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

by M. K. Gilroy

  A few more people share, but the energy isn’t there. We end our session thirty minutes early. I wonder what the six eavesdropping detectives think of Bethany . . . I mean Patricia. I’m ready to head home, but on sudden impulse, I step forward and cut her off at the door.

  “Patricia?”

  She looks up. Her eyes are red and puffy. She looks at me first with defiance and then softens. “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  “What do you think?”

  I admit that was a dumb question.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “I guess I’m just making sure you can make it home okay.”

  She starts crying again. I hesitantly put an arm around her and she really starts blubbering and ends up putting her head on my shoulder. Now she’s just plain snotting on me. Her mouth is right next to the tiny microphone tucked into my blouse top and I’m guessing she’s blowing out the eardrums of whoever is listening in. Even with a no-show from Jonathan, I don’t think I’m going home early after all.

  31

  April 30, 11:58 p.m.

  I LIKED THE meeting they held at the Christian Science Reading Room. The walk to Wacker was convenient and the people were nice and friendly. The leader, Marty, was actually pretty funny. Mr. Sober But Spunky, he called himself. He always made me wish I actually had a drinking problem and belonged there.

  Oh well. I won’t be back. Something’s off. And listening to my intuition has never steered me wrong.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. They must’ve figured out where I meet my girlfriends because I’m pretty sure they’re staking me out. Some woman was paying way too much attention to everyone who walked in. I’ve never seen anyone at an AA meeting take notes. She looked at me a couple times. I bet she was a cop.

  Well, well, well.

  I considered her and what her presence might mean. Maybe if my life had started off differently, I would have taken a different path. I know I could have been a great surgeon. I find human flesh intoxicating. I find something new and fascinating every time I do my work. But the therapists confused me when I was younger. Sometimes they wanted me to accept myself. Sometimes they wanted me to know that I had serious problems and needed to control my feelings and impulses. I was in a Christian group home for a while. That was even more confusing. Every day they told me God loves me and every day they told me He punishes sinners.

  Which is it? Accept or change? Heaven or hell? Just because they are confused doesn’t mean I have to be confused.

  I can’t remember if I was eighteen or nineteen when I was set free. Not from the prison they called the Colorado Home for Troubled Youth that I was in at the time. But in my mind. I woke up one day and realized that only one person’s judgment of me mattered. Mine. Not some quack psychiatrist with a lot of letters behind his name and pretty frames with fancy letters and seals on the walls of his office. I still hate the guy who always wanted me to talk about my mom. She was none of his business.

  I like to watch people. Some try to rise above the strictures of society and religion, and even family. But I’ve not personally met anyone with my courage to be free, to stand alone. I sometimes wonder if it was becoming free that set me apart from others, made me superior . . . or if I was born superior and that’s why I was able to become free.

  No one can ever take away the person I’ve become. I don’t care if the FBI, CIA, the Chicago Mafia, and the US Marine Corps all think they can find me . . . I’m untouchable. Because I know when to listen to my intuition.

  So I won’t go back to the Christian Science Reading Room. I’ll miss Mr. Sober But Spunky. AA meetings might be off the table completely. That makes me feel a bit sad.

  Doesn’t mean they know everywhere I meet my girlfriends.

  I wonder if she’ll be there . . .

  THE MONTH OF MAY

  What potent blood hath modest May.

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  32

  “DO YOU REALIZE how much overtime you cost us last night?”

  Zaworski is angry. Real angry. He’s not making eye contact, which is a bad sign. It’s only 10:00 a.m. and he’s already taken off his suit jacket. He’s either madder than I think he is or he’s forgotten to put on his deodorant. Dark semicircles of sweat have formed on his white dress shirt, which isn’t tucked in quite right. It crosses my mind to compliment his tie, but I doubt that will distract him. It’s an ugly tie anyway.

  “Sir, I didn’t anticipate that the team would stay with me once the AA meeting was over.”

  “And why would you not anticipate that, Detective Conner?”

  “I, uh—”

  “I’m not asking you,” he interrupts. “That was called a rhetorical question. Didn’t we say that we would stay with you all evening, no matter what? Are you saying that you think we don’t keep our promises? That I’m not a good and honest leader? Those were rhetorical questions, too.”

