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

by M. K. Gilroy

  I am tired. But not because of Incaviglia. I talked with Reynolds until one in the morning. That’s two in the morning for him. He’s got to be dragging today too. Not sure I even remember what we talked about. That’s a new experience for me. How much do I like the guy?

  Don and I get called into a meeting with Blackshear, Czaka, Randall, and Martinez. Zaworski joined us by phone. He never brought up Don and me stopping to see him. Maybe he is taking my concerns seriously.

  Czaka is running the show. He wants an update. He’s impatient and pushes us to stay on task. Don covers the Durhams and the raid on Penny’s empty safe. I report on my work with the DMV on identifying other visitors to Jack Durham’s place the night of the murder and then slog through my last communication with Derrick Jensen. Blackshear reports on a meeting with Flannigan—she thinks she has more than enough to make a case against Martin. She is assuming there are two murderers. I jump in and argue that it is the same murderer. Martinez and Randall talk over each other while reporting on the Bobbie Ferguson crime scene.

  “Guys, a month has gone by and we got to go with what we have,” Czaka says. “Despite Conner’s impassioned and not totally reasonable argument that Durham and Ferguson were killed by the same guy, I’m in agreement with the DA. We’ve got Jack Durham’s murderer.

  “Time to move on and turn your attention to the Ferguson murder. Good work.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Conner, I said good job. You were the one that pointed things to Martin. So you got no reason to whine. We’ve been patient, but now you’re out of time. Go find Ferguson’s killer. This discussion is over. Decision made.”

  I open my mouth to say something more and Don kicks me under the table.

  I’m going to give him a reason to be afraid of me.

  We’ve worked our tails off on this case. But we’ve spent next to no time with Senior and Junior. I haven’t even got the report back from DMV.

  This doesn’t feel right.

  68

  I STAY LATE and make another hour-long visit to the Jack Durham board, which will come down tomorrow.

  I look at the faces. Kelly Granger. One of the inner circle. He and Jack had a fistfight five years ago on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Sounds like the kind of thing that Granger might have harbored in his heart. But he won the fight and everyone present said the two were drinking together all night. Granger was divorced two years ago. Someone thought Jack was the cause. Granger’s ex said no. Granger said no. Who knows?

  Derrick. Maybe the most lost of all Jack’s lost boys. Someday a psychiatrist will have a field day writing about this group of grown men with full blown Peter Pan Syndrome. His alibi is solid. He says he can’t help. But I think he can. Doesn’t mean he will. Is he afraid?

  Roger. Alan. Daniel. Grayson. Joseph. Dennis. Adam. Nah.

  I look at the escorts. Bad girls, but I don’t think there’s a murderer in what was Bobbie’s portfolio of assets.

  Penny. Her alibi didn’t hold up. She was on the security camera. She was at the scene of the crime. She expressed strong disdain for Jack; her father. What’s not to like? Abandoned daughter. Had to be her. But then who killed Ferguson? I guess I’m agreeing with Flannigan and Czaka.

  Jack’s crew weren’t Bobbie’s only clients, but they were the most lucrative part of her business. None of them established a real relationship with any of the girls. But a few of her clients not tied to Durham ended up marrying women they had previously paid to sleep with. I’m not going to even joke about which period of the relationship cost them most. But none of them killed Jack.

  • • •

  I’m tired and in a bad mood. I decide to stop at the gym and blow off some steam. I change and tape up my hands to do some bag work.

  I do ten minutes punching the speed bag, working on my timing. I turn to move to the heavy bag and am face-to-face with Gary, Mr. Semper Fi, and a couple of his friends.

  “Wanna spar?” he asks with a smile.

  “I don’t think so, Gary.”

  “Listen, I’m back with my girl and I’m back on the straight and narrow. No more late night drinking and phone calls. I’m embarrassed . . . and I’m sincerely sorry. I apologize.”

  I may be a detective, but for the life of me, I still don’t know when people are lying or telling the truth.

  “Sure.”

  We put on heavier gloves and headgear.

  He comes straight after me like a pitbull going for an intruder. I use everything Barry Soto has taught me, staying on my toes, and moving my feet left, right, and backward to keep him off balance. His friends start to hoot and holler as I keep him at bay. He’s definitely getting frustrated—and angry—as his punches start coming in wider and heavier. That gives me a chance to land a series of fast jabs. Then he nails me on the chin and puts me on my butt. The chin doesn’t bruise much, but I might have the smudge of a blue-black contusion by morning.

  “Sorry, Kristen, I got carried away a little,” Gary says, bending over.

  His friends are booing and hissing.

  “So you’re back to semper fi?” I ask, forcing a smile.

  He extends a hand and helps me up. “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. I think you told me you work for Southwest. You miss military service?”

  “You got that right. I was lucky landing with Southwest when I got back from Fallujah. But I miss the action. I’m trying to get a job with one of the big dogs that provide personal security. I got another interview coming up with a place called Pale Horse.”

  “Is that like Blackwater?”

  “Same idea, but a much smaller fish. I don’t have the job yet, so if you hear of anything, give them my number. I promise I’m not drinking. These guys behind me will kill me if I touch the sauce. So I won’t embarrass you.”

