Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine (6 page)

I held up my badge and said, "We're not here to drink." The old guy at the register took one look at my tin, swallowed the rest of his suds in one gulp and spun around in his seat to head for the rear exit.

The bartender folded his hands on the mop and said, "What's up?"

He was a young kid, early twenties, kept himself in good shape. The tattoos going down the length of his arms to the knuckles of both hands wouldn't help him on any job interviews, but what the hell? In a town like Chicago, people would always need someone to pour them a drink. "We're looking for someone who might have been in here last night. Were you working?"

"Yeah," he said. "But we were pretty crowded last night. Is he a regular here?"

"I don't think so," I said. "It was probably around seven o'clock. You'd remember him, trust me."

"Okay, try me."

I stuck my hands out and said, "He's real, real big. Boisterous personality. Thick mustache. Kind of looks like a cartoon version of a walrus."

He scrunched up his face for a second, then snapped his fingers and said, "Yeah! I remember that guy. He ate, like, forty hot wings."

"That's him!" I said.

"Nice guy," the bartender nodded.

"Exactly," I said. "Now here's the important part. I need you to think about anything he might have said before he left. Did he look concerned? Did he have any trouble with anybody in here? Were there any problems at all?"

"Not that I can think of," the kid said. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"No," I said, getting irritated.

"I watch crime shows all the time. Are you looking at him for some kind of investigation?"

Frank tapped him on the arm and said, "The way this works is we take in the information, we don't give it out, all right, Hair Mousse? Now answer the lady so you can get back to cleaning up and go home. Otherwise, it's gonna be a long night for all of us."

"Ease up with the hot cop, scary cop routine, all right?" he said.

Frank looked at me and then back at the bartender and said, "Did you just call Lieutenant Daniels scary?"

"Look, the guy was in here. He minded his business and didn't cause any trouble with anybody from what I could see. Then, him and his lady friend left."

"Lady friend?" I said. "What lady friend?"

The bartender shrugged and said, "Hell if I know, but she was smoking. This Asian number with long black hair. When I saw the two of them leaving together, I thought he must have rented her for the night or something."

I felt like grabbing the little bastard around the throat and slapping him for making up such a stupid story, but before I could spit it out, Frank said, "Are you sure they left together?"

"Positive. She told him it was time to go, he gave her a little bit of a hard time because he wasn't done stuffing his face or something, I guess, but then she said something that made him hop to. If I looked like him, and I was with a woman like that, she wouldn't have to tell me twice."

"That's enough!" I said. "No way in hell was Herb Benedict here with some hot Asian chickee who told him it was time to leave. I will throw you in lockup so fast your head spins if you tell me one more lie, you little shit."

"Whoa!" the bartender said, "I'm not lying! The fat dude was here with some girl and they left together!"

"Really?" I said. "Which way did they go then, huh? Where's his car? Which of Keenan Marvin's goons did you tip off, you son of a bitch!"

"Hey!" Frank said, grabbing me by the arm to pull me back.

"Goons? What the hell are you talking about? You know what, I'm done," the bartender said, holding up his hands. "You're not allowed to threaten me like that."

"Nobody threatened you," Frank said, trying to lead me toward the door.

"The hell I didn't!" I shouted. "I swear to God I will put you in a hole so deep you'll need dentures before you ever see daylight again."

"That's it," Frank said. "We're done. Good night."

"Hey," the bartender said. "What's your names? I want your names."

He was grabbing for a pen and a napkin by the register, telling us we had to give him our names, that it was in the Constitution. Frank shoved the door open and blocked me with his body, forcing me outside, keeping me from going back for more.

"I'm serious, I will call the cops if you don't give me your names!" the bartender shouted.

Frank turned his head and said, "Relax. No problem. She's Janice Rand and I'm Christopher Pike. We work for NCIS. Thank you for your cooperation."

The bartender was scribbling it all down when I heard him say, "NCIS? Really?"

Frank pulled the bar's front door shut and held his hand up to my face, telling me not to talk until we were a safe distance away. I stormed down the street to the nearest alleyway, hands clenched into tight fists, waiting for Frank to limp after me. I held up my hand to stop him and said, "You are this close to getting arrested for interfering in a criminal investigation!"

"He wasn't lying," Frank said calmly.

"The hell he wasn't! I've known Herb Benedict since I started working plainclothes. I've known Bernice since they got married. You seriously expect me to stand there and listen to that crock of horseshit about some Asian supermodel who took him home? So help me God, Frank. You interfere in one of my interrogations one more time and I will arrest you, understand? Do not ever get in my way again. We're done. I don't know why the hell I let you tag along this far!"

