Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) Page 6

  Zaworski takes thirty seconds to read it. He pulls a fancy ball point pen out of his suit coat, unscrews the cap, and scribbles his name at the bottom.

  “Good work, Randall. That’s what happens when you get to work early, Conner.”

  Oh man.

  “Make sure Shelly makes a copy and puts it in the file,” he says, sliding it to Randall. He turns to Don and asks, “Squires, are you sure this is the route the investigation needs to take?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Whoever killed Jack Durham had free access to his place. Durham was a player and not a particularly nice player. Lots of people—including those closest to him—disliked him. So one of those frat boy friends or one of the working girls did it or can give us a better idea on who did.”

  “How’d the killer get past security in the lobby?” Zaworski backtracks.

  “When we kept leaning on him,” Martinez jumps in, “the security guard admitted that Durham had enough comings and goings at his apartment that he had some of his visitors regularly use the back service entrance. We took a look back there. We think the killer got into the building that way and then walked up the stairs.”

  “Someone walked up twenty-five flights of stairs?” I ask.

  “You aren’t the only one who likes to exercise,” Zaworski says, cutting me off. “Randall, Martinez—get moving. Get the document down to City Hall and tell them we need the Legal offer ready yesterday.”

  They get up to leave.

  “Randall,” he nearly yells, “don’t forget to have Shelly make a copy and put it in the file.”

  They nod and head out the door pronto.

  “Jerome, you can scram,” he says. “This case is priority. Go over the blood and the contusions and any other forensic evidence you got again.”

  “We have vomit,” Jerome says.

  “Good for you,” Zaworski answers with a sigh. “Look at that too. Let us know if you find anything else. Most of all, make sure the evidence is righteous enough to convict whoever it is that did this when we find him.”

  Jerome gathers his papers and quickly beelines for the door.

  “Squires and Konkade, I want you two to sit down together and write up a plan of action. Keep it to two pages.”

  They nod.

  “What about me, sir?” I ask.

  “You got to go down to HR and sign a bunch of papers saying you are back on the job. I think they have a physical scheduled for you.”

  “My knee is fine,” I say.

  “It’s fine when the doc they send you to says it’s fine. We need all the bodies we can muster on this case. The heat from up high is blazing hot. The dead kid’s dad is a billionaire that has contributed big time to Mayor Doyle and anyone else Doyle has wanted elected to something. Daddy wants something for his investment now. The mayor and Commissioner Fergosi are happy to oblige. They don’t want another media circus like we had with the Cutter Shark.”

  “I do have a complete medical report from the FBI,” I say, wanting in on the action from the start.

  “Good for you. But your knee and wrist aren’t okay until our doc says they’re okay. I hear that’s not the only thing they gave you.”

  Does he know they offered me a job?

  “You got to get that Sig Sauer cleared with the Armory.”

  Maybe not.

  He rolls his eyes. What’s wrong with carrying a Sig?

  “We won’t be getting much out of you today. So why don’t you hoof it down to HR and get things rolling so you can actually get back to work at some point. And don’t be late tomorrow.”

  I’m ready to fight back. I have a couple names I want to call him. Discretion is often the greater part of valor so I take a deep breath and just nod and stand to go. Then I freeze at a sudden thought.

  “What, Conner?” Zaworski demands impatiently.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  I turn quickly and head for the door. I can’t believe I don’t have my car. What was I thinking this morning? I wonder how much cash I have in my purse. If I have to go to a doctor’s office after meeting with HR and then out to the armory to get my new gun properly registered, I am going to be forking out tens and twenties all day to cab drivers. My green commitment to public transportation is officially over. I walk to the door.

  “Conner,” Zaworski says.

  I stop and turn. What now?

  “Welcome back.”

  I would have said thanks but he’s already huddled with Don and Konkade again.

  15

  WHO KILLED JACK? That’s the million-dollar question. Actually, it’s a couple hundred-million-dollar question.

