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

by M. K. Gilroy

  “Wow,” I say with no enthusiasm.

  I do have a way with words. I wish I hadn’t said “cool’ when he told me I didn’t die.

  “Yeah, wow,” Reynolds says. “So you want to talk about that job offer later on? Maybe grab dinner?”

  “This somehow reminds me of how you asked me out for that first date. I’m never quite sure if you want to go out for business or social.”

  “Not that you make it easy,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Well, after Chicago, I’ll make it easier and say yes, but no negotiating—we can have dinner if it’s strictly business.”

  “After Chicago? Don’t pin what happened in Chicago on me, Kristen,” he says with storm clouds in his eyes, the twinkle instantly gone. He’s not playing now. “Besides, I think you’re the one who has an obsession about negotiating everything.”

  “Well, with some people, when you sense they’re not telling you the whole truth,” I say, even as a I wonder why I’m turning this into a fight, “you do have to be a little more careful up front.”

  “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying . . . that I was in some way untruthful with you,” he says, “I’ll take your obvious but unspoken assessment under advisement and consider the best way to let the next woman I ask out know ahead of time that my wife cheated on me before she left me. And I’ll make sure on the first date to let the lucky girl know that my ex-wife happens to work for the FBI, too. You got any more advice on the subject, give me a call. Better yet, just send me a text.”

  I think I deserved that. And I would have apologized but he was already on his way out the door.

  If this was part of the job interview I’m not sure the offer is still on the table. Ditto if he was asking me on a date.

  9

  BEN FRANKLIN SAID if you have a tough decision to make, you draw a line down the middle of a piece of paper. On the left side of the line you list all the positives and on the right side you list all the negatives. Then you see which column is bigger and make your decision.

  I’m actually not sure Ben said that. My dad said he said it, so there’s probably some truth to it. Dad was known to paraphrase and improvise on the fly.

  I look at my yellow sheet of ruled paper again. The line is straight and true. The plus sign and negative sign look just fine. Problem is I haven’t written anything else. I rip the sheet of paper from the pad, crumble it, stand up from my desk, and do a fade-away jump shot at the wastebasket in the corner. It hits the rim, bounces against the wall, and falls to the floor next to ten other yellow paper wads.

  I might kill a forest figuring this out. Even if Ben Franklin did come up with the decision tree, it’s too simplistic. Not all pluses and minuses are created equal.

  Despite getting into it with Reynolds, the package awaited me when I returned to my motel-style room nestled in the heart of the FBI National Training Center in Quantico. I knew the cafeteria would be closed so I talked the shuttle driver into stopping at a Roy Rogers fast food restaurant as we left D.C. Since I was his only passenger he said fine. I was starved after the simulation and wolfed down three deluxe roast beef sandwiches, waffle fries, and a glass of water. He must have been hungry too and munched on a couple burgers while we drove south.

  It was close to midnight when we passed through the security gate. I had planned to shower and hit the sack right away so I could get an early start on my final FBI-conducted knee therapy session in the morning. I took the shower. I got in my jammies. I got under the covers and turned off the light. Then I stared at the ceiling for an hour.

  I finally threw off the covers and started scribbling notes on yellow sheets of paper. I didn’t have to write down a thing to know what the issues are. Accepting the offer from the FBI means more money, the prestige of working for the world’s greatest law enforcement agency, and a chance to serve my country. My media star sister likes to remind me that I’m so old school I make our dad look a crazy teenager with acne and hormones. If being old school on God and country is a crime, I confess. I’m old school.

  On the negative side of the sheet is the fact that I already have my dream job. My dad was a detective for Chicago Police Department. As far back as I can remember, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I grew up in Chicago and like it there. Maybe I would like living somewhere else, but why pursue that possibility for the sure thing I’ve got? I don’t care what people say about Chicago weather. I don’t mind bitter, cold, icy, snowy windswept winters—at least not theoretically. It’s like cheering for the Cubs. Doesn’t matter how bad they are in a given year, sitting in Wrigley Field, section GA, during a 10-game losing streak is proof that you are tougher than the rest of the country. Throwing a nice souvenir ball back on the field because it is a home run by the other team is part of our DNA as well. That’s how we do it in Chicago.

