Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (41 page)

He laughs and then starts a hacking, phlegmy cough. Takes him ten seconds to cough out whatever went down his throat. I hear him spit. I hope he’s not in his living room.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Hope I didn’t blow your ear drum out. First, I do have one confession to make. I kind of liked you. No. Scratch that. I mean I really liked you. You actually made me a little nervous and tongue-tied at the Bears game. Kelly thought that was hilarious. I watched you all evening. I already knew you weren’t one of Barbara’s girls. Does that make me a good judge of character or do I have good sources? I’m not going to talk about that.

“I was kind of back on my game at the president’s fund raiser. I was both sarcastic and sardonic—and yes, I do know the difference between the two. After you got busted because your sister was there, I liked you even more. You got me thinking it might be a good time to change. But there’s been a lot of water over the dam. And a lot of it was polluted. I know you aren’t going to ever go for my type. I salute you. But you know what? You could loosen up a little bit. This church girl routine is interesting, but I don’t think it’s gonna wear well on anyone.”

Church girl routine?

“Good. I got that off my chest. Now I’ll talk. You want to know if I know or have any ideas on who killed Jack and Barbara. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

His voice goes down to a whisper and he says, “I really am sorry, Kristen. If you ever think of me again, say a prayer for someone who has lost his way.”

Wow. That was strange—and intense. He didn’t say he didn’t know who killed Jack or Barbara. He said he couldn’t help. Does that mean he knows something but is afraid? Or involved?

I need to talk to the team about this. I’ll play the message.

My speaker beeps over to the next message. Reynolds.

“Hi Kristen. I was hoping you could pick up. Miss me? I’ve missed you every day. Can’t wait to see you again. Sorry I couldn’t let you know what was going on, but I’ve been overseas. Give me a call back when you get this. Hope the Durham case is going good for you.”

Reynolds has never made it a secret that he goes into the field at home and abroad for Deputy Director Willingham. He’s not been ignoring me. He’s been busy. We do have some things in common.

Should I tell Klarissa I’m not a whale? How about Derrick? Do I let him know the church girl routine hasn’t worn thin yet?

67

“I DON’T KNOW, Kristen,” Zaworski says. “I’d have to call Czaka to get this cleared. Even if they say go for it, it’s gonna have to go before a judge. We’re going to need more than a hunch to get a sign off.”

“Murder is usually close to home,” I say. “I think we should look at both of them a whole lot closer—their alibis, their phone records, their email, and their financial records.”

“Have you talked to Bob and the team about it?”

“No . . .”

“So you two are here on your own? You gotta be kidding me.”

“That’s the thing, Captain. Do you not get the feeling everything we talk about on this case is—”

“Are you saying we have a leak, Kristen? Who? Are you accusing Blackshear?”

“I’m not saying anything. I definitely don’t think Blackshear is the problem.”

“So you do think we have a leak?”

“I guess so.”

“Based on what?”

“A hunch.”

He sighs. This was a bad idea. He looks awful. His skin is white as a ghost. His close cropped white hair is falling out in patches. I look at Squires. He’s not being much help. He told me he agreed with me. We have to get a closer look at Durham, Sr. and Durham, Jr.—and we need to do it quietly.

“You’ve been right before, Kristen, so I’m not dismissing this out of hand. Let me think about it. But you got to bring me more before I’m going incur the wrath of the Chicago political machine.”

• • •

On the drive back to the Second I yawn. My head is bobbing and I can barely keep my eyes open.

“Forgot to mention, nice job on busting Incaviglia,” Don says as he turns left onto Western Avenue. “Long night?”

“Not really,” I say. “I didn’t even have to drive down to Precinct. I made my statement at the Gas & Grub.”

“Same place we arrested him first time?”

“No. Different one. The one on Ravenswood, close to my place.”

“Speaking of the Durhams, I wonder why I didn’t get a job offer at Durham and Durham,” he says.

I laugh.

“Wasn’t because I’m African-American?”

“McGill is African-American.”

“True. So either they’ve filled their quota or I’m just being sensitive.”

I punch him and say, “Yeah, you are being sensitive and you’re trying to tug my chain. You know as well as I do why I got the job offer.”

“Illuminate me.”

“The old man wants me off the case.”

“You did bust a serial killer. If I was a murderer, I’d be afraid of you. Heck, I’m your partner . . . and I’m afraid of you.”

“Speaking of being a partner, you could have jumped in and bailed me out with Zaworski.”

“Nah. His mind was made up. Wasn’t going to change anything . . . and I enjoyed watching you on the hot seat.”

• • •

Don applies the brakes hard and I wake up wild-eyed and with a snort. I suspect he stopped harder than he needed to and I give him a dirty look. We are in the parking lot of the Second. I look at my watch, I fell asleep for twenty-five minutes on the drive from Zaworski’s house.

I am tired. But not because of Incaviglia. I talked with Reynolds until one in the morning. That’s two in the morning for him. He’s got to be dragging today too. Not sure I even remember what we talked about. That’s a new experience for me. How much do I like the guy?

Don and I get called into a meeting with Blackshear, Czaka, Randall, and Martinez. Zaworski joined us by phone. He never brought up Don and me stopping to see him. Maybe he is taking my concerns seriously.

Czaka is running the show. He wants an update. He’s impatient and pushes us to stay on task. Don covers the Durhams and the raid on Penny’s empty safe. I report on my work with the DMV on identifying other visitors to Jack Durham’s place the night of the murder and then slog through my last communication with Derrick Jensen. Blackshear reports on a meeting with Flannigan—she thinks she has more than enough to make a case against Martin. She is assuming there are two murderers. I jump in and argue that it is the same murderer. Martinez and Randall talk over each other while reporting on the Bobbie Ferguson crime scene.

