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

  “Third floor, unit 345,” I whispered to Herb. “Ask the manager who it belongs to.”

  I listened to Herb ask, heard mild protestations and more talk of warrants, and then my partner used some very bad language and the manager became cooperative.

  “Cute,” Herb said. “It’s rented under the name John Smith. Paid for the month, and the deposit, with cash. I’m looking at his rental agreement. Listed his place of residence as 2650 South California Avenue.”

  Cute was right. That was the address of the Criminal Courts Building, adjacent to Cook County Jail.

  “Check on our backup. I’m approaching 345.”

  I dug out my Colt, its weigh reassuring, and approached the storage unit on the balls of my feet so my heels didn’t click. This was one of the larger units, with an orange metal door that lifted overhead on rollers. It was three-quarters of the way closed, which meant it was open about eighteen inches. When I got within three feet I squatted down, checking to see if someone was standing inside. I didn’t see legs, but toward the rear of the storage area I caught a shadow of movement.

  I aimed my weapon at the door. “This is Lieutenant Daniels of the Chicago Police. I’m ordering the man in unit 345 to come out slowly, hands in the air. This is a direct command from a police officer.”

  I pressed my back against the door of an adjacent unit, out of the line of fire. Then I listened.

  No response. No movement.

  “I repeat, a Chicago police officer is giving you an order. If you don’t come out right now, hands in the air, I will open fire.”

  I wasn’t going to open fire. I could just picture the inquest and subsequent suspension and lawsuit if I shot someone through the door to a storage unit. But nine times out of ten, suspects usually followed my commands.

  I waited. Apparently this was a one out of ten situation. Setting my jaw, I eased myself over to the door, getting down on one knee, looking under the space between it and the floor. Again I saw movement, near the rear.

  Without hesitating, I gripped the underside of the door and jerked it, sending it upward on its rollers, extending my gun hand with my finger on the trigger, moving fast into the space, ready for anything.

  But I wasn’t ready for this. In twenty years on the force, this was the most horrible thing I’d ever seen.

  “Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

  “Jack?” Herb said in my earpiece. He said some other things as well, but I didn’t hear them because I was bent over, throwing up my breakfast all over my Jimmy Choos—something I hadn’t done since I was a rookie working Vice.

  When I recovered, I checked the hallway both left and right, sweeping the area even though the perp was obviously gone. The only thing the storage unit contained was the IV stand, an empty tripod, the machine, and the misshapen, naked, dead man with the slit throat.

  Then the dead man opened his eyes. I couldn’t hear his agonizing moan through the ball gag, but his pinched face spoke of unbearable pain.

  I hurried to him, hitting the button on the infernal machine to stop the rotation even though I was potentially contaminating a crime scene. Then I pressed my hand to the gushing wound in the man’s neck, even as he thrashed away from my touch.

  “Herb! Call an ambulance! And cover the exit, our perp—”

  “Holy shit.”

  I heard Herb twice, first in both ears and then in one. I turned and saw him standing there, jaw open, staring at me and the vic.

  Herb did what I’d done. He turned and puked.

  My mind seemed to both slow down and speed up at the same time. If Herb was up here, there was no one covering the exit. We needed to catch that son of a bitch. But we also needed to save this poor bastard, which meant calling an ambulance. And I couldn’t take my hand off his neck, or off my gun, in case the perp came back.

  “HERB!” I shouted with all I had. “AMBULANCE!”

  He pulled it together, calling the paramedics on his radio, then calling backup to tell them to cover the car parked outside. Hot blood gushed through my fingers, down my arm.

  “Backup’s still a minute away,” Herb said.

  I thought about ordering him downstairs to try to head Mr. K off—because there was no doubt this was Mr. K—but I wouldn’t send him after that maniac without backup.

  “Cover the hallway,” I said, tucking my gun into my holster and unbuckling the ball gag on the victim because he was blowing air through the hole in his neck.

  As soon as the gag dropped free, he cried out in a voice that would haunt my nightmares forever.

  “LET ME DIE! LET ME DIE!”

  But I couldn’t let him die, even though he eventually did. I kept pressure on his neck wound, trying not to look at him, trying not to cry, not even able to talk soothingly to him as his life mercifully slipped away.

