Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) Page 7

  “Blackshear is here because he is going to run Homicide in the Second for a month or so.”

  Apparently I am a prophet. Okay. That’s a surprise.

  “And in case you’re wondering where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing don’t ask because I’m not saying right now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I like that, Conner. Just keep saying ‘yes sir’ and don’t ask any . . . darn questions.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He looks up to see if I’m being a smart aleck. I am. But I think I have emptied my face of even the hint of a smile or any other sign of mirth or emotion.

  “In the big scheme of life, I’m not sure if our Durham murder case matters more or less than any others,” he presses on. “In fact, I know it doesn’t. All murders are wrong and a tragedy. But . . . some feel just a little less like a tragedy. This might be one of them. If you or Blackshear quote me on this I’ll swear you are lying. But sometimes when the herd gets thinned a little, everybody gets along a little bit better.”

  Where is he going with this?

  “This Jack Durham may have had a boatload of money but he was a lowlife if ever there was one. My wife is very enlightened so I don’t talk this way at home. But I’m not crying in my beer that we lost Durham.

  “Doesn’t mean this isn’t a huge case, however. It’s still a murder and we got everyone from the mayor’s office to every hack writer with a blog watching us like a hawk. Conner, I think I saw your sister waxing eloquent about it on the late news.”

  He pauses but looks at me intently. He better not be implying I feed her information or this meeting is going to get heated. Sir.

  “If we break the case this afternoon it won’t be soon enough,” he sighs. “According to the news we’ll still have moved too slow and botched everything we did along the way. Fine. We know better. Bottom line, I want this one cleared fast. Preferably before I get back.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good memory, Conner. You’re still doing well. Don’t mess it up now.”

  Uh oh. Something’s coming. My magical detective antennae feel tremblers all around me.

  “You did good work undercover with Alcoholics Anonymous earlier this year. Well, you mostly did good work.”

  He pauses and scratches his chin. He’s having a hard time getting this out. That can’t be good. I’m holding my breath.

  “We met with the lady who we think is our leverage on this case. We told her what we had on her, what we planned to do to her, but what she could for herself if she decided to help us. She folded like a cheap tent. Didn’t she Blackshear?”

  “Yes sir, she—”

  “That’s right, she did,” Zaworski interrupts. “Commander Czaka and I had a late night powwow to think through how to play this. Konkade and Squires wrote a nice two-page strategy report. It was good but not inspired. No offense meant,” he says, looking at the sergeant who just shrugs his shoulders. “With all the pressure we’re getting, we needed it to be inspired. We even called your partner to get his feedback. Despite some misgivings from Squires, he agrees with Czaka and me that this might be our best approach for the moment. I thought about it all morning driving into the office and I’m still inspired.”

  Is he ever going to spit it out? This is worse than whatever the uber-inspiring plan entails.

  “So we have a little something undercover we want you to do on this case.”

  • • •

  I didn’t do quite as well on the “yes sir” the rest of the meeting as I had earlier. I had a lot of questions and a few out-and-out objections. We argued. Zaworski stopped being a bear. He needed me to say yes to something so he quickly developed a lot more patience and cut out most of the sarcasm. He could barely suppress a smile when he knew he had won.

  Zaworski wasn’t putting in a request with me. He was giving me an assignment but he wanted me to embrace it happily. There’s a lot of things I want in life that I’m not getting either.

  At the end of the meeting the captain actually smiled, shook my hand, and said, “Glad you’re back, Conner. We’re a lot more fun than the FBI anyway. When’s the last time you saw an FBI agent smile?”

  How does he know I got a job offer from the FBI? I haven’t told a soul, including my family. It would have to be Willingham or Reynolds, the two fishing buddies. Maybe they called him from a fishing boat on the Penobscot River. Knowing Willingham, he gave Fergosi a courtesy call.

  Undercover? Again? I didn’t do that well last time.