Frank put his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath, waiting to see if I was finished.

"Call a taxi back to your hotel," I finally said. "In fact, just take it right to the airport and get on the next plane back home. You don't have any further business out here. Chicago's made it this far on our own, so thanks for the help, but no thanks. You're no longer needed."

I turned around to leave, trying to tear my keys out of my pocket as I headed for my car. Frank called out, "I can get to Keenan Marvin. Can you do that?"

I stopped at the mouth of the alleyway but didn't turn.

"Marvin's lawyered up and he's in custody. The police can't get within five miles of him to ask him anything, and he knows it. But I can. I can ask him about all sorts of things, including whether or not he knows any Asian supermodels."

I felt hot tears coming down my cheeks and I hated it. My teeth were grinding together so hard I thought they might crack. "If Marvin took Herb…I'm going to kill him. I swear to Christ, I will kill that bastard no matter what."

"I know," Frank whispered. I could feel him standing behind me, close enough to shield the wind, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath on my neck. "Breathe, all right?"

"I'm fine," I muttered.

"Let me ask you something. When you get to a murder scene, do you bust through the tape and run right up to the body and start looking for hair fibers, or do you walk around the outside first? You start out from a distance and work your way in, right?"

I didn't answer. The question didn't require one.

"Right now, I'm the guy standing at the edge of the crime scene, trying to get the big picture, and you're the guy who ran through the bloodstains just to be the first person in. You are too close to this case, Jack. You need to step back."

I took a long, shuddering breath and said, "All right. I'll try."

"It's okay," he said. He put his hand on my back and said, "Go home. Get some sleep. I'm going to walk around and see if I see anything."

I watched him limping away and said, "Frank?"

He looked back at me and said, "Yes?"

"Who the hell are Janice Rand and Christopher Pike?"

"Characters from Star Trek's pilot episode. Pike was Captain of the Enterprise before Kirk, but they got rid of him."

"Why did they get rid of him?" I asked.

"He got crippled." 

5.

Jack paused at the boss's door, her hand hovering next to the brass name plate that read Captain of Operations, Phillip B. Miller. Miller was old-school. One of the few police administrators left in the city who'd never been to college. Irish, with a whiskey drinker's nose, he'd come up through the ranks on the Southside breaking batons on heads. Even when you talked to him now, he still had the look of a man who would toss his police hat aside and jump into an alleyway brawl, just for the fun of it.

She was bleary-eyed and jittery from lack of sleep. She'd skipped taking any sleep meds because it had been too late when she got home, and she knew she needed to be at this very place at this very time and have a somewhat clear head. Whatever happened next, she couldn't blame it on being in some Ambien fog.

Miller had worked with Jack's mom, Mary, back in the day running vice operations on tourists. He'd been the lookout while she stood on a streetcorner in a skirt, shaking it, luring the suckers in. Rumor had it that…well, Jack thought. Rumors are what rumors are. Anytime a guy and girl work together, and they work together well, cops always assume they're sleeping together. Hell, sometimes people even joked about her and Herb.

Jack knocked on the door and Miller called out, "Come in."

"Hey, Cap," Jack said stiffly. "Can we talk for a second?"

Miller looked at the clock over his door and said, "Shouldn't you be at trial right now?"

"Yes, sir. The prosecutor knows I'm running late. I needed to talk to you."

Miller sighed and sat back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. He'd been in this situation a thousand times and it never ended well. Over the years, he'd had cops tell him everything from being addicted to drugs to one guy who said he'd killed his ex-wife and her body was in the trunk of his personal car. He looked at Jack with grave concern, this woman was capable, sure. Good, solid police. But he'd known her since she was a kid and secretly still thought of her that way. "What is it?" he said.

"Herb is missing," she said. When Miller didn't respond, the words came rushing out of her in a torrent. "He was sequestered yesterday so I didn't see him but nobody can say he even was there and Bernice hasn't heard from him since the night before after we arrested Marvin again and I yelled at him and he said he was going out, but he never came home!"

Miller held up his hand to stop her and said, "What?"

"He hasn't been seen in two days. No one can reach him."

Miller cracked a smile and said, "Are there any big Twinkies sales going on right now?"

Daniels looked down at the ground, shaking her head in silent frustration. "I'm afraid Marvin's people went after him when they couldn't get me. I tracked Herb's last known location to a bar near the courthouse. Apparently some ridiculously beautiful Asian chick forced him to leave with her."

