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

by M. K. Gilroy

  When he shouts, “Okay, finished!” I lean over. I want to vomit. I think I taste acid in the back of my throat.

  “Great job, honey. Great job. Great workout. Hey, straighten up. Get your lungs open. Breathe. Great job, Kristen. You still got some fight in you.”

  I’m gasping for air. My heart is racing. My legs and arms feel like pudding. I contemplate fainting. I would, but then I’d have to get up again. Soto brings a towel and wipes sweat off my face. My hands are on my knees again.

  “Stand up straight,” he says crossly. “Get your arms over your head. Breathe.”

  It’s working. I think I’m going to live. I look up at the wall clock. Six-thirty. I’m going to have to get moving if I’m going to be ready to go out to dinner by eight. I was going to shower here, but I’m thinking I may throw a towel on my seat so I can hustle home and get cleaned up there.

  “You really are doing great, Kristen.”

  “Mr. Barry, I think you are trying to kill me,” I say.

  “No, I’m the guy who’s going to keep you alive,” he says with a laugh. “Hope you don’t have big plans because you are going to be really tired tonight.”

  I consider asking him to write a note that I can hand to Reynolds to establish that there’s a reason I am the absolute worst date in the universe on a Friday night. I probably should have suggested tomorrow night anyway. I’m tired most Friday nights, whether or not I’ve worked out with Richard Simmons’ evil cousin—the one with a bald head but plenty of hair poking out his ears and nostrils.

  “Just my luck,” I answer him. “I’ve got a date.”

  “Then you better get out of here,” he chortles. “You ain’t going to be awake past eleven.”

  We laugh and I head for the door.

  “Kristen!” he calls right before I let the door shut behind me.

  I turn back to him as he hustles up to me.

  “No, I’m not doing another set of lunges,” I say to him.

  He squeezes my upper arm and says, “You could probably use it. But I had a quick question. Did Timmy ever hassle you?”

  “Timmy? No, not really,” I answer a little uncertainly.

  “What’s ‘not really’ mean?” he asks.

  I’m wondering why he’s asking. Did Timmy push another detective for a date too? “Well, this is kind of embarrassing to say, but he did ask me out. I thought he was a little forward, but no big biggie. Why?”

  “I don’t know how to break this to you, kiddo, but you aren’t the only one he was a little forward with. I think he asked every female in the building with two legs to her credit to go out with him.”

  “So I really didn’t mean as much to him as I thought?” I say with a laugh.

  “Like I said, kid, I didn’t know how to break it to you easy. But here’s the thing: I had to let him go.”

  “Tough break for him, but it sounds like he asked for it.”

  “No doubt, he did,” Soto says. “But bad for me, too. He was rough around the edges but the kid could fight. He’s been the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

  “He take it okay?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Dumb question,” I say with a laugh. “But why are you telling me all this?”

  “I guess I wanted to hear that he was as bad as the boss said he was. That’s why I don’t feel so bad about canning him. But he worries me just a little, too. Not sure he’s 100 percent right upstairs.”

  “Are any of us?”

  “Not me, that’s for sure. I’m an old man still trying to mix it up with young pups. But on Timmy, I think anyone who has had a bad experience with him needs to pay a little extra attention. There’s a reason he’s a great fight trainer . . . he likes to fight.”

  • • •

  I turn the ignition on my Mazda and enjoy the sound of an engine that starts right up, strong and true. I think about Timmy on the way home. That guy was a force of nature. Fast. Strong. Great anticipation. And I think I know what Mr. Barry was really getting at . . . Timmy is dangerous. Not someone you want to make your enemy.

  45

  “SO YOU’VE NEVER been married, never lived with a guy, and you have no steady boyfriend in your life. How does that happen with a drop-dead gorgeous, professional, young woman? Are the men in Chicago prone to blindness or is it more a matter of low IQ?”

