Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Page 22

  Chapter 4

  1989, August 16

  The Cook County Morgue smelled like a butcher shop from Dante’s seventh circle of hell.

  Underneath the acrid stench of bleach and spray disinfectant, there was the unmistakable odor of meat. But it was meat on the verge of going bad—the beginning stages of rot that all the chemicals in the world couldn’t completely mask.

  I was standing in one of the autopsy rooms, staring down at the headless corpse of a naked Caucasian woman—the one we’d discovered in the Dumpster while chasing that bald john the night before. Her arms and legs were severed, but Medical Examiner Phil Blasky—a balding man with an egg-shaped head—had placed them in the appropriate spots along her torso.

  I wondered if they would be sewn back on before burial, or if it didn’t matter, since she didn’t have a head.

  I’d traded my hooker outfit for plainclothes—a gray, off-the-rack pantsuit I bought at Sears. It was too loose in the butt and too tight in the chest, and with my hair pulled back I looked somewhat like an effeminate man. Especially since I’d forsaken makeup, having had enough of the gunk caked on me yesterday. In the car ride over to the morgue, I spent five solid minutes trying to convince my partner, Harry McGlade, that I wasn’t a lesbian.

  Harry nudged me with his elbow, then pointed to the dead woman’s chest.

  “Look how perky they are, even in death. Think they’re even paid for yet?”

  The corpse’s implants stuck out like two torpedoes. Except for their color—a very pale blue—they looked like they’d popped right out of the pages of Playboy.

  “Maybe you should have that done,” Harry said. “You’re sort of lacking in that department, Jackie.”

  “You forgot to take your pill today, Harry.”

  “My pill?”

  “Your shut the fuck up pill.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “And you’re seven kinds of stupid. You ever want to make detective?”

  Harry shrugged.

  “Well, I do,” I said through my teeth as Blasky came back into the room. “So try to act like a cop.”

  Harry saluted me. “Yes, sir.”

  Asshole. I still couldn’t believe I got stuck with him as a partner.

  Blasky stood across the autopsy table from us. He nodded at me. Unlike the old boys’ network back at the district house, Blasky treated me like a cop, not like a girl or a pretender to the throne.

  “Do you know the cause of death?” I asked.

  “I’m not a doctor,” Harry said, “but I’d put my money on the severed head and limbs.”

  Blasky smiled condescendingly at Harry. “Then you’d lose your money,” Blasky said, his voice deep and commanding, not far off from Darth Vader’s. “The amputations were postmortem. CAT scan shows she died from internal hemorrhaging. Several major organs were pierced.”

  “How?” Harry folded his arms across his chest. “There are no stab wounds at all.”

  I was wondering the same thing, but then I noticed a trickle of blood seeping out between the woman’s legs.

  “A sharpened broomstick,” I said.

  Blasky raised an eyebrow. “That’s my guess as well. We’ll know for sure when I open her up. Why didn’t you think it was a sword? Or a poker?”

  “Those would have damaged her labia.”

  “What?” McGlade asked. “You mean someone stuck a…oh, shit…that’s sick.”

  “Have you swabbed for semen?” I asked.

  “Yes. Negative.”

  That didn’t rule out rape. Perp could have used a condom. The cause of death made this an obvious sex murder.

  “Defense marks?” I asked.

  The medical examiner shook his head. “No. No ligature marks either. I’m betting the blood work shows drugs.”

  After discovering the body in the Dumpster last night, I’d stayed and watched the crime scene team do their work. They’d dusted for prints on the body and come up negative. They’d also scraped under the fingernails in the hope the victim scratched her killer and picked up some of his skin cells or blood. Chicago had adopted the new DNA profiling technique begun in England, and it could directly link a perp to a crime by determining a genetic match.

  But if the victim were drugged to the point where she didn’t even need to be tied up while she was being assaulted, chances weren’t high there would be DNA evidence.

