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

by M. K. Gilroy

“So it’s putting a big hurt on the bad guys?”

  “Definitely. They’re already hurting with this civil war they’re waging.”

  “So what’s in New York for you?”

  “Yours truly is going to kick off the Pasha Boyarov debriefing.”

  Yours? Truly? We do need to talk. Now? Nah. Not yet.

  “Congratulations. I’m glad for you. What about the mountain man that cut Frank Nelson’s throat?”

  “That’s Nazar Kublanov. They call him Medved; the Bear. No sign of him. I’m looking forward to finding out where he fit in Boyarov’s plans. I’m guessing he’s at the bottom of the East River if they managed to cut a hole in the ice big enough to push him through. He’s officially a missing person but is presumed dead. He’s the least of our worries.”

  I can hear engines roar in the background.

  “I need to sign off. I’ll call when I can,” he says.

  “Sounds good.”

  Take your time.

  So no one is planning to kill me at the moment. That’s one step toward normalcy. Next on my agenda is making sure I keep a serial killer incarcerated so he faces trial. I’ll worry about Austin and my sister later.

  No sooner had Reynolds hung up when my phone chirped again. Zaworski. Could this be good news? Or bad?

  I can’t believe I’m back on active duty. I need to send Tom Gray a thank you note for going to bat for me with his neighbors in the psych division. Gray is an investigator in Internal Affairs and he and I had a run-in last year back when a perp accused me of excessive force.

  Now that I’m official again, I can stick my nose into the Keltto case. Time to call Blackshear.

  “This is Blackshear.”

  “Bob, this is Conner,” I say.

  “What trouble you in this time?”

  “More than you can imagine, but I might have something good for you on the Keltto case.”

  “As long as it makes it even easier to convict the person we all know did it, I’m all ears.”

  “We all know who killed Ed Keltto?”

  “I hope we all do. What you got, Conner?”

  “I’m sure you got to talk to the kid living next door. I had an interesting chat with him this morning.”

  “What are you doing working my case without my permission— and, last I heard, while still suspended from street duty?”

  “It just happened, Bob. I can explain. I wasn’t nosing into your case.”

  “Okay,” he says, not sounding convinced. “What’d you get from the kid?”

  Blackshear and I get along pretty easily. He’s as exasperated as everyone else that has to deal with me regularly.

  I have to stop going out in the cold.

  31

  “Y ASÍ, LA HIJA pródiga ha vuelto a casa. Ven a saludar a papá!”

  I should have taken Spanish as my second language. Who knows? Maybe it’s not too late. They have online courses. Spanish would help me on the job, though there are so many language groups in Chicago, it would only be a start. However, it would definitely help me know what Detective Antonio Martinez is yammering about, with his eyebrows rising and lowering faster than the elevators at the Hancock Building, his eyes sparkling, a smirk on his face, his straw fedora perched at a jaunty angle.

  “I hear you’re fighting the Russians in New York City now. Brave girl.” He whistles and shakes his head.

  “Who said I’m fighting Russians?”

  “I can’t remember but I think it was . . . everybody. Kristen, you are our princesa guerrera.”

  “I’m your what?”

  “You are our princess warrior,” Don deadpans. “Lay off, Antonio,” he adds.

  Did I ask for help?

  “Oh brother,” I say, blowing a loose strand of hair from my face that has escaped my tightly pulled ponytail. Klarissa says tying your hair too tight damages it. Not sure she’s right but it seems to be coming loose more often so I’m at least listening at a subconscious level. Who says I have to be right on everything?

  I’m enrolling in a Spanish class tomorrow. Maybe CPD will pay for it if I haven’t broken the budget on a security detail. I was fighting with Mom when I signed up for classes my freshman year of high school and took French instead of Spanish, which she was pushing. Je suis Kristen. Quel est votre nom? I’ve said to nobody. Ever.

  I give Don a narrow look. Who’s been talking? He just shrugs.

  Martinez is partnered up with a new kid who looks about fifteen. He enters the conference room, sees me, walks over and puts out hand to shake.

