Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (40 page)

Penny looks at each of us with a pleasant smile as she squeezes through the gauntlet to the electronic key pad.
Ruh roh.
That is not a good sign. She knew we were coming.

She keys in seven numbers and pushes the green lock button. There is a hiss and the door releases open.

“Step away, please,” Don says to her.

She obliges and he steps forward. Twelve eyes peer intently as he opens the door. There is no sound of an explosion, but Geraldo Rivera would be proud. I had to watch the
Mystery of Al Capone’s Vaults
, a show he produced and hosted back in the mid-80s for a class on law enforcement and the media. Not sure why the prof picked that one but it was fairly interesting until the vault was opened—and found to be empty, except for some trash.

Penny’s vault is almost as empty as Al’s. She has no trash.

• • •

I’m driving back to the station. Don is on the phone with Blackshear.

“Good news and bad news. Conner was right, she had a safe. That’s the good new. The bad news . . . it was empty.”

He listens.

“Nope. Nothing. When I say empty, I mean empty.”

I can hear Blackshear jabbering excitedly.

“I don’t think there’s any question,” Don says. No question someone told her we were coming. No one has that nice of a safe and keeps nothing in it.”

I can hear Blackshear’s voice droning in the background but can’t pick out very many words.

“Randall said the same thing. This actually makes her look suspicious. She should have left some stuff in there. Make it look more natural.”

They both laugh at something Blackshear says and then Blackshear speaks for at least a minute.

“Taken care of. Bruce was with us. He swiped the entire inside of the safe. If there’s any DNA other than Penny’s, he’ll find it.”

He ends the call.

“There’s not going to be anyone else’s DNA,” I say.

“I agree,” Don says. “But we’re at the desperation point. We gotta stay positive and hope for a break.”

No arguing that.

• • •

“Say that again. She asked you to do what?”

“Point Conner your way.”

“What did you say to her?”

“She gets pretty persuasive, but I told her no.”

“That means you told her you’d think about it, right?”

“Yeah . . .”

“But you wouldn’t, right?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re friends. We look out for each other.”

“That’s true. But that’s not why you wouldn’t do it. What’s the real reason?”

“I . . . don’t know. Can you give me a hint?”

“When was the last time you were sober?”

“It’s been a couple weeks.”

“I can tell. Here’s the deal. You need to get your act together. No more feeling sorry for yourself. It’s a new day. No more Jack to hold you back. Time to do what you know you can do. Are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Because this is real important. You don’t do what she asked because you and I both know I didn’t do it.”

“But I loaned you my key to his place.”

“Which I gave back to you, unused. Remember?”

“I think.”

“Good. Now pull yourself together. What would you think of getting away for a couple months in rehab?”

“I guess that would be good.”

“You’re right. It would. Tell you what, I’m going to check on some places and get back to you. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad we’re friends and look out for each other.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Rehab isn’t enough. I’m going to have to arrange a more permanent therapy for him. This is not good. It was just supposed to be Jack. Then Barbara started causing trouble. Now Derrick? I should never have borrowed the key. But that doesn’t prove anything.

64

AFTER GETTING OUT of the office late, I dropped off the Kia rental car and picked up my oldie-but-goody Miata.

Seven-hundred dollars poorer, I leave a message for Derrick: “Everything worked out with my sister and the new baby. I read the review in the
Trib
on Sunday. It sounds like it was a great show. Did you end up going with your friend? Listen, let’s not play games. We’re not going to date. But would you still like to talk more about the murders? Please?”

If he never calls back will I be surprised? No. Can we officially interview him again? Yes. Will we get anything helpful from him that way? No.

He knows something about both murders. Even if he doesn’t know it, he knows something. How do we get him to talk?

Do I think Derrick is a legitimate suspect in either murder? Nah. He and Jack fought. They may have hated each other sometimes. But their friendship goes all the way back to kindergarten. I guess he could have killed Jack in a drunken rage. But his alibi for the night of the murder was good. And no way is he sober enough to have premeditated the followup murder of Bobbie—assuming Jack and Bobbie were killed by the same person, which unlike Flannigan, I do.

It’s not that Derrick’s dumb. Between his education and sarcasm, he shows evidence of being intelligent. But he has no focus. He’s all there for a moment, but then he’s not there. It’s not just the alcohol. With him, not engaging is a well-cultivated habit. He’s worked hard to avoid commitment of any kind at any level. To maintain that, he’s not allowed himself to think too long or hard about anything. With Jack Durham’s closest friends that is the common denominator. No commitment to a job, a woman, or anything noble.

What do I know? I’m a detective, not a psychologist.

• • •

I call Reynolds. It goes straight into voice mail. Leave a message? I hesitate . . . then hang up. I’ve tried for a week. It’s his turn to call me.

Maybe Klarissa is right about men being hunters—even if I am a white whale in her narrative. Of course, I might have just scared him off. When he was telling me it wasn’t a good idea to describe how I would have snapped Monster’s neck, I think he was trying to socialize me a bit. He’s from a different social class than me—and after this Durham murder I better understand there are significant differences. I admit I need to do some refining and fine tuning—
Mom, your work is not in vain, I might be growing up a little
—but I’m still pretty happy with who I am. I wouldn’t do well in a relationship where I had to put on airs.

I’m a mile from my house and downshift into third as I turn onto my street.