  “Sir, that’s not what I was implying. It’s just that Jonathan, or the man who calls himself Jonathan, didn’t show up.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t in the area. Doesn’t mean he isn’t using your new best friend to help him recruit a victim. Doesn’t mean I’m going to leave an officer in the field uncovered.”

  “Sir, I’m very sorry for keeping the watch team out until midnight and away from their homes and families. I’m sorry for the expense to the department.”

  “Midnight? Nice try, KC. How about 2:00 a.m.?”

  Did he just call me by the nickname I have hated and worked hard to expunge since the first time I heard it in kindergarten?

  “But what was I going to do, sir? She had been drinking and was in a total meltdown. I didn’t feel I had a choice. She was either going to kill people in a crash because of her hysterical crying or she was going to kill people in a crash because she was going to go out and do some more drinking.”

  “Or she was going to drive home and go to sleep.”

  Or that.

  “Are you always like this? Do you save kittens from trees and push beached whales back into the ocean?”

  I’m thinking about pointing out that there are no whales on the beaches of Lake Michigan, but he’s out of steam and actually smiles. Then he laughs. I’ve never seen Captain Zaworski laugh.

  “I can’t believe you went home with her to help her tell her husband what is going on in her life.”

  “I can’t either,” I say, laughing a little myself now, not because I think it’s funny but out of sheer relief for not being in trouble. Maybe not being in trouble. “But I figured I better help her keep things moving in the right direction.”

  “I’ve got to tell you, we were nervous. It felt like a trap.”

  “So I kept you up, too?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Reynolds, Squires, and I monitored the transmitter together all night. That’s why I haven’t decided whether to give you a good citizen award or fire you.”

  “I kept the FBI up until 2:00 a.m., too? And Don?” Uh oh.

  “I have no clue when Reynolds and Van Guten went home. They were still here when Don and I left.”

  “Wow. I feel special.”

  He’s not smiling anymore. He leans back in his leather chair and tries to stifle a yawn. As he stretches, I see dark rings staining his shirt at the underarms. I guess he didn’t put on anti-perspirant today.

  “Maybe we’re all getting a little too desperate,” he says. “Nothing else substantial has turned up and something just felt right about this lead. The others felt it, too. Martinez, Blackshear, Konkade, and I don’t know how many others, were listening from their homes all night. The FBI provided a secure online site where everyone could plug in.”

  Oh man. How many times did I go to the bathroom? This is turning into humiliation on top of humiliation.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I should have said what I was thinking. I really don’t need a protective patrol.”

  “You don’t do AA meetings at Saint Bartholomew solo, Conner. You got me?”

  I nod,
but my mind is on last night’s conversation. I’m backtracking and trying to remember everything Patricia and Jeff, her husband, and I talked about half the night.

  “If Blackshear and Martinez were up, that means the Third Precinct was dialed in, too. Anyone else listening that I should be aware of, sir?”

  He frowns and then starts to smile for the second time in the eighteen-plus months that he’s been my boss. He says nothing.

  “DC?” I ask.

  He shakes his head yes. Now I’m too numb to be any more embarrassed. I get up from the chair in front of his desk, pivot on the toes of my shoes, and head for my cubicle. I see a lot of sleepy and unhappy faces glancing up at me on my way there. Don’s chair is still empty. He’s going to be a grouch. He’s the only cop I know who claims to get eight hours of sleep every night.

  I plop onto my seat. There’s a sticky note in the middle of my computer screen. Someone—and I am going to figure out whose handwriting this is—has scribbled another note:

  DETECTIVE CONNER: MY WIFE SWEARS SHE’S IN A BOOK CLUB AND THAT’S WHERE SHE GOES EVERY MONDAY NIGHT. BUT I’M SUSPICIOUS . . . I THINK SHE’S HITTING THE BOTTLE AND SPILLING HER GUTS AT AA MEETINGS. I HEAR YOU MAKE HOUSE CALLS. HOW MUCH DO YOU CHARGE FOR: (A) GETTING HER OFF THE BOOZE; (B) MAKING HER FALL IN LOVE WITH ME AGAIN; AND (C) INVITING US TO YOUR CHURCH. PLEASE ITEMIZE, AS I’M ON A COP’S SALARY!

