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

by M. K. Gilroy

  She told me Bradley lost his temper and pushed Ed. She didn’t say anything about him threatening her husband.

  “And you didn’t think to tell us what your husband had said after he was killed?” Blackshear asks.

  She begins to cry again. “Ed had so many projects he’s working on . . . so many people he helped. It all blurred at times. He told me a lot of things. It just didn’t click in my mind at the time. I’m sorry; I know I should have thought about what Bradley did after Edward was killed . . . but I was so confused. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” her attorney says gently.

  Gag me again.

  “Was Leslie Levin at your home the morning your husband was killed?” Don asks.

  She looks up quickly, surprised and puzzled.

  “You don’t have to answer,” her attorney repeats.

  “No,” she says emphatically. “Of course not. Where would you get that idea? He was on his way to California.”

  “Before going to the airport,” Don says.

  “No.”

  “You sure?” Blackshear asks.

  “I think I would know if he was at the house,” she says firmly. “Of course not. Ed was home. Why would he be at the house?”

  There is a long, pregnant silence as everyone mulls the answer to that. I stare at her closely. I see doubt in her eyes. She lowers her head and begins to sob again. Why do I get the feeling she is trying to buy time so she can recover from a broadside with this round of tears? Is it because I’m a detective?

  “This interview is done,” the lawyer says, standing.

  Blackshear and Squires don’t look too bothered by that. In fact, they look pretty pleased with themselves.

  Nice work, guys.

  “What do we do?” Blackshear asks.

  The three of us are sitting at a table reviewing the two interviews.

  “Nothing until we talk to the kid,” Don says.

  “Her attorney wants her re-released on original bond,” Blackshear says.

  “Last time we let her go home she tried to off herself,” Don says.

  “She looked like she’s feeling better to me,” I say. “Until you brought up Leslie’s car being there the morning of the murder. I wouldn’t cut her loose.”

  They both look at me.

  “So you deliver Bradley to us as a suspect and now you think she did it?” Blackshear asks.

  “I’m not saying anything,” I answer. “But after seeing her and Leslie in action, I don’t trust either of them—even if the kid did it.”

  “What you want to do, Bob?” Don asks.

  “Captain is gone for the day,” he says. “I may wait until morning. Nothing is going to happen tonight anyway.”

  “What’s the status on her house?” I ask.

  “Now I know why you don’t want her cut loose,” Blackshear says with a toothy grin I’ve never seen. “You getting one of your vibes, Kristen?”

  “What are you two talking about?” Don asks.

  Bob tells him about our walk through the Keltto’s house and garage in the dark. He’s making it sound like our tour of the crime scene was a Halloween ghost walk. Thanks, Bob.

  “What do you need, Conner?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I’m having supper at my mom’s house tonight. I figured I might take one more walk through.”

  “Was it something Nancy said?” Don asks.

  “No . . . maybe . . . I just know something’s bothering me.”

  “Something’s bothering me, too,” Blackshear says. “Actually a couple things. I was convinced Nancy Keltto did the deed and that Leslie Levin was involved. Now I’m almost positive I was wrong. I’m convinced it was the kid.”

  “What do think, Don?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, I think it was the kid after hearing about his reign of terror at Cook County. You?”

  “Probably I lean toward Bradley but not by much. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Nothing feels right on murder most of the time,” Don says with a shrug.

  “Squires, tell me the rumor I heard isn’t true,” Blackshear says.

  “Can’t believe everything you hear,” Don says, popping out of his seat. “I’m out of here guys. I’m coaching Devon’s practice tonight.”

  Good for him. Coaching. Moving on to another stage of life. But I’m going to miss him and his threads.

  “Can you clear a walkthrough for me, Bob?”

  “Yeah. Make sure you log it in the morning.”

  This job can be sobering. I don’t go out and drink to get my mind off the situations and people we deal with. My escape is to work out. I think I’ll hit the health club on the way to Mom’s. I can’t lift anything or move my upper body but at least I can do a spin class or something.

  I head back for my cubicle and check emails and phone messages for five minutes. Two missed calls from Reynolds. No message. But there is also a text from him: Call ASAP! This is important.

  I hit his number. It goes straight to voice mail. He’s in the air or turned off his phone. Whatever has his hair on fire will keep.

  I input my report on Tommy Barnes’ call, then add Doyle, Zaworski, Nelson, Blackshear, and Squires in the TO: box. I blind copy myself so I can add it to case file. At the last minute I blind copy Reynolds so he knows what’s up. I hate to hit send. I know this is going to boot me off the Keltto case. I don’t want to be left out of the action. Nothing to be done about it. At least I’ll get my final walkthrough of the murder site. I hit the envelope icon.

  I look at my watch. Twenty till five. I can leave early. Then it hits me. I haven’t picked up a replacement handgun. I have to get down to the weapons locker clerk on the second floor or I’ve got nothing. Okay, I know I’m being dramatic, but there might be someone who wants to kill me out there. Not just the usual suspects who aren’t really being literal with the word murder.

  “What’s up tonight?” Heather Torgerson asks. “You are stuck with me.”

