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Detective?”
    Herb shook his head. “Not at all. I just have this feeling we’re going to work well together.”

Present day

    2010, August 10

    I began to cry. My eyes stung like I’d been hit with mace. But the real sting was in my wrists.
    The bastard had dipped the rope around my arms in salt.
    As I sawed away at the edge of the concrete, determined to break the rope, it eventually began to rub my skin raw. The pain was quite extraordinary for such a superficial wound. I put it up alongside root canals and getting shot and breaking my leg.
    Mr. K liked salt. It was a trademark of his, along with the ball gag.
    I really have to get out of here.
    I continued to work on the rope, tears streaming down my face, biting down on the rubber ball to help with the pain, trying not to think about Mr. K’s other trademarks.
    The ones I’d seen firsthand.

Three years ago

    2007, August 8

    I walked briskly to the storage facility, minding each step so I didn’t scrape my Jimmy Choos. They weren’t the most appropriate footwear for police work, but a long time ago a man taught me that more people remembered style than deeds, and that stuck. Even so, I tried to overcompensate with deeds in an effort to compete with my boundless style.
    Herb waddled behind me, wheezing. I slowed my pace just a tad, letting him catch up, trying to remember what he used to be like when he was thin. Back in the day, Herb Benedict could run a hundred meters in thirteen seconds. Now it would take him two minutes. Seven minutes if he had to stop to tie his shoes. Eighteen minutes if there was a hot dog stand on the route.
    Merle’s U-Store-It was an ugly brown building, the dirty brick coated in graffiti so old even the taggers didn’t think it worthwhile anymore. It was a few stories tall, probably a converted warehouse or factory from the days when Chicago was an industrial hub. The entrance was a single metal door with a sign next to it, proclaiming they were open six a.m. until midnight, seven days a week.
    The door opened to a narrow hallway, a bare forty-watt bulb stuck in the ceiling, which made the grimy walls look even dingier. A few yards down was the obligatory manager/watchman, behind a protective barrier of bulletproof glass that bore a few divots. Black guy, short beard, scar on his nose. At the moment, all the watchman was watching was a portable television set up on his desk. He didn’t even glance at us when we walked up, and I had to rap on the window to get his attention.
    “New rental contracts are on the table,” he droned. “If you forgot your key, I need two forms of ID, and there’s a five-dollar charge.”
    He still hadn’t looked at us.
    “Police,” I said, fishing my gold badge from the pocket of my Tignanello handbag and clinking it against the glass.
    “Police still gotta pay the five bucks.” He kept his eyes on the TV.
    “We’re here to arrest the man who just came in. Did you see him?”
    “Didn’t see nuthin’.”
    I looked around the cubbyhole he used as an office. No security system. No surveillance equipment. If he didn’t see the guy, there was no way he’d know which storage unit he owned. This place was so low tech I was surprised the entrance had an electric lock.
    “Buzz us in,” I said, using my cop tone.
    “Got a warrant?”
    I considered saying yes. It was doubtful he’d turn away from the television to check. Instead I said, “I don’t need a warrant. I’m arresting him for carrying a concealed weapon. You want some guy with a gun running around your building?”
    “Ain’t my building. I just work here.”
    Now I understood the reason for the bulletproof glass. I’d known this guy for less than thirty seconds, and I was overcome with a fierce desire to shoot him.
    “Let me see some ID, sir,” I ordered.
    Now he looked at me, his expression pained. “Why you got to hassle me, offa-sir ?”
    I was the one hassling him?
    “Open the goddamn door, pinhead,” Herb said.
    The