“What’s up with Phin? He looked pissed. You do something?”
I sniffled. “I’m…I’m the…I’m the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”
“No shit. You have been a bit bitchier than normal. But I wouldn’t call you the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“You’re more like the Master of the Bitchiverse.”
I waddled into the kitchen and grabbed the box of tissue. Empty.
“Or Bitchzilla. You’re such a giant bitch that you stomp through cities, crushing smaller bitches.”
I looked around for another box of tissue and spotted Mr. Friskers on the counter. He hissed at me.
I wiped my nose on my sleeve and turned to face McGlade. “Do you want to go to Peoria?”
“Can’t. The Tesla can only go about two hundred miles per charge.”
“We can take my car.”
“What’s going on in Peoria? Some kind of Bitch Convention? Are they voting to make you Queen?”
“Goddamn it, McGlade! Enough already!”
Mr. Friskers was apparently tuned into my feelings, because he launched himself at Harry with a terrible screech and attached himself to my partner’s chest. McGlade tried to pull him off, but that was the wrong move, as it just made the cat dig his claws in deeper.
Duffy the dog, excited by—well, all the excitement—ran up and bit McGlade on the leg.
I yelled at Duffy and then looked for my squirt bottle that I used when Mr. Friskers got nasty. It was next to the sink, empty. Mr. Friskers got nasty a lot.
“I’M SORRY I SAID YOU WERE A BITCH!” McGlade cried out. “CALL FOR HELP!”
I reached over to swat Duffy. He gave me sad eyes and peed all over McGlade’s leg.
“THAT’S EVEN WORSE THAN THE BITING!”
I grabbed Mr. Friskers by the scruff of his neck and twisted. He detached from McGlade and took a swipe at me, but I released him.
He landed on the dog.
What happened next could best be described as basset hound rodeo.
The dog howled, running around the kitchen, the cat clinging to his back like a jockey.
“I’m bleeding,” McGlade wailed. “This was a new shirt. Do you have stain remover?”
As Harry unbuttoned his shirt, Duffy began to buck, but his stunted little hound dog legs weren’t suited to the task. Mr. Friskers hissed and spat, clinging to Duffy in a wholly unnatural way, his cat eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop out. Eventually, Duffy’s floppy ears blocked his vision, and he ran full force into the refrigerator with a thud.
The ride finally over, Mr. Friskers bounded off, straight at McGlade.
The cat leapt up just as Harry took off his shirt and clung to his bare chest, claws sinking in.
“BOTH NIPPLES!” McGlade screamed. “HE’S GOT BOTH NIPPLES!”
Duffy, excited by the commotion, trotted over and bit McGlade’s leg.
“HE BIT ME IN THE SAME EXACT SPOT! THE PISSING WAS BETTER!”
I grabbed another bottle from under the sink and squirted all three of them until they parted ways.
“IT STINGS! GODDAMN IT, JACK, IT STINGS!”
That’s when I realized I’d accidentally grabbed the bottle of vinegar I used to polish windows.
Both Duffy and Mr. Friskers seemed fine, but McGlade was pounding on his bleeding chest like it had caught fire.
“Why don’t you just rub salt on me?” he accused. “Or squeeze on some lemon juice?”
“Sorry,” I managed. But it had improved my mood. A lot. Seeing McGlade in pain appealed to my baser instincts.
“JESUS HOLY MOTHER LOVING EVERLASTING CHRIST IT BURNS LIKE ACID! WHAT THE…AW, SHIT! MY NIPPLE IS GONE!”
I looked at Mr. Friskers to see if he was chewing on anything. Or playing with it. He once batted around a Skittle for two hours, and nipples didn’t seem that different.
Luckily, McGlade hadn’t lost a nipple. It was just covered with blood so he couldn’t see it. I offered him a kitchen towel and then sent him to the bathroom to clean up. Then I locked Duffy in my office and mopped up his pee.
“I may need stitches,” McGlade called from the bathroom.
“Do you want to go to a doctor?”
“No. But what if I get an infection?”
“The vinegar probably cleaned the wounds out,” I said, not knowing if that was true or not. But it sounded plausible. If something stung that badly, it was probably killing germs.
“Your pets suck. You got an extra shirt?”
“Bedroom closet. Use one of Phin’s.”
I went back to my office to check on Duffy and found him happily polishing off my beef sandwich and pork rinds.
My beef sandwich and pork rinds…
“Down! Bad dog!”
I raced for the plate, not concerned for the food, but for what was under the food.
What had been under the food.
It was too late. The food, and my engagement ring, were in the dog.
“You call him a bad dog for eating your food, but not for biting your guest?” McGlade had come into the office pulling on a white T-shirt. “You need to get your priorities in order.”
I collapsed onto my chair, which groaned in protest. “I really need to go to Peoria.”
“I’ll go with you, on one condition.”
“What?”
“You euthanize both animals.”
“McGlade…”
“Euthanize them with the cleansing fire of a 450-degree oven. And some gasoline. And a gun.”
“My car’s in the garage,” I said.
“They have to die, Jack. Especially that cat. It’s like a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper. I swear the little bastard was smiling at me the whole time.”
I wrote Phin a note saying I was sorry and not to let Duffy out until I returned.
Then McGlade and I headed off to Peoria to see Violet King.
March 31, 1:45 P.M.
He’s sliding a copy of The Killer and His Weapon into a clear plastic bag already bearing a note to Jack—black Magic Marker prewritten on plastic—when his iPhone buzzes like an angry yellow jacket.
Luther glances at the caller ID. Swears.
Unfortunate timing for someone to be calling, with Marquette wide open, and Luther sitting in the back of his van. He can see people passing by on the sidewalk through the one-way glass—at least several a minute. He hadn’t expected there to be so many out on a rainy spring day. Hopes choosing this location hasn’t been a critical mistake.
The phone is still ringing.
He sets the bag down and wipes the blood off his arms, answers on speaker, “Hello?”
“Yes, I’m trying to reach Rob Siders.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Peter Roe’s secretary.” The patent attorney. Spectacularly bad timing. “Mr. Roe asked that I call you to reschedule your appointment.”
Alarm bells go off in Luther’s head. “Reschedule?”
“Yes, he has a conflict tomorrow afternoon, but I could slide you in the day after at ten A.M.”
Luther’s mind works feverishly. No. No, no, no, no, no. This will ruin everything. Must remain calm.
“But I’m only in town for a limited time,” Luther says, trying to keep his voice under control. “It’s mandatory that I see him tomorrow.”
“Well, if I switch some things around, maybe I could fit you in at noon.”
“Listen to me very carefully. Noon will not work. One thirty is the only acceptable time.”
“Hang on. Let me put you on hold for just a second.”
Muzak kicks in. If this doesn’t work out, there are no other options. He’ll have to show up at one thirty regardless. Wing it. That will be trickier, and more people will have to die, but he’s up to the task.
The secretary comes back on the line. “Good news, Mr. Siders. Mr. Roe has agreed to squeeze you in at one thirty, but it will have to be an abbreviated meeting. He has something at two—”
He cuts her off. “Fifteen minutes is all I need.”