Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) Page 14

  What was going through Robert, Sr.’s mind? Disappointment in his son? This murder case feels a little like another biblical story that starred two very different brothers. The prodigal son. In the Durham case it wasn’t the younger, but the older that ran off to a far country and slopped with the pigs.

  Family members are always persons of interest. Billionaires are not exempt. But with the two of them just returning to the country from a business trip, neither has generated any suspicion. Neither had much contact with Jack and both apparently headed straight home after landing. Their accounts have been verified by spouses and drivers.

  Still, if this case is about money, wouldn’t Junior have to be a big suspect? Half of the family fortune he is working to build—which his brother was working equally hard to squander—would have gone to Jack upon the father’s death. Now it’s all Durham, Jr.’s.

  As a detective, you learn early to follow the money. Randall was stating the obvious. The problem is the complexity and magnitude of money involved with those closest to Jack is beyond our understanding. At least mine. We have a couple of financial forensic investigators working overtime to look for anomalies and suspicious transactions. I still balance my checkbook manually—with a pencil.

  I look at my watch. I was in early and Don is uncharacteristically in late today. He and Martinez must have had a long scintillating conversation with Penny.

  I run through things in my mind again. The younger brother definitely has a motivation and the oldest one in the book: money. I’ve felt Penny is hiding something from day one. But shouldn’t Junior still be looked at closely? It just stands to reason his older brother would drive him crazy. I read through the reports on his profligate spending. It was not uncommon for Jack to buy a quarter-million-dollar car, get tired of it, give it away, and buy a new one. The family is loaded and can afford his reckless spending. But wouldn’t that be a recipe for disaster over time?

  Durham’s mother was interviewed at their gated estate in Burr Ridge. Just reading the transcripts I was assaulted with a tsunami of her emotions. Despair. Confusion. Anger. Overwhelming sorrow. Moms don’t tend to kill adult children. This case will be no different.

  He was such a beautiful little boy. . . . He was so charming. . . . I don’t know when I lost him. . . . He could be so kind. . . . He didn’t care about anybody. . . . I was invisible to him. . . . He didn’t like coming to the house. . . . He didn’t like Robert and I coming to his apartment. . . . I always believed he would settle down and start a family. . . . I set him up on a date with one of my best friend’s daughters and was humiliated at what he did, how he acted that night. . . . I don’t know what happened to him . . .

  People respond differently to trauma. Mr. and Mrs. Durham are living proof of that.

  Underneath the pictures of the ten friends is a bingo board of pictures, mostly female. Connecting lines have been drawn from the guys to the girls and there is enough red crisscrossing that I think everybody in this group has been with everybody. Gross. There is one exception. Penny Martin. She has only been with Jack.

  On the left of the board is a large photo of Bobbie Ferguson. All lines meet at her. She’s considered a key to solving the murder. She was a prime suspect for less than a day. Something Penny said made Blackshear and Zaworski take a closer look at her but her alibi was airtight. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved as an accomplice. Definitely doesn’t mean she isn’t hiding something that is holding back our investigation. I’m convinced of that.

  All of Jack’s friends had enough money to hire a killer. But hired killers don’t usually use a hammer as a weapon and then vomit at the murder scene.

  That bespeaks rage and amateurism. In other words, a family member.

  I think I’ve caught up with the other investigators on the case, but I started a couple days late and was put on an assignment that has isolated me from all but one official interview—the one with Penny Martin.

  What are they missing? What am I missing?

  There are other friends of Jack and his gang that are lower on the totem pole—though my anthropology professor pointed out that lower on the pole means you are more important—and their pictures are at the bottom of the board. They interacted with Jack and his nine closest friends from time to time. But there were ten who were close as brothers. A . . . what do you call a group of ten? Three in the inner circle. The godfather is now dead.

  At the Bears game I saw seven of the nine survivors. I saw no family members but was told that Durham, Sr. and Durham, Jr. were at the game together in another suite. Apparently Senior was drinking heavily, which is not common for him. Reports say that Junior and Senior’s chauffeur had to help him to the car before the fourth quarter started.

  What is going through the mind of a father who has lost his oldest son? What is going on in the mind of a mother who, according to reports, is on a shopping trip in New York City less than a week after her son’s funeral?

  One parent is chasing thoughts away with drink and the other by buying stuff.

  Only one of Bobbie’s contractors is highlighted. Penny. Based on our last meeting, Konkade has told the financial forensics team to turn her accounts upside down—from bank statements to PayPal to charge cards to cable bill and everything else.

  Speaking of the Sergeant, Konkade walks in.

  “How long is it going to take?” I ask him.

  “Good morning to you, too, Kristen,” he answers. “How long is what gonna take?”

  “Penny’s finances.”

  “Hopefully this week,” he says. “We gotta get some help. We’re getting nowhere.”

  “You said it. With a case this big, you’d think we’d have something solid.”

  “It’s strange,” he says. “Never seen anything quite like this one. Part of the problem is everyone who might remotely be a suspect is being cooperative but not very helpful. The old man is grinding us with the Mayor and the press, but not even he has a single idea on who did it or where to look.”

  “Do we need to look at the old man?”

