Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

Mom doesn’t like that Jimmy is nondenominational. Kaylen met him at a Baptist college. But when he graduated from college and grad school he started pastoring a nonaffiliated church.

“Oh, so you don’t mind using good Baptist education and all the money that it took to build that college,” Mom would say, “but then you just get to go off and do whatever you want.”

I don’t know, Mom might have a point. But Jimmy’s as straight-laced as they come. I somehow don’t think he’s going crazy with all that freedom.

Focus, Kristen.

“My problem began small,” I continue, looking around the AA group.

Lots of nodding heads. They sense I’m going to need encouragement to keep this little speech from becoming a disaster.

“So it really didn’t impact my work life or my social life. At first. At least I didn’t think it was affecting me negatively.”

More nods from some very earnest people. I’m looking for Jonathan but he’s not been here the past two weeks. I’m still coming on Tuesday nights. I thought he might have a regular day of the week. Maybe it doesn’t work that way if you really do have a drinking problem. Maybe you hustle your butt over to whatever meeting is available when you need it. Maybe you’re not thinking about the new group member across the circle from you that much either. Unless you’re a con artist with murderous intentions. Or an undercover cop.

I just wish I could remember for sure if he said that he had recently moved to town. Bethany isn’t here either. She came last week. But Virgil told us our perpetrator, the Cutter Shark, almost exclusively pursues single women. In the few cases where a married woman was the victim, there was some likelihood that she wasn’t broadcasting her marital status. That actually could make Bethany, who looked ready for action, vulnerable. But I’m pretty sure she did mention being married in Jonathan’s presence two weeks ago. Then again, if you’re a murderer, is adultery that big of a deal?

“Maybe I’ve had a problem longer than I think I have. I know some people at work have called me out on it. But it didn’t turn into an official reprimand, even though it looked like it might. And my mom’s not happy with me right now because of my, uh, problem. And my sister and I aren’t getting along so hot either.”

Could this be any more awkward?

“And my boyfriend—well, not really my boyfriend, I guess—but he and I, well, I guess we are in some kind of state of limbo. I’m not really sure if we’re going out anymore or not. So I guess I’m here to figure out whether I have a problem or not.”

I think Walter is trying to stifle a laugh. Hey, I don’t laugh at him when he gives us the updated weeks, days, hours, and seconds to his sobriety every week, do I? I see amusement in some eyes and concern—or is that pity?—in others. A few people have zoned out. I’m quite the public speaker—make them laugh, make them sleep. I redden a little as I realize that what I’ve just said makes me sound like the world’s biggest loser.

“But things probably aren’t as bad as they seem,” I continue quickly, in an attempt to recover. “My other sister has me help with her kids and I do pretty well at that. For the most part.”

Okay, none of this is coming out right. No one is smiling now. Everyone is wide awake. I think I see some outright fear on the faces of a few women who look like they are mothers.

“I’m not saying this quite right, but what I mean is that I think things are going to go a whole lot better and you all are really helping me.”

I end abruptly and plop into my seat. My ears are burning. The room is quiet. I really hadn’t planned to speak but with this being my fourth visit, I figured it was time to play the part a little. I really should have written my talking points down and not tried to wing it. My sister is probably going to get reported to Children’s Services for letting a drunk take care of her kids if anyone finds out my last name. Darren, the group leader, gets up and clears his throat.

“I want to thank each of you for sharing. Stick around and have a cup of coffee and a couple cookies if you can. I want to remind you that a big part of Alcoholics Anonymous is having a trusted sponsor to help you through the rough times and to help you keep your feet on the ground. Every one of us in the room is going to experience temptation and we’re not supposed to go it alone. That’s why God has given us each other.”

I’m pretty sure he’s talking to me. One clue is that he keeps looking at me pointedly. There I am being a detective again.

We stand, hold hands, and mumble the Serenity Prayer together.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

An elderly woman comes over and gives me a hug. Oh man, I’m getting the sympathy hug. It was even worse than I thought. Darren shakes hands with me, thanks me for sharing, and asks me if I have a sponsor yet. I assure him I’ll get that taken care of next week, but excuse myself and nearly run for the door.

• • •

I’m exhausted on my drive home. It was another twelve-hour day at the office. The long hours aren’t a big deal. It’s just spinning my wheels that wears me out. Two missed calls. Dell. Haven’t talked to him since Sunday lunch. Klarissa. What’s that all about? We’ve been sniping at each other for years and suddenly she wants to be my dinner partner every night. Come to think of it, Warren hasn’t been around. He’s never really done the Sunday thing with the family—he’s the sports guy at WBC-TV, so Sunday is a big work day for him. But usually we hear something about what he and Klarissa are up to. And she didn’t say anything over dinner either. No mention in how long? I really need to be a better big sister.

I zone out and find myself in a parking spot in front of my apartment. I park far enough away from the car in front of me that I can use the decline to start my car in the morning if it decides to be testy.

24

April 29, 1:19 a.m.

CALL ME, WOMAN. Now.

Fine. Two can play at this game. She doesn’t want to go out with me, so be it! Her loss! If she can’t stand my presence, then I can’t stand hers either. I’m not
calling again. I swear I’m not calling. From now on, she has to call me two times for
every one time I call her.