  The press is right, there is a long line of potential suspects. It’s nice to see so many of Jack’s friends get their lives turned upside down and revealed to the world as the debauched, petty, juvenile miserable human beings they are. I have no sympathy for any of them.

  I’ve barely left my place since the night of the murder. I stay at home, waiting for the knock on the door. But I have had time to think.

  Jack’s murderer was one of two people. It had to be him or her.

  He hated Jack most. But why would he risk all that he has just to put Jack in his place? Wounded pride can be foolish—but that foolish? Doesn’t make sense.

  She had most to lose if Jack moved on with his life apart from her. But killing him would cost about the same or possibly more. She’s wicked. But is she a murderess?

  If they come for me, I need to send the police to him or her if I’m to save myself.

  But which of the two did it? And can I trust either to help me?

  That’s almost a funny question. The answer is absolutely not.

  • • •

  I thought I looked pretty good this morning. I spent some time getting myself ready. At least some time for me. I actually blow-dried my hair and must have spent all of two minutes with the curling iron. I think that two minutes made me miss the first bus outside my apartment complex. I gave my coif a couple shots of hair spray. I didn’t recognize the bright red metallic can that’s about as big as a scuba diving air tank, so it must be something Klarissa left behind after spending a couple weeks at my place. That means it’s a lot better than anything I buy. I’ll tell her she left it but she’ll have moved on to the next product and now I probably have enough hair spray to last a year.

  I got off to a great start on my first official day back in the office until I missed the bus and was late for briefing.

  My first stop after getting up-to-speed on the Durham murder and getting chewed out by Zaworski was HR. Claudia Jones has got to be pushing seventy years old. I’ve known her since I was ten, or maybe younger. She and my dad kidded each other a lot so that means she likes me. She worked me through the paperwork in thirty minutes. I’m not sure everything I signed but she assured me that if I ever were to have a baby, I hadn’t given rights to my firstborn to CPD.

  The doctor’s office was when my carefully coiffed hair and makeup started going south. He asked where my workout clothes were. I could have told them I had some in the trunk of my car but with my car back home it didn’t seem pertinent. I explained that I didn’t know we would be doing this today and he said fine and that we could do it later in the week. The thought of explaining that to Zaworski helped me improvise. I put on the baggy shorts and t-shirt they supplied and went through the exam. I had to sign an extra waiver when I told them I was happy to run the treadmill in bare feet. I think I have a blister for my commitment. There was no shower room at the doctor’s office so I put my outfit back on over a sweaty body.

  The Armory was even worse of a hassle. The guy in charge of inventory had never seen paperwork from the FBI transferring ownership of a handgun to a Chicago police officer. He went to show it to his boss but his boss was already at lunch and apparently very hungry. It took him a full two hours to return. He still wasn’t in a hurry to move me through the grinder. I was about to go through the roof with impatience. The only thing that settled my nerves was the
thought of punching his lights out, which is not a very mature, politically correct—nor Christian—thought.

  How old are you, Kristen?

  I used the down time to shoot four rounds of twenty-ve shells from thirty, sixty, ninety, and one-hundred-twenty feet. Problem is I wanted to shoot with my new Sig and since it wasn’t registered with CPD the guy in charge of the range wouldn’t let me bring it in. I used the standard Glock 23, a 40-caliber handgun, and did okay. Not great, but better than usual. That has now planted doubts in my mind whether I should have ever switched from the Glock to the Baretta and now over to the Sig. All I want is to improve my handgun score to better than average. I might be able to live with that.

  I walked down the street from there and got the Happy Meal at McDonalds. The grandma serving me kept looking around with narrow eyes to see if I really had a kid. I don’t know what the rules are on age but I may be banned from at least one Chicagoland McDonalds. I did get a miniature Barbie. I’m no fan of the doll but I may keep this one for myself. When I bought Kendra a Sporty Barbie soccer star for her eighth birthday, I got in trouble with my sister for giving her a toy that might permanently twist her perception of the appropriate female body. I think Kendra is okay so far.

