Dirty Martini

  Synopsis

  The latest “entertaining,” “tangy,” and “hilarious” Jack Daniels mystery from Anthony, Macavity, and Gumshoe Award finalist J.A. Konrath.

  In Whiskey Sour, Chicago police Lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels hunted down a killer dubbed “The Gingerbread Man.” In Bloody Mary, she busted a psychopath with a penchant for dismemberment. In Rusty Nail, it was a serial killer with a doozy of a family tree. And now, in Dirty Martini, Jack faces her toughest adversary yet: a sicko who’s poisoning the city’s food supply. Can she catch him — and decide whether to accept boyfriend Latham’s surprise proposal — without destroying both her reputation and her sanity?

  DIRTY MARTINI

  By

  J.A. Konrath

  The fourth book in the Jack Daniels series

  Copyright © 2007 Joe Konrath

  This book is for Jim Coursey, who has been there for me since the beginning. Best friends forever, man!

  DIRTY MARTINI

  2 oz vodka

  1 tbsp dry vermouth

  2 tbsp olive juice

  2 olives

  Fill a mixer with all ingredients, including garnish.

  Cover and shake hard 3–4 times.

  Strain contents into a cocktail glass.

  Prologue

  NO SECURITY CAMERAS this time, but he still has to be careful. The smaller the store, the more likely he’ll be remembered.

  He’s dressed for the part. The mustache is fake. So is the shoulder-length hair. His facial jewelry is all clip-on, including the nose ring and the lip ring, and his combat boots have lifts in them, adding almost three inches to his height. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that he picked up at a thrift shop for a quarter, under a red flannel shirt that cost little more. The long sleeves hide the tube.

  When they interview witnesses later, they’ll remember his costume, but not his features.

  He picked a good time of day—the store is busy. The woman behind the counter is speaking German with one of the patrons, three people in line behind her. To the left, an old lady is pushing a small cart, scrutinizing some imported canned goods. In the rear of the store, a fat man is picking up a .5-liter bottle of Weihenstephaner beer.

  At the deli section, he finds the cooler with the fresh fruit. Pretending as if he’s trying to decide, he eventually picks up a red apple.

  He cradles the fruit in his left hand, avoiding the use of his fingertips. Palmed in his right hand, attached to the tube that runs up his sleeve, is the jet injector. It’s four inches long, shaped like a miniature hot glue gun. He touches the orifice to the surface of the apple. Pulls the trigger.

  There’s a brief hissing sound, lasting a fraction of a second. He puts the apple back and selects another, repeating the process.

  Pssssssstttttt.

  After doing four pieces of fruit, some potatoes, and a plastic container of yogurt, the jet injector needs to be armed again—something that will attract attention. He leaves the deli without buying anything, stepping out onto Irving Park Road and into the pedestrian traffic.

  Ethnic stores are easy. He’s already done a supermarket in Chinatown, contaminating some star fruit and dried fish, and a Polish butcher shop on the West Side, injecting almost the entire stock of kielbasa. In Wrigleyville he visited a large chain grocery store and made quick work of some apples, pears, and packages of ground beef, mindful to keep his head lowered so the security cameras didn’t get any good facial shots. Just south of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile he paid for admission to the Art Institute and spent thirty minutes in the cafeteria, using his jet injector on practically everything—cartons of milk, juice boxes, fruit, candy bars—and when the clerk turned her head he sprayed a cloud burst into the nozzles of the soda pop machine.

  He has two stops left: an all-you-can-eat buffet on Halsted, and another grocery store on the North Side. Then he’s done.

  For today.

  Tomorrow he has another eight stores picked out, news permitting. The incubation period is anywhere from a few hours to a few days. There’s a chance people will get sick sometime tonight. Paralysis is terrifying, and once it begins, the infected will rush to the hospital. Diagnosis isn’t easy, but the agent will eventually be discovered. Then the alphabets will be notified—the CDC, WHO, FBI, CPD.

  If the panic spreads ahead of schedule, he’ll have to move up with the Plan and do the second round in a different way.

  It will be interesting to see how things turn out.

  He heads down Lincoln, stopping in a fast-food chain. In the bathroom he detaches the injector from the tube, placing it in his pocket. He washes his hands with soap and holds them under the air drier, which is labeled For Your Sanitary Protection. This prompts a smile. When he’s finished, he removes a moistened alcohol towelette and goes over his hands again.

  At the counter, he orders a burger and fries, and eats while surreptitiously watching the kids frolic in the indoor playland.

  Children’s parks are a cesspool of germs. All that openmouthed coughing and sneezing, all those sticky fingers wiping noses and then touching the slides, the ladders, the bin of a thousand plastic balls, each other. It’s practically a hot zone.

  When he finishes eating, he returns to the bathroom, attaches the jet injector to the tube running up his sleeve, and lightly shakes the cylinder strapped to his waist under his shirt.

  There’s plenty left.

  He arms the injector using the key to torque back the spring, and walks out of the washroom over to the cubby where a dozen pairs of brightly colored kids’ shoes lie in wait. Getting down on one knee, he pretends he’s tying a lace.

  Instead, he injects the rubber soles of five different shoes.