I can’t believe I
let that tramp get me
off schedule. She’s going
to have to pay for
how she’s treated me before I forgive her. Actions have consequences.
No woman rebuffs me and
gets away with it.

Letting her get under my skin has messed up so much. There’s a reason law
enforcement has never come close to apprehending me. My system, my discipline, my point-by-point planning has kept
them in the dark. It’s
almost been too easy. I’m playing chess and they’re still learning checkers.

Until now. She’s messed with my order.

Time to get back to
basics. Time to reassert my self-control and
my mastery of my world. I may even have to
punish myself. I refused to accept the validity
of any chastisement
from the authorities who
ran the group home like
a concentration camp. But
self-chastisement is
acceptable. Maybe I’ll
go without TV or Internet for a month. Mommy
always said the punishment had to fit the crime.

Maybe I should make myself wait an extra month
before my next intimate encounter. Punish
myself by waiting, thinking, dreaming of that
moment, but not allowing it to happen yet.

Who
does she think she is?
She thinks she’s so
smart. She has that pretty girl arrogance where
she actually believes she is in charge of her life. She’ll learn the hard way how
wrong she is. Oh, I’ll be slow and gentle. I’ll be so slow and gentle, she’ll be begging for her ultimate release.

I lifted this morning. But I’m so angry
I think I’m going to
do a second circuit today.

Call, I said!

And
I mean right NOW.

25

THE CAR THAT was in front of me last night left at some point and someone else took his spot. Problem was, new guy parked about three inches from my front bumper. Thank God my trusty Miata fired right up and after maneuvering back and forth to edge out of the tight spot, I slammed it into first, gunned the engine, went airborne over the speed bump in front of the entrance to my apartment complex, and hit the road only five minutes behind schedule.

I stopped at JavaStar and got a grande Americano with a Splenda, an extra shot, and no drama. I bought a copy of the
Sun-Times
. They ran a banner on the front page directing readers to the Cutter Shark feature, a daily story featured in both major Chicago papers. We are on the hot seat. At least there was no lead story about CPD incompetence. Our lack of progress makes their job harder with nothing new to report, so they’ve resorted to a tabloid approach. Yesterday, the
Trib
ran a long piece on new theories about what’s driving the Cutter Shark murders, which included a reference to a cult of vampires. Vampires? You’ve got to be kidding me.
I know vampire
movies are popular, but . .
.
Maybe if they’d postulated werewolves, I could have taken the story more seriously.

The
Sun’
s big scoop this week was a story on a psychic from St. Petersburg, Russia, who apparently told her neighbors about this Cutter Shark fellow months ago—in detail and documented with date-stamped recording—and who is waiting for the CPD to contact her and fly her over to help solve the case. I suspect she’s running a mail-order bride scam. There is already a citizen’s action committee demanding that Mayor Doyle act now to bring her over if he wants to be reelected.

I haven’t followed the White Sox or Cubbies much this baseball season. Both lost last night. But the Sox are in third while the Cubbies are in last. Oh well. There’s always next year. If I wanted good news I’d watch insurance commercials on YouTube.

It was another day of spinning wheels. Our task force keeps getting bigger. We’re covering the same territory in waves. But no one has any fresh ideas. We’re all frustrated and growing more concerned and wary by the day. The killer went early with his last victim. Does that mean the four-week clock started ticking with his first murder or his second murder? Or is his clock broken?

Blackshear, Martinez, Don, and I grabbed lunch near the second crime scene in Rogers Park. That was convenient because our assignment was to ask every restaurant owner or manager if a new customer had started hanging out a couple weeks earlier. We are desperate. We ate at a strange little vegetarian place called Victory’s Banner that serves great breakfasts all day—and even better coffee. If I were casing that neighborhood I’d sip their coffee a couple hours a day. We talked with a pleasant little Indian woman wearing a sari. She was not aware of anyone fitting the description—but honestly, what description could we give her? New. Suddenly here every day for two weeks. Hasn’t come back since the murder. She assured us she would talk to everyone who works there and if anyone has any ideas she would have them call one of us. Same response from everyone we chatted to in a two-square-mile section of Chicago.

I was in the office at eight and left exactly twelve hours later. Klarissa, who has been incredibly sweet since our dinner a week ago, came to my office with some sandwiches from Panera around five. Sliced turkey and avocado on whole wheat. Yum. She was only with me a half hour before she got buzzed. Coldplay was in concert in Grant Park, and they wanted her ready to be on-air for a special report
pronto.

“Don’t forget to get Kendra a birthday gift,” she said as she hugged me good-bye. I can’t believe I got a full hug. What’s up with sis? I can’t believe I forgot Kendra’s birthday is coming up!

• • •

My engine catches but turns over. I give a sigh of relief. I start driving home, mostly in autopilot mode. I remember I promised myself I would return a missed call from Dell. I look at my phone and start an internal debate. Call back or not call back. To call or not to call. I shake my head and hit his cell phone number. He answers on the second ring.

“Well, hey, stranger. I didn’t think you’d ever call back. I was just thinking about you.”

“Dell, I’m sorry. You know what’s going on at work right now.”

“I really don’t . . . I just can’t imagine . . . but I know this murder thing is all-consuming. That’s why I’ve only left you one message since Sunday.”