by M. K. Gilroy
He grabbed five Excedrin P.M. tablets and downed them with a swig from a fresh bottle of vodka.
No question I’ll sleep. We’ll see how it looks in the morning. I can decide what to do then. One more shot at her or get out of town.
I wish my uncle was alive to tell him about this. My family is all dead. Ilsa is dead. I am alone. That’s okay, I’m alive and I have a truck.
He was snoring almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“Let’s get out of here, Squires. Unless he has a twin brother, no doubt Conner is right, that’s Levin.”
Before she fell asleep in her hospital room, Kristen was able to let Blackshear know what she’d found on the O’Hare surveillance tapes. She told him her time stamp notes were on a notepad on the kitchen table.
Blackshear and Squires watched together, running the footage backward and forward. Levin’s car pulling into the long-term parking lot at O’Hare and Levin pulling a roller board suitcase in the door of the main terminal.
“So who does what tomorrow?” Squires asked. He had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.
“Since I’ve been to the house a couple times and questioned Bradley Starks first time around, I think I better follow up there.”
Squires scowled.
“Listen, Don, I know you live further away and got to get up a little earlier to drive the route from the Keltto’s house to O’Hare to see if he had time to whack Ed Keltto in the head and still make his flight. But I got to get there before the kid goes to school. I’ll be pulling up only fifteen or thirty minutes later than you. Just thinking about how his mom is going to respond when I knock on the door, I’d be happy to switch.”
“No problem, Bob. Makes sense,” Squires said, accepting Vanessa would not be happy with him getting home so late and leaving so early. It just added fuel to the fire of a long running argument about his job.
He wanted to apologize to Conner for not taking her call seriously but she was asleep before the meeting in her room ended.
Why would she try to kill herself? Did she actually love her husband—after all the other men in her life? She isn’t my problem. Stop worrying about her.
57
I AM BEING chased by a bear in the woods. Everyone knows you can’t outrun a bear. I can hear him crash through leaves, twigs, and branches on the path behind me. I can hear his ragged breath and a snarl. I am sprinting with all my might—my feet are barely touching the ground. But he’s relentless. The bear draws closer, before falling back, but then gains ground and gets close enough that I not only hear his breath but feel it on the backs of my thighs and calves. I don’t know what’s sweat and what’s the foam spraying from ferocious jaws, yearning and poised to take a chunk out of my backside.
Time and distance are fluid and the topography changes so often I’m not sure where I am anymore. Isn’t that something Einstein wrote in his Theory of Relativity?
Is that what Einstein was trying to explain? Am I awake or asleep? My mind is somewhere between hyper-drive in deep space, a forest trail in Wisconsin my family hiked when I was a kid, sheer terror, and a strange serenity. The question of Einstein jars me awake. I’m breathing heavy even though I’m flat on my back in bed. I feel a hand touch my cheek and I open my eyes. Kaylen’s face is the first thing I see, with her beautiful hazel eyes pooled with tears. She looks angelic. She definitely got the angel DNA between us three sisters.
“Are you okay, Kristen? You were calling out in your sleep.”
Uh oh, what did I say?
“What did I say?”
“I think you were saying there’s a bear chasing you.”
Whew. Nothing too psycho. We all need to keep a few secrets safely buried in our subconscious. Unless Dr. Andrews tells me bear dreams indicate a deep pathology. I’ll tell her about this one even though I think I already know what it means. Someone’s trying to kill me. Duh. If it’s the same mountain man I saw in Central Park, he might have a bear for his mother.
I think I read a long time ago that Andre the Giant died of a heart attack. His lookalike is still alive and well—and trying to kill me. Inconceivable.
“What time is it, Kaylen?”
“Just after midnight.”
“What are you doing here? It’s late.”
“That’s a dumb question even for you, Kristen.”
“Are you calling me dumb? I’ve been shot. Everyone is supposed to be nice.”
She laughs, bursts into tears, and then presses the side of her face next to mine, draping an arm gently around my shoulder. It feels wonderful. Even the tears. How come everybody else knows how to express their emotions but me?
“Does Mom know?” I whisper.
“She’s here. She’s been sitting by your side for the last two hours. She just got up for a potty break.”
Do people still say potty break?
“She okay?” I ask.
Kaylen sits up and looks at me with haggard eyes.
“None of us are okay, Kristen. Especially not Mom. Two uniforms knocked on her front door. Again. It wasn’t that long ago it was for Dad.”
No it wasn’t. Four years, five months, and sixteen days since my dad was shot. Two years, one week, and thirteen days since he passed, with yours truly finding him.
“Does she know I’m okay?”
“The doctor says you are lucky to be alive. Mom set him straight and told him it was her prayers. You do have an angel looking out for you, Kristen.”
“I was just grazed. The bullet passed right through my side. No bone, a little muscle, and two nice new scars, front and back.”
“I’d yell at you for being too skinny, little sis, but maybe that makes you a smaller target.”
We both laugh, which cuts off quickly for me as I feel a stab of pain and give a little yelp.
The door opens and Jimmy and Mom walk in. She rushes to the bed and bends over to give me a big hug.
“Careful, Mom,” Kaylen says.