"Forced?" Miller said.

"Yes," Jack said. "Basically."

"Herb Benedict got forced to take a beautiful Asian girl home from a bar and nobody's seen him in two days? Sounds like he got lucky, Jack."

"No," Jack said quickly. "No way. I don't buy that. He wouldn't just bail on the trial, Captain. He wouldn't just bail on his wife, and he wouldn't just bail on me."

"All right, Jack, all right, calm down," Miller said softly. "I'm sure he's fine."

"If he is fine, he's not going to be after I catch up to him," Jack muttered.

"I bet," Miller said. "Here's the problem. We can't enter him as missing or endangered without something more substantial than some Asian babe grabbed him at a bar. That means we'd have to do an administrative investigation, which is going to result in people above me asking why he isn't responding to a court-mandated subpoena to be at your trial. If he's absent without leave, and we find him holed up in some motel with this girl, he's done. They'll fire him on the spot."

"There has to be something, Captain," Jack said.

Miller picked up his phone and typed in a series of numbers, waiting as it rang. There was a brief pause then Miller said, "Sparky? It's The Tuna."

Jack could hear the laugh on the other end of the line and a man said, "How the hell are you, Phil?"

"I'm good, but I've got an issue, and I need a little discreet help on it. Does Herb Benedict have a department issued phone? He's a detective for me over here at Violent Crimes." Miller looked at Jack as he waited for an answer and then he said, "Good. Is it one of those new smart gadgets? Excellent. Here's the thing." Miller paused, cradling his phone in his palm and keeping his voice low, "The big galoot dropped it somewhere and he can't find it. He's got all sorts of sensitive information on it, including home numbers and addresses for all the big bosses. Now I know this is outside of the usual parameters, and I'm asking you to put your neck out, but I'd like to keep this off the books. Understand?"

"You want me to kill the phone? That's easy. I can do that remotely."

"No, not exactly. We need what's on it for this big trial we're in the middle of. Keenan Marvin, maybe you heard?" Miller looked at Jack and rolled his eyes, knowing he was putting himself squarely inside the jackpot now right next to her. "Yeah, I know, he's an idiot, and he's going to pay, trust me. Can you find the phone for me?"

"When do you need it by?"

"Yesterday," Miller said.

There was a brief pause on the other end and the voice said, "You still a Johnnie Walker man?"

"Yeah," Miller said.

"Red label?"

"Actually, Double-Black now, when I can afford it."

"That's funny. I am too."

Miller sighed and said, "All right, you pirate. Get me that phone, pronto, and I'll send you a bottle." He hung up and looked at Jack, "We'll have this figured out by this afternoon, okay?"

Jack shot up from her chair and wrapped her arms around the Captain, thanking him profusely. "Let me know as soon as you find anything."

"Of course," Miller said. "What are you going to do about court, though? Isn't Herb supposed to be getting back on the stand?"

"Let me worry about that," Jack said. "I've got everything under control."

Jack pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the courtroom and nodded at the cops sitting in the audience. There was a witness on the stand, busy describing his many years of expertise as a forensic examiner for the National Firearms and Ballistics Center of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, or some such place. Alan Davidson looked back in annoyance at Jack, taking the time to shake his head dismissively in front of the jury as she tried to slip past the gate. He did everything but look at them and say, "Folks, I apologize for the prosecution's lack of professionalism."

Jack slid into her seat and Joel Roth gritted his teeth and muttered, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Working on something," Jack whispered.

"Tell me you brought your partner in with you, because he's missing too."

"Well, that's sort of what I was working on," Jack said.

"Where the hell is he?"

"I don't know. But we are looking for him. We should have him by this afternoon."

Roth was squeezing the pencil in his hand so hard it looked like it might begin to spool out the lead inside like toothpaste. "They only have two witnesses, Jack. What the hell am I going to do when they rest?"

"Don't let them rest," Jack said.

"How do you propose I do that?"

"Stall them."

Roth shook his head bitterly. "This case is your baby. If it goes down in flames, don't blame me."

"I won't blame you as long as you stall them, Joel," she said. Jack leaned next to him, letting her leg rest up against his, and whispered, "And who knows, if you make this work, I might need a celebratory drink after we win. And I might be looking for some company."

Roth continued to stare straight forward, but his look wasn't quite so irritated anymore. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, whispering, "I'm going to hate myself for this. I just know it."

