Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (21 page)

She stops talking, folds her arms, and stares at the black-and-white checkered tile floor. A single tear rolls down her cheek. And then another. A waterfall follows. But she doesn’t change expressions. Instead of looking sad, she looks angry while tears stream down her face. The kindly old woman—I have got to remember her first name—who always gives me a hug, stands up and walks over to sit beside her. She embraces her, but Bethany is not responsive. She continues to stare at the floor with tears running onto her lightweight, V-neck blouse.

I feel bad for the judgmentalism and cynicism I’ve felt toward her. I don’t think you can fake whatever she is feeling. Our group leader, Darren, says, “Patricia, you obviously do care or you wouldn’t be here.”

Who is Patricia?

I’m sitting next to Walter who sees my confusion. He leans over and whispers, “Before you got here she told us she was lying about her name. It’s Patricia.”

Darren spends the next few minutes telling the group that acknowledgment is the first step toward recovery.

“We’re proud of you, Patricia,” he says. “You’re on the road to recovery. Do you believe that?”

She keeps her head down and doesn’t respond to him. What is Patricia feeling? Anger? Remorse? Guilt? Numbness? Has she told us the real story yet? It kind of rang true tonight, but who knows.

A few more people share, but the energy isn’t there. We end our session thirty minutes early. I wonder what the six eavesdropping detectives think of Bethany . . . I mean Patricia. I’m ready to head home, but on sudden impulse, I step forward and cut her off at the door.

“Patricia?”

She looks up. Her eyes are red and puffy. She looks at me first with defiance and then softens. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“What do you think?”

I admit that was a dumb question.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I guess I’m just making sure you can make it home okay.”

She starts crying again. I hesitantly put an arm around her and she really starts blubbering and ends up putting her head on my shoulder. Now she’s just plain snotting on me. Her mouth is right next to the tiny microphone tucked into my blouse top and I’m guessing she’s blowing out the eardrums of whoever is listening in. Even with a no-show from Jonathan, I don’t think I’m going home early after all.

31

April 30, 11:58 p.m.

I
LIKED THE
meeting they
held at the Christian
Science Reading Room. The
walk to Wacker was convenient and the people were
nice and friendly. The leader, Marty, was actually pretty funny.
Mr. Sober But Spunky,
he called himself. He always made me wish I
actually had a drinking problem and belonged
there.

Oh well. I won’t be back. Something’s off. And listening to
my intuition has never steered me wrong.

I shouldn’t be surprised. They must’ve figured out where
I meet my girlfriends
because I’m pretty sure
they’re staking me out.
Some woman was paying
way too much attention to everyone who walked in. I’ve never seen anyone at an AA meeting take notes. She looked at
me a couple times. I bet
she was a cop.

Well, well, well.

I considered her
and what her presence might mean. Maybe if my
life had started off differently, I would have taken
a different path. I know I could have been a great surgeon. I find human flesh intoxicating. I find something
new and fascinating
every time I do my work. But the therapists confused me when I was younger. Sometimes they wanted
me to accept myself. Sometimes they wanted me
to know that I had serious problems and needed
to control my feelings and impulses. I was
in a Christian group
home for a while. That was even more confusing.
Every day they told me
God loves me and every day they told me He punishes sinners.

Which is it? Accept or change? Heaven or hell? Just because they are confused doesn’t mean I have to be
confused.

I can’t remember if I was eighteen or nineteen when I was set free.
Not from the prison they called the Colorado Home for Troubled Youth that
I was in at the time.
But in my mind. I woke
up one day and realized that only one person’s judgment of
me mattered. Mine. Not
some quack psychiatrist
with a lot of letters behind his name and pretty frames with fancy letters and seals on the walls of his office.
I still hate the guy who always wanted me to
talk about my mom. She was none of his business.

I like to watch people.
Some try to rise above
the strictures of society and religion, and
even family. But I’ve
not personally met anyone with my courage to be free, to stand alone.
I sometimes wonder if
it was becoming free that set me apart from others, made me superior
. . . or if I was born superior and that’s why I was able to become free.

No one can ever
take away the person
I’ve become. I don’t care
if the FBI, CIA, the
Chicago Mafia, and the US
Marine Corps all think they
can find me . . . I’m untouchable. Because I know when to listen to my intuition.

So I won’t go back to
the Christian Science
Reading Room. I’ll miss Mr. Sober But Spunky. AA meetings might be
off the table completely. That makes me feel a
bit sad.

Doesn’t mean they know everywhere I meet my girlfriends.

I wonder
if she’ll be there . . .

THE MONTH OF MAY

What potent blood hath modest May.

R
ALPH
W
ALDO
E
MERSON

32

“DO YOU REALIZE how much overtime you cost us last night?”

Zaworski is angry. Real angry. He’s not making eye contact, which is a bad sign. It’s only 10:00 a.m. and he’s already taken off his suit jacket. He’s either madder than I think he is or he’s forgotten to put on his deodorant. Dark semicircles of sweat have formed on his white dress shirt, which isn’t tucked in quite right. It crosses my mind to compliment his tie, but I doubt that will distract him. It’s an ugly tie anyway.

“Sir, I didn’t anticipate that the team would stay with me once the AA meeting was over.”

“And why would you
not
anticipate that, Detective Conner?”

