by M. K. Gilroy
“I’ll—”
“Don’t choose yet,” he says. “A hundred dollars isn’t enough of a test. Let’s make it ten thousand dollars. Joseph can vouch that I’m good for it. So do you want the money or my wisdom?”
“My answer is the same,” I say. “Your wisdom, of course.”
He takes the hundred dollar bill from the table and puts it in his pocket.
“Always take the money,” he says with a laugh.
Joseph and his date think that’s hilarious. I’m guessing this isn’t the first time he’s made the offer and blush for being laughed at.
He presses against me and whispers in my ear, “What say we get out of here before we have to eat fake chocolate mousse pie and listen to a political speech about lower taxes and no deficits? Actually tonight might be the higher taxes talk.”
“Sure,” I say, relieved and nervous at the same time.
We say good-byes around the table and stand. I don’t know what I’m going to do to thwart Derrick’s nocturnal plans, but after yesterday’s workout, I’m pretty sure he has no chance against me if this turns into a hand-to-hand combat.
“Kristen!” I hear a voice I know very well behind me. “That is you, Sis!”
I turn and Klarissa gives me a half hug and a quick peck on both cheeks. Very European. My brain has turned to mashed potatoes and my tongue refuses to move.
“Hi, I’m Klarissa Conner,” she says to Derrick, holding out a delicate hand for him to shake.
“I recognize you from the news,” he says with an amused smile, looking from her to me and back. His smile grows wider. Oh man. I am so busted.
“And I’m Derrick Jensen, just a humble citizen of Chicago who has been honored by the presence of the famous Detective Kristen Conner.”
The synapses in his brain have fired and made all the all connections.
“Where are you two off to?” Klarissa asks. “You’re staying for the speech aren’t you?’
My mouth is still frozen in a half grimace, half smile.
“We are indeed going to have to leave as we have other plans—and a lot to talk about,” he says.
“Well that’s too bad. I’m here with Warren”—she points to Warren and he waves to us and Derrick and I wave back to him—“and we wanted you to go out with us afterwards.”
“Not tonight, Klarissa,” I say, my voice husky and strained. “But I’ll see you in the morning before soccer like we planned.”
“See you at JavaStar,” she says.
I think she’s started to pick up the awkward vibe and her face alternates between a frown and a smile as she looks at me intently, wide-eyed.
Derrick bows and then goes over to shake hands with Joseph.
Klarissa hugs me a little tighter this time and whispers in my ear, “Oh . . . my . . . gosh. You look fabulous. I am so jealous. You better have a good explanation in the morning as to why I don’t have a clue as to what’s going on with you.”
“How’d New York go?” I whisper back. “You’re back early.”
“Tell you tomorrow,” she says.
• • •
“You know I liked you.”
“You met me one time, Derrick.”
“I knew you were different the second I laid eyes on you. I was right.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I can’t believe CPD put a detective in the middle of Barbara’s business.”
“Yes, you were right. But everyone knows I’m different.”
“You know, what you said is right, I’m cynical. But you’re cynical in your own way. You don’t take things at face value either. You make jokes and deflect.”
Derrick is more perceptive than I figured.
“So why can’t we start over and just go out on a date?” he asks. “A real date.”
“I’m not going to date you Derrick. I’m investigating the murder of your best friend.”
“How about after the case is solved?”
“You don’t want to date me, Derrick. You don’t know me.”
“But I want to get to know you. I would be willing to go slow. Very slow. Shouldn’t that count for something? Who is to say that I’m not about to become a new man?”
“Not I.”
“But your tone bespeaks a cynicism. You’ve judged me.”
We are sitting in a Wendy’s about five minutes from my apartment. Derrick picked up a bottle of Gentleman Jack and has polished a good portion of it off along with a double burger and large order of fries. The manager came over and told him no alcohol allowed in the restaurant. He ordered a Diet Coke, poured all but a little ice in the trash can, emptied the bottle in the cup, and threw the bottle away. That satisfied the night manager and he hasn’t come near since.
“To Jack,” he said.
“You miss him?” I ask.
“I was talking about my friend Gentleman Jack.”
I make a face at him.
“Yes, I do. I miss Jack very much. He was a true friend—most of the time.”
He raises his cup in salute and takes a huge swallow. I’m glad his chauffeur is in the parking lot. Derrick is in no shape to drive.
“He wasn’t very well liked you know—and he really didn’t like too many people. I think he invited people to spend time with him so that he could watch them demean themselves. He wanted to see how much crap they would put up with but keep showing up to enjoy the splendors of his parties.”
“Sounds pathetic,” I say.
“You are correct,” he says. “But Jack wasn’t all bad. He was complicated. Just like most of us. I’m complicated. You’re definitely complicated. Right?”
“You would be correct,” I say.
“Jack and I had a complicated relationship,” he says.
“How so?”
“I’ve never had a better friend. He’s been with me through thick and thin. Loyal to a fault . . . except the one time I needed him to be loyal.”
“What happened?”
“A long, boring story I’m not going to get into. I’ll just say one thing. As is the case with all tragedies, a woman was involved.”
I wait for him to say more, but he’s not budging. I’ll file that comment for further review.