I downshift into second and pull into the Gas & Grub. I push the button beside my seat to release the lock on the gas tank door. The first snow decided not to show up but it’s freezing. Low twenties. I’m not dressed for it yet. I reach back inside the car to get my credit card out of my wallet. I glance up at the front of the convenience store. Someone is huddled close to a blue pay phone with a small aluminum roof and sloped sides to provide cover for head and shoulders. Someone very familiar. The punk. Jared Incaviglia. I sit down in my car, grab my iPhone off the passenger seat, swipe the screen, bring up the dial pad on the phone, and hold down the number six until it starts ringing into CPD dispatch.

“This is Detective Kristen Conner. Badge number 371277448. I need immediate backup at the Gas & Grub on Ravenswood Avenue, east side of the street, just north of Foster. I am moving in to arrest Jared Incaviglia. I-N-C-A-V-I-G-L-I-A. He should be considered armed and dangerous. There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest. I am moving in to make contact now. Send any squad car you got in the area. Doesn’t matter if you send them silent or with siren.”

Gun out or holstered? Last time I faced off with him he gave me a half inch scar on my left wrist. No big biggie. Unholstered. I hear a siren that’s within a mile. He is too engrossed in his conversation to look up. I’m sure he’s arguing with someone. He never hears me come up behind me. Then he reaches back and scratches the back of his head. He turns right. He spies me in his peripheral vision, flings the handset against the wall with a sharp crack, and bull rushes me. I sidestep him easily and put out a leg to trip him. He sprawls on the concrete and barely gets his hands down to break the fall. Before he can push up on his knees to run for it, I am on top of him. I wrench an arm up behind his back as far as it will go and plant my knee in the small of his back to keep him from wriggling forward.

The manager of the Gas & Grub has run out in the parking lot. Everyone outside has run inside or got in their cars and drove off fast. A couple people across the street on the corner are looking over with jaws hanging open. I keep Incavigilia’s arm shoved up high, put my gun in its holster, reach in my pocket and flip open my leather case that holds my gold shield.

“CPD. Back off.”

The manager does as a squad card races in the parking lot, siren blaring and blue lights circling the night air. I hold up my shield high so they don’t shoot the good guy. I remember the last time I arrested Jared. He got a lawyer to lodge a complaint of excessive force against me. I wonder if he will try that stall tactic again. Either way, he’s in big trouble.

“He’s armed and likes to fight,” I say to the officer closest to me. “Careful when you cuff him.”

Two more squad cars pulled up in the next few minutes. We like to socialize when we make arrests. Incaviglia is pushed in the back of the first black and white cruiser. He looks sullen. He has been read his rights. I’ve given my statement. The owner and a couple customers are being asked questions and their statements are being taken now. I still need to put gas in my car, but that seems a bit awkward under the circumstances.

I look over at Incaviglia. The door is open as an the officer puts a seatbelt on him. He looks past the officer and winks at me. Cute. Last time I saw him, he flipped me the bird.

“Hey, Conner,” he calls out.

I look back over.

“We’ll talk again, but better be nice if you want to learn anything about who shot your old man.”

I am speechless.

The door slams and the officer circles the car to the passenger side. They pull out of the lot toward the Second Precinct where Incaviglia will be booked for the second time this year. He and I stare at each other as long we can make eye contact.

Yes, Jared, we’ll be talking again. Soon.

65

ALL YOU HAVE
to do is look in his eyes. He did it. He killed Jack. Unbelievable.

Barbara told me it had to be him. I wouldn’t listen to her—I was so mad at her for trying to keep Jack and me apart. She couldn’t make that decision for me.

But if he killed Jack, he killed Barbara. Does that make me partly responsible for her death? I’ll deal with that another day.

Grandpa . . . he says he wants a relationship.

I think I’m going to opt for the money offer and run. Barbara was right. Stay away from these people.

She dipped a toe in the steaming bath with scented ginger bath oil. Might still be too hot for comfort, but heat is what cleanses you inside and out, she thought. She flinched as she stepped in, but she refused to budge an inch and pull her foot free. She pushed the button on the side of her jacuzzi tub and jets of water began to shoot from various levels and angles.

She slid under the water.

• • •

I still wonder if Jack slept with his own daughter. That would be the icing on the cake for his wretched life.

She’s a piece of work. She doesn’t belong with us. She can’t stay here. Will she take the money?

Even if she does, can she be trusted? After what she asked Derrick to do, I think not. I think Derrick is going to be okay now that he knows what’s at stake.

But her? No question . . . she has to go.

He picked up the phone to call Stanley McGill.

66

I DIDN’T EVEN feel my phone buzz.

I missed four calls while arresting Incaviglia. Mom—short message telling me to call her. Kaylen’s home phone—a short message from Kendra to say thanks for letting her stay at my house.

Kendra, I hope you feel that way forever about Aunt Kristen—even when you are a snotty teenager.

Next up was Derrick. Long message.

“Okay Detective . . . Conner. Krissssten.”

He’s drunk as a skunk.

“I know I’m not a very good guy but I’m not as dumb as a I look, even if I have had a few drinks. Okay, that’s debatable. But just so you know, I know you can’t stand me. Can’t say I blame you. I can’t stand me either.”

I hear the sound of him taking a swallow of something. I can picture him drinking whiskey straight from his Gentleman Jack bottle. Then again, it might be fresh apple and carrot juice. But I suspect not.

“You asked me to talk to you . . . and you said please. That was very polite. Okay, I’ll talk to you.”