Break You

Lifting her wineglass by the stem, she finished it off. Then she rose out of the water, took her white terrycloth bathrobe that lay draped across the toilet seat, and stepped unsteadily from the tub onto the mosaic tile. She’d nearly polished off the entire bottle of chardonnay and a warm and pleasant gale was raging in her head.
Karen crossed the living room, heading toward the front door.
She failed to notice that the cartons of steamed rice and sesame beef were gone, or that a large gray trashcan now stood between the television and the antique desk she’d inherited from her grandmother.
She peeked through the peephole.
A young man stood in the hallway holding an enormous bouquet of ruby red roses.
She smiled, turned the deadbolt, opened the door.
“I have a delivery for Karen Prescott.”
“That’s me.”
The delivery man handed over the gigantic vase.
“Wait here. I’ll get you your tip.” She slurred her words a little.
“No ma’am, it’s been taken care of.” He gave her a small salute and left.
She relocked the door and carried the roses over to the kitchen counter. They were magnificent and they burgeoned from the cut-glass vase. She plucked the small card taped to the glass and opened it. The note read simply:
 Look in the coat closet 
Karen giggled. Scott was one hundred percent forgiven. Maybe she’d even do that thing he always asked for tonight.
She buried her nose in a rose, inhaled the damp sweet perfume. Then she cinched the belt of her bathrobe and walked over to the closet behind the couch, pulling open the door with a big smile that instantly died.
A naked man with black hair and a pale face peered down at her. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed.
The cartons of leftover Chinese food stood between his feet.
She stared into his black eyes, a coldness spreading through her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.
The man grinned, his member rising.
Karen bolted for the front door, but as she reached to unhook the chain he snatched a handful of her wet hair and swung her back into a mirror that shattered on the adjacent wall.
“Please,” she whimpered.
He punched her in the face.
Karen sank down onto the floor in bits of glass, anesthetized by wine and fear. Watching his bare feet, she wondered where her body would be found and by whom and in what condition.
He grabbed her hair into a ball with one hand and lifted her face out of the glass, the tiniest shards having already embedded themselves in her cheek.
He swung down.
She felt the dull thud of his knuckles crack her jaw, decided to feign unconsciousness.
He hit her again.
She didn’t have to.
  The following is an excerpt of SHAKEN by J.A. Konrath, the 7th Jack Daniels novel, published in 2010 by Encore.  
     
 1989, June 23 
This guy isn’t a killer, Dalton thinks. He’s a butcher.
Dalton isn’t repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute’s body with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.
There’s a lot of blood.
Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But there’s something classic, something pure, about shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.
Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the setting sun. He’s standing in the backyard of Brotsky’s house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into Brotsky’s living room, where the carnage is taking place. Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his property, he’s still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked. Anyone could walk by.
It’s not a smart way to conduct a murder.
Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago Police Department hasn’t come knocking on Brotsky’s door yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.
But luck runs out.
At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down, Dalton thinks.
He snaps another photo. Brotsky’s naked barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. He’s not a tall man, but he’s thick, with big muscles under a layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his bald head gives off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.
Brotsky sets down the garden tool, and picks up a cleaver.
 Yeah, this guy is nuts. 
Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag someone’s death out for hours, or even days. But Dalton gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.
Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust. Hunger, Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his mouth full of something moist.
If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he’ll dismember the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he’ll be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he’ll load the bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.
Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, musing about what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn’t bothered by the heat or the humidity, even though it’s close to ninety degrees and he’s wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesn’t sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use them.
Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He’s lugging several black plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesn’t even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, who is hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.
The hitman falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps and then jams the Ruger against the fat man’s back. Brotsky stops cold.
“This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I’ll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us want that to happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Brotsky says. “Can I put down these bags? They’re heavy.”
Brotsky doesn’t seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton guessed.
“No. We’re going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. You’re going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk.”
Brotsky does as he’s told. Dalton’s black 1989 El Dorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky’s garage. The car isn’t as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isn’t Italian.
“Trunk is open. Put the bags inside, and take out the red folder.”
Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the man’s back to his neck.
“Take the folder,” Dalton says.
The light from the trunk is enough. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several 8x10 photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one where he’s grinning, holding up a severed leg. It’s Dalton’s personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.