Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Read online

  When Brotsky had grabbed me and Shell, I hadn’t been his original target. Shell had been. He’d been following Shell, and had gotten in line behind us—something I vaguely recalled—at Buddy Guy’s, drugging our drinks while they languished on the bar. When Brotsky found out I was a cop after searching my purse, he was ordered to murder me as well.

  Though Herb saw me get into Shell’s car, he never heard that we went to Buddy Guy’s instead of Miller’s. Herb had spent three hours at Miller’s, waiting for us, when he caught the squeal about me and Brotsky on the radio. Herb got to the scene a little after the uniforms had arrived. He rode in the ambulance with me.

  “You are one helluva cop,” he said as they were putting the cast on my leg. “When are you going to take your detective’s exam?”

  “Soon,” I promised.

  “Still interested in Homicide?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Herb smiled widely and shook his head. “One helluva cop, Jacqueline.”

  I smiled right back. “Call me Jack,” I said.

  I figured I’d better get used to it, since I had decided to marry Alan. I didn’t want kids. At least, not yet. But having someone to go home to after nights like that one was something I couldn’t chance to pass up.

  This case had changed me. Scared me. Matured me. Made me realize how strong I was, and what I was capable of. I had a new look. A new attitude. Soon I’d have a new rank.

  And a new name would be perfect to go along with all of that.

  Look out world, get ready for Jack Daniels.

  Epilogue

  He has waited for a while now.

  Waited for the right moment.

  The perfect time.

  While he waited, he watched. And planned.

  There was much planning.

  Broken bones take time to heal. He wants Jack to be at her best.

  It was actually a good thing to wait, because now Jack is having a baby.

  The baby excites Luther. Jack has always been a fighter. Now she’ll have even more to fight for. Even more to live for.

  He’s waited a long time.

  He can wait a little longer.

  Seven months, two weeks, and four days longer.

  That’s two days before Jack’s due date.

  Luther knows, because he found a nurse who worked for Jack’s ob-gyn. He took the nurse to a nice, quiet spot, and she told him everything he wanted to know.

  So he’ll wait a bit longer.

  Wait, and watch, and plan.

  Wait until Jack’s leg heals.

  Wait until she’s ready to have her baby.

  That’s when he will begin their game.

  Author’s Afterword

  So you might have noticed that the end of Shaken appears to set up an eighth Jack Daniels novel involving Luther Kite, who actually isn’t one of my characters.

  Here’s the story behind that.

  I’m good friends with thriller author Blake Crouch, and our writing has covered many of the same themes of good and evil. I love his terror novels Desert Places and Locked Doors, which showcase his own unique, disturbing take on the serial killer genre.

  In 2009, we wrote a novella together called Serial Uncut (available on Amazon), combining some of the characters from his work and my work, including Jack Daniels, Taylor (from Afraid and Trapped, written under my pen name, Jack Kilborn), and Mr. K. It also featured the villains from Blake’s first two novels, specifically a fiendish maniac named Luther Kite.

  I approached Blake with a simple, yet unique, idea: Wouldn’t it be fun to take Jack and Luther and pit them against each other in a full-length novel? He was all for it. That novel is Stirred, which we’re currently writing.

  But aside from being just a fun collaboration where two writers go to war on the page, Stirred will also be something bittersweet for the authors. It will be the conclusion to my Jack Daniels series and the conclusion to Blake’s Andrew Thomas series.

  If you’re new to my books, or Blake’s books, and want to get caught up on the entire universe of these characters before reading Stirred, here is the order they go in, along with the characters they spotlight:

  Shot of Tequila by J.A. Konrath (1991, Jack Daniels)

  Desert Places by Blake Crouch (1996, Luther Kite)

  Locked Doors by Blake Crouch (2003, Luther Kite)

  Whiskey Sour by J.A. Konrath (2004, Jack Daniels, Alex Kork)

  Bloody Mary by J.A. Konrath (2005, Jack Daniels)

  Rusty Nail by J.A. Konrath (2006, Jack Daniels, Alex Kork)

  Dirty Martini by J.A. Konrath (2007, Jack Daniels)

  Serial Uncut by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, and J.A. Konrath (1978–2010, Jack Daniels, Luther Kite, Taylor, Mr. K)

  Afraid by Jack Kilborn (2008, Taylor)

  Jack Daniels Stories by J.A. Konrath (2004–2010, Jack Daniels)

  Fuzzy Navel by J.A. Konrath (2008, Jack Daniels, Alex Kork)

  Cherry Bomb by J.A. Konrath (2009, Jack Daniels, Alex Kork)

  Trapped by Jack Kilborn (2010, Taylor)

  Shaken by J.A. Konrath (2010, Jack Daniels, Mr. K, Luther Kite)

  Stirred by Blake Crouch and J.A. Konrath (2011, Jack Daniels, Luther Kite)

  This may seem like a devious effort by us to get you to buy everything we’ve written. I swear it isn’t. If it was, I would have mentioned Blake’s novels Abandon and Snowbound, and my novels Origin, Disturb, The List, and Endurance. The List has a Jack Daniels cameo, and the heroes are Tom Mankowski and Roy Lewis, who have a bit part in Shaken.

