Free Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini by J.A. Konrath

bag, filling his lungs with air.
    “. . . BP is sixty over forty.”
    “. . . get the cart.”
    One of the medics again pushed me aside and hurried past.
    “Will he be okay?” I asked.
    I asked this question several times as they strapped him to the gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance.
    Their only answer was, “We’re doing the best we can, ma’am.”
    In the ER, Latham was put on a ventilator and given antitoxin at my insistence. I filled out his paperwork, naming myself as the primary contact.
    In between worrying and hating myself, it occurred to me that the Chemist probably hadn’t attacked Latham at my house. The food, the German dinner he’d prepared last night to celebrate, he’d bought at Kuhn’s, a deli on Irving Park Road. The Chemist claimed to have contaminated a deli on Irving Park. I hadn’t made the connection.
    Latham wasn’t sick because of my job. He was sick because of my stupidity.
    I stared down at my left hand, at my naked ring finger, and cried until I had no tears left.

 

    CHAPTER 13

    T HE CHEMIST WAKES UP ANGRY. Last night had been a bitter disappointment. Months of planning, and only six cops dead.
    After morning coffee, he considers returning to the greenhouse, working on more liquor bottles. Instead he flips on the morning news.
    Twenty seconds of taped action on CBS. On ABC, he only catches the tail end of the coanchor banter, their grave voices bemoaning the loss of police life. Channel 5 doesn’t have anything at all.
    He flips on CNN, and the story doesn’t even warrant a scrolling graphic at the bottom of the screen.
    Back to CBS, and they’ve wrapped his story, moving on to some earthquake halfway across the world. Channel 7 has a bit about the botulism outbreak, but the footage is recycled from an earlier broadcast.
    Disappointing. Actually, more than disappointing. Infuriating.
    How had Jack Daniels managed to get out of there alive? He’d almost died several times himself, setting up all of those traps. That bitch must be unbelievably lucky.
    He lets the anger build. Living with anger is something he’s become expert at.
    What happens to rage deferred?
    It explodes. It explodes in spectacular fashion.
    He allows himself a small smile.
    Last night went poorly, but the Plan hasn’t changed at all. The second phase will soon be in effect, and he needs a patsy for it to work. Lieutenant Jack will be perfect for that. And she’ll be all alone when it happens.
    Not that 911 would help much anyway.
    The Chemist switches off the TV. There will be more news in a few days. National news. World news. Books written, movies of the week, covers on
Time
and
Newsweek
. . .
    But why not get the media ball rolling a little sooner?
    “Do I dare?” he says, alone in his living room.
    He has everything he needs. He even has a spot picked out, a backup in case one of the other locations went bust.
    A deviation from the Plan doesn’t seem smart. Everything has been thought through to the tiniest detail. Improvising at this point might lead to a mistake.
    Still . . .
    “Let’s do it,” he says.
    There will be news. This very morning.
    The trick to a good disguise isn’t to hide your own features, but to make a certain feature stand out; one that witnesses will remember. He chooses a black mustache and a temporary tattoo of a black playing card spade that he applies to his right cheek. A ratty jean jacket, a bandanna, and some Doc Martens boots complete the transformation. Instant biker.
    He types a note on his computer, prints it out, then fills the jet injector bag with a tincture of monkshood and lily of the valley. He hides the tube up his sleeve, arms the spring.
    It’s a beautiful day. Warm. Sunny. The Chemist walks past the semitrailer in his driveway, adjusts the tarpaulin that the wind had blown off the portable chemical toilets stacked against the garage, and considers which car, if any, to take.
    He decides on neither—such a fine day is perfect for public