Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) Page 18

  Stanley stubbed out his cigar and left the father and son to talk business, which at this moment, was how to handle any negative press coming from the arrest of a suspect in Jack’s murder.

  It’s time for me to start thinking about retirement, McGill thought to himself.

  37

  THEY’RE WATCHING MY every move. I went for coffee and was followed by an unmarked cop car the whole way. I went to the grocery store and the same person always ended up in the same aisle as me. Then the lady that followed me to the coffee shop was in the same car outside the grocery store, pretending to do something on her phone. They could at least be professional about it.

  So how did they end up with me? It’s got to be the money. How did I get so close to having everything I wanted only to lose it all?

  So how soon are they going to arrest me? Will they wait for Monday? Do I have time to get out of Chicago tomorrow?

  Where would I go anyway? Back to Mansfield, Illinois? Even if that wasn’t the first place they’d look, Mom and Dad let me know I’m not welcome home after all I’ve gotten into. They’re not my real parents anyway.

  Running is the same as confessing I killed him. Even if I get away with my new ID, can I live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder?

  I should have left the night I found his body. I should have left two nights ago. Is it too late now?

  He wants to talk. I guess I have no choice now. I better talk to him, even if I don’t trust him and wonder sometimes if he did it.

  • • •

  She was studying a passport with her picture and another name on it. Bad idea. Electronic surveillance was too good. If she got caught fleeing the country she might as well kiss any hope of freedom away. She sighed and put everything back in the safe.

  She looked at the nondescript prepaid phone he sent to her. She hadn’t even turned it on. His errand boy said it was the only way the two of them could communicate.

  Call him now?

  She opened the refrigerator and picked out a bosc pear. She bit into it. The juices ran down her chin. She got hit with a sudden and sharp memory of Jack Durham’s blood puddled beside his head. She threw the pear away and washed her face in the kitchen sink.

  38

  “PENNY MARTIN, YOU are under arrest,” I say clearly. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

  I got tabbed to make the arrest because I seem to be the person Penny likes least. The thinking is that might provoke a hasty response. My winning personality can be quite useful at times.

  “You are making a big mistake. I did not kill Jack Durham.”

  “Good,” I say. “You are innocent until proven guilty, so prove to us you are innocent.”

  She says nothing and gives me a blank stare. She holds her arms out to us, wrists together, offering them to be cuffed.

  “We need your hands behind your back,” Don says, starting to move behind her. She holds a hand up for him to stop and turns around, putting her hands behind her back. Don snaps the cuffs on her gently. She turns back around and stares at me. I can’t read the expression on her face. She might have a Mona Lisa half-smile playing. I meet the stare and refuse to blink first. She looks down.

  Don and I step back. A female uniform, Madison Lopez, steps forward and leads her out the door of her condo by the elbow. We need to get moving. This arrest won’t stay a secret very long.

  The plan is to use the service elevator, get her out the back door, and drive her to the back room at the Second in a squad car. There are five of us from CPD here, counting Lopez. That’s more than needed for a simple pickup, but I’m still worried we don’t have enough. The media interest has intensified lately, despite no progress to report. Don and I will follow the black and white. Officers Anderson and King will drive Martin. Lopez will jump in the back seat of the blue Chevy Malibu we are driving today.

  It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. The wind off the lake was refreshing—slightly cool and gentle—not the gusts that buffet you around and wear you out. I drove to the precinct with my convertible roof down. It was cold on Lake Shore Drive when I hit fifty-five-miles-per-hour, but it still felt wonderful.

  When we gathered at the Second last night everyone grumbled—but that was just for show. There was a palpable excitement in the air. It happens with even the most jaded cops when a big case is solved. Martinez was wearing enough cologne to offset the scent of a herd of rabid skunks. He sulked and complained about the damage this was causing to his love life. “¿Por qué nadie se preocupaba por mi vida amorosa?” he asked enough times that even I figured out what he was saying. If I take Spanish as a second language, he will be my Spanish pronunciation coach.

  We only met an hour. The arrest warrant was being circulated to various departments for review before being couriered to a judge’s home to be signed. Not sure we needed to jump through that many hoops or gather for a final discussion. But Blackshear did want to make sure everyone on the direct investigation team was still on board with the arrest.

  “Everyone back in the office by 7:00 a.m. sharp,” he said. “We need to beat the press out of bed.”

  I might have grumbled alongside Antonio after that pronouncement.

  The elevator ride is uneventful. I look at Penny out of the corner of my eye. She is stunningly beautiful—even in the morning with no makeup on. She was asleep when we got there. We gave her time to put on a pair of capri pants and button up sweater top. She had to change in front of Lopez and me. Procedure didn’t even allow her to go the bathroom by herself. Lopez went in with her.

  We exit the elevator and the walk down a concrete service hallway is quiet except for the clomp of our shoes that echoes off the walls. We open the back door. Oh man. We are so busted. The whole media swarm hasn’t arrived, but we are ambushed by three video cameras and at least fifteen reporters with mics stuck in our direction. The yelling has begun.

