Read Jack Daniels Six Pack Online
Authors: J. A. Konrath
“Did you run any of the others?”
“In the process. In the meantime, we should keep going with the dragnet. The perp may still be watching our guys.”
It was a long shot, but all we had for the time being.
“Agreed. I’m going to my office to tune in.”
The scanner on my desk let me follow the action. Short, staccato bursts of cop talk in between long stretches of static. Several other suspects were questioned, but none were brought in. After two hours of feeling like a spectator on my own case, I switched off the radio.
Depression settled on me like a heavy blanket.
“You hungry?” Herb popped in with a bag of BBQ pork rinds.
“No, thanks.” I had no appetite at all. Even the prospect of a home-cooked meal held no appeal for me. I should probably call and cancel my date with Latham.
“We’ll catch him, Jack.”
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life obsessing about the one that got away.”
My friend sat across from me.
“Then don’t obsess.”
“It’s different with you, Herb.”
“How so? I want to catch the guy too.”
“But you have a life outside the force. This is all I have.”
Herb set the bag down. You knew Benedict was serious about something when he pushed away food.
“You’re the total of all the choices you’ve made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose.”
I looked at him. “I’ve spent more than twenty years working hard at being a cop. I don’t have a social life. I ruined my marriage. All I can do is this job. But if I’m not good enough for this, then what the hell is the point of my life?”
I bit my lower lip, my eyes welling up. I hated being weak, and I hated self-pity, but Herb’s words really hit home.
I was here because this was the life I chose.
But what if I’d made the wrong choice?
My partner put his hand on my shoulder. “Jack, you’re the best cop I know. If anyone can catch this guy, it’s you.”
I took a deep breath and held it, hoping in my heart of hearts that Herb was right.
A
FTER THE MAN LATHAM ANSWERS ALL
of his questions, he ties him up with some extension cords and locks him in his own closet.
A dating service. How mundane. But how convenient for him.
Rather than try to circumvent Jack’s surveillance team, all he has to do is wait here at Latham’s house, and she will come to him.
He closes his eyes and imagines Jack in her bathroom. Putting on lipstick. Picking out a sexy dress. Perhaps she’s even hoping to get laid tonight.
He decides that she will, whether she wants it or not.
The clock creeps up on eight o’clock.
The spider sits in his web and waits.
The fly will be here soon.
B
Y SEVEN O’CLOCK I’D HAD MY
fill of feeling sorry for myself. I stopped at the cleaners on the way home, but they hadn’t even begun my order. After yelling for five minutes at a man who probably didn’t deserve it, I got them to do a rush job on one of my pantsuits.
In my book, yelling was always more therapeutic than crying.
By the time I got home and showered, rebandaged my leg, and got dressed, I was late for my date. I called Latham on my cell to tell him.
The line was busy. After putting on perfume, grabbing the bottle of wine I bought Don an eternity ago, and strapping on my gun, I tried again. Busy.
Well, if his line was busy, then at least he was home. I informed my surveillance team of my destination and got on my way.
I was kind of excited. A home-cooked meal with an attractive man was the perfect way to get my mind off things.
After some torturous stop-and-go-stop-and-go, I made it to Latham’s home half an hour late. He lived in a charming two-story brownstone, not too far from Benedict’s house. I found a fire hydrant, parked the heap, and gave myself a final look-over in the rearview.
Not bad. Maybe I could do with a rinse in the near future, but not bad.
I grabbed the wine and hobbled up his porch. The doorbell rang with a Big Ben chime.
“Come in!”
I opened the door, assuming he was still on the phone. The house was dark, quiet. I sniffed the air, but couldn’t make out any cooking aromas.
Next to me, on the foyer floor, a chair was overturned.
Warning bells went off in my head. What if the killer had been following me, and saw me with Latham?
What if the killer was here?
I let go of my wine and reached for my gun—stopping when I noticed the one already being aimed at me.
“Hi, Jack.” The Gingerbread Man stood at the foot of the staircase, several feet to my left. “Take out the gun, slowly, and toss it over here.”
