Last Call by J. A. Konrath

Author:J. A. Konrath [Konrath, J. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, Thriller, suspense
Goodreads: 23567831
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services
Published: 2016-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

KATIE

Kansas City

It felt good to get away from the pig.

They’d rolled into KC after sunset. Katie, Jack, and Tequila had gotten rooms at a Holiday Inn Express on Rainbow Boulevard, while Harry McGlade and Herb Bacondict drove off in search of a place to park and spend the night. Which would be uncomfortable for McGlade, because Herb had eaten his mattress.

Tequila went straight to the hotel gym. Katie suggested to Jack that they take a walk, maybe find a bar, but the ex-cop preferred instead to stay in her room and scour the Internet for anything related to Luther Kite.

Which was fine with Katie. She’d been fruitlessly searching for Luther for a long time, and she’d sought out Jack Daniels because the woman had a knack for tracking down psychopaths. Let the cop do her thing.

Katie needed some alone time anyway. She grabbed her backpack and ventured out into the night.

After a sub sandwich at a local shop, Katie wound up at a nondescript neighborhood tavern called Mike Kelly’s Westsider that didn’t seem worth her time. She almost walked past, but the sounds of live music gave Katie hope the place would have a diverse crowd. Katie paid a five dollar cover and went in.

The band was a trio, and the lanky lead singer had longish, gray hair and a voice like butter. Katie found a stool at the bar, ordered a Maker’s Mark neat, and sipped it while listening to a rock song about—of all things—the Dutch painter Jan Vermeer. It was an upbeat tune, there were a few people dancing, Katie found herself tapping her foot to the beat. When it was finished, the next song was something quieter, slower. Katie assumed it was a love song, until she started paying attention to the words.

“I scratch my name into your mirror,” he crooned. “I burn my face into your eyes.”

No. That wasn’t love. That was something else. Something eerie.

She continued to listen, and realized the song was about a predator. Someone who had harmed another person so badly it caused a scar that could never heal, and an unwelcome bond between abuser and victim.

Katie raised the bourbon to her lips and clinked the glass against her teeth.

Her hand was shaking.

She managed to set it down without spilling any, threw a tenner on the bar, and went to the ladies’ room, the lyric “Do not relax, you’re not alone,” following her inside.

At the sink she ran some cool water and wet her hands, then rubbed her face.

“Lock it down,” she told herself.

But rather than lock it down, her stomach rolled and she threw up the bourbon. Katie was spitting the last of it into the drain just as a woman came in.

“Tough night, honey?” she asked, standing next to Katie and applying red lip gloss.

Katie appraised her. She was in her late forties or early fifties, hair teased beyond any measure of beauty, crammed into a skirt that screamed bar skank.

“I’m new in town.” She put on what she knew was a pathetic smile.

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