J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.

It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.

His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.

Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.

Pain-free.

On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.

The mortician doesn’t pick up.

Alarms go off in Fuller’s head. Rushlo always picks up. That’s part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo’s Funeral Home.

Another call.

No answer.

Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?

Rushlo won’t talk. He’s sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.

But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.

Jack’s earrings.

He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?

Worry creeps up Barry’s shoulders and crouches there.

He calls Rushlo again.

No answer.

He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.

Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.

It’s over. Time to leave the country.

Fuller’s bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.

“You need shoes to enter, sir.”

Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.

“Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I’ll beat your ass right here.”

The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.

“I need to open my security box. Now.”

The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.

“I’ll need a bag.”

The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash – shakedowns from his patrolman days – a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.

A meter maid is writing him a ticket.

“Sorry, sister. I’m on the job.”

She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.

Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancún. It leaves in three hours.

Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.

Fuller doesn’t want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they’re on to him, they’ll be staking out his house.

But he can’t leave the country without killing that bitch he married. That just wouldn’t do.

He dials home, rehearsing the lines in his head.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Holly. It’s me.”

“What do you want?”

No fear in her tone. No nervousness or hesitation.

“Everything okay, babe? You sound strange.”

“Everything is not okay. These damn curtains are driving me insane. How could we have lived with them for so long, Barry? They’re hideous.”

So far, she seems normal.

“Hon, I’m expecting some guys from the office to drop by later. Are they there yet?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe parked out front?”

“Why would they be parked out front?”

“Can you check for me, babe? It’s important.”

“Just a second.” Rustling, footsteps. “I’m looking at the street. No one out front.”

Fuller considers this. Maybe they haven’t found out about him yet. Maybe he can go home, do the bitch, and be able to pack his bags and some things.

He instantly rejects the idea as too dangerous.

“Baby, do you remember where we bought our bedroom set?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Meet me there in an hour.”

“What for?”

Fuller smiles. “We’re shopping for curtains.”

“Really?”

“Really. Oh, and bring me a change of clothes and some shoes.”

“Why? What are you talking about?”

“Long story. Some street lunatic threw up on me, and I’m wearing my workout sweats. Just bring me shorts, a T-shirt, and my Nikes. Meet me in Home Furnishings.”

“Okay, Barry. See you in an hour.”

Fuller puts the cell phone away and turns right, heading for State Street. He’ll kill her inside Marshall Field’s. She’s a clotheshorse, and it won’t take much to get her to try on an outfit. He’ll break her neck in one of the dressing rooms. It’s not the fillet knife that he always wanted to use, but it should be satisfying enough.

Hands-on treatment always is.

“She’s on the move.”

Holly Fuller walked out of her apartment building and hailed a Yellow Cab.

Herb pulled into traffic behind her. I removed the earpiece, shoved it in my blazer pocket. After McGlade made Rushlo sing, we secured a quick subpoena to tap Fuller’s home phone. A fake telemarketing call to the Fuller household proved Barry wasn’t there. Since it was his day off, we decided to keep vigil until we heard from him.

The phone call disturbed me. Fuller seemed extra careful not to mention the name of the store where he wanted to meet his wife. And why would he need a change of clothes? Did he know we had Rushlo? I hoped not. Barry Fuller was not the kind of man who would be easy to subdue if forewarned.

I picked up the receiver on Herb’s police band.

“This is Two-Delta-Seven, tailing Yellow Cab number six-four-seven-niner Thomas X-ray. Passenger is Holly Fuller, thirty-two, blonde, five-eight, hundred and ten pounds. She’s wearing a red and orange summer dress, and carrying a red Nike gym bag. They’re turning south onto Michigan Avenue. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over.”

“Roger, Two-Delta-Seven. Twelve-Homer-Nineteen flanking South on Wabash, over.”

“Roger, both. Sixteen-Angel-Niner turning east on Grand to intercept, over.”

My team was unmarked, but a plain white sedan still screamed COP to all who saw it, so I ordered them to hang back. Even if we lost her, a call to the cab company would tell us where she was dropped off.

“Think she’s headed for Water Tower Place?” Herb asked.

“Could be. Or State Street. Seems like a woman with expensive tastes. Her shoes are Ferragamos.”

“You could tell through the binocs?”

“I’ve had my eye on that same pair for two months. Five hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Do they come with a trip to Rio?”

“Don’t pretend to understand fashion, Herb. And I won’t make any comments about this big red penis you’re driving around in.”

Herb humphed.

“My Camaro? I bought this solely for comfort.”

“So did Holly Fuller.”

Traffic was tight, befitting a weekend on the Magnificent Mile. This was the best-known part of Chicago. The skyscrapers, John Hancock and the AON Center (formerly Amoco, and before that, Standard Oil). Nieman Marcus and Saks. Navy Pier. The Art Institute. Orchestra Hall. Further south, Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium.

The sidewalks were packed – not quite shoulder to shoulder, but personal space was at a premium. The sun beat down on everyone and everything, and I couldn’t use the binoculars because I kept catching glints off of cars and hurting my eyes.