  “When’s the last time you remember a dad killing his son?”

  “Marvin Gaye?”

  “Yeah, you’re right, but that’s the exception, not the rule.”

  “Maybe we need to visit him again.”

  “Even if you’re right, KC, don’t do anything until you clear it with Zaworski or Blackshear or Czaka or whoever is running this thing.”

  “Thanks for the heads up on that, Sarge, I was getting ready to head over there in a few minutes and didn’t think it was big enough deal to let anyone know.”

  He laughs.

  “So this week?” I ask.

  “All the independent contractors do quite well financially, but nothing like Durham and his friends. One of the guys told me it will go much faster. He said looking at their numbers will be like switching from three dimensional chess to checkers. Accountant humor, I guess.”

  I am reviewing the board one more time when I realize Martinez is standing next to me. I nod. He doffs his fedora, complete with a little feather in the silk ribbon, and smiles.

  “Ay, mi chica, eres muy bonita.”

  Antonio is okay. But I know he likes to tease me by flirting with me in Spanish. I give him an angry glare, which is what he was waiting for, and he gives out his loud laugh. As he does, Czaka rounds the corner.

  “Glad my homicide detectives find murder to be so amusing,” he scowls. “We need a break folks,” he says as he stomps off.

  “El jefe está en muy mal humor hoy,” Martinez whispers under his breath. “Muy mal. It’s like Zaworski never left.”

  “When is Zaworski coming back?” I ask him.

  He just shrugs.

  Shelly walks into the room toward us with a kid who looks like he might be a sophomore in high school.

  “Here’s Detective Conner now,” she says.

  He looks up at the board, sees the cratered head of Jack Durham and looks down quickly.

  “I g
ot your phone, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? I know he looks young but just how old do I look?

  “Anything I need to know about this?”

  “If you’ve ever had an old text and call phone with no bells and whistles you should be fine.”

  “Then I’m fine,” I say.

  “I taped the number on the back like you asked,” he says.

  After dinner with Klarissa last night I talked with Bobbie and she said Derrick had called her three different times asking for my number. Not sure why we didn’t think of getting me a special number for this case up front. It’s obvious I need a number dedicated to my undercover assignment. We don’t need Derrick or anyone else calling me and hearing me answer it “Detective Conner” or even my usual brisk “Conner.” I’m supposed to be breathlessly awaiting his call as if nothing else in the world is more important to me. Bobbie told me to sound enchanted next time he calls. Gag me.

  “Could you sign here, ma’am?” the newbie IT kid says.

  “I can, but if you call me ma’am one more time I’m going to arrest you for assault and battery.”

  He looks flustered and his eyes dart to the left. I now know what’s up. I look over as Don tries to dart his fat head back around the corner.

  “How much did he pay you?” I ask the kid

  Now the techie looks real flustered. I look more closely and see the name Kenny on his laminated ID badge.

  “I think it was just a little joke ma- . . . uh, Detective Conner.”

  “How much, Kenny?”

  “Just a $5 card for JavaStar.”

  He has gone white as a ghost. He thinks he’s in trouble. Poor kid.

  “Make Detective Squires’ phone go dead and I’ll make it a $20 gift card,” I say.

  “I can’t do that . . . uh, Detective. What if a call came in for him with a hot crime tip? I could get in a lot of trouble.”

  I shake my head and say, “Just kidding, Kenny. Just kidding. Enjoy your coffee.”

  When you’re working a case that features a guy’s head cratered in, you need a little humor to keep sane. Despite what Czaka thinks.

  30

  “SANDERS,” SHE ANSWERS abruptly.

  “Hi, Gretchen,” I say. “This is Conner. Detective Kristen Conner.”

  A pause. I really do make a big impression on people.

  “We met on the Durham case at the Second,” I add.

  “Of course. Sorry, Detective Conner. I’ve had my head buried in a project.”

  “Call me Kristen.”

  Another pause. She doesn’t know why I’m calling.

  “Gretchen, you gave me your card at the end of our meeting and told me to call you,” I prompt.

  “Right. Thanks. I just need to get refocused.”

  I wait.

  “Uh . . . Conner . . . this is a little embarrassing.”

  Okay.

  “I probably shouldn’t have asked you to call. I’m out of line. But I know you’re the one who solved the Cutter Shark case so I thought I’d reach out to you informally. Off the record. That okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I wanted to ask you how Randall is working out in the Second?”

  Huh? Now I’m the one who’s tongue-tied.

  “I’ve just been back on the job a week or so, so I really don’t know Randall that well. But he seems to be on top of things. I think he’s doing good.”

  What else am I going to say about a colleague?

  “I shouldn’t have asked you that,” she says with a sigh, no longer the stern professional I met a couple days ago.

  Where is this going?

  “Here, I’m just going to say it,” she blurts out. “Randall was getting a lot of attention with your Internal Affairs due to his finances. It spilled over to city hall. He may have been on paid leave—I’m not sure on all the details. IA came to us and asked for his tax records. I never heard how it turned out—but I thought he looked . . . uh . . . pretty corrupt. I hadn’t given him another thought, and then there he was in that meeting, knee-deep in a case that involves a lot of money. That struck me as a strange.”

