Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Page 21

  Brotsky sets down the garden tool and picks up a cleaver.

  Yeah, this guy is nuts.

  Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag someone’s death out for hours, even days. But Dalton gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

  Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust. Hunger, Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his mouth full of something moist.

  If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he’ll dismember the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he’ll be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he’ll load the bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

  Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, wondering what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn’t bothered by the heat or the humidity, even though it’s close to ninety degrees and he’s wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesn’t sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use them.

  Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He’s lugging several black plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesn’t even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, who’s hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.

  The hit man falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps before jamming the Ruger against the fat man’s back. Brotsky stops cold.

  “This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I’ll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us wants that to happen. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Brotsky says. “Can I put down these bags? They’re heavy.”

  Brotsky doesn’t seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton had guessed.

  “No. We’re going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. You’re going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk.”

  Brotsky does as he’s told. Dalton’s black 1989 Eldorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky’s garage. The car isn’t as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isn’t Italian.

  “Trunk’s open. Put the bags inside and take out the red folder.”

  Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the man’s back to his neck.

  “Take the folder,” Dalton says.

  The light from the trunk is sufficient. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several eight-by-ten photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one that shows him grinning, holding up a severed leg. It’s Dalton’s personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.

  “I’m a schoolteacher,” Brotsky says with the barest trace of a Russian accent. “I don’t have much money.”

  Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes how Brotsky thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.

  “I don’t want to blackmail you,” Dalton says. “My employer is a very important Chicago businessman.”

  Brotsky sighs. “Let me guess. I slaughtered one of his whores, and now you’re going to teach me a lesson.”

  “Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the lunch box in the corner of the trunk? Open it up.”

  Brotsky follows the instructions. The box is filled with several stacks of twenty-dollar bills. Three thousand in cash, total.

  “What is this?” Brotsky asks.

  “Consider it a retainer,” Dalton says. “My employer wants to hire you.”

  “Hire me for what?”

  “To do what you’re doing for free.” Dalton leans forward, whispers in Brotsky’s plump, hairy ear. “He wants you to kill some prostitutes.”

  Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips part in a smile. His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit.

  “This employer of yours,” Brotsky says. “I think I’m going to like working for him.”

  Chapter 3

  1989, August 15

  I didn’t become a cop to do things like this.

  The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said “Isuzu Trooper” on the fender. I found them to be too big and blocky, especially for an urban setting like Chicago. And with gas prices up to almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted the trend would catch on.

  The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even though I was nearly naked.

  My candy apple red lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier. I’d done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming from the alley was a force of nature.

  “Your call, Jackie,” my earpiece said. My partner, Officer Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang parked up the street.

  “Aren’t you bored with this game yet?” I said into the microphone, which was hidden in my Madonna push-up bustier—an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a top. Jacqueline Streng, working girl. I reached inside the cup and readjusted my boob. The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder and heavier, the sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my bra strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my Fredrick’s of Hollywood blonde Medusa wig.

  “I’ll be bored when I’m actually ahead a few bucks,” Harry said. “Go on. Guess.”

  I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around for something. Possibly his wallet. Hopefully not a straight razor or an Uzi. He was Caucasian, late forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married with kids.

  “BJ,” I said to Harry.

  “Naw. I’m guessing something pervy.”

  “He looks like a member of the PTA.”

  “The clean-cut guys are always the perverts.”

  “You said the weird-looking guys are always the perverts.”

  “They’re pretty much all perverts. I’ll say foot fetishist.”

  I actually didn’t know what a foot fetishist did. Something to do with feet, I assumed, but what? The Vice training manual didn’t explain that particular kink. I wasn’t about to ask Harry, because he’d make fun of me. It was hard enough being a female in the Chicago Police Department. Being a young female who did prostitution stings made me an easy target for potshots.

  Not that I would be young for much longer. Today officially began the last year of my twenties. I was going to celebrate the happy occasion by watching TV and getting drunk. My boyfriend, Alan, was out of town on a business trip, and so far he’d neglected to get me anything. Big mistake. True, I didn’t want any reminders of my rapidly retreating youth. But we cops were big on intent. And forgetting your girlfriend’s birthday said a lot about your future intent.

  Not that I had any intentions myself. His last name was Daniels, for chrissakes. I had a hard enough time getting respect on the Job. If my name was Jack Daniels, I’d be the laughingstock of the city.

  “You in or out, Jackie?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Ten-spot?”

  “Make it twenty. I got a feeling.”

