J. Konrath: Cherry Bomb

The sixth book in the Jack Daniels series, 2009

1 oz. vodka

1½ oz. white crème de cacao

¾ oz. grenadine

1 maraschino cherry

Shake vodka, crème de cacao,

and grenadine with ice.

Pour into a rocks glass.

Garnish with cherry.

AT MY FIANCÉ’S FUNERAL I got a phone call from the woman who killed him.

“I checked the Weather Channel.” Her tone was conversational, cheery. “It’s raining in Chicago. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Funerals on sunny days seem so wrong.”

The pastor hit the switch, and the mechanical winch lowered Latham’s casket into the ground on black canvas straps. Slow, like it was sinking into a swamp. The rain beaded up on the lacquered oak lid and I had an irrational urge to find a towel, wipe it dry. Latham didn’t deserve to spend eternity wet.

“I’m coming after you,” I whispered into the phone.

“That’s what he said. Before I shot him. He said you’d come after me. Latham had faith in you until the very end, Jack. Like a puppy dog. Poor guy. Murdered, just for loving the wrong woman.”

My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had been staring at me since the phone rang. Herb’s black suit was purchased back when he weighed less, the tightness making his large stomach seem even larger. His free hand-the one that wasn’t holding the crutch-reached up and touched my shoulder.

Alex? he mouthed.

I nodded.

“Is this your grand plan, Alex? Calling me to make me feel guilty?”

“I don’t need to make you feel guilty, Jack. You’re already guilty. Latham was a good man. I would have preferred shooting you in the head, but our game isn’t over yet. Later today I’m sending you a picture over the phone. Twelve hours from then, the man in the picture will die. Unless you can find him and save him. I hope, for his sake, you do a better job than you did with your fiancé.”

I gripped the cell phone so hard my hand was shaking. Latham’s casket dropped below ground level, and the tears on my face mingled with the rain. I managed to keep my voice even.

“And what if I don’t want to play your game?”

“The man I’m going to kill has a wife and kids. Leading the kind of life that you might have led, if you weren’t burying your future. If you don’t make an effort to save him, the next picture I send you will be of a playground filled with children. How much more guilt can you handle before you crumble and blow away?”

I wiped my cheeks, then turned away from the grave. Latham’s family stared hard at me. No pity in their eyes. Only disdain.

“Don’t cry. And if I may be blunt, don’t you think that skirt you’re wearing is a little short? Not very appropriate, unless you’re cruising the funeral for a rebound fuck.”

I glanced down at my knee-length dress, then did a quick 360.

“Careful, Jack. You’re spinning so fast you may knock your fat partner off his crutch.”

I covered the phone and faced Herb. “She’s here.”

Herb hit his lapel mike, turning on his radio and calling for a perimeter sweep. There were more than fifty cops at the funeral. As they scattered I dug my. 38 Colt out of my Gucci handbag and walked away from the grave site, scanning tombstones and monuments, heels sinking into the wet sod, worming my way through Latham’s family while they shamed me with hateful glares.

“You brought a gun to a funeral, Jack?” Alex asked. “Were you expecting me to show up?”

“I was hoping.”

The October wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves and cold air across my scalp, making my stitches sting. Twenty-plus years of on the job training made me keep low, a smaller target. Not that it mattered. Alex was a crack shot.

“Turn left,” Alex said, “another few yards, next to the mausoleum. There’s an angel watching over you.”

I followed instructions, feeling like I had a bull’s-eye on my forehead, and not minding much. I ran my eyes along the slanting granite roof of the stone structure, and noticed the statue of a cherub perched on top. Something was duct-taped to his hand. I moved in closer, gun arm extended, and saw it was a camera phone.

“Twelve hours, Jack. Then he dies. And keep your cell on. Never know when I might call with a hint. Don’t fail him like you failed Latham.”

Alex hung up. My legs decided they didn’t want to support me anymore, and I fell to my knees, my gun hand dropping to my side, cursing the day I became a police officer.

MILES AWAY, Alexandra Kork sits in a coffee store chain, sipping a tall black dark roast. Alex doesn’t care for coffee, but the free WiFi access makes her Internet trail harder to trace. She moves a finger along her laptop touch-pad, and the camera zooms in on Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, kneeling in the mud. The image is in color, with a gorgeous 600 dpi resolution that is unfortunately blurred by the drizzle.

Behind the mesh veil, Alex smiles with half of her face. Like Jack, she wears funeral black, but her heels and her hemline are higher. The outfit is new, a Dolce & Gabbana two-button blazer with a matching skirt. No top underneath, just a push-up bra that reveals a lot of cleavage in the V-neck. The hat is vintage, purchased at a thrift store, wide brimmed and stylish in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way. The netting extends from the brim and curls down to beneath her chin, tickling her neck. For the discreet serial killer, it’s the next best thing to a hockey mask.

Above the scents of coffee and cinnamon, Alex catches a whiff of Lagerfeld. It stings her sore nose. She powers off the computer just as the man approaches her small table. Mid-fifties, balding, short. His suit is tailored, expensive, but still can’t hide the middle-age spread and the bullfrog chin. The gold wedding band is tight on his sausage finger.

“I noticed you sitting here, and I wanted to offer my condolences,” he says, speaking to her breasts. Men are laughably predictable. If she were topless, she wouldn’t even need the veil to hide her face-no man would bother looking above her collarbone.

“Thank you,” Alex says. “I’d offer you a seat, but I was just leaving.”

Alex stands. She’s two inches taller than he, and his eyes follow her cleavage like laser scopes. He seems momentarily unable to speak, so Alex prompts him.

“This may sound rash, but I’m feeling vulnerable right now, and I could use some company. Would you walk me back to my hotel room?”

Now his eyes meet hers. They widen with possibilities.

“Of course. Let me get my things.”

He hurries over to his table, grabbing his umbrella, reaching for the paper cup of coffee and open copy of the Wall Street Journal and then hesitating. Alex can almost see his thoughts pop up over his head in cartoon balloons. If he takes the paper and coffee, then he won’t have a hand free to help console the poor widow. He chooses to leave them, then spins fast and bumps into another man who is also staring at Alex. They exchange glances, one gloating, the other envious, and then he slips past and offers Alex his arm.

Alex tucks her computer into the carrying case, pulls the strap over her shoulder, and links her fingers around his biceps, feeling the doughy fat beneath the fabric. There are six people in the coffee shop, three of whom watch them walk to the door.