me from smacking him again. Some people are savvy like that.
“You awake?” I asked.
No answer.
“Look, I have to know for sure, so right now I'm going to stomp as hard as I can on your gonads. I'm sure you understand.”
I raised a foot and watched him shift slightly.
“Aspirin...” he groaned. “Plentiful aspirin...”
I sighed. Hitting him again might kill him. Plus, my arm was getting tired.
“Get your ass up. We're switching to Plan B.”
The guy took his time getting to his feet, wobbling a little in the process.
“Okay, Saucy. Use the pry bar to break into the house.”
“Me?”
“You see anyone else out here?”
He blinked. Then he blinked again. “Why don't you do the manual labor on your own felony?”
“I've got to hold the gun.”
“No problem. You can let me hold the gun.”
I faked another strike at his head, and when he flinched I stomped on his foot, heel first.
“Put down the goddamn sauce and grab the crowbar. You're pissing me off.”
He obeyed.
“Make sure it's in the jamb really good, then put some weight on it.”
The door moaned in protest, then popped open. I shined the penlight inside, but it wasn't strong enough to breach the dark room. I held my breath and listened. No sound came from within.
While I was preoccupied, Sauce-boy took the opportunity to swing the crowbar at me. Luckily, my catlike reflexes switched on and I ducked before he took my head off. I shoved the gun in his face and he froze.
“Sorry. Crowbar slipped.”
“Drop it.”
He complied.
“Into the house. Stay quiet or the last sound you'll hear is your brain exiting through your eye sockets. It's sort of a bang/slurp sound. Trust me, you wouldn't like it.”
“This probably isn't new information, but you're kind of a prick.”
“You caught me on a bad day. Now move it. Nice and slow.”
I marched him three steps into the dark house, unable to see a damn thing. There wasn't a single light on, and all the curtains were drawn. I smelled incense, and something under it. Something funky.
My partner took another step, made an uumph! sound, and pitched forward.
I flashed on the penlight to see what he tripped over, and saw it was a naked dead guy with his throat ripped out.
While sauce-boy flailed around like a fish, I played the penlight around the floor, noticing something distinctly odd. The throat wound was so deep the neck vertebrae were exposed.
But there was surprisingly little blood.
Excerpt from FLOATERS by J.A. Konrath and Henry Perez
-1-
CHAPA
I was merging from Harlem Avenue into mid-afternoon traffic on the Kennedy when word came in that another floater had turned up in the Chicago River.
“I phoned you first, Mr. Chapa.” Zach Bridges, an intern at the news desk, had taken the call. “Just like you always tell me to.”
I steered with my knee for a moment, one hand on my cell and the other fiddling with the air conditioning. There was a snowflake symbol on the dial, meant to indicate frigid. It was lying to me, blowing tepid breaths in my face that did little to combat the sticky summer air. I settled for lowering the window enough to get a breeze but not so much that it disrupted my conversation.
“That was good of you, Zach. Remind me to talk to Sully about getting you a regular news beat.”
The kid got all excited but there was no reason for him to. It was an empty hope, he just hadn't figured that out yet. The newspaper industry was dying, slowly, painfully. The Suburban Herald, my employer for the past fifteen years, was just like all the other rags that had gone terminal before anyone realized what was happening.
Reporters have always fought over stories with front page potential, but at least there was usually enough space to go around. These days, we often spend our time wrestling over every precious column inch.
“Is Sully around?”
“No, Mr. Chapa, he's in another meeting with the accountants, all the editors are.”
I thanked Zach for the tip, then called Matt Sullivan's line and left him a voicemail. I took the next off-ramp, crossed over the expressway, and headed back toward the Loop. I'd be on the story before my editor had a chance to wonder whether someone else should be instead.
My office is located in the western suburbs, but I was in the city that day following a lead from Nina Constentino, a pint-sized woman in her late sixties who offered me a cup of green tea and a well-used chair to sit in while I drank it. I passed on the tea, and standing would've been the wise choice.
“You're my last hope, Mr. Chapa.”
“Please call me Alex.”
From the looks of it, Nina was wearing the same makeup she put on the day her husband went missing.
“Emil would never disappear like this. Not without telling me. It's been two days now, and I know something bad has happened.”
Truth is I normally would've given her a gentle brush-off. People do sometimes get lost for a day or two. These stories pop up all the time.
“You've tried the police?”
“They came by, took my information. But they didn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything. Said he hadn't been gone long enough.”
“I don't want to cause you any more worry, but have you tried the hospitals? Maybe he got in some sort of accident.”
She raised her voice, probably as much as her frail frame would allow. “I've called every hospital and clinic in Chicago asking for Emil or anyone unknown fitting his description. I'm not a fool, Mr. Chapa.”
“Alex,” I said gently.
She nodded, sniffled, then I lost her face to a yellowed, embroidered handkerchief that I would have bet was older than I was.
“I'm sorry, Alex. Didn't mean to snap at you. I haven't been able to sleep, and I'm a wreck. But I've tried the hospitals, and everyone we know, and the police, and I don't know what I'm going to do next.”
The handkerchief returned to her face, but she continued.
“This isn't the sort of big story you like to be involved with, I know that. But even after forty years of marriage Emil still makes my heart jump. He's all I have.”
I leaned in to comfort her, but thought better of it when the chair crackled and squealed.
“There are private detectives.”
“I called one, but he wanted to be paid much more than I can afford. Our finances lately, because of the business—well, I just don't have it, Mr. Chapa.”
I felt for her, but didn't see what I could do. Sadly, this wasn't really news. Maybe if I spun it, took the human interest angle, something about how no one cares for the senior citizens in our society.
“I can write a story, print his picture. Maybe someone will recognize him.”
“That's not enough. I need to go looking for him. Do you have a car?”
“Yes, but Mrs. Constentino—”
“Please. I'd go myself, but Emil has our car. I don't have anyone else to turn to.”
I let myself entertain the notion, cruising around Chicago with an elderly woman. For a moment I pictured something resembling All the President's Men meets Driving Miss Daisy, and I wanted no part of it. But lately it had been kind of slow in the suburbs, and I'd grown tired of writing about the wife beaters, gang bangers, and sexual