  No details of the impending arrest went out over CPD channels so someone inside our department leaked the when and where. What is it with some people? Isn’t the job hard enough as it is? As cynical as I am, I am equal part naïve enough not to know who is a dirty cop and who is a righteous cop. Everyone looks the same to me.

  “Why did you kill Jack Durham?” the first voice calls out to Penny. It’s followed by a cacophony of questions:

  “How many times did you hit him with a hammer? Did he attack you first? How much money did you extort from him? Why did you do it? Did you have an accomplice? Is it true you are pregnant?”

  If one guy jabs me with a recorder one more time he is going to learn the meaning of police brutality . . . okay, I can’t even joke about the phrase police brutality anymore with everything in the press about how cops are cops so they get to . . . uh . . . brutalize people. Note to self: don’t say anything like that out loud.

  We wade through the small throng that is growing by the second. Officer Anderson and King move toward us from the opposite direction, slowly and forcefully, trying to part the sea that will soon be overflowing as more news hounds show up. They meet us in the middle and flank Lopez and Martin on each side. We obviously don’t have a big enough force to handle this smoothly. I notice Anderson is getting irritated and he has the arms to send people flying. He’s showing restraint, but he’d better be careful or someone will accuse him of excessive force. I know from experience that isn’t a good thing to have happen.

  I look at the parking lot and more cars are zipping our direction. We need to get her in that car and out of here. Men and women with cameras and recorders are slamming gear shifts into park before they hit a complete stop.

  Don moves out front and does some lead blocking to get Martin into the black and white. She is tucked in the backseat quickly. Lopez leans in and puts a seat belt on her, then hustles over to our car and j
umps in the back seat. Don has driving duties. He got there first. The media mob has now doubled in size in less than two minutes. Don is already nosing forward before I am all the way in the passenger seat and have the door shut.

  “If we aren’t out of this parking lot in thirty seconds we are going to have to call in backup for traffic duty to get us out,” he says through clenched teeth. “Who tipped the media off anyway? We only got the final green light from the DA at midnight.”

  “I’d like to know,” I respond. “I’m tired of everyone looking at me like I did just because my sister works for WCI.”

  “Come to think of it, you did take a long bathroom break before we left,” he says.

  I give him a dirty look and he smiles. He didn’t even have to turn his head to know what my response would be.

  We are tailing the squad car by three feet. Anderson has finally inched free of shouting reporters who surrounded the cruiser and guns it forward. Four seconds later Don clears the mob and follows suit. We race to the front of the building and turn onto the main drive to the safety of the street. No one else is exiting but there is a long line of cars with their right blinkers on to pull in the parking lot. They were late, thankfully.

  It’s good to drive against rush hour. I crane my neck and look back—a train of cars is trying to exit the parking lot to chase us. I’m sure they are calling their stations to make sure we have a welcoming committee awaiting us.

  We turn on Kedzie and complete our escape. Even if there is a herd of reporters awaiting us there we have sufficient troops for easy mob control. The press can make the Occupy Wallstreet protesters we had in Grant Park feel like a pack of girl scouts. The good thing is even if we don’t outnumber them at the precinct, we still have more weapons. I’m just kidding.

  “Well you were right, KC. You suspected her from the start.”

  “Everyone suspected her from day one and my name is Kristen or Detective Conner to you.”

  He laughs. I look in the back seat. Lopez is stoic.

  “How you doing?” I ask.

  “Not bad at all. You’re the one that busted up the Cutter Shark aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “Nice work. I’m hoping I can get my gold shield one of these days and join you on the detective squad.”

  “You’ll do it.”

  “I hope so.”

  My phone pings. I swipe it but don’t get it right and have to try it three more times. My decision to join a couple billion of my best friends and buy an iPhone is the equivalent of buying my mom a Mazerati Diablo. It’s shiny and has lots of features, but the operator doesn’t know how to fully use them yet.

  On the fourth swipe I get the arrow to slide from left to right and turn on the screen. I jab the green bubble showing I have a text.

  I can’t stop thinking about you.

  The number is blocked. Strange. Of course, what isn’t strange in my life? I sincerely hope someone is sending a text to the wrong number but I suspect I’m not going to be so lucky. It is definitely possible someone from Homicide is playing a joke on me because of my short-lived dating assignment. Don is always happy to give me a hard time but he wouldn’t go to that much trouble. Not sure who else would either. I suspected Zaworski’s assistant Shelly was putting yellow Post It notes in my cubicle during my last case. But Zaworski read the riot act to her that he wouldn’t put up with such nonsense in his department. I don’t know what this is about.

  I look back at Lopez. She’s back to being stoic.

  We get Martin into Booking through the back parking lot. I called ahead to let Konkade know what was going on. He organized a small battalion of uniforms to control media traffic and get us in the building unimpeded.

  • • •

  I’m looking at eggs, bacon, sausage, and a stack of three pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. Six of us have headed to Orange on North Clark for breakfast. Blackshear and Konkade will go back to the precinct and work with the DA’s office to supervise the questioning of Martin.

  Four of us get to go home and catch some sleep. The temporary boss’ orders.

  “Nice job, Bob,” Don says.

  “I didn’t do much. It was a team effort.”

  “I can’t believe this thing is already over,” I say. “Seems like we just got started.”

