by M. K. Gilroy
Is this for real? I’m in counseling. I have a security detail. My sister cheated on me. Now it looks like I will be spending hours with the CPD legal team. I feel like my life is under siege. I think of the David Bowie and Queen song, “Under Pressure.” Maybe I’ll turn that up loud on my drive home.
What did Reynolds say about my situation? We should be concerned but not overly. Is that like saying, I want to be your boyfriend as long as I can see your sister?
22
I THROW OFF the covers, stand up, and stretch my back. I’m finally awake. I head out to the kitchen. Mom isn’t home. It’s church night for her. If the doors are open and the lights are on, she’s there.
She’s left a note for me on the kitchen table letting me know I just need to turn on the burner to heat up vegetable soup. I’ve been asleep for seven hours. It’s after eight. I look at my phone and have a text: Meet us for dinner?
Vanessa Squires sent me the text a couple hours ago.
Just woke up, I text back.
Her response is almost immediate: We have a babysitter. Just leaving now. Meet us!
Do I really want to go out? I realize I’m starving. I missed lunch. I can live with soup and I would like to stay in and catch up with Mom when she gets home to make sure she’s okay. Don and Vanessa do dine in a style that is a couple major upgrades from soup. They do everything in style. You can’t live like they do on a detective’s salary. But Don has a secret that he’d like to stay that way. Call it male pride. But his wife makes a boatload of money as a real estate agent. A lot more than he does.
He didn’t like it when I teased him about being a kept man so I dropped it. I’m not always obnoxious. I can actually be very sensitive to the feelings of others. But even if he doesn’t like being teased, Don dresses more like a business mogul with his sharp suits—I can actually recognize a Hugo Boss now—his designer ties, and expensive shoes— he loves his Allen Edmonds. He’s been after me almost three years to upgrade my wardrobe from the same black slacks and jacket I wear all winter. If I ever figure out what my style is outside of the workout gear I prefer, I’ll try.
Tell me where.
Alinea. North Halstead. Lincoln Park.
I speak the name to Siri. A lot of five-star reviews pop up with all the dollar signs lit up and gleaming. Alinea must be expensive. Figures. I’m not even going to pretend I’m paying for my meal tonight. Don might let me, but Vanessa won’t. That does mean I have to dress up at least a little.
I’m glad I took a shower before I went to bed until I look at my hair in the bathroom mirror. I wonder what I did with the balaclava Klarissa got me for Christmas. It might be an improvement. I need to get it back from James. No way do I have time for the curling iron. I go back to my room and open a couple dresser drawers. Mom hasn’t thrown away the stuff I left behind more than ten years ago. I spot a plastic tortoise shell hair clip I used to wear in high school. Maybe it’s retro night at Alinea. I push my hair back with it. Who knows, it might actually work. Don will tell me if it doesn’t.
I wash and towel-dry my face. I add a hint of red lipstick. I start digging in my suitcase and find a knee-length fitted dress, which Klarissa said was too long.
To each their own, including boyfriends, Baby Sis. That almost makes me smile. Humor is my defense mechanism. Maybe that’s a positive sign that I’ll figure out how to handle this. Or maybe I’m as emotionally repressed as Klarissa claims I am.
As a cop, I can tell you first hand, there are some people who could use a little repression.
I pull on my leggings—it’s freezing outside—and grab a pair of pumps with two-inch heels. Klarissa would roll her eyes. It’s all I’ve got.
Why am I worried about what Klarissa would think?
I write Mom a quick note.
Fifteen minutes after emerging from a deep slumber, I’m on the road. Maybe I can get my own car back tomorrow. Driving Klarissa’s GTR has lost its thrill. But at least I’ll show up at Alinea in style—at least until I enter the front door.
You don’t order at Alinea. Each season they present a new tasting menu. You get what they bring you. I have a healthy appetite and was worried when the first plate arrived with enough food to feed a baby squirrel.
Don sees my expression and fights not to laugh.
