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

by M. K. Gilroy

“Well, it’s a little late for that. You are going to have to trust me on this one, Mom. You are right—there’s something wrong with Dell. But I’m not the one to help him.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t listened to you. You have a good time with Klarissa and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Don’t try to lay a guilt trip on me over this.”

  “What’d I say that makes you think I’d try to make you feel guilty? Now finish your time with Klarissa.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes. Klarissa is staring at me with a look of wonder on her face. I stick out my tongue at her.

  “Did Klarissa tell you she has gone out with someone new?” Mom asks.

  I look up sharply at my sister. The look of wonder is gone in a flash. She knows what’s up. She grabs the phone from my hand.

  “You promised not to say anything, Mom.”

  My mom says something to her that I can’t hear.

  “Okay, I love you, too. And Kristen says she loves you, too . . . even if she is mad.”

  She listens to Mom another minute and signs off by saying, “No, I think she is 100 percent right. And going to church doesn’t prove he’s a great guy. If she gets the creeps from him, it’s with reason. We’re running out of time here, Mom, and I want to talk to Kristen a little more.”

  She hangs up.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Now tell me what gives. I thought we were best buds. Why are you keeping secrets from me?”

  “I’m not keeping secrets from my best bud,” she says. “First of all, I went out with somebody one time. So that doesn’t even earn a mention—though there are a lot of guys out there that will give you the creeps! But the main thing is after going out with Warren—well, mostly Warren—for five years it has become a bigger deal in Mom’s mind than it was mine.”

  “I can’t imagine. Mom fixating on something?”

  She laughs and adds, “And she certainly can’t keep a secret.”

  “Nope. You don’t even have to threaten to waterboard her and she blabs everything.”

  “By the way,” she says, “I almost told you I had another date—and a slightly better one with a second guy—but you were too busy telling me about your intrepid and handsome FBI agent boyfriend. I was too jealous to interrupt. I want details on how the date went last night. You don’t think I had forgotten, did you?”

  “One can hope.”

  “By the way, I think what you said to Mom was right on. But you still have to apologize and tell her you love her.”

  I sigh again and look at my watch. I can’t believe we’ve shot the breeze for an hour and a half. My Americano is long gone. Klarissa takes another sip from her half-filled cup. This is like gulping for her. Her latte has to be ice cold by now. I like my coffee like I like my clues: hot. At the moment I have neither.

  Klarissa tells me about her two post-Warren dates. I just laugh. I could never keep up with Klarissa even if I wanted to. Guys flock to her like Capistrano swallows to . . . well, I guess to Capistrano.

  “You really okay with breaking up with Warren and everything?” I ask her. “I feel like I’ve been so preoccupied with this case that I haven’t been a very good listener.”

  “Kristen, you’ve never been the greatest listener even before you landed on the Cutter Shark case.”

  She’s right and we both chuckle.

  “But I’m definitely okay on the Warren breakup,” she continues. “I should have let go and moved on years ago. We weren’t going anywhere. We’re too much alike, I guess.”

  “Hey, who broke up with whom?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Well, I thought you told me he broke up with you for a hot little number who does research for the news desk. Kaylen says Warren called Jimmy and he says you broke up with him.”

  “Warren called Jimmy? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Unless he or Kaylen have suddenly become pathological liars, then indeed he did. However, I probably wasn’t supposed to say anything, so forget that I told you.”

  “Oh, so it’s okay for my sisters to talk behind my back?”

  “Well, I think Mom was involved in the conversation, too, so yeah, that probably makes it okay.”

  “Ha ha.” She pauses and furrows her brow and then says, “I can’t believe that jerk called my family.”

  So she isn’t as over him as she wants us all to think. Letting go and moving on is always easier said than done in life.

  “Well, you and he did date for five years. And for the record, I don’t think you two are anything alike.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” she says with a sniffle. “So thank you.”

  I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She’s still perturbed.

