Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1)

by M. K. Gilroy

  Van Guten was actually reassuring in detailing the safety and efficacy of hypnosis with me, but there’s an arrogance there that still makes me very uneasy. Zaworski handed me the green folder from Czaka, which contained a liability waiver. He gave me instructions to meet with my union rep for sure and a lawyer if I wanted. CPD would pay for an hour of legal consultation. He stressed one hour about three times. I guess our budget is already shot for the year and we’re not half-way into it. I talked to my union guy, who said it was my call. I skipped the $300-an-hour legal fee for the department.

  • • •

  “So how’d Kimberly like her gift?” Don asks.

  “You mean Kendra?”

  “I can’t keep track of all the Ks in your family. It makes me wonder if someone in your family tree wore sheets and rode a horse by torchlight late at night.”

  I turn and give Don my hardest glare.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right and I apologize,” he says magnanimously.

  “She loved it,” I say.

  Problem was the gift didn’t go over very well with Mommy. No one sent me the memo that Jimmy and Kaylen were avoiding Barbie stuff for Kendra. Don said his daughter, Veronika, loves her Barbie dolls. I guess they have a black model, but according to Don, the wardrobe is still way too lily white. But no problem. Vanessa sews Veronika’s Barbie’s clothes . . . when she isn’t selling houses and buying Don expensive shoes.

  Vanessa got my text and was thrilled to help. She brought a Sporty Barbie and some accessories to the office, wrapped up in matching gift paper. She is good at this stuff. I could learn something watching her. She spent about ten bucks more than I would have, so I was feeling pretty generous when I showed up for the party.

  Until I got the lowdown on the whole Barbie no-no. She and Jimmy think that Barbie sends the wrong message to girls about body image, Kaylen explained to me. Seems a little strict to me, but I don’t have kids, so it’s their call. I just know that Kendra squealed with delight and hugged on me the rest of the evening after opening her present. I don’t think she was worried about her chest size—or lack thereof—or not having six-inch heels with her soccer outfit. Maybe it will mess her up later. I somehow doubt it.

  I thought I was doing well by forgoing sports equipment for something girly but missed the boat again. No good deed goes unpunished.

  Dell must have finally listened to me. He didn’t show. But he did send an envelope with money in it. One for Kendra and one for James. My mom asked me if I knew why he wasn’t here. I finally had to get as direct with her as I did with Dell.

  “Mom, I’m not comfortable with the way Dell pursues me. You need to stop egging him on.”

  “But he’s so nice,” she started to argue.

  “Mom, this is way over the top, even for you. I’m telling you it doesn’t feel good to me; it isn’t fair to Dell; and it needs to stop now.”

  Between that exchange—Mom looked like she was going to cry—and the Barbie fiasco, I felt like a heel. Klarissa overheard the conversation and whispered some encouragement. I wouldn’t have minded if she stuck up for me with Mom. Out loud.

  • • •

  “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Van Guten asks me. “Kind of like waking up after a power nap, no?”

  I resist the urge to say no back at her. First of all, I never take power naps. If I put my head down when the sun is still shining, I just pass out and slobber on the pillow. Second, what I really feel is groggy and disoriented; I don’t sense even a trace of empowerment.

  I am tempted to tell her that I won’t be able to fully answer her question until I go for a full year without howling at the moon or running down the street naked when I hear the sound of a cell phone ringing.

  I close my eyes to let my head clear a little bit more.

  “Did you find out anything useful?” I ask Van Guten.

  She doesn’t answer. I open my eyes and realize she has left the room. I appreciate her deep concern for my well-being. I’m probably just jealous that once again she looks beautiful and completely together in yet another outfit that probably costs enough to buy three new starters for my Miata. I get up and stretch my back, then gather my purse to head to the elevator bank.

  I hear a phone ring from down the hall and get very still. A minute later my clothes are still on and I’m not howling at the moon—or the sun, since it’s not lunchtime yet. Maybe it’s the sound of an oven timer that is the secret trigger Dr. Van Guten has imbedded in my psyche.

