by M. K. Gilroy
I plant a foot on Randall’s chest and launch myself at him. The gun is arcing down and forward as he sits up. I am flying through the air at him like superman—or superwoman. My eyes are fixed on the arc of the gun. I stretch and strain in midair as if time has stood still. I doubt it looks as good as the fight scenes in the old Matrix movies, but I’m sure it would still be impressive on film.
The mind is an amazing thing in its capacity to compute incredible amounts of data and thought in an incredibly short amount of time.
I wonder if Don is close. I wonder again if I get to keep the clothes that Barbara Ferguson bought me—and if I can trade in the size 0 Dolce and Gabbana jeans for a size that allows me to walk and breathe.
My hand connects with his right wrist, pushing the gun up and out. The Baretta explodes again. The bullet doesn’t part my hair but I’m pretty certain I felt it scream and roar within inches of my temple. The gun was less than a foot from my head and the sound was deafening. Literally, my head is buzzing and I can’t hear anything. I might have lost an ear drum on that.
I keep my hand on Durham’s wrist and push forward on top of him. The fight now feels surreal with no sound. I’ve got his right hand clutched in my left. Our faces are six inches apart. He gasps as he tries to bring his arm back forward. I feel the spray of his spittle and am revulsed.
He wrenches his body hard left and right trying to throw me off him. I hold on for dear life. I may have better tactical position but he has a gun.
He thrusts his head forward with teeth barred and tries to bite me. I snap my head back but then back forward. He dodges and I barely clip his jaw. Not enough force to do any damage.
He bucks to throw me off and tries to bite me again. I’m riding in a row boat in a thunderstorm, but stay on top of the raging sea.
I feel him flatten beneath me, undoubtedly to marshall his strength in another attempt to free his arms. I go back to my in-close combat training with krav maga. In a timed maneuver I twist my shoulders hard to the left, throwing my right elbow up and forward as hard as I can from short range. I catch him flush in the temple and I see the lights go out. A one punch knockout. The gun clatters harmlessly away.
I can’t wait to tell Soto.
I breathe in and out. The world is silent. I begin to relax. His eyes pop open wide. Like lightning his hands are on my neck to choke me.
I push up and away but his hands fumble to keep a hold. Halfway up I fall toward, my arms rotating up and down and catching his wrists to break the hold. I roll away and see his hand shoot for the gun. Mine gets there first and I send it soundlessly skidding across the narrow plank oak floor.
Then Durham stops fighting.
Two arms grab me from behind and pull me backward. I see navy slacks and polished black work shoes step past me. I look up and see Don with his Glock pointed at Durham. He is giving him orders. He might be yelling. I still can’t hear anything out of my left ear.
But I am alive.
79
“I THINK YOU’VE got a perforated tympanic membrane,” the paramedic says to me an hour later. I hear him with my right ear but nothing with my left.
“In English,” I say.
“Ruptured eardrum. You need to go to the hospital.”
I shake my head, which is aching. The ten bass drum players residing in my brain are awakened from the movement and start to pound out the beat for a Sousa march.
“What will they do?” I ask.
“Not much. There’s really no treatment for a ruptured eardrum. It will heal itself in a couple weeks.”
“So why go to the hospital?”
“I said I think it’s a ruptured eardrum. So they need to look at it. But if it is a perforated tympanic membrane, this does make you susceptible to middle ear infections and I promise you, you don’t want that. They’ll put you on an antibiotic and might want to apply something topical as well.”
“Okay.”
I look around the room. Robert Durham, Jr. is in handcuffs. Derrick is a couple feet away, his mouth wide open. He is in shock.
The tech team from the Medical Examiner’s office are working on Bob Randall . . . on his dead body.
I see Penny walk by. Our eyes meet. She looks away quickly. I saved her life, but I somehow doubt we’ll ever be friends.
“Hey, Penny,” I yell.
She and the officer escorting her out turn and look at me.
“Where’s Gary?”
She shrugs meekly and begins to sob.
“Who is Gary?” Don asks me.
