A Lt. Jack Daniels/Duffy Dombrowski Mystery by JA Konrath & Tom Schreck

Duffy

My face hurt like a toothache.

The boxer I’d just fought—a fat guy from Gary, Indiana who was supposedly slow and easy to hit—could punch. I hit him a lot, easily, but he countered well, and every time he did it felt like getting banged with a fabric-covered cinder block. Enough of those and it makes your head ring. Not a pleasant dull throb, but a crackling pain going through from your forehead to your jaw.

Incidentally, I won the fight—six rounds to two in an eight rounder that left me a thousand dollars richer. Now, my true reward; a trip to AJ’s for a beer. I fought at the Armory, a two minute car ride to the bar, and got the shock of my life when I came through the front door.

The place had a crowd.

That never happened. Usually, the crowd, and I use that term loosely, consisted of the Fearsome Foursome, Kelley the cop, me and maybe, on a good night, a couple of cab drivers. Tonight other people had invaded my refuge.

Luckily, the Foursome had their usual seats at the bar and saved me one. Kelley, one away from that, was also in. Maybe not so luckily, the Foursome had already started.

“They wrapped her tits in ace bandages, you know.” TC said.

“She sprain ‘em?” Jerry Number One said.

Fuck, they were arguing about the Wizard of Oz again. TC loved to talk about how Judy Garland had her breasts wrapped to look younger in her famous role.

“Jed Clampett got sick making that flick,” Rocco said. It silenced the room for a second while the others stared. I took my seat, put a hand up to my face. No swelling, yet.

“The glue on the lion outfit gave him the hives,” Rocco said with confidence.

“Bulger.” Jerry Number Two.

“It is not Bulger, it’s the truth,” Rocco said.

AJ, the owner and only bartender, slid a bottle of Schlitz in front of me. I took a long pull and held the rest of it to my forehead.

“Let me get a Beam, too.” I said. AJ lifted his eyebrows but said nothing and put a sidecar of the brown elixir next to the Schlitz.

“Buddy Epson got allergic to the silver paint. Ray Bulger played the lion,” I said. “You fuckin’ guys had this discussion a month ago.”

The Fearsome Foursome—Jerries One and Two, Rocco and TC—all stared at me.

“Sorry, fellas,” I said, realizing I’d snapped at them. “My head hurts.”

The unusual silence from the crew called my attention to the crowd in the bar for the first time. There were three strangers on stools on the end by the TV. They didn’t look like the usual cab drivers who drifted in. Foreign, maybe eastern block, each in a suit worth more than my payday. They seemed familiar, and it dawned on me they were at the fight. I saw them in the dressing room hanging out with Wilkerson, the fight promoter. They also had front row seats.

I figured they probably followed me here for a drink, but then realized they were here before me. Unusual. Behind them, another group chatted quietly while sipping their drinks. A fat balding guy ate an AJ’s cheeseburger, getting mustard, ketchup and grease on his face. He didn’t bother with a napkin and instead dragged his sleeve in an upward motion across his mouth.

He talked to a forty-something woman in a very sharp suit—way too sharp for AJ’s. No spring chicken, but hot enough in that self-confident, cougarish way.

I reached for the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat.

“Be cool, Duffy. Any second now, they’re going to approach you, make the offer.”

I cocked an eyebrow at Kelley. “What the hell are you talking about? Did I just walk into a bad spy novel?”

“Lower your voice, dumb ass. I said stay cool.”

I was going to give Kelley more shit but his eyes made me think better. I took another pull on the Schlitz and played along.

“You wearing the wire?” I asked.

I guess I was going to give Kelley shit after all. But he surprised me by saying, “No. You are. Joint effort with the Chicago cops. Stick this in your pocket.”

He passed something into my hand. I glanced down. Looked like a pen drive.

Kelley wasn’t the practical joker type. He wouldn’t crack a smile on his birthday in a room full of clowns. Maybe my fat opponent had jarred something loose in my head, because I truly had no idea what was going on.