Mom bursts out in sobs. I wanted to tell her I love her and I’m fine—and I want to ask who was watching the kids. Problem is I hit the painkiller button and I’m drowning back to sleep before I can get the words out.
“No, Donald! This is not a reason to hold your letter. First you were supposed to turn it in last Monday, but you just had to tell Kristen first. Then you promised it would be Friday—but things got too busy. What happened to Kristen is exactly the reason you turn your letter in now. Tomorrow.”
“Vanessa, it’s not right to bail when your partner has been shot.”
“Oh, is this bailing? I thought this was about your kids growing up with a father that wasn’t always in harm’s way. I thought this was about you thinking about your wife so she doesn’t worry to death every night you are out working on a murder case. I thought this was about you following your dream of being a lawyer. But I guess I was wrong on all counts. This is about me forcing you to bail. Thanks a lot, Donald. Thanks a lot. I guess I know where I rate in your life; definitely below your real partner.”
“Vanessa, you are taking this all wrong.”
“Am I? Am I?”
“Yes. This is about me finishing the job.”
“No, this is about your work being more important than your family. Look at your partner. She’s in the hospital—again. Her dad got killed on the job.”
“Not exactly on the job. He died a couple years later.”
“Well that’s great. Now we get to take care of you in a wheelchair. That’ll be great for me and the kids.”
“Now you’re being unreasonable.”
“I’m not listening to what you’re saying. I seem to remember you telling Devon you would coach his basketball team. You’ve missed more practices and games than you’ve been there.”
Vanessa stormed out of Donald’s man cave office and slammed the door shut.
Man, oh man. Why isn’t life simple? You try to do the right thing and it’s still all wrong.
What in the world did KC get mixed
up in? What has she got all of us mixed up in?
He’d had an internal argument as to what his next career move would be for a couple years. When Blackshear got promoted it sealed the deal in his mind. He wasn’t on the radar screen of the brass for promotion. It hadn’t worked out well for Blackshear but it didn’t undo the sting of not even being interviewed.
He didn’t want anything given to him because he was black. He wanted to move up because he was good. And he was good.
Partnering with Kristen Conner was great. They worked well together. But she was a force of nature. She burned so brightly everyone else ended up in the shadows.
No excuse missing all of Devon’s practices. I’d like to tell him I’m sorry but I’ll be on the road before he’s awake.
He looked at the business envelope with his neatly typed resignation nested inside of it.
I’m too shot to think tonight. I’ll figure out whether to hold it or turn it in tomorrow morning on the drive back from O’Hare.
I wonder if Vanessa locked the door to the room.
58
VLADIMIR ZHEGLOV HAD taken over driving duties.
Dulles was only forty-five miles away, but with the road conditions, it would still take another ninety minutes to drive it. In good weather they would have been there three hours ago and fast asleep in a Marriott or Hyatt or Sheraton or some other nice hotel near the airport. He didn’t think Teplov stayed at Budget 8 or Motel 6. An exit ramp for a rest stop was ahead. The red taillights of countless semis lined the shoulder of the road. Not even the truckers want to mess with these roads.
“Pull off here,” Teplov said. “I got to use the head. We can get rid of phones here.”
“Sounds good,” Zheglov mumbled.
Vlad parked the car. The two men stretched and shuffled to the drab concrete structure with a small hall of vending machines and men’s and women’s facilities on either side.
“This might take a second,” Teplov said, opening the door to a toilet stall, pulling it shut, and sliding the lock in place.
Longer than you think, Zheglov said to himself. He crouched down and looked under the opening beneath all the stalls. Teplov’s were the only set of legs he saw, his pants gathered in a heap at his ankles.
Move fast. If someone else comes in, deal with it then.
He pulled the switchblade from his coat pocket and flicked open the blade. He crept to the front of the stall door, took a deep breath, coiled himself, and kicked the door in. Teplov’s jaw dropped open. He was sitting on the toilet and screwing a silencer on his Makarov. He jumped to his feet and tried to jerk the handgun up into firing position. Zheglov knew the moment was coming when Teplov would try to tie him up as a loose end and was ready. Vladimir lunged and slashed too quickly for Teplov to get his finger on the trigger. The only sound he made was a gurgle from his slit throat.
Keep moving fast. Zheglov checked and emptied Teplov’s pockets calmly and thoroughly. He needed to make the police work to identify the Russian on a business visa. He also needed any weapons, IDs, and money the man had.
He walked calmly to the CTS sedan and was back on the road in five minutes.
Thirty miles from Dulles he checked into a non-chain motel called the Satellite. The man working registration checked him in from an outside security window and was happy to take cash and fill in any name he wanted on the registration sheet.
Time to take inventory.
59
I SLEPT UNTIL eight-thirty and ate breakfast with Mom, Kaylen, and Heather Torgerson. I told Mom and Kaylen to go home and get a shower and some rest. They put up a fight but relented. Don called at ten.
“You okay, KC?”
“Slept like a baby. I feel great. I’m planning to bust out of here by noon.”
He snorted but didn’t argue. He must be busy because there’s no time for the inane small talk I have mastered.
“How certain was the ME about time of death?” he asks.