  “You must be Detective Conner. I’m Detective Smith.”

  “Call me Kristen,” I say, shaking hands with him.

  He’s now supposed to tell me to call him by his first name but goes a different direction: “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All good I hope.”

  Sergeant Konkade, the man who keeps our department running, has walked in with two other detectives that alternate night and day shifts, Sandy Green—new since the Durham murder—and Gabe Fletcher.

  “Sólo decimos cosas buenas de nuestra princesa guerrera!” Martinez says to me and everyone laughs.

  Now what?

  “All good,” Smith resumes, oblivious to what Martinez is saying as I am. “I heard you got into a fight with a Russian hit man while you were in New York City.”

  I look back at Martinez and Squires. Both raise their hands with expressions of innocence that look much too sincere to be true.

  The door opens and Blackshear, Frank Nelson—our CPD security guy, not the murder victim—and Zaworski walk in. Zaworski doesn’t look up but automatically says, “Stop fighting ladies.” I’m guessing that is politically incorrect and could earn him a reprimand and some sensitivity training. I’m not going to report him but I glance over at Green. Don’t know her very well yet. Some people look for opportunities to file a grievance with the union early and often. Used to be that would hurt your career. Now it sometimes helps because it puts you in a protected category. Didn’t get a promotion? Just say that it was payback from a superior you reported.

  “Conner, do you know Green and Smith?”

  “Green was here when I left, sir. I just met Smith.”

  “Collin,” he says.

  About time.

  “Collin who?” Zaworski asks.

  “Uh, Collin Smith. Me, sir.”

  I have to remember that Zaworski has only been back in the office for a couple days before I got back from vacation.

  He looks at Collin and says, “Okay, that’s good to know, Smith.”

  Smith is beat red. Ha! Nice to see someone else on the hot seat.

  “I’ve only got a few minutes before I’m due to meet with Czaka. So I’m going to hit two items personally and then turn it over to Konkade.”

  We are meeting in a small battered battleship-gray conference room on the fifth floor of the Second Precinct. I got here early enough that I nabbed a chair with the green vinyl still in one piece.

  “Conner, both items deal with you. First, have you got word from your FBI contact that you are no longer believed to be the target of a Russian hit man?”

  “Yes sir,” I answer, turning slightly red at his reference to my FBI contact. Everyone but Collin Smith knows I’ve been seeing Reynolds. With Martinez in the department I bet Collin knows about us too.

  “Listen careful,” Zaworski says, sweeping the whole group with a glance. “If you don’t live under a rock and turn on the news, this Russian gang war going on in New York is crazy. I’ve never seen anything like it. This is Al Capone stuff. Frank”—he glances at Nelson— “tells me two cops got shot this morning in a Mexican standoff.”

  A Mexican standoff? Zaworski really is old school. I never noticed much before. Even I know you can’t say things like that and I am the master of the faux pas. There, my high school French did come in handy. I look over at Green. Either she has indigestion or she is offended by Zaworski.

  “I have no reason to doubt that the
FBI knows what they are doing . . .”

  Zaworski leaves it hanging long enough to get gratuitous snickers and laughs. Law enforcement agents from different agencies don’t always place nice together.

  “You can call me old school and paranoid and you would be correct in both statements,” he says. “But Captain Nelson and I aren’t as confident as the Feds are that this thing with Conner is dead. So everyone is going to stay alert when she is around.”

  “Nothing new there,” Martinez interjects.

  “No joking today, Antonio, this is serious stuff,” Zaworski cuts him off gruffly.

  Martinez takes the rebuff in stride—he got the smiles from the group he was looking for.

  “Frank is going to share some pictures and set some protocol.” He nods to Nelson.

  “Thanks, Karl.”

  They must be old buddies. I’ve never heard anyone call Zaworski by his first name. Don calls him Z-Man—but not to his face. Nelson opens a folder and sends a stack of stapled briefs around the circle.

