Table of Contents
Cover Page
Whiskey Sour
Cover Book
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2
Excerpt 3
Praise 1
Praise 2
Acknowledgments
Also By
Copyright
Bloody Mary
Cover Book
Title Page
Dedication
Contents Book
Preface
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
Acknowledgments
Also by
Copyright
Rusty Nail
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Box Book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Also By
Copyright
Dirty Martini
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Box book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Also By
Praise 01
Praise 02
Praise 03
Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2
Excerpt 3
Copyright
Fuzzy Navel
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Front Matter
4:38 P.M. KORK
4:57 P.M. MUNCHEL
5:32 P.M. JACK
6:12 P.M. JACK
6:21 P.M. MARY
6:42 P.M. JACK
6:46 P.M. MUNCHEL
6:49 P.M. JACK
6:53 P.M. MUNCHEL
6:54 P.M. KORK
6:56 P.M. JACK
8:02 P.M. KORK
8:15 P.M. JACK
8:18 P.M. SWANSON
8:22 P.M. JACK
8:30 P.M. JACK
8:38 P.M. KORK
9:03 P.M. SWANSON
9:07 P.M. JACK
9:08 P.M. HERB
9:09 P.M. MUNCHEL
9:10 P.M. JACK
9:21 P.M. PESSOLANO
9:22 P.M. JACK
9:28 P.M. JACK
9:31 P.M. PESSOLANO
9:34 P.M. MARY
9:56 P.M. SWANSON
10:00 P.M. HERB
10:06 P.M. PESSOLANO
10:11 P.M. JACK
10:13 P.M. KORK
10:15 P.M. JACK
10:22 P.M. MUNCHEL
10:25 P.M. JACK
10:31 P.M. PESSOLANO
10:33 P.M. HERB
10:43 P.M. JACK
10:42 P.M. KORK
10:46 P.M. SWANSON
10:49 P.M. JACK
10:52 P.M. PESSOLANO
10:54 P.M. JACK
11:00 P.M. PHIN
11:03 P.M. KORK
11:07 P.M. JACK
11:09 P.M. MARY
11:11 P.M. MUNCHEL
11:18 P.M. PHIN
11:31 P.M. KORK
11:36 P.M. JACK
11:44 P.M. PHIN
11:46 P.M. KORK
11:46 P.M. PESSOLANO
11:47 P.M. MARY
11:49 P.M. PHIN
11:49 P.M. JACK
11:49 P.M. MUNCHEL
11:53 P.M. JACK
11:53 P.M. KORK
11:53 P.M. MARY
11:55 P.M. MUNCHEL
MIDNIGHT JACK
12:07 A.M. PHIN
12:08 A.M. MUNCHEL
12:09 A.M. JACK
12:11 A.M. KORK
12:15 A.M. JACK
12:17 A.M. KORK
12:23 A.M. JACK
1:24 A.M. KORK
1:38 A.M. JACK
4:57 P.M. JACK
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by
Copyright
Cherry Bomb
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Front Matter
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
Acknowledgments
Also by
Copyright
Copyright
Whiskey Sour
A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery
WHISKEY SOUR
J.A. KONRATH
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2
Excerpt 3
Praise 1
Praise 2
Acknowledgments
Also By
Copyright
This book is for M.
I love you today, and everyday.
WHISKEY SOUR
1½ oz. whiskey
1½ oz. sour mix
Shake well with ice and pour into an old-fashioned glass.
Garnish with cherry and orange slice.
Chapter 1
THERE WERE FOUR BLACK AND WHITES already at the 7-Eleven when I arrived. Several people had gathered in the parking lot behind the yellow police tape, huddling close for protection against the freezing Chicago rain.
They weren’t there for Slurpees.
I parked my 1986 Nova on the street and hung my star around my neck on a cord. The radio was full of chatter about “the lasagna on Monroe and Dearborn,” so I knew this was going to be an ugly one. I got out of the car.
It was cold, too cold for October. I wore a three-quarter-length London Fog trench coat over my blue Armani blazer and a gray skirt. The coat was the only one I had that fit over the blazer’s oversized shoulders, which left my legs exposed to the elements.
Freezing was the curse of the fashion savvy.
Detective First Class Herb Benedict hunched over a plastic tarpaulin, lifting up the side against the wind. His coat was unbuttoned, and his expansive stomach poured over the sides of his belt as he bent down. Herb’s hound dog jowls were pink with cold rain, and he scratched at his salt-and-pepper mustache as I approached.