“Guys, a month has gone by and we got to go with what we have,” Czaka says. “Despite Conner’s impassioned and not totally reasonable argument that Durham and Ferguson were killed by the same guy, I’m in agreement with the DA. We’ve got Jack Durham’s murderer.

“Time to move on and turn your attention to the Ferguson murder. Good work.”

“But, sir—”

“Conner, I said good job. You were the one that pointed things to Martin. So you got no reason to whine. We’ve been patient, but now you’re out of time. Go find Ferguson’s killer. This discussion is over. Decision made.”

I open my mouth to say something more and Don kicks me under the table.

I’m going to give him a reason to be afraid of me.

We’ve worked our tails off on this case. But we’ve spent next to no time with Senior and Junior. I haven’t even got the report back from DMV.

This doesn’t feel right.

68

I STAY LATE and make another hour-long visit to the Jack Durham board, which will come down tomorrow.

I look at the faces. Kelly Granger. One of the inner circle. He and Jack had a fistfight five years ago on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Sounds like the kind of thing that Granger might have harbored in his heart. But he won the fight and everyone present said the two were drinking together all night. Granger was divorced two years ago. Someone thought Jack was the cause. Granger’s ex said no. Granger said no. Who knows?

Derrick. Maybe the most lost of all Jack’s lost boys. Someday a psychiatrist will have a field day writing about this group of grown men with full blown Peter Pan Syndrome. His alibi is solid. He says he can’t help. But I think he can. Doesn’t mean he will. Is he afraid?

Roger. Alan. Daniel. Grayson. Joseph. Dennis. Adam. Nah.

I look at the escorts. Bad girls, but I don’t think there’s a murderer in what was Bobbie’s portfolio of assets.

Penny. Her alibi didn’t hold up. She was on the security camera. She was at the scene of the crime. She expressed strong disdain for Jack; her father. What’s not to like? Abandoned daughter. Had to be her. But then who killed Ferguson? I guess I’m agreeing with Flannigan and Czaka.

Jack’s crew weren’t Bobbie’s only clients, but they were the most lucrative part of her business. None of them established a real relationship with any of the girls. But a few of her clients not tied to Durham ended up marrying women they had previously paid to sleep with. I’m not going to even joke about which period of the relationship cost them most. But none of them killed Jack.

• • •

I’m tired and in a bad mood. I decide to stop at the gym and blow off some steam. I change and tape up my hands to do some bag work.

I do ten minutes punching the speed bag, working on my timing. I turn to move to the heavy bag and am face-to-face with Gary, Mr. Semper Fi, and a couple of his friends.

“Wanna spar?” he asks with a smile.

“I don’t think so, Gary.”

“Listen, I’m back with my girl and I’m back on the straight and narrow. No more late night drinking and phone calls. I’m embarrassed . . . and I’m sincerely sorry. I apologize.”

I may be a detective, but for the life of me, I still don’t know when people are lying or telling the truth.

“Sure.”

We put on heavier gloves and headgear.

He comes straight after me like a pitbull going for an intruder. I use everything Barry Soto has taught me, staying on my toes, and moving my feet left, right, and backward to keep him off balance. His friends start to hoot and holler as I keep him at bay. He’s definitely getting frustrated—and angry—as his punches start coming in wider and heavier. That gives me a chance to land a series of fast jabs. Then he nails me on the chin and puts me on my butt. The chin doesn’t bruise much, but I might have the smudge of a blue-black contusion by morning.

“Sorry, Kristen, I got carried away a little,” Gary says, bending over.

His friends are booing and hissing.

“So you’re back to semper fi?” I ask, forcing a smile.

He extends a hand and helps me up. “Absolutely.”

“Good. Keep it that way. I think you told me you work for Southwest. You miss military service?”

“You got that right. I was lucky landing with Southwest when I got back from Fallujah. But I miss the action. I’m trying to get a job with one of the big dogs that provide personal security. I got another interview coming up with a place called Pale Horse.”

“Is that like Blackwater?”

“Same idea, but a much smaller fish. I don’t have the job yet, so if you hear of anything, give them my number. I promise I’m not drinking. These guys behind me will kill me if I touch the sauce. So I won’t embarrass you.”

No, but you might knock me out with a right cross.

• • •

As I pick up a to-go salad on the way home, I wonder if sparring with Gary is a picture of my life. Work hard, move fast, jab like crazy, fight like crazy to compete with the big boys, land some shots, but get punched hard enough to end up on my butt. Of course I got back up. So maybe that’s not such a bad way to look at my life.

Maybe that’s how it is for all of us. Win some, lose some, and decide . . . do I get back up?

• • •

“Stanley, can this get any worse?” Durham, Sr. asked.

“It is not going to go quietly in the night, Robert.”

“Any ideas, Bobby?” his father asked him.

“Just let it run its course, Dad. Nothing we can do. We did the right thing reaching out to Martin. She’s my niece and your granddaughter. If she fooled us into thinking she was innocent, so what if the press has a field day? Who knows, it might be good for business. My phone is ringing off the hook from potential clients. Most of them really don’t need anything. I think they just want to show off for their friends . . . tell them they are in contact with us . . . pretend they know something.”

“I think Bobby is right,” McGill said.

“You’ve known me for how long, Stanley?” Senior asked.

“Thirty-one years.”

“Do I like to leave things to chance?”

Stanley and Junior both laughed.

“Maybe, I’ll listen to you,” Senior said.

“But I doubt it,” Stanley answered.

69

I TOLD MY
attorney about the police keeping an eye on me. He went straight to the commissioner’s office to file a protest. Now he tells me the Chicago Police Department absolutely and emphatically denies that there is a surveillance detail on me. He doesn’t think they’d lie—because they don’t have to on this. They can do what they want.