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

by M. K. Gilroy

  “You know researchers have found that gripping exercises lower blood pressure,” Soto said as I tucked them in my purse. Do I look like I have high blood pressure?

  As I walk out the gym door, I about bump into Timmy.

  “Sorry about that,” I say as I move to my left to walk around him.

  He slides to his right and blocks my path. Does Mr. Barry have more of a workout planned for me?

  I move right and he slides left. Okay. “How about a little dinner tonight?” he asks. “I promise to be more gentle.”

  Timmy doesn’t mess around with small talk. He’d have been a real hit in the Stone Age. Club a woman on the head and drag her back to his cave for dinner by candlelight. “Sorry, I have plans tonight,” I answer. Dell has taught me to be clear.

  Can’t misunderstand that.

  “Then how about tomorrow night?”

  Okay. Maybe you can.

  Were I to say yes, I’m guessing he’d pick me up by vine and we’d swing to his home in the trees and among the apes. “I really can’t, Timmy.”

  “Are you already seeing somebody?”

  This guy is not subtle.

  “Well, yes, I kind of am.”

  “‘Kind of ’ doesn’t sound real serious to me. Why don’t you think about it and give me a call if you change your mind.” He hands me his business card, like I don’t know where to find him. I’m flabbergasted. I say nothing, move to my left, and finally unimpeded, head down the hall to the main atrium of our precinct. I feel his eyes on me the whole way. Yuck.

  If I was faster on my feet I would have asked him if he was best friends with another deaf man I know named Dell.

  • • •

  I get the roasted turkey breast on whole wheat with tomatoes, lettuce, lots of onion—doesn’t matter, I don’t have a date tonight—pickles, banana peppers, cucumber, spinach, and spicy mustard. I skip the chips for a cellophane bag filled with exactly seven dried-out carrots. I pull a twenty-four-ounce bottled water out of a cooler. I’ve got a lot of extra change in my wallet and decide to get rid of it. I don’t think the cashier or the thirty people behind me like it.

  I still feel a little shaky from the workout, but eschew the elevator and jog up the five flights of stairs. On the way up I feel a pang of guilt about Dell. Not so much that I forbade him to come to Kendra’s birthday party, but that I just used him to get rid of someone I don’t want to go out with. I’ve been honest with Dell from day one, and this is the first time that I feel like I’ve used him.

  A folder is sitting on my chair with a sticky note on it.

  Need to see you ASAP! – Reynolds

  There’s ASAP and then there’s ASAP. Which one is this? More to the point, do I or don’t I eat my sandwich first?

  I wolf down my sandwich, clean off my hands with a wet wipe that I keep in my desk drawer, and then head toward the small conference room he and Van Guten use as a temporary office when they’re slumming it and work out of our precinct. Two cubicles away I stop. I can taste the onion big time. I go back and pop a tiny breath mint in my mouth. My sinuses are instantly cleared. I crunch it and it is gone in a heartbeat. I shake two more from the container, vow not to chew, and walk toward Reynolds’ work area. I stop again. I forgot the folder. How hard can I make this?

  Finally, I’m at his door, everything in order. “You wanted to see me, Major?”

  “Call me Austin.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say with a salute. If he was up until the wee hours last night on my account, it doesn’t show. He looks as together and handsome as he always does.

  “Hey, sorry to just leave you a file and note on your desk but you weren’t around and I wanted to make sure I got your attention.”

  “No big biggie. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Austin?”

  “No, my name is Kristen.”

  “Cute. You going to call me Austin?”

  “I’ll have to think that one over. So what have you got for me?”

  “An invite for dinner on Friday night.”

  “Is this an official powwow?”

  “Nope. An old-fashioned date.”

  I’m stunned for a second. First Timmy, now the major? Did I put on some sort of male-attracting pheromone perfume this morning? It’s working. “You know what, Major Reynolds? I’m going to have to get back to you on that one, too.”

  “If it’d make it easier for you to come up with an affirmative answer,” he replies with a grin, “we could call this an official powwow.”

