J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“I like that show on TV that you’re in, that Fatal Autonomy . You’re pretty funny. I loved the one where you were screaming and screaming and screaming for help and that private eye guy took off his dirty sock and crammed it in your mouth.”

I gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Good episode.”

Peter chimed in. “My favorite is the one where you tracked down that killer and went to shoot him but you forgot to load your gun.” He slapped his thigh, grinning. “Classic.”

“That didn’t really happen.”

“Sure was funny, though.” Peter eyed my outfit. “I think it’s great you’re losing weight. Made my job a lot easier, carrying you.”

I considered telling him that I wasn’t fat, that was only the actress who played me, but I let discretion be the better part of valor.

“Excuse me.” I slid past. “Gotta get home and drink my Slim-Fast shake. Thanks again, guys.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Daniels.”

Since the paramedics had taken me to the hospital, I had to take a cab to my car, still parked on Hamilton. A single fire engine remained on the scene, hosing down Diane Kork’s house. The flames had long since been extinguished, but the heat remained. When the water hit certain spots, it hissed and steamed fiercely.

I wanted to poke around inside, but now didn’t seem like a good time. Plus, I was exhausted. I did drive around to the back alley, and was rewarded with a nice surprise: two rearview mirrors, broken and lying on the asphalt.

Evidence. I hoped it would be enough.

I MANAGED TO sleep for six whole hours, which was wonderful, but waking up was a Spanish Inquisition interrogation.

My eyes were glued shut with crust, my nose and throat were raw, my hand felt like I was holding it over a stove burner, and my ear throbbed with my heartbeat. A bad headache was the cherry on top of the pain sundae.

Good freaking morning.

I sat up and stared into the indifferent eyes of Mr. Friskers, who perched at the foot of my bed like a gargoyle.

“What do you want, cat? Food?”

He meowed.

I almost did a double take. Mr. Friskers never meowed. His normal method of communication was hissing or yowling.

“What, are you actually trying to be friendly?”

The cat meowed again.

Though my heart was carved from glacier ice, I felt it melt a bit.

“That’s sweet.” I reached out to pat him on the head, and he hissed and clawed my hand, drawing blood.

He ran off before I could find my gun and shoot him.

I glanced at the clock. A little after nine a.m. I had a lot to do, plus that handwriting expert was stopping by the office this afternoon, but I couldn’t comprehend going to work feeling as crummy as I did. The very thought of explaining to Captain Bains what happened last night made my head hurt worse than it already did.

Screw it. I needed a day off.

I peeled myself out of bed, found my way to the bathroom, coughed and hacked and spit black mucus into the toilet for ten minutes, changed into some old Lee jeans and the Bulls sweatshirt I inherited last night, and then lurched into the kitchen. Checked my answering machine. No calls. Plodded back into the bedroom and checked my cell phone. No calls. Found some aspirin, made quick work of three, then forced myself back into the kitchen, where I liberated a tray of ice from the freezer.

I chewed on the cubes, which helped my sore throat. Then I called the graphologist, Dr. Francis Mulrooney, to cancel our appointment. He wasn’t in. I left a message.

I spent the next thirty minutes cleaning and oiling my.38. I carry a Colt Detective Special, blue finish, black grips, with a two-inch barrel. It weighs twenty-one ounces, and is seven inches from butt to front sights. I preferred revolvers to semiautomatics for several reasons. They had fewer moving parts, which meant less could go wrong in terms of jamming and misfiring. At any time, I could visually check how many rounds were left. And they were easier to clean.

I threw away the two remaining bullets still in the cylinder, not knowing how the heat and the water from yesterday had affected them, and was loading six fresh rounds when I heard someone at my door.

It wasn’t a knock. It was someone trying to turn the knob.

I slapped the cylinder closed and walked silently up to my door, keeping to the right of the frame.

The knob continued to turn, and I heard the jangle of keys.

Latham? He had a key to my apartment. I disengaged the burglar alarm and almost turned the dead bolt and threw the door open, but thought better of it and checked the peephole first.

Good thing I did. The woman outside my door was someone I’d never seen before. She looked to be in her late thirties, short brown hair, with a jagged scar reaching from her left eye to the corner of her mouth.

I wondered how I should play it. Announce myself as a cop through the door? Ask who is it? Surprise her with a snub nose in her face?

“Who’s there?” I said.

My voice seemed to startle her. She backpedaled away from my door and walked quickly down the hall.

I flipped back the dead bolt and swung the door open, my.38 locking on her back.

“Stop! Police!”

She turned and froze, her face going from white to whiter.

“Hands in the air!”

Her hands shot up. “I just moved in! I thought that was my apartment!”

“Palms on the wall, feet apart.”

The woman hugged the plaster like she knew the drill. She wore some kind of work overalls, brown and grubby, and the odor she gave off wasn’t pleasant.

I did a quick but thorough pat down, and found a butterfly knife in her boot.

“That’s for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Department of Sanitation. The sewers.”

“You need a martial arts weapon for sewer work?”

“It’s under four fingers. It’s legal.”

I opened the butterfly knife, and it had a short blade. Short but thick. Any blade longer than a handspan was against the law, and this one looked like it could go either way.

“Why were you trying to break into my apartment?”

“I told you, cop.” She said the word cop as if it hurt her. “I thought it was mine. It was an honest mistake. Quit hassling me.”

I fished out a wallet, which wasn’t the most pleasant thing to do because she had gunk – presumably sewer gunk – on her pockets. Her driver’s license told me she was Lucy Walnut. Address in Oak Park.

“Says here you’re in the suburbs.”

“I just moved in last week. Haven’t got the license changed.”

“Okay, Ms. Walnut. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. Which door is yours?”

“I’m in 304. The doors don’t have numbers on them.”

Three-oh-four was right next to mine.

“Keys. And stay put.”

She handed over the keys and I kept a bead on her while trying the lock. It turned.

“Told you so. Can I go now?”

“Where’d you do time, Ms. Walnut?”

She stayed quiet.

“I can find out easy enough.”

“Did a nickel at Joliet.”

“What for?”

Silence again.

“I asked, what for?”

“I don’t need to tell you nothing.”

“No, you don’t. But if you’re on parole, I can find out who your PO is and explain how you were trying to break into a cop’s apartment.”

“That was an accident.”

“My word against yours. Who do you think the judge will believe? Now, what were you in for?”

“ Battery. I answered your damn questions. Can I go now?”

I tossed her keys on the floor by her feet.

“Keep your nose clean, Ms. Walnut. I’m going to hold on to your knife, because I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself with it.”