Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

“We’re sitting at almost four weeks,” Zaworski fumes, “and the only lead we are working came to us from the FBI. Folks, I need something. We need something. It’s time to earn your retirement program.”

Is that a threat?

We are back in the spacious and almost luxurious suite of the Midwest Regional office of the FBI, located on the forty-eighth floor of the State Building. I’ve never considered anything but local law enforcement for my career, but I could get used to the federal digs.

The meeting is scheduled to go ninety minutes, which is a relief. I might even get in a workout early this evening. Nothing too rigorous because my knee is aching. I did the high school stadium stair torture workout again. I’m not even thirty and I’m already complaining of aches and pains.

After Zaworski’s chewing out, Dr. Van Guten spends fifteen minutes proving that Sandra Reed and Candace Rucker’s murderer is the same killer who has struck in six other cities. This seems very important to her and Reynolds. Did any of us dispute or even question that? I guess they want us to be assured that once we find him, the information will help make sure that ten years and twenty appeals from now, someone from the state of Texas—he spent time in San Antonio and since they allow the death penalty, we’re guessing that’s where he gets tried—is going to stick a needle in one of his veins. But it’s the
finding him
part that we need help on. That’s where we need to spend our time. She doesn’t know what to make of him changing the timing between kills, but she wants us to know that it is still the same man based on 137 direct connections or parallels she and Operation Vigilance have discovered. She enlightens us that, mathematically, this is a 98.7 percent certainty. I never did well in stats class—the chi tail formula just about killed me—but I’m convinced. I was convinced just by visiting the two crime scenes. This is a waste of time. She already looks tired at eleven in the morning. I think she’s spending too much time with Virgil. Maybe I should invite her out for dinner.

“Has everyone finished the notebooks?”

We didn’t have anything else to do the last forty-eight hours!

We all nod yes.

“Then it’s time to start over because, honestly, I’m not seeing any action from local law enforcement.”

No dinner invitation for her.

The detective teams report their current activities. Don speaks for us. I have no problem with that as long as I get to drive the car. And no question, he can deliver an elevator speech a lot better than I can.

I’m not quite sure what Tony Scalia’s role on the team is, but apparently he’s unofficially the liaison with city hall and more specifically, the mayor’s office. Did I mention that he and my dad once brought down a hit man hired to kill the mayor? That was about ten years ago, but Doyle is still alive and still the mayor, so he probably wanted someone on the case reporting directly to him that he trusts. Mom still has my dad’s medal—one that Big Tony undoubtedly has too—in one of those shadowbox frames in the living room.

No question, my dad’s status at CPD gave me a leg up on my first job and subsequent promotions. With the run-ins I’ve had with Czaka, I’m hoping his posthumous status still serves as major career protection. I met Mayor Doyle when Dad got his medal. I told him I was going to be a cop, too. He seemed to like that and made a big deal about me following in my dad’s footsteps. But he’s a politician, and politicians are good at saying what people want to hear. I wonder if he remembers me now. Czaka has studiously ignored me every time we’re in the same room.

Cream rises to the top and in our group of detectives, that seems to be Blackshear. I’m as competitive as anyone, but I’ve had my gold shield for less than two years. For all my lip, I’m actually very impressed with the team we have assembled, and Blackshear has been on top of everything. Blackshear and Reynolds spend twenty minutes of our meeting going over new strategies and new assignments. Despite feeling lost and helpless, this is my favorite part of the meeting. We may not know what to do, but at least we’re doing something.

Konkade goes last and reports on the number of volunteers from the force working the AA angle. No real leads so far—and no leaks to the press, thank God. He reminds us that this particular haystack is a lot smaller than the city of Chicago, so we aren’t to skip our appointments and we should do more if we have the time.

I put my notes into a small briefcase, stand up to stretch the small of my back, flex my knee, and look down at my phone, which is vibrating. Klarissa. I had forgotten Reynolds’ promise to check everyone’s phone log in the hour leading up to our approach of the second crime scene. My heart does a quick somersault. Then I relax. I figure nothing must have come from checking the phone logs or I would have heard something by now.

I follow Don toward the door. Only Zaworski and Reynolds are still in the room, talking quietly and heatedly at the far end of the table.

“Conner.”

I freeze halfway outside the conference room. That was Zaworski’s you’re-in-trouble-now voice. Which is the same as his “good morning” voice. I turn toward the two men with Don looking over my shoulder.

“Yes, sir?”

“Need you to stay a minute. Squires, this is going to take a little while so you may want to head back to the Second.”

So is it a minute or a while?

I don’t think Zaworski was making a suggestion to Don. This is an order. He moves over and pulls the blinds on the large windows that dominate one of the interior walls of our task force’s meeting place. Out in the hall, Don looks at me with arched eyebrows as if to ask, what’ve you done this time? He heads toward the door leading to the reception area and out to the bank of elevators and I reluctantly shut the door behind me.

• • •

“I know you called three times, Klarissa, but I couldn’t pick up. You, of all people, know that there are moments when answering isn’t an option.”

“So you weren’t just blowing me off again?”

“No! Believe me, I would have much preferred talking to you. I was busy getting my tail chewed.”

“Something to do with the Cutter Shark?”

“I don’t know where you guys in the media come up with names like that, but yeah, it had to do with the Cutter Shark—and you!”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Remember the morning following the second murder?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, we were trying to get over to the crime scene without any media interference. Someone placed a call to Mr. or Ms. So-and-So and the whole world showed up in our parking lot. So Reynolds, the FBI guy, ran a check on everybody’s phone log. Guess who talked to someone at WCI-TV an hour before we rolled out the door?”

“Who?”

“Me!”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Who were you talking to?”

“You, you big dummy. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, the morning you decided to wake me up at four.”