  I look at him closely, pondering. Square jaw. Brown hair parted on the side. Wide shoulders—and not just because of the cut of his suit coat. White straight teeth—but not whitened and polished to an exaggerated brilliance like Warren. I have to admit, Major Reynolds is a looker. And to my surprise, he’s noticed me enough to ask me on a date. Is this a good idea?

  “I’m still going to have to get back to you.”

  “Okay,” he said with his head tilted and eyes squinted, the kind of expression on his face usually reserved for studying exotic animals at the zoo. I guess he doesn’t get turned down very often.

  “What about the file you left?”

  “I think that’s just my expense accounts from the last month. I needed a prop. My visit to your cubicle generated a lot of interest.”

  Oh, great. Exactly what I needed after last night’s escapade.

  34

  I GET ASKED out some. But not that much. Today it was Timmy and Austin asking me on a date within an hour of each other. Plus I had two missed calls from Dell seeing if I’d had a change of heart since we last talked. Does the guy have no shame? Or is he someone I need to run a background check on? Heck, maybe he is the Cutter Shark. That would be a sure ticket to the CPD Hall of Shame for me. Then there was a missed call from Klarissa. She left a message to set up coffee on Saturday morning before Kendra’s last soccer game. Finally, Patricia called to ask me to dinner with her and Jeff. I am suddenly quite the popular girl.

  No one called with any leads on my murder case.

  • • •

  I love Greek food. Lamb, big and fluffy saffron rice, lots of garlic yogurt, salad with some tabouli on top, feta cheese, kalamata olives, and lots of pita bread. Ahhhhh.

  I’m sitting across the table from Jeff and Patricia and struggling to make eye contact. For one thing, I’m keeping an eye on my food. But there’s also the deal that they want me to be Patricia’s AA sponsor. I never thought to tell them that I’m not actually a real AA member. It’s Tuesday night. They wanted to take me to dinner before the weekly AA meeting at Saint Bart’s. I’ve been planning to skip this week so I—and my protective army—can go to bed early. I’ve been going to Saint Bart’s on Tuesday nights and then Holy Family on Thursdays or Fridays. Throw in make-up time with Klarissa and a maybe-date with Major Reynolds, and this is getting complicated.

  “So what do you say?” Jeff asks.

  What was the question? Focus, Kristen.

  “Will you be Patricia’s sponsor?”

  Shouldn’t Patricia be asking me if I’d be her sponsor? I’m not sure if it’s proper for him to speak on her behalf. Personal responsibility is a big deal in AA. But more to the point, despite reading the Big Book, as a nonalcoholic I’m not qualified to be an alcoholic’s sponsor. I just read participant materials, so I’m not sure if you have go to classes or do something else to earn some special certificate to be a leader or sponsor.

  “Jeff . . . Patricia, I’ve got to be honest with you.”

  “Don’t say no, Kristen,” Patricia pleads. She has a tear in her eye.

  “The thing is I just don’t know if I’m qualified.” How’s that for honesty?

  “I feel like you saved my life the night you were at our house,” Patricia says. “And we connected. When we talked I could see something in your eyes.”

  That my eyes were getting sleepy by midnight?

  “I told you how I was lost without my dad and even though you didn’t say anything I
could tell you understood.”

  Well, I’ll admit, I do know a little about missing a dad . . .

  “I knew I had met someone that connected to what I was going through.”

  Now that’s pushing it . . . “The thing is, Patricia,” I break in, “I’ve never been a sponsor. Heck, I’ve only attended AA myself for a month or so. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “But haven’t you had a sponsor?” Jeff asks.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s not exactly?” he asks.

  “That would be the same as no.”

  He pauses with a puzzled expression but then shakes his head dismissively and soldiers on. “Well, whatever you are doing sure seems to work. You look like you’re doing great. I’d never guess in a million years you have a drinking problem. You are doing okay, aren’t you, Kristen?”