  I finally got back to the office at four o’clock, legal and ready to get busy, despite the fact that my hair was a stringy mess and I had washed everything off my face. I might have detected a slight case of body odor when I lifted my arms to stretch my back.

  Didn’t matter. The place was nearly a ghost town.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked Shelly.

  “The captain took everybody to serve a warrant to a person of interest on the Durham murder.”

  Since I’m here, he obviously didn’t take everybody. I am tempted to point that out but hold my tongue.

  “He leave any instructions what he wants me to get started on?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Thanks, Shelly. For nothing.

  I decide to brave Chicago’s public transportation system and head home early to regroup. Everyone knows I put in long hours so I’m not too worried anyone will think I’m a slacker—and there’s no one around but Shelly to think that anyway.

  After I cleared e-mail for twenty minutes, I walked the stairs down to the lobby, caught the bus almost immediately in front of our building. I hopped off at Walsh and Van Buren, walked a long half block to the LaSalle station and jumped on the northwest Blue Line. The El was packed. The guy standing next to me for a couple stops looked like he was homeless. He kept wrinkling his nose and giving me dirty looks when I held onto the overhead straps. No argument from me, my deodorant gave out an hour ago. When he started to make wretching sounds I gave him a dirty look and won a stare down. He moved further down the car. Glad I got one victory today.

  We crossed Western and I was one stop from my exit when I saw Zaworski’s name pop up on my screen.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Where you at, Conner?”

  “I’m just about home, sir. When I got back from office it was after four and I didn’t see anything on my desk.”

  The silence at the end of the line is palpable. I guess I could have told him I was still straightening things up but I’m not going to lie to the boss.

  “I’ll head right back in, sir.”

  “You do that, Conner. Turn your car around and get here in thirty. Straight to my office.”

  He saved me from explaining that I’m not in my car because the line was suddenly dead after a particularly loud click.

  I get off on California. It takes me 10 minutes to find an ATM and then another fifteen minutes to flag a cab. We’re in the middle of rush hour so the drive to the precinct is about thirty minutes. I run up the five flights of steps to Homicide and head straight for the captain’s office. I give three quick raps on the door, then open it slowly and poke my head in. He is huddled with Commander Czaka and Sergeant Konkade at a small meeting table.

  “Not now, Conner,” Zaworski says. “Go find Squires and get up to speed.”

  I shut the door quietly and head over to the cubicle farm where Don and I and the other detectives are lined up. He’s not in his cube. I walk out front and Shelly has just picked up her purse to leave.

  “Thought you scrammed,” she says.

  “I did but the captain called me back in.”

  “Yeah, he had all the detectives in the conference room to go over new developments on the Durham case.”

  Not all Shelly.

  “Squires and the others hiding somewhere around here?”

  “No. That meeting ended fifteen minutes ago. Captain told everyone to go home because tomorrow is a big day. You probably need to get home too.”

  “Captain didn’t leave a message for me to wait around to talk to him?”

  “Not with me. He’s got a big dinner tonight. When he’s done with the commander he’ll be out of here in a hurry.”

  She heads for the elevator bank. I blow hair off my face in exasperation.

  • • •

  I turn sideways and kick ten times as hard as I can with my right knee. A quick hop to my right and I kick ten times with my left. I square up and punch left, right, left, right as hard as I can for ninety seconds.

  “Time!” Gary calls. “Not bad, not bad.”

  I start to lean down and put my hands on my knees but straighten up and get my hands over my head to open my lungs. I get a sharp reminder that my deodorant gave up the fight hours ago. My thighs and everything else on me are burning and complaining from the last thirty minutes of kicking and punching. Not sure there is a better singular workout program than fighting.