  “The health club, Mom’s for dinner, and then home. That’s an exciting night for me. Want to drive with me and work out?”

  “To think, I was going to see if you wanted to go clubbing down on Rush Street—knowing full well we wouldn’t get approved for it, but hoping anyway.”

  “I guarantee I would cramp your style even in spots where the music is too loud to talk. But you’re welcome to join me.”

  “I think I will.”

  “Meet me downstairs at the door to the parking lot,” I say. “I gotta pick something up on my way down.”

  “Great car,” she says as I turn the wheel and head the GTR north.

  “You know it’s my sister’s.”

  “You told me about ten times. Don’t worry; I won’t think you’re a crooked cop who can afford a car that costs more than a hundred grand. Is it yours to use all the time?”

  “I guess. I hadn’t planned on it though. I figured I’d drive it once a week to keep the oil good. I’m driving it all the time lately because I haven’t had a spare two hours to pick up my car from the garage. I think I better do that Saturday or they start charging me a storage fee.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I miss my little Miata convertible, no matter how unkind it has been to me through the years. But I’m going to miss the GTR more I’m afraid.

  78

  AT FIRST VLADIMIR Zheglov thought she was heading home. Then he realized she was stopping at the health club, which was one of the eight regular spots on his list of where best to find her. It was on the east side of Western Avenue, the road she would take south if going to her mom’s or north if she was going to her condo.

  Zheglov wanted this done with. It wasn’t a priority in his mind but if she was FBI and had cost them millions of dollars, she had to pay the price. As a lesson—and as part of his path back into the bratva.

  Gleb Luytov. Could he trust him on the offer to try his wife’s homemade
coulibiac in his home? Or would he have him killed? He couldn’t drive a truck but he was very good at killing people. What choice did he have?

  I let Torgerson out at the door. No point both of us freezing to death before working out. I park and check my phone. I got a missed call from Mom. I call her to let her know I’ll be home for dinner.

  “I can’t believe it, my daughter has called back,” she says as greeting.

  “Very funny, Mom. Just letting you know I’ve stopped at the club for a workout.”

  “Did the doctor say you can do that?”

  “Just riding the bike is okay.”

  “Did the doctor say that or did you say that?”

  “Mom, if your offer to feed me is still there, I’ll be home in ninety minutes tops. Six-thirty, maybe six-forty-five.”

  “That’s perfect. Jimmy and Kaylen are coming over and bringing the kids. We’ll have a real family meal.”

  “I’ve got Heather with me, the FBI agent. Sure you have enough food?”

  “Plenty. I shopped the other day after I left the hospital with you. Bring her. I’ll make something for the boys in the car, too. I was going to make something to take to Kaylen’s for Sunday dinner. We’ll have it tonight.”

  I’ve got to hand it to her and her generation. They can have an army show up an hour before dinner and feed everyone with leftovers. I don’t usually have enough stuff that is still edible in my refrigerator to feed myself at any given moment.

  She is going to kill us. We’re climbing hills and sprinting on the flats like a team in the Tour de France. Sweat is pouring off me and I’m panting like a chain-smoker on a walk to the mailbox—at the end of a five-mile driveway.

  My side is on fire. I feel the throbbing pain of the bruising to my flesh and the needle pricks where the wound is itching. Should have done one of the recumbent bikes and stayed away from an advanced spin class.

  I want to quit but I hate quitting. I look at my phone and see it is ringing. Reynolds. I have the excuse I need. I hit the answer button but can’t quite answer because of my ragged breathing and the exertion of slowing the spin bike down and dismounting.

  “Kristen, you there? You okay?” I hear as I press the phone to my ear. He sounds worried. That’s sweet.

  “I’m here, give me a second,” I puff out through gasps for air.

  “What’s going on Kristen? You okay? You there?”

  “Just finishing a spin class.”

  “There are a few things I want to say about you doing a spin class the day after you leave the hospital, but you are hard to reach and I’m going hold comment until later.”

  “And you know it won’t do much good anyway.”

  “That too. But time to get down to business. There are new developments happening right now that you and the CPD and the Chicago FBI need to be aware of.”

  “Zheglov?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “So your team has already amped up guard duty and everybody in law enforcement in a three-state area has his picture?

  “Not exactly.”

  “Kristen, this is not a guy to take lightly. He’s just old enough to have been sent to fight the Chechens. He’s a trained killer and a survivor.”

  “I just sent a note to our organized crime guy about an hour ago. Spencer Doyle. He’s in tight with local FBI. The wheels should be turning.”

  “Okay, good. I’ll check in with the local office. Willingham is on it too. I’ll head to wherever you are.”

  “You going to be my bodyguard?”

  “Actually I am, whether you like it or not. I hope you’re taking this seriously, Kristen.”

  Lighten up. I was just joking.

  “You on your way home next?” he asks.

  “No, I’m going to Mom’s for dinner. An army is converging there, including Kaylen and her family. So you’re welcome to join us.”

  “I’ll be there in less than an hour if I can get through traffic.”

  “That’s about the same time as me. I’m done working out but I have to get a shower and blow-dry my hair.”