  • • •

  I feel like I am under a microscope. I am with Barbara Ferguson in her apartment on Chicago’s Gold Coast. Her furniture makes the stuff in Klarissa’s old townhome seem spartan. And Klarissa’s place was never spartan. Don’s wife, Vanessa, the ace realtor who keeps her detective husband happy in expensive shoes and clothes, had an offer on it in less than a week. Klarissa took it. No way was she going to live there again after what happened to her there.

  Barbara’s place is pure luxury from the art on the walls, to the rugs on the floor, to the furniture, to the view of Lake Michigan. A fog is rolling in to match my mood, but it isn’t going to dampen the ambience.

  I’m not sure what’s new and what’s antique but as much as I hate to admit it, it blends together and looks fabulous.

  “Nice place, Barbara,” I say.

  “Call me Bobbie. And yes, Kristen, it will do.”

  I’m not good at guessing ages but I’m thinking she’s fifty years old, give or take a few either way. A very well-preserved and attractive fifty, I would add. Her hair is pulled back and up to show a nice neckline—no wrinkles—and a lot of casual bling disappearing into a low cut that my mom would not approve of and cascading from her ears. I’ve been telling myself I need to upgrade my wardrobe and accessories. She’s not my style but seeing her dressed for success reminds me of that.

  “We’ve got our work cut out for us, Detective Conner,” she says with the same tone you’d use to explain where you want the sewer line to go on an outdoor project to the landscaping guy.

  “Call me Kristen.”

  “I’m so pleased to meet you and work with you, Kristen,” she responds, looking me in the eyes with all the warmth and earnestness possible from a truly caring person or someone who is just good at introductions and first impressions. My antennae are still up from this morning’s meeting with Zaworski and I suspect the latter.

  “Let’s go sit down,” she says. “Something to drink? I have a bottle of white wine chilled.”

  “No, thanks,” I answer.

  “That won’t do,” she says with the hint of a grimace. “In my line of work the answer is always yes.”

  “In my line of work the answer is almost always no,” I respond.

  “And that’s why we are meeting here,” she says. “Because you are about to enter my world.”

  We stare each other down. She is a cool customer. She looks unfazed; maybe slightly amused.

  “Your charming captain said you might be difficult.”

  “No doubt he’s a charmer,” I say with a snort of laughter.

  She looks at me blankly. Apparently Ferguson wasn’t making a joke.

  “I found Captain Zaworski to be very charming. Perhaps I am more attuned to noticing the good in people.”

  “Are you judging me?” I ask.

  “Are you judging me?”

  “I asked first.”

  I’m not sure we are off to a great start.

  Zaworski ordered me to behave myself. He gave me a list of words and phrases I was not to use with Ferguson including prostitution, madame, pimp, escorts, call girls, and words I didn’t know the meaning of. If at some point I needed to acknowledge Ferguson’s role it was that she had been hired by the CPD to serve as a consultant on the Jack Durham murder case.

  “I don’t like her and what she does any better than you, Conner,” he said, “but we got to keep her on our side. You grind on her and she clams up and it isn’t going to help u
s nail a killer.”

  I get that. Still doesn’t mean I have to like that she is to coach me to pose as one of her escorts to get close to the friends Durham ran around with.

  “How long is this going to go on Sir?” I asked.

  “As long as it takes to catch a murderer—or until the key suspects from Jack Durham’s circle of friends figure out you aren’t legitimate.”

  “First time someone thinks something’s going to happen that isn’t going to happen my cover will be blown, Sir.”

  I wondered if he understood what I was saying.

  “Talk to Barbara. She’ll help you work through all that. They have procedures and exit strategies they learn.”

  I wondered if I knew what he was saying. Exit strategies? Procedures? That’s one of the few times I’ve heard Zaworski not sound too sure of himself.

  We must be desperate.

  I pointed out to Zaworski that my real-world dating life isn’t doing so well and there might be better candidates than me.