  The real two-ton elephant on the right side of the paper, the negative reasons that argue against moving, is my family. My mind regrinds those gears.

  Could I really live a thousand miles from my mom and sisters? Who would coach my eight-year-old niece’s soccer team, the Snowflakes?

  And then there’s James, my five-year-old nephew. This will be his first year in kindergarten. I don’t like that he has only one volume, yelling, and that he always wants to punch me and sticks his feet in my face when we watch TV, but I do admire his fiery personality. That kid is going to play middle linebacker for the Bears some day. Butkus. Singletary. Urlacher. King. James King—has a ring to it. Lebron is already King James but my nephew will make a name for himself. I’m not going to tell his dad, Jimmy, that James got his athletic ability from my side of the family. Probably don’t have to.

  And Jimmy and my big sister, Kaylen, have a third on the way. I think they want it to be a surprise whether it’s a boy or girl. Mom went with Kaylen on her last ultrasound checkup and spilled the beans. That actually helped. I found a Manchester United soccer outfit at a baby boutique in Georgetown that will look great on my new niece. My news reporter sister, Klarissa, will be impressed I went shopping. She claims I missed the shopping gene—and usually she’s right.

  Klarissa. Is she the real reason I want to—maybe need to—stay in Chicago? I feel responsible for her. She was actually held hostage, even if only for a couple hours, because of a case I worked. Like me, she has the scars to prove it.

  More money and prestige. A new adventure.

  Or family.

  Where is Ben Franklin when you need to talk to him? I’ll have to figure this on my own. My history professor at NIU said Ben wasn’t much of a family man anyway.

  10

  “IT’S NOT HIS vomit,” the ME techie said to Martinez and Squires.

  “How can you know that?” Squires asked.

  “Nothing in his throat and everything he ate is still in his stomach.”

  “You’ll get that categorized and in your report?” Squires asked.

  “No—I plan to mop up evidence with Mr. Clean and hope it wasn’t a big deal.”

  Squires was about to rip into the kid but let it go. It was a stupid question and murder scenes put everyone on edge.

  “Why does the Second get all the good cases?” Martinez asked Squires. “I like the excitement but sometimes boring is good. I could be looking for gang bangers if I stayed in the Fourth.”

  “We get plenty of boring,” Squires answered with a smile. “Just not recently.”

  “Look at this place. This guy was rich,” Martinez said. “This is going to be big. Muy grande. It’s the kind of case where you get promoted.”

  “Unless it drags out,” Squires said. “Then you get bumped back to checking parking meters.”

  “Guys, I can’t tell you’se the hammer is the murder weapon,” the ME assistant said, interrupting. “But I’d be willing to bet you ten bucks or breakfast at Eggsperience Cafe it is.”

  “I’m not eating breakfast for a year after looking at this mess,” Squires said.

  “You know our day ha
s already started,” Martinez answered. “We better eat something on the way over to the office.”

  Squires had written more than twenty pages of notes in the past three hours. His stomach growled.

  No runny eggs, he told himself.

  • • •

  It’s not fancy, but it’s plenty nice. Open the door and on the right there is a small sitting area with facing love seats and a coffee table between. On the left is a round table that’s not quite big enough for the four chairs arranged around it. Behind the table is a kitchenette with a full-size refrigerator, stove, dishwasher, microwave, and a single sink. The bedroom is in the back. This has been my home for the past six weeks.