  Good thing I don’t cook much.

  28

  “AUNT KRISTEN, I like my new Barbie doll a lot.”

  “You do?”

  “A lot! I really do. Her name is Kristen.”

  That throws me for a loop. I thought the doll’s name was Barbie. Can you do that? Can you give a doll that already has a name another name? Could GI Joe become GI Jerry or Barry? Could the Incredible Hulk become the Incredible Larry? And do I want my name attached to a plastic doll that is persona non grata in my sister’s house?

  “So where’d you come up with the name Kristen?”

  “It’s your name, silly.”

  “My name isn’t silly, it’s Kristen.”

  She thinks that is very funny and squeals with delight. I’m glad one person in the universe finds me clever and amusing.

  “So you really do like the doll I got you?” I ask.

  “The mostest of all the presents I got for my birthday.”

  I’m about to ask her if she is hiding in her closet so she can play with her forbidden Kristen doll without getting in trouble with her mom, but she quickly tells me bye and says that Mommy wants to talk to me. Uh oh.

  “I’m sorry, Little Sis,” Kaylen says to me.

  “What are you talking about this time?” I ask with an exagger-ated sigh.

  Why can’t I just be gracious? Kaylen has no time for my sparring today and stays on topic.

  “Honestly, Kristen, I was pretty rotten to you. And I want you to forgive me.”

  “No big biggie—you are forgiven.”

  “It’s just that we had wanted to keep Kendra away from certain things, and Barbie was one of them.”

  She yammers on for fifteen minutes, explaining in detail again what it does to a woman’s psyche when she is objectified by men. There are a few times when I think she is actually retracting her apology, and a few times when I think she is a card-carrying member of NOW, about to march on Washington to campaign for equal rights. Some of it makes sense; some of it is garbage. Most of the time I’m really not paying attention. Didn’t we go over this last night?

  I finally interrupt. “So were you wanting to apologize, Kaylen, or to enlighten me about the dangers of the fashion doll industry and its impact on the psychological development of the modern pre-adolescent?”

  She hesitates long enough that I know my question hit the mark. Ha. It sounded pretty smart, too. I have to get back to my master’s degree.

  “To apologize. And also because I’m worried about Klarissa.” Her tone makes me fully attentive. “You too?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I didn’t know you were worried. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve been out-and-out worried,” I say, “but something is definitely going on with her. You know Warren broke up with her?”

  “Yeah. But do you think that is really what’s eating at her?”

  Rats. I thought I might have the inside skinny for once.

  “Hard to say,” I respond. “I never figured they would actually make it to the altar. But they have been together for most of the last five years. That’s got to hurt.”

  “Has it been that long?” Kaylen asks in disbelief. “I am getting older. Well, you too, I guess!” Go ahead and tell me I’m thirty if it makes you feel better.

  We talk another five minutes about Klarissa and Warren and Kendra and how I’m personally handling the pressure of working on a
high-profile murder case. That slows the conversation down considerably. I finally start to beg off because I’ve got to get something done today. While in a non-hypnotic state of consciousness and fully clothed.

  “Hey, before you run,” Kaylen interjects, “did you say that Warren broke up with Klarissa?”

  “Yeah. For a hot young squeeze.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Klarissa.”

  “That’s weird. Warren called Jimmy and said that he was worried about Klarissa, too, and that it wasn’t just because she broke up with him.”

  “Well, maybe he was trying to save face for Klarissa,” I say.

  “Yeah, maybe,” she says, “But he’s always been a little more interested in his own face.”

  “That and his teeth,” I say with a laugh. “But then again, he was the one that called Jimmy to express concern. That indicates at least a little other-centeredness on his part.”

  “Good point,” she says.

  “I love you, Sis, but got to go,” I say.

  “I love you, too.”