Alan Davidson smiled confidently as he looked at his witness and said, "How many cases have you examined in your duties as a forensic scientist, Mr. Ford?"

The man in the witness box was in his late-sixties. His white hair and beard grew together and were neatly trimmed. He raised the thick black arm of his eyeglasses and said, "It's hard to say, really. I suppose a better question would be how many I'd examined that were this particular caliber of firearm."

"I like that question better, and thank you for helping me improve it," Davidson said. He was still smiling as he picked up the evidence sheet for the murder weapon and added, "How many cases have you had the opportunity to examine a Glock nine millimeter model nineteen?"

"The Glock model nineteen is a fairly common firearm for us. I'd say, around five hundred over the years, give or take," Ford said.

"Five hundred?" Davidson said. "That's impressive, sir, and in those five hundred cases, how many did you−"

Joel Roth raised his hand and said, "Your honor, I object."

The judge, witness, and Alan Davidson all turned and looked at the prosecutor in surprise. "You object to what?" Davidson snapped.

"I believe that's my line, defense counsel," Judge Ceparullo said. He looked at Joel Roth and said, "But it is a very good question, considering. Where are you going with all this, Mr. Roth?"

Roth cleared his throat and said, "The witness claims to have examined five hundred cases involving the same weapon as the one involved in this murder, sir. That is a patent falsehood in that there is only one weapon at issue – the one the prosecution has entered into evidence, exhibit B."

"That is not what the witness meant, your honor," countered Davidson. "Obviously, we are speaking of a type of gun and not the gun now called exhibit B."

"Overruled, Mr. Roth," the judge said, annoyed at the confusion Roth had caused.

Roth then leapt back to his feet and said, "In that case, I'd like to see some proof."

"Proof of what?" Davidson said. "His examinations?"

"Yes, in fact. If he's going to make such a claim, I believe the jury has the right to know they can rely on his expertise."

Alan Davidson looked outraged, "Did I make your expert haul in all his drug cases, Joel?"

"No," Roth said. "Shame on you."

"This is a complete waste of the court's time," Davidson said.

The judge rubbed his cheek and chin, stroking them in long thought, until he shrugged and turned to look at the witness, "Well, Mr. Ford? Can you back up your claim?"

"I'm certain I can," Ford said nervously. "It will take some phone calls. I'll need some time to get all the cases together. But, your honor, we're talking boxes and boxes of files. Do you want me to actually bring them all in here?"

Judge Ceparullo looked at Joel Roth who nodded and swallowed and barely managed to utter the words, "Yes, sir, I do."

Ceparullo picked up his gavel and tapped his podium, saying, "This court is in recess until Mr. Ford can satisfy the prosecution's request. The jury is dismissed. I'll be in my chambers if anyone needs me."

Alan Davidson stared daggers at both Joel Roth and Jack as he walked past, slamming his notepad on the desk and collapsing in his seat. The sheriff's deputies lifted Keenan Marvin up from his seat and handcuffed him, leading him out of the courtroom.

Joel Roth looked down at his notepad and said, "That really sucked, Jack. We didn't make any friends with this."

"I know," Jack said. She winked at him half-heartedly and said, "But you bought us time, and I assure you, it will be worth it, I promise."

Cops are always lingering in the hallways of the courthouse. Going to and from court, waiting for juries, staring at the pretty girls in business suits who work there, staring at the pretty girls in street clothes there for warrants. You name it, cops found a reason to hang around courthouses. It was better than going back on the street. Jack stood in the hallway, talking to a few she knew, when the entrance doors slid open, followed by four deliverymen pushing handcarts filled high with cardboard boxes. Each of them stopped at the metal detectors and were soon flanked by courthouse security. "Show us what's in the boxes, one at a time," the first guard insisted.

The delivery guy looked up at him, "Every single box? Are you serious?"

"Every single box, mister, now let's move it. We close in an hour."

Jack listened to the grumbles as they hefted each box from the handcarts and set them out, pulling away the lids one at a time to show there weren't any bombs or chainsaws or terrorists hiding inside. She had to force herself not to smile. She checked her phone again. No messages. She scrolled through her contacts and pressed the one marked Captain Miller. "It's me," she said when he picked up. "Any word?"

"Nothing yet," Miller said. "How's it going over there?"

One of the guards bent over to look inside a box and accidentally knocked it over, spilling hundreds of sheets of paper onto the floor. It was high comedy watching them all scurry to get them back inside. "We've got some time," Jack said.