  Seriously, though. It really isn’t necessary for you to read any of these previous novels to enjoy Stirred.

  But we’d love you even more if you did. :)

  Joe Konrath

  Schaumburg, IL

  SHAKEN

  LINEAR VERSION

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  1985, October 15

  Sergeant Rostenkowski walked into the classroom and cleared his throat, getting everyone’s attention. He was old—probably close to fifty—thick, with hands like two-by-fours, the knuckles covered with curly, gray hair. When he spoke, it was with utmost authority, and all of us took notes. Standing next to him was a short man in an ill-fitting suit whom we’d never seen before.

  “Our guest speaker today is Dr. Malcolm Horner,” the sergeant boomed, “a clinical psychiatrist from the University of Chicago.”

  Harry McGlade raised his hand and began talking without being called on. “Doc, I’ve been having these dreams where I’m trying to throw a spear at a giant pink pretzel, but every time I throw it my spear bends in half.”

  Everyone in class laughed, except for me. I nudged my one-piece chair and desk away from Harry and silently pitied the poor sap who got stuck being his partner after graduating from the police academy.

  Dr. Horner smiled politely. “Your problem, Cadet, is firmly rooted in the fact that you have to be the center of attention, probably because your parents didn’t love you enough.”

  Harry’s grin fell away, but mine blossomed.

  “My mom may not have loved me,” Harry said, “but the last time I saw your mom, which was yesterday—”

  “Can it, McGlade.” Rostenkowski shot out one of his cut the bullshit looks, and Harry clammed up. “Now, please welcome Dr. Horner to our class.”

  The fifty or so cadets offered the psychiatrist a weak round of applause. It was close to dinner time, we’d been running drills all day, and I figured everyone was as hungry, exhausted, and brain dead as I was. While I was sure Dr. Horner would be tremendously enlightening (baloney, because during four weeks at the police academy the speakers had ranged from bland to downright awful), now wasn’t a good time to absorb a lecture. But like any good student, I dutifully opened my notebook to a blank page and jammed a pen between my fingers.

  “Gentlemen…and ladies,” Dr. Horner acknowledged me, the only woman in the room. “Today I’m going to talk about evil.”

  My interest was piqued. In th
e nonstop lectures I’d been forced to endure about the criminal mind, the word evil hadn’t been used before. We’d had terms like socioeconomic factors and biological positivism and differential association hammered into our heads, but nothing on evil.

  This prompted a predictable outburst from Harry. “I just joined so I could catch bad guys.”

  While being a law enforcement officer had as much to do with how and why criminals became criminals as it did with how to catch them, part of me was with Harry on this issue. While poverty, upbringing, and genetics all contributed to illegal behavior, I was more interested in stopping it than understanding it.

  But evil? That was for philosophy class, not psychology. I thought about mentioning that, but someone in the front row beat me to the punch.

  “We’ve been told evil doesn’t exist. Last week, your colleague, Dr. Habersham, lectured that morality had no place in law enforcement. We’re supposed to enforce the law, not judge right and wrong.”

  “I’m surprised you stayed awake long enough during Dr. Habersham’s lecture to absorb that tidbit.”

  Laughter broke out. I was starting to like this guy. “Indeed,” he continued, “some schools of philosophy dictate that morality changes according to society. For example, in ancient Rome it was considered acceptable to throw people to the lions. A little over a hundred years ago, our country bought and sold human beings. Forty years ago, Germany endorsed genocide, something still common in modern times. For a recent example look at Cambodia and the killing fields, where more than two hundred thousand people were forced to dig their own graves before being beaten to death with ax handles because their executioners wanted to save on ammunition.”

  I looked around. No one was fidgeting or sleeping. Even Harry seemed to be paying attention.

  “If we’re going to discuss evil,” Dr. Horner went on, “first we must decide whether evil is defined as an act, or as a trait. Let’s do a thought experiment. An innocent, let’s say a child, is murdered. By a show of hands, is this an evil act?”

  Almost every hand went up. I kept mine on my desk. Dr. Horner met my eyes, pointed at me.

  “Your hand didn’t go up. Can you tell us why, Miss…?”

  “Streng,” I said. “Jacqueline Streng. There might be altruistic intentions for the malice aforethought and…” my mind groped for the Latin term we recently learned, “mens rea.”

  Dr. Horner smiled. “I see you’ve been studying hard, Miss Streng, but please cut the jargon and give me an example when murdering a child isn’t evil.”

  “What if it’s a child dying of cancer, and in terrible pain? A parent, or someone else who loves the child, might attempt murder to end the suffering.”