Fear swam up my spine, like a cold and clammy fish. My feet had frozen to the floor.
“Where’s Latham?” I managed.
“He doesn’t matter. The gun. Now.”
The killer smiled and moved two steps closer. He looked vaguely like our composite picture, but more wolfish and grubby. A bandage covered most of his left profile, and his one black eye bored into me.
“I won’t ask again. The gun.”
But I wasn’t going to play by his rules. In one motion I dropped to my knees and yanked out my .38. My injury screamed at me, but I managed to squeeze off two rounds.
My shots went wide, and the killer ducked into the next room. My leg felt like it had been snapped in half. I watched blood seep through the bandage, but saw no other holes in my body. Had he even fired?
I scooted across the floor and got behind a sofa, my gun trained on the kitchen. The cellular was in my pocket, and I took it out with my left hand.
“Hey, Jack!”
He was behind me. I turned, bringing around the .38, pulling the trigger . . .
Latham.
He had tape over his mouth, and the maniac was using him as a shield, the gun jammed under his jaw.
I managed to jerk my shot over their heads.
“Drop it. Now, or he dies.”
Latham’s face was pure panic, eyes unbelievably wide, moans coming from his throat.
I let the gun fall.
“Good girl. Now get up.”
I pulled myself to my feet, using the sofa. My bad leg was shaking so hard, it could barely support me.
“The phone. Put it away.”
I stuck it in my pocket. Had my surveillance team heard the shots? Doubtful. They were over a block away.
“What happened to your face, Charles? Cut yourself shaving?”
“Such bravado in a hopeless situation. You’re a hero to the end, Jack. But how are you going to handle this, hero?”
He shoved Latham in front of him, aiming his weapon. I watched, helpless, as he shot Latham twice in the back.
Latham flopped forward, his head bouncing off the floor. Then he was still.
“Any more smart comments?”
I limped to Latham, but the killer rushed over and kicked me in my bad leg. I howled, dropping to the carpet.
“Do I have your attention now, Jack?”
He kicked again, this time at my head. Motes of light burst in my skull, a fireworks display of pain.
“Looks like the coward is kicking your ass. Maybe you’re the one who’s going to cry for her mama. Isn’t that what you said on the news?”
I tried to focus, looking for where I’d dropped my gun. He followed my gaze and picked it up.
“You know why I said those things.” My head was swimming, my leg on fire.
“Naturally. To get me to come after you. You should be happy. It worked.”
My cell phone rang. Neither of us moved.
“It’s the team checking in.”
“Keep it simple. You’re making dinner. Everything is fine. One wrong word . . .”
He put the barrel of his gun to my bloody pants and pressed. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
“Make it good.”
I spoke through my teeth. “You want them to hear me scream?”
He relieved the pressure and I sucked in a breath before answering the phone.
“Yeah?”
“You okay, Lieutenant? We heard what might have been gunshots.”
“We’re fine. Making dinner right now. Everything is peachy.”
“Peachy” was the code word. They’d be here to rescue me within a minute, if I lived that long.
“Just checking.”
He hung up. They did know the code word was “peachy,” didn’t they?
“Good job, Jack. Now we’ll go for a little ride. Where’s your surveillance?”
“A block away. Down Leavitt.”
“Okay. We’re going out the alley. My truck is back there. Get up.”
I struggled to get to my feet, putting all my weight on my good leg. He wound his hand in my hair and jerked me upward. Then he pulled my head to his face. I felt his breath on my neck, sour milk and rotten meat.
“We’re going to get to know each other, Jack. Like only a man and a woman can. We’re even going to make a little movie.”
He licked my ear. The revulsion I felt was so intense, I had to pull away, ripping out some of my hair in the process.
“Oh, it won’t be so bad. I’m going to make you famous, Lieutenant. Our video will be on every news show in America. They’ll have to edit out the nasty parts, though.”
My cell phone rang. The signal. I dropped to the floor and covered my head just as the door burst inward.
Gunshots. Breaking glass. A moan. One of my guys went down in the doorway, and Charles ran away through the kitchen.
