Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I sensed I was in a small, empty garage. Some machine—perhaps an air conditioner or dehumidifier—hummed tunelessly in the background. I smelled bleach, which wasn’t a good sign. Under the bleach I smelled traces of copper, human waste, and rotten meat, which was even worse.
Fighting panic and losing, I made myself focus on how I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A hit on the head? A drug? I wasn’t sure. I had no recollection of anything leading up to this.
But from the smells, and my past, I could assume whoever abducted me was planning on killing me.
Definitely not the way I wanted to end my new career.
1989, August 15
I didn’t become a cop to do things like this.
The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said Isuzu Trooper on the fender. I found them to be too big and blocky, especially for an urban setting like Chicago. And with gas prices up to almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted the trend would catch on.
The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even though I was nearly naked. My candy apple red lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier. I’d done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming from the alley was a force of nature.
“Your call, Jackie,” my earpiece said. My partner, Officer Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang parked up the street.
“Aren’t you bored with this game yet?” I said into the microphone. It was hidden in my Madonna push-up bustier; an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a top. Jacqueline Streng, working girl. I reached inside the cup and readjusted my boob. The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder and heavier, the sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my bra strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my Fredrick’s of Hollywood blonde Medusa wig.
“I’ll be bored when I’m actually ahead a few bucks,” Harry said. “Go on. Guess.”
I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around for something. Possibly his wallet. He was Caucasian, late forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married with kids.
“BJ,” I said to Harry.
“Naw. I’m guessing something pervy.”
“He looks like a member of the PTA.”
“The clean-cut guys are always the perverts.”
“You said the weird-looking guys are always the perverts.”
“They’re pretty much all perverts. I’ll say foot fetishist.”
I actually didn’t know what a foot fetishist did. Something to do with feet, I assumed, but what? The Vice training manual didn’t explain that particular kink. I wasn’t about to ask Harry, because he’d make fun of me. It was hard enough being a female in the Chicago Police Department. Being a young female who did prostitution stings made me an easy target for potshots.
Not that I would be young for much longer. Today officially began the last year of my twenties. I was going to celebrate the happy occasion by watching TV and getting drunk. My boyfriend Alan was out of town on a business trip, and so far he’d neglected to get me anything. Big mistake. True, I didn’t want any reminders of my rapidly retreating youth. But we cops were big on intent. And forgetting your girlfriend’s birthday said a lot about your future intent.
Not that I had any intentions myself. His last name was Daniels, for chrissakes. I had a hard enough time getting respect on the Job. If my name was Jack Daniels, I’d be the laughing stock of the city.
“You in or out, Jackie?”
“Fine,” I said. “Ten-spot?”
“Make it twenty. I got a feeling.”
Bald Guy honked again. I pulled up the elastic top of one of my black fishnet stockings, pulled down the hem of my hot pink spandex micro-mini skirt, and walked over to the car on painfully high, strappy heels. His window opened, and I stuck my head inside. The air conditioning bathed my face, cooling the sweat on my brow and upper lip.
“How are you tonight, sugar?” I asked, smacking my gum.
Bald Guy appeared nervous, jittery. Most of them did. Maybe because soliciting sex was embarrassing. Or maybe because they were worried that the hooker they propositioned was actually an undercover cop.
Imagine that.
“How much?” he asked without looking at me.
“How much what?” I asked.
“How much money?”
In order to make a clean arrest, and avoid the dreaded entrapment defense, the suspect had to be the one to bring up the subject of money. This guy cut right to the heart of the matter. Now he needed to mention what he wanted in exchange.
“Depends,” I said, playing coy. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Something special. Can you quote me your, um, rates?”
“Sure. Head is ten. Straight is fifteen. Half-and-half is twenty. Round the world is thirty. Anything to do with feet is fifty.”
“No fair!” McGlade yelled in my ear. “You’re price-jacking!”
I hoped Bald Guy didn’t hear that, even though it was so loud my eyes bugged out.
“I’ve got kind of a strange request,” Bald Guy said.
I leaned in further. The air conditioning was wonderfully frigid, and the interior smelled like lemon air freshener. After four hours on the street, this was a little slice of heaven.
“Kinky is extra. Tell me what you need, big boy.”
“Actually, I’ll pay you fifty dollars if you just hold me for ten minutes.”
“Hold you?”
He nodded, his face puppy dog sad.
“We can’t arrest him for that,” Harry said. “Ask him if he wants to suck your toes.”
I ignored Harry, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Especially with him in my ear. “That’s all?” I asked Bald Guy. “Just hold you?”
“That’s all.”
His shoulders slumped. I felt kind of sorry for him.
“Tell him you’ve been on your feet all day,” Harry said, “and your toes are really sweaty and stinky.”
I wished I could turn the earpiece off.
“That’s kind of a weird,” I told the guy. “Don’t you have a mother or an aunt or someone else who can give you a hug?”
“No one. I just got divorced, and I’m all alone.”
“How about friends? Neighbors? A church group?”
Bald Guy shook his head.
Harry said, “Try taking off your shoe and sticking your foot under his nose.”
“I just need a little tenderness,” Bald Guy said. “Will you do it?”
He looked so devastated, so desperate. Plus his vehicle was air-conditioned and smelled nice. What more prompting did I need? I walked around the front of his car/truck and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Dammit, Jackie! Find another john!” Harry, in my ear. “There aren’t any laws against cuddling! Don’t waste our time!”
The earpiece really needed an off switch. In fact, so did Harry. The sad thing was, Harry wasn’t as bad as some of the other jerks I had to work with. What did a female cop have to do to earn the respect of her peers in this city?
I guessed it wasn’t dressing up as a hooker, offering BJs.
“Okay,” I said. “One quick hug. On the house.”
I opened up my arms, ready to embrace this poor clod, and he handed me a latex glove. I backed off a notch.
“Are you sick?” I asked. “Contagious?”
“No, no, nothing like that. While you’re hugging me, I’d like you to stick your fingers up my bottom.”
No wonder he was divorced.
“And wiggle them,” he added.
“Mirandize that pervert,” McGlade said. “I’ll call the wagon and be right there.”
I opened my silver-sequined purse, reaching for my star and handcuffs.
“I’m a police officer,” I said, making my voice hard, “and you’re under arrest for soliciting a sexual act. Put your hands on the steering wheel.”