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

by M. K. Gilroy

  “Calling while you are driving to a restaurant is not adequate time.”

  “I get it. I get what you’re saying.”

  “Lunch today?” she asks.

  “Was that on my list?” I ask innocently.

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m skipping lunch—I ate enough last night to hibernate the rest of the winter. I’m working out with our fight instructor and trainer, Barry Soto. You’re welcome to join me.”

  She purses her lips and says, “Thank you. I might.”

  This is serious. Do I not look like I am taking things seriously? Everyone keeps using the word “serious” with me.

  It’s still hard to imagine someone has a contract on me. Inconceivable.

  Pasha took another slug from a new bottle. Only one drink left. He handed it to Vlad, who looked like he might decline, but took another sip of the fiery liquid.

  I’m swigging and he’s sipping. Not a good sign.

  Pasha finally came back to the sad, painful conclusion that went against everything he believed. The ultimate betrayal. A complete breach of vory v zakone.

  His only escape from Moscow and the other brigadiers was the US Government. They would jump at a chance to make a deal with him.

  His mind began to chew on how to do it. It could not look like he had surrendered. It had to be an authentic-looking takedown.

  The only way to do that was if Vladimir was not involved. No way would he agree to it. That meant he, too, had to be taken or killed. Everyone knew Vladimir Zheglov and Pasha Boyarov were lifelong friends—and that neither would betray the other. Which meant that was exactly what he must do. It had to look real.

  “What is it, Pasha?”

  “I’m just working on what comes next, Vlad.”

  Pasha Boyarov in Witness Protection. What a thought.

  25

  LIFE IS GOOD on the road, Medved thought to himself, contentedly sipping coffee and eating a third donut at a Dunkin Donuts just off the exit of the Keystone Shortway in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania.

  Now he could no longer say he never got lucky. First he limped out the back of Genken’s Long Island estate in Oyster Bay Cove unnoticed. He knew that remaining undetected wouldn’t last long in the mansion district, even without increased police traffic. Wealthy people notice when someone who looked like him walked on their streets—he stuck out like a sumo wrestler at a beauty pageant. But everyone was huddled inside against the icy cold and no one reported him to the police as he walked along the street. His next break was that construction had come to a halt less than a mile from the back of the Pakhan’s residence. The crew had left equipment outside, including a dump truck, while they took a break and headed indoors due to the ferocious freeze that had settled on the Northeast corridor of the United States.

  Med could drive anything. The three-year-old Western Star 4700 with a Detroit engine was love at first sight for him. He kicked in the door of the construction trailer. He then broke the lock on the manager’s desk to find the metal box with the equipment keys. They were all there, including the keys to the Western Star, all conveniently labeled for him.

  Med knew there would be cash around. You couldn’t keep construction going in New York City without paying neighborhood insurance fees. He knew this firsthand because he had sometimes collected dues before his short stay on Riker Island. After prying open the lock box, he whistled. Close to ten grand was neatly stacked in tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds. That would supplement the three grand he got from the white-haired man’s wallet nicely. Lady Udacha was smiling on him.

  The great thing about driving a dump truck in a major metropolitan area—and maybe anywhere else—is no matter how big you are, you are invisible. He liked the feeling. He drove back to Coney Island, parked a street over from his apartment, and went up the back stairs from the alley. He knew it was a risk but he needed a few things, including a small Byzantine silver cross that had been his mother’s. He was wearing it now as he considered getting one more donut. He liked the jelly-filled.

  When he went through his apartment—undoubtedly for the last time—his first priority was getting into his safe that had close to a thousand bucks and a couple of Glocks. He had an old Remington shotgun in the back of his closet along with a short-barreled Kalishnikov he for sure wanted to take as well. He knew Ilsa kept some money stashed too. She wouldn’t be needing it. He ransacked her stuff and found another thousand dollars—maybe more—in bills of all denominations—there was Lady Udacha again. Ilsa had been a prostitute when he first met her. She worked in a bakery now. Either baking bread paid more than she let on or she had been up to old tricks. Yesterday he would have beat her until she confessed. No point in even getting mad now. He would miss her. She deserved better than him.

  He grabbed a lock box with his important papers and packed two suitcases. He looked at Ilsa’s stuff one more time and saw something that gave him an idea. He really shouldn’t risk being in the apartment any longer than he had to, but it might help. It was a clipper set she had used when she worked at a barbershop. He stripped down and starting with the widest guard, he began cutting his hair and beard. It took him thirty minutes but he got to bare scalp. He barely recognized himself in the mirror. He showered, ran a razor over his face and head, and quickly headed out the door. It took two trips to load up the Western Star. No one seemed to notice him—except Lady Udacha.

  He made a stop at yet another deserted construction site. He removed the license plate from a dump truck at the back of the lot that looked unused, and put the plates from his Western Star on it and then those plates on his Western Star.

  He drove onto the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, exited west on Interstate 278, and drove slowly out of the city toward I-80 west. Once traffic thinned, he was able to relax and think.

