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

by M. K. Gilroy

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he continues. “I guess finding out Penny was Bobbie’s daughter—her flesh and blood—punched me in the stomach and got me thinking about Deb.”

  Don has a sister. She is a crackhead. Oh, man.

  “And just so you know. I don’t want anyone else in the department knowing about this.”

  Not sure he needed to say that but I’m not saying anything. He’s been a great partner. He’s had to listen to all my problems surrounding the shelved investigation of the person who shot my dad in the line of duty. Well not all my problems with it—I’m the only person in the world that knows some things—but he’s heard enough that he knows my every complaint. So it’s my turn to just listen.

  I forget sometimes that there is plenty of sorrow in the world to go around. I think of Tandi Brown and the death of her son Keshan.

  God, thanks that the captain is doing better. I want to put in a good word for Tandi. And Debbie.

  Is prayer negotiating? If so, I’m negotiating.

  43

  “BUT YOU AREN’T looking at what happened last week,” Martinez says to Don, jabbing a finger in his direction, then settling back into his seat, arms folded, a blank scowl on his face, staring at what might be the mildew spot on the ceiling tile that looks like a Rorschach inkspot—open to everyone’s interpretation.

  “Gonzolo was only nineteen and he got killed by the Black Dragons, which is bad, I agree,” says Don. “But Gonzolo was a drug dealer and probably a murderer. Him getting knocked off doesn’t come close to excusing what those evil little hombres did to Keshan. Not close.”

  “Oh, so now they are evil little hombres?” Martinez flares back at Don.

  Both have their arms folded now. They won’t look at each other. Probably a good thing. We’re the police. We keep law and order. Problem is we are humans. We’re black, hispanic, white, Native American, and everything else. Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Native American on CPD, but you know what I mean.

  I should know, but don’t know if Martinez is from Mexico or Puerto Rico or Barcelona, Spain. I’m pretty sure he’s not from Barcelona. Don is black as an Ethiopian prince, which probably isn’t too far from where his family tree leads.

  Martinez partnered his first month in the Second with Don while I was away. They’ve always got along fine. Now things are tense. The whole city is smoldering over race. Nothing new in one of America’s most super-segregated cities, but more in the open at the moment.

  Keshan was an innocent black kid that got kicked to death by a pack of Hispanic kids. Could have been the other way around or could have been a Muslim kid from Somalia on either side of the equation. A Jewish kid. A skinhead. A rich kid. Most black murders are by blacks. Ditto Hispanics and whites and I assume Eskimos. We kill the people we know and love.

  Sometimes murder spills over racial lines and that makes things a lot more complicated. People extrapolate a single incident into something that is indicative of prejudice and racism.

  I don’t believe these guys are racist. I had a sociology professor at NIU say everyone is a racist. I guess that’s true if being a racist is being aware that others look different than you on a superficial level. But Don and Antonio don’t like or dislike people for the color of their skin. But the tension between them is palpable right now. Crimes that are race motivated and the subsequent mood of the politicians and media have an incredible impact on the whole community. And we are members too.

  I’m a white kid of Irish descent. At least in name. Put Mom and Dad together and it’s the typical American Heinz 57 sauce.

  “No point arguing,” I say. “Doesn’t have anything to do with either of you.”

  “Yeah, time to get back on task,” Blackshear says.

  He’s been careful to let everyone have their say in his temporary role as captain. Probably time to stop being the nice guy and rein things in. Did I just think that? I hope Zaworski never finds out I just thought that.

  “I know,” Don says, blowing out air in a sigh. “Anyone else notice race things are tenser than usual?”

  “I haven’t,” Randall says.

  “That’s because you’re not black,” Don says.

  “And you sure aren’t brown and beautiful, homie,” Martinez adds.

  I roll my eyes and laugh. Here we go again. But at least the tension in our circle is broken, even if it’s just for a moment.

