"Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Ooohh, your voice makes my toes curl. I found the receipts for you, lamb chop. What do you need?"
"Look at one. Other than the date, does it have numbers in the upper corners?"
"Yeah. Two. The left-hand corner, 193, the right one 277."
"Try another receipt."
"Left 193, right 310."
"Keep going."
He read all twelve receipts, and the number in the left-hand corner was 193 in eleven out of the twelve. On the odd one, the number was 102.
"Can I do anything else for you, honey? Anything at all?"
"That should do it. Thanks, Bill."
"My pleasure."
I got on the horn with Information and was charged thirty-five cents to get the number for the 7-Eleven on Monroe and Dearborn. I already had the number somewhere, but like all public servants I'd been rigorously trained to waste taxpayers' money at every opportunity.
"Seven-Eleven," answered a voice with an Indian accent.
I found the deposition on my desk of the manager who'd been watching television while the Jane Doe was dumped in front of his store.
"Mr. Abdul Raheem?"
"No. This is Fasil Raheem. Abdul is my brother."
"This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago Violent Crimes. I'm sure your brother told you about the body discovered in your outside trash."
"He has not stopped talking about it. Is it true he chased the murderer away by showing him karate moves he learned from Van Damme movies?"
"I believe he was watching TV the whole time."
"I thought as much. What can I do for you?"
"Tell me what the two numbers are in the top corners of your receipts, please."
"Simple. The top right-hand number is the order number. The top left-hand number is the store number."
"Are you store number 193?"
"No, Lieutenant. We are store number 102. I believe store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue. Let me check the book."
He hummed to himself, tunelessly, and I felt a tingle of excitement in my gut because my hunch had paid out.
"I was correct. Store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue."
"Thank you, Mr. Raheem."
I hung up, satisfied. Benedict strolled in, handing me a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of Dr. Booster's prescription pad, except now it had writing on it.
"That was quick."
"We used fingerprint powder on it, and it clung to the depressions. No prints, but the writing stood out."
The prescription was for sixty mls of sodium secobarbital, written out by Dr. Booster.
"Handwriting matches previous prescriptions he'd written." Herb held up the Booster case file.
"So he was killed for the prescription, like we'd guessed."
"It gets better. We found something else." Benedict handed me another photocopy. "This was written twenty or so pages into it. Maybe it was just a doodle, or maybe Booster had left a note for us while the killer was there."
It was a chicken scratch, only two words, practically illegible. It said "Buddy's Son."
"So the killer is Buddy's son?"
"Could be. Or maybe his buddy's son. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything. I called Melissa Booster and she doesn't know anyone named Buddy."
I puzzled over it.
"How about the patient list? Someone with the first or last name Buddy?"
"I checked. Nothing even close."
"Let's have Booster's entire life checked out, see if he ever knew someone named Buddy."
"Tall task."
"We'll give it to the task force." I grinned, changing the subject. "I know how the killer dumped the body in the can without being seen."
Benedict raised an eyebrow. I've always wanted to be able to do that; raise one eyebrow in silent inquiry. Unfortunately, both of my brows are hooked up to the same muscle, and whenever I try to raise one I do an involuntary Groucho Marx waggle.
"He swiped a garbage can from a 7-Eleven on Lincoln, took it home, and arranged the body in it, then dropped it off at the 7-Eleven on Monroe and took the other can with him. He could have switched cans in twenty seconds, if he had a ramp and a hand truck."
"Maybe a garbageman?"
"Maybe. Check through Booster's patient list again, check out occupations; garbagemen, mailmen, delivery men, anyone who drives a truck. Check with the DMV as well, run down all truck owners on his list."
The phone rang, and I snatched it up and slapped it to my ear.
"Daniels."
"This is Detective Evens, Palatine PD. I hear you're picking through the Booster case."
I ran it down for him, ending with the discovery of the prescription pad.
"I can't believe we missed it."
"You weren't looking for it. Does the name mean anything to you?"
"Buddy? Nope. Can you fax it over, along with the prescription form? My cap's gonna rip me a new one for not finding this."
"How many interviews did you do?"
"Over thirty. Friends, neighbors, relatives. Anyone who knew the guy since high school."
"Any suspects?"
"You've got the report."
"It doesn't list hunches. Any interview strike you as an oddball?"
"Half of his family were oddballs. But not in the murdering sense. Everyone liked the guy. We couldn't find a reason someone offed him."
"I take it you'll be looking closer now."
"Now that we know he died for a prescription? Hell yeah. Now I can start pulling in dealers, junkies, a whole slew of people."
"We're looking for someone who owns or drives a truck. I could float some manpower your way, you need it."
"Nope. This murder really pissed people off here. Palatine's a nice little town. We got more than enough guys who'd like to take another crack at this case."
"Keep in touch, Evens."
"Right back at you."
I put the phone back in the cradle and sneezed. I fished out another of Herb's tissues. "So let's check out the 7-Eleven on Lincoln, see if they saw anything. Did you run into the Feebies at the lab?"
"Yeah. Thanks for sending them. I had to fake a case of diarrhea to get away from them and their nonstop monologues."
"Did it work?"
"No. They followed me into the can."
"Any prints on the candy?"
"None that we could find. But they're going to run some tests."
"How's the mouth?"
"It hurts, but I've got my taste back. You up for a bite?"
"I've got more reports to go through, then I was going to call it a day."
"Since I'm going out, I'll check the 7-Eleven on Lincoln. If memory serves, it's right next to a great Mexican place."
Herb's stomach rumbled, seconding the motion.
"See you tomorrow, Herb."
"Bye, Jack."
Benedict left. I attacked the pile of paperwork in front of me, including typing up the results of our hospital visit and our trip to Melissa Booster's. This was the computer age, but I still used a standard electric typewriter, aware that fellow officers regarded me as a dinosaur in that aspect. Even if I did go high tech, I don't see what good a computer would do me. Ten words a minute is ten words a minute, no matter what I'm typing on.
When I was done I remained sitting there, staring at the page.
There wasn't anything else I could do at work, but I had no compelling reason to go home. I had no family there, no boyfriend waiting for me. It was just a place where I kept my meager possessions, ate, and tried in vain to rest.
"All I've got is you," I told the report.
The report didn't answer.
I sighed, then got up and left, resigning myself to yet another sleepless night.
Chapter 12
HIS CELLMATE HAD SPOKEN OF THIS place, during the long, boring night hours when rambling was the only way to kill time.
"Just go to the bartender, bald guy named Floyd. Tell him you need a TV repaired."
The Gingerbread Man had taken it with the same grain of salt he took all prison bullshitting. Besides, if he ever needed someone taken care of, he was more than happy to take care of them himself. If doing time taught him anything, it was self-reliance.
But this situation is different. He doesn't want to be connected with the act in the slightest way. Doing the job personally, though rewarding, is too risky. Besides, it feels godlike to be pulling the strings while staying safely behind the scenes. It adds more awe to his persona.