  He knew it was possible to get new identification that was good enough to get a job and a license in a new state—but it would be expensive. He didn’t know how much. He was sure he could do the same thing with the truck. The Western Star was probably worth a hundred-fifty grand but he’d never get that much without a bill of sale and valid registration. But the idea of owning his own truck and becoming an independent contractor—maybe somewhere warmer— suddenly seemed very appealing to him. He wasn’t cut out for life in the bratva anymore. He was tired of killing. Why not a new life? A respectable life?

  But he still had one loose end to tie up. The Chicago detective. Genken said she had positively ID’d him, which put him at risk for the rest of his life. Something as simple as a friendly fight in a bar and having his identity probed could put his picture and presence back in circulation with the police. There were a lot of things he had done in his past that couldn’t be proved. But an eyewitness to a murder was a different matter. Especially if she was a cop.

  If he was going to start over, why not do it all the way? Or at least as much as possible. Pasha and his death angel, Vladimir Zheglov, would always be there. But who was to say either would survive? But a witness—a detective witness—would never go away unless he made it so.

  26

  “OKAY, CONNER, HOW bad do you want to be back on active duty?”

  “Very.”

  I might have said that too quickly. There has to be a catch.

  “Then listen close.”

  There obviously is.

  “You can’t work any cases until you’ve completed your first three counseling sessions. Without scaring the good doctor off, I would add.”

  “Sir . . . sir . . . that’s two more weeks.”

  “Did I ask you to comment or to listen?”

  I gulp and shut up.

  “Your therapist has agreed to meet with you this afternoon and tomorrow morning to help us out. If Czaka or me had leaned in, she would have rightfully pushed back. Your old buddy from Internal Affairs, Tom Gray, went to bat for you.”

  “Really? I didn’t think he liked me.”

  “You don’t think anyone likes you. One day you’ll get o
ld and wise enough to realize no one is paying enough attention to you to come up with dislike.”

  Ouch. That hurts. Am I really paranoid?

  “Stop thinking, Conner.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

  “But I can see it and it’s hurting my brain. Let’s deal with one thing at a time. You do the sessions today and tomorrow, then you go back on your Tuesday schedule next week.”

  “You mean I’m not done after three sessions? What the heck are we going to talk about?”

  If looks could turn you into a block of salt, they’d be using me to clear ice and snow from the streets of the Windy City within the hour.

  “Who said three?” he asks.

  “Uh . . . you said three would clear me.”

  “Clear you to get back on active duty, but not stay on active duty. Are you taking this seriously? Did you really think a single session with a shrink was going to settle this?”

  “I assumed it was one and done with the therapist. If you’re ready to work, you’re ready to work. Sir.”

  I note in my mind that it was Zaworski that called Dr. Andrews a shrink, not me.

  “When was the last time you read the employee bible, Conner?”

  I splutter but can’t think of an answer. Probably my first year on the job.

  “Conner. Do me a favor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Since you’ve got a couple hours before you meet with the doc, I want you to spend some time reading the section of the manual that specifies procedures for when an officer is involved in a shooting.”

  “I can do that.”

  I start to rise and he holds up his hand.

  “Hold on. I want to make sure we’re on the same page. I blame myself for not being more specific in what I just told you to do. When I say, ‘spend some time,’ what I mean is the next hour. At least. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Because I’m not asking.”

  “I’m on it, sir,” I say as I pop out of my seat.

  “Hold your horses, KC.”

  Sit or stand? I want to get my workout in. That gives me an hour to read, hustle downstairs to go through a Barry Soto torture session, and shower quickly before driving over to Dr. Andrews’ office. I stay standing. He waits for eye contact.

  “What’s up with Squires?” he asks.

  “Sir?” I ask as innocently as I can muster. We look at each other for at least twenty seconds—an eternity with my attention span.

  “I figured you’d clam up for your partner. That’s fine. I’ll know when I know.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You sure you have nothing to say that might illuminate my suspicion that Detective Squires is unhappy?”

  “Uh . . . no, sir.”

  “Go read your bible. If you don’t know where your desk copy is, it’s also on the website.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Chicago Police Department realizes that our most valuable resource is you, an officer in the field. We know that it is common to experience stress from post-shooting trauma that can sometimes feel overwhelming, which can affect how you feel and relate on the job and in non-work-related environments. It is with your well-being and complete recovery from the psychological stress you have endured in situations involving deadly force that we have created a series of coping strategies in order for you to work functionally through the impact of the trauma.

  We have outlined numerous post-trauma interventions and support processes, first of which is a safe, confidential, psychological evaluation and therapeutic process with a professional therapist.

  Okay, maybe something is wrong with me. I don’t feel stressed out any more than usual. Except for my sister cheating with my boyfriend, Russians wanting to kill me, and a serial killer seeking to have all evidence against him thrown out. Being involved in a shooting doesn’t even faze me. Is that so abnormal?

  I didn’t grow up wanting to be an accountant or a fashion model or a teacher or even a fireman. I guess that’s a fireperson. I think I’d like to be married and have kids some day, but what I’ve always wanted to be, as long as I remember, was a police officer. I wouldn’t have minded playing soccer for Team USA first. But getting my detective shield before my twenty-eighth birthday was one of the happiest days of my life.