  “I’m not sure everybody would agree with that,” I respond. “But I can honestly say I haven’t had a drink since attending AA.”

  “Well, what more is there?” he says as he slaps the tabletop, making our glasses jump. “You’re doing great and you and Patricia connect. What more could we want in a sponsor?”

  “He’s right, Kristen,” Patricia says. “Just say yes.”

  I look at my watch. The Saint Bart’s meeting starts in fifteen minutes.

  “Let me try to figure this out,” I say. “But you have to get moving, Patricia, or you’ll be late for the meeting. I have to head home and catch some z’s.”

  “Nope,” Patricia smiles triumphantly. “You can catch up on your sleep later. You’re going with me tonight. And we’re driving together. Now give Jeff your car keys. He’ll pay the waitress. And we can hustle on over and get there in time.”

  Jeff just beams.

  “Unless Jeff can push and steer a car while popping the clutch at the same time, he may want to stay with his Mercedes. Though I would consider a straight-up swap if the CarFax report on his car is okay.”

  “Just give me the keys,” he says with a wink. “I’ve got it all under control.”

  I hesitate. He may have it under control, but I don’t. I can’t go to Saint Bart’s alone. How do I get out of this?

  “Kristen, just give him the keys,” Patricia says. “He’s got a friend near here who is going to put a new starter in your Nissan.”

  “It’s a Mazda,” I say. “And I am definitely short on cash this month, so I can’t really handle that bill right now. And I really can’t go to AA. I need sleep more than the group tonight.”

  “I know you like your space and keep people at arm’s length,” she says. Ouch. Is it that obvious? “But this is something Jeff and I already decided we would do for you. We aren’t going to take your money.”

  “I can’t—”

  “We’re going to do this for you,” Patricia says with a firmness I haven’t heard before. “Jeff ’s getting a great deal and we want to do something small to say thank you for being there when we needed help the most. You know, you were a godsend. Honestly, I feel like a new person since last week. I feel like I’ve come out of a fog and started to get my life back. And I really need you to come with me tonight, even if you haven’t agreed to be my sponsor.”

  I protest some more, but resistance is pretty much futile. I have no clue what I might have said a week ago, but apparently it was the right thing. Probably the prayer. She does look like she’s stepped out of a fog. The way she and Jeff keep looking at each other, they are going to challenge Jimmy and Kaylen for Chicagoland Couple of the Year. This is a girl I couldn’t stand the first time I set eyes on her, yet after a couple conversations over the past seven days, I do think of her as a friend. Not best friends. But a friend. I’m going to have to figure out how to tell Jeff and Patricia that I’m not who they think I am. I’ll call Don tonight and ask for advice. Of course he’s going to tell me we have to deal with it in group briefings, and unfortunately, he’ll be right. No way can I blow my cover with civilians—they think I’m a secretary at an insurance agency—but now that a real relationship is established, I have a definite conflict of interest. No way can I keep this charade going.

  We drive over in near silence, light jazz playing softly. She asks if I like Rick Braun. I’ve never heard of him. But I like the song that’s on now. Jeff’s explained that if his friend can’t replace the starter in ninety minutes, I can borrow his Mercedes. Either way, Jeff will drive over to Saint Bart’s to pick up Patricia and leave a car with me to get home.

  We pull into a parking space with three minutes to spare. The door is on the side of the church and is at the bottom of five steps leading into the meeting room in a half-basement. We enter the hall and I make a quick left into the bathroom. I smooth my hair and pop another mint in my mouth. Between Greek food for dinner and raw onion on my sandwich at lunch, my breath could knock the flies off a trash truck. I wash my hands and splash a little water on my face.

  I push open the double doors into the meeting room and spot an open seat next to Patricia. I look over and give her an encouraging smile. But then I freeze. Jonathan is on the other side of the empty seat and thinks I am smiling at him. He gives a friendly wave and pats his hand on the chair. Kristen, why didn’t you call Don from the bathroom?

