Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3)

by M. K. Gilroy

  “We aim to please. And since you aren’t leaving the warm embrace of our hospitality today, better call in and tell your boss you’ll be late.”

  That gives me pause for thought. Who is my boss? Captain Zaworski retired because he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He was doing chemo or maybe it was radiation last I heard. I haven’t checked to see how he’s doing since . . . more than a month. I feel a pang of guilt. One of my colleagues on the Cutter Shark case, Bob Blackshear, was named acting head of homicide detectives in the Second Precinct. We busted a huge case with him in charge, which should count for something, but bad luck for him, it was discovered someone in our department was feeding the murderer information the whole time. That reflects bad on all of us, but Blackshear was boss so he took the fall. He’s back at the Fourth.

  I went into Christmas holiday not knowing who my new boss would be. I think they should look at my partner, Don Squires. He’s put up with me for going on three years. Everything else should be a snap in comparison.

  “You really aren’t going to talk to me are you?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking. I do need to make a couple calls, but you or one of your pals still has my phone.”

  He fishes in his pocket and hands me my iPhone. I should probably say thanks but seeing his smug face, I don’t. I hope I haven’t scratched the glass face when I dropped it. I keep meaning to get one of those plastic covers.

  I stare at the screen—can’t tell if it’s scratched because of the bloody smudges on it—wondering who I should call first. I put it on my lap and look up to organize my thoughts to make a list, not sure where to start.

  “Ready to talk now?”

  Here we go again.

  “I’ve talked and talked,” I say. “You know as well as I do I can’t be of any help here.”

  “Not my call.”

  “Whose call is it?”

  “Up the food chain. Way above my pay grade.”

  “Just because I found a dead guy?”

  “You solved the case where the billionaire’s kid got whacked, too, didn’t you?”

  Yes I did. I give Barnes a sideways look. We’ve moved from the van to the back of a patrol car. The heater is blasting away and I’m sweating in my Gore-Tex and fleece running gear but my toes are still tingling. I’ve already shed the Patagonia coat. There is no way the blood is coming out of the fabric. I doubt I can sell it on Craig’s List, even though I can honestly claim it is only slightly used.

  “How long you had your detective shield?” he asks.

  I think about saying nothing, but answer, “A little over two years. Actually, it might be closer to three now.”

  “I’ve had mine for twenty years and I’ve made a few decent take downs. But I’ve never landed a whale. You, Detective Kirsten Conner, have just landed in the middle of a case with whale number three. Keep it up and you’ll have your own TV show.”

  “It’s Kristen.”

  “That’s better. My name is Tommy.”

  “I was just correcting you for calling me by the wrong name.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said Kirsten. My name’s Kristen.”

  I’ve corrected my barista at JavaStar for the same thing for five years with no success. Why do I even try?

  “Glad we got that settled,” he says. “But either way, sounds like you’re finally ready to be friendly and you want me to call you by your first name.”

  Funny guy. I’d say something sarcastic back to him but now I’m wondering about what he just said. A whale? Who did I find dead? Actually, I found him alive. He died in my arms. I hope. Who was he?

  “If you ever consider a move to New York City,” he continues, “let’s partner up. I’m spinning my wheels and need a promotion or I need to get rich writing a true crime book. Or maybe I could do a documentary. Either way I could use the press.”

  “So what’s going on, Barnes?” I refuse to use his first name. “Who did I find?”

  He’s looking forward now and it’s his turn to dish out the silent treatment. Touché. I deserve it. Although he could cut me a break after what I just went through. A guy died in my arms. That should count for a little sympathy.

  “I didn’t have time to look for an ID when I found him,” I say. “You’d think trying to keep a guy alive counts for something.”

  No answer.

  Okay, I’ll play ball. “Tommy, who was the victim?”

  “His wallet was already gone when I got there. I didn’t get to check for an ID either.”

  I sigh. “So how do you know he’s a whale? How’d you come up with a positive identification so fast? Tommy.”

  Hearing his first name a second time satisfies him and he answers, “The ID is not officially confirmed but strongly believed to be known. We know who he is because he’s known.”

  “Okay . . . he’s known because he’s known,” I say, confused.

  “You’ll figure it out later.” He’s still holding out.

  “Looked like a politician to me. Is he someone I should recognize if I paid more attention to the news?”

  “Nice guess. But no cigar.”

  “Are we going to play twenty questions?” I ask.

  “You sure you didn’t get a look at the guy leaving the park?” He isn’t giving me anything until I give him something first.

  “I don’t even know if I saw a guy,” I answer. “Might have been a three hundred-pound woman. It was dark and someone was stumbling up the path. I just caught a glimpse when he—and note that ‘he’ is an assumption—passed under the light pole. I was at least a hundred yards away—probably farther—I wasn’t even thinking there was anything wrong because I hadn’t heard the scream yet.”

  “I would have liked to hear that scream,” he says. “The medical techie told me you weren’t lying. When someone with a severed windpipe screams, it’s like nothing else you’ll ever hear.”

  Really, Tommy? You just said that? I stare forward. He drums his fingers on the door handle and knows to hold his tongue.