“There are twenty-one courses, KC, so you don’t have to lick the plate.”
“Don, be sweet!” Vanessa scolds.
She might be suppressing a smile herself. Talk about feeling awkward. I probably look like one of the Clampetts arriving in Beverly Hills.
There are no prices on the menu. I don’t want to know what this is costing. I didn’t grow up with money. Dad was a cop. Mom worked and still works at the library. Three kids. We never went without necessities, but our clothes were from Walmart and family vacation was visiting relatives who were within driving distance. I get paid pretty good. More than enough for my single life. I really don’t spend a lot of money. Maybe it is time to upgrade my image a bit. I am still feeling very self-conscious about my hair and what I have on.
As the fourth or fifth course arrives, Vanessa tells me I look fabulous for maybe the tenth time. She wants to know where I found my hair clip. She has to have one. She just has to. I think compliments numbers two through ten have been to bolster my confidence and now border on overkill. Don has smirked the entire dinner. How out of place do I look?
On a quick trip to the ladies’ room, I overheard the waiting list to get a table at Alinea is six months. I think Don and Vanessa shoehorned me in on a special occasion. I’m afraid to ask if this is their anniversary.
We’re on dessert when I say, “Okay, this is maybe the best meal I have ever had in my life with two of my favorite people in the world. But you shouldn’t have. What gives? I love being with you guys but is this a sympathy treat?”
Don is poking at the last vestiges of a dessert made with lemon, pine nut, and caramelized white chocolate. Maybe I’ll tell him to go ahead and lick the plate. He says nothing.
“Maybe a little,” Vanessa answers. “You’ve had a tough week. But the real reason we asked you out is we have some big news to share . . . I should say Don has some big news to share . . . and with everything going on we figured the only way to properly tell you was to get you away from the office and everything else going on.”
If she’s pregnant, she’s not showing. Don told me that two kids were enough. If they’re having relationship troubles—and they sure don’t act like it—I doubt I’d be on the shortlist for counseling. I look at Don. He’s still poking at a few crumbs.
“You get a tryout with the Bears?” I ask.
No smile. He takes a deep breath and looks up quick. I wonder if Vanessa just kicked him.
“We’ve talked about this before, partner. But now it’s real.”
Uh oh. I know where this is going. I try to keep a smile frozen on my face.
“The timing is crummy but it was always going to be hard.”
Three servers appear at our table, remove the dessert plates and present each of us with . . . a second dessert. This has to be plate number twenty-one. I’ve lost count.
“Chocolate with menthol, coconut, and hyssop for your pleasure,” we are solemnly told.
Don takes a bite of the chocolate and chews thoughtfully.
“Come on, Don. What’s up?” I ask. “Just say it.”
“I wanted you to know before it happens. I turn in my papers on Friday. I’m resigning. I’m done.”
I knew he was going to say that but it still feels like the wind has been knocked out of me. I’m not great with relationships. We’ve had our fights as partners the last three years. But it’s been safe and comfortable. I respect Don as a family man and professional as much as . . . well as much as anyone I’ve ever known. I might drive him crazy but I think he feels the same kind of respect for me. We’ve been a good team.
I’m afraid to say anything. I might cry and as my mom can tell you, I don’t shed tears.
“You’re not saying anything, Kristen,” Vanessa says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s been a tough couple days. I’m not going to do my usual shtick and try to say something funny that isn’t very funny. I’ll just be honest. This is hard.”
“Don’s told me what you’ve been through this week,” Vanessa says, her eyes glistening with what might turn into tears. “But it’s not just been the last few days. It’s been nonstop for over couple years now. Your dad. That serial killer. The Durham murder. Then this crazy thing in New York.”
She realizes she isn’t cheering me up and stops. She tries to say something but I lean over and give her a hug and she hugs me back hard.
Are we making a scene? I’m not sure I care.
“Okay, what’s next Squires?” I ask Don, rubbing the back of my hand over the corner of my eye. There are times when not wearing much makeup is a plus.