I pulled myself along the floor, over to Latham, checking for a pulse.
Faint, but there.
“Harris!”
He was kneeling next to the fallen body of his partner, a cop named Mark.
“I’ll call for backup!” I told him. “He has a truck out back. Go!”
Harris took off after the killer. I found my phone and dialed 911, saying the most dreaded words in police lingo.
“This is Lieutenant Jack Daniels out of the two-six, officer down . . .”
After giving them my badge number and an address, I crawled over to Mark, who was pitched face-first on the carpet. Shoulder wound, a bad one. I kept pressure on it.
A minute later the place was surrounded with cops. Latham and Mark were carted off in ambulances. They tried to take me too, but I put up such a fight, they gave up.
Harris came back. He’d chased the killer on foot down an alley, but the perp had gotten away in a plumbing truck. He got a plate number, and it matched the one Phin gave us.
Benedict arrived shortly thereafter. “You okay, Jack?”
I was sitting at the kitchen table, an ice pack pressed to my leg. “He got away again, Herb. Even worse—he got my gun.”
The thought of him killing someone with my weapon was almost as sickening as the thought of him torturing me to death.
“On the way over, I got word from the hospital. Your date has a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. He’s in surgery. But it looks pretty good.”
“How about Mark?”
“Stable.” Herb put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes were kind. “This wasn’t your fault. We couldn’t have known he was waiting here for you.”
“Yes we could have. This would all be over now if I’d just used some common sense and thought about it. He’d been following me, Herb, saw me with Latham, and followed him instead. If he dies . . .”
“You aren’t the bad guy here, Jack. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“As if that makes a difference.”
“It does, and you know it. Why don’t you come over? Bernice is keeping the pot roast warm for me. There’s more than enough.”
I shook my head.
“Jack, there’ll be plenty of time to beat yourself up later. Come to my house and eat.”
“I’m going to the hospital, check on Latham.”
Herb frowned, but knew there wasn’t any point in arguing. I stuck around for a bit longer, sulking, and then limped out to my car and went to the hospital.
Latham was in Recovery. The doctor said he was still critical, but the outlook was good. I’d found an address book near his kitchen phone and called his parents. They came about an hour later, crying. We all sat vigil late into the night. None of us slept.
At five in the morning Latham’s eyelids fluttered, and he awoke briefly. His gaze met mine.
“I don’t want you here,” he said.
I went back to my apartment.
There was a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet.
Since sleeping wasn’t an option, I hit the bottle until I passed out.
I
WOKE UP TO PAIN.
Leg pain. Headache pain.
Emotional pain.
One more layer on the shit cake.
It was almost two in the afternoon. My stomach was doing a mambo, protesting all the liquor I’d consumed. I dropped two Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water and drank it before they finished dissolving.
I called the hospital. Latham was stable. His parents didn’t let me talk to him. Couldn’t blame them, I guess. I considered sending flowers, or at least a card apologizing, but they would only be reminders of me, the person who put him through hell.
My stomach settled down some, so I swallowed three aspirin to help with my other aches. I was due for a day off, but didn’t feel that I deserved one. After a shower I scrubbed the bloodstains out of my pants. Then I shelved the guilt for later, and went to work.
Captain Bains wanted to see me. I gave him the blow-by-blow, filled out the requisition form for a new gun, and picked one up at the Armory.
It was homecoming week for the media. The Gingerbread Man’s letter was all over the news last night, as was the discovery of the third woman. The incident at Latham’s fueled the fire. Internal Affairs began conducting an investigation of the loss of my weapon. Bains told me to keep a very low profile, and the word to the world was I’d been suspended pending an inquiry.
Unofficially, I was still on the case. I just wasn’t allowed to be connected with it. We live in a political world.
After working with a police artist to improve our composite photo of the perp, I grabbed a vending-machine ham on rye and went down to the shooting range to try out my new .38.
I spent an hour there, shooting round after round into paper silhouettes, imagining each one was the Gingerbread Man. When I was finished, my gun was hot to the touch and the stench of cordite had penetrated my clothes and hair like cigarette smoke.