Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (34 page)

“Not quite what I was expecting from you. I thought you’d have a better defense model that didn’t include teeth marks on my forearm.”

“Nah. You had it right. You had it under control. You always do. Listen, you called just before I picked up to call you. I’m going to have to cancel on tonight.”

“You just got here.”

“Thirty minutes after I landed I got a call from Willingham. I’m on my way to Great Lakes Naval. I’m going to hitch a ride to New York. I’m bummed not seeing you. But duty calls.”

My comfort level with Reynolds might be based largely on him being as committed to his job as I am. But right now I’m disappointed . . . and maybe feeling a little sorry for myself. I’ll get over it.

“Be safe, Austin.”

“Thanks, Kristen. See you soon.”

Can’t think what to say but it doesn’t matter. The line is dead.

• • •

I shower and pad into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator door, hoping something good to eat has magically appeared. No such luck. I open the half-gallon milk carton and don’t even have to raise it to my nose to get a whiff. Didn’t I buy that earlier in the week?

Out for dinner? I really don’t want to eat by myself in a restaurant. Go over to Mom’s or Kaylen’s? I think I’ve had enough family interaction for the day. I jab the phone number from a magnet on my refrigerator door and order Chinese takeout from Friendship Restaurant. It’s a little more expensive and will take longer than the shop a mile from my place, but I’m in the mood for something really good. I like chop suey and theirs is the best. I was outside most of the day and have built up an appetite. Mushroom
consomme
for starters and then flaming szechwan pork tenderloin. I throw in an order of creamy crab rangoon for good measure. It comes up to about thirty bucks. A lot more than I usually spend for just me. I’ve been hanging around too many rich people.

I watch football while I eat—Northwestern is getting hammered by Michigan. I put another load of laundry in the washing machine, transfer a load to the dryer, and fold warm clothes after I eat. Unless I’m hungry at midnight there are enough pork and noodles left over for breakfast. I spend an hour organizing my closet. I keep moving the laundry toward the drawers.

I read my Bible—there might be a little dust on it. My mind is too busy on too many things. I prefer to keep life simple. What’s the name of the book that was such a big seller?
Eat and Pray
? I’m leaving something out. I pray for Tandi Brown.

I get in bed with a new Daniel Silva novel. He’s got an Israeli assassin as his hero. I wonder why he doesn’t do Krav Maga. The book holds my attention for an hour, but I’m not sleepy. I get up at midnight and finish the szechwan pork.

I realize I am lonely. That’s a strange feeling for me. I never get lonely. I have plenty of friends at work and a family that is really close even if we suffocate each other at times.

Is it not having a boyfriend? Or having one that lives in another city? Does having someone you want to spend some time with make you feel lonely when you’re not together?

Penny Martin is still in jail. In the last few weeks she has lost both of her parents. She might be the killer. As a detective for the CPD, am I allowed to pray for her?

53

“CAN’T DO IT Kristen.”

“I know. But how can this be right?”

“‘Right’ has nothing to do with it. The file is sealed. Your name and rank don’t give you access.”

Dad was shot four years ago. He passed away in February of this year. Two weeks later, Dad’s former partner closed the case and sealed the files. Czaka. Commander Czaka.

I know I went too far in protesting that decision. Especially showing up at his office after he wouldn’t return my phone calls or answer my emails. I made my case. I felt disrespected when he said, “you’re not changing my mind.” So I yelled to the point that I was escorted from his office and put on a one-week administrative leave. With pay. I’m still embarrassed. I’ve never told anyone that. I wonder how many people know.

My dad and Big Tony, Anthony Scalia, brought down a hit man who had Mayor Doyle in his crosshairs. That was back in ’94. He and Scalia were given the Commissioner’s Award of Valor and the department’s highest honor, the Police Medal. My family sat at a front table at a Sheraton ballroom overlooking the Chicago River. Doyle always attended but for the first and only time, asked for the privilege of presenting the awards to Scalia and Dad. I was a junior in high school. I remember feeling a lot of pride when Big Tony and Dad got a standing ovation from a crowd made up of their peers. I’ve wondered if that was the moment I formalized my decision to be a cop.

Dad’s relationship with the mayor is what kept me from getting canned. As mad as I still am, I know I deserved a formal reprimand. Doyle leaves office in less than three months. This is not a good time to push the envelope. It’s not fair for me to ask friends of my dad for favors. Margaret Zelwin runs the massive labyrinth of case files. She is close to retirement age. What am I thinking?

When Czaka first sealed the files and personally ordered me to stay away from the case—even if it was on my own time—I was so angry I was about out of my mind. Which is why I went off on the commander of homicide detectives, my boss’ big boss. That’s when I knew I didn’t have things under control. I thought that had changed. But today I was pushing to get a couple hours alone with the cardboard file box with every interview, theory, and scant piece of evidence drawn from the night my dad was shot and subsequent investigation.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Margaret.”

“All you did is ask. No sin in that.”

I’m not so sure on that.

• • •

“How did the humongous soccer game of the century go on Saturday?” Don asks.

“You didn’t watch it on TV?”

“I don’t get satellite TV,” he says with a laugh.

“Well, my Snowflakes are now 8-1. The one-time juggernaut known as the X-FORCE is 7-2. A tie or victory on Saturday gives us the regular season crown.”

“Not bad, not bad,” he says. “You all didn’t win a game last year, did you?”

I sigh and say, “We won three games.”

“But that was only the games when you didn’t coach, wasn’t it?” he says with a straight face.

He’s pulling my chain. Not very hard to do. I’m not taking the bait today. I like joking around, but after my visit to Margaret Zelwin in Records I’m feeling somber.