  “Okay, Detective Barnes—”

  “Call me Tommy since we’re on a first name basis,” he interrupts, almost with a snarl. He’s giving me that New York attitude. A little exaggerated if you ask me. Am I supposed to be intimidated?

  “Okay, Detective Tommy, I know the routine. You’re just doing your job. You’re asking the same questions over and over because it might jog a memory. But I’m telling you I have zilch.”

  His fingers continue to drum in a broken pattern of threes.

  “So, Tommy. Who did I find?”

  He turns to me and I can see him debating with himself. He finally says, “The victim was a big tuna in the business world.” He pauses and holds up a hand. “Let me correct that. Not a tuna but a whale. The kind of guy that gets his picture on the cover of Forbes. But what made the ID come up so fast was he was on an FBI watch list.”

  “FBI—really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s he into?”

  “That’s above my pay grade too,” he answers and pauses. He decides to end our battle of who can respond the least to the other’s questions and continues, “He’s the CEO of some biotech company. From what I picked up, Homeland Security, the FBI, CDC, and some other agencies with initials I’ve never heard of think he’s into some very deep and dangerous territory. When Homeland Security is in the same sentence as biotech, my mind starts thinking things it isn’t getting paid to think. So I’m leaving it at that. You know everything I know now. You’re a detective. You figure it out. I still expect some reciprocity when you know more.”

  “I’m going to make a call,” I say.

  “It’s a free country,” Barnes snaps. “So have at it.”

  “Where do we go from here?” I ask as I start scrolling through names on my phone.

  “Our relationship?” he asks, putting his hand on my arm.

  I shrug it off. I’m used to guys flirting with me on the job. It never gets old. Right? I give him a dir
ty look.

  “We’re on hold,” he answers. “We’re going to drive you to wherever ‘what’s next’ is as soon as the brass tells us where that is.”

  “Can I at least get a shower and change?”

  “I’ve been told you aren’t going anywhere between points A and B. Apparently you’ve got the reputation of being a lone ranger who doesn’t always play team ball.”

  “Who said that?”

  He smiles and holds up his hands, palms face up, in the universal “can’t say” sign. I glare at him, but not because I’m mad. I’m wanting him to feel he won something, so he’ll give me what I want later.

  I need to let Klarissa know there’s been a change of plans and I won’t be checking out of the hotel. I look at my phone again. Five missed calls from my mom. No surprise. A bunch from my partner, Don Squires. Very surprising. He compartmentalizes work and home better than any other cop I know. I’m still technically on vacation until morning. So this is out of character for him to intrude across boundaries. I have missed calls from Klarissa, Kaylen, and then someone calling from a number inside CPD. Wish I knew who but all I have on my log is the main switchboard number. Squires from work? Maybe he’s the new boss. I have five voice mails.

  I’d like to clear them but I need to call Austin Reynolds first. My sort of boyfriend, ex-Special Forces for the US Army Rangers, and agent-at-large for the FBI is the one who has all the connections and who can tell me what I’ve gotten myself into. This time.

  The blood from the dead man has thawed out. I don’t get grossed out easily, but the goo is definitely getting to me. I’m starting to itch.

  I wonder again if I can get someone from the NYPD to replace my ruined cold weather gear.

  10

  MED LOVED ILSA as much as he loved anyone in the world but his mother. But she was dead or as good as dead. His fault. Nothing he could do to save her. Even if he tried to be a hero, Pasha or, worse yet, his byki, Vladimir Zheglov, would beat him like a dog and then tear him apart, limb by limb. No point dying to save someone who was already dead.

  As he went through his options all Medved could come up with was that there was someone who trumped Pasha. The Pakhan. Pasha’s boss. When Pasha told him no one else in the bratva could ever hear of this night, Med suspected Pasha was doing something he didn’t want the Pakhan to know about. Could he go directly to Genken without getting killed? Maybe. Would Pasha kill him for screwing up a simple task of delivering a man to Queens? Almost for certain.

  Medved wasn’t clever or cunning but he knew “maybe” was a better option than “for certain.” The code of the Russian Mafiya demanded he follow chain of command. But what if he brought the Pakhan a gift? Information he needed? Med opened Frank Nelson’s wallet. There on top of the bills was a sheet of paper with a series of numbers on it. He sensed this was the only way to save his life—and it might work.

  He looked at the gas gauge hovering near E. He backed the yellow cab to the fueling island and filled the tank with the company card. Instead of turning right and continuing into the heart of Brooklyn and then up to Queens, he swung out to the left and headed back across the bridge. Change of plans. He would head out to Long Island. Ilsa was dead but there was one man that might save his life. The Pakhan. Aleksei Genken. The most powerful man in the American bratva.

  “Where are you Conner?”

  I’d recognize that growl anywhere. Zaworski. Why’s he calling me? He’s retired. At least his call saved me from pulling a muscle in my brain trying to figure out who to call after Reynolds.

  “New York City, sir.”

  “I know.”

  Then why did you ask?

  “You’re scheduled to be in the office at eight sharp,” he says. “You going to be here?”

  Why do I suspect he already knows the answer? Is it my crack instincts as a detective?