  I put my hand in front of my face to stifle a yawn. After watching the crime scene guys do their thing, I’d had to write my report of the murder, as well as my report for arresting the john who hopped into the Dumpster after asking me to manipulate his prostate. As a result, I slept a total of two hours, and that was mostly tossing and turning. I’d been struggling with insomnia since graduating the police academy, but I was pretty sure it was a transitory thing.

  At least, I hoped it was.

  The door to the autopsy room opened, and two men walked in. Both were thin, both were older than McGlade and I. One was dressed like me—a cheap suit, barely concealing the shoulder holster. He had a thick, wide mustache that looked a lot like Teddy Roosevelt’s. I don’t think he could have appeared more like a stereotypical Homicide detective if he tried.

  The other wore a gray suit that fit like it was made just for him and probably cost more than I earned in a month. He obviously wasn’t a cop, and he was kind of cute, in a strong-jawed male-model sort of way.

  The cop eyed Harry and me, then held out his hand.

  “Detective Herb Benedict, Homicide. Call me Herb.”

  His grip was warm and confident.

  “Officer Jacqueline Streng. Jacqueline is fine.” I hated when Harry called me Jackie.

  “Who’s the suit?” Harry asked.

  The good-looking man answered, “Armani.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Armani,” I said, extending my hand.

  The man’s eyes twinkled. “The suit is made by a designer named Giorgio Armani. My name is Shell Compton.”

  His grip was also warm and confident, but it lingered longer than Herb’s.

  “This one of your whores, Shelly?” Harry asked, jerking a thumb at the corpse.

  Shell’s face got hard, and he took his hand back and stared at McGlade. “None of the ladies who work with me are whores. They’re escorts, and what they chose to do with their clients is their business and perfectly legal.”

  “Huh,” Harry said. “Never met a self-righteous pimp before.”

  “Is he your partner?” Shell asked me.

  I nodded.

  Shell tilted his head to the side and whispered, so only I heard him. “I’m so sorry.”

  Then we all turned our attention to the body. I watched Shell’s eyes, watched his look of shock turn to sadness when he noticed the tattoo on the corpse’s ankle.

  “That’s Linda,” he said, shoulders sagging.

  “You’re sure?” Herb asked.

  “Tattoo on her ankle. Mole on her collarbone.” He turned away, glassy-eyed.

  Herb flipped open a handheld notepad. “You reported Linda Candell missing yesterday. She’d been gone for forty-eight hours prior to that.”

  Shell nodded. “Linda wasn’t flighty. She didn’t just disappear, and she’d never miss a date with a client. I tried to file a police report after she missed her first appointment, but I was told I had to wait two days.” He looked at the ME. “When did she die?”

  Blasky clucked his tongue. “Hard to say. When I took her core temperature, it was seventy degrees. In that heat, in that dumpster, it should have been at least a hundred. I think, after she was murdered, the killer put her on ice. Not a freezer—there aren’t freezer burns. But someplace cold.”

  I felt a shiver crawl up my backbone. Being horribly murdered was bad enough. Getting stuck in a refrigerator afterward, like meat, was one of the worst things I’d ever heard.

  Shell must not have cared for the idea either. He excused himself and hurried out of the room. Herb tucked his notebook into his breast po
cket and turned to me.

  “How long have you been doing Vice stings, Jacqueline?”

  “Yesterday was my sixth night.”

  “Do you think you can do an undercover operation for longer than a night? Say, a week or two?”

  I felt my pulse quicken, wondering if this would be my opportunity to finally work Homicide. Goodbye spandex skirts and slutty high heels. Hello respect and commendation.

  “This is the third body in six weeks,” Herb continued. “Same MO. All escorts. Two of them worked for Shell.”

  “He’s gotta be the killer,” Harry said. “I don’t trust guys who wear nice clothes.”

  Both Herb and I ignored him. “You’re thinking I pose as an escort,” I said.

  Herb nodded. “I’ve already talked to my captain. You’d be placed in Shell’s operation, working full time. He’s already agreed. We think it might be someone close to his business, maybe a client or a competitor. You wouldn’t have to do anything sexual. Shell was telling the truth; his escort service is simply an escort service, not a prostitution ring. You’d wear a wire the whole time, be under full surveillance—”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, interrupting him.