“What’s wrong with you? Your FBI boyfriend not talking to you?”

I’m still not taking the bait. He looks disappointed.

“Notice anything new?”

“Yes, Don. Nice tie.”

“It’s not a new tie,” he says with a frown.

“Shoes?”

“Nope.”

“I give.”

“How could you miss this new suit? It’s a Hugo Boss.”

“Did it cost more than $200?” I ask.

Now he frowns. I just returned the favor and tugged his chain. It wouldn’t surprise me if the thing cost more than a thousand. Heck, the Dolce and Gabbana jeans that are one or two sizes too small for me cost over a thousand. The suit might have cost even more.

We are driving over to see Penny Martin. She made bail this morning and was on her way home shortly after noon. Despite Flannigan’s objections, the judge agreed with the defense attorney that with a lack of criminal record she merited to be released on bail. He did relent under Flannigan’s attack and order her to remain under house arrest. She is wearing an ankle monitor that sends a transmission with her exact whereabouts every five minutes. There’s a small strip shopping center next to her apartment with a few restaurants and shops. That’s as far as her tether will let her travel without sounding an alert.

She has exercised her right to “remain silent” throughout the few weeks of her incarceration at the Cook County jail. She answered no official questions from CPD or the DA’s office and spoke to no other prisoners. We know because we rotated a couple plants to get close to her and see what she might have to say. Nothing. Not even when Flannigan showed up herself and dropped the bomb that Bobbie, her mom, was dead and we knew Durham was her father. I watched and rewatched the video. She barely batted an eye.

She was raised by a nice family in Madison, Illinois. They drove in to visit her once a week but she refused to see them each time. What is going through the mind of someone who has not only lost both biological parents, but who is suspected of murdering one of them? And who is alienated from the family that raised her?

I don’t care how tough you are, that’s a lot to deal with.

As she was being checked out of Cook County Detention Center she told the dispatch officer that she would like to talk to Detectives Squires and . . . me.

“You sure she didn’t ask for me?” Martinez asked in our quick meeting to go over what we should ask and more to the point, what we should answer.

No one laughed. I think Antonio is wondering if he made a good decision to move from the Fourth over to our happy home in the Second.

Don is driving. I hear a ping and look down at my phone and give the screen a swipe. A new text.

How was the food? I hear Friendship’s crab rangoon is the best in town. I miss you.

Yep. I have a stalker. I told Blackshear informally. Time to turn in a formal report. I should have done so sooner. But I know that I’ll get a hard time over this.

• • •

“Come in,” Penny says.

I haven’t seen her face-to-face for five weeks. She was slim and trim before. She’s lost fifteen pounds and looks anorexic. She’s still beautiful, but now with a waifish model look.

She points to the living room. “It’s a mess, but you already knew that. You should have at least cleaned up after yourself a little.”

It is a wreck.

“Let’s go in the kitchen,” she says.

She’s been busy. It’s clean and tidy. The dishwasher is running.

“Coffee?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. Don nods in agreement.

“I think the beans are still fresh enough,” she says and fills the coffee carafe about two thirds of the way full with water from a side tap. She pours it into the water holder.

She then opens a canister and puts three scoops of whole beans into an electric grinder. She holds the button down for fifteen seconds—I count. She opens a cabinet and puts a brown filter in the basket. She pours the ground coffee into the basket, shuts it, then hits a button that turns green. Even before the water hits the grounds the kitchen is filled with a rich aroma that is great.

She puts three ceramic mugs on the table, then fills a matching ceramic pourer with half-and-half. She puts it on a tray that has packets of raw sugar and several varieties of sweeteners. She makes it all seem so effortless. Good hostess. I should take notes.

I might save on my JavaStar bill if I went to this much trouble every morning.

The three of us sit silently while the carafe fills up one drip at a time.

“Put what you want in your cup and I’ll pour,” she says. “All the flatware is in the dishwasher.”

I think Don has lost another five pounds this week. He’s been coming into the workout room most mornings. But his weight loss has nothing to do with sugar intake. He rips the tops off four sugars and dumps the contents in the bottom of the cup. No cream. I do the opposite. Plenty of half-and-half, nothing sweet. I wonder if our coffee fixings are symbolic of our personalities.

We settle in. I sip my coffee. I think it’s better than JavaStar. I need to check out what brand of beans she uses.

She hits it. “The prosecutor is very motivated to prove I killed Jack Durham.”

“That’s what DAs do,” I say. “And she has a lot of ammunition.”

“I have no problem with her doing her job,” she says.

Okay.

“But I do want to know if the Chicago Police is equally as intent on doing their job?”

“What does that mean?” Don asks.

“Specifically, are you through investigating and closed to new evidence . . . even if it makes it harder for the DA to put me away for life?”

Good question.

“We follow the leads wherever they take us,” I say.

“Do you have any new leads at this moment?”

“Finding out Jack was your dad was a head-spinner,” I say.

“Wouldn’t have hurt you to let us know that yourself,” Don says.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says.

Suppose?

“Bottom line, if you find anything that points to my father being murdered by someone other than me, can I count on that becoming a matter for the prosecutor’s office to consider?”

Don and I look at each other.

“The answer is an unequivocal yes,” Don answers.

“Why am I not convinced?” she asks after a pause.

“What would we have to say or do to convince you?” I say, going with the tried-and-true gambit of answering a question with a question.

She ignores me and says to Don, “You appear to me to be a man of honor. Will you promise me that if you find something that points to another murderer you will personally present it the prosecutor?”