“You know my brother, Rodney, has been trying to get me to move to LA and finish law school. Become a partner with him. I think we’re going to do it.”
I met Rodney last year. I know he’s been pushing Don to partner up with him for the past few years. It’s interesting that Squires said, I think we’re going to do this, rather than, we are going to do this.
“You happy with that?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer, so yeah.”
“Then I’m happy for you. I’m happy.”
“You’ll finally get a partner that can keep up with you,” he says, eyes on his coffee.
“Right. I figured I would have a new partner sooner or later—after you became the boss.”
“I haven’t held my breath on a promotion.”
“It’s always been just a matter of time.”
“If it was going to happen, it would have happened when Captain Z went down with the Big C. They looked outside our squad.”
I didn’t realize how much Blackshear getting the nod bothered him. I’ve been afraid the messes I get in have held him back for promotion.
“Zaworski is only acting captain,” I say. “He’s doing it as a favor to Czaka. He’s not going to be in the chair that much longer.”
“You trying to talk me into staying?”
Vanessa gives Don a look I can’t miss and I shut my mouth. I know she has wanted him out of CPD for some time. Not because of the unpredictable hours. Not because of the microscope we get put under by citizens, bureaucrats, the judicial system, and the press. Not because of the modest pay. It’s what everyone married to a homicide detective in a big city thinks about. When am I going to get the dreaded call? I can’t argue with that. My mom got the call. My whole family did.
There’s something I want to ask but know I can’t. Don’s sister, Debbie, still lives in Chicago. Crack head. Hooker. Homeless. Rodney flies out once a year and the brothers make a trek through the gutters of Chicago to find her, in hopes she’ll agree to go to a rehab center. Money’s no object. Rodney’s rich and Don isn’t doing bad because of Vanessa. Last time I saw Debbie was last Thanksgiving. She seems too far gone to know what she’s turning her back on to me. They found a very nice facility that had an opening that week. I went with them to pick her up. She disappeared in the middle of the night. Don told me that convinced Rodney to put in a deposit at one of Chicago metro’s best facilities to guarantee an immediate spot.
Vanessa is dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. Don is watching me closely. He knows what I’m thinking. I don’t think inviting me to dinner was his idea. I’m sure there will be another conversation that includes the topic of Debbie.
Maybe I do need counseling. Everyone seems to think I’ve been through a lot of trauma. I’ve always thought the good outweighed the bad in my life. Is that suppressing my feelings?
What I want to do now is a workout. That always helps me sort things out.
23
MOM IS ALREADY asleep as I enter the back door. Good. I’m talked out for the day. Reynolds latest message let me know he is still at the PathoGen offices in Redwood Shores, California. He said to call no matter how late since he is on West Coast time. He stresses we need to talk.
To call or not to call? I figured after sleeping seven hours in the middle of the day—and drinking a couple cups of coffee with dinner—I would be too wired to go back to sleep. But I was wrong. My eyelids are drooping.
We can talk tomorrow.
“No word on the Bear?”
“No word, Pasha.”
“Turn off the phone, Vladimir. You idiot. I told you, we only turn on the phones for three minutes every hour. Do you want to send a signal to the FBI to tell them where to find us?”
Zheglov gave Boyarov a hard stare and held the phone up high so Pasha could see him switching it off. When had Pasha ever shown him disrespect? He knew better. And when had he ever seen him this nervous? Never.
They were using throwaway phones with no ID. But with the software the NSA was running, including voice recognition, who knew when the listeners would figure out who was on the phone.
Vladimir watched Pasha run a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. He was propped up against the headboard on an uncomfortable bed. He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a half-empty bottle of vodka. He fumbled for a glass, knocked it off the stand, swore, and took a swig straight from the bottle.
He held it up for Vlad. Vlad took it and tipped his head back but only allowed himself a very small swallow. One of us better keep our wits. There was a smoldering tension in the air. There should be. Vlad had led the attack party on Genken. He expected to come home a hero—with Pasha in charge of the New York bratva and him as Pasha’s number two man. It hadn’t worked out that way.