  My black rollerboard suitcase is packed but still open on the bed. It’s too big for the overhead bin on the Airbus A33 I will be on so I have to check it. I’m dressed comfortably for travel. I’m also dressed like I am every work day. Black slacks and jacket. White blouse. I’ve put on my Ecco Mary Jane-style shoes that have maybe a quarter inch heel. That’s about as stylish as I’m going to get with footwear. My partner gives me a hard time about my fashion sense but he’s the one that cries when his dress shoes get messed up chasing a punk down the street.

  I’ve opened, closed, and reopened every drawer and closet. I’ve looked under the edges of the bed twice. I haven’t forgotten anything. Satisfied, I zip up the suitcase and move it to the door. My laptop and power cord are in my tattered and scuffed black carryall.

  I have a six o’clock flight back to Chicago from Reagan International tonight. I had my final checkup with the orthopedic doctor that works at the FBI’s Rehab and Surgery Center earlier. The majority of FBI agents work in accounting and law, but there is still enough rough and tough field work that they staff their own surgi-center for on-the-job injuries. When Deputy Director Willingham extended the offer for me to participate in training for TARP—Terrorist Attack Response Program—he added the inducement of using the rehab service to the offer. How do you say no to that? I went in every morning at six o’clock to be put through a torture session. It worked. Even after tearing the ACL and MCL a little over two months ago, my knee feels great. Maybe better than before the injury. And it held up nicely in the terrorist takedown. The doc said I’m a fast healer.

  One more meeting before I’m out of here. The job offer.

  • • •

  “I hope you’ll really think this over carefully. I’m leaving the offer packet with you. There is a FedEx prepaid envelope in the back of it. Even if you say no, I want everything returned. If the answer is really no, just sign the first form acknowledging that you are declining our offer of employment. If you do change your mind and decide to accept what I think is a great offer based on where you are now, especially financially, you will need to fill out the forms and sign everything in the packet in the presence of a public notary. I would prefer you use the notary in our regional offices in downtown Chicago. I think you are familiar with where they office.”

  “I am.”

  I spent a lot of time in the State Building in the Midwest offices of the FBI on my last case.

  “Any other questions?” she asks.

  I’m not sure I had any to begin with.

  “I’m good.” I answer. “And I really do appreciate this offer. Just not sure I can take it.”

  “Understood. Each of us have to make the decision that’s best for us individually. I’d just encourage you to give it some serious thought”

  She’s told me that about ten times now. She thinks I’m crazy for not jumping on the deal. If I take the offer, I double my salary.

  “Okay, your driver should be here now. You better get going for Reagan. You’re going against traffic but you never know how long things will take.”

  “Thank you,” I say as we shake hands.

  I walk out into a gloriously sunny late summer day. A black limousine is parked there and the back door opens as I look for the van to take me to the airport.

  Deputy Director Robert Willingham—he likes me to call him Bob—jumps out.

  “Hop in, Kristen. Your luggage is in the trunk. I’m heading into the city. Let me give you a ride.”

  He won’t get an argument from me.

  • • •

  “I know you aren’t going to change your mind and I respect why you’re staying with CPD. You’ve done good there. You got your detective shield early. I’m sure Deidre made it sound like this will be your one-and-only chance to come work for us. She does that—especially when we tell her to. As long as I’m with the FBI, the offer stands.”

  “I’m honored, sir,” I say. “It just isn’t the right time . . . and frankly I’m not sure I deserve the offer.”

  “But you do,” he says. “I was very impressed with your work on the Cutter Shark serial killer case.”

  Why won’t the name Cutter Shark go away?

  “We have a great team here at the FBI,” he continues. “The best in the world. But one skillset we are not hiring enough of is old fashioned street investigators. I believe in the phrase ‘follow the money,’ so heaven knows we need our forensic accountants. But I’m not sure we focus enough on recruiting tough men and women that can be dropped into dangerous situations. That’s why I keep Austin close. He can do it all. And if there’s a fight, I want him on my side.”

  “I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me about this opportunity, sir.”

  “Bob.”

