Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (51 page)

90

I ROOMED WITH Kaylen until I was five years old. She turned ten that year and was awarded her very own room, including her own desk, which I thought was so cool and grown-up. She moved into what had previously been Klarissa’s nursery. My dad wasn’t the greatest at doing household projects, so Kaylen had to whine close to a year before he painted over Klarissa’s bright pink baby room with a sunflower yellow. That was an ugly yellow. Klarissa turned three that year and moved into the twin bed next to mine. She never complained about losing her individual room status. I complained plenty.

“Kristen,” Mom would say when my friends were over and she wouldn’t leave us alone, “she just wants to be included. Can’t you include her?”

It feels like old times right now. We’re in day two of our hospital stay together at Northwestern Medical Center off Michigan Avenue. My right wrist is in a cast. They had to put titanium pins in there. They’ve put a brace on my right knee. MRIs confirmed that I have torn the same ACL that I did almost a decade ago playing soccer—and for good measure I got the MCL, too. The patella is broken as well, but it’s more or less in one piece—a little more than a stress fracture. The orthopedic surgeon has assured me that rehab is going to be a lot worse this time around due to the interior tear and my age.

I think he looked happy telling me that.

With new developments in arthroscopic surgery I’m amazed at how quick the doctor thinks I will be up and on the go at 100 percent.

I would have gone home the morning after we—after I—nailed the Cutter Shark, but the doctors insisted I stay in for observation after the trauma of two attacks in one week. Wouldn’t have mattered; Klarissa was there, so I would have stayed in the hospital room with her, with or without an assigned bed.

I look over at her sleeping like an angel. How could anyone not want to include her? Was I always a brat? I reach over to give her hand a squeeze but they couldn’t get our beds quite close enough for that. Both of us have to reach out to make contact. I guess that’s what we’ve been trying to do these past four months. Really our whole lives.

She is heavily bandaged. They brought a plastic surgeon into the emergency room. The Shark slashed her three times and the doctor spent five hours sewing her up. I live in America and that means I love numbers. I asked how many stitches. He explained that they really don’t do individual stitches anymore. Just one long thread per wound. I guess I looked disappointed so he said that in the old days it would have been close to 100 of them. Maybe 150.

I blink back tears from the corners of each eye. I still don’t cry.

91

“YOU’RE A HERO.”

“Thanks, Don. You’re a hero, too. Well, at least my hero. Against all instincts, you didn’t shoot me when you
finally
showed up.”

“You never let up, do you?” he asks.

“Would you still want to be my partner if I did?”

“I’m going to get back to you on that one.”

I glare at him in mock anger.

“Good point,” he corrects himself, thanks to a sharp elbow to the ribs by Vanessa. “What would life be like without you as my partner?”

He’s not going to quit, is he? He may look like a real estate agent, but he’s a cop at heart. Same as me.

Vanessa rolls her eyes, pushes him to the side, and comes over and hugs me. I’m in my recliner with an ice pack wrapped around my right knee. They didn’t want to do my arthroscopic surgery within a few days of my night with the Cutter Shark because I would need both hands for crutches—and my right hand will be in a cast for a couple weeks. I insisted. I won’t get to play in an adult fall soccer league this year, but I do want to be ready to coach my Snowflakes.

So they rigged an extra metal splint in the cast on my right wrist that allows me to endure the crutches. I had to sign a waiver promising I wouldn’t sue the doctor and hospital if I have future troubles with my wrist. When Jeff and Patricia came by he said not to worry about it; in America you can’t sign away your rights and he has friends who would represent me for free.

Kendra comes out of the spare bedroom where she’s been playing with her Kristen doll. She wrapped the doll’s wrist and knee in white medical tape. I think that’s sweet. She motions for Veronika to come back and play with her. I guess Vanessa told Veronika that she had to hug me and say something nice before doing anything else, so she pushes in front of Don and Vanessa and gives me a hesitant hug and tells me she hopes I feel better soon. Then she scurries back to play dolls with Kendra.