“Pocket,” Kelley said. “Here they come. Tell them yes.”

I felt movement to my right. The three well-dressed foreign-types were standing over me.

“Matching Rolexes,” Jerry Two said. The Fearsome Foursome were appraising the new arrivals. “Daytonas. Platinum bands.”

“White gold,” Rocco said.

“Platinum.”

“I thought white gold and platinum were the same thing, just different colors.” This from KC.

“Different elements,” said Jerry Two. “Platinum is heaver.”

“No it ain’t, zipper-head. Gold is.”

“Platinum. That’s why it’s more, you know, pricier.”

The tallest of the men, the guy who stood in the middle, smiled at me. Dark hair, dark eyes, five o-clock shadow coming in strong even though he smelled like aftershave. He had something on his front tooth. A diamond.

“Mr. Dombrowski,” he said. His accent was Russian. “May we have a word with you?”

“You know how to tell a fake Rolex?” Jerry One. “If it’s got a ticking second hand. The real thing sweeps, don’t tick.”

“Another dead giveaway is the plastic band with Fred Flintstone on the face,” said Rocko.

Titters from the Foursome. I rubbed the pen drive recorder in my hand, and still couldn’t figure out what exactly was going on here. Were these the Chicago cops Kelley mentioned?

“You guys were at the fight,” I said. Seemed like a smart thing to say. “Ringside.”

“Yes. Your performance was…” he smiled, the diamond glinting blue from the neon beer sign, “acceptable. Now can we have a word?” His eyes flitted over to the Foursome, then back to me. “In private?”

In between fights, I made my living as a counselor. Over the years I got pretty good at reading people. These three didn’t look like cops, sound like cops, or act like cops. But their expensive suits had bulges under their left armpits, which meant concealed weapons, and Kelley did insist I say yes to them. So I nodded, finished my beer, and stood up.

The trip wasn’t a long one. I followed them over to their table.

“Please, Mr. Dombrowski. Sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

Bling Tooth made a dismissive gesture, but he and his buddies stayed standing too.

“You put on a pretty good show tonight,” he said. His accent seemed to get thicker. “Your opponent, however… the show he put on was much better.”

I waited, not liking where this was going, but not jumping to conclusions.

“We paid him ten thousand dollars to put on that show.”

I felt the burn coming up my neck, to my ears. I’d gone eight rounds with the fat guy, but all of my energy had suddenly returned, tenfold. It all clicked what Kelley wanted from me, but I couldn’t hold back the anger and my fists clenched involuntarily, which probably wouldn’t be good for the voice recorder in my palm.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” I said, making sure my rage wasn’t in my voice. “New guys in town. Russians. Paying fighters to take falls. But the guy tonight, he hit back. Hard. I know him from the circuit. He’s legit. You’re telling me you owned him?”

“We can be… persuasive.”

I wondered how much his diamond tooth was worth, and where I could pawn it after I knocked it out of his mouth. But they had guns, and like an idiot I was standing between them and Kelley, my back-up. Plus, Kelley’d told me to say yes. Get it on tape, they go to jail, win-win. All I had to do was swallow my pride and agree to take a dive.

But then Bling Tooth made a big mistake. Two fingers scissored into his vest pocket and removed a photograph.

“We hope you agree to help us, Mr. Dombrowski. Or else we’d be forced to hurt someone you care very much about.”

He flashed the picture at me. It was Al, my basset hound.

These fuckers had my dog.

It didn’t sink in right away. It had already been a long night of getting punched in the head. I looked up to see Bling Tooth smile at me.

“You want I send you a floppy ear for proof?” he said. He went to smile but before the corners of his mouth turned something went bad inside me and I hit him with a straight left. It caught part nose and part upper lip. He went down hard, grasping his face. Blood already spurted from between his fingers, and I guessed it was nose blood by the way it shot.