  We’re back on the Magnificent Mile. This time it’s Lawry’s, an old-fashioned restaurant—I really can’t imagine that the waitresses’ mustard-yellow uniforms looked good in the ’40s either—that features prime rib. They wheel a huge silver contraption that looks like a fancy outdoor grill to your table and carve your slab of cow right there in front of you. Reynolds looked a little surprised that I ordered the captain’s cut. He shouldn’t have told me he graduated from Dartmouth, one of those places where blue noses go to college. Knowing he’s from high society makes me suspect that (a) he can afford whatever I want to order and (b) that I’m just a curiosity to him and that he’s more comfortable with sophisticated women from his social strata, ones who order the petite cut.

  I’m absolutely starving. I had a cup of coffee and half a bagel for breakfast, which wasn’t a bad start to the day. But Don and I met with Blackshear and Martinez from 9:00 a.m. to 1 p.m. to review notes and assignments. Someone put an apple on my desk—a peace offering from Shelly, I suspect, the department administrative assistant who knows I am closing in on her for writing those notes for everyone to read—and that was all I had for lunch. I had a granola bar late afternoon, but that was six hours ago and I’m pretty sure all 220 calories got burned off in that excruciating workout.

  “They’re both blind and have low IQs . . . and maybe Washington, DC political-types will say anything to flatter,” I respond.

  He gives me an admiring smile. “Not bad, Detective Conner.”

  “Even if I’m not an Ivy League girl?”

  “Actually, that would be young lady or woman—never a ‘girl.’ That would not be a politically correct form of expression at an Ivy League institution of higher learning.”

  “It’s taken you this long to figure out that I’m not PC?” I ask with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “What was your GPA anyway?”

  “I did well enough.”

  “That probably means real high. So did Princeton scholarship you to law school or did your daddy pick up the bill?”

  “You know it’s not politically correct to talk about money at the table,” he says with a laugh. “But I will confess, I didn’t pay a dime for law school. I had an uncle pay my way.”

  “So you have a rich uncle?”

  “Nah—I think my Uncle Sam’s completely broke now.”

  I pause and raise my glass of water in salute. “So you’re not from a fabulously wealthy family?” I’m starting to regret my captain’s cut.

  “Not quite. But I didn’t take you for a gold digger. Maybe I was wrong.” He leans forward, mock serious. “Does this mean you won’t go out with me on another date?”

  “I didn’t know that we had defined this as a date.”

  “Oh, you’re right,” he says. “Since it’s your call, you still need to give me the verdict. And just so you know, there’s no pressure. I’m a big boy and can take any answer you give me as long as it is yes.”

  I cut around the fat for another bite of melt-in-your-mouth prime rib. I don’t cut all the fat off, however, and after carving just the right size, I put it in my mouth and chew slowly and thoughtfully. Eating such a bite would be a month-long project for Klarissa. I look up at him several times. He’s a good sport and has an amused and patient expression on his face. I finally finish chewing and pat the corners of my mouth with a napkin. I take a sip of water. Slowly, of course. He rolls his eyes.

  “I can wait you out, you know,” he says. “I’m very good at watching and waiting.”

  “Okay then, it’s a date,” I say.

  I can’t believe I just said that. I don’t usually give an inch. I must like this gu
y. Or maybe I’m the one looking at him as a curiosity. His watching and waiting statement did get my attention. I still haven’t looked up where that is in the Bible.

  “Sure I can’t pour you a glass of wine to celebrate?” he asks with bottle poised.

  “Not even a drop,” I answer with a smile. “You should probably know I attend AA meetings.”

  “Nicely played, Detective Conner,” he says, lifting his glass in return salute. “And you don’t mind that I’m having wine by myself?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Well, some people do.”

  “Not me. My mom . . . well, she would. My older sis, the preacher’s wife, probably not, but she’s not going to drink herself. My younger sis, the most beautiful news reporter on the planet, sips wine the same way she eats meat. She burns more calories with the effort of letting it touch her lips than what she ends up ingesting. Or imbibing as the case may be.”

  He laughs and asks, “What about your dad?”

  Before I can answer, a shadow crosses our table.

  “Well isn’t this a delightful surprise?” Dr. Van Guten asks. “Austin, how nice to see you. And you, too, Detective Conner.”