  Herb stared at me. He had a kind face, but his gaze was hard. “Wasn’t too long ago I was a uniform, eager to get into plainclothes. But this is serious, Jacqueline. The man doing this is a monster.”

  I gave him a hard stare right back. “I’m in. This is why I became a cop.”

  We held the intensity for a few seconds in silence, then Herb grinned. “Great,” he said, chuckling.

  Was he mocking me? I folded my arms across my chest. “Is something funny, Detective?”

  Herb shook his head. “Not at all. I just have this feeling we’re going to work well together.”

  Chapter 5

  “What we’re proposing,” Herb said, the beer in front of him untouched, “is deeper undercover than you’ve ever been before.”

  We were in a local pub on Addison, sitting at a high, round table on high, round bar stools, squinting at each other in the low lighting and talking over the ten TVs showing local sports.

  “We’re thinking at least two weeks,” Herb continued.

  Harry snorted into his glass of Old Style, spraying foam across the table. “You not only want Jackie to pretend to be an escort, but to do it for more than a day or two? Gimme a break.”

  I steeled my eyes at McGlade, wondering what I’d done in a previous life to deserve him. Maybe I’d been Joseph Stalin, or some other genocidal maniac.

  “I’ve been doing undercover stings for two weeks now, McGlade. I can handle it.”

  “You’ve been playing street whores, Jackie. All you need is a short skirt. Escorts are classy ladies. They dress nice. They talk nice. They look nice. You don’t wear makeup, and when you do doll yourself up, you put on your eye shadow with a paint roller and look like Big Bird from Sesame Street. And your clothes? Was Montgomery Wards having a sale on suits in the teenage boys department?”

  It was Sears, not Wards. But I wasn’t about to give him any more ammo.

  “We’re done,” Herb said. He was talking to Harry.

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “We want Jacqueline for this. Not you. I already cleared it. Go talk to your captain about reassignment.”

  Harry blinked. Then he blinked again. “But Jackie’s my partner.”

  “Was your partner. For this case, she’s my partner. Now I’ll let you sit here and finish your beer, but keep your mouth shut. I’m sick of hearing it.”

  Harry got down off his bar stool, sticking out his chin. “I get it. You’re grumpy because your wife doesn’t give you any, and you didn’t have time this morning to rub one out in the shower. So now you’re pulling rank, getting your rocks off that way. Well, I’ve got better things to do than hang out in this dumb bar with you dumb people.” He nodded at me. “Good night, Jackie.”

  Then he left our table, and sat down one table over.

  “Was that guy dropped down the stairs as a baby?” Herb asked me.

  “I think he was dropped down an escalator, and fell for three hours.”

  Herb smiled at me. I decided I liked him, in a big brother kind of way.

  I also liked our drinking companion, Shell. But in a way that decidedly wasn’t big brotherish. The guy I was dating, Alan, was a moody, artsy type, and his neuroses merged well with mine. Shell was polished and cocksure and easy to look at. The type of guy I secretly wanted to go out with in college, but who intimidated me with their charisma.

  I was determined not to be intimidated this time. Even if it meant I had to sleep with him to get over it.

  “So you think I can do this?” I was looking at Shell, not Herb.

  Shell leaned over the table, his hands sliding forward so his knuckles brushed mine. “I do. I think you’ll be perfect.”

  Herb drained half his beer, spilling a bit on his tie. “This isn’t like streetwalker stings, Jacqueline. Your obnoxious partner is right. We don’t know who’s doing this to Shell’s girls. Could be a client. Could be someone on the inside. Could be a stranger, stalking from the shadows. You’ll need to live the part. It means rooming with the other girls, talking to them like you’re one of them, actually becoming one of them. It means going out on dates.”

  “But I don’t have to…”

  “Make love to them?” Shell asked, offering a sly smile. “No. We’re a legitimate escort service. A real estate broker needs arm candy for his high school reunion. Mortgage banker needs a date to his niece’s wedding. Lonely widower doesn’t want to eat out alone. That type of thing. It’s all legitimate, and our clients are aware they aren’t allowed to hit on the girls unless the girl makes the first move.”