I sat on the bastard’s chest and grabbed his thorax with my right. My grip remained sore from the eight rounder, so it wasn’t as tight as I would have liked.

“Listen mother—” I didn’t get to finish.

I heard a series of clickety-clacks and realized his two buddies held guns pointed at my head.

Then one of them bent down next to me, picking something up off the floor.

I’d dropped the pen drive recorder.

Jack

The trail led us to Crawford, about fifty miles out of New York City. When a murderer crossed state lines, the Feds had jurisdiction. At least, they were supposed to. But neither Herb nor I gave them a call. We didn’t even tell our boss, Captain Bains, we were leaving Chicago.

Sometimes being a law enforcement officer meant tip-toeing around the law.

Our suspect, a Russian mobster named Vladimir Polchev, had skipped town before we could haul him in. Polchev had made two big mistakes.

First, he’d murdered a friend of mine. Dirk Wendt, a semi-pro boxer who happened to be my taekwondo instructor for the last six years.

Second, he’d done it on my turf.

The Russians scared the crap out of people, so most weren’t willing to talk. But when I’ve got my mean on, I can be pretty damn persuasive. Herb and I shook down a pimp owned by the mob, got word that Polchev was paying off fighters to throw matches. If they didn’t play along, his crew killed them. Wendt was a Chicagoan, but it didn’t take much research to find two other murders that matched Polchev’s signature.

A tip took us to New York. We called ahead, playing nice with the locals, and were invited to visit as part of a joint task force. It seemed Polchev was a person of interest in several recent murders. The NY fuzz put a tail on him, checked with their informants, and learned Polchev was planning to put the squeeze on a boxer named Dombrowski. We met the lead investigator, Kelley, at a dive bar, to supervise a sting operation. Kelley informed us, in no uncertain terms, that this was not our collar, and we were to maintain a hands-off policy.

Herb and I had no problem with this. I wanted Polchev, bad. It didn’t matter to me which city locked him up, as long as someone did.

“This is an excellent burger,” Herb said. There was so much of it on his face, shirt, and tie, I was dubious he’d gotten any of it into his mouth.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should eat something, Jack. The food is good.”

My stomach was still a bit queasy from our flight. The pilot called it “a little bit of turbulence,” but it had been enough to knock the ice out of my complimentary cup of water. Besides, I had a rule never to eat in a place where the main source of lighting was neon.

I checked my watch, then glanced over at the bar. In my left side peripheral vision, Polchev and two cronies sat, drinking top shelf vodka. Polchev was the one with the diamond in his front tooth. To my right, four men argued about the merits and detriments of toothpaste.

“You know fluoride is poisonous?”

“Is not.”

“Is so, Jerry. They don’t use fluoride toothpaste in space.”

“You can’t brush your teeth in space, dumb ass. It’s a vacuum.”

“You mean it can clean your rugs?”

“There’s no air in space. You tried to brush your teeth, your brain would slurp out your nose.”

“I mean on the space shuttle. No fluoride in the toothpaste, because astronauts have to swallow it.”

“Makes sense. If they spit it out, it would float after them, following them around all mission.”

I tuned them out. Or tried to, at least. I turned back to Herb, took a sip of my club soda and lime, glancing casually at Polchev. He and his men were all armed. Kelley said nothing was going to go down here, and I hoped he was right. The bar was crowded, and shooting would be a catastrophe. I hoped that this Dombrowski guy was good at keeping his cool. Kelley said he was a social worker. Interesting combination, social work and boxing.

Herb finished licking his fingers and dug out the paperback he was reading. Afraid, by Jack Kilborn. He’d read a good portion of it on the plane, every once and a while pausing to whisper, “Jesus H. Christ.” Apparently, the book was supposed to be scary.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Herb whispered again.

I hated it when people did that, because of course I had to ask what was so upsetting.

“This girl is hanging upside down over a pile of dead bodies,” Herb said.

“Sounds like fun.”

“You gotta read this, Jack.”

“I will. Right after I order a burger.”