“”We’re talking Keltto?”
“Yes.”
“Technically not very—it was close to zero degrees so it was a lot colder than a meat locker. No noticeable body deterioration.”
Meat locker? Body deterioration? I think of nice Mr. Keltto and wish I hadn’t said that.
“But not sure it matters,” I continue. “Reports say Mrs. DeGenares heard him shoveling her walk between five-fifteen and maybe five-thirty-five. Nancy called 911 at five-forty-five.”
“I’ve been on the road all morning from my place to the Kelttos and then to O’Hare. How do people get up so early?”
“Some of us have to work, Don,” I say. “We don’t all have a rich wife to keep us in style.”
I wish I hadn’t joked as soon as the words come out.
“Not now, Conner. This is definitely not a good morning for that.”
“Sorry, Don.”
He takes a breath and asks, “What time did Levin pull in to O’Hare?”
“You already know. Just tell me what you found.”
“Humor me.”
“Right about six-thirty.”
About two hours to the second as I was crawling into the back of a squad car on Columbus Circle to talk to Tommy Barnes.
“Roads were lousy on the day of the murder but I’ve gone through all the reports and traffic was still fairly heavy on all routes to O’Hare from your old neighborhood. Just call it Chicago pride. Nobody’s gonna let a blizzard keep them from proving they can drive on ice. I-280 had major slowdowns due to an accident on the day of the murder. But we don’t know for sure he took that route.”
“So what are you saying Don? Could he have made it to O’Hare at six-thirty?”
“I’d hate to base a case on that fact, but technically yes. Doesn’t prove he did it and definitely doesn’t prove Nancy didn’t do it—or at least wasn’t an accomplice.”
“So what’s Blackshear gonna do?”
“He’s going to meet at the DA’s office to update her on Leslie Levin. Some of us have to work so we’ve been busy while you sleep in.”
Good. Don’s joking so he’s not mad. Touché.
Murder is an awful thing. But I’m still relieved to be talking about something other than Russian mobsters trying to kill me.
“Anyone talk to Nancy?” I ask.
“Nancy was your neighbor. Mrs. Keltto is a murder suspect. You need to keep that straight. And no, no one has talked to her. She is still in ICU under suicide watch and police guard. She’s right down the hall from you.”
“I could—”
“Don’t get any ideas, KC. She’s off limits. Don’t do anything to hurt our case.”
Ouch. That makes me think of the Cutter Shark working on an appeal because I busted in on him in a place he wasn’t supposed to be while he was in the act of attempted murder. I’d rather think about the Red Mafiya.
“Listen, KC. Don’t worry about anything. Get some sleep. Get better. We have it under control.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
I don’t think he said that sincerely.
“And I want to apologize for not taking your call seriously last night.”
“Not necessary, Squires. I’m not even listening. I’m going back to sleep.”
We sign off. I just don’t handle emotional exchanges well do I?
60
VLADIMIR WALKED CALMLY beside a moving sidewalk through a long tunnel filled with neon lights and space age music. Strange ambience for an airport he thought. He travelled under Teplov’s name. They didn’t look much like each other but at least they were the same height and both had black hair now that his was dyed. The TSA agent at the Dulles security checkpoint took a quick look at him and the driver’s license and quickly scribbled the magic initials that got him through security. Teplov had lied to him on every point. He was a US citizen, not a Russian citizen traveling on a business visa. Whatever was happening between Moscow and New York for control of the US bratva was too confusing to worry
about. Thirty comrades killed already. He doubted that things were about to settle down, no matter how much Sergei wished it to be.
There were two more IDs in an attaché he would save for later. How could he find out how good they were? It was a moot point. Using them in the future would let the bratva know he, the man who murdered Aleksei Genken, was not dead.
He hit the pay dirt on cash. The trunk had a suitcase with more than fifty thousand in hundreds. Now he was getting somewhere.
He wished he could have disposed of the body. But there were too many diesel engines idling in the rest stop area. Someone would be awake watching TV in their sleeper cab who heard a sudden call from nature and saw him dragging a body to the trunk of the Caddy.
He studied the major Chicago roads and highways using the in-air Internet system. He’d never been to the Windy City. No way could he move around smoothly.
No way am I going to let Sadowsky’s man know I’m in town. So how do I find Med?
He looked at his phone thoughtfully. It was worth a try.
Der’mo! That hurt. Medved put too much ointment on his wound, causing the gauze to stick like glue to the red, purple, gray, yellow, and white mess on his chest.
His momma always told him it was worse to pull bandaging off slowly than just ripping it off. She was wrong this time, he thought.
What little scabbing had formed came off with the gauze, along with sticky yellow pus and clear fluids, and a stench that reeked of raw sewage. The wound was a mess of white tissue, purple bruising, and cherry red welting. Med felt his forehead. He was burning up.
I must drink water. No more vodka.
He stumbled to the sink, turned on the faucet, ripped the wrap off a cheap plastic cup, filled it with water, and guzzled the whole glass in a single swallow. He did this two more times, then crushed the plastic cup and stuck his mouth directly on the pipe, sucking in the water in a mad attempt to put out the fire that consumed him from within.
