Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (16 page)

Did everyone work together?

I flip open the notebook again and look at Robert Durham, Jr., Jack’s older brother. Little to no relationship.

Jack was estranged from his father as well but visited his mom once a week. Love? Duty? Her cooking?

But just when you think you have the complete picture of Jack Durham as nothing but a mean-spirited jerk, you realize that everyone close to him actually . . . kind of . . . loved him.

Jack was complicated. What happened to him?

26

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH what I have on?” I ask Bobbie indignantly. “We’re going to a football game.”

Apparently she and I have very different definitions of a fitted jersey. She shakes her head wearily. I think she’s had her fill of me. Get in line Bobbie. The club is full and there’s a waiting list to join.

“When Derrick picks you up he is expecting to be wowed. His friends expect to be wowed. If they aren’t wowed you will stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So the more you dress me up like a street walker, the less I’ll be noticed. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I never said anything as coarse as ‘street walker’ and I’m frankly quite surprised you, as an officer of the peace, would say such a thing. Very catty. I also did not say you wouldn’t be noticed. I said you won’t look out of place. You’re the detective—or so I’ve been told. Do you want to fit in so you can observe and learn something or do you want people to avoid you like the plague because they know you don’t belong there?”

I hate to admit it, but she makes a great point. Doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge it.

“It’s just a football game,” I say lamely.

Knowing she’s won, Bobbie patiently says, “No, it’s a major social event where powerful and beautiful people show up to see and be seen.”

“Does anyone watch the game? I was looking forward to seeing how the Bears match up with the Packers this year.”

“If Derrick and his friends want to watch the game, then you can watch as well—as long as you are attentive to his needs.”

I shake my head slowly.

“Kristen, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to yell and jump around.”

Uh, actually . . . better not to respond to that.

I don’t consider myself a feminist. But everything I’m hearing goes against every fiber of my being. A hundred years ago I would have been called a tomboy. But I grew up when girls’ sports exploded. Volleyball. Basketball. Softball. Gymnastics. Heck, even the cheerleaders had competitions that highlighted athleticism as much as great looks and huge white teeth. I lived and breathed soccer. Kaylen and Klarissa didn’t gravitate toward sports, so they complained about the extra attention I got from our dad. They watched chick flicks. I watched the Bears and Cubbies.

“And his needs are?”

“At the game he has only one need and that is for a beautiful young woman to be at his side who by all appearances thinks he is the most handsome, charming, and interesting man in the world.”

“With my personality, I do that how?”

“You’ve got the looks—at least you will after I’m done with you—but I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. I mentioned as much to your boss when he first hatched this crazy plan that I doubt catches a killer but probably puts me out business.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you would be the most difficult person I’ve ever worked with but that you would do your job when it was crunch time.”

I ponder that. Am I really that difficult?

“I now know he’s right on the first half—you are difficult—but I have no way to assess whether you will come through in crunch time. I do have my doubts on whether you’ll be up to the challenge of fitting in with this crowd.”

“We’ll see about that,” I shoot back at her.

We glare at each other. Then her face breaks into a bright smile.

“Your captain also told me that you’d cooperate at least a little bit if I told you that you weren’t up to the task at hand.”

Am I that predictable?
Duh.

“How is the captain?” she asks. “I heard he took some time off for health reasons.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I’ll ask around since you haven’t bothered to and let you know what I find out,” she says.

She really is zinging me this afternoon. She seems to have her focus and poise back.

• • •

“She’ll be there tonight?”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“With Derrick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You sure this date is organic? He’s not working with the police?”

“If he is, no one told me.”

“So, you’re sure?”

“Listen, I can only report what I know.”

“Don’t be so sensitive. I appreciate it. I’ve got to see this for myself.”

“I’d stay clear of her.”

“I thought you told me she is a bumbler.”

“She is. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Hard to explain. I’ve been looking closer at her. She’s like a bull in a china shop but she does get results.”

“I wish you’d told me that sooner.”

“I would have. She’s hard to read . . . and easy to underestimate.”

• • •

Bobbie has a bathroom that is about the same size as my kitchen and living room combined; something you would see in a magazine. Marble floors and countertops. The fixtures are gold-plated. I don’t know. Maybe the fixtures are solid gold. Nothing would surprise me. I think the bathroom in my master bedroom would fit in her floor to ceiling glass shower.

I now know what a dog feels like at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show after being groomed by Bobbie’s team of miracle workers. I look at my hand and don’t recognize it. The fake nails make my fingers a half inch longer than normal. I have on more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life. It didn’t take Crisco to get the jeans over my hips but I squirmed and jumped around enough to get in a good ab workout.

I thought my Brian Urlacher Bears jersey was just fine, mostly because it covered the skin tight jeans. I brought it along to her place. Bobbie already had a Bears jersey waiting for me, but last I checked the Bears don’t wear pink. And jerseys are supposed to hang on you. This one is about as fitted as the jeans. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or relieved that I’m not very big up top. I’m not going to lie and say I have never wondered what it would be like to be a little bigger, but I’ve never thought about it enough to feel self-conscious about being small.
Until now.
Bobbie put me in a bra designed to push whatever you have up. Since that doesn’t amount to much, she’s added some padding. I look in the mirror again. Yep. I definitely feel self-conscious now. I might break into laughter.