The four next to us segued into The Wizard of Oz.

“The horse of a different color died. The color they used on him was toxic.”

“Was not. They used gelatin. He kept licking it off.”

“You’re thinking of the tin man.”

“The tin man licked off his paint?”

“No, dummy. The horse.”

“The tin man licked the horse?”

“You guys know it’s impossible to lick your own elbow?”

They all tried to do just that. I shook my head and inwardly wept for the gene pool.

The front door swung open, and a guy walked in. Athletic build, not bad looking, a bit old for a boxer. But I knew it was Dombrowski by the way he walked. Economical, no movement wasted, but coiled, like he was waiting for something to happen.

Dombrowski played it cool, walking up to the four nitwits, having a drink and joining in the conversation. Then he had a few private words with Kelley that I missed in the bar chatter.

When Polchev and his goons approached him, I told Herb to put away the book and pay attention. He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

Dombrowski seemed confused about everything happening, and I wondered if Kelley had bothered to inform him what exactly was going down.

Then everything went to hell. The boxer hit the mobster, and the other mobsters drew their guns. If that wasn’t bad enough, one of the goons picked up the recorder Dombrowski had dropped. A simple sting operation, where no one was supposed to get hurt, was moments away from turning into a bloodbath. I wanted to smack the shit out of Kelley for staging this in a public place, but before I could, instinct took over and I had my .38 in my hand, pointing it at the thugs.

“Police! Drop the weapons!”

The bar went silent. No one moved. I could hear my heart beating, and sensed Herb draw his gun next to me, and Kelley draw his as well.

“That’s one damn sexy cop,” said one of the four. I think it was one of the Jerrys.

“Drop them, hands in the air,” I ordered. “Or we will shoot you.”

There was a bad moment when I thought they might be stupid enough to point their guns my way. But the moment passed, and the mobsters let their weapons fall to the floor.

“Chick cop is wearing Armani,” said one of the four.

“You sure? Could be Fendi.”

“It’s Armani,” I said. “Now shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot you guys, too.”

Dombrowski must have noticed he didn’t have any guns aimed at his head anymore, because he resumed pounding the crap out of Polchev.

Kelley got to him before we did.

“Cool it, Duff. We got him.”

“Asshole has my dog.” Punch. ”He’s going to tell me where A is.” Punch. “Or he’s going to spend the rest of his life eating his meals through a straw.” Punch.

Herb grabbed the recorder, zip-tied the other two mobsters hands behind their backs, and I asked everyone in the bar to kindly step outside.

“Everyone, get the fuck out, now!”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t so kindly.

“Duffy, ease up, man.” Kelley was trying to hold Dombrowski’s arm back, and not doing a very good job. Polchev looked like someone dropped a lasagna, extra sauce, on his face.

I pointed the gun at the boxer.

“Shit, the Fendi cop is gonna shoot Duff.”

“Armani. She said Armani.”

“That the designer guy, got shot?”

“That was Versace.”

“Think she’s the one who shot Versaci?”

Apparently, the Four Stooges hadn’t left when I’d ordered them to.

“Mr. Dombrowski, stop hitting the mobster and get your hands up over your head.”

Kelley stared at me. “Lieutenant, he’s one of the good guys.”

“And I’m trying to save him from a murder rap. Get ahold of yourself, Mr. Dombrowski.”

The boxer looked at me. There was anger in his features, but some sadness too.

“He took my dog, Al.”

“We’ll get your dog back,” I said. “I promise.”

He nodded. But before he got up, he punched Polchev one more time, in the kidneys.

Kelley slapped the cuffs on Polchev, and Mirandized all three suspects. I heard sirens in the distance. Back-up, and probably an ambulance. I looked for Dombrowski, but he was moving toward the front door, staring at something in his hands.

A wallet. Polchev’s wallet.

“Duffy!” I yelled. “Don’t leave the bar!”

He glanced over at me, then ran out the entrance.