  Reynolds stands and gives Van Guten a peck on the cheek and holds out his hand to her companion, a tall, silver-haired gentleman who obviously has a good tailor. I stand up for introductions, suddenly self-conscious that my little black dress is probably ten years old—and wasn’t that expensive when I bought it. Maybe it’s aged well, I think to myself with a groan. I have on some cheap imitation pearls that Mom gave me for my birthday. I want to hide them and suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands, but find my bearing in the nick of time, and hold out my hand boldly for introductions.

  “How are you, sir?” Reynolds says to the suit.

  “I’ll be much better when you introduce me to your friend and call me Bob in a social setting,” he answers smoothly.

  Van Guten steps in before Reynolds can speak.

  “Robert, this is Detective Conner. You might recognize her name from the reports we’ve been sending you.”

  He takes my hand and holds it in both of his.

  “Of course I do. I already recognized her by name.”

  Van Guten frowns at her miss.

  “I’m Kristen and it’s nice to meet you . . . Bob.”

  I see Reynolds tense up, his eyes wide. He might be holding his breath. Van Guten purses her lips. Bob laughs in approval and gives my hand a kiss. That’s a first.

  “Kristen, this is Robert Willingham, the deputy director of the FBI,” Reynolds says.

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir, and nice to see you, Leslie.”

  She has made no move to shake hands or give me a polite buss on the cheek, nor ask me to call her by her first name. I see a shadow cross her eyes. I don’t think she is happy with the attention Bob has shown me.

  “I’m sorry we’ve interrupted your dinner,” Willingham says magnanimously. “I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning, Austin. And, Kristen, if I may be so bold, would you mind joining us?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Sure you mind or sure you’ll come?” Willingham asks me with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Bob, I’d be delighted to join you all wherever and whenever.”

  “Fabulous,” he says. “Austin will tell you, Detective Conner, that the wherever and the whenever is tomorrow morning at seven.”

  I smile, but groan inside. Soccer season is over. I was really looking forward to sleeping in. Willingham and Van Guten follow the maître d’, the paragon of patience, to their table. Leslie has on a little black dress, too, but hers really is little, showing what I figure has to be one expensive boob job. At least I hope so—no one should be born with all that up there and so little around the waist. I think the diamonds around her throat and wrist are real, however.

  • • •

  “I had a nice evening,” Reynolds says.

  This is always awkward. I decide to be bold and get it over with. I stand on tiptoes, put my hands on his shoulders, and give him a kiss on the cheek. I might have touched the corner of his lips. But just barely. I think he turned just a little. I notice he shaved before picking me up and he has good muscle tone that he hides under a suit jacket.

  “I had a nice evening, too,” I say quickly. “Thanks again for a great dinner. See you in the morning.”

  If he’s disappointed that I haven’t invited him in, he doesn’t show it. If he’s disappointed, he’ll also have to get over it. I enter my apartment, give him one more smile, close the door slowly, and then turn the dead bolt and put the chain lock in its groove.

  I look at the tiny red light flashing on my phone. Three missed calls. Klarissa, Dell, and a number I don’t recognize. There are three messages. I sigh. I don’t want to deal with messages tonight. I’m beat. I head back to the bathroom to wash my face and hit the speaker button as I call my voicemail inbox. I’m a pretty good multitasker.

  “Hi stranger,” Dell says. “I would like to talk sometime. Would love to see you. I miss you. I think I’ll be at church Sunday morning. See you then.”

  I hit three for delete. Mom will be happy. Kaylen, the most sensitive soul in the universe, will invite him to dinner without considering my feelings. I need to head that off at the pass. Hopefully that discussion won’t be as rough as the one I had with Mom.

  “Just got in . . . where are you?” Klarissa asks me on the next message. “Oh, I forgot, you’re out with Agent Dreamboat. Coffee in the morning? You can tell me everything. Call me late if you want or just send me a text. Let me know. I want to talk. Love you, Big Sis.”

  I hit delete.

  “Thanks a lot for getting me fired,” the third voice says with a seething anger. “I was hitting on you in your dreams.” I hear the phone slam hard enough that I jump. I hit delete quickly—not smart, should have saved it. I couldn’t testify in a court of law that it’s Timmy—but it’s Timmy. The Cutter Shark isn’t enough. I have another dangerous enemy.

