Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Maybe I’ll teach him what the word
exsanguination
means.
A slice to the femoral
artery would be a simple and effective lesson—much too kind for him, really. He spilled beer on my scorecard.

I can’t
figure out what to wear in this wasteland of
broken asphalt. I left
my jacket at home when
I went to the art museum two days ago. I froze
on the walk over. It
almost hurt as much as suffering through the
Mark Rothko exhibit. I
think I know why he killed
himself. That’s not
art; that’s misery with a straight edge. Then I put my jacket on the same afternoon and
was sweating. I don’t
like to sweat when I’m
not in my workout clothes.

Chicago weather. Why would anyone want to live here? I should be able to help a few of the
city’s denizens find
ultimate relief.

My days of living in self-imposed limbo are coming
to an end.
Six months
of restraint and anticipation. Painful. Excruciatingly painful. Being
denied of what is rightfully mine—not being able to experience my life in full. It has been torture to my soul. But you
don’t do what I do without a precise and careful system. And personal
discipline. I am rich
in both. That’s what
makes me unique. Special. A force above all others.

They don’t have a clue as to who I
am and all I’ve accomplished
yet. That’s good. But that makes me feel sad,
too. My signature artistry will never be on exhibit for the world to marvel at. I suspect certain law enforcement agencies know I
exist by now. I would
certainly hope so. But what
can they do about it?
Nothing. I’m too careful, too
meticulous, too good.
Someone is sitting behind a computer right now looking for me and wondering where I’ll show up next. I bet I’m driving him crazy. Maybe it’s a her.

Tomorrow is April Fools’ Day.
Fools indeed.

Here I am.
Sitting at the precipice
of my next great work. Ready.

I am back.

THE MONTH OF APRIL

April is the cruelest month.

T
.
S
.
E
LIOT

2

“MOM, I TOLD you this isn’t a good time. I’ve got to go.”

“Honey, it’s never a good time.”

“I know, Mom, but it really isn’t a good time this time. I have to go. Now.”

My partner looks at me with utter incredulity. He’s just bounced our car through a couple potholes, slammed the gearshift into park, and unbuttoned his sports jacket. I see him flip the snap on his holster for easy access to his Glock. I shouldn’t have picked up Mom’s call, but I thought I could get off the phone fast. She keeps nagging that I never pick up. Now I’m going to hear how I’m always the first to hang up. I can’t win.

“Mom, I’ll call you back. I’m getting off right now. I have—”

“You’ll be at Jimmy and Kaylen’s Sunday?”

“Yes, Mom. I have—” “And church?”

I don’t get to answer because Don reaches over, snatches my cell phone from my hand, and hits the red “end call” button. I wonder if it’s possible to make the sound of slamming the phone down by hitting the button with force. If so, Don just did it.

“Momma’s going to have to wait, Kristen. He isn’t going to hang around all day waiting for us to say hi. Let’s get in there. Now.”

A surge of adrenaline courses through my body as I step out of the car, touch the gun that’s holstered on my side one more time—just to make sure it hasn’t mysteriously disappeared—snap and unsnap the top strap, and head into the Gas & Grub, game face on.

As we walk through the door the two guys working the cash register nervously look up at us, probably wondering if they’re about to get busted for selling cigarettes to minors again. We pulled into the parking lot in our unmarked, mud-brown Crown Victoria—not the world’s greatest disguise when you want to approach a suspect under the radar. The extra antennae on the trunk lid don’t help either. Might as well put a Chicago Police Department billboard on the roof in neon letters.

My partner, Don Squires, gives a nod as he heads down one aisle and I take the one next to it. I quickly round the corner to cut off our suspect’s line of escape. Don is four or five feet away from him on one side and I position myself an equal distance away.

“Don’t move. Leave your hands where we can see them,” Don says with the throat-rumbling snarl he saves for special occasions like this.

Lloyd, a friend and a 300-pound EMT from one of the ambulance services, recognized the punk’s description from an APA bulletin and put the call straight to my cell phone. I know what Lloyd was doing there and need to kick his butt for eating those quarter-pound hot dogs they serve. I called Dispatch for backup while Don hung a U-turn in heavy traffic and stomped on the accelerator.

The punk, late teens or early twenties, is a retro-’80s piece of work. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a skull and the name of a group that I don’t recognize in jagged, blood-red letters dripping off a computer screen. TwistedTweeters. Clever—almost. He’s got a thick heavy chain hanging from the front pocket of his black jeans, connected to what I assume is a wallet that he doesn’t like to use, based on his current crime spree. All he needs is those black boots with the metal and leather straps to finish his ensemble. But surprisingly he has on a pair of comfort shoes that look like what we used to rent at the bowling alley; all black, of course, but you can see the stitching. Footwear isn’t going to slow him down if he makes a run for it. But it’s not going to be an issue; he has nowhere to go.

Neither Don nor I have pulled guns because the convenience store is packed. Doesn’t mean our hands aren’t touching the brushed metal grips, however. There must be twenty gas pumps out front on a busy street. And people from the blue-collar, working-class urban neighborhood are using the back door too. So we’ve got people coming and going from every direction. No sense starting a panic. We have a CPD mandate that prohibits us from taking risks that are likely to result in collateral damage—even if it means allowing a suspect to escape. Not that that’s happening today.

I’m staring at the punk’s hands. If he even twitches anywhere near a pocket, my Beretta 96 is coming out in a hurry.