  “Not inside my department,” he said. “Unless you want me to put a skirt on Squires I think you are the man for the job.”

  That actually sounded like a better plan to me but I should have kept my mouth shut. He wasn’t amused.

  In a follow-up meeting with Don, Martinez, and Randall, I got more details than I ever wanted to know about Barbara Ferguson’s high class escort service for the rich and famous. Beautiful girls. Discreet arrangements. High class is the guys’ phrase, not mine.

  Ferguson gets paid to set up dates but nothing more. The costs for illegal “benefits” are somehow magically understood but not stated or in writing. It is paid directly to the girls, cash only. The men know to refer to the cash as a gift, not payment for a service. Everyone knows the rules and thus it is very hard to charge, much less convict Bobbie Ferguson for running a prostitution ring.

  I didn’t start out in Homicide—my first gig with the CPD was routine patrol. I was fortunate to avoid working Vice, a pretty disgusting work environment where the women officers often have to play dress-up. It ends up causing problems with real life relationships. The internal mocking is brutal. I let Don know that if he turns this into a joke—or if he lets others in the department turn it into a joke—it is not going to be received well by me.

  Bobbie is returning to the room with a glass of white wine for her and a cup of tea for me. I can’t argue with her beauty. I am reminded that my first objection to Zaworski was based on my personality; “I’m no good at pulling punches, so there’s a good chance I’ll let someone have it before we get to dinner.”

  “You’ll do fine,” he said.

  Then he and Konkade showed me a portfolio of Ferguson’s “girls” and wow was all I could think. That led to my second objection: “I don’t know if you’se guys have noticed but I don’t look like these girls. I’m not in the same zip code in the looks department.”

  “Barbara saw your picture and said she could work some magic on you,” Zaworski answered.

  Was I supposed to be flattered or insulted?

  I think that’s why Bobbie has two furrows in the middle of her forehead as she looks me over.

  “Hmmm,” she says.

  “You know you could save us both a lot of trouble if you just tell the captain this isn’t going to work.”

  “I agree,” she says. “But your captain is pretty adamant that I need to make it work. And I am very motivated to do whatever your captain deems is right.”

  She pauses and says, “And based on seeing you in person, we might be able to pull this off.”

  “I saw the pictures of your entourage, Bobbie. No need to flatter me. I’m not high enough in the food chain of female beauty and charm to help you fulfill your deal with City Finance.”

  “I have a hair stylist and a makeup artist that can work miracles.”

  She gives a triumphant smirk. So much for flattery. I do agree a miracle is required.

  “But it’s still going to take all my considerable abilities and savvy,” she continues. “Because with your attitude and mouth, I don’t care what we make you look like, it’s not going to play well with my clients. I should say ex-clients. Even if I avoid charges and possible jail time for misunderstandings on my taxes, I’m not going to have any clients left.”

  We narrow our eyes in unison and give each other a hard stare. I am not breaking eye contact first. I can do this all day.

  After ten seconds she gives a laugh—Ha! You lost that one, Bobbie!—claps her hands and says, “Let’s get started.”

  I think the enthusiasm is faked.

  • • •

  I leave Bobbie’s condo a block off Lakeshore Drive a little after two, but rush hour has started early. Back to the office or head home? I can make calls and type reports just as easily at home. So I continue north.

  Mom and Kaylen loved the movie My Fair Lady. I can’t remember watching it all the way through but I’ve seen enough to know I have the Audrey Hepburn role as Eliza Doolittle and Bobbie has the Rex Harrison role of Professor Henry Higgins. The problem is I’m no actor.

  We ate a two-hour lunch with the sole purpose of refining my table manners, which I think were just fine to begin with. She didn’t correct my work with knife and fork, but I got hammered by her on my inconsistent eye contact and my inability to keep my opinions to myself.

  I’m thirty years old and single. No regular beau. But I’ve assumed I want to get married some day. After listening to Bobbie’s jaundiced view of what men want, I’m not so sure. I definitely prefer single to the kind of client she takes care of.

