Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

Carrie’s a very cute girl. I hope she’ll treat him better than I do when Dell finally sees the light and breaks up with me.
Wishful thinking. You know you’re going to have to do
the deed yourself, Kristen. And it’s going to get
real ugly because he’s not listening.
Treating him better is really not a tall order. Does he keep bringing her up in the hopes I’ll get jealous? I might send Dell a text suggesting he find out if Carrie wants to tour an Amish village.

Stop. You don’t have time to think about Dell.

I can’t get my mind back where it belongs. I wonder how someone can just lay their emotions out on the table like Dell does. I mean, I think his phone message is a little embarrassing, for both of us. I know he does great in business, or so it appears, based on the brownstone he’s renting—can’t imagine what it costs—the Porsche Boxter he drives on weekends and the Lexus he drives during the week. He’s explained to me that he is a freelance contract worker who specializes in supply-chain management. I don’t have a business background, but I get the basic idea. Companies need materials to make products, but don’t want to pay for them or store them in a warehouse until they actually need them. The key is to make someone else be the banker, is how he put it, which usually means the manufacturer or even the supplier of raw materials.

Since I work for government, I’m confident I don’t understand all the nuances of his business specialty. I’m pretty certain, for example, we have a lifetime supply of paper clips at the CPD. Dell could do wonders for us—but I’m not sure he’d be safe if an armed workforce found out someone wanted to mess with their supply of Styrofoam cups and sticky notes. Come to think of it, someone keeps forgetting to order coffee filters.

Dell’s told me he moves a lot. He has shown me pictures of a rustic home on about twenty acres he has out near Durango, Colorado. Nineteen acres of pine and one acre cleared for the gravel driveway and homesite. Only about thirty minutes from Wolf Creek Ski Area. He has been pestering me about a family trip during ski season. He wants Jimmy and Kaylen to bring the kids so he can teach them to ski. Mom, Klarissa, and Warren—or whichever guy she is dating seriously at the time—are invited, too. I think he’s trying to use my family to get close to me. There I am, using my skills of detection again.

I asked him how he picked Durango. He loves to ski and liked Wolf Creek. I asked why buy a house you don’t live in. He says it’s too much hassle to buy and sell houses with as much moving as he does, so he bought the land and built the cabin—that’s what he calls it, but it looks more like a home to me—to build real estate equity. I asked how bad he had been hit by the downturn in the economy. That seemed to impress him. So he explained his investment model—and even drew a graph on a napkin at Ed Debevic’s one night—and where real estate fit into that, how he was protected by diversification and some market hedge tools, and how he’ll bounce back even if there has been some valuation slippage before you know it. I sat there thinking about a savings bond I bought when I was about twelve.

He’s told me he has never pursued anyone like this before, he has always liked the single life, and women usually chase him. I’m supposed to be impressed and flattered.

I’m not sure how Dell and I became such an item based on my explicit lack of affection for him, but I know there’s a lot of assumption and presumption involved. We met at church. Why is it that when reasonably attractive, similarly aged people meet at church, people assume it could be a match? Here’s how it went down: Reasonably attractive female detective doesn’t have a boyfriend. Handsome stranger introduces himself. Out of the blue, sweet sister of reasonably attractive detective invites handsome stranger to family dinner. Handsome stranger is liked by everyone in the family, including the detective, though that same detective has considerably less ardor toward him than any other family member, including the four-year-old who is trying to get college paid for or buy a new Star Wars action figure, one buck at a time.

Handsome stranger and reasonably attractive detective go out for a meal and a movie. They show up at some church functions and sit together, and voila, they are declared a couple.

I can understand how it looks from the outside. But I can’t understand his pacing. One month into a comfortable little pattern of getting to know each other, he tells me he loves me. I inadvertently spilled my Diet Coke—and I remember being disappointed that the Awesome Blossom was ruined. What is it with me and Diet Coke accidents?