  “Man, love stinks,” she says, breaking the pause.

  “I kind of like that song,” I say. “But you’re way too young to be cynical about love. Mom says it’s me who’s going to grow old alone.”

  “She might be right,” she responds, “but I’ll be right there with you. Kaylen seems to be the only Conner girl who knows how to land a good man.”

  “No doubt about it,” I answer.

  “Well if ‘love stinks’ sounds too cynical, how about it ‘hurts so good.’”

  “C’mon baby, make it hurt so good,” I croon back to her.

  She clears her throat and picks up an imaginary microphone and belts out loud enough for everyone on the patio to hear: “‘Cuts like a knife, but it feels so right.’”

  I hold up my hand to interrupt: “You sound great—but that song hurts too much right now with what I’m working on.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “That Cutter Shark guy.”

  “Yeah, it seems to always come back to the Cutter Shark guy.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Think so, what, Klarissa?”

  “You really think I sound great?”

  “Yeah, you always have,” I say. “If this news reporter gig doesn’t work, I guarantee you could dominate American Idol with your voice and looks—unless you make the judges jealous and get kicked off. However, that doesn’t mean the coffee shop crowd doesn’t think you’re a little crazy. People are staring.”

  “‘The first cut is the deepest,’” she sings, now playing an air guitar instead of holding an imaginary microphone.

  “You’re almost as good as Sheryl Crow, but again, not the best song for me right now,” I interrupt. “But you are definitely on a roll.”

  “Almost as good?” she asks with a fake pout. Then she smiles big and says, “I told you about my not-so-hot dates, but you haven’t told me anything about your scorching hot secret agent.”

  “He’s FBI, not CIA.”

  “So you admit he’s scorching hot!”

  I reach over and grab her latte and take a big swallow. “About as hot as this.”

  “Hey, I’m not finished with that. But no matter what you say right now, I can tell from your voice you think he’s scorching hot. I can also tell by the way you keep looking at your watch that you have got to go. We can catch up tomorrow. You can tell me everything then.”

  “Hey, I’ve got time now.”

  I fight the urge to look at my watch again. I really don’t have time if I’m going to get any time for myself today. I have to hit the office for a couple hours, even though it is a gorgeous late spring Saturday. I’d like to get outside and run a few miles in daylight. I don’t have any plans tonight and that suits me. I look her straight in the eyes, doing my darnedest not to look even a tad impatient to move on. I’m not sure I can pull that off.

  “You get to the office,” she says, seeing through my lie. “Let’s go to dinner one night next week and we’ll swap stories later.”

  “C’mon, Klarissa, I can talk now.”

  “No. We’ve been sitting here getting along for almost two hours, so let’s not push it. Besides, I want to make sure I have your full attention when we talk.”

  She stands
up and says, “Get going. You know, to work? Your home away from home?”

  I stand and we give each other a tight hug. Wow. I don’t think we’ve ever been this close. As I walk out the wrought-iron fence area she points a finger at me and serenades me all the way to my car:

  “‘Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you!’”

  As I start up my ten-year-old Miata that looks almost brand-new, I see her stride toward her Nissan GTR sports car—I’m pretty sure it cost more than I will make in a year—with all the grace and confidence of a runway model.

  She’s smiling but I still can’t help but think she looks somehow vulnerable.

  42

  IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since GiGi Baker, victim number three of the Cutter Shark, was murdered. Victim number three in Chicago. Victim number forty-nine according to Virgil. We’ve been on the case for almost two months. It feels like a decade. We still have only one active lead and it’s not one we ferreted out through our own investigative work in Chicago. It was brought to us by the FBI on the first day we met with Major Reynolds. And the clue that our serial killer might be picking up many of his victims in recovery meetings? That may not be relevant any longer. Not all the women in the notebooks went to AA—and GiGi didn’t. He must have another hunting ground. Why hasn’t that come up?

