Serial Uncut - J. A. Konrath [62]
Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I sensed I was in a small, empty garage. Some machine—perhaps an air conditioner or dehumidifier—hummed tunelessly in the background. I smelled bleach, which wasn’t a good sign. Under the bleach I smelled traces of copper, human waste, and rotten meat, which was even worse.
Fighting panic and losing, I made myself focus on how I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A hit on the head? A drug? I wasn’t sure. I had no recollection of anything leading up to this.
But from the smells, and my past, I could assume whoever abducted me was planning on killing me.
Definitely not the way I wanted to end my new career.
1989, August 15
I didn’t become a cop to do things like this.
The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said Isuzu Trooper on the fender. I found them to be too big and blocky, especially for an urban setting like Chicago. And with gas prices up to almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted the trend would catch on.
The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even though I was nearly naked. My candy apple red lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier. I’d done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming from the alley was a force of nature.
“Your call, Jackie,” my earpiece said. My partner, Officer Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang parked up the street.
“Aren’t you bored with this game yet?” I said into the microphone. It was hidden in my Madonna push-up bustier; an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a top. Jacqueline Streng, working girl. I reached inside the cup and readjusted my boob. The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder and heavier, the sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my bra strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my Fredrick’s of Hollywood blonde Medusa wig.
“I’ll be bored when I’m actually ahead a few bucks,” Harry said. “Go on. Guess.”
I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around for something. Possibly his wallet. He was Caucasian, late forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married with kids.
“BJ,” I said to Harry.
“Naw. I’m guessing something pervy.”
“He looks like a member of the PTA.”
“The clean-cut guys are always the perverts.”
“You said the weird-looking guys are always the perverts.”
“They’re pretty much all perverts. I’ll say foot fetishist.”
I actually didn’t know what a foot fetishist did. Something to do with feet, I assumed, but what? The Vice training manual didn’t explain that particular kink. I wasn’t about to ask Harry, because he’d make fun of me. It was hard enough being a female in the Chicago Police Department. Being a young female who did prostitution stings made me an easy target for potshots.
Not that I would be young for much longer. Today officially began the last year of my twenties. I was going to celebrate the happy occasion by watching TV and getting drunk. My boyfriend Alan was out of town on a business trip, and so far he’d neglected to get me anything. Big mistake. True, I didn’t want any reminders of my rapidly retreating youth. But we cops were big on intent. And forgetting your girlfriend’s birthday said a lot about your future intent.
Not that I had any intentions myself. His last name was Daniels, for chrissakes. I had a hard enough