Duffy

My fist hurt, but I pushed back the pain and headed for my car. When I punched Bling Tooth in the kidneys, I reached around and swiped his wallet. I had the asshole’s address. For his sake, the dog had better be there.

I bolted to my El Dorado, my mind racing. Al saved my life, he’d been there through some of my toughest times. I couldn’t deal with someone mistreating him. It happened once before. Nightmares of the incident still woke me in the middle of the night.

The wallet told me the guy lived in Wilmette, Illinois. But it also held a key card for the Crawford Holiday Inn.

Picturing Polchev, with his thousand dollar suit, he wasn’t the type to take Al to his fancy house. The hotel sounded like a better bet. I adjusted my course.

The V-8 moaned and I didn’t stop for lights or slow down through Jefferson Park or worry about one way signs. Thankfully, the Eastern Block scumbag whose blood covered my shirt kept the key card in the original cardboard holder. Room 116 awaited, as did a merciless beat down for anyone unlucky enough to be in it.

I turned on to Washington Ave at the end of the park and a patrol car’s flashing lights fired up behind me.

“Get in line,” I mumbled to myself, pinning the gas pedal.

A glance into the rearview confirmed two cars fell in behind the police cruiser. Fuck ‘em. Take it minute by minute. Just like I told me AA clients.

I hit the brakes near the entrance to the motel. I had six blocks on my pursuers and wasted no time exiting the car and sliding the room key into the lobby door. I looked at the arrows that pointed rooms 101-125 and sprinted as fast as I could. My heart pounded in time with my head, and my nerves had almost caught up with my rage.

Almost.

In front of 116 I paused just for a second, hearing a television tuned to CNN coming from inside. No dog sounds. Was he even in there?

My neck twitched, a telltale sign of a looming battle. I slid the card into the electronic lock, took a deep breath, and burst into the room, ready for anything.

The room was empty.

An unmade bed, a leash, a rawhide bone, an open suitcase. A teddy bear sat on the floor in front of me. I realized sweat had soaked my shirt and I began to hyperventilate. The next thing I saw kicked all that up a notch.

The sheets of the bed were soaked in dark crimson. Blood drenched the carpet. I also noticed that the leash—Al’s leash—was caked with gore.

I threw up on the floor in front of me.

Jack

This cop Kelley could drive.

I sat up front and Herb took the back, sticking his head through the space between the front seats so he could be in the conversation.

“So, your pal Duffy, he’s a little nuts?” Herb said. As he spoke he dug the nail of his index finger deep into his mouth to release some ground beef from a molar.

“More than a little,” Kelley said.

“Would you say he’s a danger to himself and others?”

“Depends on the day.”

I raised my eyebrows, ready to launch into an argument about civilians screwing up investigations. But I was close to one thousand miles from home, and had no authority here, so I held my tongue. The siren of the cruiser helped mask the awkward silence. That is, until Herb spoke up.

“So if he’s committing a crime, are you willing to use force to stop him?” Herb looked hard at Kelley, adding, “Lethal force?”

Kelley took us around a curve, pinning me against the passenger door.

“He may be nuts, but he’s a good man. You need to cut him some slack.”

I glanced back at Herb, who seemed to be thinking the same thing I was. Kelley’s personal relationship with Dombrowski might result in a bad ending for all concerned.

In the distance, a Holiday Inn appeared. I noticed Dombrowski’s Cadillac double-parked in front.

As we screeched into the motel lot a call came over the radio. The dispatcher announced, ”All units we have a missing girl, probable abduction. Four years old, light brown hair, in red striped pajamas. The girl has Down Syndrome and has the facial features associated with that condition. She was last seen in the vicinity of the Crawford Holiday Inn.”

Kelley sighed through his teeth, then radioed Dispatch to say he was on the scene. When he pushed open this door I grabbed his shoulder.

“Kelley, this changes things. Your friend isn’t the priority anymore.”

“I know.”