I think I will make a wonderful wife one day. Okay, a decent wife is more like it. I think I will be affectionate and loving and mushy and affirming and appropriately attentive and jealous and all that stuff—and probably more than a little difficult to live with. But I’m not a natural when it comes to opening up my heart to just anyone. I don’t have some huge heartbreak in my past that I can’t let go of. It’s just the way I’ve been—the way I am. I’ve had a couple regular boyfriends in the past, one in high school and one in college. Both lasted a little less than a year. I’ve also dated casually from time to time, but I’ve never been moonstruck. Ever. Does that mean something’s wrong with me and I have bonding issues, like Dell claims? Doesn’t feel like it to me. My lack of
smitten-ness
seems to only propel Dell forward. Like I’m the ultimate challenge.

• • •

“Hey, KC, you going to stare at the pad of paper all day or do you think we might get some work done?” Don interrupts.

I glare at him. He knows I hate that nickname. He just smiles. Don is wearing a tan summer-weight suit, a soft blue shirt with white collar, French cuffs with black onyx cuff links, and a silk tie with diagonal lines. And I do believe he has on a new pair of shoes. He’s styling. No wonder he looks like he’s bounced back emotionally from the trauma of his slightly scuffed Allen Edmonds. He’ll give my outfit disparaging looks all day, even though in my book, there’s nothing wrong with a khaki skirt and a navy polo. Even with a wrinkled collar. Last time I had this outfit on, Don said I looked like a sales girl at the Gap.

If it was anyone but Don dressing this way, I’d suspect he was on the take, because there’s just no way to afford the clothes he wears on a detective’s paycheck. I bet I don’t spend one-third of what he does filling up my closet. And I don’t have kids, unless you count the Snowflakes.

He has a little secret, though. I’ve been sworn not to tell anyone in the department, which makes it all the tougher to keep. Don’s stay-at-home wife doesn’t just stay at home. She also sells a little real estate on the side—actually a lot of real estate on the side—even in a tough economy. I’ve asked him how it feels to be a kept man. He just smiles and tells me it feels mighty fine. That doesn’t mean he wants the guys to know that his wife is pulling down at least twice what he does. I’m happy for him. Don and Vanessa wanted their kids in private school and Vanessa’s gig pays the tuition and a whole lot more.

He looks at his shoes and beams his happy smile and then immediately gets somber.

“So how’d it go this morning?”

“How’d what go?”

He rolls his eyes. “Your group therapy at the donut shop, what do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“C’mon, Kristen. How’d it go with IA? And by the way, if you’re going to act like a horse’s behind all day, we’re driving separately.”

I start to smart off to him but Zaworski strides around the corner.

“I got an email from Gray,” my boss says.

I hold my breath.

“Sounds like your interview with Internal Affairs was a roaring success.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, trying to hide the relief in my voice.

“I didn’t announce you won a medal for bravery, so quit thanking me. Now listen, I’ve already had to go to bat with you on Czaka—”

I start to interrupt, but he immediately holds up a hand to silence me.

“And whether or not you support his decision, I don’t want to hear anymore about that either. I also don’t want any repeats of you grinding a kid’s face in the gravel. I’m serious. You’re on a short leash, Conner. On the edge of administrative leave. And if that happens, you won’t land back in homicide in this precinct. No matter how good a detective you are. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? ’Cause I can’t tell when someone says, ‘Yeah.’”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I’m sorry I—”

“Save the apology, Conner. I’m not in the mood. Glad you understand. Now how ’bout two of my finest get busy and find me the psychotic bent on terrorizing my city?”

Don and I head for the stairs in a hurry. He gives me a dirty look and keeps a safe distance in case I have political leprosy or something. I think he’s looking for a promotion to the next pay grade. I’m just happy I got my gold shield. I like that Zaworski acknowledged I’m a good detective, but I’m seriously frosted that I got reprimanded by him in public. I would have told Don all about it anyway, but Zaworski doesn’t know that. CPD protocol is that reprimands happen behind closed doors. Except when they don’t. Don can shrug something like this off in an instant. Not me.