  What a jerk. Better not show how angry I feel right now or there’s going to be a lot more of this coming my way. This is yellow note number three; I’m pretty sure that makes it a non-isolated event stream.

  My cell phone buzzes. A name flashes up. It’s my new BFF.

  • • •

  What a night I spent at Jeff and Patricia’s house. Not sure which of the southwest suburbs we were actually in, but the houses were incredible, all on acre-and-a-half lots—and within a few miles of the city. The guard at the security hut opened the gate for Patricia and me to drive through, and I thought I had entered a new world. When you grow up in an 1,800-square-foot house with a half basement finished to accommodate laundry, and rec and guest rooms, then spend the next four years in a cramped college dorm with two roommates, and currently live in a two-bedroom apartment, you don’t have adequate experience to estimate the size of houses like the ones in this neighborhood. Six or seven thousand square feet? Ten? Fifteen? No idea.

  Jeff was confused that Patricia had brought home a friend from bunko night. He was more confused when Patricia had the three of us sit down on love seats and started chatting about her drinking. The hard thing for him to understand was how Patricia could be unhappy with all that he provided for her. I’ve never been in a long-term relationship, much less a marriage, but I’m guessing Jeff needs to learn something about his wife’s needs. I’m not making excuses for Patricia hitting singles’ bars, but he was clueless—and that’s a red flag. Maybe he was so busy providing for her that he was too tired and preoccupied to notice her.

  It took a couple hours, but Patricia finally croaked out that her life hadn’t been right since her dad died. “We disagreed and fought over everything. I couldn’t do anything right. I’m not sure I even loved him. But he was my dad. And when he died, there was no way to make anything right. When my mom looks at me, she tells me she loves me, but I get the feeling she blames me in part for his death. She said he was going to talk to me and apologize for some things. I don’t know how true that was. I suspect maybe she wanted me to feel better about him and me. But it made me feel worse. I had no intention of ever talking to him again.”

  Heavy stuff. Jeff had stopped talking by then. He just watched and listened with a slack jaw. I can’t remember much of anything I said to her. When we walked to the front door I was shocked when she hugged me and thanked me for everything I did for her. What did I do besides listen? I hugged her back and did the only thing I could think of—I did what Jimmy would do. I held hands with both of them and prayed for Jeff and Patricia. I’m not sure what Jeff thought about that, but he thanked me and there might have even been a tear in his eye. Patricia started blubbering again and held on to my neck for another five minutes.

  That poor sound technician. Just thinking about it again gives me a new headache.

  I’m not sure if attending AA meetings is going to help us find a killer. But it did allow me to meet someone I could help. That’s a good feeling. Although Walter’s wife still hasn’t taken him back.

  Dear God, help Walter meet somebody that can help him, too.

  33

  MY HANDS ARE on my knees and I’m breathing hard after a tough workout. That’s when it happens.

  He comes in fast, quiet, and furious. Within a nanosecond of sensing someone behind me, he has his arms around me in a ferocious bear hug. I am going to stomp on the inside of his foot, but in a flash he lifts me just high enough to get my feet off the ground but not high enough for me to kick back and up toward his crotch. I am too slow anyway. In a single move he stutter-steps and loops a leg forward and trips me.

  I am still thinking clearly on the way down and try to snap my head back and catch him on the bridge of his nose. He seems to be waiting for that move and I miss him. I’m relieved my head doesn’t hit hard when we land on the ground. The fall still hurts like crazy and I can barely breathe with his arms wrapped around me in a vise-like grip . . . and that’s before he digs his chin in the center of my trapezium muscle. In spite of myself, I cry out when he digs into the sensitive nerve cluster. I buck and thrash, trying to create space so I can squirm forward and out of his suffocating hug. His chin in my back keeps me pinned close to the ground. His hug keeps me from using my hands. I know I have to think of something quick or I will be utterly helpless in a matter of seconds—if I’m not already.

