The older fat guy next to me snorted. The pimp wasn’t so amused.

“The local authorities,” he said it in a falsetto, obviously trying to mimic me, “and I have an arrangement. That arrangement means no cops.” He gave me a rough shove in the shoulder. “And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I fed you—”

I drove the salt shaker into his upper jaw with my palm, breaking both the glass and the teeth I’d promised. Besides being hard and having weight, the shards and the salt did a number on the pimp’s gums. Must have hurt like crazy.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his face and howling, and three of his women dragged him out of there. I did a slow pan across the room, looking for other challengers, seeing none. Then I brushed my hand on my pants, wiping off the excess salt, and went back to my coffee, trying to control the adrenalin shakes. I hated violence of any kind, but once he touched me, I didn’t have any other recourse. I didn’t want to play footsie with the local cops he was paying off, trying to get an assault charge to stick. Or worse, wind up in the hospital because some asshole pimp thought he could treat me the same way he treated the women who worked for him.

Better to nip it in the bud and drop him fast. Though I didn’t have to feel good about it.

I took a deep, steadying breath, and managed to sip some coffee without spilling it all over myself, all the while keeping one eye on the entrance. I’d hurt the pimp bad enough to require an emergency room visit, but if he were tougher and dumber than I’d guessed, he might return with a weapon. I set my purse on the counter, my .38 within easy reach, just in case.

“You’re Lieutenant Jack Daniels, aren’t you?”

I glanced at the fat man again. Even though I’d been on the news many times, I didn’t get recognized very often in Chicago, and it never happened away from home.

“And you are?” My voice came out higher than I would have liked.

“Just a fan. You got that serial killer Charles Kork, the one they called the Gingerbread Man. How many women did he kill?”

“Too many.” I turned back to my coffee.

“I saw the TV movie. The one that became the series. You’re much better looking than the actress who played you.”

I was in no mood to be idolized. Plus, there was something creepy about this guy.

“Look, buddy, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really not up for conversation right now.”

The fat man didn’t take the hint. “And you got Barry Fuller. He killed over a dozen, didn’t he? He was both a serial killer and a mass murderer, due to all those Feds he took out at that rest stop.”

I sighed. The waitress came by with my cheese curds. She set down the basket and winked at me. “These are on me.”

“Thanks. I could use some salt.”

I tried a curd. Too hot, so I spit it back out into my palm and played hot potato until it cooled off. My biggest fan refused to give up.

“There were others in the Kork family as well, weren’t there? A whole group of psychos. I heard they killed over forty people, total.”

I really didn’t want to think about the Kork family, and I really didn’t want to have a late-night gabfest with a cop groupie.

But, on the plus side, knocking out that pimp’s teeth really woke me up.

When the waitress brought me the salt, I asked for my meal to go. The fat guy apparently didn’t like that, because he gave me his back and had an intense whisper exchange with his buddy; a younger, attractive man in a flannel shirt. The young guy nodded, got up, and left.

“Just one last question, Lieutenant, and then I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

I sighed again, glancing at him. “Go ahead.”

“Did you ever try to take on two serial killers at once?”

I popped a curd in my mouth. “Can’t say that I have.”

He smiled, lopsided. “Too bad. That would have been cool.”

The fat guy threw down some money, then followed his buddy out.

No longer pestered, I decided to eat there, and settled in to eat my cheese curds.

5

Taylor hadn’t ever killed a cop. He came close once, a few years ago, when a state trooper pulled him over, and asked him to step out of his truck. Taylor had been ready to pull his knife and gut the pig, but the cop only wanted him to do a field sobriety test. Taylor wouldn’t ever risk driving drunk, and he easily passed, getting let off with a warning and pulling away with a dead hooker in his sleeping compartment.

But he was itching to get at this cop. Taylor liked strong women. He liked when they fought him, refusing to give up. They were so much fun to break. Especially when they had such adorable feet.

As Donaldson suggested, Taylor had left the diner and gone back to his rig to grab the ether. Candi with an i was still out cold, but she held far less fascination for Taylor than this new prospect.

I’m going to have a little nip of Jack Daniels, he thought, smiling wildly. Maybe more than one. And maybe not so little.

For helping out, he’d let Donaldson have Candi. While Taylor wasn’t into the whole voyeur scene, it might be interesting to watch another pro do his thing. Hopefully, it didn’t involve any sort of sex, because he had zero desire to see Donaldson’s flabby, naked ass.

Taylor grabbed the plastic bag—the ether-soaked paper towels still moist—and met Donaldson in the parking lot.

“The best spot is here, in the shadow of this truck,” Donaldson said.

Taylor didn’t like him calling the shots, but he heard the man out.

“She thinks I’m a fan,” Donaldson continued, “so I’m going to call her over here, ask for an autograph. Then you come up behind her with the ether.”

“She’s armed. Her purse was too heavy to only be carrying a wallet and make-up.”

“I saw that, too. I’ll grab her wrists, you get her around the neck. We can pull her to the ground here, out of sight. How close is your truck?”

“The red Peterbilt, a few spaces back.”

“When she’s out, we throw her arms around our shoulders, walk her over there like she’s drunk.”

Taylor shook his head. “Only when we’re sure no one is watching. I don’t want a witness getting my plate number.”

“Fine. We can walk her around until we’re sure we’re clear.”

Taylor stared at Donaldson for a moment, then said, “She’s mine.”

Donaldson didn’t respond.

“I’ll give you the whore for helping me, Donaldson. But the cop is mine.”

Donaldson eventually nodded. “Fair enough. Is the whore cute?”

“Too old, fat thighs, saggy gut from popping out kids.”

Donaldson raised his eyebrow. “She’s got kids?”

Taylor laughed. “You into kiddies, Donaldson?”

“Any port in the storm. But you can have fun with kids in other ways. Did the whore have a cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Give it here.”

Interested in where Donaldson was going with this, Taylor dug the phone out of his pocket and handed it over. Donaldson scrolled through the address book.

“Calling home,” Donaldson told him.

“Can’t calls be traced?”

“They can be traced to this cell phone, but not to our current location. To do that requires some highly sophisticated equipment—which I highly doubt the local constabulary possesses.”

“Put it on speaker.”

Donaldson hit a button, and Taylor heard ringing.

“Hello?” A child’s voice, preteen.

“This is Detective Donaldson. I’m sorry to inform you that your mommy is dead.”

“What?”

“Mommy is dead, kid. She was horribly murdered.”

“Mommy’s dead?” The child began to cry.

“It’s an occupational hazard. Your mom was a whore, you know. She had sex with strange men for money. One of those men killed her.”

“Mommy’s dead!”

Donaldson hit the disconnect button.

Taylor shook his head, smiling. “Man, that is low.”

“I’ll call him back later, see how he’s doing. This phone has a camera, too. Maybe I’ll send him some pictures of Mommy when I’m done with her.”