Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) Page 7

  I might argue with her for doing surveillance on the neighbor’s house—even if she says she isn’t—though as an officer of the peace I know that is actually a great crime deterrent that is on its death throes. But I can’t argue with her conclusion. Mom’s right. It does sound suspicious.

  “Did you get the make and model?”

  “I did better than that,” she answers, now sounding triumphant. “I’ve written down the license plate number.”

  Keeping an eye on her street is a good thing. But recording license plate numbers? I stifle a laugh.

  “You’re not saying anything, Kristen. Do you think I did something wrong?”

  “Not at all, Mom. You did great. Listen, I have to get to the airport and see if I can catch the last flight out of JFK or LaGuardia. I’ll talk to Blackshear about what you saw tomorrow. He’ll make sure it gets followed up on.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely. Email or text me the license number and the description of the car. Anything else you can remember about him.”

  “I will. But I thought you were catching a morning flight back to Midway.”

  “It was O’Hare and I missed it.”

  “You need to pay more attention, Kristen. I told you New York City traffic would be bad on the way to the airport.”

  “It’s a long story, Mom. I’ll catch you up when I get home.”

  I need to pay more attention?

  12

  IT WOULD HAVE been easier to head east from Brooklyn through Queens to Oyster Bay. Med didn’t want to risk being spotted by Pasha, so he cut back and forth in a northwest pattern through Manhattan and jumped on I-87. The roads were still lousy but he could be there in less than two hours.

  The phone blared again. Pasha. Always Pasha. He lowered the window to throw the phone to the side of the road. With more snow coming tonight plus the road crews laying down ice and pushing the slush into embankments on either side of the concrete thread, it would be a month or two before anyone found it. He needed the names and numbers that were stored in it. He held down the red button and powered it off.

  Better to forget the phone for now. Having it on might allow someone to trace his location. It didn’t matter if it was the NYPD or Pasha—if he was found it would mean prison or death. Plus if he answered, Pasha would promise him everything was okay and all was forgiven. But a man like Pasha never forgave. It had been a couple hours since Med had taken a sip of vodka and he realized he was thinking clearer. He had gone through the dead man’s wallet. He had found what Pasha wanted. But why work with a man who had undoubtedly killed Ilsa and who would kill him with his bare hands?

  If Pasha wanted the numbers there was a good chance the Pakhan did too.

  “What were you thinking? Seriously, Kristen, what was going through your mind?”

  Reynolds is mad, something I’ve never seen from him.

  “Central Park in the dark in subzero weather? Are you kidding me?” he continues.

  The park in the dark. I just learned something. Reynolds is a poet. I’m a little surprised at how mad he is. I’ve never really noticed before but nostrils really do flare when someone is ranting. Check it out for yourself. No big biggie for me. I’m used to getting scolded. This is the third time I’ve been chewed out in one morning, counting Barnes and Zaworski.

  I just look at Reynolds, waiting for him to get the lecture out of his system. I would think I am due for a hug or some other sign of comfort. I did just perform CPR on a dying man. No way was he dead when I found him. Impossible. Inconceivable. Reynolds isn’t making a move my way. Maybe it’s my blood-soaked ensemble. I wouldn’t want to hug me either.

  I actually shouldn’t be surprised about the lack of bodily contact. Our relationship has been strictly platonic. I’m not great with affection under most circumstances—unless it’s my niece and nephew— and James doesn’t count because if I get a hold of him, he’s wriggling and moving like a greased pig and releasing appropriate smells that make this a great analogy. Maybe I have arrested development. Should I bring it up with the shrink that Zaworski is making me see? I’ve got to stop thinking the word shrink or I’ll end up saying it out loud.

  Austin has seemed fine with my reserve. The perfect gentleman. I’ve assumed this works out for him because he wants to take things slow after going through a divorce. His ex is a colleague he has to work with on a case basis. I’ve met her. The ice queen. You can catch a whiff of her aura of condescension before she enters a room. If I had lived with her, I might volunteer for counseling.