  Two hours ago all I was planning to do was have dinner with Jeff and Patricia Williams. I wasn’t planning to attend an AA meeting. I haven’t told anyone from the office I would be here. As bad as last Tuesday night was with Jonathan’s no-show and my marathon counseling session with Jeff and Patricia, this is going to be worse.

  I’m in direct violation of Captain Zaworski’s orders. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms I am not to attend Saint Bart’s without backup. I stop in my tracks. With an embarrassed grimace, I put my phone to my ear and pretend I’ve taken a call. I retrace my steps and exit the double doors. I figure I’ve got five minutes to get hold of the team before Jonathan, if he’s the Cutter Shark, gets suspicious and bolts. I walk into a stall and scroll down through my phone directory and hit Don’s number. Four rings and his voice announcement instructs me to leave a message. I do. Where are you, partner?

  I call Blackshear’s number next. Same procedure. I stick with task force members. Konkade. No answer. Martinez. No answer but a message prompt half in Spanish and half in English:

  “La próxima vez que estés sola, ya sabes a quién llamar. And baby, you know who you are.”

  I’m not even going to ask Don to translate that. I hang up and again leave no message. I hit Konkade’s home number. He’s not answering there either. I’m on a roll. Reynolds. Nada. He must be busy with his good buddy Virgil. Scalia. Nope. I sigh and punch in number seven on my speed dial. What the heck am I going to say to Zaworski? He doesn’t pick up. I don’t know if I’m more relieved or worried that everyone is offline at the moment.

  Van Guten? She’s not a cop but she’s a task force member. I punch in the ten numbers that begin with what I assume is a DC or Virginia area code. She picks up immediately.

  “Dr. Van Guten, how may I help you?”

  “It’s Kristen.” She doesn’t respond. “Detective Conner,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “This is going to be quick. I don’t have much time. I ended up going to the Saint Bart’s AA meeting tonight.”

  “Did you clear that with Reynolds and Zaworski?”

  “No time to explain. Jonathan’s here. And I’m solo.”

  “Detective Conner, this is highly irregular.”

  “Got to go.”

  I hang up. I flush the toilet and run water in the sink in case anyone is listening. I dry my hands, smooth my hair again, which is already perfectly smooth, and head back into the group setting.

  Patricia is sharing. She is beaming. Suddenly, she and everyone in the room are looking at me.

  “I’ve never met anyone so open and direct and honest,” she says.

  I realize she’s talking about me and I blush.

  “I can honestly say that for the first time in
months, really more than a year, I feel hope in life. We talked and laughed and cried and prayed. She helped me and Jeff get some issues on the table and I feel like I’m in love again.” She cried. I didn’t.

  She and I sit down at the same time. The old lady—is it Vivian?—who likes to hug everybody starts to clap. Then everyone is clapping. I’m sure my face is beet red. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Jonathan reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. I stiffen and take a quick breath of air. He feels my response and lets go.

  I dare to look over at him, wondering if I alarmed him. But he smiles and winks.

  • • •

  “Mom, I can’t talk right now. It’s not a good time.”

  “It’s never a good time.”

  “I know, Mom, but this time it really isn’t.”

  “Are you working?”

  Patricia, Jonathan, and Jack, who is subbing for Darren, our regular AA leader, are looking at me with bemusement.

  “I’m at a meeting.”

  I’ve been stalling. I had a ten-second conversation with Van Guten about an hour ago. Is that enough time to get backup assembled? It’s after rush hour, but you never know how long it will take to navigate Chicago traffic. I may be flying solo with a serial killer in minutes.

  “What meeting, honey?”

  “Mom, I promise I’ll call back tomorrow. I promise.”

  She sighs. That’s the break I need.

  “I love you,” I blurt out quickly. “Call you tomorrow. Promise.”

  I click the red button. I take my empty Styrofoam cup back over to the electric coffee percolator that looks like a prop from a ’50s movie. I’ve been chatting with Jack, Patricia, and Jonathan about Patricia’s breakthrough last Tuesday night. I hate this conversation but I have to keep Jonathan here as long as possible.