  “Yes, sir. Bob.”

  He laughs. We park in the no-parking curb in front of the United Terminal at Reagan. A D.C. cop walked our way to move us along but the driver showed him a laminated ID that convinced him to return to his previous spot to watch traffic flow. My flight departs in forty-five minutes. I don’t fly a lot and I’m starting to get nervous. It is all I can do to keep myself from looking at my watch. I will my eyes not to look down.

  “I know you’re ready to roll, Detective Conner. Don’t worry. You’re checked in and a friend of mine is going to expedite your passage through security.”

  “Thank you, sir. Bob.”

  “You’re not asking for advice and don’t need advice, but let me leave you with one small word of counsel from an old man.”

  “I don’t see an old man around here, Bob, so who would that be?”

  “Nicely played, Detective,” he says with a laugh. “And I’m not feeling too bad these days. I’m going to feel even better when I throw a line in the Penobscot River. Austin and I are going fishing up in Millinocket this weekend.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  I studied Willingham’s career when I was a criminal justice major at Northern Illinois University. I wrote a paper on him. Now I know him on a first name basis. Bob. I don’t have a clue where he is going with this “word of counsel” stuff.

  “Our strengths are usually our weaknesses,” he says. “Your strengths are your unbending will, your fierce determination, your lack of guile and political motivation.”

  “Thank you, Bob.”

  I think that was a compliment.

  “Those are also your weaknesses. It’s not the right time for you to say yes to us. I understand that and am not pushing any more. But there are other areas of life where you need to be a little more open-minded and flexible. Do you know what I’m saying?’

  “I think so.”

  I’m pretty sure not.

  “Good. But just in case you don’t, I would encourage you to not be too hasty in your judgment of Major Reynolds. He’s an awfully fine young man.”

  Did the Deputy Director of the FBI just give me advice on my love life?

  11

  IT’S EIGHTEEN LONG, excruciating hours, and no one from the police has contacted me. It isn’t going to just go away, is it? Is this over for me—could they be on to the real murderer? I thought I might be in custody by now.

  The silence is almost eerie. No one knows I was there. I’ve thrown away everything I was wearing that night but that won’t be any help since I threw up
in his bedroom. My DNA is literally all over the murder scene. My only hope is that I never become a suspect.

  I wasn’t hiding my visit to him from anyone. I didn’t use the back entrance of his building to avoid security cameras. That was at his instruction and insistence. I wasn’t hiding—he was hiding me. I wasn’t good enough for him and his world.

  Who killed Jack?

  It would make things so simple if it was Bobbie. She brought Jack and I together. We got off to a rocky start but I came to believe she was someone I could trust. But she betrayed me. I’ll never forgive her for pushing Jack and me apart. She knew he cared for me and she wanted to protect her own relationship with him. Would she have killed Jack if she felt she was losing her hold on him?

  He was no angel. That’s for sure. It’s ironic that after he finally told me he loved me, he still made me use the door by the delivery dock. He would have kept me a secret from the world forever if he could have pulled it off. That was going to have to change. And it could have. But then she stepped between us.

  No, Jack was definitely no angel, but I could have helped him. I think we could have helped each other change for the better. Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance at happiness?

  I still can’t believe he is dead. Everywhere I turn and look I see his face. I don’t have to watch news coverage to see him. I think I see him out of the corner of my eye. At a restaurant. At a shop. I turn quickly and he’s gone.

  He was cruel to me the last time we were together. And now he can never make those wrongs right.

  Even if she didn’t kill him, she deserves some payback. If this investigation drags out, there might be a few ways I can point police her direction.

  But who killed Jack?

  • • •

  “Detectives will be here in the next hour,” Stanley McGill said.

  Robert Durham, Jr. and Robert Durham, Sr. were seated with McGill, their corporate and private attorney, in Durham, Sr.’s home office.

  “We really have to talk to the police today?” Robert Sr. asked.

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”