  “Everyone just needs to turn off the news,” Konkade says. “I listen to Kristen’s sister and she convinces me that me and everyone else on the CPD is a raging racist that creates conditions for a murder like Keshan.”

  Kristen’s sister?

  “This isn’t on us,” he adds. “We work together. We serve everyone that will be served. We do our job. Period. We got the kids who did the killing. We gathered the evidence. We handed it to the DA She can sort out the politics. You know what Zaworski would say if he was here—no offense Bob,” he says looking at Blackshear. “You’re doing great. Making all the right moves.”

  “And I’m green. So what would Zaworski say?” he asks.

  Konkade clears his throat and lowers his voice into a deep growl: “‘I don’t care if it’s an election year. I don’t care that Mayor Doyle is retiring and has ordered a moratorium on murder. I don’t care about anything except identifying, apprehending, and seeing killers convicted. That is Homicide. You want to do social commentary and figure out how to get people to love each other, go get a job in the media. Better yet, go be a professor at UC. Tell the world what and who is to blame. Homicide is going to stick to finding the person that pulled the trigger. Now get busy ladies.’ That’s what he’d say.”

  We all laugh. Konkade did a decent Zaworski imitation.

  “Before we break up for the day and before someone else pulls a trigger,” Blackshear says, “I need to mention something.”

  My mind has gone elsewhere until I hear my name mentioned.

  “Sorry Bob—I mean Captain Blackshear—can you repeat what you just said?”

  “Yeah. You and Squires have funeral duty.”

  44

  BLACKSHEAR CALLED ME into his office after the meeting. He let me know he had just been with the DA, Angela Flannigan, and she is very happy with the case we have gathered to charge and convict Penny Martin. He let me know he told her about Bobbie’s Sunday night visit to my place to let me know she had information that would point to the real murderer. He said they talked it through thoroughly and the decision had been made that anything she has to say will be looked at to corroborate what we already know, but that her visit and whatever we find—unless it is “absolutely extraordinary,” he said she said—we won’t be reopening the case. He repeated that several times and told me Bobbie had already been interviewed by the DA’s office and one of Czaka’s lieutenants. He said her testimony was high on drama but low on real facts.

  I think he was trying to make a point without saying it straight out: Back down Conner and keep your doubts to yourself. Duh. But I am a detective and figure things like this out. Eventually. Zaworski would not have been so circumspect.

  I suspect Konkade made a beeline to Blackshear’s office to let him know I still have doubts about the arrest and might cause some trouble. I like Konkade and his bald dome, but even if I can’t prove he gave the temporary boss a heads up on my uncertainties, I am not very happy with him at the moment.

  I wonder if Blackshear considered this a big enough deal to call Zaworski.

  Blackshear gave me some more details about the funeral for Keshan Brown and asked me to pass them along to Don. Don and I are to be present as official representatives of Homicide but also interested civilians. We are to get as close to Tandi as we can. We are to project the concern and care of the CPD for all citizens of the city—every race, creed, and color.

  Mayor Doyle announced his retirement at the end of August, citing health issues. Was it because he knew I would be flying back from D.C.? He will step down in Ja
nuary when a new mayor will be sworn in. That led to a wild Democratic primary that got settled fast. No one is paying attention to the actual two-party campaign. This is Chicago after all.

  Doyle is all over this Keshan murder. He doesn’t want his twenty-four-year tenure remembered for race riots. He has ordered Commissioner Fergosi to have blue uniforms and un-uniformed out in force. The line between the black and hispanic neighborhoods in Garfield Park is being treated like the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea. CPD soldiers are to keep either side from visiting the other. Tensions are seething. The night air has been filled with gunshots—though nobody has taken careful enough aim to hit anything other than street lights yet.

  • • •

  “What do you mean she’s going to cause trouble?”

  “She does her own thing.”

  “Will anybody listen to her?”

  “No one is at this point. The case against Martin is too solid. But if there’s any slippage, just know, she’s got some credibility based on her track record.”