  Bald Guy honked again. I pulled up the elastic top of one of my black fishnet stockings, pulled down the hem of my hot pink spandex micro-mini skirt, and walked over to the car on painfully high, strappy heels, trying to look sexy when I felt completely ridiculous. His window opened, and I stuck my head inside.
The air-conditioning bathed my face, cooling the sweat on my brow and upper lip.

  “How are you tonight, sugar?” I asked, smacking my gum.

  Bald Guy appeared nervous, jittery. Most of them did. Maybe because soliciting sex was embarrassing. Or maybe because they were worried that the hooker they propositioned was actually an undercover cop.

  Imagine that.

  “How much?” he asked without looking at me.

  “How much what?” I asked.

  “How much money?”

  In order to make a clean arrest, and avoid the dreaded entrapment defense, the suspect had to be the one to bring up the subject of money. This guy cut right to the heart of the matter. Now he needed to mention what he wanted in exchange.

  “Depends,” I said, playing coy. “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “Something special. Can you quote me your, um, rates?”

  “Sure. Head is ten. Straight is fifteen. Half-and-half is twenty. Round the world is thirty. Anything to do with feet is fifty.”

  “No fair!” McGlade yelled in my ear. “You’re price-jacking!”

  I hoped Bald Guy didn’t hear that, even though it was so loud my eyes bugged out.

  “I’ve got kind of a strange request,” Bald Guy said.

  I leaned in further. The air-conditioning was wonderfully frigid, and the interior smelled like lemon air freshener. After four hours on the street, this was a little slice of heaven.

  “Kinky is extra. Tell me what you need, big boy.”

  “Actually, I’ll pay you fifty dollars if you just hold me for ten minutes.”

  I blinked. “Hold you?”

  He nodded, his face puppy dog sad.

  “We can’t arrest him for that,” Harry said. “Ask him if he wants to suck your toes.”

  I ignored Harry, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Especially with him in my ear. “That’s all?” I asked Bald Guy. “Just hold you?”

  “That’s all.” His shoulders slumped. I felt kind of sorry for him.

  “Tell him you’ve been on your feet all day,” Harry said, “and your toes are really sweaty and stinky.”

  I wished I could turn the earpiece off.

  “That’s kind of weird,” I told the guy. “Don’t you have a mother or an aunt or someone else who can give you a hug?”

  “No one. I just got divorced, and I’m all alone.”

  “How about friends? Neighbors? A church group?”

  Bald Guy shook his head.

  Harry said, “Try taking off your shoe and sticking your foot under his nose.”

  “I just need a little tenderness,” Bald Guy said. “Will you do it?”

  He looked so devastated, so desperate. Plus his vehicle was air-conditioned and smelled nice. What more prompting did I need? I walked around the front of his car/truck and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Dammit, Jackie! Find another john!” Harry, screaming in my ear. “There aren’t any laws against cuddling! Don’t waste our time!”

  The earpiece really needed an off switch. In fact, so did Harry. The sad thing was, Harry wasn’t as bad as some of the other jerks I had to work with. What did a female cop have to do to earn the respect of her peers in this city?

  I guessed it wasn’t dressing up as a hooker, hawking BJs.

  “Okay,” I said. “One quick hug. On the house.”

  I opened up my arms, ready to embrace this poor clod, and he handed me a latex glove. I backed off a notch.

  “Are you sick?” I asked.

  “Contagious?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. While you’re hugging me, I’d like you to stick your fingers up my bottom.”

  No wonder he was divorced. “And wiggle them,” he added. “Mirandize that pervert,” McGlade said. “I’ll call the wagon and be right there.”

  I opened my silver-sequined purse, reaching for my badge and handcuffs.

  “I’m a police officer,” I said, making my voice hard, “and you’re under arrest for soliciting a sexual act. Put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  Bald Guy turned bright red, then burst into tears. “I only wanted a little tenderness!”

  “Place your hands on the steering wheel, sir. And for future reference, fingers up the wazoo really don’t qualify as tenderness.”

  “I’m so lonely!” he sobbed. “Buy a dog.” An unwelcome image popped into my head, of this pervert with some poor schnauzer. “On second thought, that’s a bad idea.”

  Bald Guy moaned, wiped his nose with his wrist, and then flung open his door and ran like hell. Which didn’t make much sense, considering that in jail he could probably find someone to fulfill his request for free.

  “He bolted!” I yelled to Harry. “Coming your way!”

  I pushed open my door and scrambled after him. Three steps into my pursuit I broke a heel and almost fell onto my face. I recovered in time, but my speed was drastically reduced. A penguin on stilts would have been faster and looked less clumsy. I wasn’t about to kick my broken pump off—this wasn’t the nicest part of town, and I didn’t want to step on a dirty needle.