  No, but you might knock me out with a right cross.

  • • •

  As I pick up a to-go salad on the way home, I wonder if sparring with Gary is a picture of my life. Work hard, move fast, jab like crazy, fight like crazy to compete with the big boys, land some shots, but get punched hard enough to end up on my butt. Of course I got back up. So maybe that’s not such a bad way to look at my life.

  Maybe that’s how it is for all of us. Win some, lose some, and decide . . . do I get back up?

  • • •

  “Stanley, can this get any worse?” Durham, Sr. asked.

  “It is not going to go quietly in the night, Robert.”

  “Any ideas, Bobby?” his father asked him.

  “Just let it run its course, Dad. Nothing we can do. We did the right thing reaching out to Martin. She’s my niece and your granddaughter. If she fooled us into thinking she was innocent, so what if the press has a field day? Who knows, it might be good for business. My phone is ringing off the hook from potential clients. Most of them really don’t need anything. I think they just want to show off for their friends . . . tell them they are in contact with us . . . pretend they know something.”

  “I think Bobby is right,” McGill said.

  “You’ve known me for how long, Stanley?” Senior asked.

  “Thirty-one years.”

  “Do I like to leave things to chance?”

  Stanley and Junior both laughed.

  “Maybe, I’ll listen to you,” Senior said.

  “But I doubt it,” Stanley answered.

  69

  I TOLD MY attorney about the police keeping an eye on me. He went straight to the commissioner’s office to file a protest. Now he tells me the Chicago Police Department absolutely and emphatically denies that there is a surveillance detail on me. He doesn’t think they’d lie—because they don’t have to on this. They can do what they want.

  Now I wish it was them watching me. If it’s not the police, I have a pretty good idea who it is. If I didn’t already know, I do now. I am in danger.

  My attorney was good to move the contents of my safe to his office vault. But now he’s dragging
his feet on giving me anything back. He says the warrant is open-ended and the police can come back any time they want.

  I want my gun. I need my gun.

  I hated Barbara, but maybe she was right all along. The things she taught me are what is keeping me alive.

  My attorney has also informed me of what I already knew was coming. Flannigan is going to pursue me on Jack’s murder and treat Barbara’s murder as a separate incident.

  He’s not sure when, but I’ll be back in court for an initial plea and an official bail hearing.

  Would I be safer in jail?

  I don’t know how that world works except for what I’ve seen in movies, but I suspect if someone wants me dead, I’m in danger either place.

  I misplayed Derrick. I should have used him to bring the two of us back together as partners. But could I live with myself if I worked with the man who I think killed my parents? I doubt it.

  If my attorney won’t let me have my gun I have to hire one. Where do I start? Maybe I can call Detective Squires—or Conner, even though she is a . . . I guess I better play nice if I need help.

  So how is this going to play out?

  • • •

  “So it’s official? CPD is no longer investigating the murder of Jack?”

  “It is official. Doesn’t mean that wouldn’t change if new evidence showed up.”

  “So what’s happening on the follow-up to the parking garage? Are the license plate numbers going to show up?”

  “I called and cancelled the request, which puts me at big risk.”

  “Big risk, big reward.”

  “The assistant in DMV I talked to thought the report might have already gone out in interoffice mail.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No it isn’t. But I’m first to the mail slots. I make sure of that. I’m keeping my eyes open.”

  “Good. That’s all I can ask.”

  “I doubt that. You always find a way to ask for more.”

  That got a laugh before the man hung up.

  What have I gotten myself into? I’m going to end up rich or in jail . . . or dead.

  70

  I LOOK DOWN at my plate and poke at the last of the ribs. Reynolds and I are tucked in the back of Chicago Q. When I go out with Austin it always seems to be a new restaurant and one I’ve never heard of. He said the reviews were great if you wanted a bistro approach to a barbecue joint. I don’t know about the bistro part of that equation, but I do like barbecue. We split two appetizers, the fried green tomatoes and an order of shrimp and grits—first time I’ve ever had grits or tomatoes that aren’t red. I held my own. I went with the full slab of baby back ribs and he ordered prime rib. I know he is on some hardcore fitness program that alternates anabolic and aerobic training throughout the week. He better keep it up. He might have a bigger appetite than me—and that’s saying something. If we become a real couple, we could end up as contestants on The Biggest Loser. I wonder when my metabolism is going to change and announce I have to change my eating habits.

  The snow outside has begun to fall. The TV and radio stations have talked about the arrival of snow with the solemnness of announcing an alien invasion. If my memory serves correctly, it happens every year about this time The snow is accumulating in a beautiful white blanket. That will change tomorrow. It will be a mix of black and gray sludge.

  I look down at my phone buzzing. Penny Martin.

  “I have to take this, Austin,”

  He just nods.

  “Detective Conner. What can I do for you, Penny?”

  “Do you know a good personal security guard?”

  “You might be in luck. It just so happens . . . but do you mind telling me why you need security?”

  • • •

  “Sorry, Austin.”

  “No problem. Everything okay?”

  “I called Gary and he said he’d call her right away, so I think so,” I say after telling Austin about Penny’s surprising request.