  “Doesn’t look like it, sir. Are you?”

  A good offense can be the best defense. But when I try it, it usually just makes people mad.

  “Indeed I am. Our good friend, Commander Czaka, along with other members of the executive leadership team of the Chicago Police Department, in their infinite wisdom, have asked me to return to active duty to clean up some messes.”

  “That’s good, sir. That means you’re doing good, right?”

  I feel another pang of guilt for not checking up on him while he was in cancer treatment.

  “Don’t worry about me. The only reason it is good is the Second Precinct homicide department is a mess since I’ve been gone and the powers that be still think I can fix problems. I might add that a lot of the mess I’m coming back to is due to the daughter of my good friend, Michael Conner.”

  Okay. That hurts. Not fair play.

  “With all due respect sir, I don’t appreciate you throwing my dad’s name in my face.”

  Did I just say that? I told myself to let it pass. My mouth didn’t listen.

  Zaworski has always scared me half to death. Now he’s silent. I’ve thrown him for a loop. Inconceivable. Klarissa and I watched Princess Bride on Netflix last night. I’ll be using the word inconceivable for the next year.

  Zaworski and I were starting to get along at the end of the Cutter Shark case. On my next case, he supported and defended me when I disobeyed orders and followed a lead. Maybe I don’t play team ball all the time. Seems like we are back to square one, where every time he scolds me I feel like a fifteen year old who gets called to the principal’s office. Heck, he’s known me since I was younger than that and tagging along with my dad when he caught up on paperwork at the precinct on a Saturday morning.

  “Okay, Conner. You’re right. I should not have mentioned your dad the way I did. May he rest in peace. Heck of a cop.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “And the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, Conner. You’re good. Almost great. It’s those messes that hold you back.”

  I don’t know what to say. Am I supposed to respond?

  “Now listen carefully, Conner.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I have chewed you up one side and down the other since you’ve worked for me. Right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m going to tell you secret . . . if you ever tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, I’ll swear to them you are a liar with an active imagination. Are you ready?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “When I’m chewing you out you have nothing to worry about. I chew you out because I care. Because I believe in you. It’s when I stop chewing you out that you need to worry. Because it’s going to get ugly. Real ugly. I’m old school. I do things one way. Direct. No cream and sugar needed. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  I think I know what he’s saying but my mind wanders to the glorious thought of a hot cup of coffee with cream, no sugar.

  “Okay, good. Back to where we are. I’m back on active duty because the Second is a mess. And you are a big part of the mess. What’s the deal? You didn’t like Blackshear? Did you work to get him bounced from leadership?”

  Wow. I guess he really does believe in me. Here we go.

  “I did, sir.”

  “You tried to get him demoted?”

  “No. What I meant was yes, I liked Blackshear a lot. I thought he did great.”

  “So you liked him better than me?”

  Okay, he’s busting my chops. He’s got to be joking. I think. I just had a man die in my arms. This isn’t a good time to gig me. I don’t answer.

  “I’m going to ignore that silence. What is going on there? All I know is you found a dead guy.”

  “Then you know about as much as I do.”

  “About?”

  “I’m about to find out more. Unofficially I’ve been told the victim was on an FBI watch list. This is apparently a pretty big deal.”

  I can hear him blowing into the phone. “Everything’s a big deal with you, Conner.”

  That’s not fair. I don’t answer. I did eight years of
grunt work for the CPD. No one knew who I was unless they knew my dad. Then one day, things, big things, started happening. I didn’t ask for it. I got it. I can’t help it if I busted a serial killer. Or the murderer of a trust fund billionaire. Big cases are messy. That’s why I leave messes.

  “Let me know what’s going on when you know. Then figure out how to get on the next flight to Chicago. We got to get some problems fixed here.”

  “I’m sorry to ask sir. You’ve made it clear that things are a mess. But what kind of real problems am I looking at?”

  “I’m not sure I can cover all of them on the phone but I’ll just give you one example. Have you attended mandatory counseling sessions since being involved in not one, but two violent and lethal altercations with the public?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “I thought my three months with the FBI counted for that.”

  “Did you go to counseling?”

  “No, but I was in rehab.”

  I’ll admit that is a pretty feeble response.

  “Exercising your knee and pretending to capture terrorists doesn’t count toward what is needed to fix your mental health,” he says with a sigh. “And by the way, even though my doctors have beaten me like a rented mule with radiation and chemo and my memory is still a little blurry at times, I know that you were required to meet with a CPD counselor before violent altercation number two occurred. If I read the reports and newspapers correctly, that second altercation included a dead body.”

  “You’re the boss of homicide. Are you blaming me for working with murderers?”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Conner. At issue is counseling. Believe it or not we take your well-being seriously. That’s why I want to know why you haven’t seen a counselor.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know that the psych department can suspend you from active duty?”

  “I guess I did . . . I guess I do.”

  “Well you need to start doing more than guessing. You are officially suspended from street duty until you follow the rules.”

  “They can’t do that, sir.”

  “Really? That’s a good one, Conner. In fact they can and they have. And this is just the first problem I have returned to that has your name written all over it.”