  “Eyes open, Conner.”

  Eyes open, Conner. He is a romantic dog.

  79

  “WHEN ARE YOU hitting her?”

  The shestyorka called Zheglov on the throwaway phone.

  “As soon as tonight.”

  “When you called for reinforcements, I didn’t know we were this pressed for time.”

  “An opportunity has presented itself. Can you get me the men or not?”

  “Yes. It is done. They are gathering now. But I’m not sure they are ready to go out tonight.”

  “Then they are the wrong men.”

  “Not these guys. They’re good. The best. I just thought you would want more preparation time.”

  “Not for what I have planned. It’s not complex. Better to move fast. Plus I will know that no one is talking in his sleep.”

  “Just so you know, Sadowsky knows. He wants to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him. I already made that clear.”

  “Okay. I understand. I was just thinking he might have some ideas that would help.”

  Zheglov had served in the army in the mountains of Chechnya. Some officers wanted to tell you exactly how to do things. They usually ended up dead by a suspicious gunshot wound, which would be attributed to the guerillas but that everyone knew was delivered by one of the guy’s own men. The smart officers let the soldiers in the field do what worked.

  “Are you there, Vladimir?”

  “No names.”

  “Right. I apologize.”

  The death of the American bratva wouldn’t come at the hands of the FBI and local police. With the guys we’re using, we’ll do it ourselves. Why are these young guys coming to work for us anyway? They’ve got college degrees and can get good office jobs. They need to go work in big companies. Ruchkin was bad. Teplov wasn’t much better. Now this contact in Chicago who makes sure I get what I need from Luytov and Sadowsky is going to drive me crazy.

  “Where are they?”

  “I’m going to text you a phone number but there is something you must hear first.”

  Vlad sighed. “Tell me.”

  “The plan has changed. You’re not to kill her.”

  “Good. I’ll go home.”

  “No. The new plan is to capture her.”

  Vladimir mulled this. He started to ask a question but then realized he already knew the answer. It might not work but it was gutsy. Maybe brilliant.

  Even trade. Take Conner as a prisoner and then offer her straight up in an exchange for Boyarov. He smiled. Maybe Luytov knew what he was doing.

  “You say they are ready?”

  “No—you said that. I said they have been called together. Five of them. They will come to wherever you say, the second you call the number.”

  “Send two home. I just need three.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Vlad seethed at being questioned.

  “I apologize,” the man answered.

  “What part of the city are they in?” Vlad asked.

  “They’re at a hotel just west of the Loop.”

  “Can they shut their mouths, take orders and move fast?”

  “They’re the best we have. Three of the five are ex-military.”

  “Chechnya?”

  “Two of them. One goes all the way back to Afghanistan. He’s older but he might be the best.”

  “Keep the three military members. Send the two others home. Give me the number.”

  80

  REYNOLDS HIT THE touchscreen on the dashboard to exit the call with Robert Willingham, Spencer Doyle, and the Chicago FBI station director, Beverly Mundee, who was new on the job. She was promoted to Chicago from New York City and moved to the Windy City the weekend before the missiles started flying in the City. Two ways to look at that. Her timing couldn’t have been better—or she was missing the action.

 
Reynolds continued an inner dialog. He had told himself that if Willingham wouldn’t pull the plug on the plan that Van Guten had hatched to get the Cutter Shark talking, he would quit. The fact that Willingham couldn’t pull the plug—if he could be believed—changed the construct, forcing him to look at it from at least two angles. If he just quit, it would let Willingham know the depths of his displeasure that he would allow a profiler to concoct a tactical operation. There were plenty more where he came from, so he doubted Willingham would miss a beat. On the other hand, he could stick around if the hearing didn’t go the way Willingham and Van Guten assumed it would and help deal with the aftermath.

  Reynolds had looked into the appeal and the judge was definitely anti-law enforcement. He’d gone on record in a national interview that he believed America had become a Nazi police state.

  He looked at his watch. He should be at Mrs. Conner’s house in about fifteen minutes. It would be good to see everyone and, who knows, he might get to see Kristen alone for five minutes to lay it all out there for her. He didn’t want to give her a take it or leave it proposition, but what he had to say would definitely force some response from the elusive Detective Conner.

  Suddenly Reynolds was struck with a thought. His face froze. What the heck am I thinking? Zheglov is here. We can’t have those kids in the same house as Kristen.

  He hit speed dial. It went straight into Kristen’s voice mail.

  He looked at recent calls while accelerating on black, cold, sometimes icy, city streets. Mundee hosted the conference call. He hit her number, hoping she would pick up. She did.

  “This is Reynolds. I don’t know if we have a situation. But we might need to move quicker to surround Conner than what we discussed.”

  81

  MY PHONE DIED and I still haven’t put a battery charger in Klarrisa’s car. I hadn’t planned on driving it more than the first day or two. Klarissa’s going on-air in a few minutes anyway and couldn’t have picked up so we could set up a time to talk tonight or tomorrow. I need to start watching her on TV more. It hurts her feelings when she can tell I haven’t watched her.