He obeyed.
“Make sure it's in the jamb really good, then put some weight on it.”
The door moaned in protest, then popped open. I shined the penlight inside, but it wasn't strong enough to breach the dark room. I held my breath and listened. No sound came from within.
While I was preoccupied, Sauce-boy took the opportunity to swing the crowbar at me. Luckily, my catlike reflexes switched on and I ducked before he took my head off. I shoved the gun in his face and he froze.
“Sorry. Crowbar slipped.”
“Drop it.”
He complied.
“Into the house. Stay quiet or the last sound you'll hear is your brain exiting through your eye sockets. It's sort of a bang/slurp sound. Trust me, you wouldn't like it.”
“This probably isn't new information, but you're kind of a prick.”
“You caught me on a bad day. Now move it. Nice and slow.”
I marched him three steps into the dark house, unable to see a damn thing. There wasn't a single light on, and all the curtains were drawn. I smelled incense, and something under it. Something funky.
My partner took another step, made an uumph! sound, and pitched forward.
I flashed on the penlight to see what he tripped over, and saw it was a naked dead guy with his throat ripped out.
While sauce-boy flailed around like a fish, I played the penlight around the floor, noticing something distinctly odd. The throat wound was so deep the neck vertebrae were exposed.
But there was surprisingly little blood.
Excerpt from FLOATERS by J.A. Konrath and Henry Perez
-1-
CHAPA
I was merging from Harlem Avenue into mid-afternoon traffic on the Kennedy when word came in that another floater had turned up in the Chicago River.
“I phoned you first, Mr. Chapa.” Zach Bridges, an intern at the news desk, had taken the call. “Just like you always tell me to.”
I steered with my knee for a moment, one hand on my cell and the other fiddling with the air conditioning. There was a snowflake symbol on the dial, meant to indicate frigid. It was lying to me, blowing tepid breaths in my face that did little to combat the sticky summer air. I settled for lowering the window enough to get a breeze but not so much that it disrupted my conversation.
“That was good of you, Zach. Remind me to talk to Sully about getting you a regular news beat.”
The kid got all excited but there was no reason for him to. It was an empty hope, he just hadn't figured that out yet. The newspaper industry was dying, slowly, painfully. The Suburban Herald, my employer for the past fifteen years, was just like all the other rags that had gone terminal before anyone realized what was happening.
Reporters have always fought over stories with front page potential, but at least there was usually enough space to go around. These days, we often spend our time wrestling over every precious column inch.
“Is Sully around?”
“No, Mr. Chapa, he's in another meeting with the accountants, all the editors are.”
I thanked Zach for the tip, then called Matt Sullivan's line and left him a voicemail. I took the next off-ramp, crossed over the expressway, and headed back toward the Loop. I'd be on the story before my editor had a chance to wonder whether someone else should be instead.
My office is located in the western suburbs, but I was in the city that day following a lead from Nina Constentino, a pint-sized woman in her late sixties who offered me a cup of green tea and a well-used chair to sit in while I drank it. I passed on the tea, and standing would've been the wise choice.
“You're my last hope, Mr. Chapa.”
“Please call me Alex.”
From the looks of it, Nina was wearing the same makeup she put on the day her husband went missing.
“Emil would never disappear like this. Not without telling me. It's been two days now, and I know something bad has happened.”
Truth is I normally would've given her a gentle brush-off. People do sometimes get lost for a day or two. These stories pop up all the time.
“You've tried the police?”
“They came by, took my information. But they didn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything. Said he hadn't been gone long enough.”
“I don't want to cause you any more worry, but have you tried the hospitals? Maybe he got in some sort of accident.”
She raised her voice, probably as much as her frail frame would allow. “I've called every hospital and clinic in Chicago asking for Emil or anyone unknown fitting his description. I'm not a fool, Mr. Chapa.”
“Alex,” I said gently.
She nodded, sniffled, then I lost her face to a yellowed, embroidered handkerchief that I would have bet was older than I was.
“I'm sorry, Alex. Didn't mean to snap at you. I haven't been able to sleep, and I'm a wreck. But I've tried the hospitals, and everyone we know, and the police, and I don't know what I'm going to do next.”
The handkerchief returned to her face, but she continued.
“This isn't the sort of big story you like to be involved with, I know that. But even after forty years of marriage Emil still makes my heart jump. He's all I have.”
I leaned in to comfort her, but thought better of it when the chair crackled and squealed.
“There are private detectives.”
“I called one, but he wanted to be paid much more than I can afford. Our finances lately, because of the business—well, I just don't have it, Mr. Chapa.”
I felt for her, but didn't see what I could do. Sadly, this wasn't really news. Maybe if I spun it, took the human interest angle, something about how no one cares for the senior citizens in our society.
“I can write a story, print his picture. Maybe someone will recognize him.”
“That's not enough. I need to go looking for him. Do you have a car?”
“Yes, but Mrs. Constentino—”
“Please. I'd go myself, but Emil has our car. I don't have anyone else to turn to.”
I let myself entertain the notion, cruising around Chicago with an elderly woman. For a moment I pictured something resembling All the President's Men meets Driving Miss Daisy, and I wanted no part of it. But lately it had been kind of slow in the suburbs, and I'd grown tired of writing about the wife beaters, gang bangers, and sexual predators that crowd the police blotter. This would certainly be something different.
“Mrs. Constentino, you need to stay here in case he calls or shows up.”
“Does that mean you will you do it?”
I'd already decided to write the story. What could it hurt if I checked out some of Emil's haunts and talked to a few people? It would be a way of getting background information.
“I can try.”
That brought a cautious smile to her face, the kind that reminds you why you became a reporter.
The Constentinos had been antique dealers for more than a quarter century. They made a decent living through the eighties and nineties, until the collectibles bubble burst near the end of the last decade.
“At first we thought the internet would be a godsend for us dealers. But it didn't work out that way.”
She explained that quality items had become hard to find as amateurs flooded the business, and that's why Emil drove to the city.
“He goes once a month to check in with some people who buy stuff at garage sales and thrift stores. We used to do that too, but it's hard to find the energy anymore.”
“Do you sell these things online?”
“No, too much competition. We stick to mostly flea markets, and collectibles shows.”
“Can you tell me who he was planning to visit on this last trip?”
“Sure. But I already tried to call them.”
“I should double check.”
She handed me a small piece of lavender paper with three names and addresses written on it in textbook perfect longhand, and a photo of her husband.