  We keep going over the same scraps of evidence. I wonder where he is and what he’s up to until it threatens to overwhelm me. I think about my family instead. Specifically, Klarissa. We were supposed to get together for a few dinners but haven’t connected since singing together at the coffee shop. She hasn’t been at Sunday dinner the last two weeks either. She’s always come to Jimmy and Kaylen’s church out of family loyalty, but it isn’t close to where she lives and she has a Methodist church around the corner that she likes. Mom doesn’t like it, but I’m pretty positive Jimmy and Kaylen want her to be wherever she gets the most benefit. I feel like we’re losing touch already.

  Our most recent task force debate has been whether to keep so much manpower focused on attending AA meetings. Ever since my Jonathan debacle, enthusiasm and volunteer attendance is definitely down.

  I pull up to the security gate at the CPD Armory. The guard steps out, comes to my window to look at my ID, and has me write my employment number and sign my name on a form on his clipboard. When I’m done, I pull in to find a parking spot. I’m going to spend a couple hours on the shooting range.

  • • •

  “So how’d you ever pass the test to get on the force?” Sergeant Mike Peterman asks.

  He’s an old friend of my dad’s. He used to be lead handgun trainer but he’s semiretired now. He still comes a few days a week and gives individual instruction. In my case, he spent three hours with me. I think I’ve worn him out.

  “On the last simulator drill, I think you killed ten civilians before getting yourself shot because you didn’t count bullets.”

  “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

  “Almost. However, your accuracy marks improved throughout the day on the static range. You’re almost up to mediocre.”

  “Man, I thought switching to the Beretta was going to help.”

  “Nothing wrong with that Glock you were using.”

  “Is there any hope?”

  “Definitely,” Peterman says. “But mostly for the bad guys.”

  I give him an affectionate punch, but I don’t return his smile. I’m mad. I’ve never been good with handguns, but this is ridiculous. My swirling mind is clearly getting in the way. Even more so than usual.

  “Hey, don’t get your feelings hurt,” he says. “I’m just busting on you. Just come see me more often and I’ll work with you. We’ll get you up to the fiftieth percentile at least.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel good?”

  “Kristen, making you feel good isn’t my job and it’s not what you want. And right now, it’s not what you need. You’ve got some work to do. You’re on a dangerous assignment.”

  “You must be trading notes with Barry Soto.”

  “Barry Soto. Haven’t heard that name in a long time. What’s that tough old bird up to these days?”

  “Apparently the same thing as you. Trying to keep me alive.”

  43

  “I’VE BEEN SOBER for eighteen years, seven months, five days, and about seventeen hours.”

  I’m in a crowd pushing a hundred people at Holy Family Cathedral. I like these meetings because there’s not nearly as much pressure to share here. If everyone said something we’d be here all night.

  I’m looking for a killer and have two significant problems. First, I have no clue what my killer looks like. I’m not beating myself up over that. You don’t kill fifty people like our Cutter Shark has unless you blend in. Second, the guy speaking has me mesmerized. It’s Big Tony. I didn’t know he was working the AA meetings. He tells a much better story than I do. With the way he checked off his years, months, and hours, he might have been Walter’s sponsor. I’m supposed to keep one eye on my surroundings to look for anything out of the ordinary. But all I can hear right now is Scalia.

  “I know those times to be a fact because I looked it up this morning,” he continues. “I look it up every day. That way I never take for granted the gift of sobriety. It also reminds me to say a prayer for the soul of the man who helped me get my life back, get my wife back, get my kids back, get my job back.

  “I hated the son of a . . . the son of a gun. He was constantly in my face. You’d have hated him, too. But man, did I need him. I don’t know why he stuck with me, but he did. Even after I took a wild swing at him one night and broke his jaw.”

