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

by M. K. Gilroy

  She is fighting. She has clawed her way halfway out of the backseat and onto the street. Her blonde hair is disheveled. He is pushing and she is kicking. I might still have time. My lungs are screaming for oxygen. My legs ache with the exertion. Every stride is torture. They just want to quit but I can’t let them. Why am I not drawing closer? I can’t close the gap. My arms start to pump higher again, perhaps reaching for heaven in supplication for more oxygen. I have to have more oxygen.

  I’m drawing closer now. About time. She gets her hands free from him and scratches jagged lines down both cheeks. He bellows in rage and draws back his fist to hit her. Am I three car lengths away? Two? I am suffocating. I have never in my life run harder and longer than now. What will I do when I get there? Collapse?

  He’s got her stuffed back in the rear of the car and slams the door shut. He moves forward a step and slides into the front car seat. Only a few more feet. The door is closing. This is going to hurt like crazy and it might not stop his capture of her anyway. But the only thing I can do is dive forward and hope to get my arm in between the door and the body of the car.

  I feel a sharp pain to my knuckles. I hear a crash. I am up on my feet, fists up and in fighting position. I am disoriented.

  “Kristen, are you okay?” Mom yells from the door to the kitchen, a look of fear in her eyes.

  She is the first to arrive in the small sunroom at the back of Jimmy and Kaylen’s house. Kaylen, Jimmy, and Klarissa are right behind her. Next to take a look in on the commotion is Patricia Williams. She and her husband Jeff came over for dinner. I met Patricia through my undercover work with AA. Jeff has already headed to the office. She has stuck around. The six of them have been drinking coffee, nibbling on Kaylen’s blackberry pie, and chatting around the kitchen table. I couldn’t keep my eyes open and decided to take a catnap on the lumpy couch. I think I could still hear their voices while I dozed in and out of my nap. Then I was dreaming. Apparently I came up punching because I’ve knocked over a floor lamp, slung a pillow across the room, and knocked all the magazines off the coffee table. The shade is smashed into an oblong shape and the bulbs are shattered.

  “Sorry guys, weird dream,” I say sluggishly, still trying to clear the cobwebs in my head.

  “You’re weird enough in real life, I’d hate to think what a weird dream for you would be,” Klarissa says with a smile.

  I barely have the energy to look up and stick a tongue out at her. Mom looks over at her with frown—a judgmental frown from my angle—but Klarissa just looks angelic.

  Kaylen has left the room and is back with a glass of water for me and a small brush and dust pan for the mess. Everyone is gathered around me, just a little too close for my comfort level and space needs.

  “Just a dream guys, I’m fine.”

  I smooth my hair and the back of my dress and follow everyone back into the small kitchen. Kaylen follows me into the kitchen at a slow waddle. I look back at her. Her lips are pursed. I can tell she isn’t convinced I am fine.

  Jimmy pulls a sixth chair up and I crowd into the small round table between Mom and Kaylen.

  “So what’d you dream about?” Kaylen asks.

  “It was nothing,” I say.

  “Must not have been nothing or you wouldn’t have attacked the sunporch and killed the lamp like a Ninja warrior,” Klarissa snipes.

  We really are doing okay and back to normal.

  Kaylen puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close and says, “C’mon, Baby Sis, what was your dream?”

  “I thought I was Baby Sis,” Klarissa says with a pout.

  “You are,” Kaylen and I say in unison with a laugh.

  Everyone is still looking at me. I’m awake but still feel slow. In my mind I sometimes complain that I can’t grab and hold attention like glamorous Klarissa or angelic Kaylen. But when I finally do get attention I don’t want it. I feel embarrassed now.

  “Let’s hear it,” Jimmy says.

  “A lot of it is a blur,” I say. “It started out kind of nice, then it turned scary. I was in a big house and all of you were there—except you Jimmy. And Patricia.”

  Mom and my sisters laugh and he just shrugs and makes a face. Patricia just watches me closely.

  “There were others there too. I’m not sure who they were but it was kind of like they were relatives. Maybe cousins.”

  “You don’t have cousins,” Mom says.

  Do I remind her I am recounting a dream and not a genealogy lesson? Nah. I press on.

  “Everyone had their own room, but when it was time to meet for dinner everyone started yelling because their doors were locked and they were trapped inside.”

  Okay, this sounds crazy. I’m ready to stop. But everyone is still looking at me. Like they are actually interested.

  “Then I heard a scream. I looked out the window and a man was dragging a woman down the street.”

  “One of us?” Klarissa asks, serious now.

  “I don’t know. I think for a moment in the dream it was you. Then I think it was Kaylen. Then—and I know this sounds crazy—I think it was me. Then I think it was some girl I interviewed on a case I’m working.”

  “Her name?” Klarissa asks with a smile. “Off the record?”

  We make faces at each other.

  “What happened next?” Kaylen asks, her arm still comfortably around my shoulders, her pregnant belly pressed into my side.

  “I tried the door but it was locked. I kicked it a couple times.”

  “Naturally,” says Klarissa.

  “Then I opened the window and jumped out. I was a couple stories high but I landed in some soft bushes.”