  “There’s only two pictures I want you to get a good look at,” he says. “First two pages. The main guy is Nazar Kublanov. He goes by the name Medved, which means the Bear. Good nickname. He looks like a bear. He’s a low level thug that NYPD has on camera going into Central Park before and after the murder of Francis Nelson. No relation to me.”

  He looks up to see if anyone thinks it’s funny. Everyone is staring at the shaggy mountain of a man who sliced Nelson’s throat. He tells a joke as good as I do.

  What was the giant’s name in Princess Bride? All I can remember is that Andre the Giant played the part. He and the Bear could be brothers.

  “The guy might be dead or alive,” Nelson continues. “There have been no reported sightings of him since D-Day. One of the survivors from the Genken Massacre says he was there the day of the murder. Might have even spent the night. But no body was found there. He might have been taken and killed later. We just don’t know.

  “The second picture is of Vladimir Zheglov. He is the right-hand man of Pasha Boyarov and his major enforcer. Same thing with him as with Nazar Kublanov. He might be dead. Might be alive. If he’s alive, he’s dangerous. We’re more worried about him. He’s a nasty piece of work. At least eleven known kills.”

  “If there are that many known kills, then why isn’t he in jail?” Martinez asks.

  “No witness will testify,” Nelson answers. “But let me keep going. Ask questions later. The Feds now have Boyarov. My understanding is they were supposed to bring in Zheglov at the same time. We don’t have confirmation. If the Feds have him, everyone needs to say a prayer of thanks.”

  He crosses himself.

  I think back to my short conversation with Reynolds. He mentioned Boyarov. Nothing about Zheglov.

  “So who got Boyarov, the Feds or NYPD?” Martinez asks.

  “The Feds,” Nelson says. “The Russians don’t tend to talk. If the Feds have worked a deal that gets Boyarov to sing then that is a major coup. They’ll learn the ins and outs of Russian operations up and down the East Coast, from New York to Miami.”

  Don whistles. I just nod my head, thinking Nelson was included in a briefing with someone from the FBI and is saying way more than he’s supposed to, even if he’s couching it as personal speculation.

  If Reynolds is flying cross-country to work Boyarov then Deputy Director Robert Willingham is undoubtedly running the show. Austin is his sharp edge of the blade. After Reynolds cut loose from the Army he went to law school. Brains and brawn.

  Nelson drones on about other players, including unknown operatives who are in the country from Moscow. No one knows who is working for whom or fighting with whom at the moment, so Vladimir or Med could be tied to any of the warring groups.

  “We hope the FBI is right and Conner is no longer on the radar screen. But the Russian mobsters are a different breed and have long memories if they perceive she has moved against them. Bottom line— stay alert. If you see someone who is showing undue interest in Conner that fits either description, you don’t engage, but you call a special number we have set up and, if possible, maintain visual contact. Don’t get yourself killed being a hero.”

  Frank’s a bit melodramatic if you ask me.

  We go through the details of keeping me alive, which takes longer than Zaworski planned, so he stands up before we’re done and says, “As soon as Frank is finished, Blackshear is up to discuss a murder that landed in the Fourth but that’s been moved to the Second. Konkade can brief me on how you want to proceed this afternoon.”

  A few minutes later, Nelson gives Blackshear the floor.

  “We’ve got a homicide that occurred on Monday morning down the street from where Conner grew up. Kristen’s mom, the widow of Detective Michael Conner, gave Kristen a tip that has yielded some good results. Conner spent the night at her mom’s and had interaction the following morning with a juvenile who may or may not know something that will help us further the investigation. I met with Commander Czaka and Captain Zaworski and we determined the Fourth and Second will share responsibility on this one because of Conner’s proximity to the murder site.”

  “You just can’t stay away from us, amigo,” Martinez interrupts.

  “There is that,” Blackshear says with a smile. “Oh, and I might add my partner, Mike Shepherd, is down with a bad case of this nasty flu. So we’re down a man and up a murder on you guys, so this makes sense.”

  “Always good to work with you, Bob,” Don says. “We miss you.”

