Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (22 page)

I do an all-or-nothing move and let her flip me but roll hard with it back on my stomach. I get both knees and elbows up and this time when I sit out I give her left arm a nice chop with my elbow. She peruses me like before but not quite as quick. I get completely free of her grasp and I’m up on two feet whirling into a fighting position.

She bull-rushes, then drops low to snag a leg to tackle me. But I throw my long legs back in a sprawl and get over the back of her head and force her down on all fours.

“Break it up,” Soto says. “I said we stop after Conner escapes and gets on her feet. You two need to listen.”

I start to protest that Denise continued to bring the fight to me but I know Soto will give me a lecture that out in the real world fights are never fair.

“She had you down over a minute, Conner,” Soto says, looking at his stopwatch. “I thought I trained you better. In a minute she would have beat you to a pulp if this was a real fight and we weren’t going easy on you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, you cop an attitude and roll your eyes at me but don’t come complaining to me when you get your clock cleaned.”

Soto trained my dad when he was on the force. I’ve know him since I was in elementary school. That’s why he’s Mr. Barry to me.

He puts me on bottom again, this time on my back. I start in a worse position than the first time but get free in under a minute. Next he has me try to keep Denise down. She is up in fifteen seconds.

Soto sputtered and fumed and yelled and spent the next thirty minutes putting me through ground drills.

Get your hands free. Get your butt up. Use her momentum against her. Turn into it, away from it, with it. You’re getting your clock cleaned, Conner. You’re getting your clock cleaned. I told your daddy I’d keep you alive and you’re making me into a liar.

My big sport was soccer. I lettered four years at NIU. I was a starter for three years and was all conference my junior year. A soccer game goes ninety minutes. It’s a grueling sport and demands endurance. But I guarantee you that if you get on a mat and wrestle as hard as you can for five or six minutes, you’ll end up even more tired.

I gulp in air when we’re done. I feel like a puddle of sweat.

• • •

As I trudge up four long flights of stairs to Homicide after I shower, I look at my iPhone. Three missed calls. Reynolds and Mom. The third is a number I don’t recognize. I then remember to look at the temp phone to handle calls from Derrick Jensen. Yet a fourth missed call along with a text. I look at the text.

Can’t wait until tomorrow night.

My stomach crawls.

I’ll start listening to messages and returning calls as soon as I get to my desk.

33

SO MUCH FOR
staying off the radar. They are back. Three of them this time. Second time for Detective Squires this week. His partner stared at my chest the whole time. I couldn’t even get Squires to look at my legs. He obviously suspects me. This new guy, Randall, is kind of creepy. He hasn’t looked at me yet, but he’s studying my place like someone who is planning an estate sale.

They know my alibi for the murder night can’t hold up. It’s obvious from their questions.

Can you tell us again the name of the man you were with the night of September 22? What kind of car did he drive? I want to ask you again about your relationship with Jack Durham. You say you were out that night and went to an outdoor concert and dinner. What was the weather like again? Where was the dinner? Did you see anyone you knew? How was the music? What were some of the songs? Is there anyone that can corroborate you were there? What did you have for dinner again? What was the name of the group? Have you ever spent the night with Jack Durham?

And so we dance with words. They are waiting for me to slip up and contradict myself.

Do they think I’m stupid?

This murder investigation would have nothing to do with me if I hadn’t decided to go over there. But I had to confront him. How foolish. Why was it so important to me that I tell him what he did to me? I know better—it wouldn’t have mattered to him. But I had to tell him what I thought of him and how I never wanted to talk to him again, all in the hopes he would make amends so we could finally have a real relationship.

I just wanted him to talk to me and to get to know me.

And if I’m honest with myself, I wanted to make sure she wasn’t over there bad-mouthing me.

With this investigation dragging on, I should have known it was only a matter of time before they turned the spotlight on me—thinking I was home free was wishful thinking. I guess they’re into my finances now. That is not good for me.

I need to think like a cop and solve this for them. They aren’t getting anywhere.

One has the most to gain. One has a revenge motive. Money or pride?

• • •

She went back to her bedroom and into her walk-in closet. She bent down and pushed a hidden lever underneath three built-in drawers stacked on top of each other. The whole stack moved forward and separated from the wall. In the space behind the drawers was a recessed wall safe. She punched in nine numbers and letters from memory.

She removed a blue passport with her picture and another name in it. She looked through three checkbooks, each with another name at the top. She had a driver’s license for each account. She pulled out a robin’s egg blue Macy’s bag. She looked inside at stacks of hundreds, fifties, twenties, and tens held together by rubber bands. Last she counted it was about two hundred-grand. It was a sizeable number. You could start something with two hundred-thousand. But if she couldn’t access the money in her name, it was not nearly as much as she wanted—and deserved. If her monthly bonus continued, she would be fine. But that wasn’t going to happen with Jack dead.

Take what you have and go? Or play it to the end?

She carefully replaced the contents of the safe. She pushed the three drawers back into the wall until there was a click that let her know it was latched back in place.
A couple more days?

34

TWELVE PER TABLE. I can’t stand up and get an exact count, but based on the number of tables on the front row and along the side, I think there are 148 or so total tables. There is a sound and light board in the middle of the room and I don’t know how many tables were left out to make that space. Probably six. There are fifteen people on a platform, sitting in a straight line facing us. One of them is the President of the United States. I assume no one up front paid for this event. There are two tables on floor level that seem to be made up of lesser dignitaries and workers. They probably aren’t paying either.