  “How often does that happen?” I asked.

  In the background, the bar broke out into cheers and applause.

  “Some of our clients are rich, powerful men,” Shell said. “Some are famous. Whatever two consenting adults decide to do privately has nothing to do with me or my business, and it’s all off the clock.”

  “Can you do this, Jacqueline?” Herb said.

  I stared at Shell. “Yes.”

  “You’d be living with the other girls. You might be away from home for a while.”

  I thought about my crappy Wrigleyville apartment. “Not a problem.”

  “If you have a pet, a cat—”

  I shook my head. “I hate cats. I’d never own a cat.”

  “Do you have any objections to starting tomorrow?” Herb asked. “Your captain said Homicide can have you on loan for as long as we need you.”

  I struggled to suppress a giggle. Me? Working Homicide? That had only been my goal since joining the force.

  “Tomorrow sounds fine,” I said, keeping a straight face.

  “Great!” Shell clasped my hands, in a way that was both formal yet intimate. “Welcome to Classy Companions.”

  “We’ll get started in the morning,” Herb said. “I can pick you up.”

  “I’ve got a car,” I said. It was a Nova, only a few years old.

  “Okay. Meet me at the station at eight a.m.”

  “Sounds good.” I glanced at Shell. “What should I wear?”

  “Something nice,” he said.

  “How nice are we talking, here?”

  “I’ll take care of that.” He gave my hands an extra squeeze.

  “I’ll meet you both tomorrow,” Herb said. “In the meantime, I’ve pulled the victims’ files. I’d like you to take a look, see if you spot anything we missed. I’m anxious to hear your take on this.”

  Herb pulled some files from his briefcase. He stacked them onto the table, pushing them over to me. If he’d called me the most beautiful woman on the planet, it couldn’t have flattered me more. My respect for Herb kept going up and up.

  “I’ll get started on these right away,” I promised.

  The waitress brought the bill to Herb, and he squinted at it, makin
g a face.

  “We didn’t order thirty-two shots of tequila.”

  She smacked her gum and cocked out a hip. “Your friend did. The one who was sitting at the table next to you. He bought shots for everyone in the bar, but said for us to skip you guys because you were driving.”

  Shell smiled politely and took the bill. I looked around for Harry, but he’d wisely made a quick exit. Annoying as he was, the guy did have a certain lowbrow style.

  “See you tomorrow,” Herb said, standing up. “Partner.”

  He stuck out his hand. I shook it gladly. Herb nodded a goodbye to Shell, then left the restaurant.

  “He’s a good guy,” Shell said, running his finger along the edge of his beer glass.

  “Seems like it,” I agreed.

  “Has the metabolism of a hummingbird. Before we went to the morgue I watched him polish off three hot dogs with the works. I don’t know where he puts it. The guy should weigh three hundred pounds.”

  I tried to imagine thin-as-a-rail Herb weighing that much, but just couldn’t see it.

  “So tell me,” Shell said, leaning forward on the table so his knuckles brushed mine again, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a career like this?”

  I’d been asked that before, but never like that. Most people wondered what was wrong with me for wanting to be a cop. When Shell asked me, I felt like my job impressed him.

  “Mom was on the force,” I said, leaning closer, letting our fingers meet. I liked it that Shell was confident enough to flirt with me, and wondered how far he would take it if I let him. “But she joined in the sixties. Women didn’t climb the ranks, and we didn’t get the due respect.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for? Rank and respect?”

  I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

  “What rank are you shooting for?”

  “I’m going to make lieutenant by the time I’m forty.”

  Shell ran his index finger over the back of my hand. “I’m sure you will.”

  I probably should have pulled away. But Shell was attractive, and saying all the right things, and I was feeling bold and a bit reckless. My so-called boyfriend, Alan, hadn’t so much as called me on my birthday yesterday. That stung. Neither of us had said I love you yet, and even though he had a key to my place we’d never had the we’re exclusive talk. So if I wound up doing anything with Shell I wouldn’t be cheating.