Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) by J.A. Konrath

read the Shakespeare, too. It made about as much sense as the Italian. But sometimes, those wretched lines get stuck.” He poked a boney finger at his temple. “The Bard is lucky he died four hundred years ago, because I would love to cut him into tiny bits and make him eat himself, piece by piece.”
    Lucy allowed the image to worm itself into her brain. Where to cut first. How big the slices should be. “Sounds fun. We should try something like that.”
    “Maybe. I have another idea. From something I read.”
    The warmth she was feeling dissipated, and Lucy suppressed a groan. “Let me guess. Shakespeare.”
    “No. Hitchcock. Let’s go to the playroom.”
    Lucy brightened. “Now you’re talkin’, K.”
    K pulled himself up to his feet, using his scepter as a cane. The skull atop the staff wasn’t real; a ceramic souvenir for tourists to buy on Día de Muertos. The gold shaft was also fake, the metallic paint flaking off, the colored jewels made of glass. But the hair atop the skull, dark and matted and glued there like a fright wig, was a real human scalp.
    Lucy knew it was real, because she and K had taken it from its previous owner as he begged for mercy they didn’t have.
    The duo walked into the hallway, and the faux castle motif continued, albeit sloppily. The walls weren’t adobe, but rather stucco painted to look like stone. There were electric lights, hanging on the low ceiling—original fixtures dating from when the building had been converted into a hotel in the 1950s. K had replaced the bulbs with the kind that flickered like orange candles.
    They took the stairs slow, using the railings. Lucy hated stairs. It was painful enough getting around on level surfaces, but something about up-and-down movement ignited her raw nerve endings like cattle-prod shocks to her spine. She clenched the teeth she had left and weathered the pain. When they reached the bottom, some cartel asshole was sitting on the last three steps, smoking a cigarette, his ear buds spitting out tinny
ranchero
music. He didn’t notice they were above him until K poked him with his scepter.
    The cholo turned, his expression morphing from irritated to spooked in half a heartbeat. It reminded Lucy of a Loony Tunes cartoon character, eyes popping out in surprise.
    “Lo siento, El Cometa,” he sputtered, quickly getting out of the way and hurrying down the corridor.
    On the first floor, the décor was no longer Halloween/medieval, and instead reflected what the building actually was; a renovated mission, built in the 1800s. K stopped at his room, and like the majority of rooms in the crumbling hotel it was cramped, hot, and stank of age. Perched on K’s bed was a medium-sized cardboard box. He handed Lucy his scepter and picked it up.
    “Dropped off this morning,” K said. “A new toy to play with.”
    Lucy noted that the box was labeled Amazon, and her hopes dimmed. Even though Amazon claimed to be
The Everything Store
, she doubted they sold torture paraphernalia, rare weapons, or interrogation equipment. Whatever K had planned for the playroom was probably going to be lame.
    As with any other addiction, it was possible to develop a tolerance to sadism. When Lucy had first met K , she’d been a teenager and had just killed her first man. At the time, K collected antique surgical tools, and each terrible instrument they’d tried upped her level of excitement.
    Lithotomes, scarificators, tonsil guillotines.
    A vintage speculum made of wrought iron that could be heated on a stovetop until it glowed.
    Artificial leeches.
    Everything was so exciting back then. To get the same high these days, Lucy needed things to be even uglier. Messier. More extreme.
    But what was the worst thing that could be in an Amazon box? Some overpriced hardcover books and a lint roller?
    She eyed the package again. No bigger than a breadbox.
    Shit, maybe it
was
a breadbox. Lucy wouldn’t be surprised. Lately, K had been…
    Slipping
was the wrong