Diagnosis isn’t easy, but the agent will eventually be discovered. Paralysis is terrifying, and once it begins, the infected will rush to the hospital. There’s a chance people will get sick sometime tonight. The incubation period is anywhere from a few hours to a few days. Tomorrow he has another eight stores picked out, news permitting. He has two stops left: an all-you-can-eat buffet on Halsted, and another grocery store on the North Side. Just south of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile he paid for admission to the Art Institute and spent thirty minutes in the cafeteria, using his jet injector on practically everything-cartons of milk, juice boxes, fruit, candy bars-and when the clerk turned her head he sprayed a cloud burst into the nozzles of the soda pop machine. In Wrigleyville he visited a large chain grocery store and made quick work of some apples, pears, and packages of ground beef, mindful to keep his head lowered so the security cameras didn’t get any good facial shots. He’s already done a supermarket in Chinatown, contaminating some star fruit and dried fish, and a Polish butcher shop on the West Side, injecting almost the entire stock of kielbasa. He leaves the deli without buying anything, stepping out onto Irving Park Road and into the pedestrian traffic.Įthnic stores are easy. He puts the apple back and selects another, repeating the process.Īfter doing four pieces of fruit, some potatoes, and a plastic container of yogurt, the jet injector needs to be armed again-something that will attract attention. There’s a brief hissing sound, lasting a fraction of a second. He touches the orifice to the surface of the apple. It’s four inches long, shaped like a miniature hot glue gun. Palmed in his right hand, attached to the tube that runs up his sleeve, is the jet injector. He cradles the fruit in his left hand, avoiding the use of his fingertips. Pretending as if he’s trying to decide, he eventually picks up a red apple. In the rear of the store, a fat man is picking up a.5-liter bottle of Weihenstephaner beer.Īt the deli section, he finds the cooler with the fresh fruit. To the left, an old lady is pushing a small cart, scrutinizing some imported canned goods. The woman behind the counter is speaking German with one of the patrons, three people in line behind her. He picked a good time of day-the store is busy. When they interview witnesses later, they’ll remember his costume, but not his features. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that he picked up at a thrift shop for a quarter, under a red flannel shirt that cost little more. His facial jewelry is all clip-on, including the nose ring and the lip ring, and his combat boots have lifts in them, adding almost three inches to his height. The smaller the store, the more likely he’ll be remembered. NO SECURITY CAMERAS this time, but he still has to be careful. Best friends forever, man!įill a mixer with all ingredients, including garnish. This book is for Jim Coursey, who has been there for me since the beginning. The fourth book in the Jack Daniels series Can she catch him – and decide whether to accept boyfriend Latham’s surprise proposal – without destroying both her reputation and her sanity? And now, in Dirty Martini, Jack faces her toughest adversary yet: a sicko who’s poisoning the city’s food supply. In Rusty Nail, it was a serial killer with a doozy of a family tree. In Whiskey Sour, Chicago police Lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels hunted down a killer dubbed “The Gingerbread Man.” In Bloody Mary, she busted a psychopath with a penchant for dismemberment. The latest “entertaining,” “tangy,” and “hilarious” Jack Daniels mystery from Anthony, Macavity, and Gumshoe Award finalist J.A.
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