“I, uh—”

“I’m not asking you,” he interrupts. “That was called a rhetorical question. Didn’t we say that we would stay with you all evening, no matter what? Are you saying that you think we don’t keep our promises? That I’m not a good and honest leader? Those were rhetorical questions, too.”

“Sir, that’s not what I was implying. It’s just that Jonathan, or the man who calls himself Jonathan, didn’t show up.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t in the area. Doesn’t mean he isn’t using your new best friend to help him recruit a victim. Doesn’t mean I’m going to leave an officer in the field uncovered.”

“Sir, I’m very sorry for keeping the watch team out until midnight and away from their homes and families. I’m sorry for the expense to the department.”

“Midnight? Nice try, KC. How about 2:00 a.m.?”

Did he just call me by the nickname I have hated and worked hard to expunge since the first time I heard it in kindergarten?

“But what was I going to do, sir? She had been drinking and was in a total meltdown. I didn’t feel I had a choice. She was either going to kill people in a crash because of her hysterical crying or she was going to kill people in a crash because she was going to go out and do some more drinking.”

“Or she was going to drive home and go to sleep.”

Or that.

“Are you always like this? Do you save kittens from trees and push beached whales back into the ocean?”

I’m thinking about pointing out that there are no whales on the beaches of Lake Michigan, but he’s out of steam and actually smiles. Then he laughs. I’ve never seen Captain Zaworski laugh.

“I can’t believe you went home with her to help her tell her husband what is going on in her life.”

“I can’t either,” I say, laughing a little myself now, not because I think it’s funny but out of sheer relief for not being in trouble. Maybe not being in trouble. “But I figured I better help her keep things moving in the right direction.”

“I’ve got to tell you, we were nervous. It felt like a trap.”

“So I kept you up, too?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Reynolds, Squires, and I monitored the transmitter together all night. That’s why I haven’t decided whether to give you a good citizen award or fire you.”

“I kept the FBI up until 2:00 a.m., too? And Don?”
Uh oh.

“I have no clue when Reynolds and Van Guten went home. They were still here when Don and I left.”

“Wow. I feel special.”

He’s not smiling anymore. He leans back in his leather chair and tries to stifle a yawn. As he stretches, I see dark rings staining his shirt at the underarms. I guess he didn’t put on anti-perspirant today.

“Maybe we’re all getting a little too desperate,” he says. “Nothing else substantial has turned up and something just felt right about this lead. The others felt it, too. Martinez, Blackshear, Konkade, and I don’t know how many others, were listening from their homes all night. The FBI provided a secure online site where everyone could plug in.”

Oh man. How many times did I go to the bathroom? This is turning into humiliation on top of humiliation.

“I’m sorry, sir. I should have said what I was thinking. I really don’t need a protective patrol.”

“You don’t do AA meetings at Saint Bartholomew solo, Conner. You got me?”

I nod, but my mind is on last night’s conversation. I’m backtracking and trying to remember everything Patricia and Jeff, her husband, and I talked about half the night.

“If Blackshear and Martinez were up, that means the Third Precinct was dialed in, too. Anyone else listening that I should be aware of, sir?”

He frowns and then starts to smile for the second time in the eighteen-plus months that he’s been my boss. He says nothing.

“DC?” I ask.

He shakes his head yes. Now I’m too numb to be any more embarrassed. I get up from the chair in front of his desk, pivot on the toes of my shoes, and head for my cubicle. I see a lot of sleepy and unhappy faces glancing up at me on my way there. Don’s chair is still empty. He’s going to be a grouch. He’s the only cop I know who claims to get eight hours of sleep every night.

I plop onto my seat. There’s a sticky note in the middle of my computer screen. Someone—and I am going to figure out whose handwriting this is—has scribbled another note:

DETECTIVE CONNER: MY WIFE SWEARS SHE’S IN A
BOOK CLUB AND THAT’S
WHERE SHE GOES EVERY
MONDAY NIGHT. BUT I’M SUSPICIOUS . . .
I THINK SHE’S HITTING THE BOTTLE AND SPILLING HER GUTS AT AA MEETINGS. I HEAR YOU MAKE
HOUSE CALLS. HOW MUCH DO YOU CHARGE FOR: (A) GETTING HER OFF THE
BOOZE; (B) MAKING HER FALL IN LOVE WITH ME AGAIN; AND (C) INVITING US TO YOUR CHURCH. PLEASE ITEMIZE, AS I’M ON A COP’S SALARY!

What a jerk. Better not show how angry I feel right now or there’s going to be a lot more of this coming my way. This is yellow note number three; I’m pretty sure that makes it a non-isolated event stream.

My cell phone buzzes. A name flashes up. It’s my new BFF.

• • •

What a night I spent at Jeff and Patricia’s house. Not sure which of the southwest suburbs we were actually in, but the houses were incredible, all on acre-and-a-half lots—and within a few miles of the city. The guard at the security hut opened the gate for Patricia and me to drive through, and I thought I had entered a new world. When you grow up in an 1,800-square-foot house with a half basement finished to accommodate laundry, and rec and guest rooms, then spend the next four years in a cramped college dorm with two roommates, and currently live in a two-bedroom apartment, you don’t have adequate experience to estimate the size of houses like the ones in this neighborhood. Six or seven thousand square feet? Ten? Fifteen? No idea.