  “You jumped out the window?” my mom asks with incredulity.

  “Not really, Mom. It was a dream.”

  I pause and think. Dreams are funny. They are so clear when you are dreaming them. When you wake up they start shifting shapes. You start to confuse what you dreamed and what you think about what you dreamed. You can watch parts of it disappear into forgetfulness.

  “And?” Kaylen prods.

  “I chased him down the street to save her. He was trying to stuff her into the backseat of a car and drive off. I had to get there before he could get his door shut.”

  I pause. Kaylen has a half empty cup of coffee in front of her. I pick it up and take a swallow of lukewarm watery decaf—I never knew pregnant women weren’t supposed to drink regular coffee—with sugar in it. Yech.

  “Who did the man look like?” Klarissa asks.

  “Do you really want to know?” I ask in response.

  “I kind of figured this is where it was going to go,” she said.

  A heavy silence settles on the table. I can do that to conversations.

  I’m glad no one asks me more about the mystery man. For a fleeting second it was Klarissa’s on-again, off-again—now off-again—boyfriend Warren. Then it was Zaworski. But at the very end, right when I reached the front car door, the kidnapper looked directly at me and smiled. It was Dad.

  “I don’t want to think about him,” Mom says. “I just know my girls are safe and sound now.”

  “I think your dream means something,” Patricia says.

  “You’re probably right,” I say, ready to move on.

  “When you say it like that I know you’re not going to try and think about it,” Patricia says.

  Really?

  “Have you talked to a counselor about your experience with the Cutter Shark?”

  I look at her blankly.

  “Don’t you think you might have some post-traumatic issues?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, uncomfortable with the renewed attention.

  “I know you’re fine, Kristen, but I’m surprised Chicago Police doesn’t require some form of counseling after being in the middle of something like that.”

  It is required. I wasn’t looking forward to it. But then I got the invite from the FBI to train and rehab in Virginia. I’ve kind of assumed that my rehab might count to
ward the counseling—or that CPD has forgotten about it.

  Why should I be forced to go to counseling anyway? I’m fine. What happened, happened. Talking about it will change nothing. And I’m realistic about life. Sometimes it’s great. Sometimes it’s tough. A lot of time it’s somewhere in the middle. Maybe a deeper understanding can help, but even if you can’t figure it out, what are your options? You live. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  The conversation has ground to a halt. I jump up, now fully awake, and say my good-byes.

  “Long day tomorrow, I better go,” I say.

  “Dinner tomorrow night?” Klarissa ask. “I’m off-air.”

  “No can do. I’m working late.”

  I give hugs all around and save a big one for Patricia. I whisper in her ear, “I’m so proud of you. And I promise, I’m doing fine. Don’t worry about me.” She pulls me in harder.

  My affection quotient has reached its limit so I break away and beeline for the door. Everyone follows me.

  Let it go, folks. It was only a dream.

  My family is funny. We talk about almost everything and get in the middle of each other’s lives. But then we completely sidestep the two most traumatic moments in our family’s history. Maybe we need group therapy.

  Just as I think I’ve made my escape, Jimmy blurts out, “Did you save her?”

  “I don’t know. I woke up just as I got there.”

  • • •

  Kelly Granger, Derrick Jensen, Roger Smith, Alan Gerhardt, Daniel Taylor, Grayson McGuffey, Joseph Smith, Dennis Disney, and Adam Spencer. The Lost Boys. There are others that come and go but these are the nine regulars. I snap the notebook shut. I know more about these guys than their mothers do.

  I know the names, working names, and faces of Bobbie’s harem as well. All twenty-three girls who spent time in the Durham posse.

  I’ve read the interview notes of all the players. The fact that everyone had an alibi that has stayed standing after a first round of scrutiny is almost suspicious in and of itself.

  Did everyone work together?

  I flip open the notebook again and look at Robert Durham, Jr., Jack’s older brother. Little to no relationship.

  Jack was estranged from his father as well but visited his mom once a week. Love? Duty? Her cooking?

  But just when you think you have the complete picture of Jack Durham as nothing but a mean-spirited jerk, you realize that everyone close to him actually . . . kind of . . . loved him.

  Jack was complicated. What happened to him?

  26

  “WHAT’S WRONG WITH what I have on?” I ask Bobbie indignantly. “We’re going to a football game.”

  Apparently she and I have very different definitions of a fitted jersey. She shakes her head wearily. I think she’s had her fill of me. Get in line Bobbie. The club is full and there’s a waiting list to join.

  “When Derrick picks you up he is expecting to be wowed. His friends expect to be wowed. If they aren’t wowed you will stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “So the more you dress me up like a street walker, the less I’ll be noticed. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I never said anything as coarse as ‘street walker’ and I’m frankly quite surprised you, as an officer of the peace, would say such a thing. Very catty. I also did not say you wouldn’t be noticed. I said you won’t look out of place. You’re the detective—or so I’ve been told. Do you want to fit in so you can observe and learn something or do you want people to avoid you like the plague because they know you don’t belong there?”

  I hate to admit it, but she makes a great point. Doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge it.

  “It’s just a football game,” I say lamely.