I’ve got enough jewelry on my ears, neck, and wrists to set off a metal detector at the airport in Milwaukee. But the real killer is the five-inch heels. Derrick better be taking me up to the luxury suite by elevator because I don’t think I can navigate more than a few steps.

I have a sudden sympathy for my fellow female cops who work in Vice. When they dress like a street prostitute it is a whole lot worse than this. And this is a lot worse than I imagined it would be. I thank God everything is covered. But this is still way over the edge of my comfort level—and I think we’ve reached the edge of what I’m willing to do for the CPD.

“Okay, let’s see you walk to the door and back.”

I lower my head and arch my plucked eyebrows at Bobbie. She doesn’t flinch and returns the stare. I turn and walk toward the door.
You win this time but don’t get used to it.

“Slower.”

I stop and sigh.

“Shoulders back and glide.”

I obey.

“Now turn slowly. Don’t even lift your feet. Pivot. Smile. Walk back slowly. Give me a little hip please.”

I’m going to give her something but it won’t be hip. I stop in front of her. Will I get best in breed and qualify for best in show?

“Kristen.” She pauses. “All I can say is . . . you are stunning.”

My face burns beet red. Might be hot enough to burn off the makeup.

PART TWO

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

27

“CONNER, LET’S HEAR your report,” Blackshear says matter of factly. “When you’re ready.”

His last phrase disconcerts me for just a second. I’m used to Zaworski’s barks to get started now, now, now.

I’m not as quick on my feet with presentations as many of my colleagues. Most don’t prepare comments, they can wing it. It’s Tuesday morning. I got to the office at six-thirty. I tried to type up my notes without messing up the fake nails. I couldn’t do it. I went to the bathroom and it took twenty-five minutes to get rid of them. I hammered out my report in forty-five minutes. I then wrote ten sentences on ten note cards by longhand to organize my thoughts.

Don, Martinez, Randall, Konkade, Blackshear, two uniforms assigned to help investigate—Sawyer and Shane, and the big boss himself, Czaka, are present. There is also a new man and woman present. Blackshear introduces Alex and Gretchen. I can’t remember their last names but have their business cards. They are from Department of Revenue at City Hall. No one said why they were present, but I think it’s obvious they are monitoring what their return on investment will be in letting Bobbie Ferguson cut a deal that forgives a lot of tax penalties. My powers of detecting are at work again.

Czaka could be present for any number of reasons. He might want to get a feel for how things are going so he can report more in-depth to Commissioner Fergosi and City Hall. He might want to observe how Blackshear handles running a meeting.

Czaka might also be here to keep an eye on me. Zaworski said the Commander didn’t like this plan for me to go undercover so he might be ready to pull the plug on it now. I’m not sure that would bother me too much. Probably wishful thinking on my part. Once a course of action is begun he might consider a change in direction to be a sign of weakness to colleagues from other city departments.

“I showed up at Bobbie’s at three o’ clock on Monday, September 31, three hours before I was to meet with Derrick Jensen, the plan being for him to pick me up at Ferguson’s place. The preparation for the Bears’ game included a facial—”

“We want to hear what happened at the game, not what kind of eyeliner you wore,” Czaka interrupts.

Feels like Zaworski never left. I hear some snickers. Don and Martinez are my two chief suspects and they will pay for it later. Innocent until proven guilty is for a court of law.

“Did I tell a joke?” Czaka demands cutting off the laughter immediately.

I take the first card and move it to the bottom of the stack, look at the second, and then move that to the back too. I clear my throat. I’m tempted to tell about Cutler’s touchdown pass with thirty-seven seconds to go in the game since Commander Czaka said he wanted to hear what happened at the game. I somehow doubt he or anyone else present would find it very pertinent or funny.

Focus. Just talk.

“Derrick picked me up at a little after six and we drove south on Lake Shore to Soldier Field. We proceeded to the corporate suite owned by the Durham and Durham Law Firm. Obviously you know that Durham and Durham are the names of the victim’s father and uncle. The suite itself was twenty feet by thirty feet with a wet bar, a food counter, and two sitting areas. There are glass doors that provide access to twenty-four standard stadium seats.”

“Now you’re bragging,” Martinez interrupts. “I can’t even afford to pay the bucks to get in the nose bleed seats.”

“Can it, Martinez,” Czaka cuts in. “I’m out of here in fifteen minutes,” he says looking at his watch. “Conner, you can give full details after I’m gone. Just let us know if you found out anything pertinent to the case.”

So much for him letting Blackshear run his meeting and so much for me following an outline. I stick my note cards in my black folio. I need to get a briefcase.

“There was a total of twenty-one guests in the suite,” I say. “Eleven men and ten women. The host was Stanley McGill, a senior partner with Durham and Durham. Neither Jack’s uncle nor dad were there. McGill was the only person there without a companion. His wife is in Paris for a fashion show, he told me.”

Czaka is trying to hide his impatience, which makes me more nervous and more likely to babble. Slow down.

“I worked the crowd as best I could. Of the ten men present besides McGill, I think only three were with the law firm. Those three were with spouses. I’m not sure any of them—the wives—were that excited to be part of the rest of the group. They stuck together in a small pack. I’m pretty sure they knew the score with the other women present. The other seven men were the close friends of Jack Durham we’ve been trying to monitor.”

“How they dealing with Durham’s death?” Squires asks.

“Everybody was having a good time, so no one looked too broken up.”