by M. K. Gilroy
“He didn’t really do much to indicate otherwise,” I said. “Has he even worked a day in his life since school?”
“Oh, he’s worked harder than you think,” Derrick said, smiling. “He’s busted his tail getting revenge on his old man every day of his life.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. On one hand I wanted to say something sarcastic and put the guy in his place. Let him know that his buddy wasn’t the first person to experience loss and a lot of people cope in a whole lot more positive manner. But I had to admit to myself most of those people don’t have a billion dollar trust fund to hide behind. I kept my mouth shut even when Derrick said to me on his way out the door of the interview room, “Give me a chance. I was ready to change.”
His use of past tense—was ready to change—told me all I needed to know.
I decide to take a walk over lunch. I need to think. Maybe the brisk air will help. For one thing, I still feel guilty about Bobbie, too. I’ve wondered if there is any connection between her reaching out to me and her death. But that would mean someone is spying on me. Not even I am that paranoid.
Reynolds is coming back into town. We are going to do something Saturday evening. I can’t do another white tablecloth restaurant. I’m suggesting pizza at Giordano’s and we watch BYU play Navy on ESPN. He mentioned wanting to see it. He played for Cornell the year Navy beat them by fifty points and has been a fan of whoever plays Navy ever since.
Austin has had a lot of meetings in Chicago lately. His boss, Robert Willingham, gives him a lot of free rein to pick his projects. I’m not complaining.
Am I being foolish to think I’m part of the reason he keeps finding ways to get back here?
51
IT’S GAME DAY. Two hours and thirty minutes before the whistle blows. Big game. We play the X-FORCE. The winner gets sole possession of first place. I’m sipping a soy latte at JavaStar, waiting for Klarissa. She’s not usually late. I look at my cheap watch. It’s 10:10. I need to be out the door in fifty minutes. She needs to hurry.
I check my phone in case she’s tried to call. Nothing for her, but there’s a number I don’t recognize. I listen to the voice message. It’s from Gretchen Sanders at City Hall.
“I hate to leave this on your voice mail, Kristen. I know I said too much already. But I was doing some filing and took another look at the Randall complaint. Not sure how he got cleared. Just consider this a friendly warning. Keep an eye on him. Something’s not right. Okay . . . I’ve said it and my conscience is clear. You don’t have to call back.”
What in the heck did Randall do? And why call me? Why not call Zaworski or Blackshear? I don’t want to be the snitch to bring it up.
I fidget. Where is Klarissa?
Relax and enjoy the moment, Kristen.
After all we’ve had going on with the Durham murder, it is nice to sip a cup of coffee and be ignored by the world, especially the press. That will change when my sister gets here. When Klarissa walks through the door, white doves will flutter in the air, and a Broadway soundtrack will drown out the awful retro rap song JavaStar is playing—they have to get a new music director in Seattle. Once the Broadway show tune starts, customers and JavaStar employees alike will break into song and dance. The barista will lift her into the air and twirl her around.
That’s how things go with Klarissa.
I look down at my iPhone. Kaylen just played something with Words With Friends. I touch the yellow letter tile and groan. I played a double-double that got me over fifty points. But it left a triple-play open and she hammered me—I have got to stop referencing hammers in my word pictures—and scored 108 by getting a triple letter on the Z to go along with the triple word. Rats.
I look up. Klarissa is looking down at me, her lips quivering. She didn’t set off a Broadway Musical today. A tear falls on the table next to my latte. I instinctively move it over a couple inches.
“What’s up, Sis?”
“I am so pissed. Life isn’t fair.”
52
I’M TRYING TO understand. I really am. I want to be sympathetic. I want to be a good sister.
Klarissa and I are roller-blading along the concrete walkway that ribbons along Lake Michigan from Navy Pier to somewhere north of Evanston. I haven’t roller-bladed in years. I didn’t really want to go—after the soccer game I was planning on some long overdue cleaning and then getting ready for a date with Austin. I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying the exercise. I had to go to the cage in the basement of my apartment building to find my blades, but there they were.
November has started unseasonably warm in Chicago. When we started it was low sixties. The temperature has been dropping. I’m guessing it’s low fifties now. I look over at Klarissa and her nose is bright red from the wind whipping off the lake. I’m sure I match her. At least she has gloves on. I didn’t think I’d need them. My hands are freezing.
We hopped on the path across from the Drake Hotel at the top of the Magnificent Mile. We cruised five miles up to Lincoln Park Zoo. Klarissa ranted and raved the whole way. We stopped at one of the marinas and talked some more. Now the sun is dropping fast in a seasonal Chicago fall. I bet the temperature is in the forties by the time we get back. We’re pushing hard and she’s too winded to talk. Good.
She and Warren broke up. No big biggie. She’s fine with that. But ChicagoLive magazine just came out with their list of Chicago’s top ten most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. He’s on the bachelor list—number nine thankfully—but she’s not on the bachelorette list. One of her tri-Delta sorority sisters from University of Illinois is editor of that feature and let her know she would be on it and had a good chance of winning—especially after her ordeal this summer. Her sorority sister was obviously wrong and has been called some choice names by Klarissa.