“Her bodyguard. Call Tedford and see if he can find anything on Ajax Pest Control.”
80
“I’M SORRY, SIR, I didn’t hear what you asked.”
Czaka arches his eyebrows and gives me the evil eye. Hey. My eardrum is still healing.
“Did you deliberately disobey orders?” he asks me again.
Maybe I heard him the first time. I’m in a conference room with him, Commissioner Fergosi, DA Angela Flannigan, two CPD attorneys, Zaworski, and my union rep.
“That’s a nuanced question and you are asking for a simple ‘yes or no’ answer,” my rep, Terrance Stone says.
“I’ll answer,” I say.
“I don’t advise it,” he says into my right ear so I can hear him loud and clear.
“I absolutely disobeyed orders, but it was based on new evidence.”
“Which you shared with your team?”
“With my partner, yes.”
“But not everyone else?”
“When you know you got a weasel in the department, you start holding onto things.”
Fergosi laughs at that. Czaka scowls. I wonder if I’ll have a job tomorrow. If I get fired from CPD will the FBI still hire me? I assume Willingham can do whatever he wants.
“Okay. We’re done,” Fergosi says. “Everyone out but Conner, Czaka, and Zaworski. Sorry . . . you stay, too, Angela.”
“I don’t feel comfortable leaving this meeting,” Stone says.
“Out,” Fergosi barks and Stone obeys.
“We’re not pursuing charges of insubordination against a detective who just pulled a rabbit out of her hat on a big case. Understood?”
He is looking pointedly at Czaka who nods yes.
“Conner. Crime is up. Respect for the rule of law is down. I don’t like that. Do you?”
“No, sir.”
“You aren’t going to like every decision your boss or colleagues make. But you’re not Mikey’s kid anymore. Time to growup, look at the big picture, and show appropriate respect. I don’t want the wrong attitude in the CPD. You sure you respect the rule of law?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You do that and we wouldn’t be meeting today. You could get away with a jail-break and everyone would know it’s because of the case—not a questionable attitude. Capiscilo?”
“Yes, sir.”
Loud and clear—and ouch.
“Okay, answer us a couple questions. First, was Robert Durham, Sr. or Stanley McGill involved with Durham, Jr. in this?”
“I have no idea, sir. I kind of doubt it, but Byron Tedford is the man to talk to. His work on the financial forensics played big.”
I’d hate to see Tedford leave for corporate. We need his kind of talent at CPD. Maybe I can help him get a promotion. Especially after I about got him fired.
“Same question. Was Derrick Jensen involved with Durham, Jr. in this?”
“I have no idea, sir. He was into something with Durham, Jr., but I doubt he was involved in murder.”
“How about Penny Martin?”
“Let me answer,” Flannigan interrupts. “I have no idea but I doubt it. Right?”
“Right,” I say.
“With all the evidence against Penny, why did you keep looking at Durham, Jr.?” she asks me.
“I don’t think we looked at him nearly close enough early on. He hid behind his dad and McGill. And he had the most clear-cut motive.”
“Which was?” Czaka ask
ed.
“He had the most to lose. His brother was squandering family wealth, tarnishing the family brand, and still stood to get half of it when Durham, Sr. dies.”
“But the evidence all pointed at Penny, including her own untruthfulness,” Flannigan protests.
“Her motive wasn’t as clear-cut. If she was after money, which I don’t think was the only thing she was after, but it would be better for Jack to be alive.”
“Why’d he kill Barbara?” Zaworski asks.
“I spent some time with her,” I say. “I might not be able to prove this, but I think she decided to be a good mother and protect her daughter after Penny was arrested. He had to kill her. But ultimately, only he can answer that question.”
“Durham isn’t talking, Jensen isn’t talking, and even Martin still doesn’t trust me, so she’s not being overly helpful,” Flannigan says, blowing a loose strand of hair off her face. “I gotta build a case. Start from the top.”
I walk through the murder investigation from the moment I arrived from Quantico to last night.