  “Is she that good?”

  “I guess . . . or lucky.”

  “Is there a way I can reach out to her?”

  “No freaking way in the world. She’s a religious nut.”

  “Okay. Time to step it up and keep a closer eye on her.”

  “That’s got risks.”

  “And rewards . . . for you.”

  Time to wrap up one loose end. This isn’t going to be easy, but I can do it. I just need to stay the course.

  • • •

  I sold my soul to the devil once. I won’t do it again.

  I think Kristen Conner was a bad influence on me. I had forgotten there are things that are more important than money.

  Of course, even if she is right and I am wrong about life, money makes things easier.

  But that’s what has got me to where I am.

  Time to do the right thing.

  Barbara Ferguson turned from the flickering lights of Lake Shore Drive below her and picked up her phone .

  • • •

  What happened to us, Jack? I remember when we were at Farnsworth. We were going rule the world.

  Your old man messed you up good. And you messed me up good.

  They say you should tell people what’s on your heart now because you may not ever get another chance. Did I ever tell you how much I hated you, Jack?

  If you could see me now, you’d laugh. I haven’t left the house in a week. I can’t remember my last shower. And I can’t even get a date with a poor, working-class girl who is a cop. I have everything. She has nothing.

  Derrick lifted the bottle directly to his lips and took a long swallow.

  I miss you, Jack. Doesn’t mean I don’t I hate you, buddy . . . but I love you more.

  No way Penny murdered you, Jack. She wouldn’t kill her daddy.

  I’ll see if I can help her out. But you know what that means. I may join you wherever you are.

  He laughed at that thought and raised the bottle of Gentleman Jack back to his mouth.

  45

  I GOT TO work early today. No way was I going to be late for the funeral. Don and I pulled out of the parking lot ninety minutes early.

  I visited church with Don and Vanessa once. It was a two-and-a-half hour service. Call me a Philistine, but one hour and fifteen minutes, with a strict ending time of noon is what I like. I like church. I believe in going to church. I think I’d go to church even if my brother-in-law wasn’t a preacher and my mom didn’t call me every Saturday night to make sure I didn’t have any plans to play hooky. The Methodists and Catholics can take a week or two off without getting in too much trouble. Mom lets me know good Baptists never miss. The emphasis is always on good and I’m not sure I always measure up in her eyes.

  We got to Prince of Peace an hour early and were taken into a back room to meet with Keshan’s mother, Tandi. She looked calm enough, in fact too calm. I was pretty certain someone had given her a little blue pill. Or two. She is pretty but looks a little worn to be just thirty. My age. Already the mother of a deceased twelve-year-old son and two younger daughters.

  Based on everything we know, Tandi is the perfect mom. No criminal record. Works night shift at a small candy factory. Her mom lives with them and is there at night while the kids sleep and she works. The neighborhood is a dump but they keep the house in good shape, especially inside. Clean. Organized. Kids go to school every day and get good grades. Keshan was an honor student. He was going to be the first in the family to go to college. He was only in sixth grade but held the dreams of the family, whether he knew it or not.

  I can hear Billy Joel singing, “Only the good die young.” It’s not true, of course, but seems poignant at the moment. Oh man. Life is tough.

  The service was scheduled to start at ten. It got rolling thirty minutes late, my second hand told me. I look down at my watch again. It is almost one-thirty. I press my hands against my abs so that the police and media outside the church don’t hear my stomach growl again. Don gives me a sideways dirty look. What am I supposed to do? We heard from a long line of politicians, ministers, and friends of the family. We sang for an hour. A large woman with an even larger voice sang “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” I’ve never heard a woman’s voice go as low as hers when she ended the song with, “and I know he watches me.” Mine might have been the only dry eyes in the church. A kid that couldn’t have been more than sixteen sang a soulful version of the Andre Crouch song, “Through It All,” and I thought the place would erupt. If that didn’t move you, you can’t be moved.