  A small child pokes him from behind.

  “That’s my shoe.”

  He smiles at the boy. “I know. It fell on the floor. Here you go.”

  The child takes the shoe, switches it to his other hand, and wipes his nose with his palm.

  “Thanks,” says the boy.

  The man stands up, winks, and heads north on Lincoln to catch the bus to the all-you-can-eat buffet.

  CHAPTER 1

  Three Days Later

  “IS THAT A REAL GUN ?”

  The little girl probably wasn’t much older than five, but I’m not good with children’s ages. She pointed at my shoulder holster, visible as I leaned into my shopping cart to hand a bag of apples to the cashier.

  “Yes, it is. I’m a cop.”

  “You’re a girl.”

  “I am. So are you.”

  The child frowned. “I know that.”

  I looked around for her mother, but didn’t see anyone nearby who fit the profile.

  “Where’s Mommy?” I asked her.

  She gave me a very serious face. “Over by the coffee.”

  “Let’s go find her.”

  I told the teenaged cashier I’d be a moment. He shrugged. The little girl held out her hand. I took it, surprised by how small it felt. When was the last time I’d held a child’s hand?

  “Did you ever shoot anyone?” she asked.

  From the mouths of babes.

  “Only criminals.”

  “Did they die?”

  “No. I’ve been lucky.”

  Her eyebrows crunched up, and she pursed her tiny lips.

  “Criminals are bad people.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Shouldn’t they die?”

  “Every life is important,” I said. “Even the lives of bad people.”

  A woman, thirties, rushed out into the main aisle and searched left, then right, locking onto the girl.

  “Melinda! What did I tell you about wandering off!”

  She was on us in three steps. Melinda released my hand a
nd pointed at me.

  “I’m okay, Mommy. She’s got a gun.”

  The mother looked at me and turned a shade of white appropriate for snowmen. I dug into my pocket for my badge case.

  “Lieutenant Jack Daniels.” I showed her the gold star and my ID. “You’ve got a cute daughter.”

  Her face went from fraught to relieved. “Thanks. Sometimes I think she needs a leash. Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. I watched her puzzle out what to say next.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said in my cop voice. Then I went back to my groceries. An elderly man, who’d gotten into the checkout line behind me, gave me a look I usually received from felons I’d busted.

  “It’s about goddamn time,” he said.

  “Police business,” I told him, flashing my star again. Then I made a show of looking into his cart. “Sir, this lane is for ten items or less. I’m counting thirteen items in your cart, including that hemorrhoid cream. And while hemorrhoids might give you a reason to be nasty, they don’t give you a reason to be in this lane.”

  He scowled, used a five-letter word to express his opinion of people with two X chromosomes, and then wheeled his cart away.

  Chicago. My kind of town.

  I really missed living here.

  Shopping in the suburbs was cheaper, less crowded, closer to home, and no one ever called me names. I tried it once, at a three-hundred-thousand-square-foot supermarket that sold forty-seven different varieties of potatoes and had carts with little video monitors that broadcast commercials and spit out coupons. Never again.

  You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl.

  I finished paying for my ten items or less and then left the grocery store. The weather hung in the mid-sixties, cloudy, cool for June. My car, an aging Chevy Nova that didn’t befit a woman of my stature or my style, was parked just up the street, next to a fire hydrant. I stuck my bags in the trunk, took a big gulp of wonderfully smoggy city air, and then started the beast and headed for the Eisenhower to battle rush hour traffic.

  “Four more dead, bringing the death toll up to nine. Hundreds more botulism cases have been confirmed, and a city-wide panic has . . .”

  I switched the radio station to an oldies channel, and let Roger Daltrey serenade me through the stop-and-go.

  It took an hour to get to the house. It never took less.

  By my rough calculation, I was averaging ten hours a week driving to and from work, so if I retired in ten years, I will have wasted over five thousand hours—two hundred days—in the car.

  But, on the bright side, I had a big backyard that demanded to be mowed, trees that needed trimming, a clothes dryer in need of repair, a hole in the driveway, mice in the attic, a loose railing on the stairs, water damage in the basement, and flaking paint in the bedroom.

  Lately, my sexual fantasies revolved around once again having a landlord. Looks, age, and hygiene didn’t matter, as long as he had a tool belt and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

  Being a homeowner sucked. Though officially, I wasn’t a homeowner. Chicago cops were required to live within the city limits, so the house was in my mother’s name. While far from feeble, Mom had recently had some medical problems, and we decided that it would be best if she moved in with me. She agreed, but insisted we buy a house in the suburbs. “Where it is less hectic,” she’d said.

  As far as the city knew, I still had my apartment in Wrigleyville. A dangerous game to play, but I wasn’t the first cop to play it.

  I exited the expressway onto Elmhurst Road, drove past several tiny strip malls—or perhaps it was one giant strip mall—and turned down a side street festooned with eighty-year-old oak and elm trees. There weren’t any streetlights, and the cloudy day and abundant foliage made it look like dusk, even though dusk was an hour away. I pulled into the driveway, pressed the garage door opener, pressed it again, pressed it one more time, said some bad words, then got out of the car.