  I wanted to be in the field. I knew that meant I would probably find myself in some dangerous situations and might even have to use the gun I’ve been trained to use.

  I know that the popular perception is us cops are looking for a reason to shoot someone. That’s not even close to the truth. I personally don’t know anyone looking to use lethal force of any kind at any time. But we train for it in case it is required.

  In the past year I’ve had a knife pulled on me by a punk who is still roaming the streets of Chicago. It bothers me that he went free because someone screwed up his processing papers and let him walk by accident. But I don’t feel bad that I put him on the ground and cuffed him. I’ve also had a psychopath attempt to murder me. There was no question in my heart and mind when I raised a gun to stop him. Unfortunately he slammed my wrist in a door and I lost the gun, which turned it into hand-to-hand combat. I’ve never lost a minute of sleep over that either. I was also in a life or death skirmish where a man was shot and killed. Not by me. But I was there. Traumatic? Sure. It could have been me that went down. But I didn’t. So I feel pretty good on that count too.

  I read through the interventions, which include group therapy with other officers involved in deadly force.

  I resolve to take the counseling with Dr. Andrews very seriously.

  Maybe there is something wrong with me for not feeling betrayed and angry and isolated. Again, no more than usual. I was taught to pray and ask God to help me with my problems. That’s what I do. Isn’t that counseling?

  Maybe I should have PTSD. If I do, it’s because of my dad’s death, not for hand-to-hand combat with a serial killer. I’ll ask Andrews straight out if I’m the one with the problem for feeling the way I do. Plus maybe she can help me come up with a way to deal with the Klarissa and Austin situation.

  What I won’t tell her is I don’t want to go to group therapy. I have a feeling that if I did, she would be sure to make that a requirement.

  27

  “YOU TOLD ME two hours. Now you say you’se got seventy-five minutes tops. You’re going soft on me, Kristen. Soft. How am I gonna keep you’se alive if you’re soft?”

  I warned Torgerson about Barry Soto, our fight instructor at the Second. I can’t remember his exact age but I know he trained my dad. I’m pretty sure he’s over retirement age, maybe seventy, but he’s still ripped. Short. Big chest and arms from five hundred dips and pushups a day. His legs look small in comparison but he can jump and kick like a man forty years younger than him. He’s bald on top with a ring of red hair that always made me think of Bozo the Clown from when I was a kid. When he lost his hair up top it found its way to his ears, nostrils, and arms.

  “C’mon, Kristen. Keep up with your pal. Act like you want to be here. I don’t got time for your dawdling.”

  Dawdling?

  We have jumped rope for almost ten minutes. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes on one leg . . . whatever he barks.

  “Stop! Put the ropes up. Where you found them, Kristen. Don’t teach your pal bad habits and make a mess of my palace.”

  Cinder blocks and a slab floor. Some palace.

  I’d bark back at him but I can’t breathe enough to speak. I put my rope on the exact hook I got it from. I lean over to get a drink of water and that gets him going again.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be? A sip of water every time you want to take a rest?”

  I hustle back on the mat in the middle of Mr. Soto’s palace of pain. Concrete floors, bare walls, and only a couple machines that plug into a wall.

  “Where’s the love, Mr. Soto?” I gasp out.

  “When you stay alive yo
u’ll know how much I love you, Kristen. I told your dad I’d keep you alive, so it’s my cross to bear. Now enough of chitchat. This isn’t a tea party. On your backs ladies!”

  Chitchat? A tea party? He’s in rare form. I think he’s showing off for Torgerson. He must think she’s cute. She is.

  “I want you standing up. No hands. Keep ‘em folded on your chest.”

  “How many?” Heather asks.

  “You been hanging around Kristen too much, FBI tough girl. Keep doing them until I tell you to stop.”

  Go ahead. Try it. Standing up without any assistance isn’t easy. You rock, arch, explode forward, and still fall on your butt two out of three times. By my sixth successful trip to get two feet on the floor, my abs and glutes are on fire. I pause.

  “Keep going!”

  I love Soto. Does that make me a masochist? He pushes and badgers us for an hour of exercises on the mat before pulling out the gloves and punching pads. Heather and I alternate three-minute sets of punching and blocking. Heavy crosses and straights are followed by rapid-fire jabs. Soto believes in body weight and balance. If the punch isn’t popping it’s because the feet are getting lazy. My arms are thin but by the time we call it quits so I could make my appointment, they feel like lead weights.

  I shower and dress quickly. Heather is still sitting on the bench in front of her locker.

  She looks at me and says, “Is he always like that?”

  “Nah. He was in a good mood today.”

  Maybe I’m trying to show off now.

  “So your dad was a cop?”

  “Yes, he was. The CPD has him to blame for putting up with me.”

  “I think everyone feels lucky to have you.”

  “I hope you’re right, but some days it doesn’t feel that way.”

  “Looks to me like everyone loves you.”

  “I need to ponder that. Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

  Maybe do I need counseling. I’ll add what Heather said to the list for Dr. Andrews.