For the rest of us present at this presidential reelection fund-raiser, the cost is one thousand dollars per plate. Drop eight to ten tables for the sound board and workers and there are probably 138 full tables with twelve people each. 138 times twelve is 1,656 people. I think. Multiply that times a thousand bucks and I think that makes 1.656 million dollars if I got my zeroes right. The chicken is a little dry, so I’m guessing whomever organized this event didn’t break the budget on the menu.

I’m on date number two with Derrick Jensen. Bobbie said I must have passed the first test at the Bears game. She sounded surprised. Almost as much as I am. He called her—multiple times—and specifically asked for me. I thought our first date was our last date since he never asked for my last name or phone number. She laughed when I told her that. She said not getting my phone number was a negative, but she doubted Derrick would ever want my last name.

“What’s your last name?” Derrick asks me.

Okay. Take that Bobbie.

I am so out of place. This is not my world. My soccer team sold restaurant coupons one year and I think we made a thousand bucks for a road trip. This is a 1.5 millon-dollar fund-raiser.

“Andrews,” I answer him, trying to focus.

We decided to stick with my real first but a fake last name. Not even I can screw that up. Keep things simple for the simple-minded detective. The extent of my cover story is the same I used on my last undercover case. I am a secretary in an insurance agency. As to why I am working for an escort service, my answer is to be a demure smile. Everyone already knows the real answer: money.

Once again Bobbie oversaw every detail of getting me ready. Black dress. Six-inch ankle-breaking heels. Translucent white pearl necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ankle bracelet. All traditional and very real. What I’m wearing costs more than my car. Brand new.

She frowned when she saw a bruise on my shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t fool around,” she said.

I gave her a dirty look and that seemed to mollify her and make her happy. My fight workout with Denise was . . . bruising. Bobbie and my makeup artist, Tracy, murmured in low tones about the best way to hide the bruise that is the same shape as Denise’s chin. I thought prepping for the Bears game was torture. Bobbie had Tracy take her plucking to a new level, sufficient to earn a punch in the nose from me.

Then she went to work on my skin, rubbing in this and dabbing on that. She brushed something else on and applied enough layers to my face to create a scary green halloween mask.

I don’t think I have much facial hair—maybe a little baby fuzz—but when Tracy yanked off the mask, everything came with it. My mom says I don’t cry—not even at my dad’s funeral. My eyes were watering.

Tracy could feel my growing impatience as the ordeal stretched interminably long. Several times she looked at Bobbie with nervous eyes. Good. Problem is Bobbie would make a great bulldozer operator and the more unhappy I got, the happier her expression. I have a way with people.

We will never be friends. Our relationship is tenuous at best. But Bobbie and I might have a begrudging like for each other, as painful as that is to admit. I still don’t respect her. And yes, Jimmy, I am being judgmental. Jimmy said God doesn’t give us the right to judge others—He reserves that for himself. I’m going to look up some Bible verses and start an argument with him at Sunday dinner.

“I know you don’t respect me,” Bobbie said.

Perceptive woman.

“I’ll admit, meeting someone as . . . as . . . different as you are is a bit disconcerting. One minute I am still grateful that I learned early in life that relationships are best when they are thought of as business arrangements. But there are fleeting moments when you make me wish I had followed a different path. Maybe even someone as cynical as me could have found true love.”

“Not sure how you would come up with that idea watching me,” I retorted. “If my true love ship came in, I missed it again.”

She laughed. “I can almost guarantee you will find true love. At the right time. Someday you’ll let go of whatever is churning inside you.”

Yes. She is observant. I could learn a lesson or two from her.

“And I suspect you already have someone on your mind.”

Has she been talking to Robert Willingham, my love doctor? Tracy looked uncomfortable. I wondered if she knew who I am and what was going on? She shouldn’t.

“You are a remarkable young woman, Kristen. And even though I know you will never admire or respect me and what I do—without using words you have made that abundantly clear—but for your own good, I would suggest that you might learn a positive thing or two from me about getting along with people.”

There are a couple caustic responses I could zing her with. But I can’t think of them.

“You look beautiful.”

How long has he been looking at me?

“Aren’t you sweet? Thank you, Derrick.”

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little saying that.

“So insurance worker by day and . . . uh, glamorous woman about town at night.”

I smile demurely. Or maybe I look like I’m grimacing after sucking on a lemon.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“I’m just taking it all in,” I say gracefully and slowly, per Bobbie’s instructions.

You have to cool it on that nasal Chicago cop voice of yours. If you have to have coffee make sure you don’t ask for kaawfeee. And slow down when you talk. Slow down. And don’t ever use the phrase, “you’se guys.”

“It’s exciting to be so close to the president,” I say breathlessly. “And to be out with you again,” I add. Clumsily.

I would actually prefer to be with my Snowflakes for soccer practice tonight. Tiffany’s dad is running it again. He still wants to be named co-head coach. I’m still content to call him assistant coach. I could be reading my words to Derrick from a stack of blue note cards.
Focus.

“He’s just another Chicago hack with his hand out,” Derrick says with a derisive snort.

“So you’re not a big fan and donor?”

“No fan, but big donor. I actually hate all politicians but I donate to them all. It’s a game but you have to play it. I haven’t voted in an election since the year I turned 18. I’m very proud of that.”

If Derrick had a descriptive middle name he would be known as Derrick Cynical Jensen.