  “Excellent, Miss Streng. Mercy killing, by law, meets the requirements for murder. The act of committing the crime, actus reus, and the willful intent to commit the crime, mens rea, is indeed malice aforethought, and according to the present law, that parent is a murderer. In this scenario, how many of you think the act is evil?”

  No one raised their hand. “But earlier, almost every hand was up. If the act itself isn’t evil, what is?”

  Someone said, “Motive.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Horner nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. A parent’s decision to murder is based on ending a child’s agony. A noble, unselfish motive. Now let me show you a motive that’s a bit more selfish. Lights, please.”

  Rostenkowski killed the lights, and Dr. Horner positioned himself behind a slide projector. He switched it on, and an image threw itself up on the movie screen on the far wall.

  Someone coughed—an attempt to cover up a gag. I forced myself to look even though I had to hold my breath to do so. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

  “This victim has never been identified. The missing fingers and missing teeth have made it impossible to trace who she is. They were removed while she was still alive. The mutilation here—”

  Dr. Horner used a pointer and tapped the screen, touching the victim’s pelvis.

  “—was caused by a sharp instrument, a filet knife, or perhaps a scalpel. The victim was forced to eat these parts of herself. This white powder is salt, rubbed into the wounds. The burns here, here, here, and here were the result of a super-heated flame. Possibly a blowtorch.”

  Dr. Horner turned away from the slide and stood in front of the screen, the ghastly image projected on his face and body.

  “The autopsy determined, based on how some of the wounds had had time to heal, that she’d been tortured for at least twenty-four hours. We have no suspects, but some of the atrocities committed upon her have been seen in other, similar murders. The perpetrator has been dubbed Unknown Subject K by the FBI. We’ve taken to calling him Mr. K for short. Lights please, Sergeant.”

  The overhead fluorescent light flickered on. It reduced the brightness of the slide, but not enough. Details could still be seen.

  “Now I present to you my earlier question. By a show of hands, who believes Mr. K is evil?”

  Every hand went up but mine. Dr. Horner focused on me. “Surely you don’t believe this is a mercy killing, Miss Streng.”

  Titters from the peanut gallery. “No. Of course not.”

  “So why didn’t you raise your hand?”

  “I don’t know enough about the case.”

  Dr. Horner folded his arms across his chest. “What more do you need to know?”

  “Was she raped?”

  “Aw, come on!” Harry, naturally. “She was tortured for an entire day! What does it matter if she was raped, too?”

  “Rape is a crime of violence,” I stated, “but rapists tend to enjoy the act.”

  Dr. Horner tilted his head. “Sexual assault is unverified. Those parts of her were cut away. No semen was found.”

  “Was this the crime scene?” I asked. “Or was she dumped there?”

  “We believe the apartment where she was discovered was where the crime was committed.”

  “Were there condoms found in the apartment? Condom wrappers?”

  “No.”

  “Was it her apartment?”

  “No. The room was supposed to be unoccupied.”

  “Were there neighbors?”

  Dr. Horner offered a small smile. “Yes, on either side.”

  “No one heard her screams?”

  “No. The same thing that allowed Mr. K to pry out her teeth also kept her from making any sound. A ball gag, holding her mouth open. Sold in sex shops across town and in the backs of pornographic magazines worldwide.”

  “Did he use ball gags on his other alleged victims?”

  “Let’s stick with this one. What is your reasoning that Mr. K might not be evil? His objective was obviously to cause pain and death.”

  I tapped my eraser against my desk. “But what was his motive? Did he do this because he knew the victim and hated her? Is he a sexual predator, a lust killer, who derived pleasure from his acts? Or was this murder dispassionate? Maybe someone paid him to commit these acts, but he had no feelings about it one way or the other.”

  “You’re going to make an excellent police officer, Miss Daniels,” Dr. Horner said.

  “And I agree with you completely. Mr. K’s intent was to murder in a ghastly fashion, but his motive might have been personal, sexual, or even financial. But the question is, which is the most evil?”

  Dr. Horner stepped closer to me, so the victim’s face projected onto his own.

  “If you were at Mr. K’s mercy, Miss Streng, would you prefer him to be a sexual sadist who delighted in your agony, or a cold-blooded mercenary who dispassionately inflicted these tortures because he was just following orders?”

  Chapter 2

  1989, June 23

  This guy isn’t a killer, Dalton thinks. He’s a butcher.

  Dalton isn’t repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute’s body with some kind of three-p
ronged garden tool.

  There’s a lot of blood.

  Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But there’s something classic, something pure, about shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.

  Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the setting sun. He’s standing in the backyard of Brotsky’s house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into Brotsky’s living room, where the carnage is taking place. Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his property, he’s still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked. Anyone could walk by.

  It’s not a smart way to conduct a murder.

  Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago Police Department hasn’t come knocking on Brotsky’s door yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

  But luck runs out.

  At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down, Dalton thinks. He snaps another photo. Brotsky’s naked barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. He’s not a tall man, but he’s thick, with big muscles under a layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his balding head gives off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.