“If the girl is here, and he gets in the way…”

Kelley hooded his eyes and shook out of my grasp. “I know how to do my job, Lieutenant. Duff won’t interfere.” Kelley swallowed. “Or else he’s collateral damage.”

Duffy

The blood trailed down the hallway, a few drips and dribbles hard to make out on the dark carpet. I followed after it best I could.

Through the windows on the wall that bordered the rooms I saw flashing red lights fill the parking lot. At least three patrol cars pulled in. Kelley got out of one, followed by the two cops from AJ’s. The fat guy spotted me through the window and the three of them ran toward the entrance.

I had no intention of waiting for them to haul me away so I picked up the pace on the blood trail. It stopped at an unmarked door. A faint hand print, tiny fingers outlined in blood, was near the knob.

I opened it and found myself in an unlit corridor. I went in running, my hands on the wall, feeling my way. After four steps I bumped into something waist high. It rocked on contact and as it did I felt a string run across my face. I grabbed the string and pulled. I sixty watt bulb went on and I realized I was in the laundry room. I’d bumped into a cart full of dirty towels and sheets.

My shoes squeaked on the tile floor. I looked down.

A pool of blood was at my feet.

Noise from behind. I spun, fists clenched, and saw three figures appear.

“Duff, its Kel, Hold up.”

I was all out of time.

Jack

Dombrowski’s shirt was soaked through with blood and sweat, and he looked somewhere between panic and determination.

“They got Al. I gotta find ‘em.”

“Let us take it from here, Dombrowski.” I put a hand on his chest arm, not rough, but not gentle either.

He slapped my hand away, his neck twitching.

“Just settle down,” I said. “We’re going to find the dog. We got guns, we’re cops, let us do it.”

He went to push past me. I grabbed his right arm, leveraged my hip into his groin and flipped him to the ground. I heard the breath whoosh out of his lungs.

Kelley backed me away, reached down for his friend. “Duff, please, let us take care of this.”

Duffy nodded, seeming to calm down. Kelley helped him up. He looked down at his shoes, wiped his hands on his pants, and then the son of a bitch shoved me aside and ran for the hallway.

He was fast. Real fast.

But I’m fast, too.

I stretched out, hooking my foot around his ankle, tripping him forward. Duffy caught himself against the wall, whipping around to face me. Herb blocked his side of the hallway. My partner was reaching for his gun, but I gave him a stern head shake.

“I know you’re upset, Mr. Dombrowski. But this is a police matter. You have to let us handle it.”

He pretended to go left, then went right, not telegraphing the move at all. I threw a roundhouse after him, aiming for his ear, but he anticipated the punch and bunched up his shoulder. It was like hitting a side of beef, but it staggered him enough to bounce him into the opposite wall.

Duffy shook his head and looked at me.

“I don’t fight women. I’m just trying to find my dog.”

I unconsciously widened my stance, kicking off my heels and planting my feet on the carpet, my left slightly ahead of my right.

“I sympathize. But there’s more at stake here than just your dog. And if you try to run away again, I’ll take you down.”

Something flashed in his eyes, something that looked vaguely like amusement. And though he said he didn’t fight women, I noticed he’d adopted a stance similar to mine, feet wide, hands in front of him.

Then he threw a very fast uppercut.

I flinched back, but his punch was just a feint, and he again tried to take off. I whipped my foot around, snapping my leg back in a spin kick, catching him on the side of his head.

He staggered but didn’t go down.

“Duff…” I heard Kelley say.

I didn’t pay attention to the local cop, following up my kick with a one-two combination to the body. Duffy braced his stomach muscles, dancing away from my blows, and then threw a combination of his own, each one stopping short of its mark.

He had pulled the punches. Dombrowski didn’t want to hurt me, but he was showing me he could.

But I’d beaten faster, stronger guys before, and the fact that he wasn’t willing to hit me made my job a lot easier. I faked a lunge kick, got in close, and clipped him under the chin with an elbow. Then I reared back my knee, ready to punt his balls up into his neck.

