“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 star 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 doesn’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 9mm Beretta, 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 tugged out my Beretta.
The hooting stopped. I heard one of the preppies yell, “The whore is packing heat!” and their tires squealed away.
“Where is he?” I said into the mike.
“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/echoey 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’re 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 mention 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 less 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 Dumptser,” 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.
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, 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.
The following is an excerpt of Killers by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn.
Donaldson
“…multiple fractures of the clavicle, humerus, radius and ulna, a dislocated shoulder, a dislocated elbow, multiple contusions and lacerations, including skin abrasions covering about thirty percent of his body. A concussion. Plus the son of a bitch lost six teeth and an ear.”
The man speaking had a high-pitched voice, with a slight southern lilt.
“How’d it happen?” This voice was Latino, probably Mexican.
“Chained to the back of his own car, which went down the side of a goddamn mountain.”
“Poor guy.”
“Don’t waste any tears on this one. See the deputy outside? Soon as this bastard wakes up, he’s getting arrested. This dude is a serial killer. Name is Gregory Donaldson. Likes to cut up hitchhikers. Did all kinds of crazy, sick shit to them. Hear tell, he murdered more than fifty people.”
Low whistle from the Mexican. “Goddamn. Looks like he got what was coming to him.”
“You said it, brother. There’s a special room in hell for people like this.”
Donaldson peeked his eyes open. The men in his hospital room wore scrubs, the kind with novelty print patterns that were supposed to cheer up patients. One of them was chubby, early thirties, in need of a shave. The other was short, Hispanic, and even from ten feet away Donaldson could smell his armpit stains.