Bloody Mary

How do I make it out of here alive?

My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don’t look back.

I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.

I screamed, and woke myself up.

Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the.38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I’d just completed the last leg of a triathlon.

“Jack?”

Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the gun.

“What’s happening?”

“Just a bad dream.”

“You’re going to shoot a bad dream?”

I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the drawer. My fingers wouldn’t let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.

I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.

I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.

“Morning, Mom.”

Mom wore a pink fla

“Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty.”

“Court.” I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. “You okay?”

“This cold weather is affecting my hip.”

“It’s got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on ‘broil.’”

“My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it’s freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets.”

I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.

“Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?”

“Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I’d hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know.”

“Why not invite him here?”

“He’s retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn’t ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates.”

“He can stay with us.”

Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.

“Really?”

“Sure. If he doesn’t mind sharing the sofa bed.” I winked at her.

“Well, I think I’ll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing.”

I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan’s health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Cancer.”

“Thanksgiving is next week.” I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. “Invite him over for that.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll call him now.”

I took a bite, then spit the mouthful into my hand.

“What the hell is this?”

“Alan’s soy bread. He has that gluten allergy.”

I tossed it in the garbage. “It tastes like a sour sponge.”

“Steer clear of his breakfast cereal. Tofutos, they’re called. Beans and milk aren’t a tasty combo. And whatever you do, don’t let him make you anything in that juicer. He actually forced me to drink a celery sprout smoothie.”

Mom got on the phone, and I finished my coffee and headed to the criminal courthouse at 26th and California.

Someone had forgotten to tell Chicago it was still fall, because a light snow dusted everything and I almost broke my neck on a patch of sidewalk ice.

My car started on the second try, and I played how-slow-can-we-drive-and-still-move-forward with my fellow Chicagoans. The first snowfall of the season and everyone seems to forget, en masse, how to drive.

I was late getting to the trial. The courthouse, a squat square building, had free underground parking for city employees. Heated. I took an escalator up to the main floor, bypassed the line at the metal detector with a flash of my star, and took the second group of elevators to the twenty-seventh floor.

Court had already begun, and the tiny room was crammed full to bursting. I shouldered my way through the crowd and sat next to Libby, who wore a lavender Vanderbilt jacket and skirt like it had been designed for her.

Her co-counsel, a brown-haired, twenty-something prosecutor named Noel Penaflor, had Phil Blasky on the stand. Phil had on an ill-fitting suit and tried his best to explain, in layman’s terms, the results of Eileen Hutton’s autopsy.

“… thoracic cavity eviscerated and…”

I tuned him out, trying to organize my thoughts.

I didn’t look at Fuller.

As the litany of atrocities ensued, Noel introduced pictures of Eileen as evidence. First came pictures of her with family and friends. Then came the autopsy photos.

As expected, this caused a general uproar in the courtroom. But no reaction was more impressive than Fuller’s.

He vomited all over the defense team’s table.

CHAPTER 34

A twenty-minute recess ensued, and the courtroom cleared.

Libby seethed.

“That son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, didn’t he? How the hell did he do it?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he swallowed some ipecac, or something else to make him sick. Or maybe he can vomit on cue.”

“Have you ever seen that done before?”

I knew what Libby was asking; could I somehow discredit the vomit episode through testimony?

“Sorry. I’ve never seen it.”

She and Noel spent some time bantering back and forth. I went back into court and watched a janitor spritz the table with a disinfectant that smelled like oranges.

The trial progressed. Noel finished up with Blasky, which was followed by a brief cross-examination by Garcia. No redirect, and Blasky was excused and my name got called.

I took the stand and tried to keep the trembling under control.

Noel walked me through my testimony, and I gave a recount of the case, trying to remain professional and in control. The prosecution established me as not only a credit to my profession, but a hero as well.

I kept the dry spots to a minimum, elicited a few chuckles from the jury, and at the end of my statement repeated my encounter with Fuller at the jailhouse.

“So the defendant admitted that he was lying about the amnesia?”

“He did. And he said when he got out, he was going to kill again.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Me.” My voice cracked when I said it. “He said he was going to kill me, and my partner, Herb.”

Noel nodded at me, and I got a look of approval from Libby.

“Your witness.” Noel took his seat.

Garcia, plump and confident, approached me smiling.

“Lt. Daniels, you mentioned you’ve been on the police force for twenty years, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How many of those years have you been seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

Garcia smiled at the judge. “I’m simply bringing into question the lieutenant’s reliability as a witness.”

Libby stood up. “Your honor, the very fact that Lt. Daniels has been a member of the CPD for twenty years is enough to establish reliability. It is also mandatory policy after a shooting for a police officer to receive counseling.”

“Withdrawn.” Eric smiled. “And I’d like to thank the assistant state’s attorney for establishing that, as a member of the Chicago Police Department, an officer must surely have his mental faculties in order. Lt. Daniels, how long did you work with Barry Fuller?”

“Two years.”

“And during those two years, what kind of impression had you formed of him?”

“I didn’t know him personally.”

“Professionally, then?”