Dirty Martini

“My name is Doris, Doris Washburn. I took three pictures.” She was young, chic, in business attire. “The quality isn’t the greatest, but I got one of the killer, and one of his car.”

She showed me how to view them on her cell phone. The perp’s head was turned, and the license plate on the car too pixilated to be read, but the forensics guys had digital filters that might help improve the images. The third picture unfortunately only captured the man who later died, pointing his finger and yelling.

“We’ll need to keep your phone.”

“I need my phone for work. Can’t I just send you the images?”

“Will they lose quality?”

“No. I can send them to your e-mail address.”

I called Hajek at the crime lab, and Doris sent the photos to him using her phone.

“Get anything?” I asked him while the data transferred.

“A headache. Neck strain. A sore back.”

“No prints?”

“The Chemist used gloves for everything. I even found a glove print on the toilet handle.”

I thought about that. The only people that paranoid about leaving prints are those with prints on file. This guy was in our system, somewhere. People who have been arrested had their fingerprints taken. So did government employees like cops, Feds, and military. Plus, fingerprinting was becoming more common in the private sector, for both security reasons and to ID workers.

“How about the devices? Any way to trace them?”

“The M44s had serial numbers, but they’d been removed. Acid etching didn’t bring them up. Wildlife Services uses them to kill coyotes, but these seem to be older models. Could have picked them up anywhere.”

“How about the other traps?”

“Made from common household items. I got a copy of the CDC report-even the poisons are from pretty common plants. Many are available growing wild, or at garden shops. All of them can be ordered over the Internet. No way to trace them. I’m getting the e-mail now, hold on.”

This was becoming silly. How is it possible to kill so many people and leave zero evidence?

“Well, the bad news is, the pictures are awful.”

“Can you fix them?”

“Let’s see.” I heard him typing, and then humming softly. “I’ll transfer them to my image enhancer. Clean up the noise… resize the image… reduce JPEG compression… and it’s even worse than before. Let me work on it. Will you be at this number?”

I told him yes, and hung up.

“Where’s the new partner?” Herb asked.

“Lunch.”

“Shouldn’t you call her?”

“Probably. I want my jacket back.”

I called Dispatch to get Roxy’s number. Surprisingly, a man answered when I dialed her number.

“I’m looking for Roxa

“Are you a friend or relative of hers?”

“I’m her partner, Lieutenant Daniels from the CPD. Can you put her on?”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. I’m an EMT. We got a call of a woman passing out at a Willoughby’s on Michigan and Huron. Your partner is dead.”

I squeezed my eyes closed so hard, I saw stars under the lids.

“How did she die?”

“It appears to be heart failure. But in someone this young…”

“Okay, you need to be careful. She was probably poisoned, and some of it may still be on her. I need you to talk to the manager. Try not to let anyone leave until I get there.”

“Was this-”

“Don’t say anything more. I don’t want to cause a panic. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I hung up and looked at Herb.

“She’s dead. It’s a few blocks away. I need you at the crime scene.”

Herb hesitated for a moment, and then said, “No.”

“Goddammit, Herb-”

“Goddammit, Jack, I’m not Homicide anymore.” He looked as angry as I’d ever seen him. “This isn’t my case, and you’re not my partner.”

“Fine,” I said, the words forming in my mouth before common sense could override them. “Be a coward.”

I didn’t mean it. But before I could take it back, Herb was storming off, through the crowd, over the yellow police tape, and back to the station. I’d apologize later. Herb would forgive me. Especially if the apology included carbohydrates.

I turned to look for Rick, but he was still in full gear, hovering over the corpses. Figuring I’d need help at the restaurant, I grabbed the uniform, Buchbinder.

“How would you like a temporary promotion to Homicide/Gangs/Sex?”

“My sergeant will bust my balls if I leave my post.”

“What’s your post?”

“Parking enforcement.”

“I’ll smooth it over. You got a car?”

“A bike.”

“Even better. Let’s go.”

That cheered me up a fraction. I liked bikes. My ex-husband, the man who gave me my last name, had a 1982 Harley-Davidson Sportster, and we’d go riding whenever we could. Which, as far as I can remember, was twice.

I worked a lot back then.

Unfortunately, when Buchbinder said bike, he meant scooter. The tiny little electric moped barely had room for two, and had a top speed of slow. A five-minute walk took us ten minutes on the bike, because Officer Buchbinder stopped for all traffic signals, pedestrians, strong breezes, and optical illusions. He also pulled behind a horse and buggy giving six geriatrics a tour of the Magnificent Mile-a tour so excruciatingly sluggish that I doubted all of them would live long enough to see its conclusion.

“Go faster,” I said.

“If I follow too closely, there could be an accident.”

As it turned out, there was an accident. Buchbinder couldn’t brake in time, and coasted right through the largest pile of horse shit I’d ever seen.

“Apparently they can do that while trotting,” I said.

“Did you see that? It came out of nowhere.”

Actually, I did see it, along with where it came out of. But I chose not to mention it.

“Some got in the spokes,” Buchbinder whined. “I just cleaned the spokes.”

“Pay attention to the road.”

“My God, my bike is trashed. What was that horse eating?”

“Let’s get off this topic.”

“What’s that on the fender… peanuts?”

“Pass the damn horse or I’m firing you.”

He made a hand signal and thankfully got around the horse and cart. But getting past it and getting past it were two different things.

“I gotta clean this quick, before it hardens. Don’t want to have to chisel it off.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. I didn’t say, “Like your non-future in the Homicide division.”

Buchbinder, however, was fixated.

“I can smell it. Can you smell it?”

Jesus. It just wouldn’t end.

“I got some on my pants.”

“Buchbinder, shut the hell up about the horse already.”

“Okay. But I never saw Mr. Ed do that, no sir. That manure pile was the size of a small child. Lucky we weren’t both killed.”

I didn’t feel lucky. Not even a little bit.

“Do you smell peanuts?”

We got to Willoughby’s shortly thereafter. I instructed the Horseshit Whisperer to take witness statements after he cleaned his pants. Then I spoke with the bartender.

“She came in alone. Sat down, ordered a dirty martini, up. Took off her jacket and asked where the bathroom was. I made the drink and set it down by her stool.”

I looked at the empty glass, an olive at the bottom.

“Did you see anyone near her drink?”

“Some guy came to the bar, took some napkins.”

“Did he touch her drink at all?”

“I only saw him out of the corner of my eye.”

“Can you describe him?”

“White guy. Suit. Had an eye patch.”

Dammit, Roxy. After that long talk about making yourself a target and being extra careful, how could you leave an unattended drink on the bar? I stared at my gray jacket on the bar stool, and could picture her on camera wearing it, looking so confident and professional.

I left it on the stool. I’d never wear it again.

I switched focus to the martini glass, trying to figure out how to transport it. The Crime Scene Unit would have the materials. They needed to be here anyway, to dust for prints.