Be gentle, Veronika. The Kristen doll isn’t in too good of shape.

I love my work but I have to admit, it’s pretty nice just hanging out for a couple weeks while getting paid. I’ve always felt guilty when not doing something, but my various aches and pains and medical accessories have assuaged all such feelings. I’ve had plenty of visitors, though, including the mayor, the chief of police, the deputy director of the FBI, and my local congressman—all at the same time. I’m guessing that allowed them to split costs on security. I’ve got a couple awards coming my way. Very cool.

Czaka showed up, but stayed out of the way.

I’m pretty sure Don is jealous. Extremely cool.

Jimmy and Kaylen are coming over tonight with Klarissa. She’s going to move in with me indefinitely. She can’t sleep. She needs her sister. I offered to move into her place, which is a whole lot bigger and nicer than mine. But it’s not just being afraid of being alone that has Klarissa spooked since being held captive by a serial killer. The Cutter Shark, Dell’s brother, spent time in her townhome. I think we’re going to have to pack up the whole place for her and put it up for sale, because I don’t think she’ll ever step foot in there again.

There’s a good chance Vanessa will be her real estate agent. Once she makes the sale I’m guessing Don is going to get a new watch—he’s had a picture of a Breitling model that costs a couple thousand bucks tacked to the wall of his cubicle—and the cashmere fall-weight blazer he’s been yammering about. He isn’t going to stay jealous about anything shiny I get from the city for very long.

Dell is alive and got moved out of ICU yesterday. They’ve questioned him as hard as the doctors would allow. Barring any new information, he will not be charged with any crimes. Everything in his story of trying to be a good brother and not being aware of what Dean was really into has checked out.

I haven’t visited him and don’t plan to. Our story is done. I feel a small sense of gratitude that he almost died trying to save Klarissa’s life. But he was a big reason she almost got killed. My mom visits him every day, but I’ve made it clear that he isn’t to be part of any family activities.

Dean lived. Broken ribs, nose (in multiple places), jaw, and cheek. He also had a severe concussion. Barry Soto is proud of me. The FBI is holding him in an unidentified high-security hospital. CPD nailed the Cutter Shark, but we will now find out any information on the interrogation, his recovery, trial plans, and anything else on a need-to-know basis. Oh, we and all other local law enforcement agencies that ever investigated the Shark are on call if the feds need anything.

Zaworski and the other CPD task force team members are furious and grumbling. I’m relieved to be done with him. I admit it. Van Guten and Reynolds will get a lot more information from him than we would.

• • •

“When are you going to make your decision?” I ask Don.

“I already have,” he answers.

“And?”

Before he can answer, my front door opens with a bang. What in the world?

Martinez leads the way into my living room carrying a birthday cake with thirty candles burning brightly.

I guess Jimmy and Kaylen aren’t coming over with Klarissa later. They are here now, along with my mom, Jeff and Patricia, Zaworski and his wife, and the rest of the task force and various family members. My apartment isn’t made to host a group this size. No one seems to care. My neighbor is going to complain big time about the noise on his ceiling.

I blow out the candles and make a wish.

Not even Kendra can get me to tell what it was.

THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST

dog days of summer
pl.n.
The hot, sultry period of summer between early July and early September, when Sirius, the dog star, sets and rises with the sun.

A period of stagnation.

C
AMBRIDGE
D
ICTIONARY OF
I
DIOMATIC
P
HRASES

92

“AUNT KRISTEN, CAN I see your scars?”

If it was anyone asking but James, I’d be tempted to shoot first and ask questions later. That’s not really a threat with my shooting scores.

Chicago is having a record-setting August heat wave. I’ve been off my crutches three weeks, and even though I’m still moving slower than I would like, I feel wonderful. Even without Percocet.

