Cherry Bomb

I looked past Phin, down the alley, trying to keep my mind on Lance. Save him first. Then deal with everything else.

Herb called back in seventy seconds.

“He lives in an apartment on Halsted.” He gave me the address, then said, “Shit, Jack. Feebies calling on my other line.”

“It’s my career, my life. Not yours. Cover your ass, Herb.”

“With both hands. Don’t forget my Turduckinlux.”

Herb disco

“Lieutenant Daniels? This is Special Agent Coursey, FBI.”

The voice came from my purse. The walkie-talkie.

“You need to come in, Lieutenant, before this escalates.”

Phin and I stared at each other. I had an irrational urge to drop my purse and run away from it. Or maybe it wasn’t so irrational.

“Lieutenant Daniels, you have to remember that you’re a professional. We understand you’ve been through a rough patch, but you’re still a police officer.”

“Let me talk to her.” Harry. “Carmalita, honey, that wasn’t Immigration. You didn’t need to run. Those ten men don’t want to take you back to El Salvador, chicita. Now you need to bring back my walkie-talkie. It has a ten-block radius, and is very expensive.”

“May I have the radio, Mr. McGlade?”

“I got two words for you, Special Agent Pinhead: Carmichael and Levine. They’re my lawyers, and they’re going to sue the bone marrow out of you. They’ll make you wish you never came aboard the Crimebago.”

“We need to move.” I switched off the radio. “Feebies have ten men. Figure two are with Harry, that’s four teams of two out there.”

Phin nodded. “Searching a ten-block radius. Harry isn’t as stupid as he seems.”

“No one is as stupid as Harry seems. Including the Feds. They’ll add more teams, widen the perimeter. How far away is your truck?”

“Maybe four blocks.”

“Could the Feebies know about it?”

Phin shrugged. “No registration. Stolen plates. But everything leaves a trail.”

“It’s still our best shot,” I decided out loud. “Let’s move.”

We moved.

CHAPTER 22

ALEX CALLS ALAN’S ROOM from the house phone in the hotel lobby. Jack’s ex-husband doesn’t pick up. She sets the receiver next to the phone without disco

“Mr. Daniels?” Alex makes a fist and raps hard.

No answer.

He might be a sound sleeper, assisted by pills or alcohol. But the smarter bet is he’s not in his room.

Alex adjusts her bangs, finger-combing them over the scars while considering her next move. Alan might be elsewhere in the hotel, maybe the bar or the gym. She knows his face from his Web site. Alan Daniels is a freelancer and all freelancers have homepages. But people might see her approaching him, recall the police uniform she’s wearing. Better to wait until he returns to his room.

Alex doesn’t like waiting. She likes action. Always has. She remembers being a child in Indiana, when a bully picked on Charles during the walk to school. She kicked the bully between the legs, hard as any eight-year-old ever kicked anyone. They ran away, but the bully promised he’d take care of both of them once school let out.

Alex didn’t even make it through the first hour of classes. The waiting was excruciating. So she asked for a pass to go to the toilet, snuck through the halls until she found the bully’s room, and rammed a sharpened pencil in his eye when he looked up from the math book he’d been leaning over. Well worth the expulsion.

She hurt him bad, but knew from experience that a wounded dog was more dangerous than a healthy one. So later that night, after the police released her, she and Charles rode their bikes to the hospital and used a pen knife on the bully’s other eye.

Good times.

The bully didn’t die. Not then. He grew up, coped with his loss of sight, became some sort of minister. A few years ago Alex followed him home after church, and they had a thoughtful conversation about the nature of good and evil before Alex ski

Alex has lost track of the number of people she’s killed. While in Heathrow, her shrink made some half-assed attempts to get her to talk about previous murders. Alex played it coy. The truth is, she has no idea how many have died at her hands. It’s like counting the number of times you’ve had sex. Maybe you can remember the first fifty. After that, everything becomes a blur.

If there’s a secret to being a good killer, it’s not finding anything wrong with killing someone. Enjoying it can be a plus, but some people with the thirst-like Charles-enjoyed it too much and got sloppy. The best way to treat murder is with apathy. Sometimes it’s necessary, often it’s fun, but it shouldn’t be a compulsion.

Alex thinks back to the bully minister’s death. He begged, like they all do. For fun, she made him renounce the God he’d spent more than half of his life serving. But she didn’t consider her act evil, any more than a shark killing a seal is evil. Pain and death are part of life. And everyone knows it’s better to give than to receive.

Speaking of giving…

Alex looks down the hallway, at all the closed doors. Like a giant box of Valentine’s Day candy, offering the potential for limitless fun. Fun, but necessity as well. Alex can’t check into the hotel-they’ll ask for ID and credit cards, which she doesn’t have. But she needs a room in order to deal with Alan properly.

She approaches the door next to Alan’s, raps twice, turns her head so her good profile and police officer cap are viewable through the peephole.

“Who’s there?”

A child’s voice. Alex can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

“It’s the police. Is your mom or dad there?”

“They went to eat. I’m playing video games. I’m not supposed to open the door.”

“That’s very smart. But police officers are your friends. Push a chair to the peephole in the door and stand on it so you can see me.”

Alex takes a step back so the child can take in her full uniform.

“I see you.”

“Here’s my badge.” Alex holds it up. “When a police officer asks you to open up, you have to. It’s the law.”

“I still can’t let you in unless you know the code word.”

Half of Alex’s face twists into a smirk. She considers pushing it, maybe telling the child that his or her parents are hurt. But this seems like a well-trained kid. One cell phone call to Mom and things could get complicated. Better to find easier prey.

“I understand. I’ll come back later when your parents finish with di

Alex tips her cap, then moves on to the next door. Knocks. No answer. Moves another door down.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice.

“Police. Can I ask you a few questions?”

This time the door opens. The woman is at least a de cade younger than Alex, short, a bit plump. She’s got the security latch on and is peering through the three-inch gap. Alex could break in with a single strike of hip, shoulder, or foot, but the finesse is more satisfying. She likes it when victims torment themselves with why did I let her in? thoughts.

“Have you been a guest here for long, ma’am?”

“Two days. Is everything okay?”

“There was an altercation earlier. We’re interviewing witnesses.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Actually, you were named as a participant.”

“Me? I’ve been out all day.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I just need to verify your whereabouts.”

The door closes. Alex listens to the latch being removed. The door opens again.

Alex enters the room. It’s dark, the bed unmade, the TV with the picture paused. Open suitcase in the corner, some clothing scattered on the floor. Room ser vice dishes sit on the desk, fish bones and squeezed lemons. The woman is wearing red sweatpants and a T-shirt, no makeup, no bra. Her hair has u