Dirty Martini

I looked at the thing with a mixture of dread and fascination.

“How does it work without a needle?”

“Air pressure. This one uses a spring. Other models use compressed gas, like CO2. You arm the device”-Rick turned a key on the cylinder-“then squeeze the trigger.”

I flinched at the hissing sound, and saw a spray of vapor appear around the nozzle of the gun.

“The pressure causes a jet stream, which forces the liquid through the skin and into the muscle. Smaller hole, less central concentration of fluid, less pain. Some of these models are tough too. You could inject insulin into a basketball.”

“What about plastic wrapping, or butcher paper, or aluminum cans?”

“Conceivable, yes. It would probably even work on thicker plastic, or cardboard. And look how small it is.”

Rick turned his palm and closed his fingers. The gun was completely hidden by his hand.

“I think this is what the Chemist used on his last two victims, on the street outside. They died so quickly there wasn’t even bruising, and the puncture wound could only be seen under a microscope. But I biopsied neck tissue where witnesses say he held his weapon, and found uneven concentrations of ricin, a toxin found in castor beans. I think he injected it directly into their throats.”

Rick was smiling, and while I was happy to know what we were up against, I wasn’t able to share his enthusiasm. Truth told, the Chinese food was doing somersaults in my stomach. The thought of someone using a device invented for good to do so much evil gave me a giant case of the creeps.

“Can we trace these things?” I asked.

Rick’s smile faltered.

“No. There are about two dozen companies that make them, and only six of them make a model small enough that it can be concealed, but that still gives us thousands of possibles. The guy might have picked it up at a garage sale, or on the Internet, or stolen one.”

He set the jet injector on my desk, where it coiled like a snake among the half-empty food cartons. Rick, so full of energy a moment ago, looked like he’d deflated.

“This still helps narrow it down,” I said. “We’re looking for a white male, local, with a greenhouse and a jet injector.”

Rick raised an eyebrow at me. “He’s local?”

“He has to be. Roxy was just assigned to the case, and he got to her right after she appeared on television. I’m guessing he was watching at home, then put together a quick disguise and went out after her.”

“Why the greenhouse?” Rick asked.

“He uses toxins, which are organic. I’m guessing he makes these himself, which means he has a garden somewhere. Some of the plants are tropical, so unless he keeps his house at ninety-five degrees, he probably has a greenhouse.”

“Smart. That could mean hydroponics, special lamps, fertilizers. Chicago is a big town, but it shouldn’t have that many specialty gardening stores.”

My turn to frown. “You’re forgetting the Internet. All that stuff can be purchased online.”

We were quiet for almost a full minute. It didn’t surprise me that Rick looked adorable while deep in thought.

“You’re paying him?” he finally asked.

“That’s the idea.”

“You’ll try to make the arrest when he picks up the money?”

“Of course. But I’m sure he’s anticipating that.”

Rick rubbed the stubble on his chin. I liked stubble. I liked the feel of it, against my cheek. Between my thighs.

Dammit, Jack, quit it. So, he’s pretty. So what. Get over it.

“Two million isn’t a lot,” he said.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Might be using that small number because it’s easier to handle, easier to carry. Even using hundred-dollar bills, it makes a pretty big pile. About the height of your desk. One person couldn’t carry it all.”

“Which means, what? A drop-off point? He’ll ask for the money in a big metal box and then swoop down in a helicopter carrying a big magnet?”

Rick gri

“We know all the tricks. Transmitters. Tracking devices. Exploding ink packs. Consecutive serial numbers. Coating the money with spy dust.”

“What’s spy dust?” Rick asked.

“An invisible powder that shows up under UV light.”

“You use that stuff?”

“No. I saw it on a TV show.”

We shared a laugh.

“I guess we won’t know what to do until we hear from him,” Rick said.

“Which should be tomorrow, once he reads the paper.”

I looked at my watch. Visiting hours at the hospital were until eight p.m. I needed to get going.

“Jack, you have something on your cheek.”

Rick did the mirror reflection thing, wiping his own cheek off. I wiped in the same spot.

“Did I get it?”

“No. Here.”

He reached for me, caressed my cheek, and our eyes locked and I couldn’t believe I fell for that stupid trick, but I didn’t pull away, even when he moved in and placed his lips against mine.

I didn’t kiss him back.

Well, not at first.

His lips were warm, soft, and when the tip of his tongue entered my mouth, something snapped in me and a little sigh escaped my throat and I put my hands behind his head and pressed his body against mine.

He grabbed me by my waist and picked me up out of the chair like I weighed nothing, and then his hands were on my ass and mine were on his ass and-damn, did he have a great ass.

As our mouths fought for better purchase, his hand came around my hips and undid my front button, or perhaps just tugged it off, and then his fingers touched the top of my panties and he was a few inches away from seeing how excited I really was. Then common sense overrode hormones and the World’s Worst Fiancée pushed him away.

“I… can’t,” I said between deep breaths.

“Sure you can. I bet you’re really good at it.”

I wanted him, but a small voice inside me said I was just using sex to cope with all of my problems. Then another small voice tried to convince me that there was nothing wrong with that, sex was a perfectly acceptable way to cope, and that voice was louder than the first. And then a third voice, louder than both of the others, reminded me about a boyfriend on a ventilator whom I was afraid to marry because I feared making mistakes.

And then it all made sense.

“I’m afraid to get married because I’m afraid I’ll screw it up,” I said, surprised at the self-realization. “So I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage that.”

Rick reached for me again, but I kept him at arm’s length.

“I… I fear failure,” I said to Rick. But it wasn’t really to Rick. It was more to myself. “So I’d rather cop out of a situation than take a chance. I mean, look at me, I’d rather sabotage a good thing instead of giving it a try.”

I stared at Rick, who somehow had his shirt open-had I done that?-revealing as nice a chest as I’d ever seen outside of a movie.

“I’m going to see my fiancé,” I told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m really sure.”

Rick smiled. “He’s a very lucky man.”

I checked my pants button, and saw that he’d also gotten the zipper down. I zipped them back up, suddenly embarrassed.

“If it doesn’t work out…” Rick said, letting his voice trail off.

But I knew it would work out. I’d make sure it would work out. I loved Latham, and I’d do everything within my power to make our marriage succeed.

“We’re not going to happen,” I told Rick, pointing at him and me. “I’m sorry.”

Rick sighed, then buttoned up his shirt and left my office, closing the door behind him.

I adjusted my blouse and realized he had unhooked my bra as well. How the hell had he done that so fast?

The phone rang, and I knew deep in my heart that it was Latham, and he was conscious again, perhaps even well enough for me to screw his brains out.

But it wasn’t Latham. It was Hajek at the crime lab.

“I’m a genius, Lieutenant. A certifiable genius.”