  “He ducked down the alley, Jackie!” Harry said. “It lets out on Halsted. Run around and block his exit!”

  Easy for him to say. He was wearing gym shoes.

  I rounded the corner, hobbling as fast as I could, my spandex skirt riding up and encircling my waist like a neon pink belt. My purse orbited my neck on its spaghetti strap, and each time it passed in front of my face I reached for it and missed. Inside was my Beretta 86, and I didn’t want to be charging into any alleys without it firmly in hand.

  Honking, from the street. I wondered if it was the squadrol—a police wagon that picked up and booked the suspects we caught on this sting. No such luck. It was a carload of cute preppy guys. They hooted at me, pumping their fists in the air.

  “What’s that sound?” Harry said. “You watching Arsenio?”

  I skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley, tugged down my skirt, and pulled out my Beretta.

  The hooting stopped. I heard one of the preppies yell, “The whore is packing heat!” and their tires squealed, their car rocketing away.

  “Where is he?” I said into the mic. “If he didn’t come out on your side, he’s hiding in the alley somewhere.”

  “I’ll meet you in the middle.” “It’s dark. Don’t shoot me by mistake.”

  Harry didn’t mean it to be condescending, but he wouldn’t have said it if I were a man. I set my jaw, gripped my weapon in both hands with my elbows bent and the barrel pointing skyward, and crept into the alley.

  The decaying garbage odor got worse with every step, so bad I could taste it in the back of my throat. I moved slowly, letting my eyes sweep left and right, looking for any place Bald Guy could hide. I came up to a parked car, checked under it, behind it.

  “Jesus, the stink is making my eyes water,” Harry said. “It smells like some fat guys with BO ate bad cheese and took a group shit on a rotting corpse.”

  Harry wore so much Brut aftershave I was surprised he could smell anything.

  “You’re a poet, McGlade.” “Why? Did I rhyme something?”

  I stuck my head into a shadowy doorway, didn’t find Bald Guy, and went deeper into the alley.

  Then I heard the scream.

  It came from ahead of me. A man’s voice, with a hollow quality to it.

  Something horrible was happening to Bald Guy.

  My whole body became gooseflesh. I just joined Vice two weeks ago. Even though I was still a patrol officer and made the same pay, I jumped at the chance to wear plainclothes and ditch the standard uniform. But plainclothes turned out to be hooker-wear, and I felt especially vulnerable without my dress blues on. It wasn’t easy being tough when you were wearing a micro-mini.

  Another scream ripped through the alley. The little girl in me, the one who still woke up scared during thunderstorms, wanted to turn around and run.

  But if I gave in to my fear, Harry would ment
ion it in the arrest report. Then it would be back to riding patrol and answering radio calls, where I got even less respect.

  I forced myself to move forward. Now my gun was pointing in front of me, toward the direction of the sound. The Beretta was double action, and protocol dictated it stayed uncocked. The harder pull meant fewer accidental shootings. Theoretically, at least. My finger was so tight on the trigger that a strong breeze would have caused me to fire.

  “You see him?” Harry asked. I heard him in my earpiece, but I also heard him in the alley, somewhere ahead.

  “Not yet.” “Maybe he’s screaming because he can’t stand the smell.”

  I didn’t think that was the case. I’d heard my share of screams on the Job. Screams of joy. Screams of sorrow. Screams of pain.

  This was a scream of terror.

  A clanging sound, only a few yards away from me. A Dumpster. I held my breath, heard whimpering coming from inside.

  “He’s in a Dumpster,” I told Harry.

  “Probably sitting in a big pile of rats.”

  I approached quickly. It was dark, but I could see the Dumpster lid was open.

  “This is the police!” I shouted, hoping my voice didn’t quaver. “Raise your hands up where I can see them!”

  Bald Guy complied. But there was something wrong. Rather than two hands, I counted three.

  I moved closer and realized the third hand wasn’t his. It belonged to a woman.

  And it wasn’t attached to the rest of her. Bald Guy was holding it, the look on his face pure horror.

  I felt someone touch my shoulder and jumped back. It was Harry.

  “Looks like he got you a birthday present, Jackie. Quite a handy guy.”

  My stomach seized up, and then I bent over and vomited, soaking my broken shoes and getting it caught in the fake curls hanging in front of my face. When I heaved for the final time, the transmitter popped free of my bustier and plonked into the puddle of puke.

  “Happy twenty-ninth,” Harry said.