  I freeze in my seat. That might be a true story. Dad had his jaw broken at work. I was probably only eleven or twelve when it happened. The docs wired his mouth closed for almost three months. All he could do was drink liquids and pureed food through a straw. He was never that talkative anyway, unless the Bears were on TV, but we didn’t hear a word out of him the whole time. First thing he said to us when they pulled the wires out was, “I needed to lose twenty pounds anyway.” That was it and then life went back to normal, the event forgotten.

  Did Big Tony throw a punch at Dad?

  “I hated him for making me own up to my problems. And I loved him. Like a brother. Even if he did have a little Irish in him. I grew up in a big family with eight kids. But no brothers; seven sisters if you can believe that. He was my brother and I thank him for what he did for me. I light a candle for him every Sunday morning. I miss him. I pray you have a friend like him. So, my name is Tony, and I’m an alcoholic. God bless you.”

  He makes the sign of the cross and takes a seat. The meeting goes another hour. I forget to look for my killer. I don’t hear anything else anybody says.

  I don’t even know what to pray after hearing that.

  44

  “DINNER TONIGHT? MY treat.”

  I look up from the conference room table where I’ve been reading the Factor Four notebook again—the city of Jacksonville for us mere mortals. It’s Major Reynolds. It’s been three weeks since our maybe date. We had an okay time. He did a lot of the talking, which was fine with me. He’s an impressive guy. Graduated from Dartmouth with a BA in Political Science and English Literature, and then he got his law degree at Princeton. Quite the Ivy Leaguer. He never said it directly, but it sounded like there’s a boatload of money in the family, so I get the feeling a public servant’s salary really isn’t going to hamper his lifestyle. Reynolds was polite and interesting. After that long work week, I’m not sure I reciprocated on being equally interesting.

  “If it’s your treat, does that make it a date?”

  “Based on the lead up to last time we went out, it would help me if you could give me a hint if there’s a right answer,” he says with arched eyebrows. “If you’d like it to be a date, it’s a date. If you don’t want it to be a date, then it’s just two work colleagues winding down after another long week.”

  “I’ll tell
you what,” I say. “Give me a couple hours to finish paperwork and we’ll figure out what it is later.”

  “I’m very comfortable with that,” Reynolds says, smiling. “Now, just tell me what a couple hours means. It’s five now. If I picked you up at seven, is that a couple of hours?”

  “I’m heading downstairs to do some punching. Eight o’clock is probably a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll be at your place at eight sharp.”

  Van Guten walks into the makeshift office as he says that. She looks at me appraisingly with just the hint of a smirk.

  “You two come up with anything like a hot new lead?” she asks.

  “Well if we did,” Reynolds answers quickly, “you’d already have heard about it.”

  I nod to Van Guten and exit in my typical graceful fashion, bumping into the corner of the table hard enough to knock over an almost full cup of coffee someone left sitting in here and spilling it on papers all over the shared conference table. Crud.

  Van Guten takes charge and orders the junior FBI officer who just entered the room to go get something to clean up the mess. I hoof it back to my cubicle.

  • • •

  “Hit it! Hit it! Hit it! I don’t feel nothing. Nothing. Give me something. Hit it!”

  I’m trying to remember why I thought Barry Soto was a nice guy. Just because he was friends with Dad? He is killing me. He wanted me to break a sweat, so he put me on a steep-grade climb at seven miles an hour on the treadmill. I think he forgot about me so I kept running. I did three and a half miles straight up Pike’s Peak for thirty minutes. Then it was twenty minutes of core training, fifteen minutes of grappling, and then on to punches and kicks, which is where I’m at right now.

  We’ve done the kicks. Now we’re working on cross-body punches. He’s holding up two pads and screaming at me to hit. Let me say, this part of the workout is a great workout all by itself. When you’re already at the point of total muscle fatigue, it’s torture.

  “Don’t stop. Hit! Don’t you quit on me, Kristen. This guy is after you. He ain’t quitting. Who’s got the last punch? Hit! Don’t you quit on me. Hit!”