  Maybe I’m not being fair to her. How well do I really know Reynolds? He may be too much like me. Just keep active, keep moving—we can talk about our feelings later.

  He knows I’m old school and don’t sleep around. I know that makes me a dinosaur and Klarissa says I’m repressed and will die a spinster. Anyone that uses the word spinster might have a few issues of her own.

  I grew up in a warm and affectionate family. I’ve never been abused. So why do I keep people at arm’s length—and I’m not just talking about jumping in the sack with someone? I keep a protective wall up. I’d like to blame it on my dad’s death. But it was there before. Is it possible that that’s just the way I am? Is that a crime?

  Right now, even if Austin isn’t the right guy for me—and I suspect, the truth is, I’m not the right girl for him—I feel a need to be held and comforted.

  I guess you can’t push somebody away for months and expect him to read your mind when things change and you need him close.

  We’re in a coffee shop across the street from the 54th Street Precinct where Barnes brought me to meet on the Frank Nelson murder. When I called Reynolds from Barnes’ car to ask what was going on, he said he was already on the way and would talk when we both got there. If he considered being in the same meeting the equivalent of us having a talk, then I guess we’ll have to put our talk on hold since only one of us has a ticket to get in. Spilling coffee as I exited probably guarantees whoever is in charge won’t reconsider and invite me back.

  Reynolds drums his fingers on the table and repeats, “What were you thinking? You’re not talking.”

  “Hey Austin, I heard you the first time and I think it was obvious what I was thinking. I just wanted to get a short run in the park before I flew back to Chicago. Simple as that. You’re making way too big a deal out of this.”

  “In zero weather? In the dark?”

  “You’re sounding like Klarissa,” I say, resisting the urge to rhyme dark with park.

  “If she said you were out of your mind, then good. I hope I sound exactly like her.”

  “Okay, Austin, I’ll check in with you next time I want to do a cold-weather run and make sure I have permission.”

  “Very cute. I figured you could do better than that.”

  “Hey, you bought me cold weather gear so blame yourself for tempting me to actually use it.”

  “That’s a little better.”

  “Listen, I don’t need this,” I say, fed up with everyone getting in my grill for the crime of finding a murder victim. “Next time you try to hold a guy’s windpipe together while you keep him from bleeding out and give him mouth-to-mouth and he dies as an added bonus, let me know, and I’ll find something to grind you on.”

  “You can deflect and counter all you want but this isn’t about me grinding you. It’s about you jumping into things before you think.”

  Now he sounds like Zaworski. If they have the same belief about what it means to chew someone out then I guess this is his way of saying he really really cares.

  This is the point when I’m supposed to stomp out. We just glare at each other. I wonder if we’re causing a scene in the crowded JavaStar. I think my comment that he died as an added bonus insured that.

  “How do you do it Detective Kristen Conner?” he asks, a bemused smile slowly appearing on his face.

  “I have an instinct for trouble?” I ask back.

  “That you do.”

 
; “And I might add I have a flair for getting out of trouble.”

  “But never for long.”

  He folds his arms, shakes his head, and laughs.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  Am I okay? Is no one listening? I just had someone die in my arms while I tried to save his life. Everyone I know bugs me to death about opening up and sharing my feelings. Now they’re surprised I have emotions? I guess I’m supposed to save that for the counselor.

  “I’m fine, Austin. I’ll be a lot better after a shower. I think I’m ready to get Frank Nelson’s blood and body tissue washed off.”

  Was that enough of a hint to lay off and give me a little sympathy—and maybe a hug? Last chance to read the tea leaves, soldier.

  “Good, because I got to hustle over and get in that meeting.”

  A swing and a miss. Thank you for your tender concern, Austin. He’s preoccupied. The only reason we’re not yelling at each other with me stomping off is he has more important things on his mind. No more time to lecture me on not running in the park in the dark.