“It was closer to five but I didn’t know when I’d have a chance to call again and I needed to cancel our coffee date. I didn’t actually think you’d answer. I figured it would go into voice mail.”

“I remember the call, but it still doesn’t make sense. How could they know you called me? That was on my cell, not the office line.”

“You think the FBI doesn’t know who pays your cell phone bill?”

Klarissa pauses. “Well, that’s more than a little disturbing.”

“Don’t go naïve on me, Little Sis. I hope you’re kidding.”

“I feel like my privacy has been violated.”

Uh oh. What have I gotten myself into?

“Got something to hide?” I ask, hoping to move the conversation another direction.

“No,” she retorts immediately. “But that doesn’t mean the FBI has the right to access private communication of private citizens who are in no way suspected of a crime.”

“Even with a mass murderer on the loose?”

“Your call to me would in no way hinder capturing the Cutter Shark, even if you were scooping me on some juicy crime scene tidbits—which you haven’t done so far.”

She leaves that hanging in the air. She may be true blonde, but she is smart.

I look at my watch and interrupt before Klarissa gets on a roll. “Hey, Sis, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m getting hammered here due to no results in our investigation. What’d you call about? Because I’m going to have to hit it pretty fast.”

“We were supposed to get together last Thursday night for dinner, which you cancelled. That’s in addition to you cancelling coffee.”

“For a little detail called a crime scene.”

She ignores my protest and continues, “Despite my hurt feelings, I wanted to see if it might work out to grab a bite tonight.”

I hesitate, but Klarissa and I have always had trouble connecting, so I want to keep the little momentum we’ve gained the last week or two going. “What time you thinking?”

“I’m not back on air until 10:00 p.m. Anytime between now and nine.”

I look at my watch. It’s six. I’ve got another two hours of work. I was wanting to hit my health club on the way home. I wonder if I can get everything done and then meet.

“Hey, if it’s too much trouble,” she starts with hurt in her voice.

“No. No,” I interrupt quickly. “I’m just looking at what the boss wants done. Tell you what, I’ll grab a cab and meet you somewhere in the middle. I’ll come back and finish up. But brace yourself, because I may have to miss your special report tonight and I don’t want to cost you ratings.”

“We’re only half a point from being number one, so I can manage without you for one night. Just don’t make it a habit,” she returns primly.

“I won’t—and it’s a date,” I answer with a laugh. “Where do you want to meet?”

“I like that place over in Wicker Park. Not the Italian restaurant. The one with the American-fusion cuisine.”

“American-fusion?”

“You’ll love it. Just tell the cab to get you to Feast at the five corner intersection.”

“See you in thirty minutes.”

• • •

“Leaving early?”

It’s Van Guten. She is wearing a mauve business suit with an ivory blouse. She usually wears her hair up, but it’s after six, so she’s let it down. Light brown with blonde lowlights. What do I know? I’ve never colored my hair. It may be blonde with brown highlights. I knew she was attractive, but wow. I wonder what it would be like to be as together and confident as she seems to be. But the slight challenge in her question agitates me.

I decide to pull a Don and let it roll. “Nah. Just going to grab dinner with my sister but I’ll be back,” I say over my shoulder.

“Oh, the one who works at a local TV station?”

Nothing indirect in her tone this time. This one is a straight-forward challenge. I want to punch her in the nose but I’m not even looking at anyone cross-eyed because I am one outburst away from Zaworski ordering me into an anger management program. I’ve heard that they cure you through sheer boredom and you never get it off your employment record.

“That’s the one,” I say.

“You didn’t happen to get a chance to talk with Reynolds and Zaworski this morning, did you?” she asks with arched eyebrows. “After our meeting?”

“Indeed I did. But I bet you already knew that.”

“Anything good come out of that?” she asks with raised eyebrows, ignoring my back-at-you challenge.

“I’m not sure you’d call it good, Doctor, but we did seem to clear up a potential misunderstanding.”

“Good,” she says dismissively. “I trust it will stay cleared up.”

I make myself turn and walk away, visualizing a certain Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu move I’d like to demonstrate on Dr. Leslie Van Guten. Don’t ask me why I put so much energy into hand-to-hand training. Maybe because I shoot so poorly but score so well in fighting. Go figure. Barry Soto, one of the CPD trainers, says that pound for pound, I’m the toughest fighter on the force. I’ll bet he’s right.

I remember when I told Dad I wanted to be a cop, he hammered in my brain that a life-or-death moment is going to come when it’s going to be just me and the other guy.
I’ ll
be ready. I promise, Dad.
My mind flashes to a fist fight with Van Guten again. That’s a scary thought. Really. Maybe I should call Zaworski and voluntarily enter the anger management program.

Dear God, help me to stop making people in charge so mad at me.

23

“HI, MY NAME is Kristen.”

“Hi, Kristen.”

“And I’m an alcoholic.”

I almost flinch as I say it. Am I lying? I grew up in Ozzie and Harriet’s household. No alcohol allowed. Mom made Dad, who grew up Catholic, quit drinking when they got married since it was against Baptist church rules. I know for a fact he kept a six-pack of beer hidden in the garage fridge from time to time. When I was about twelve, I asked him about it and he let me have a sip of his Pabst Blue Ribbon, which promptly cured me of a craving for beer for life.

I look at the interested faces in the circle. I’m definitely lying. But is it okay with God if I lie for a greater good—like catching a serial killer? I’ve asked Jimmy once or twice but he hems and haws and I give up. I have to nail him down. Maybe he doesn’t know. Jimmy pastors a nondenominational community church, so I’m not sure who he has to face with ethical questions. Dad grew up Catholic and they seemed to have rules to cover everything. Mom grew up Baptist and they seemed to have more.