Duffy grabbed my leg, blocking the blow, and held it while he looked into my eyes.

“Not on the first date,” he said.

I smiled, batted my eyelashes, and gave him all I had, right in his kidney.

Duffy doubled over.

I reared back, ready to break his nose, when Herb cried out.

“Jack!”

Before Kelley or I could react, a flash of darkness bolted up the hallway.

A man. A sprinting man, covered in blood. Coming right at us.

I heard a thwak, and then Herb went down.

My partner had a knife in his chest.

Duffy

The tough broad from Chicago got off me to tend to the fat guy. He had a throwing knife sticking out of his chest.

I paused, wondering if I could do anything to help, but realized she’d take care of him, and I needed to find Al, so I ran down the hallway after the dark figure.

He staggered and wobbled a bit, and by the time he reached the doorway for the stairwell I was within ten feet of him. He made it through the stairway door before me and tried to slam it shut. I blocked it with my foot and got in behind him. He sprinted up four or five steps but fell hard, rolled over and then slid down toward me.

I slammed my knee into his chest, and then punched him square in the nose. The familiar crack let me know I broke it.

He didn’t move. Dead or passed out, I didn’t care. His shirt was covered with blood. Al’s blood?

“Duff!”

Kelley, coming up behind me. I didn’t have time for him right now.

Above where the guy collapsed the blood trail continued. I took off after it. At the second floor I found another bloody hand print on the wall. I got to the hallway, turned and headed to my left.

Then the trail died. No more blood. No more hand prints.

I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Al! Boy, where are you? Al!”

I listened for an answer. None came.

If that son of a bitch had hurt my dog, and I’d killed him on the stairs, I’d go back, revive him, and kill him again. Images of Al flashed, unbidden, through my head, and I felt my knees begin to give out, like someone had just socked me in the temple.

“Al,” I whispered.

That’s when I heard it. A muffled bark.

I felt my heart rate kick up again, hope spurring me toward the sound.

But the bark tapered off, followed by a terrifying, gagging wheeze.

The same sound Al made when he almost choked to death eating the foam rubber off my sofa.

“Al!”

I ran to the cubby with the soda and ice machines. There was Al, drenched in blood, lying next to a curled-up little girl.

Jack

As Kelley cuffed the guy on the stairs, I ran to the second floor and saw Dombrowski turn in by the ice machine. My gun was drawn, just in case. From ahead came a choking noise. I reached the corner and spun fast, clutching my .38 in a two-handed Weaver stance.

There were all three of them. Dombrowski, the dog, and the missing little girl. All were spattered with blood.

The dog, a portly basset hound, was coughing and retching. Dombrowski sat next to the mutt, its head on his lap. I knelt down and felt the girl’s neck.

“She’s just asleep,” Duffy mumbled. He stroked the dog’s nose. “C’mon, Al. C’mon and be okay. Be okay.”

Dombrowski had tears running down his face. The fat pooch opened its mouth as wide as an alligator’s and dry-heaved with an awful, disgusting sound. He seemed to be in a really bad way.

“I’m sorry,” I told Duffy. “Can we move him? Get him to a vet?”

I heard wheezing from behind me. Herb had finally caught up.

“Aw, jeez,” he said, staring at the bloody dog. To Duffy he said, “Ambulance on the way. What the hell did you do to that guy on the stairs, man? Did you see his hand?”

The boxer’s face went grim. “Whatever it was, he deserved that and more.”

“What the hell did you do? Bite him?”

Duffy looked up at us, confused. “What?”

Then Al made the most revolting sound yet, sort of a cross between a wet-vac sucking up water and the world’s loudest belch. Something long and covered in mucus shot from the dog’s mouth, plopping onto the floor.

“Oh, there it is,” Herb said. “One of the scumbag’s fingers. The guy on the stairs was missing a few.”

“How many?” I asked, both fascinated and repulsed.

“Three.”