  “We done muy bueno trabajo” Martinez says.

  “Muy,” Don agrees. “And don’t forget the Financial Forensics team. Tedford was the one who broke this open for us.”

  “No doubt,” Konkade agrees. “We should think of using them more than we do.”

  “Agreed,” Don says and everyone nods.

  “Any word on Zaworski?” I ask. “Someone needs to let him know we closed it.”

  “Already done,” Konkade says. “I’m going to stop by and visit him tonight if he’s still awake when we’re through with Penny.”

  “How are treatments going?” Don asks.

  “My lips are sealed per the captain’s orders,” Konkade says.

  “Can you give a clue?” Martinez asks.

  “I think I can say that prayers and good wishes are still welcome, and anything that’s been sent out previously seems to have helped.”

  “Good,” Blackshear says.

  We all nod. But the mood at the table has definitely turned somber.

  • • •

  It’s almost noon. I’m not going over to Jimmy and Kaylen’s for Sunday dinner. I’m going home and taking a long nap. Bears play the 49ers at 3:00. I’ll try to wake up to watch the game then. I’ll put my Urlacher jersey on. It is loose-fitting and comfortable, unlike the pink number Bobbie sent me to Soldier Field wearing.

  I can still see Penny holding out her wrists to be handcuffed. A lot happened since I was at the fund-raising dinner with Derrick Jensen for the president’s reelection. All of it pointed to her guilt.

  So why do I feel uneasy?

  39

  “WHAT HAVE WE got?” Don asks.

  “Not sure you want to know,” the crime scene officer answers.

  “That bad?”

  “Real bad.”

  His badge says O’Donnell. He is maybe twenty-five. Young enough to look shook up over a murder scene. But old enough that he should have seen about everything we have to see by now. If he says it’s real bad then it is. The three of us are about twenty feet inside the perimeter O’Donnell and first responders have established at the scene of a crime.

  “Twelve-year-old kid.”

  “Oh, dear God,” I say.

  “It’s about to get worse,” O’Donnell says, clearing his throat. “A black kid took a short cut through the wrong neighborhood. Five Latino kids knocked him off his bike and kicked him to death.”

  “We know it was other kids?” I ask, bile rising in my throat.

  “Yeah. We got three witnesses. We’ve got ‘em inside the church for now,” he says, pointing to an art deco structure that is still impressive even if it has seen better days.

  The front steps have been patched but are crumbling. Street level windows are protected with wrought iron grills that are rusted where the bolts attach to the building. The front is dark gray with black streaks from years of smog and dirt. It probably hasn’t been sandblasted in twenty years. Heck, maybe never. It probably used to be almost white.

  The twisted wreck of a cheap bicycle is sprawled by the front door. An EMT van is parked in the middle of the street. A small array of medical techies have formed a circle and are working like ants carrying crumbs to the opening of an ant hill.

  If the witnesses are right, kids beat a kid and left him for dead in front of Peace Lutheran Church. I’m too numb to let myself speak of the irony of the situation, even inside my head.

  The three of us walk over to the hub of activity. O’Donnell nods at another uniformed officer who steps forward. I know him. Chuck Gibson. He’s got to be around sixty, about the same age my dad would be if he were alive. Gibson worked the Gigi Baker murder when I was on the Cutte
r Shark case.

  “Hey, Conner,” he says. “And—”

  “Squires. Don Squires,” my partner says, holding out a paw for a handshake.

  “You’se two wanna take a look I suppose,” Gibson says.

  “Doesn’t sound like we want to,” Don says, “but yeah, we better take a look.”

  Gibson pushes back a sawhorse barricade and we enter the inner sanctum.

  “Hey, make some room and let the detectives have a look,” he shouts.

  Three techies are conferring next to the body that is covered by a weather tarp. They look to be comparing notes scribbled on clipboards. A white-haired gentleman nods to the youngest who turns to us and gives a hand motion for us to come closer. He doesn’t say anything, just kneels down beside the body and draws back the tarp.

  Oh, dear God.

  His head is turned at an awkward angle that can only mean his neck was broken. What once might have been a handsome face or an ugly face or a sweet face is bloody purple pulp. His shirt has been cut away. His arms and chest have been savagely kicked as well. One of his ribs pokes from the skin on his side.

  “What do we need to hear that we aren’t going to read in the reports?” Don asks.

  His voice is strained. His eyes have misted over. He might be fighting back tears. Don has a son. I think Devon is nine or ten. Close enough in age to make the broken body in front of us even more visceral.

  The young man straightens up and looks at the white-haired gentleman.

  “I’m Lou Fazzoli with the Medical Examiner’s office,” the older man says. “This is my assistant, Kenny Smith, and April Collins is interning with us from UICCC.”

  “Kristen Conner,” I say with a nod.

  “Don Squires.” Ditto on the nod.

  April Collins looks like a Goth holdover. She might have been a Marilyn Manson fan—she kind of looks like him. Jet-black hair. Black nails. Tongue stud. A green dragon tattoo is climbing out of her black shirt and onto her neck. She is pale white. No sun for her. Why do I suspect she read the Stieg Larsson novels or at least saw the movie?