I’m at Jimmy and Kaylen’s for Sunday dinner with Mom, Klarissa, and the kids. I’m glad it’s just us. I like the extra company that usually shows up, but sometimes just immediate family is nice. Kaylen has fed us barbecued brisket and I’m on my second helping. Nothing wrong with my appetite. Even Klarissa, my roommate the past six weeks, has wolfed down at least three medium-sized bites.

There are two outstanding mysteries following the Cutter Shark case. First, the case of the yellow Post-it notes. Shelly swears it wasn’t her. She brought flowers from the department to me when I was in the hospital and wrote on a sticky note to prove she has a different handwriting than whoever really did it. I couldn’t care less who wrote them.

The second mystery is, who left a Hallmark card on my pillow and stole the picture of me and Dad on my graduation day? The handwriting doesn’t fit Dean Pierre. Timmy? The punk? My neighbor who thinks I make too much noise? I’m not sweating that either.

Maybe there’s a third mystery. Why does God allow bad things to happen to good people? I have no answer, but I do care. So sometimes lying awake late at night I have doubts I never did before. Is it possible that doubt is an occupational hazard—or a natural development when you are employed as a detective?

I’ve just turned thirty, but I’ve already seen a lot of ugly things. I’m not complaining or feeling sorry for myself. My life has been full of blessings, and I’m experiencing a few of them right now.

Sitting around the table, watching the give-and-take, the banter, the talking, arguing, and laughter of a still grieving widow, a scarred beauty queen, a sweet preacher, a mother with two adorable children and a third on the way, all enjoying time together, I almost believe in God like I did back when I went to church camp as a schoolgirl.

My phone buzzes on my hip. I don’t plan to answer, but look down and see it is from good old Austin Reynolds. I haven’t talked to him since the night we nailed Dean Woods. How I feel about him is a mystery, too. We had only a few dates. But I did like him. He must have liked me too. He brought flowers to the hospital and camped out at my bedside a couple times. I pretended to be asleep every time he stopped in. I think there’s a non-isolated activity stream in my life when it comes to guys. On impulse I push my chair back, stand up, push the green button, and walk into the kitchen before answering.

“Conner.”

“Hold on a second,” he says. “I have to sit down. I think I might faint. I can’t believe Chicago’s most beautiful detective picked up my call.”

“Ha ha.”

“Let me guess; it’s Sunday dinner at Kaylen’s house and there’s a big crowd.”

“You must not have me under surveillance. Only family is here.”

“Sounds nice. I never did score an invite.”

“You might be the lucky one. Didn’t work out that well for the last guy I dated.”

“You are always on your A game, Detective Conner.”

“Listen, Austin, if you want to talk about us and what happened, I’m going to be honest and tell you I don’t see the point. You’re back to DC and I’m . . . here.”

“You never do waste time getting to the heart of the matter. But hey, I didn’t call about us.”

“Okay, what’s up?” Did I sound disappointed? Am I disappointed?

“I’m actually calling for Willingham. He thinks you are the ‘bomb’—his word, not mine. He wants you in DC tonight to work with us on a training program called TARP by yesterday.”

“TARP?”

“Terrorist Attack Readiness Program. We are developing a program that filters to local law enforcement, and we think you’d be great to help us think through how local law enforcement can best digest information.”

“I’m in rehab for my knee and wrist.”

“First couple weeks are classroom only. Plus, we’ve got the best rehab center in the world. It’s 200 yards from where you’ll be staying.”

“Did you remind Willingham that, number one, I already have a job and, number two, I’m still on paid disability leave?”

“I did. But he’s pretty direct himself. He’s already called your mayor and police commissioner and they said if you agree, you’re free to work with us on a temporary assignment—and still keep your temporary disability pay. We’ll pay you, too. Not full entry-level salary, but more than you’re making. Double dipping wouldn’t be too bad for a while, right? And if you find you like the work, there may be a chance at a longer consulting contract or permanent job offer.”