At the first landing he says, “We’re meeting Reynolds over at FBI in the State Building. He seems to think it is a better location for our task force.”

“He’s probably right.”

“You been over there?”

“Nope,” I answer. “It’s out of my league.”

“I have and you’re right,” he answers.

“I am? About what—that it’s a better spot or that it’s out of my league?”

“I’ll just leave it at ‘you’re right.’”

Payback is gonna be brutal, Don.

We’re out the back door and into the parking lot. I let him open the back door for me so I can seize the inside position to grab the driver’s side of our assigned Taurus. That makes me driver. Don is still looking at his new shoes and barely notices. That’s disappointing.

As we pull onto Clark Street I tell him we need to stop by the CPD Armory on the way back so I can get in thirty minutes of practice shooting with my new Beretta. I switched from the standard issue Glock 22 to see if I could improve my handgun scores for my personnel files.

“I’m brave and daring when it comes to the job,” he quips, “but maybe not that brave and daring.”

I glare at him, which makes him laugh. I drive in silence the whole way over to the State Building on Wacker, more than a little mad. It’s one thing to gig somebody for something they do well; it’s not allowed when you really can’t shoot worth squat. Dad always said big nose jokes were funny as long as no one in earshot had a big nose. If Don notices my pouting, he doesn’t comment. He does move his feet around a lot to look at his shoes from different angles.

16

“HELLO. MY NAME is Walter, and I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Walter,” our circle of seventeen returns.

“By the grace of God and with all of your help, I’ve been sober for three months, two weeks, four days, thirteen hours, and twenty-six minutes.”

He is looking at his watch as he ticks off the time. We cheer enthusiastically, but all the time I wonder how the heck someone could be that exact. Maybe he has a stopwatch feature that he clicks the second he takes a drink just in case it is his last for a while? He beams and then turns serious.

“I’ve lost everything this year—my wife and my boy. He’s six years old now and by court order, I haven’t seen him for eight months, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be lifted anytime soon.”

He chokes up and pauses. I take him for early thirties. He looks beat-up enough to be at least a decade older. Probably a middle-class kid who lost his way, because he definitely doesn’t look tough enough for the streets. Walter, you better find your way home. You aren’t going to survive out here.

I wonder if his wife will take him back. Sometimes the long-suffering ones hit a wall and when they finally boot him or her out, there’s nothing left of the relationship to salvage. The toughest cases to process are when a hittee decides to stop getting hit and hits back. I had one of those when I was in uniform. The hittee was charged with murder. Everyone, including the district attorney and jury, believed her husband had a well-earned bullet coming to him, but convicted her nonetheless.

Walter talks about some job interviews he has coming up, but I’m not listening very closely. Apparently this group proceeds from person to person around the circle and everyone shares something, even if only a sentence or two. In briefing for the assignment, my under-standing was that all sharing in AA groups was voluntary. I start paying attention again as the twelfth person tells about a recent setback and a recent victory. Only five more chairs and it’s my turn to speak. I’ve read through AA’s Big Book quickly and read most of their brochures. I’m now a subscriber to the AA
Grapevine
journal and worked with Don, Konkade, and Zaworski to establish a role. Don thought it was hilarious when he said my everyday wardrobe was perfect for the part. Zaworski didn’t laugh and that shut him up. Take that, Don. But I thought I’d just watch and learn the meeting routine my first time out. Looks like I need to think of a quick story. I don’t want to stand out by being the only one who doesn’t say anything.

Eleven women from the precinct are going to attend two to three meetings a week. Seems like a long shot since our research department has established that there are over 300 AA locations across the city. That doesn’t include private practices or other church and civic-sponsored meetings that don’t operate under the Alcoholics Anonymous banner.