“Writer,” he blurts out.
“Huh?”
“You asked what I’d really like to do as a career and the answer is write.”
Interesting. I get ready to ask if he’s ever actually written anything but he lets out a tremendous belch and lowers his face on the table. I think he was fast asleep before the side of his head hit the wrapper from his burger, smearing ketchup on the side of his face. He is a charmer.
The chauffeur has done this before and gets him in the back of the car. He drives the couple blocks to my apartment. I would open the door myself but can’t find the right handle. He opens the door for me and says he will escort me to my door. I tell him no problem.
“Mr. Derrick has his problems,” he says to me, “but he is a gentleman at heart. He would insist.”
So how long can I pull off an undercover assignment as an escort in Jack Durham’s circle of friends? We have the answer. Two dates. I’m not counting the trial run with Kevey.
What an evening.
35
“SA-WEEEEEEET!”
I may be as bad as the other coach, Denny Carpenter—I still can’t get my nickname for him out of my mind, Attila the Hun—who screams “Oliviaaaaaaa!” every time his daughter scores a goal. Which is actually quite often. She’s a very good player. Maybe the best I’ve seen out here, except for Kendra, of course. Kendra has just passed the ball beautifully across the mouth of the goal and Tiffany, the only other girl on our team that scores consistently, finished it with a tap-in. We now have a one goal lead with probably ten minutes left in the game.
What a difference a year makes. Last year we lost our first five games. We ended up winning two, including both against the team that won the league. The X-FORCE. What kind of name is that for little girls? They are coached by Attila, w
ho I once accused of teaching his girls to play rough and foul, but who actually ended up being a pretty nice guy. So even if I don’t call him Denny like he asks, at least I refer to him as “Coach” now. I can be difficult but at least reasonable.
This year we are undefeated. Okay three games do not make a season. But we’re looking good. If we can hold on to this game and go 4-0 we’ll be odds-on favorites to win the league. I’m not sure the Chicago Tribune is covering us yet, but in my pea brain it’s a big deal.
“Mark up! Everyone mark up!” I bark at my eight- and nine-year-old Snowflakes. I may never get over that name and our yellow uniforms. I wasn’t consulted on either decision.
My middle defender, Torrie, is picking daisies in some enchanted field with a castle and a prince that is always on her mind. She doesn’t heed my call to mark up. Kendra is so fast she can cover for a lot of team errors, but I have her marking Oliviaaaaaaa, with firm orders to not let her score under any circumstances. So she’s out wide with Attila’s daughter when the ball gets crossed into the middle of the field and a midfielder for X-FORCE swoops in and nails the tying score in a wide-open net. Our goalie made a charge for the ball but the scorer got there first.
The action resumes. I look at my watch. Five minutes to go. Maybe less. Olivia charges as one of our girls does a free kick. Olivia jumps up in the air and swivels. The ball hits her in the butt and rolls out of bounds near me. The girl is a dynamo. She’s fearless. It is our ball at midfield with a throw-in. I have to figure a way to get Kendra or Tiffany free again. The only problem is Attila is doing the same thing as me. He has Olivia marking Kendra and the two are pretty evenly matched.
I have an idea.
• • •
“Good game, coaches,” the ref says to us as he hands Attila a clipboard with the game form on it to sign. Attila does so and hands it to me and I put my signature on it. The ref trots off.
“Good game, Kristen,” Attila says. “You guys are off to a great start this year.”
He thrusts out his hand to shake and smiles magnanimously, which is easy to do when you just won a tight game in dramatic fashion, with under a minute to go, after being a goal down late in the game. My idea backfired on us and I’m mad. I force a smile, shake hands, and make eye contact.
Why did I think my girls could execute a midfield offside trap? None of them are ten years old. Torrie doesn’t know she’s on a soccer field half the time. Even if they had worked it correctly, would a field judge working a game with eight- and nine-year-olds make the right call? I blew it.
“Your team looks as strong as ever, Coach,” I answer back. The words almost catch in my throat.
“Call me Denny.”
His wife has wandered to the middle of the field and gives him a hug. The only person louder than Denny the Hun is his wife.
“You’ve met Angie, right?”
“I think last season,” I say, though I’m pretty sure we didn’t. “Nice to see you again, Angie.”
“You, too.”
“Good job, baby!” she says to Denny and squeals before she heads back over to her side of the field. If my eyes don’t deceive me, she is doing a victory dance over there. Could that not have waited? Poor sportsmanship. Probably on my part. I’m just mad we lost.
I turn to join my team that has somehow overcome the anguish of our first defeat quicker than me. They are munching the postgame granola bars someone brought for team snack. A couple girls are running in circles squirting water on each other from their half-filled water bottles. I think this is the most Torrie has run in the past hour.
“Hey,” Attila calls when I’m about ten feet away. I turn back and we approach each other. “Wanted to give you something to think about for next year. I know it’s early, but our girls move up a division next year and teams have to reform. I was thinking if we team up on coaching we can put Olivia and Kendra on the same team along with the best girls from both teams and end up being pretty tough to beat. That Tiffany girl is a good player, too. Her dad is a good guy, too, and could help coach.”
