snarling, ready to tear her throat out with my bare hands.
But before I can get to her the kitchen becomes a firing range, bullets zinging into cabinets and countertops. Glasses and plates shatter, pots and pans ding-dong with ricochets. Alex and I kneel on the ground and cover our heads, and McGlade pulls food and drawers and shelves out of the refrigerator as fast as he can, trying to fit himself inside, which is like trying to stuff a pot roast into a tube sock.
“Jack!” Mom cries from the bathroom. It’s a cry of concern, not pain.
“Stay there, Mom!”
The shooting eases up again. I look around for something to hit Alex with, and then I glance up and she’s standing over me, holding up the tabletop micro wave oven, ready to cave my skull in.
“Hey, pork chop face!” Harry says.
Alex turns.
“Got milk?” Harry asks. Then he smacks her in the head with a full jug of moo juice, hitting her so hard that she spins 360 degrees before sprawling out onto her back.
Her eyes are closed. She’s out cold.
Harry points to the milk all over the floor.
“Now promise me you won’t be crying over this, Jack.”
I can’t help myself. I have to grin at that.
“I promise, Harry.”
“Good. Now bring me that goddamn cat. I want my foreskin back.”
9:08 P.M.
HERB
“W HERE IN THE HELL is your partner?”
Herb stares at Blake Crouch, Chicago ’s deputy chief, and says, “I don’t know.”
Crouch resembles a mole, with a long, sharp nose and tiny black eyes. Came from out of state, so he didn’t rise up through the ranks like much of the brass. Because of this, Herb suspects, Crouch thought he had to be a hard-ass to gain respect. Hence his nickname,
Deputy Grouch
. Someone needed to lecture this man about flies and honey and vinegar. Someone other than Herb, who spent an hour getting stitches in his leg and then even longer tap dancing with the Grouch in the ER, waiting for Jack to return.
Herb had called Jack on her cell and at home, several times each. No answer. Which worries him. Jack is the poster girl for being responsible. Being incommunicado isn’t like her at all.
“I’m going to send a team to the lieutenant’s apartment,” the Grouch says. “If I find out she’s deliberately hiding something…”
Herb shakes his head, his jowls wiggling.
“She’s not hiding anything, sir. It went down like I said.”
“I still need her statement. There’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling the wagons.”
Herb has no idea what that means, and he guesses the Grouch doesn’t either. But he can’t let the deputy chief find out that Jack lives outside the city.
“She’s not at her apartment,” Herb says. “She’s with her mother. Her elderly, sickly mother.”
“Her mother is sick?” the Grouch asks.
“Very sick.”
“Which hospital is she in? I can meet-”
“She’s sick in the head,” Herb says.
“Is it pyromania?” the Grouch asks.
“Huh?”
“I had an aunt with pyromania. She’d knit sweaters, then set them on fire.”
Herb tries to judge if the Grouch is being funny, but he sees a tear in the corner of the man’s eye.
“I think she’s just failing mentally,” Herb says. “Jack ran out to the suburbs to check on her.”
“Do you know where?”
Herb shakes his head. The Grouch gets in close, so close his pointy nose almost touches Herb’s. Herb rears back slightly, afraid he’ll lose an eye.
“I will bring your partner before a disciplinary committee if I don’t hear from her within the hour. So if you have any clue where she might be, Sergeant, I suggest you find her.”
“Jack saved lives today,” Herb says, his voice steady.
“I don’t care if she saved the mayor’s daughter from being eaten by sharks…”
What is with this guy and sharks?
“… I want her debriefed right now. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Herb says.
The Grouch backs off a few feet.
“Good. Now I’ve got to talk to the media. They’re
But before I can get to her the kitchen becomes a firing range, bullets zinging into cabinets and countertops. Glasses and plates shatter, pots and pans ding-dong with ricochets. Alex and I kneel on the ground and cover our heads, and McGlade pulls food and drawers and shelves out of the refrigerator as fast as he can, trying to fit himself inside, which is like trying to stuff a pot roast into a tube sock.
“Jack!” Mom cries from the bathroom. It’s a cry of concern, not pain.
“Stay there, Mom!”
The shooting eases up again. I look around for something to hit Alex with, and then I glance up and she’s standing over me, holding up the tabletop micro wave oven, ready to cave my skull in.
“Hey, pork chop face!” Harry says.
Alex turns.
“Got milk?” Harry asks. Then he smacks her in the head with a full jug of moo juice, hitting her so hard that she spins 360 degrees before sprawling out onto her back.
Her eyes are closed. She’s out cold.
Harry points to the milk all over the floor.
“Now promise me you won’t be crying over this, Jack.”
I can’t help myself. I have to grin at that.
“I promise, Harry.”
“Good. Now bring me that goddamn cat. I want my foreskin back.”
9:08 P.M.
HERB
“W HERE IN THE HELL is your partner?”
Herb stares at Blake Crouch, Chicago ’s deputy chief, and says, “I don’t know.”
Crouch resembles a mole, with a long, sharp nose and tiny black eyes. Came from out of state, so he didn’t rise up through the ranks like much of the brass. Because of this, Herb suspects, Crouch thought he had to be a hard-ass to gain respect. Hence his nickname,
Deputy Grouch
. Someone needed to lecture this man about flies and honey and vinegar. Someone other than Herb, who spent an hour getting stitches in his leg and then even longer tap dancing with the Grouch in the ER, waiting for Jack to return.
Herb had called Jack on her cell and at home, several times each. No answer. Which worries him. Jack is the poster girl for being responsible. Being incommunicado isn’t like her at all.
“I’m going to send a team to the lieutenant’s apartment,” the Grouch says. “If I find out she’s deliberately hiding something…”
Herb shakes his head, his jowls wiggling.
“She’s not hiding anything, sir. It went down like I said.”
“I still need her statement. There’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling the wagons.”
Herb has no idea what that means, and he guesses the Grouch doesn’t either. But he can’t let the deputy chief find out that Jack lives outside the city.
“She’s not at her apartment,” Herb says. “She’s with her mother. Her elderly, sickly mother.”
“Her mother is sick?” the Grouch asks.
“Very sick.”
“Which hospital is she in? I can meet-”
“She’s sick in the head,” Herb says.
“Is it pyromania?” the Grouch asks.
“Huh?”
“I had an aunt with pyromania. She’d knit sweaters, then set them on fire.”
Herb tries to judge if the Grouch is being funny, but he sees a tear in the corner of the man’s eye.
“I think she’s just failing mentally,” Herb says. “Jack ran out to the suburbs to check on her.”
“Do you know where?”
Herb shakes his head. The Grouch gets in close, so close his pointy nose almost touches Herb’s. Herb rears back slightly, afraid he’ll lose an eye.
“I will bring your partner before a disciplinary committee if I don’t hear from her within the hour. So if you have any clue where she might be, Sergeant, I suggest you find her.”
“Jack saved lives today,” Herb says, his voice steady.
“I don’t care if she saved the mayor’s daughter from being eaten by sharks…”
What is with this guy and sharks?
“… I want her debriefed right now. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Herb says.
The Grouch backs off a few feet.
“Good. Now I’ve got to talk to the media. They’re
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