  I do think of myself as self-aware and empathetic to the world around me. I’m just not good at this romance thing. And people wonder why I’m single and never dated much. My last reasonably long-term relationship was when I was in college. I was on the soccer team and he played football—we were both too busy to spend much time together. There it is again. I do well in a relationship as long as I don’t have to regularly interact with someone. I guess I’m good at relationships as long as they aren’t really relationships.

  I’ve been told I’m good looking. But when you grow up with a sister that looks like Klarissa, you learn early on that good looking is a very relative term. She’s breathtaking. When I walk with her down a busy street, men nearly break their necks to make sure they get a good look. Not at me.

  I met Reynolds on the Cutter Shark case, which went almost half a year. We ended up going out for dinner a couple times. Things didn’t end well between us; par for the course in my personal history of dating. Halfway through my work on the Jack Durham murder—another one of those “whales” that Barnes alluded to—Reynolds showed back up in Chicago and we made up. We’ve sort of been an item since. I think. I’m never sure what is up or down when it comes to my love life.

  He flew to Chicago and spent Christmas Day with the Conner family—my mom, my media star younger sister, Klarissa, and my older sister, Kaylen, and her husband, Jimmy, and three children, Kendra, James, and baby Kelsey.

  I still haven’t figured out why the grownup male in my sister’s family is Jimmy and the kid is James, but I need to let that one go. There are more important things to figure out that I’m still clueless on.

  Spending time with my family is usually enough to scare anyone off, but Austin invited me to Schenectady, New York, to meet his parents. That was interesting if you like long discussions about the history of Schenectady and why the New York State economy north of the City is a sleeping giant while plowing seconds of Yankee Pot Pie, followed up by a huge bowl of Aunt Sylvia’s apple crumble with ice cream.

  I went to the Y with Austin the next day and did a hard two-hour workout to burn off a few pounds of dead cow.

  I survived a three-thousand-calorie dinner and that awkward moment when Austin’s mom was trying to figure out if we needed one room or two. I like Austin. More than any guy I’ve dated. Doesn’t mean he’s the one. Heck, my previous item—who really wasn’t an item—bought me a diamond ring after I’d told him I wasn’t going to see him anymore. He still didn’t believe me after I refused the ring. He said I could hold onto it in case I changed my mind. So not quite trusting my ability to spot a winner is a valid perspective on my part. When Austin and I worked the Cutter Shark case together with his ex-wife, a small detail he decided wasn’t something I needed to know, I pushed him away. Hard. I disagreed strongly with his decision that I didn’t need to know that Van Guten was his ex. He hung in there and I finally accepted his explanation and apologies.

  But that doesn’t mean I don’t have reservations about him. He is smart. He has a good personality. He is good looking. He is successful. He seems to like being with me without putting any demands on me.

  Maybe that’s what I like most. No demands.

  Klarissa is a free agent these days. I wonder why he hasn’t dumped me and made a move in her direction. Apparently they are in absolute agreement that I’m out of my mind. Not quite up to both of them kind of liking the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but it’s a start.

  Would that bother me? Of course it would. But the fact that I’m even wondering something like that doesn’t bode well for the dashing FBI Agent and me. That and him not knowing the one time in our relationship I really need a hug.

  Klarissa begged me to come with her to NYC while she interviewed and did guest appearances for the gig with WolfNews. I think it’s a done deal if they agree on the money. Her agent is in New York and pushing hard to get Klarissa there. She’s done just enough modeling to generously supplement her pretty good salary, but not so much as to seem too shallow to report hard news stories. I’m guessing he sees more opportunities for enriching her and himself in New York. She just bought a condo in Chicago. She wants me to stay in it so she doesn’t have to sell. She says I can pay what I’ve been paying on my not-nearly-so-nice place. How do you turn down a deal like that?

  I had some vacation time I had to use or lose, so here I am in New York, soaked in blood.

  I do wonder what Reynolds’ parents think of me. Nice people. But more to the point, what does Reynolds really think of me? He will tell me, I’m sure, when he thinks I need to know.