  After all the speeches were done, Rev. James Wilson Cleveland gave a forty-five-minute sermon on heaven. It was good. He was good. If someone taped the service I’m going to give a copy to Jimmy. Might give him some ideas about moving around and mixing up his tone a little more when he preaches.

  Kristen, you are so bad.

  I watch as he nods to one of the pallbearers who steps forward and closes the coffin. The auditorium is silent. A slow murmur begins throughout the congregation and then Tandi bolts to her feet, a look of terror in her eyes as she stares at the coffin lid moving down. Now fully awake from a near stupor throughout the service she screams with the same soul-piercing wail I heard seven nights ago when I held her against my chest in front of the broken body of her dead son. My impatience evaporates. Even I know that a moment like this takes as long as it needs. Tandi’s friends and family surrounding her in the pew gather as tight around her as they can. Those closest hug her and the others reach out and lay hands on her. Her wail has been joined with a chorus of crying, praying, and screaming. I just close my eyes and shake my head back and forth. I pray for a mom who has looked at her son’s body for the last time.

  After five minutes, Rev. Cleveland begins to pray with a humming tone I have never heard before. Sometimes I can make out his words, sometimes I think he is just humming notes and tones. I am looking at him when I see his head jerk up. His eyes narrow as he looks at the back of the church. Then a thousand heads turn. At the very back of the center aisle is a Hispanic man in a black suit. He is being held by two CPD uniforms.

  “Let me speak. I pray, let me speak, senor,” he calls to Wilson.

  I think everyone in the church service collectively holds their breath.

  “I come in the name of the Lord, please let me speak,” he calls out, his voice rising with urgency.

  Heads turn slowly from front to back and to front again.

  “Step forward,” Cleveland says with a nod. “Let him go,” he says, glaring at the two police officers. No matter what you do . . . nah, it’s not the time to be defensive and let my mind go there.

  The officers release him. He squares his shoulders and walks down the center aisle with every eye on him. I look around and see hatred in the eyes of some and curiosity with others. He nods in respect to Cleveland and slowly passes the closed casket. He kisses two of his fingers and touches the casket. He steps up the four risers to the
platform and stands next to Cleveland. He nods at the microphone as if to ask permission. Cleveland nods in assent.

  “My name is Rodrigo Espinoza. I was born in La Playa Ortes, the Dominican Republic. My family came to this country to flee from the hideous dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo three years after I was born.”

  No one is stirring. Where is he going with this?

  “We came here for a better life. For safety. For prosperity. We did not come here to continue the hatred and violence of my native land.”

  No one is restless or stirring. Except for me. I have had to go the bathroom for the past hour.

  Focus.

  “I come before you today because we love one God and one Jesús Cristo. We are brothers and sisters in Christ.”

  He puts his head down and begins to sob. Amazingly, Cleveland puts an arm around him to comfort him. Espinoza raises his head and looks to heaven and then directly at Keshan’s mom, Tandi.

  “My nephew, Tito, was one of the boys who have done this evil thing in the sight of God and man. I wish to apologize from the deepness of my heart for what my family has done. My heart is broken. My words cannot bring back your son. I know I can’t ask you to forgive me, to forgive us, for what we have done to you. I only ask you to pray in your heart that you can forgive us some later day. I ask everyone here and I will ask everyone where I live to shed no more blood. I don’t want my family to cause no more bloodshed.

  “My name is Rodrigo Espinoza, born in La Playa Ortes, the Dominican Republic, where the stones of the land still cry out for justice. Sometimes you can’t get no justice so I ask for forgiveness. That is all I came to say.”

  He turns and embraces Cleveland and begins the slow walk to retrace his steps.

  • • •

  We are in the conference room at the Second. Don has just told everyone what happened at the funeral.

  “Rodrigo Espinoza?” Martinez asks again.

  “Yes,” I answer for Don.