  I update him on the Jack and Barbara murders.

  “And you still don’t believe there are two murderers?”

  “I couldn’t testify to that on a witness stand. But I have a strong gut feeling it is the same person.”

  “Any ideas on who?” he asks with a wink.

  “Do you know stats on parents killing their children?”

  “A little . . . I could give you some ballpark figures . . . but I’m guessing you are more up-to-date.”

  “Six-out-of-ten parents who murder are male. But seventy percent of those murders are done before the child reaches age five. For mothers who kill children, it usually happens before age one.”

  “Your conclusion?”

  “It doesn’t happen often. So I’ve almost eliminated Robert Durham, Sr. in my mind.”

  “Do you have an alternative?”

  “I do.”

  “Then go get him.”

  “I’d love to, but I have two problems. The investigation into Jack’s murder is officially closed and . . . there is that little matter of evidence. There’s a ton that says Penny did it and none for him.”

  “But you have a strong gut instinct—and an impressive appetite to match the strong gut—so keep knocking on a few doors.”

  “Are you saying I eat too much?” I ask, smiling innocently.

  “I love that smile . . . it makes my knees weak . . . but I refuse to confess to anything that might get me in trouble with you.”

  I stand halfway up and kiss him. Not quite full on the lips but pretty close.

  “I absolutely don’t think you eat too much . . . you’re perfect.”

  I don’t care who is watching. I stand up, walk over, and give him a long hard kiss. Might be the most kiss I’ve delivered since college. I sit back down and smile again.

  “So what are we going to do about us, Detective Conner?”

  “Have dessert?”

  “You read my mind.”

  While we wait for a key lime pie to arrive, I tell him again about my first experience with Barbara Ferguson, my blatant dislike of her, and how I think we ended up being friends at some level. He just listens and takes it in. I don’t think he minds shop talk. He’s gung ho on work. Or is that hoorah? Nah, he wasn’t a Marine.

  “Let’s stick to your gut instincts,” Austin says after the desserts are delivered. “When identifying the motive for a murder, what motivations top the list?”

  “Jealousy and greed are always up top in some form or another,” I say. “Revenge is up there.”

  “Good. Apply that to Penny since the evidence points her way.”

  I pause to think. “You can obviously cite revenge, like the DA is doing. Her dad abandoned her. You can add jealousy if you want to argue that she grew up in a nice middle class home while her dad lived like a Saudi prince. Plus there’s greed. But that third motive gets a little tricky. Her path to wealth was easier going through Jack than through the family. She didn’t know if her grandpa would welcome her, which is about to change anyway with her back on the murder stand for killing his son.”

  “How about your alternative?” Austin asks. “By the way, you didn’t give me a name.”

  “I’m almost afraid to say it,” I say. “I need to think on this a little more.”

  “Does he have a key motive?”

  “I don’t know about jealousy or revenge. I doubt it. But on greed, he has the most to gain with the death of Jack Durham.”

  “So ignore Penny—and ignore Flannigan and Czaka’s orders,” he says. “Stick with your gut: one murderer. Turn him inside out. Personally, I’d ignore love and jealousy and revenge and everything else. Make it simple. Follow the money; his money. You already said he stands to profit the most from the deaths of Jack Durham and Barbara Ferguson. Go find out how he’s using it to move pieces on the chessboard.”

  “I might need some help on that. I’ve already hit a dead end looking at his finances. And you know I could get fired if I ignore Czaka’s orders.”
r />   “What have you got to lose? There’s a standing offer to come work for the FBI.”

  • • •

  We talked until midnight and shut Chicago Q down. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that I have . . . or might have . . . a steady in my life. He’s staying up by the airport and flying out early. Good. I need him out of town a few days so I can focus. I have to figure out how to turn this guy’s life upside down. Austin said he’d help if he can.

  71

  IF I GO DOWN in a blaze of glory, I want to do it out in the open. No secret visits to Zaworski. Everyone included. But I know that will shut things down before they start.

  Don and I visit Tedford in his office.

  “I agree. No one has as much to profit. But I’ve not heard his name as a suspect.”

  “He’s insulated himself from day one,” I say.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” Tedford says.

  “Can you do it?” Don asks.

  “I’ve got to look and see what he provided us from our initial requests. Between what we’ve got and public records . . . I might be able to find something. But don’t forget the whole list of those closest to Jack Durham have a labyrinth of financial transactions to search through. His might be the toughest.”

  “Do what you can. We appreciate it,” Don says.

  “Who do I send results to?” he asks.

  “Me,” I say.

  “And everyone is good with this?”

  “Everyone is good with us finding the real killer,” Don says. “But it might be best to keep this on the down-low for the moment.”

  Tedford isn’t happy. Can we trust him? I should have come alone. I’ve got a backup plan with the FBI if I get canned. Come to think of it, Don has a standing offer to work with his rich brother.

  “I’ll take a look, but don’t forget, you guys owe me a big favor.”

  “You got it,” Don and I say in unison.

  • • •

  “If you sent it, I didn’t get it,” I say.

  “It went in interoffice two days ago. You should have had it yesterday.”

  “I’ll look again.”