniels Six Pack (152 page)
I don’t share this information with the captain. Maybe I will later. I’m not sure. It depends on whether or not I’m going to stay a cop.
I look at it now. The phone. My direct link to the person who hurt me worse than anyone has ever hurt me before.
COME GET ME.
“You can bet on it, Alex. You can bet on it.”
Big thanks to the following people. You’ve helped me immeasurably, and I won’t soon forget. (Apologies to those folks I forgot.)
William E. Adams, Augie Aleksy, Tasha Alexander,
Feo Amante, Brenda Anderson, Patrick Balester, Sarah Bewley,
Dave Biemann, Irene Black, Michele Bradford, Wendy Brault,
Tisha Britton, Lynn Burton, William Conner, Gail Cooke,
Jim Coursey, Tammy Cravit, Blake Crouch, Josephine Damian,
Terri Dukes, Chris Dupee, Audrey N. Durel, Jane Dystel,
Barry Eisler, W. D. Gagliani, Miriam Goderich,
Norman Goldman, Terri Grimes, Jude Hardin, Joe Hartlaub,
Linda Holman, Kay Hooper, Adam Hurtubise, Eileen Hutton,
Bob Hutton, Steve Jensen, Cynthia Johnson, Jon Jordan,
Ruth Jordan, Richard Katz, Nick Kelly, Maria Konrath,
Talon Konrath, Chris & Mariesa Konrath, Laura Konrath,
Mike Konrath, John Konrath, Amy M. Krueger, Michele Lee,
Meredith Link, Brenda C. Long, Maggie Mason,
Joseph P. Menta Jr., Brenda Messex, Jim Munchel, David Omo,
Henry “Hank” Perez, Paul Pessolano, Barbara Peters,
Jeanine Peterson, Sharon L. Pritchard, Pat Reid,
Heather M. Riley, Terry Robertson, J. Greg Robison,
James Rollins, Marcus Sakey, Judith Saul, Terri Schlichenmeyer,
Rob Siders, Wendy K. Smith, Shaun A. Sohacki, Greg Swanson,
Linda Tonnesen, Leslie Wells, Matt Wilhite, Lloyd Woodall.
And special thanks to the many booksellers, librarians, interviewers, bloggers, reviewers, and booksellers (they deserve to be thanked twice) who have embraced my series. I owe every one of you a drink.
J.A. Konrath is the author of four previous Jack Daniels mysteries, and lives in the suburbs of Chicago.
Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
FUZZY NAVEL. Copyright (c) 2008 Joe Konrath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.
Microsoft Reader MAY 2008 ISBN 9781401395391
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery
Cherry Bomb
J. A. Konrath
This book is dedicated to my wife,
my one true love,
and my very best friend.
Happily, they’re all the same person.
You’re magic, Maria.
Table of Contents
CHERRY BOMB
1 oz. vodka
1½ oz. white crème de cacao
¾ oz. grenadine
1 maraschino cherry
Shake vodka, crème de cacao,
and grenadine with ice.
Pour into a rocks glass.
Garnish with cherry.
A
T MY FIANCÉ’S FUNERAL
I got a phone call from the woman who killed him.
“I checked the Weather Channel.” Her tone was conversational, cheery. “It’s raining in Chicago. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Funerals on sunny days seem so wrong.”
The pastor hit the switch, and the mechanical winch lowered Latham’s casket into the ground on black canvas straps. Slow, like it was sinking into a swamp. The rain beaded up on the lacquered oak lid and I had an irrational urge to find a towel, wipe it dry. Latham didn’t deserve to spend eternity wet.
“I’m coming after you,” I whispered into the phone.
“That’s what he said. Before I shot him. He said you’d come after me. Latham had faith in you until the very end, Jack. Like a puppy dog. Poor guy. Murdered, just for loving the wrong woman.”
My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had been staring at me since the phone rang. Herb’s black suit was purchased back when he weighed less, the tightness making his large stomach seem even larger. His free hand—the one that wasn’t holding the crutch—reached up and touched my shoulder.
Alex?
he mouthed.
I nodded.
“Is this your grand plan, Alex? Calling me to make me feel guilty?”
“I don’t need to make you feel guilty, Jack. You’re already guilty. Latham was a good man. I would have preferred shooting you in the head, but our game isn’t over yet. Later today I’m sending you a picture over the phone. Twelve hours from then, the man in the picture will die. Unless you can find him and save him. I hope, for his sake, you do a better job than you did with your fiancé.”
I gripped the cell phone so hard my hand was shaking. Latham’s casket dropped below ground level, and the tears on my face mingled with the rain. I managed to keep my voice even.
“And what if I don’t want to play your game?”
“The man I’m going to kill has a wife and kids. Leading the kind of life that you might have led, if you weren’t burying your future. If you don’t make an effort to save him, the next picture I send you will be of a playground filled with children. How much more guilt can you handle before you crumble and blow away?”
I wiped my cheeks, then turned away from the grave. Latham’s family stared hard at me. No pity in their eyes. Only disdain.
“Don’t cry. And if I may be blunt, don’t you think that skirt you’re wearing is a little short? Not very appropriate, unless you’re cruising the funeral for a rebound fuck.”
I glanced down at my knee-length dress, then did a quick 360.
“Careful, Jack. You’re spinning so fast you may knock your fat partner off his crutch.”
I covered the phone and faced Herb. “She’s here.”
Herb hit his lapel mike, turning on his radio and calling for a perimeter sweep. There were more than fifty cops at the funeral. As they scattered I dug my. 38 Colt out of my Gucci handbag and walked away from the grave site, scanning tombstones and monuments, heels sinking into the wet sod, worming my way through Latham’s family while they shamed me with hateful glares.
“You brought a gun to a funeral, Jack?” Alex asked. “Were you expecting me to show up?”
“I was hoping.”
The October wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves and cold air across my scalp, making my stitches sting. Twenty-plus years of on the job training made me keep low, a smaller target. Not that it mattered. Alex was a crack shot.
“Turn left,” Alex said, “another few yards, next to the mausoleum. There’s an angel watching over you.”
I followed instructions, feeling like I had a bull’s-eye on my forehead, and not minding much. I ran my eyes along the slanting granite roof of the stone structure, and noticed the statue of a cherub perched on top. Something was duct-taped to his hand. I moved in closer, gun arm extended, and saw it was a camera phone.
“Twelve hours, Jack. Then he dies. And keep your cell on. Never know when I might call with a hint. Don’t fail him like you failed Latham.”
Alex hung up. My legs decided they didn’t want to support me anymore, and I fell to my knees, my gun hand dropping to my side, cursing the day I became a police officer.
M
ILES AWAY,
Alexandra Kork sits in a coffee store chain, sipping a tall black dark roast. Alex doesn’t care for coffee, but the free WiFi access makes her Internet trail harder to trace. She moves a finger along her laptop touch-pad, and the camera zooms in on Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, kneeling in the mud. The image is in color, with a gorgeous 600 dpi resolution that is unfortunately blurred by the drizzle.