Cut to the Bone(110)

Which snapped to attention with a silent blue glow.

“It works,” Davis said, his voice cracking with awe. “The cell’s got power.”

“Cool beans, Derek. Does it look like it’ll dial out?”

He hadn’t actually considered that it wouldn’t. He felt the rest of his dinner climb the stairs . . .

The phone bleated.

He jumped.

It bleated again. He looked at the display, hands trembling.

WIFE CELL.

“It’s Sue,” he breathed, wide-eyed. “She’s returning my call.”

“So, you gonna answer?” Charvat said. “Or make that poor gal leave a message?”

Derek poked CONNECT with a badly trembling finger - the pain from his wounds was starting to horse him around. He dropped his ear to the phone and heard his wife talking a mile a minute. It was the sound of an angel.

“Sue,” he grunted as the black fog pulsed at his eyeballs.





Chicago

Superstition felt an elbow smash her shoulder as she reached for Bubbles’s door. The unstable orange stilettos launched her sideways, and she banged off a wrought iron fence, mashing her opposite arm so hard that she knew it would purple before she reached the bathroom.

“Hey, jerk,” she snapped as she regained her balance. “You want a punching bag, go find a gym.”

The tall, muscled black man who’d shoved her to get in first stared down with eyes as chilly as buckshot. “One more word from you, whitey,” he said, his voice a November grave, “and I’ll tear off your head and shit down your neck.”

She bristled and started to snap, “Try it, see what happens,” then held up her hands. Knocking him around would be fun, but she really had to pee. One more minute and she’d do it right here in the doorway, swear to God . . .

Mistaking her reaction for submission, he turned away and pushed through the door. The two men behind him shrugged. It was as close as she’d get to an apology, she figured, because hookers got respect from exactly nobody.

She watched the trio drift toward the back of the airy room, which wrapped around a thirty-foot mahogany bar. A tidal wave of bar-gabble engulfed her as she navigated the Moorish floor tiles. A hunky young man with three-day stubble smiled her way. The dirty blonde at his elbow shot her eye-daggers, then stepped closer to her prize. Superstition, amused, nodded at both, kept moving. Beautiful people were the norm at Bubbles. The place reflected its owner, one Bubbles Frankenberg, whose real name was Donna but preferred both dramatis personae and chilled Dom Pérignon. Superstition reached the bathroom door, her insides trembling from the strain-

Four fingers and a thumb grabbed her wrought-iron bruise, making her yelp.

“Back the way you came, street meat,” growled a man thick with drugstore cologne. “Don’t want your kind pollutin’ the decent folk.”

Superstition turned to see a bullet-headed bouncer with a ruby in his left ear. “Wow. Did you think that up all by yourself?” she said. “Or read it in a comic book?”

His jaw twitched with annoyance. “Cracking wise is really bad for your health,” he said, moving in so close that the cologne assaulted all her senses.

“Or yours,” Superstition said, sneezing. “You’re new here, right?”

He nodded, suddenly wary. “First night,” he said.

“Tell Bubbles I said hi,” she said, pushing into the bathroom with her butt.

He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. Instead, he lumbered away, adjusting his waistband and muttering under his breath.

She entered a stall, latched the door, did her business with a tabernacle choir of relief, then called her boss.

“Hanrahan,” he said.

“It’s me. I wanted to let you know I’m in position.”

“Position?” he said, confused. “I thought you were using the-”

She held the phone next to the bowl and flushed.

“Har-de-frickin’-har,” Hanrahan said.

“Frickin’?” she said.

“The captain says I shouldn’t swear in front of the troops. Says it makes me suboptimal.”

“Suboptimal?”

“I think it means ‘big pecker,’” Hanrahan said. “So, you coming?”

“As soon as I get hold of Derek. He left a message, but I haven’t had time to call back. Do you mind?”

“You? Asking for permission?”

“Thought I’d try something new.”

A snort this time. “You’re full of laughs tonight. Sure, go ahead. We’re still setting up.”

“Thanks, Loot,” she said, using the dimunitive for Lieutenant.

Hanrahan was a tall, meaty man, born in Hegewisch, formed on the streets, polished by the Jesuits, and pipelined from junior college to the cops. He had no peer in commanding detectives, but his personal life was the very definition of WTF, dude? Movie-star handsome in a bulky, film noir way, he enjoyed walking on the wild side, which, among other things, meant dating a Chicago Bulls cheerleader, a runway model, and a CIA analyst, all at the same time - while he was married. Predictably, it ended in disaster and divorce court, but he remained cheerful about it, saying “Little Robbie” wanted what it wanted, so what could he do? He was the best boss she’d ever had, though, treating his cops, male or female, gay or straight, color or none, with great respect - and, if needed, some private ass-kicking, which became forgive-and-forget unless the kickee didn’t get the point, in which case he or she found him or herself combing sewer grates for important clues. She’d take a bullet for him, and most of her colleagues shared that assessment.