I don’t know if she’s madder that she’s not on it or that Warren is.
My problem is I’m not feeling her pain. I don’t think this qualifies in the life isn’t fair department. If Tandi Brown calls me to tell me life isn’t fair, I’ll listen to her all day and night and agree with her one-hundred-percent. I’m just glad I’ve held my tongue. What she is feeling—insecure, betrayed, left out—is real for Klarissa. Doesn’t mean I get it and can fully sympathize. Of course she isn’t sharing my euphoria over the Snowflakes’ victory today—what an unbelievably wild game that we snatched with two goals in the final minutes.
How can sisters be so different? Maybe it was the piano lessons.
The Drake, the Hancock, the Standard Oil building, the Bloomingdale Towers are looming closer and closer. Maybe a mile to go. Now the wind is gusting off the lake. I come close to taking a spill when I get knocked off balance. I look over. Klarissa is really struggling. I need to slow down. But she does have a fierce determination on her face.
I about pee my pants when a dog charges us from the middle of a group of teenagers sitting on a blanket in the sand and smoking something that I’m pretty sure isn’t legal. Klarissa does a 360 but keeps her feet. She grabs my arm halfway through her circle and I end up in a tuck and roll and sitting on my butt facing our spectators. They are pointing and laughing. The dog is about two feet from my face and snarling. Maybe a lab and Rottweiler mix. I’m okay with dogs. We had a mutt when I was a kid that Kaylen thought was our brother. I remember backyard scooping duty and figured if this is what brothers do, no thanks.
The beast in my face weighs more than a hundred pounds I bet. He darts in closer and my heart is about to burst out of my chest. Klarissa is absolutely frozen in place. I hear one kid yelling, “Down Monster, down”—but other voices are still laughing. I’m up on my knees and facing him with a snarl of my own. No way I can get a foothold and gain balance if that thing decides to transition from feints and snarls to a full on assault.
I guarantee the meatheads on the blanket won’t be laughing when I do what I have to do to defend myself from Monster. If Monster charges my left arm will go up to take the teeth. Instinctively h
e’ll go for the throat and that’s the attack trajectory I’ll anticipate. I’ll push forward with everything I can muster from knee level and my right arm will close on the back of his neck. I’ll use his momentum and the opposite motion of my two arms to snap his neck. If he clamps on my left arm with his teeth it will hurt like crazy but it will seal his death sentence.
I learned that in a CPD self-defense class. I never figured it would come up in real life. Would it work? With roller blades on?
I don’t know if it was the kid calling Monster’s name while he ran up or Monster’s survival instinct buried somewhere in his brain that is about the size of a meatball at Carmine’s that got his attention, but the dog backs off. No blood lost today. I struggle to my feet and about fall again.
“You ever hear of a leash law?” I storm at the kid.
He snaps a leather leash on Monster’s collar and pulls him away from me.
“I should have let him mess you up,” he says and flips me off as he strides back to the blanket, Monster fighting him all the way.
I’m about to say something back at him when I see one of the group members sauntering up the short hill to the sidewalk beside Lake Shore Drive. Unless my eyes deceive me—and they don’t—it’s a punk I arrested last April. Jared Incaviglia. The kid beat up and robbed some senior citizens. He was looking at eight-to-twelve in the state pen when he got cut loose from the Cook County Correctional Center due to an administrative error.
He glances down and sees I’m focused on him. “She’s a cop,” he yells to his young friends and they are immediately scrambling to their feet and following him to street level.
Can I get these darn skates off and catch someone running in just my socks? I wonder. Incaviglia reads my mind and laughs. He blows me a kiss and takes off.
• • •
Finally home. Klarissa surprises me. Instead of getting weepy and declaring she was traumatized, she is excited about our run-in with Monster. She got a second wind and flew the last mile back to the top of Michigan Avenue where we pulled off our skates and put on walking shoes before separating and heading to our cars. She shows me a canister of pepper spray she carries for self-defense. I ask why that stayed in her pocket when Monster was considering where to take a hunk out of my flesh.
“You had it all under control,” she said.
I call Reynolds on the way home to let him know I’ll need a little more time before he picks me up. I spend twenty-five minutes giving every detail, including my plans for Monster.
“So where’d you learn to kill an attack dog?” Austin asks.
“Self-defense class with CPD,” I answer.
“Who taught it?” he asks.
“He wasn’t CPD. I think he was a military contractor or something.”
“What he taught would have worked,” Reynolds said. “But can I suggest something?”
“Sure.”
I was expecting some feedback from his training as an Army Ranger.
“Don’t tell people how you were going to break the neck of the dog. They’ll think you are a heartless killer and turn the dog into a martyr. People are funny about dogs.”
“Are you?”
“I’ll admit to having an irrational affection for the creatures. But I’m not one of those people that treat animals better than they do people. Make a movie and kill a bunch of humans and no one will complain. Kill a rabbit and you’ll have picketers.”
“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.”