  I think they’re trying to cheer the guy up for having been knocked down a level. He’s smiling. Might be working.

  “I miss you guys, too. It’s more fun over here—probably because we do all the work in the Fourth.”

  That gets a groan.

  “Of course you have Conner to stir the pot and I know that keeps you jumping,” Blackshear adds.

  That gets a big laugh. Way too big of a laugh. Et tu Bob? The things I put up with just because I keep finding myself in the middle of big cases.

  “Okay, sorry Conner,” he says, the smile gone. “This shared case will mostly involve just Squires and Conner and me, but we thought everyone needs to be aware of what’s happening so Konkade can move cases around—and because it’s unique with a potential juvenile witness.”

  Things get interesting when a juvenile is involved as a potential witness. Not as bad as when he or she is a potential suspect, but it gets dicey nonetheless.

  In 2011 the Supreme Court affirmed that special considerations must be in place when we interrogate a child. The reasoning was children aren’t able to understand the full significance of cooperating with the police. Justice Sonia Sotomayor wrote the majority opinion and every cop knows what she said even before Blackshear reads it: “A reasonable child subjected to police questioning will sometimes feel pressured to submit when a reasonable adult would feel free to go.”

  The ruling dealt with the reading of a simplified and amplified version of the Miranda Rights so it shouldn’t affect our questioning of Bradley Starks.

  But it does. Like every other new law, it starts specific and then starts getting applied with broader strokes. So all questioning of juveniles is something we plan and conduct carefully. The other factor at hand is parental permission. Do we have to ask Karen Starks permission to interview her fourteen-year-old? There is no state or federal law that prohibits police from questioning a minor without parental consent. But for a time CPD adopted a policy that we wouldn’t interview kids in connection to a crime without permission. Last year—at least I think it was last year—the policy was rescinded, for obvious reasons. Too many parents said no. But even without the rule, new standard protocol requires that we get approval from a captain before we make the move. It slows things down but beats the policy we had.

  “Zaworski will sign the form on whatever we decide,” Konkade says, “whether you get permission or not.”

  He smooths his nonexistent hair on his bald scalp, a nervous
habit he picked up during the Cutter Shark case. We all picked up a few nervous habits back then.

  We debate whether to ask or not ask and determine to ask Mrs. Starks for permission . . . with a soft ambiguity. We’ll see how cooperative she is. The concern is she might go into a defensive stance based on what we already know—she didn’t come home the night before the murder. Someone dropped her off with Blackshear and his team already on the scene.

  If she looks like she wants to help, we’ll ask, assuming she won’t say no. If she does say no—or it looks like she might be so inclined—we’ll interview Bradley anyway. Blackshear will hint that we might have to call Social Services to let them know about her leaving a fourteen-yearold home alone at night.

  This is the part of being a cop that eats at you. You have to get the job done—and sometimes that means getting heavy-handed.

  “What about the kid?” Sandy Green asks. “Shouldn’t we be calling Social Services either way?”

  “If the kid helps us find a killer we don’t want to put his competency in question,” Blackshear answers.

  “That’s what it comes down to?” she snorts.

  “In this case, it does. Welcome to Homicide,” he answers.

  “I’ll ask around the neighborhood to get the score,” I say. “If the kid is in a vulnerable situation, we can deal with it.”

  “I think we already know the answer to that,” Sandy says.

  “Listen, we might get lucky and the mom tells us to come in, serves us milk and cookies, and tells us to spend as much time talking to Junior as we want,” Blackshear answers, glaring at Green.

  “His name is Bradley,” she says, undaunted.

  If approaching Mrs. Starks goes anything like this, it’s going to be a tough interview.

  We move on and finalize the plan. We start with the mom, in person, with no advance warning. Squires, Blackshear, and I will set up shop at my mom’s house and watch for her. Heck, my mom is keeping an eye on the neighborhood already—she can probably tell us when Karen Starks gets home. Second, it will be Blackshear and me doing the interview, but Konkade insists that will only be after we spend an hour with a child witness specialist.