  I put my cell phone back in a leather sleeve I wear next to my Beretta. I look at my landline with its message light flashing. Better start calling people back.

  • • •

  Before I hit the replay button on my phone, I stand up, stretch, roll my neck, and throw a couple imaginary punches. I step outside of my cube to see what’s happening in our detective warren. Someone has put a yellow Post-it note on the carpeted wall of my office space.

  DETECTIVE CONNER—YOU’VE REALLY GOT TO STOP SLEEPING ON THE JOB. NOT THAT BEING AWAKE HAS DONE YOU MUCH GOOD EITHER. YOU THINK YOU’RE SO HOT RUNNING AROUND WITH THE “BOYS” AND RUNNING THAT BIG MOUTH OF YOURS. I THINK YOU MUST LIKE MAKING A FOOL OF YOURSELF.

  What the heck? Okay, Don and Martinez gave me a hard time about being hypnotized, but this is just too weird. Whenever a detective show includes a note as part of the storyline, the note is always from the bad guy to the good guys and leaves clues. But here I’m getting trash-talked by a colleague.

  29

  April 30, 3:30 p.m.

  MAYBE SHE’LL BE there. I’d like to talk to her. I think I’ll go just in case. Even if she has been abjectly cruel. It’s not her turn . . . yet. But oh, when it is her turn, the kid gloves are coming off. I picked up an anatomy book at Barnes & Noble. I already have some new ideas . . .

  Not that she’ll have any hint of that, before I reveal it. The next time I see her I’m going to behave with the utmost decorum. I will be pleasant, but unobtrusive. No more asking her out. I’ll figure a way to get her alone later.

  Asking her out again? I wouldn’t go out with her if she crawled across a field of broken glass to beg me! And yet I can’t deny the appealing idea of it.

  How have I let this girl get to me like this? I knew I wanted to meet her, but I never dreamed she could become . . . special. And how has she repaid the honor of my attentions? I’ve never been treated so terribly. At least not since I escaped from the land of the walking dead.

  Letting this go on, allowing her to be so disrespectful . . . I’m behaving no better than that guy who let his wife walk out on him. I will suffer her only a little while longer. My system demands I withstand her abuse for now.

  I’ve survived a lot more attempted oppression and humiliation than she could ever generate. When you were once a prisoner of war—and every day of my life was war, from the time my mother went away until my great escape—you expect to be treated badly. But outside the electric fence, you expect courtesy and cooperation. In my case, I demand it. If she doesn’t start being nice to me in a hurry, it really is going to be her turn sooner than I planned.

  But no matter how hard I try, I just can’t stay mad at her.

  An elliptical machine and rack of weights and bench can only help me relieve so much pressure. I feel like my entire body is throbbing to start again . . .

  30

  I’M TRYING TO look as casual as I possibly can, but I’m running across the church parking lot to my AA meeting in a downpour. And I’m almost ten minutes late. That started when my sporty little Miata wouldn’t.

  The precinct garage was full this morning so I parked in the back lot, which is completely flat, so there was no way to roll my car backward and pop the clutch to get it started. I ended up having two uniformed officers push my car while running as fast as they could. Because of the haphazard way the CPD parks—somebody needs to be handing out some tickets back there—I didn’t want to maneuver half a city block in reverse, which doesn’t require as much speed, so they had to push me almost 100 feet for me to get enough momentum to jerk my car to a start from first gear. How embarrassing. One of them was actually pretty cute. Where were Jimmy and Dell when I needed them most?

  The problem was exacerbated because there are six plainclothes officers in three unmarked squad cars assigned to follow and watch me tonight, so my little parking lot episode will surely make the rounds in the office tomorrow. Great. Another yellow note is sure to follow.