  “Should I be hearing this?” I ask.

  “Probably not. Do me a favor and forget I called.”

  She didn’t call, I called. And the answer is not probably not. It’s for sure not. I’ve been looked at by IA once myself, and I know I wouldn’t want any of that being whispered to the people I work with behind my back.

  “I can do that,” I answer.

  “I apologize,” she says again. “I told you I was way out of bounds. I’m sure he got cleared.”

  You can’t be a detective if you don’t have an inquiring mind. But there are also things you don’t want cluttering your thinking in the middle of a murder investigation, namely, whether you can trust your colleagues. It’s a hard enough job without getting into your teammates’ personal life.

  We exchange a few pleasantries and are both relieved to get off the call.

  What kind of financial trouble did Randall have?

  • • •

  “Is Derrick going to be a problem?”

  “Derrick? Not the Derrick I know. Why are you asking?”

  “He’s apparently got a crush on Detective Conner.”

  “Derrick? C’mon. You’re wasting my time.”

  “He’s called multiple times, dying to get a second night with her.”

  A long pause.

  “Okay, good to know. I’m skeptical but who knows with Jack and his friends? Let me think about that one for a bit. Just keep me informed on what’s happening.”

  “Do you think Derrick could be involved in Jack’s . . . in his murder?”

  “I would be shocked, but let me give it some thought. No way anyone knows you’re calling me, right?”

  “Not unless they find the prepaid I’m using.”

  “Good. And good work. I’ll get back to you on Derrick if I have any ideas.”

  • • •

  “Conner,” I answer.

  “Reynolds,” Austin says, mimicking my tone.

  “So where does Willingham have you?” I ask. “Wait,” I say quickly, “don’t tell me because if you did, I know you’d have to . . . ”

  “Very funny, Kristen,” he says. “But I’m glad you asked. I’m in D.C. now, but heading your way. I wanted to see if you wanted to get together for some dinner and catch-up on Thursday night?”

  I almost answer yes, but then realize I’m going out with Derrick Jensen.

  “Bad timing, Austin. I’m booked Thursday night.”

  “Snowflake soccer or a hot date?”

  I pause. How do I answer this?

  “I think you just answered my question,” he says.

  Do I detect a trace of jealousy? We’re not actually a couple, last I heard.

  “I guess you could say I’ve got a hot date,” I answer. “But it’s on the clock. It’s this Durham case. Rain check on Friday?”

  “No can do,” he says, just a little too cheerfully. “It’s a one-day trip.”

  We make some small talk but it’s suddenly awkward. He signs off quick.

  Okay. Maybe he has thought of me some—and I’ve been thinking of him way too much. But we don’t even know each other and we’re way too much alike. Neither of us expresses our feelings very well, so a long-distance relationship isn’t very feasible.

  The problem is the only kind of relationship I’m good at is long distance.

  31

  SEVEN OF US are standing in Zaworski’s office. When did stand-up meetings get so popular? Standing is supposed to keep us on task and shorten meeting times so we can be more productive. I’ve not seen that benefit yet. I feel like I’m at church during the singing.

  Besides Blackshear and me, there is the usual list of suspects—Squires, Martinez, Randall, and Konkade—and a money investigator, Byron Tedford.

  It is strange to be in Zaworski’s office and see Blackshear behind the desk, standing of course. Between Zaworski popping bac
k into the office between chemo treatments and Czaka meddling, he’s not been allowed to run the show, but he’s just been given title of acting captain. If we can close this case, it will probably become a permanent promotion. That’s why we’re meeting. After a few weeks of chasing our tails, we found something.

  “Go through this for me one more time, Byron,” Blackshear says. “I meet with Czaka in twenty-five minutes and he wants something. I don’t want to force anything, but this actually sounds good.”

  It’s Wednesday afternoon. Don and I spent all morning with Byron Tedford, one of the financial forensic investigators assigned to our case. I met him once before on a case where a low-level drug dealer got killed; I thought I remembered his name and called him Bryan. Close but no cigar.

  Byron built a spreadsheet on everyone that is an independent contractor for Barbara Ferguson that proved quite revealing. Don told him to clear his afternoon schedule and get over to the Second with us to show the team. He handed out an impressive set of printouts for everyone.

  “This is very simple and basic,” he says. “Don’t make it more difficult than it is. All I’ve done is chart an annual and monthly profit and loss statement and then a balance sheet for each of the ladies. I’ve built in cross-tabulations based on demographics like age, years of service, debt, and assets prior to working with Ferguson, and then the obvious numbers like monthly expenses and earnings.

  “Penny Martin is off the charts on topline income, literally. I had to build her as an inset on Excel before graphing her with the others. She’s a little like Alaska or Hawaii on a US map. She doesn’t fit real easy.”

  I’m not very good with numbers—and when he throws in the cross tabulations I don’t see it as that simple. I was okay in math but the stats class I had to take for my criminal justice degree was tough sledding. I didn’t take any business courses other than a government management principles class my senior year. Tedford should have taught my stats class. I have a simple mind and he has drawn a picture simple enough that even I can see it.