  I stay out of politics. But with all the debates about the one percent—her clientele is the one percent of the one percent, I think—there is no denying there is a privileged class that is too lazy to even ask a girl for a date.

  What in the world have I gotten myself into?

  17

  I DON’T RECOGNIZE the number.

  “This is Conner,” I answer.

  “Hi, Kristen, it’s been a long time since we’ve talked.”

  Dell. No way. I guess you could say we dated at one time. I think we showed up at places together out of convenience, but I never had romantic feelings for him. He wanted to marry me. He wormed his way into the middle of my family—and all of them thought he was a super guy. He courted me with the gusto of a stark raving mad stalker. Other than that, and me telling him that there was no hope for us and that I didn’t want to ever talk to him again (I know that doesn’t sound very nice but I’m guessing even Mother Teresa had boundaries. At least I assume she did.), I am delighted he is calling me. Not.

  “Dell, why are you calling me?”

  “Kristen, I just wanted to tell you—”

  “Dell, I’ve already told you I don’t want any apologies and I don’t want communication between us.”

  “Kristen, all I wanted to do is—”

  “Dell, I’m not going to meet you one more time to rehash things so you can find some kind of closure and let me know if I change my mind you are there for me. The book on us is closed.”

  “Kristen, it’s not that. I just want to—”

  “Stop now, Dell. Nothing is going to change between us. It’s not healthy for you or for me for you to call me. And you are definitely making me mad.”

  “Would you just listen for a second! All I want to do is tell you I’m engaged and I want to introduce you to my fiancée. She knows all we’ve been through the past year and wanted to say hi to you.”

  Okay. That’s unexpected. But not bad unexpected. This is good. At least I hope it is for her sake.

  “Then put her on.”

  “We actually wanted to take you out for a bite to eat.”

  Always another meeting.

  “Nope. Not going to happen. If she wants to meet me it’s going to be through the miracle of wireless technology. So put her on the phone. Now.”

  “Kristen, she’s not here right now.”

  “Then why are you calling me
without her if that’s the reason you called me?”

  “To set things up.”

  “Does she know you are calling me right now?”

  “She knows I was going to at some moment.”

  “So the answer to my question is no.”

  “I’m engaged. Stop being so suspicious of my motives.”

  “If she was standing next to you and talking to me I wouldn’t be suspicious. It’s strange for you to be calling me.”

  “Well don’t you think it’s strange after all we’ve been through we have never talked about it?”

  Here it comes. Dell is still Dell. I may meet with his fiancée so I can warn her to run the other way.

  “Maybe if I thought about it at all I would. But I don’t think about it. And I’ve let you do exactly what you set out to do and what I’ve told you countless times I don’t want. I’ve let you start a conversation. You are not a part of my life, including my family.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be a Christian. You don’t sound very Christian to me.”

  If one angle doesn’t work, he tries another. Why not false religious guilt?

  “And you are a Christian too. So do the honorable thing. Focus on your wife-to-be. Build a life with her. Stop giving me even a single thought. And that’s all I have to say.”

  “Can we talk about it?”

  I’m not going to answer that. He’s relentless. I don’t think he’s in sales. He should be. Dell is reasonably good-looking. I think he’s pretty successful in business, though I’m no real judge of that. My point is he has a lot going for him. But there’s something very wrong with him, particularly when it comes to me. I guess that last part isn’t so unusual.

  My dad once told me that God could save you from your sins in a single instant but some of our hurts and bad decisions take a lifetime to get sorted out. There might even be a few things we have to carry all the way until we go to heaven. I understand that when I listen to Dell. Heck, I understand that when I look at myself honestly.

  “You there?”

  “Goodbye, Dell.”

  “Wait! Kristen, don’t hang up!”

  “Dell.”

  “Can I call back if I have my fiancée on the line with me?”