WHISKEY SOUR
11/2 oz. whiskey11/2 oz. sour mix
Shake well with ice and pour into an old-fashioned glass.
Garnish with cherry and orange slice.
Chapter 1
THERE WERE FOUR BLACK AND WHITES already at the 7-Eleven when I arrived. Several people had gathered in the parking lot behind the yellow police tape, huddling close for protection against the freezing Chicago rain.
They weren't there for Slurpees.
I parked my 1986 Nova on the street and hung my star around my neck on a cord. The radio was full of chatter about 'the lasagna on Monroe and Dearborn,' so I knew this was going to be an ugly one. I got out of the car.
It was cold, too cold for October. I wore a three-quarter-length London Fog trench coat over my blue Armani blazer and a gray skirt. The coat was the only one I had that fit over the blazer's oversized shoulders, which left my legs exposed to the elements.
Freezing was the curse of the fashion savvy.
Detective First Class Herb Benedict hunched over a plastic tarpaulin, lifting up the side against the wind. His coat was unbuttoned, and his expansive stomach poured over the sides of his belt as he bent down. Herb's hound dog jowls were pink with cold rain, and he scratched at his salt-and-pepper mustache as I approached.
'Kind of cold for a jacket like that, Jack.'
'But don't I look good?'
'Sure. Shivering suits you.'
I walked to his side and squatted, peering down at the form under the tarp.
Female. Caucasian. Blonde. Twenties. Naked. Multiple stab wounds, running from her thighs to her shoulders, many of them yawning open like hungry, bloody mouths. The several around her abdomen were deep enough to see inside.
I felt my stomach becoming unhappy and turned my attention to her head. A red lesion ran around her neck, roughly the width of a pencil. Her lips were frozen in a snarl, the bloody rictus stretched wide like one of her stab wounds.
'This was stapled to her chest.' Benedict handed me a plastic evidence bag. In it was a three-by-five-inch piece of paper, crinkled edges on one end indicating it had been ripped from a spiral pad. It was spotty with blood and rain, but the writing on it was clear:
I let the tarp fall and righted myself. Benedict, the mind reader, handed me a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the curb.
'Who found the body?' I asked.
'Customer. Kid named Mike Donovan.'
I took a sip of coffee. It was so hot, it hurt. I took another.
'Who took the statement?'
'Robertson.'
Benedict pointed at the storefront window to the thin, uniformed figure of Robertson, talking with a teenager.
'Witnesses?'
'Not yet.'
'Who was behind the counter?'
'Owner. Being depoed as we speak. Didn't see anything.'
I wiped some rain off my face and unbunched my shoulders as I entered the store, trying to look like the authority figure my title suggested.
The heat inside was both welcome and revolting. It warmed me considerably, but went hand in hand with the nauseating smell of hot dogs cooked way too long.
'Robertson.' I nodded at the uniform. 'Sorry to hear about your dad.'
He shrugged. 'He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him.'
'Heart attack?'
'He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.'
I searched Robertson's face for the faintest trace of a smirk, and didn't find one. Then I turned my attention to Mike Donovan. He was no more than seventeen, brown hair long on top and shaved around the sides, wearing some baggy jeans that would have been big on Herb. Men got all the comfortable clothing trends.
'Mr. Donovan? I'm Lieutenant Daniels. Call me Jack.'