  Knowing she’s won, Bobbie patiently says, “No, it’s a major social event where powerful and beautiful people show up to see and be seen.”

  “Does anyone watch the game? I was looking forward to seeing how the Bears match up with the Packers this year.”

  “If Derrick and his friends want to watch the game, then you can watch as well—as long as you are attentive to his needs.”

  I shake my head slowly.

  “Kristen, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to yell and jump around.”

  Uh, actually . . . better not to respond to that.

  I don’t consider myself a feminist. But everything I’m hearing goes against every fiber of my being. A hundred years ago I would have been called a tomboy. But I grew up when girls’ sports exploded. Volleyball. Basketball. Softball. Gymnastics. Heck, even the cheerleaders had competitions that highlighted athleticism as much as great looks and huge white teeth. I lived and breathed soccer. Kaylen and Klarissa didn’t gravitate toward sports, so they complained about the extra attention I got from our dad. They watched chick flicks. I watched the Bears and Cubbies.

  “And his needs are?”

  “At the game he has only one need and that is for a beautiful young woman to be at his side who by all appearances thinks he is the most handsome, charming, and interesting man in the world.”

  “With my personality, I do that how?”

  “You’ve got the looks—at least you will after I’m done with you—but I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. I mentioned as much to your boss when he first hatched this crazy plan that I doubt catches a killer but probably puts me out business.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you would be the most difficult person I’ve ever worked with but that you would do your job when it was crunch time.”

  I ponder that. Am I really that difficult?

  “I now know he’s right on the first half—you are difficult—but I have no way to assess whether you will come through in crunch time. I do have my doubts on whether you’ll be up to the challenge of fitting in with this crowd.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I shoot back at her.

  We glare at each other. Then her face breaks into a bright smile.

  “Your captain also told me that you’d cooperate at least a little bit if I told you that you weren’t up to the task at hand.”

  Am I that predictable? Duh.

  “How is the captain?” she asks. “I heard he took some time off for health reasons.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I’ll ask around since you haven’t bothered to and let you know what I find out,” she says.

  She really is zinging me this afternoon. She seems to have her focus and poise back.

  • • •

  “She’ll be there tonight?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “With Derrick?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sure this date is organic? He’s not working with the police?”

  “If he is, no one told me.”

  “So, you’re sure?”

  “Listen, I can only report what I know.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive. I appreciate it. I’ve got to see this for myself.”

  “I’d stay clear of her.”

  “I thought you told me she is a bumbler.”

  “She is. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Hard to explain. I’ve been looking closer at her. She’s like a bull in a china shop but she does get results.”

  “I wish you’d told me that sooner.”

  “I would have. She’s hard to read . . . and easy to underestimate.”

  • • •

  Bobbie has a bathroom that is about the same size as my kitchen and living room combined; something you would see in a magazine. Marble floors and countertops. The fixtures are gold-plated. I don’t know. Maybe the fixtures are solid gold. Nothing would surprise me. I think the bathroom in my master bedroom would fit in her floor to ceiling glass shower.

  I now know what a dog feels like at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show after being groomed by Bobbie’s team of miracle workers. I look at my hand and don’t recognize it. The fake nails make my fin
gers a half inch longer than normal. I have on more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life. It didn’t take Crisco to get the jeans over my hips but I squirmed and jumped around enough to get in a good ab workout.

  I thought my Brian Urlacher Bears jersey was just fine, mostly because it covered the skin tight jeans. I brought it along to her place. Bobbie already had a Bears jersey waiting for me, but last I checked the Bears don’t wear pink. And jerseys are supposed to hang on you. This one is about as fitted as the jeans. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or relieved that I’m not very big up top. I’m not going to lie and say I have never wondered what it would be like to be a little bigger, but I’ve never thought about it enough to feel self-conscious about being small. Until now. Bobbie put me in a bra designed to push whatever you have up. Since that doesn’t amount to much, she’s added some padding. I look in the mirror again. Yep. I definitely feel self-conscious now. I might break into laughter.

  I’ve got enough jewelry on my ears, neck, and wrists to set off a metal detector at the airport in Milwaukee. But the real killer is the five-inch heels. Derrick better be taking me up to the luxury suite by elevator because I don’t think I can navigate more than a few steps.

  I have a sudden sympathy for my fellow female cops who work in Vice. When they dress like a street prostitute it is a whole lot worse than this. And this is a lot worse than I imagined it would be. I thank God everything is covered. But this is still way over the edge of my comfort level—and I think we’ve reached the edge of what I’m willing to do for the CPD.

  “Okay, let’s see you walk to the door and back.”

  I lower my head and arch my plucked eyebrows at Bobbie. She doesn’t flinch and returns the stare. I turn and walk toward the door. You win this time but don’t get used to it.

  “Slower.”

  I stop and sigh.

  “Shoulders back and glide.”

  I obey.

  “Now turn slowly. Don’t even lift your feet. Pivot. Smile. Walk back slowly. Give me a little hip please.”

  I’m going to give her something but it won’t be hip. I stop in front of her. Will I get best in breed and qualify for best in show?

  “Kristen.” She pauses. “All I can say is . . . you are stunning.”