Pasha took the bottle back and slugged back another drink. He shook it at Vladimir. Vlad shook his head no.
“How has it gone so wrong, Vlad? I finally get everything I wanted. Genken is dead. I’m the Pakhan. The problem is no one else knows that.”
Pasha is not in good shape, Vladimir thought. He hadn’t been anywhere near Genken’s estate yesterday. That had been the plan so that Pasha had an airtight alibi when he assumed command of the bratva. Now not being there made Pasha look weak.
With US law enforcement and Genken’s other brigadiers racing to find Pasha, word was out. How long could he and Pasha convince the gang to stay loyal? Not much longer, he thought. Soon they would be switching sides.
After delivering the formula, Pasha had been told he had a green light to take out Genken and become the new Pakhan. Everyone but Genken knew this day was coming sooner than later. He was an old man. He had lost his ruthless edge. With Moscow’s blessing behind Pasha, the other brigadiers would have fallen in line beneath him. They wouldn’t like it—there was no love lost for the favorite son—but they would bow or they would die.
Everything had depended on securing a top-secret formula, the price for Moscow’s blessing. That ship had sailed when the deal with PathoGen imploded. Vlad’s attack was their last chance to get the code and it, too, had failed.
Akulov, Yerokhin, Korablin, Ishutin, and Luytov. They were turning the city upside down looking for Pasha—and undoubtedly him— systematically picking off their soldiers and disabling the organization. Vlad ordered reprisals while Pasha raged. Not good.
Who will get to us first and pull the trigger? Probably Ishutin. He was oldest and had been in the Genken inner circle longest. He was considered too old to succeed Genken as Pakhan—that would go to Luytov now. But Ishutin was old school and would forgive no break in the code of vory v zakone. His group was biggest and best organized.
“Chert!” Pasha seethed, taking another swallow of vodka.
“Easy, Pasha. We need clear heads.”
It worried Vlad that Pasha simply nodded his head in agreement.
“Vlad, do we have a way of hitting Ishutin?”
“He would be hard to get to, Pasha. What do you have in mind?”
“If we could buy some time, I could get things squared away with Mosc
ow.”
“Will that do any good?”
“Nyet.”
Pasha had made promises to powerful people and failed to deliver. His last chance to salvage a simple operation went up in smoke, literally, when Genken set his safe room on fire during the attack. Aleksei wasn’t going to leave behind anything that would help Pasha take his spot. He burned the security code to activate the PathoGen deal rather than let Pasha win. When Vlad and his men finally broke into the Pakhan’s safe room, Genken had swallowed the cyanide tablet.
Pasha had paid off one of Genken’s bykis to help plan the attack. Pasha thought they might snatch victory from defeat when he suspected Medved had run to the estate in Oyster Bay to beg Aleksei for his life. There was no sign of the Bear, but Vlad was sure Pasha was right. Informants had confirmed there was no wallet on Nelson. Who else could have taken it but Med? How else could Genken have it in hand if the Bear hadn’t come to him?
Old news. What came next?
24
“KRISTEN, I THOUGHT we agreed that you would let us know your schedule at the beginning of the day.”
“I did give you my schedule at the beginning of the day. It just changed.”
FBI Agent Heather Torgerson is not amused.
“It’s understood things change. But we need more time than you gave us to check out an unfamiliar venue.”
She is quite unhappy with my last-minute decision to join Don and Vanessa for dinner. Maybe she’s mad they couldn’t get a table.
“Yesterday morning was the first time we talked, Agent Torgerson. Things are a little up in the air with me just getting back in town.”
“Listen, Kristen . . . call me Heather . . . I don’t disagree with anything Special Agent Reynolds said and I don’t want to be an alarmist. But this is serious. These are dangerous people. If they still have designs on you, they’ll exploit what you are calling ‘up in the air’ moments.”
“I hear and obey. I can’t promise that plans won’t change. But I’ll try to give you more warning when they do.”