“I have to think about that, Coach. I’m not that far ahead in my mind.”
Team up with Attila the Hun? Me? What he says actually makes sense. Doesn’t mean I’d actually consider it. Would I?
“Well there’s plenty of time,” he says. “But it’s not too early to start planning. The following year competitive tryout soccer starts and being on a powerhouse team will help the girls sign with one of the best clubs.”
Wow. That’s a blast from the past. Wasn’t Kendra born just yesterday? She seems too young to be approaching tryouts and travel soccer. I still think of those as some of the happiest moments of my life. But Kendra? She’s still a little girl. And there’s no way I would partner up with Attila. Is there?
“Thanks, Coach. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Do that! And call me Denny!”
I’ll do that Coach.
• • •
“Okay, good game girls. You played great. But I think we can get even better. Don’t forget to dribble the ball in your backyard every day. One hundred touches. See you Tuesday night at 7:00 for practice.”
I wanted to point out to Torrie that she better start marking up or I’ll have to sit her butt on the bench. But it’s rec league and there are rules that all girls have to play at least half the game. So it would be an idle threat. And I’m not sure she’d care anyway. And I’m pretty sure she’s a sweet girl who wants to be with her friends and that’s all that matters.
Even when I know exactly the right way to think and feel, I struggle to get my competitive impulses and quick temper under control. I will say my anger is a lot more under control than earlier in the year. Maybe I’m growing.
I think about my late night talk with Derrick. Who’s to say he can’t grow up? Maybe I should have been more encouraging, even if there’s no way in the world I’ll ever go on another date with him.
I listened too closely in church last week. Now I’m thinking about my judgmentalism.
36
TO CALL OR not to call? He called last time. So I guess it’s my turn. Our last talk was far from satisfactory. I’m not saying he was peeved or jealous. Reynolds is a big boy. Very confident. He understood I was going out with Derrick as part of the job. But turning him down for dinner and telling him I was going on out on the town with another guy took the wind out of his sails.
It’s another Saturday night and I don’t got nobody . . . I actually didn’t like that song very much. I think I’m going to watch a movie tonight. By myself. I really do need to have more people I do things with than family and work colleagues. I guess I’m lonely. Is that the only reason I want to talk to Reynolds?
“The number you are trying to reach is not available. Leave a message at the beep.”
“Uh . . . sorry I missed you when you were town. Give me a yell when you’re heading back this way. Uh . . . this is Conner. Have a good one.”
I leave the worst messages in the world.
• • •
“This is Kristen.”
“That was fast,” Squires says. “And I’ve never heard you answer with your first name. Expecting someone else?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, my personal life is about as scintillating as watching water boil.”
“You make up for it at work. So are you busy?”
“Don’t tell me, you and Vanessa need a babysitter.”
“We already had one lined up but had to cancel. That’s why I’m calling. Blackshear wants everyone in the office. We’re going to make the arrest.”
“I assume Penny.”
“You assume correctly.”
“What’s happened?”
“We got lucky on two counts. Tedford decided to work on Saturday. He found a hundred-grand going from Jack to an account in Switzerland every month.”
“The one funding Penny?”
“We got lucky—but not th
at lucky on the money flow. It’s circumstantial but that alone would still probably be enough to read her her rights and bring her in.”
“What else?”
“Randall finally got video files from the security cameras on the parking garage next to Durham’s condo. Guess who pulled in and out of that lot the night of the murder?”
“Let me guess . . . Penny Martin.”
“You are good, very good, KC.”
“Don, you know I don’t like KC.”
“I apologize. Detective Conner, your guess was correct. Your prize is a Saturday night meeting at the Second.”
“I’ll see if I can pull myself away from what I was doing.”
“Which is?”
“Uh . . . laundry, leftovers, and Forrest Gump.”
“Sounds great . . . so run KC, run!”
He hangs up before I can yell at him.
• • •
I’m almost there and my phone is vibrating. I look at the screen. Nothing. Then I remember I have a second phone I was supposed to use on my short-lived undercover assignment. I keep my eyes on the road and fish around in my purse until I locate it. As soon as I have it in-hand, the vibrating stops.
I hit a red light and take a look. Three missed calls. All Derrick. Is this going to be a problem? Shouldn’t he be working on his novel instead of calling me?
• • •
“I just got the news so I know next to nothing about her, Robert.”
Stanley McGill, Robert Durham, Sr., and Robert Durham, Jr. were smoking post-dinner cigars and drinking single malt scotch in one of the elegant sitting rooms at the Standard Club on State Avenue.
“But she is for sure one of the ladies that works for Barbara Ferguson?” the elder Durham asked.
“That’s for certain.”
“Not good for the family reputation, to say the least,” Junior said. “Even in death, Jack is bad for business.”
McGill watched to see if Senior would correct his son. His boss just looked in his glass of scotch.
“I’ll start working the phone and see what I can find out,” McGill said, disappointed.
“Call me when you know more, Stanley. It doesn’t matter what time. We’ll need to have a statement ready as soon as she is arrested. Let’s get ahead of this and do as much damage control as we can.”