“Kind of cold for a jacket like that, Jack.”
“But don’t I look good?”
“Sure. Shivering suits you.”
I walked to his side and squatted, peering down at the form under the tarp.
Female. Caucasian. Blonde. Twenties. Naked. Multiple stab wounds, running from her thighs to her shoulders, many of them yawning open like hungry, bloody mouths. The several around her abdomen were deep enough to see inside.
I felt my stomach becoming unhappy and turned my attention to her head. A red lesion ran around her neck, roughly the width of a pencil. Her lips were frozen in a snarl, the bloody rictus stretched wide like one of her stab wounds.
“This was stapled to her chest.” Benedict handed me a plastic evidence bag. In it was a three-by-five-inch piece of paper, crinkled edges on one end indicating it had been ripped from a spiral pad. It was spotty with blood and rain, but the writing on it was clear:
I let the tarp fall and righted myself. Benedict, the mind reader, handed me a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the curb.
“Who found the body?” I asked.
“Customer. Kid named Mike Donovan.”
I took a sip of coffee. It was so hot, it hurt. I took another.
“Who took the statement?”
“Robertson.”
Benedict pointed at the storefront window to the thin, uniformed figure of Robertson, talking with a teenager.
“Witnesses?”
“Not yet.”
“Who was behind the counter?”
“Owner. Being depoed as we speak. Didn’t see anything.”
I wiped some rain off my face and unbunched my shoulders as I entered the store, trying to look like the authority figure my title suggested.
The heat inside was both welcome and revolting. It warmed me considerably, but went hand in hand with the nauseating smell of hot dogs cooked way too long.
“Robertson.” I nodded at the uniform. “Sorry to hear about your dad.”
He shrugged. “He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him.”
“Heart attack?”
“He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.”
I searched Robertson’s face for the faintest trace of a smirk, and didn’t find one. Then I turned my attention to Mike Donovan. He was no more than seventeen, brown hair long on top and shaved around the sides, wearing some baggy jeans that would have been big on Herb. Men got all the comfortable clothing trends.
“Mr. Donovan? I’m Lieutenant Daniels. Call me Jack.”
Donovan cocked his head to the side, the way dogs do when they don’t understand a command. Under his left armpit was a magazine with cars on the cover.
“Is your name really Jack Daniels? You’re a woman.”
“Thank you for noticing. I can show you my ID, if you want.”
He wanted, and I slipped the badge case off my neck and opened it up, letting him see my name in official police lettering. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, CPD. It was short for Jacqueline, but only my mother called me that.
He grinned. “Name like that, I bet you really score.”
I gave him a conspiratorial smirk, even though I hadn’t “scored” in ages.
“Run through it,” I said to Robertson.
“Mr. Donovan entered this establishment at approximately eight-fifty P. M., where he proceeded to buy the latest copy of Racing Power Magazine . . . ”
Mr. Donovan held out the magazine in question. “It’s their annual leotard issue.” He opened it to a page where two surgically enhanced women in spandex straddled a Corvette.
I gave it a token look-over to keep the kid cooperative. I cared for hot rods about as much as I cared for spandex.
“Where he proceeded to buy the latest copy of Racing Power Magazine.” Robertson eyed Donovan, annoyed at the interruption. “He also bought a Mounds candy bar. At approximately eight fifty-five, Mr. Donovan left the establishment, and proceeded to throw out the candy wrapper in the garbage can in front of the store. In the can was the victim, facedown, half covered in garbage.”
I glanced out the storefront window and looked for the garbage can. The crowd was getting larger and the rain was falling faster, but the can was nowhere to be found.
“It went to the lab before you got here, Jack.”
I glanced at Benedict, who’d sneaked up behind me.
“We didn’t want things to get any wetter than they already were. But we’ve got the pictures and the vids.”
My focus swiveled back to the scene outside. The cop with the video camera was now taping the faces in the crowd. Sometimes a nut will return to the scene and watch the action. Or so I’ve read in countless Ed McBain books. I gave the kid my attention again.
“Mr. Donovan, how did you notice the body if it was buried in garbage?”
“I . . . er, Mounds was having a contest. I forgot to check my wrapper to see if I’d won. So I reached back into the garbage to find it . . .”