  I try the head-snap again. Not even close to the mark. Did he just laugh?

  I inch my knees forward with every fiber of strength I can muster to see if I can edge out of his hold. This guy is strong. He puts more weight on me. I am seeing stars. His 200 pounds (and some change) are now doing most of the work of keeping me pinned down as he slides his right forearm up to the side of my neck. I’m pretty sure he is looking for my carotid artery to apply a sleeper hold. I am about to panic. He is planning to take me as a prisoner. I flail and try to muster a scream.

  A whistle blows and my attacker immediately lets go. I roll over, gasping for air.

  “Conner, you are not on top of your game,” Soto says. I glance from him to my “attacker,” Soto’s trainee, Timmy. He’s even bigger than I thought.

  My breath is too ragged to say anything. Just as well. He’s right. I haven’t been back in my hand-to-hand combat sessions with Barry Soto, a CPD fight trainer, for at least two months. He’s the best. Every chance he gets, he reminds me that what we see in the movies isn’t the way fights really happen. They end up on the ground. Always. Fights always get your knees dirty. Either someone gets shot or knifed and goes down to stay—or two assailants engage and end up punching or kicking or wrestling each other until they are off their feet. Then the best grappler wins. Better know what you’re doing if you want to survive. There’s a reason high school and college wrestlers dominate in the MMA—mixed martial arts—pay-per-view fights. Violent stuff I’ve only watched a few times for training purposes—but they are definitely reflective of how mean real-life fights can be. I’ve investigated the aftermath of more than a few of them.

  “Where you been?” Soto asks.

  “Busy. Too busy.”

  “Too busy to stay in shape?”

  “Hey,” I snap back. “I’m in shape.”

  “I don’t care what you look like in your bikini,” he answers back with a sneer. “I want you to be in the kind of shape that keeps you alive.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” I return. “Felt more like you were trying to have your goon kill me.”

  “May feel that way to you, but if it was the truth,” Soto responds, “you’d be dead right now. Timmy’s pretty good at that.”
<
br />   “Wow. Where’s the love, Mr. Barry?”

  I can’t help it. If I met someone on the force when I was a kid tagging along behind my dad, they’ve got a title in front of one of their names. Sergeant. Lieutenant. Captain. Mr.

  “Hey, princess, you said you wanted a tough, no-holds-barred workout, and that’s what I gave you.”

  He gives me a friendly squeeze on the shoulder and laughs. Soto is probably sixty years old but he makes most of us look like softies. He’s old-school. Very few weights, but tons of push-ups, lunges, and pull-ups and about a hundred isometric and plyometric floor and step exercises designed to torture and humble. I do Pilates with a work-out DVD or at Planet Fitness every now and then. Whoever thinks they’ve discovered some new training technique never read the old Charles Atlas books and definitely hasn’t been under the tutelage of Barry Soto.

  He believes that all you need for a good workout is a floor and gravity. A wall can be a nice addition. A bar or punching bag is pure luxury. Bring your own towel.

  He’s probably not five foot six, but I’ve seen him put guys that are thirty years younger and fifty pounds heavier flat on their back on a mat before they know what hit them. He’s probably pushing a hundred and eighty pounds. I doubt he has a thirty-inch waist. Lots of muscle and lots of hair—except on his completely bald dome.

  “By the way, have you met Timmy?” he asks enthusiastically, nodding to my attacker.

  “Once or twice. Three times, now.”

  Timmy laughs and Soto smiles. Then his face drops into a frown.

  “Hey, Kristen, seriously, you need to spend more time over here. People talk to me. I know you’re into the serious stuff that’s out there, and I want to be able to take at least a little credit for keeping you alive. I owe that to your dad.”

  • • •

  I’ve showered, changed back into work clothes, and am getting ready to walk out the door of the gym and grab a sub on the first floor that I’ll eat at my cubicle. Soto and Timmy have put me through a grueling combat workout with a focus on handwork. Soto’s given me a pair of old-fashioned spring-loaded handgrips to use at my desk three or four times a day. He thinks I’m out of fighting shape. And I have to admit, I can feel muscles in my abs and legs that I forgot I had.