  I shake my head, go find my cell phone, and send a quick text to Klarissa:

  Yes, had nice date 2night. Got called into office 4 early meeting @7. Will call u after. Maybe coffee then. Luvs and hugs. K

  Face lotion on, I gargle and floss. I let my electric toothbrush do all the work while I check the corners of my eyes for lines. I do have decent skin.

  I really ought to do something about my wardrobe, though. I put my toothbrush on the charger, turn off the light, and go straight for my closet. I pull out the little black dress and throw it in the wastebasket to force myself to buy something new. Then I give myself two-to-one odds that I’ll pull it out and hang it back up in the morning.

  As I fall into bed, I muse over the fact that I met a legend in law enforcement tonight. Robert Willingham—Bob to me—was involved in the TWA Flight 847 hijacking in 1985. I read about him in a case study in a class at NIU. He was also the behind-the-scenes hero who did the legwork that led to the secret indictment of Hezbollah’s Imad Mughiniyah. He was the lone dissenter when Janet Reno sent the tanks in against the Branch Davidians in 1993. He got demoted and was exiled from the Bureau for a couple years. That was a case study I wrote about on “group think.”

  I wonder if Chicago PD or FBI will get credit if we apprehend the Cutter Shark. When we apprehend him. Then I must have fallen asleep with no reading, no crossword, no prayer.

  Because next thing I know, my alarm is crowing like a rooster.

  46

  The ChiTownVlogger

  May 16, 2:00 a.m.

  “WELCOME TO THE jungle; watch it bring you to your knees . . .,” Axl wails. The words “HOT FLASH IN CUTTER CASE” flashed on-screen ten times. Johnson liked that. He was back in his desk chair, crumpled sweater—a new ketchup stain—running his fingers through a mop of silvery white hair one more time as he started.

  “I hope you are sitting down, my friends and loved ones in Chicagoland. A little birdie has told me, your ChiTownVlogger
, that the Cutter Shark has been very bad and very busy. I wonder why our esteemed city government and crack police force aren’t telling us everything they know about our most famous resident? Sorry, Oprah. You are now so yesterday.

  “Mayor Doyle and Commissioner Fergosi have a secret they’re not telling us. Only your ChiTownVlogger has the sources—and digs deep enough—to give you the real scoop. Here it is, folks. This isn’t the Cutter Shark’s first rodeo. That’s right. You heard it here first. Chicago is not his first city. Serial killers can be such pigs. Our Sultan of Slice has led us on with promises that we really were different than all the others. Only we now find we’re the latest in a long line of lovesick and jilted lovers at his various ports of call. I just find it curious that no public official—not the mayor, not the chief of police, not even the head of sanitation and sewage, has seen fit to tell us that we’re his fourth or fifth city!

  “Who’s the birdie whispering in my ear? Wouldn’t you like to know, Mayor Doyle? In this day when Big Brother Government feels enabled—or is it ennobled?—to trample on our fundamental freedoms as private citizens, I’m sure the mayor will simply ask one of his cronies in the police department or at the FBI to find a name. I’ll bet they put together a task force to plug that leak in city hall—or is it from the Second Precinct?

  “I just wish they’d work as hard finding the killer.

  “Check back often. The jungle is getting even wilder than we thought. Anything you need to know you’ll hear here, from the ChiTownVlogger.”

  Johnson smiled as the report ended. I’ll get three million hits on this. CNN will be calling for an interview in fifteen minutes.

  He was dead wrong.

  A producer for CNN called five minutes after the story was posted.

  47

  “HONESTLY, I’M NOT interested in all the reasons we can’t find this guy,” Willingham says. “And I don’t care to hear again all you’ve done so far. It’s not working. I want to know what you’re going to do differently today. And tomorrow. This guy is going to hit again—and we don’t know how soon because his timing has changed—so we’ve got a near crisis on our hands. The local media is out of control, and they’ve yet to find out we’re dealing with a multi-theater phenomenon. We can thank God for small blessings. You think the rabble out in the parking lot trying to sneak into off-limit areas of your building right now is a hassle? Wait until every journalist from Tokyo to Tel Aviv shows up. From personal experience, you don’t want that happening.”