“What’s the deal with this Gary Plumber?” Fergosi asks me when I’m done. “Did you really help Martin hire a bodyguard?”
“She asked and I gave her a name. I assumed there was nothing wrong with that. But I was in the hospital last night and I’m out of the loop. Is he okay?”
“He spent a cold night on a park bench with his hands cuffed, but he’ll survive,” Czaka says.
“Was Junior going to kill Penny?” I ask.
“No question he was prepared to,” Zaworski says. “He had a syringe with 375 mm of heroin sitting next to her.”
“Penny taking heroin? That wouldn’t have looked very realistic,” I say.
“He also had 24 oxycodone tablets and a bottle of Gentleman Jack on the table.”
“Probably for Derrick,” I say.
“We were hoping you could help answer that,” Flannigan says, making a note.
“Derrick loved his Gentleman Jack . . . so it makes sense.”
81
“I MIGHT HAVE seen something, but I might not have. I have to think and remember. Just depends how nice you are to me.”
“You’ve told me I have to be nice to you a bunch of times. Tell me what that means.”
“I want a deal on the other charges, what do you think it means? Basically, I tell you what I saw the night your old man was shot and I don’t do any jail time.”
“I’ll get back to you” I say, rising.
Could this be the break I’m looking for?
“Oh, one other thing,” he says.
“Just one?”
“Yeah. You hated me the day you first laid eyes on me. I said I wanted an apology for the way you smashed my face in the gravel when you arrested me. I still haven’t heard that apology.”
I sigh.
“I’m sorry you were hurt during the arrest, Jared.”
“That’s not an apology. That’s sympathy for something that just happened to have happened. You’re not apologizing for what you did.”
Do I go over the table after him or be a grown up? Why is someone this smart in so much trouble?
“I’ll get back to you on that too, Jared.”
“Can’t just say it, can you?” he asks, a look of triumph on his face.
“I need to discuss that with my attorney. I’ll get back with you.”
“Don’t wait too long or it won’t count and the deal is off,” he says with a smirk.
I’d like to wipe that smirk of his face. But I’m gonna be a grown up inside and out, so I don’t let my attitude and anger go there. Did Incaviglia see something that would help catch my dad’s shooter? I’m skeptical. Would CPD brass give him a free pass if he did? I’m skeptical on that, too.
• • •
If I was in business I think I would rather start companies than run them. At least that’s the way I am with murder investigations. The hunt often feels futile. Much of the work is mind-numbingly boring. But it’s exhilarating. I think it’s my calling. Finding killers.
But writing reports and working with the District Attorney’s office is not nearly as fun.
Jack Durham and Barbara Ferguson are dead and I had a big part in finding their killer. Blocking my way was Bob Randall—the creep put a surveillance camera in my house and a tracker on my car. He’s dead too. Call me judgmental, but nothing makes me angrier than a dirty cop. But Bob’s death is a tough pill to swallow. Watching his partner, Martinez, flail is painful. His machismo might drive me crazy, but it is missing-in-action and I miss it.
Robert Durham, Sr.—his oldest son is dead at the hands of his youngest son. What must be going through his head? McGill is handling all the details of Junior’s defense. He has brought in an attorney from Boston, Massachusetts. Apparently the best criminal defense attorney in the country. Isn’t going to do Junior any good. The evidence against him continues to mount. He is going to go prison for the rest of his life.
82
THANKSGIVING DINNER WAS always at my parents’ house, but now is at Jimmy and Kaylen’s house—not sure we could all fit in Mom’s tiny dining room with another King kid. I took a nap during the first half of the Cowboys-Redskins game. I think Mom took that opportunity to move in for the kill with Reynolds. She’s going to find out where he stands on religion. I would be mad at her, but she actually is making things easier for me. At least the topic will be on the table.
Dinner was great. I did feel a little bad for Klarissa. She was the only one without a significant other—well, except for Mom. I guess it’s a bit unfeeling for me to presume she doesn’t count. I watched Klarissa throughout dinner. She is much more serious than me but she wasn’t herself. Are she and Warren broken up forever this time? Reynolds was given the seat to my left. Across from me were Jeff and Patricia Williams. Jeff and Austin hit it off. Makes sense to me. A mergers and acquisitions attorney and an FBI operative have a lot in common I’m sure.