  I guess that under hypnosis I told Van Guten that Jonathan had indeed said that he had just returned to town. I’m still skeptical. First of all, who cares that he said it? To be running free this long he’s obviously a good liar. It may just have been part of his cover story. Secondly, I’m guessing there are a hundred thousand people who are new to our happy little metropolitan area over the past six months. Not all of them, admittedly, attend AA meetings. But this still doesn’t narrow down our search that much. Third, the Cutter Shark has never returned to the same city twice. Now having grown up in Chicago—if Jonathan is telling the truth—and never having killed people here, that would make returning to Chicago different than returning to San Antonio. But still . . .

  Okay, I admit, Van Guten likes his age, the main points of his story, and his physical description as related by me. She let the task force know that there are eleven additional points of convergence she has identified between Jonathan and our killer. Couldn’t that be a little like six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon?

  Everyone around the table was unanimous that I wouldn’t be attending this particular AA meeting solo again. I didn’t like it but I didn’t argue. So tonight I am wearing a wire and have a cadre of bodyguards close at hand. I hope the wire is waterproof.

  I walk down the half flight of steps into the now familiar basement of Saint Bart’s. I’ve also started attending another AA meeting at Holy Family, a large Catholic church. It might even be a cathedral or basilica. There they put the chairs in rows and we all face forward and look at whoever is speaking. You have to walk up front to share. There are usually more than a hundred people there. The meeting room at Saint Bart’s is a lot smaller, so we always sit in a circle and can get a good look at everyone else attending, unless they are to our immediate left or right. I don’t think we’ve ever had more than twenty at one meeting.

  There are four empty chairs, so I slide into the one closest to the door. I do a quick visual tour. No Jonathan tonight. Rats. Housewife is back. I can’t remember her name. Brittany? Nope. Bethany? I think so. She is sharing and makes a dramatic pause while I get situated, not looking too happy about the interruption.

  The spotlight back on her—and not too tough to pull off with that pushup thing she has going—she continues, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t love Jeff anymore. I know he’s a great guy and is a good father and husband. He definitely doesn’t deserve what I’m putting him through. He thinks I’m having an affair. And to be honest, the thought has crossed my mind. If the right opportunity had come along, I probably would have already.”

  She takes a deep breath and freezes. Is she a great actress or is she feeling emotion?

  “But my real problem is vodka,” she croaks out. “I didn’t even drink until I was thirty. We went to an office party and I had my first Cosmopolitan. All the girls I drink with now love them because they’re sweet and go down so easy. Funny, but I don’t need the Kool-Aid or whatever
they mix in there. I just like the alcohol. It’s ironic, but Jeff always wanted me to loosen up and have a drink with him. Well, I’ve loosened up. Now I don’t know how to screw the lid back on.

  “I guess I lied when I started speaking tonight. I haven’t been sober for two weeks. I slammed two martinis on the way over here. I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I don’t figure something out, I’m going to lose my husband and kids. The problem is, I’m not sure I really care.”

  She stops talking, folds her arms, and stares at the black-and-white checkered tile floor. A single tear rolls down her cheek. And then another. A waterfall follows. But she doesn’t change expressions. Instead of looking sad, she looks angry while tears stream down her face. The kindly old woman—I have got to remember her first name—who always gives me a hug, stands up and walks over to sit beside her. She embraces her, but Bethany is not responsive. She continues to stare at the floor with tears running onto her lightweight, V-neck blouse.

  I feel bad for the judgmentalism and cynicism I’ve felt toward her. I don’t think you can fake whatever she is feeling. Our group leader, Darren, says, “Patricia, you obviously do care or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Who is Patricia?

  I’m sitting next to Walter who sees my confusion. He leans over and whispers, “Before you got here she told us she was lying about her name. It’s Patricia.”

  Darren spends the next few minutes telling the group that acknowledgment is the first step toward recovery.

  “We’re proud of you, Patricia,” he says. “You’re on the road to recovery. Do you believe that?”

  She keeps her head down and doesn’t respond to him. What is Patricia feeling? Anger? Remorse? Guilt? Numbness? Has she told us the real story yet? It kind of rang true tonight, but who knows.