Rusty Nail

“… did you like the video, Jack? You’re next…”

That seriously weirded me out. I pressed Play and listened again. The sex of the speaker was impossible to determine. I tried to find the Eject button to save the tape, but the machine had no tape – this was a model that recorded digitally. Whispers could be voice-printed, but I didn’t know if unplugging the machine would erase the data on the chip. I left it alone for the time being.

The desk yielded no secrets, save for a single key with a round green tag that Mulrooney had carefully labeled House spare.

I pocketed the key, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs back to the frog.

“I need Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s home address.”

He had a large black binder labeled Faculty Directory, and I learned Mulrooney conveniently lived a block away, on Fifty-eighth.

The walk was pleasant, though my cheap shoes pinched my toes. Mulrooney’s building was an apartment, three stories, two tenants per floor. The single key fit both the security door and his door, on the ground level. I knocked first, in case he had a dog, and when no noise erupted from within I went inside.

His dwelling was the opposite of his office, everything neat and tidy. I gave the place a thorough toss, begi

Like his office, I couldn’t find any signs of a struggle. Unlike his office, there were no messages on his answering machine.

I found an address book, tucked it into my pocket, and locked the door when I left.

Abducting someone isn’t very hard. Mulrooney was a slight guy, short and thin. A reasoner, not a fighter. A large man could have muscled him into a car or truck within a few seconds, without attracting much attention. Or he could have been drugged, or tricked, or gone someplace with someone he trusted.

I stood on the curb and called Officer Hajek at the Crime Lab, asking if he had time later to swing by Mulrooney’s office to see what could be done with the answering machine. He promised me he would.

“… did you like the video, Jack? You’re next…”

I shuddered.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been a target, but that didn’t mean I was used to it.

I walked back to my car, acutely aware of my surroundings.

CHAPTER 26

HERB WAS WAITING for me in my office. He looked to be in good spirits, and cradled half a large bag of Chee•tos. His walrus mustache had a distinct orange tint. It matched his orange fingers, orange shirt, and orange tie. That’s how I knew for sure Herb wasn’t the killer; he would have left an easy-to-follow trail.

“Morning, Jack. You look upset. Saw the captain?”

“He looking for me?”

“That’s the buzz around the station.”

Great. I left the garbage bag containing the latest video on my desk, told Herb I’d be back in five, and headed for the lair of Captain Bains.

As expected, Bains didn’t greet me with flowers and a big hug. The large vein in his forehead bulged out when he saw me, and I heard him grind his teeth; not a happy sound.

“Goddammit, Daniels. I recall ordering you off the case. Do you recall that?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And since then you’ve been involved in an arson, a high-profile arrest outside your jurisdiction, and your face is all over national news telling the media you’ll stick your foot up their collective asses.”

“They aired that?”

Bains made a face. I made one as well. At least he didn’t mention the shots fired at Diane Kork’s. When a police officer dischargers her firearm, there’s an automatic IA inquest and a mandatory visit to the department shrink. I didn’t have time for either.

“You’re suspended, Jack. With pay. Report to the commissioner tomorrow at nine a.m.”

“What?” That clocked me from left field. “What’s the charge?”

“Does it matter? Pick one. How about official misconduct? Insubordination? Acting like an ass on CNN? The superintendent wants your job, and it seems like you want to give it to him. I need your badge and gun.”

I was so furious, I could spit. I spoke through my teeth.

“This isn’t a good time. He’s hunting me.”

“Who is?”

“The killer.”

“The killer’s in Indiana, in a coma. Case closed. Take a week off and let this blow over.”

“Bud Kork isn’t the guy we’re after. The guy we’re after came by my apartment last night and gave me another videotape. A videotape of Dr. Francis Mulrooney getting ski

The anger melted off the captain’s face. It was replaced with a tired kind of sadness. When he spoke, the venom was gone.

“He’s dead?”

“You remember him?”

“I’m the one who asked him to assist on the Charles Kork case.”

“Well, I’ve got thirty minutes in screaming color of him dying an agonizing, horrible death. And it was dropped off at my house, Captain. I’m a target. You can’t pull me off now.”

Bains didn’t seem to be listening. “Francis was my cousin,” he said in a soft voice. “I used to baby-sit him when we were kids.”

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “He never mentioned that.”

“Did you bring him in on this?”

“I had an appointment with him, but had to cancel. I think he knew someone was stalking him, but didn’t mention it to me. There were some threatening messages on his office phone. The same person also threatened to kill me.”

Bains put his hands on his desk and stared at them, spreading out his fingers.

“I know the suspension is bullshit, Jack. It’s out of my hands. But the paperwork hasn’t been done yet, the official charges haven’t been filed.”

“How long do I have?”

“Two, maybe three days. You can fight it, of course. Contact the union rep. Request a hearing. But you’re being suspended with pay. Doubtful you’d get much sympathy.”

“The super can suspend me for a year after I catch this guy.”

Bains nodded. He looked smaller than he normally did. “We never had this conversation. Go find this animal. And keep your face off the boob tube, or it will be both our jobs.”

I reached into my pocket, placed Mulrooney’s address book on the captain’s desk.

“Did you want to inform his family?”

“I’m part of his goddamn family.”

I waited.

“I’ll make the calls.” Bains took the book.

Back in my office, I gave Benedict the blow-by-blow.

“Bains is a careerist. He’s bucking for commander. He won’t go down with you, Jack.”

“He’s a good cop.”

“He’s a politician. Shit trickles down. If the super wants you out, you’re out.”

“I can fight it. Unreasonable termination. Discrimination.”

“No you won’t. You’re not the type.” He looked at the garbage bag on my desk. “Couldn’t find a purse you liked?”

“I got another video this morning. The graphologist, being ski

Herb winced. I didn’t want to watch the tape again so soon, but I snapped on a glove and popped it into the VCR.

Three minutes into it, Herb excused himself to go to the men’s room.

I made myself be analytical. I freeze-framed on the gloves, to try to read the tag inside the cuff. I freeze-framed on the pliers, to try to see the manufacturer mark. Emotional detachment was impossible, but I owed it to Dr. Mulrooney to do my job as best I could.

By the end of the tape I had no leads, and I was quivering with disgust.

I spent a few minutes trying to calm down, trying to distance myself from the images. The phone rang, scaring the hell out of me.

“Hiya, Jackie. What are you wearing?”

Harry McGlade.

“A frown,” I answered.

“We on for later?”

“Unfortunately.”

“How’s three o’clock?”

“I’m at work.”

“Take a day off. You deserve it. Meet us at Mon Ami Gabi, on Lincoln Park West. I’ve got reservations under the name Buttshitz. You’re bringing a date, right?”