Before James was allowed to leave the table he wanted to know if Austin had a gun with him. Austin told him yes. Then James wanted to know who would win in a fight, him or me.
“Better ask your Aunt Kristen,” Austin, ever the diplomat, answered.
“My Aunt Kristen can beat up anybody,” he yelled and started throwing karate chops everywhere.
Smart kid—but James is a handful. Butkus, Singletary, Urlacher, maybe somebody else, but then the King. Da Bears.
• • •
I stop in the kitchen for coffee and Mom’s blueberry pie, still groggy from my nap. Kaylen has finished feeding Kelsey and I volunteer to burp her and then put her in her crib. Her little blue eyes are able to focus now and she looks at me sweetly and then yawns. My life story. I put a cloth diaper on my shoulder, lay her head gently on it, and then start patting her back gently. I sing a song dad used to sing to us at bedtime when we were little girls.
Then through the woods there came,
A dragon breathing fire and flame,
He melted a path through the ice and snow,
And brought the princess down below.
I remember the tune and some of the words, but mess up and forget some stanzas. She won’t notice. Before I finish she delivers a tremendous burp and is asleep as I lay her down.
• • •
I cut half of a half-piece of pie—someone was already into portion control ahead of me—and after making an attempt to take a normal-sized bite, put the whole thing in my mouth. I fill up my coffee cup and head to the back bonus room to watch the fourth quarter. It’s just the guys. Jimmy, Jeff, and Austin. If anyone asks me for the secret “guy” handshake for admittance I’ll probably cuff them.
I plop down next to Reynolds and lean in. He puts an arm around me. I lean back and give him a kiss on the neck—Jeff and Jimmy politely look away. This is raging public affection for me. He pulls me in close and gives me a hug. I turn the top half of my body back for another quick kiss—it’s a commercial break so I’m not missing any more of
the game—and reach my hand around the side of his chest. It is bandaged. I feel him flinch. Not much, but something is there.
I immediately sit up straight and turn completely to him.
“Unbutton your shirt right now.”
“Get a room you two,” Jeff says with a barking laugh.
Jimmy clears his throat.
Austin has blushed.
“I can explain,” he says.
“Uh huh,” I answer, “but I bet not very well.”
“It was just a scratch.”
“I didn’t realize those negotiations on intellectual property rights with the Chinese got so rough,” I say, looking at a fairly recent scar going across half his chest.
“I wasn’t just in China.”
“So you lied to me.”
“No. I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Because I’m on a ‘need to know’ basis—and yes, you did lie to me. If you weren’t in China with the State Department you lied.”
I’m on my feet and heading back toward the kitchen. Forget half of a half. If I want, I’ll eat the whole pumpkin pie that hasn’t been cut yet.
“Kristen! I can explain!”
83
I OPEN THE refrigerator and take out a half-gallon milk carton that is mostly finished. I take off the plastic blue lid and sniff. Bad idea. If I’d waited a second longer, the rancid smell of spoiled milk would have attacked my sinuses without any assistance. Not sure there’s anything edible in there.
It’s the day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday. The roads were snarled with eager shoppers on the way to malls, mass market super stores, and any other retail environment. With Reynolds in town I made sure to have the day off. I thought about going home after I discovered he hid a serious injury from me, but remembered we were with my family, and if anyone leaves, it’s him. No one booted him, so I stuck around and we sort of made up. At least I wasn’t yelling at him.
I don’t know what made me maddest, him not telling me he was hurt or him letting me wonder why he wasn’t talking to me, when all he had to do is let me know he was on assignment and wouldn’t be able to communicate. Or is it him being selectively truthful? I don’t think he’s a liar. I think he’s worked in a clandestine world so long he doesn’t know how to turn off the switch where he only provides information on a need-to-know basis.