The kid looks up to see Don holding up his detective shield. Even with the punk in near profile, I can see his glare of hatred. He mouths something to Don that I can’t make out, but I’m guessing he’s not complimenting him on his choice of ties this morning. Don bristles and they face off. I want to jam the kid’s arm behind his back right now, but protocol says I wait for Don to issue verbal instructions. If the punk doesn’t obey, then the leash comes off.
Relax.
Follow the rules.

The punk is probably six foot one and less than 170 pounds, soaking wet. Did I mention the tattoos and slouch? Even if he wasn’t into armed robbery, which turned just short of lethal for the seventy-seven-year-old victim who fought back, I still wouldn’t like this kid on sight. We’re obviously not supposed to profile, but my daddy didn’t raise a fool. This is a kid who screams anger and rebellion at the world without having to move his lips.

My money is on Don if this takedown gets physical. Heck, my money is on me if Don decides to turn around, pour himself a cup of coffee with two creamers, and leave the heavy lifting to me. I can take this punk. I’m not the greatest shot, but I’ve taken every hand-to-hand combat course the Chicago Police Department offers.

The punk breaks eye contact with Don and then turns toward where I block the other end of the aisle. He slowly looks me up and down and smiles. I’ll give the jerk credit for being cool under pressure. He rolls his eyes and blows me a kiss. He will pay for that. Suddenly he slings a spinner rack filled with chips in Don’s direction. As Don pushes the rack aside, the punk vaults over the condiment counter between us. Nacho cheese sauce and pickle relish fly everywhere. He knocks two people down by the dairy cooler and crashes through the back door in a frantic sprint. I wonder if I can hit a moving target with the Beretta while running. Just a flesh wound.

I’m half hoping he wants to play rough, because I’m more than ready. He nearly beat a senior citizen to death—and he just made us look foolish with his escape. Temporary escape. This won’t be the first time I ask God to forgive me for wanting to smash someone bad’s face in today—or tomorrow—but I badly want to be the one who cuffs him. Tightly.

Don and I bump shoulders in the doorway to the back lot, but don’t lose a step. Don’s wearing his shiny black leather wingtip shoes, which are not good for speed. I have no sympathy. I’ve told Don forty times to get some Rockports or Eccos with a soft, flexible, comfortable sole. He just looks at me in abject horror.
Focus, Kristen.

The kid is surprisingly fast. Real fast. I wish some nice high school track coach could have gotten a hold of him before he got into all this trouble. He clears the lot behind the Gas & Grub and turns right on a residential street of classic Chicago row houses. Don is sprinter fast—he was a running back in college, he likes to remind us—but if the kid makes us run more than half a mile, he’ll be sucking air and puking. I was a college soccer player and ran distance back in high school. I may still complete a marathon someday. Depends on if my surgically repaired knee will hold up.

I already hear Don’s labored breathing as we near the street. I’ve barely broken a sweat. I make a hard right on the sidewalk two or three steps ahead of Don. A kid on a bike swerves to miss me and plows into my partner. I slow to see the two of them sprawled out on the sidewalk. I look the other way and can see the punk’s at least fifty yards ahead, not a good thing, so it’s time to turn it up a notch. My macho-man partner won’t like it, but this is no time to make sure his male ego gets proper care and feeding. Don’s on his feet and helping the kid up as I give chase on my own. He shouts, “Fall back and regroup. Too dangerous. Kristen! Hey, KC, hold up!”

“You fall back,” I yell over my shoulder, which isn’t very mature. I hate when people call me KC. I don’t think I have a major anger issue, even if I do have a temper. Despite what my mom says. But lately, I admit, I get mad at people pretty easily. Too easily. Dad said I’d grow out of it, but I wonder if it’s an occupational hazard.
Focus, Kristen.
Pick up the pace. Fast hands!

I let my track training take over, speeding up my hand movements but keeping my arms low.

My feet follow my hands’ lead and I am closing the gap on the punk. I can’t believe he’s run this hard, this far. But that adrenaline is going to burn out soon. I’m not going full speed but I’ve lengthened my stride and am on pace to run a sub-six-minute mile. My energy tank is not close to empty.

The punk turns into an alley and I’m less than half a basketball court away. Top of the circle and taking it to the hoop, baby. I barely slow down as I round the corner, and now he’s in my sights. He rolls two metal trashcans in my path. Amateur. Did I mention that I did hurdles for my high school track team too? The effort has slowed him down, but not me. I am going to catch him soon, any way you look at it. He’ll have to make a decision really soon. Fight or flight.

The punk turns to face me and he has a knife in his hand. So it’s fight. Not only is he fast enough to make any high school track team in the city; he can just as easily get a part as a Shark or Jet in the school’s rendition of
West Side Story.

I’m mad he’s managed to surprise me. Stupid. The knife has been his MO in all three of his known robberies. I put on the brakes fast before I run right into his range of attack and reach toward the small of my back for my Beretta, but the punk is already rushing at me. He’s red in the face and sucking air, but he lunges quickly to close the gap before I can de-holster my weapon.

On cop shows and in the movies all you have to do to deflect slashing metal is employ some serious martial arts moves. Even if you were trained to fight by Jackie Chan, it doesn’t work that way. When two people fight and one has a razor-honed blade, the person without the weapon is going to lose some blood.

His first slash catches the sleeve of my suit coat and pops the button off as I dance away. No problem. Mom will sew it back on—and it was a half-off of a half-off sale at Macy’s anyway. I feel just a trickle of blood soaking my sleeve. Okay, he got more than a button. So much for Mom rescuing it with her Singer. I barely felt it, so I don’t think he got deep—hopefully not enough to scar. I don’t want another scar. I have enough from ACL surgeries.