  I waited twenty more minutes at the office for Zaworksi to finish meeting with Czaka and Konkade. No way was I leaving the office without checking in with him. I did have to go the bathroom and when I came out he was gone. Shelly was right. He was out in a flash. It took me ninety minutes to navigate the route to my house through heavy traffic.

  I was steaming when I got home. I threw on workout clothes and headed to the Planet Fitness about ten minutes from my apartment. I don’t know what’s going on tonight but the traffic was so heavy it took me twenty minutes. I didn’t have a game plan and was thinking maybe weight machines and then the elliptical. A guy was shadow boxing on one of the mats. He had the punching paddles there so I asked if he wanted me to hold for him.

  Gary decided to get cute and flirt a little until he saw the expression on my face was all business. When he started his punching routine and I didn’t budge an inch holding the paddles he got down to business too. He came in fast and furious to show off. I still held my ground. After he was all punched out we talked a few minutes and he ended up being a nice guy. He told me he was a baggage handler for American out at O’Hare and had been in the Marines—two tours in Iraq. He boxed while he was in the service and before that did some Golden Gloves. He definitely had fast hands. When I told him that he started flirting again. I cut him off. I told him to give me the gloves and to pick up the paddles.

  I offended him when I asked, “So you are an ex-Marine?”

  “No true Marine ever stops being a Marine. Semper Fi.”

  Okay. Dramatic. But I like the loyalty.

  I started out slow and steady but picked up the pace. I started mixing speed and power and then switched to kicks and karate chops with hands and elbows. I ended with a speed routine that is designed to take the muscles to absolute failure. It worked. I am shaky. The only reason I keep moving is to do an appropriate cool down and save myself from lactic acid buildup.

  “Let’s work out again sometime. You punch great.”

  I think he wanted to add, “for a girl,” but caught himself.

  “Give me your number so I can put it in my phone,” Gary continues.

  I hesitate. I give out my number all day every day but usually to witnesses and suspects.

  “I promise I won’t bug you,” he says. “I have a girlfriend already and I’m loyal like a Marin
e. I’ll just call if none of my workout partners want to punch.”

  I give him my number with a trace of uneasiness.

  “So what do you do?” he asks.

  “I’m a cop. Detective first class for the Chicago Police Department.”

  “I for sure won’t bug you, Detective Kristen.”

  “Good workout and thanks,” I say as I make my typical graceful exit. I step on a fat rope someone left at the edge of the map and about bite the dust. I look back and he’s watching me and laughing. I give a curtsy and head for the door.

  You better be loyal to your girl and not bug me Gary.

  • • •

  I put a towel on my seat and sink into my Miata. The ride home takes the customary ten minutes. I plan to take a quick shower but the water feels too good and I empty my water heater. My green consciousness is definitely reeling with all the water and electricity I just wasted. I flip on ESPN to Monday Night Football and watch Cincinnati versus Baltimore for twenty minutes. Ray Lewis has definitely slowed down and the Bengals are a lot better than I remember them being.

  First day back in the office. What a disaster. And what’s with no real welcome home? I wasn’t expecting a brass band to play “Seventy-Six Trombones” from The Music Man. But a little recognition within my department might have been nice. What is up with Zaworski anyway?

  So much for easing back into things. We’re on a full-blown high profile murder case. Well the others are and I plan to be tomorrow. I don’t need to ease back in anyway. I’ve had an all-expense vacation in Quantico, Virginia. My knee feels great. I’m ready to go.

  16

  I GOT CALLED into Zaworski’s office this morning within five minutes of arriving at the precinct. I was actually twenty-five minutes early.

  Sergeant Konkade and Bob Blackshear were in the office with him. Blackshear works at the Fourth Precinct so I wonder what he’s doing over here.

  “Sit down, Conner,” Zaworski orders with his patented charm and courtesy.

  I smile at Konkade who ignores me. Blackshear and I nod to each other. He’s a rung or two above me on the detective ladder. I can see him getting a big-time promotion in the near future.