J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

I fished through the pockets of my blazer and took out a folded head shot of Davi McCormick.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

I watched Colin’s face. He glanced at the photo without changing his expression.

“Never saw her.”

“She called your cell phone a few days ago.”

“Don’t got no cell phone.”

I read the phone number to him.

“Don’t got that phone no more. Lost it.”

“When did you lose it?”

“Couple weeks ago.”

Herb bent down, reaching for Colin’s foot.

“I think you dropped something, Colin. Well – lookee here.”

Herb held up the bag of powdered sugar.

“Dog, that ain’t mine!”

Herb made an innocent face. “I saw it fall out of your pocket. Didn’t you, Jack?”

“I don’t even deal that shit, man. I just distribute the herb.”

“Where’s your phone, Colin?”

“I told you, I lost the phone.”

Benedict dipped a finger into the bag, then touched his tongue.

“How much you think is here? Eight, ten grams? That’s what – thirty years?”

I moved closer to Colin. “We found the arms. We know she called you.”

“What arms? I don’t carry, man. I’m low-key.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“I don’t know.”

Colin looked frightened. Though I couldn’t arrest him for possession of a known confectionary, I decided to push my luck.

“You know the drill, Colin. On your knees, hands behind your head.”

“I don’t have the phone! I swear! You need to ask your people!”

“What people?”

“Cops. When I got arrested last month, they took my phone. I never got it back.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Herb was dipping back into the bag for another taste. I stepped between him and Colin.

“You’re saying we have your phone?”

“I had it with me when I got booked, and when I got sprung no one knew anything about my phone.”

I had a pretty good internal BS detector, and Colin was either a much better liar than I was used to, or he was telling the truth.

“Have you canceled the service?”

“Haven’t got round to it.”

“Why not?”

I saw fear flash across Colin’s eyes.

“Colin, do you know who has your phone?”

“No.”

“Colin, the person who took your phone is very dangerous. If you tell us who it is, we can protect you.”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Maybe a trip to the station will help jog your memory.”

Colin glanced at Herb and smirked. “I don’t think you be charging me with nothing.”

I looked. Benedict was licking a large mound of white powder out of his palm.

“I’m testing the purity,” Benedict said. His beard was dusty with sugar.

Colin went to the door and held it open.

“Y’all can go now.”

“Colin…”

“I know my rights. If I tell you to go, you got to go.”

“We want to help you, Colin.”

“Yeah, right.”

I handed him my card. He took it, reluctantly.

“If a police officer stole your cell phone, you can file a formal complaint. You can help us get this guy.”

“Whatever.”

We left the apartment.

“Jesus, Herb. Real professional.”

“I couldn’t help it. I haven’t had anything sweet in over a week. Once I had that little taste, I couldn’t stop.”

He drove his point home by upending the remainder of the bag into his mouth.

“Do you know how many carbs are in that?”

“I don’t care. It’s like an orgy on my tongue.”

“During the orgy, did you manage to pick up on what Colin said?”

He nodded, his face turning somber.

The perp had access to my handcuffs, to the county morgue, and to Colin’s cell phone.

All signs pointed to the killer being a cop.

Unfortunately, this did little to narrow it down. Chicago had a police force of over seventeen thousand. I had eight hundred working out of my district, plus cops from the other districts came and went on a daily basis. So did cops from out of town, Feds, lawyers, and government officials.

Benedict seemed to sense my thoughts. “Maybe we’ll be able to narrow it down once we go through the complete phone log.”

“Who’s Colin’s carrier?”

“FoneCo. They want a subpoena before they release his records.”

“We can swing by the courthouse.”

Benedict probed his goatee with his tongue, seeking out stray calories.

“Should we put a team on Colin?”

I considered it. If Colin saw cops hanging around, he might freak out and try to run. Plus, who could I trust to put on him? What if I accidentally sent the killer?

“No. We should talk to the assistant State’s Attorney first. Colin’s court case is coming up.”

I didn’t like driving away knowing that Colin was hiding something, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Coming to him with a deal might loosen his tongue.

“I hope it’s not a bad cop, Jack.”

Me too. If cops were viewed as the enemy, the tenuous balance of power could shift. Laws would be broken out of contempt. Authority wouldn’t be acknowledged. Police officers might even be attacked, or worse.

I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about rioting.

“We’re probably wrong, Herb. It’s probably not a cop at all.”

But deep down, I knew we were right.

He watches them get into the sports car and pull away. That bitch Daniels, and her fat-ass partner, Herb Benedict.

He climbs out of his car and walks toward Colin Andrews’s apartment.

He expected them to eventually find Andrews, but not this quickly.

No matter. He’ll just jump ahead in the plan a little.

There’s an empty plastic soda bottle next to the security door. He snatches it up and enters the building.

It’s hot. Dark. He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket, and they make a snapping sound. They’re tight on his large, sweaty hands.

He has a slight headache, but the aspirin is keeping it under control. He’s here for business, not pleasure.

But his arousal is apparent.

He knocks on Andrews’s door.

“Chicago Police Department.”

Silence. He knocks again.

“Open the door, this is the police.”

“You ain’t getting in without a warrant.”

A male voice. Scared.

“We have a warrant,” the killer lies.

“Slip it under the door.”

He looks left, then right. All clear.

Taking one step back, he sets his shoulder, and then charges the door.

The frame snaps like balsa wood. Colin Andrews sprawls backward, hands clutched to a bleeding nose. The killer enters and shuts the door, shoving it hard so it fits back into the splintered jamb.

“Colin? Who’s there?”

He grins. A woman. He hadn’t expected that.

This is gonna be fun.

Colin is on the floor, scrambling backward, eyes wide as dinner plates.

He considers kicking him, decides he doesn’t want to get blood on his pants, and pulls out his throwaway piece: a 9mm Firestar that he liberated from the evidence locker at the same time he’d taken Colin’s cell phone.

The gun presses against Colin’s forehead.

“Ask her to join the party.”

Colin opens his mouth. No words come out.

He taps him on the skull, hard, with the butt of the gun.

“Get her in here, now.”

The blubbering begins. Colin calls for his mama, voice cracking though the sobs.

Colin’s mother is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. She’s younger than the killer expected. Prettier too.

“Hi, Mama.” He blows her a kiss. “Go sit on the sofa. The three of us are going to have a conversation.”

Mama cops an attitude, hands rising to her hips. “What the-”