“I want these to be found at the morgue, same as before.”

The killer hands him a plastic bag.

“Ears? That’s a riot.” Derrick brings the bag to his mouth and yells, “Hello! Can you hear me?”

Idiot. But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Leave the earrings on. They’re important.”

“No problem. These will be easier to sneak in than those arms. Hell, I could keep them in my pocket.”

“Her things are in the bathroom. Take what you want. There’s a grand in her purse.”

“Righto, chief.”

The cleanup continues for another fifteen minutes. The body and bloody tarps are zipped up in the bag.

“I’ll line the room with new plastic sometime next week.”

“Sooner.”

“Sooner? You got the itch again already?”

“Not yet. But it could come back.”

Derrick didn’t know about the headaches. He thought he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill sex killer.

“Damn. I’m glad I’m not a good-looking chick with you loose in this city.”

That won’t save you. When the time comes, I’ll gut you as well.

They leave the room, Derrick pushing the cart, the killer walking alongside. A few liquor-stained eyes peek at them, then quickly turn away. Derrick’s van is parked in the alley, behind the killer’s car. He pushes the cart into the rear, spring-loaded legs collapsing as he eases it in.

“Hey, you think, maybe, next time you do one of these women…”

“You want to watch?”

Derrick’s face lights up. “Yeah! I mean, I’m no stranger to this shit. I’m not as, uh, extreme, as you are. But I’ve done things.”

You pimple-faced freak. I know about the things you’ve done. You make my stomach turn.

“We’ll see. A tag-team match might be fun.”

“A tag-team. Yeah, I like that.”

He claps Derrick on the shoulder, forces a grin. He knows the hardest thing about getting away with murder is disposing of the body, and having a mortician under his thumb makes things a lot easier. Still, there’s no way he’ll ever let Derrick see him in action. He might have to get rid of him sooner than expected.

“Hey, I’ll call you when I drop the ears off at County.”

“Make sure you wash them, first. I don’t want to leave trace.”

“Got it. See you, man.”

Derrick climbs into his van and pulls away. The killer takes a deep breath, sucking in foul alley air that reeks of garbage.

It doesn’t bother him at all.

Nothing does.

“That cat’s driving me crazy.”

Herb pushed away from the computer and shot Mr. Friskers a look. Mr. Friskers howled his reply.

“He probably wants to be let out of the carrier.”

“I’d sooner let Manson out. What are you going to do with him, anyway?”

I rubbed my temples, trying to work out the tension. We’d gotten back to the station two hours ago, and the cat hadn’t shut up for any longer than it took to catch his breath.

“I’ve called all of Davi’s model friends, her ex-boyfriend, and her mom. No one wants the cat.”

“What a surprise. He’s such a lovable bundle of joy.”

“I also called a few pet stores. Apparently the heat wave doesn’t affect a cat’s promiscuity – the stray population is the highest it’s ever been, and no one is accepting any more cats.”

Herb stroked his mustache, an indication he was lost in thought.

“Stray… that’s not a bad idea. Just let the little monster free to prowl the city. That’s what he’s howling about anyway.”

I considered it. On one hand, a cat that wore diapers probably wouldn’t last too long on the street. On the other hand, Mr. Friskers was so damn mean he might do fine. I wouldn’t even put it past him to join a gang and start robbing banks.

“Fine. We’ll release the cat into the wild. You coming?”

“I’m staying. Kiss him good-bye for me.”

I picked up the carrier, which caused Mr. Friskers to increase the pitch of his howling. A brief, chilly elevator ride later, we were in the back parking lot.

“Okay, my loud friend. This is where we go our separate ways.” I unlatched the door on the cat carrier and opened it up. “Go. Be free.”

Mr. Friskers stayed where he was.

“Go on. You got your wish.”

The cat howled again, but didn’t move.

Figuring he just needed a little help, I lifted up the cat carrier and tilted it forward. The cat spread out all four paws and clung to the sides, refusing to be dumped out.

I knelt down and peered into the carrier. “What’s the problem, cat?”

He stared back, as if asking me the same question.

I thought about leaving him there. He’d get the hint eventually. Chances are he’d run off as soon as I was out of sight.

Then I thought about my mother.

Sometimes the ones who need help the most are the ones who refuse to accept it.

“Fine,” I said, latching the carrier door. “You’re stuck with me, then.”

He yowled his reply.

Herb wasn’t impressed to see his nemesis still hanging around.

“I thought you were going to let the cat out of the bag.”

“I did. He wouldn’t go.”

“Did you try poking him with a stick?”

“No, I didn’t. Maybe I should check a taser out of the armory and zap him a few times.”

“Want me to go get it?”

“I’ll save it as a last resort.”

Herb took a bite out of a rice cake. He made a face, found a packet of saccharine in his pocket, and dumped it onto the remaining half.

“Want one?”

“Thanks, but I’m trying to cut back.”

Herb took another bite, then added more sweetener. “At least the cat finally quieted down.”

I looked into the carrier. Mr. Friskers had curled up into a little ball of fur.

“He’s sleeping. Maybe we can get some work done.”

“Those few minutes of silence were all I needed. I got a name to go with that last number Davi called. Cell phone, belongs to a man named Colin Andrews. Twenty-three, black, lives on 95th and Wabash.”

“He’s got a record?”

“A long one. He’s a dealer.”

“Davi’s coke supplier?”

“All of his charges are for marijuana, but that’d be my assumption. And he was a guest of the city just a few weeks ago. Guess which district.”

For the first time since the case began, I had that flutter feeling in my stomach that indicated we were getting close.

“You’re kidding. Here?”

“The old two-six. For possession.”

The ducks weren’t perfect yet, but they were forming a row. If Colin Andrews had been in our building, he could have had an opportunity to pick up my handcuffs.

“Who booked him?”

“Hanson.” Herb pressed a few computer keys. “She’s gone for the day. Speaking of which, I need to leave early.”

“Big plans?”

Herb gave me a grin that was positively wicked. I understood.

“Ah, those kind of plans. That requires leaving early?”

“In this instance, yes.”

“Okay then, Romeo. We can get rolling on Andrews tomorrow.”

“Good. You know” – Herb eyed the cat – “I drive by the Chicago River on the way home.”

“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll let him live for the time being.”

Herb said good night and left my office.

“Just me and you, Mr. Friskers.”

At the mention of his name, the cat awoke and commenced howling.

I tried to ignore him, and attempted to finish up a report on a suicide from last week. After struggling through that, I went through my in-box and played pass-along with some current homicides that seemed open and shut.

My position in the Chicago Police Department allowed me more wiggle room than many of my contemporaries. As far as I knew, I was one of the only lieutenants in the Detective Division – the title had been mostly phased out around the time Homicide morphed into Violent Crimes. There are lieutenant inspectors, who are one silver bar below captain, but those are supervisory positions and I had no desire to give up investigative work. My rank allows me to skip morning roll call, operate in other districts without jurisdictional issues, give commands when needed, and pick and choose my cases.