  Twenty-one years ago

  1989, August 16

  “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, making 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.

  But I wasn’t going to do anything with Shell. At least, not at that moment. I’d only met the guy two hours ago. I considered myself liberated, but that didn’t mean I was easy.

  “So how about you?” I asked. “How did you wind up running an escort service?”

  Shell’s lips formed a small grin, and he glanced away, back to some long-ago memory. “I’ve always liked the finer things in life. Food, wine, fashion, cars, hotels.” His eyes centered on mine. “Women.”

  The way he said it made me feel like I was, indeed, one of the finer things in life.

  “A few years ago I was dating a dynamite woman,” he continued. “Smart. Sassy. Beautiful. She was a model, but finding it increasingly difficult to find paying gigs. She told me she was considering becoming an escort to make ends meet, but was clueless about how to get started. I took it upon myself to help her. For my assistance, she gave me twenty percent of the escort money she earned. She also recommended I help some of her friends do the same thing. A business was born.”

  “When was the first murder?”

  Shell’s face clouded, and I was a little sorry I’d lapsed into cop mode. But I needed this information, and talking to someone who knew the victims would be more helpful than reading about them in police reports.

  “A month ago,” Shell said. “Her name was Nancy. Nancy Slusar. Like Linda, she’d been…” Shell swallowed, “…hacked to pieces.”

  “Did Nancy, Linda, or you have any enemies?”

  “I gave Detective Benedict a short list. Three disgruntled clients. Several women I had to fire for inappropriate behavior. A guy who kept hanging around, wanting to date one of the girls.”

  “How about business competition? How do you get along with the other escort services?”

  “The girls often sign up with more than one service, to maximize the amount of dates they get. We’re mostly ambivalent about each other.”

  “Mostly?” I probed.

  “There is one service—the Dodd Agency—who has aggressively tried to pursue some of my girls, wanting them exclusively. I had to retain a lawyer to get them to stop it. I believe they’re Outfit owned and operated.”

  “Outfit?”

  “You know. The mob.”

  I wished I’d had a notepad like Herb’s to write this stuff down. Instead, I committed it to memory.

  “So.” Shell’s tone changed, from sad and guarded to flirty once again. “Are you ready to go shopping?”

  “Shopping?”

  “For clothing. You have to look the
part for your photo.”

  I had no idea where he was going with this. “What photo?”

  “For your portfolio. Clients choose their dates based on a photo and a detailed bio. So we need to go shopping, get you something suitable.”

  “I guess,” I said.

  Shell dug into his wallet and dropped a hundred dollars on the table, more than covering the tab. “You don’t seem excited by the prospect. Most of the women I know love to shop.”

  I put my elbows on the table, resting my face in my hands. “Most of the men I know love to work on cars. I can’t imagine you getting grease under your manicure.”

  He smirked. “Touché. Those who buy Cadillacs can afford to pay someone to tune them up.”

  “I could have guessed you had a Cadillac.”

  “I love it. In fact, I love it so much I wouldn’t trust a mechanic to tune it up. So I do it myself. And this isn’t a manicure.” Shell held up his hand, spreading his fingers. “I’ve been successfully clipping my own nails for years now.”

  I was surprised, and a little impressed. “I guess we were both wrong to stereotype.”

  “Agreed. So what is it you do like doing, if I might ask?”

  “Competition shooting. I’m the best marksman in the district.”

  Shell raised an eyebrow. “Marksman?”

  “The Chicago PD is still getting used to the idea that someone with boobs can shoot. All of my trophies have little gold men in Weaver stances on top of them.”

  “I bet that pisses off your fellow law enforcement officers.”

  “It does,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”

  Shell stood up, holding out his hand. “So, Officer Streng, are you ready to piss off more of your coworkers by catching this psycho murdering my girls?”

  I took Shell’s hand. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”

  Present day

  2010, August 10

  I had to take a break from rubbing the rope against the edge of the concrete. The salt Mr. K had applied had gotten into the raw skin on my wrists, and the pain was otherworldly. I could have worked through the pain, but it was so bad it caused me to cry, and the crying was accompanied by a runny nose.