  Reynolds starts to stand, looking at his watch again. That breaks my reverie.

  “I got a few questions before you roll,” I say, all business.

  “Gotta keep it quick,” he says.

  “Yes sir,” I salute. He wants to protest but I hit my first question before he can say anything. “Why was Frank Nelson on an FBI watch list?”

  “You remember all that media junk on the NSA listening in on domestic phone conversations?” he asks back.

  “I’m not a news junkie but sure, I remember.”

  “What are your thoughts on it?” he asks.

  “I guess I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “You should,” he says. “It’s a big deal. And both sides of the debate are one hundred percent correct. In this case, score one for the NSA. Some algorithms in the computers out in Nevada started noticing that Mr. Nelson was talking to some nasty people who don’t have the best interests of the United States in mind.”

  “Middle East?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Who?”

  “Russians.”

  “Russians? Like Putin?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. What we do know for sure is that Nelson was working a deal with some Russian-American mobsters. The Red Mafiya. At least entertaining a deal. Once the judge signs off on our California warrants we’ll know more. We’re tearing apart the place where he was staying. We might find what we need in New York City, but I’m guessing he didn’t travel with the smoking gun.”

  “I thought the Russian mafia in America was made up of Eastern Bloc dissidents and are anti-Russian government.”

  “That was the assumption for years. We still haven’t completely figured out who works with who and who is connected to who back home—and this is twenty-five years after the breakup of the Soviet Union. It’s a tight knit family. A lot of the gangsters are ex-KGB and Putin is ex-KGB and it’s no secret that Putin has dreams of reassembling all or a big part of the old Soviet Empire. Ukraine is just the start. So some old enemies—or distant cousins—may have been reconnected, even if informally.”

  “What kind of deal was Nelson working?”

  “He got degrees in molecular biology from Case Western in Cleveland, where he grew up, and Stanford. He was a research scientist early in his career but ended up on the management side of biomedicine. He�
��s earned and lost a few fortunes with a couple biotech companies. He is primary shareholder in his own company, PathoGen. Anything else I say is speculative, off the record, and absolutely confidential.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I say with a salute.

  He arches his eyebrows and shakes his head at me.

  “And I’m having this conversation with you so you can be a smart ass?” he asks.

  “My sincere apologies.” I agree, I’m being juvenile. “So what does PathoGen do?”

  He stops glaring and continues, “They’ve sold a couple of patents to pharmaceuticals, but nothing has monetized like planned. The company is in serious financial trouble. We think he’s got something in the lab that he was trying to sell to the Russians to feather his own nest.”

  “Why would Russian mobsters buy something Nelson can’t sell to a pharmaceutical company? Are the bad guys planning to cure a Third World disease?”

  “There’s a pretty simple rule of thumb when it comes to biotech,” Austin says. “Anything strong enough to cure is strong enough to kill, in proportionate measure. He was working on an Ebola vaccine but we suspect he discovered a better delivery system in the process.”

  Anything strong enough to cure is strong enough to kill, in proportionate measure. I need to remember that. I’ve never had a way with words. Maybe I can throw that into a conversation sometime with inconceivable, which this whole conversation has become now that the word Ebola has been used.

  Austin is looking at his watch, which means he’s desperate to get away from me and join the meeting. He’s looking at me like I would have been looking at my mom if we had talked face-to-face. Yep, he’s preoccupied. And seriously uninterested in me.

  “Listen, I got to get in there, Kristen. In the morning I’ll be on a plane to California to turn the PathoGen offices in Redwood Shores upside down. But I need to make sure I’m up to speed on what happened here before leaving town.”

  He’ll be on a military jet to California and I’ll be on a flight back to Chicago; my love life in a nutshell. I can’t help but wonder again if I made a mistake when I turned down an offer to work for the FBI and decided to stay with Chicago PD. This is big stuff. I hate not being back in that conference room.