Herb nudged the digit with his toe, and then the dog gagged again and threw up the other two on Herb’s shoe.

“And there they are. I think he’s giving you the finger, Duffy.”

“You okay, boy?” Duffy said, cradling the dog’s head in his hands.

Al licked him, wagging his tail.

“All that blood in his fur must be from the perp,” Herb laughed. “Your dog’s a hero.”

I now had the sleeping little girl in my arms. She wasn’t bleeding either. The hound had gone to town on the bad guy, and all of the blood seemed to be from him.

Al bayed, howling like the wolfman, and the girl opened her eyes.

“Nice doggy,” she said, yawning.

Dombrowski had lifted the dog and kissed him on the back of the head. Kelley came down the hall.

“The guy’s alive but he’s lost a lot of blood. He…” He didn’t finish, staring at Herb. “Hold it, didn’t you take a knife to the chest?” Kelley’s face blanched like he was standing in front of a big fat ghost.

Herb reached in to his jacket and pulled out a paperback. Afraid by Jack Kilborn was written across the cover in bright red.

“Best book I ever bought.” Herb said. The book had a two inch rip in the cover that went three quarters through the thickness. “If it wasn’t filled with so many pages of unrelenting horror, the knife would have gone through and killed me.” Herb grinned. “God bless authors who write long descriptions of gratuitous violence.”

“We should all go out right now and buy copies,” I said.

“I’m buying two,” said Kelley.

Al barked in agreement.

Duffy

Turns out, the little kid was the daughter of Wilkerson, the fight promoter. They reunited tearfully in the parking lot. Al, messy with blood, remained as healthy as an eighty-five pound hound could be. The scumbag and his three buddies from AJ’s got arrested. Things got even worse for them when Kelley found a shoe box full of heroin in the hotel room. They wouldn’t taste free air again for quite some time.

I cleaned Al up with a thick Holiday Inn towel. He began to bark incessantly, his polite way of telling me he was hungry. I guess finger food wasn’t enough for him.

The cops took reports and interviews and I changed into a pair of sweats and a hoodie I had in the trunk.

The chick cop in the fancy suit came over to the Cadillac. She reached down and scratched Al under the chin, then looked up at me.

“No hard feelings.” She extended her hand.

“No hard feelings.”

Her hand may have lingered just a bit. Or maybe mine did. She was much cuter when she wasn’t trying to kick my ass.

“Akido?” I asked.

“A little. Training’s in taekwondo, but I’ve tried to pick up as much as I can.” She smiled, which softened her features even more.

“Not bad. You ever box?”

“Nah. Too rough for me.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She looked down at Al. “Your dog protected that kid, didn’t he?”

“Probably.” I thought about it for a second. “Might’ve been something else too.”

She wrinkled her brow. “What?”

“He doesn’t like bullies, and there’s something inside him that goes bad when he sees someone getting mistreated.”

She nodded and stood up. “He’s not the only one.”

We stared at each other, maybe for a little longer than we needed to, and then she turned to leave.

“You know…” I said. She paused. “Every once and a while I’m on a fight card in the Windy City. If you’d be interested, I can get you some tickets.”

“I’d like that.” She reached into her purse pulled out a business card, and handed it to me, offering one last smile before walking back over to the fat guy.

I looked down at the card.

Lt. Jack Daniels.

And for all these years, I’d been drinking Jim Beam.

Maybe I’d have to give Jack Daniels a try.

But first I had to go out and buy that book everyone was talking about. Afraid by Jack Kilborn.

Al loved a good book, too. He’d already eaten most of mine.

I tucked the card into my pocket, herded Al into the Caddy, and headed straight to my nearest all-night bookstore. If your town doesn’t have an all-night bookstore, you can also order Afraid at many fine online retailers.*

*Konrath put that ending in. In the ending I wrote, Duffy takes Jack back to his place and rocks her world—Schreck**

**I like my ending better. And I’m Jack Kilborn, if you haven’t figured it out—Konrath