  The suburbs smelled different from the city. Woodsy. Secluded. Clean and safe.

  I hated the suburbs.

  I lugged the groceries to the front door, set them on the porch, reached for my keys, and froze.

  The new door I recently had installed—a security door made of reinforced aluminum with the pick-proof dead bolt that I always made sure was locked tight—was yawning wide open.

  CHAPTER 2

  COP MODE TOOK OVER. My mother, the apple of my eye who’d guilted me into buying this suburban hell-house, was visiting friends in Florida and wouldn’t be back for another week. Latham, my boyfriend, had a key, but he also had a car, which wasn’t parked in the driveway or on the street.

  Several times in my professional past, people had figured out where I lived. Bad people. Which is how I let my mom convince me to move to the middle of a forest preserve.

  I set down the bags and opened my purse, removing my .38 Colt Detective Special, using a two-handed grip, elbows bent, barrel pointing skyward. I nudged the door open with my shoulder, holding my breath, trying to listen. The hardwood floor my mother adored squeaked like a tortured squirrel with every step I took. A male voice came from deep inside the bowels of the house.

  “Debemos cantar algo más . . .”

  I considered my options. My radio was in the car. Cell phone was in my pocket, but 911 would take a few minutes to respond.

  “¡Dios mío!”

  From behind. I spun, dropping to one knee, hearing and then feeling my Donna Karan skirt tear, drawing a bead on a chubby Mexican man in a full red and gold mariachi uniform, complete with sombrero and oversized guitar.

  “Jack!”

  I ascertained that the mariachi wasn’t an immediate threat, turned toward the other voice, and saw Latham standing in the hallway, wearing a tuxedo.

  “Jesus!” I said, hissing out a breath.

  Latham smiled. “Don’t shoot them until after you’ve heard them play.”

  I holstered my gun, Latham came over to help me off my knee, but somehow he wound up on his.

  “Latham, what are—”

  Guitars began to play, and two more mariachis joined their friend next to the breakfront. Latham dug into his tux jacket, coming out with a jewelry box. His red hair was combed back, but a lock of it curled down his forehead. His green eyes were glinting.

  “Jacqueline Daniels, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my entire life.”

  Oh my God.

  He was proposing.

  I had a huge rip in my skirt. I bet my hair was a mess. Did my makeup look okay? I hadn’t checked it in hours.

  “I want you to be my wife. I promise I’ll do everything within my power to make you the happiest woman on the planet. Jacqueline Margaret Daniels, will you marry me?”

  He looked so damn cute, his eyes all glassy, a goofy smile on his face, that dumb music playing behind us.

  Then he held out the ring, and I started to cry. A solitaire diamond, shining like it had batteries, exactly the kind of ring I’d always dreamed of having.

  He took my left hand, went to put the ring on.

  I pulled away.

  His cute face crumpled.

  “I’ve thought it all out, Jack. I know you’ve been burned by marriage before. And I know you just moved here, and you aren’t going to abandon your mother. We have time to work all of that out. I’m not setting a date. I just want . . . need . . . the commitment.”

  For some insane reason, I thought about the little girl at the supermarket, and how right it felt to hold her hand. What are you thinking, Jack? You’re forty-six years old. You can’t possibly . . .

  My cell phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

  “Are you going to get that?” Latham asked.

  Shit. I dug the phone out and slapped it to my face.

  “Daniels.” I turned to the mariachi band and yelled, “Shhh!”

  “This is the superintende
nt’s office. She’s called an emergency meeting. You need to get to police headquarters immediately.”

  The secretary broke the connection. Latham knelt patiently at my feet. To our left, three fat mariachis waited expectantly. I felt like a spotlight had come on and I’d forgotten my lines.

  “You have to go,” Latham said.

  “Latham—”

  “It’s okay. Go ahead.” He smiled, and the smile was so pure, so genuine, it broke my heart.

  Then he put the ring back in its little red box, and my heart broke a second time.

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  I reached out a hand and touched his freshly shaven cheek.

  “Of course I don’t mind. I love you. I just—”

  He stood up, kissed me, and the mariachis broke into song. I’d never kissed a guy with a band playing backup music, and I found it incredibly stupidly romantic and more than a little exciting. My hips touched his, and he slipped his hand down the small of my back and pulled me even closer. It had been about a week since I’d had sex, and I moaned a little in my throat, arousal flushing through me like a drug. Then the lovely guitar strumming was replaced by screams of pain and terror.

  My unfriendly cat, Mr. Friskers, had wrapped himself around one of the mariachis’ heads like a face-hugger from the movie Alien. He did this often enough that we kept a loaded squirt gun in the refrigerator. Latham jogged off to get it, and I tried to explain to the mariachis that pulling wasn’t going to work, because the cat just dug in harder.

  They tried to pull anyway.

  Mariachi blood flowed.

  Latham came back with the squirt gun and some paper towels, apologizing profusely in bad Spanish. After the first spritz, Mr. Friskers fell to the floor, hissed at Latham, and then bounded off down the hallway.

  The mariachi escaped with both eyes still in their sockets, but his mustache was dangling at an odd angle. His bandmates found this amusing enough to spur them into giggling fits.