Rusty Nail

I thought about it. I could have called in a Crime Scene Unit, dusted the place, but a hundred people have probably left their prints in the last week.

“I’ll need copies of all these papers.”

Al grunted. “I figured.”

While Sling Blade loped off to figure out the copy machine, I called Mason back and gave her Mayer’s info. She put me on hold and called Indianapolis PD.

Mason got back to me before Al did.

“No record. Guy’s clean.”

“How about the phone number he left?”

“Disco

I waited another five minutes, and Al finally returned with my copies. I gave him my card.

“Thanks. When Mr. Mayer comes back, please try to detain him and give me a call.”

“Detain him how? Like tie him up?”

“Tell him there was a problem with his credit card. Then call me.”

“Might not stop in. Might just park the car in the lot and drop the keys in the slot.”

“If he does that, call me as well.”

“Might drop it off when I’m not here.”

“You said you’re always here.”

“Might get sick.”

“Do you get sick a lot, Al?”

“Might have caught Mr. Mayer’s cold.”

I drilled Al with a cop stare.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Al?”

He smiled, revealing three missing teeth. “Gotta have fun where you can get it, Lieutenant.”

After leaving Al, I really needed a beer.

And I knew just the place to get one.

CHAPTER 17

ALEX OPENS THE bottled water, takes a greedy sip, then pours some on the pliers. The handles are supposed to have no-slip grips, but Alex’s gloved hands have already slipped off them half a dozen times.

It’s hard. Much harder than expected.

“Want some water? I’ve got an extra bottle.”

No answer.

Alex takes another deep gulp, picks up the pliers, and gets back to work.

Again, it’s a strain. Teeth clenching. Muscles bunching. But Alex manages to pull an unbroken fifteen-inch strip of skin from Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s bare chest. The longest one yet.

Mulrooney screams his approval.

Almost done with the front, Alex thinks. Have to start on the back next.

Lots of skin there.

CHAPTER 18

BEFORE I ALLOWED myself any alcohol, I dropped off the bag and the shell casing at the Illinois Forensic Science Center. It used to be called the Chicago Crime Lab, up until it merged with the Staties in ’96. One of the officers who worked there, Scott Hajek, had helped me on a few cases, and promised he’d do a rush job on the ballistics and burn analysis.

A rush job meant at least a week. More than enough time to have a beer.

Joe’s Pool Hall was kitty-corner to my apartment in Wrigleyville. The after-work crowd hadn’t converged yet, and I managed to snag a table near the rear and a cue that still had a tip.

I drank a Sam Adams and settled in, ru

A waitress brought me another beer, and when I pulled out a buck to tip her, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

“Asshole customer,” she said without me asking.

I tipped her an extra buck.

Halfway through the next set, a guy I knew came over and stood by the table, watching.

“Came to watch a pro?” I asked.

“No. Came to watch you.”

His name was Phineas Troutt. Younger than me by a decade. Blue eyes set in a hard face. Tall, with the type of muscles one got from working rather than working out. Last I’d seen him, he was bald from the chemotherapy. I took the blond fuzz growing on his head to be a good sign.

I ran the table, Phin racked the next set, and we lagged for the break. He won.

“Hair looks nice.” Phin executed a sledgehammer break that sunk two solids and a stripe. He chose solids.

“Thanks. It’s the shampoo. You should pick some up.”

He touched his head.

“Maybe when it grows out a little more.”

“It’s called Vertex. Only seventy bucks a bottle.”

“How big is the bottle? Two gallons?”

“Thirty-two ounces.”

Phin gri

He pocketed the four ball. I took a pull from my Sammy and sca

“Excuse me a second,” I told Phin. As I approached I heard the waitress saying, “Stop it, stop it,” as the guy pawed at her.

“There a problem?” I used my best commanding tone, the one that scared suspects into confessing to crimes they didn’t commit.

The man was young, early twenties, dressed in a golf shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He looked like he just came from the beach, though I couldn’t imagine which one, it being April.

“This is a private conversation, skank.”

He said it with a dismissive sneer, and then turned back to the waitress.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“She’s fine. Mind your own damn business, bitch.”

With my left hand, I liberated my badge case from my back pocket. With my right hand, I set the tip of the pool cue down on his bare big toe and leaned on it.

He yelped, jerking his chin left to face me, the perfect picture of fury and pain.

Some of the fury disappeared when he saw my star. But the pain stayed.

“Kind of early in the season for flip-flops, don’t you think so, Romeo?”

I leaned harder on the stick. He squealed.

“Let me see some ID.”

I put my badge away and took the wallet he eagerly offered. I gave his license a quick glance.

“Okay, Carl Johnson, here’s how I see it. Threatening a police officer is a felony. Plus, it pisses me off.”

I twisted the cue to indicate my displeasure.

“Shit! You’re hurting me.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby, Carl. I’m not even pushing hard. See how much worse it could get?”

I put some serious weight on the cue, for just a second, and he screamed like I was killing him. Now he had a teary face too, to match the one he gave the waitress.

“Here’s the deal, Carl. This is my bar. I never want to see you in here again. Understand?”

He nodded.

“And this lady is a personal friend of mine. If she tells me you’ve been bothering her, I’m going to pay a visit to 3355 Summit Lane and break both of your knees because you resisted arrest. Are we clear?”

I twisted hard. He moaned, “Yes.”

“Now tip your waitress and leave.”

Carl pulled out a twenty and handed it to the girl, his hand shaking. I lifted the pool cue and he ran out of there as fast as he could, bumping several customers on the way.

The waitress grasped my hands.

“Thanks so much. He’s been coming in here for a month, making comments, pinching my ass, not leaving me alone.”

I gave her a card. “I don’t think he’ll come back. Call me if he does.”

“Thanks. Really.”

I smiled. “When you’ve got a chance, we need two beers.”

“You got it. Thanks so much.”

When I came back to the table, Phin was racking the balls.

“What happened to the last game?” I asked.

“I won. You owe me a beer. You better take this next break, or you might not have a chance to play.”

I managed to sink a stripe on the break, and the waitress brought beer for me and Phin.

“On me,” she told us.

Being a hero had its perks.

We played for two hours, Phin beating me five games to one. I blamed the losses on my burned hand, though the beer went a long way to easing the pain.

I met Phin several years ago, before he had cancer. It was an odd friendship, because I was a cop, and Phin was a criminal, though I wasn’t entirely clear on what kind of criminal he was. I think he operated as some kind of unlicensed private investigator, and considered laws optional.