by M. K. Gilroy
Still a lot to think about with Major Reynolds. I wonder if our lives are too difficult for us to ever become a real couple. We’re going to a play with the family late afternoon and then out for dinner on our own. We’ll talk.
Vanessa called me at 7:00 in the morning. If she had apologized for calling so early one more time I would have screamed. She explained Don’s brother Rodney had flow in from Los Angeles for Thanksgiving. The brothers spent the day before Thanksgiving looking for their sister, Debbie. They found her working tricks near McCormick place. It was an ugly confrontation. She called them every name in the book. She threw rocks at Rodney’s rental car and broke a windshield. She refused an invite to Don’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. She told them to never talk to her again.
Then she called Don at 6:00 this morning. She gave him the address of a rundown extended-stay motel she calls home. She said she was ready to go to a rehab center. Don and Rod were already out the door.
“Girlfriend, I am so sorry to ask, but would you meet them over there. They try so hard, but they don’t see straight when it comes to Deb. She is sneaky. She is mean. She is a master manipulator. She makes them feel so guilty for the good lives they live—well I’m not sure Rodney is living quite as good as he should be, but he is rich and successful—they can’t see straight. Someone else needs to be there. Someone who might understand and see the situation better. If you can go I owe you so big time.”
I know Vanessa didn’t mean what she said the way it sounded, but I was still tempted to ask if she thought I could relate better to the mean or sneaky or manipulative part.
• • •
Don’s late model Buick was the nicest car in the parking lot. I climbed two flights of chipped concrete steps flanked by rusted hand rails to the third floor. I found the number I was looking for and the door was ajar.
Rodney was sitting on a beat up arm chair with as much stuffing as cover fabric showing. Don slouched on the edge of the bed. They were sitting in silence. No sign of Debbie.
“Night manager saw her leave an hour ago. Probably within thirty minutes of when she called me,” Don said.
He officially introduced me to Rodney who seemed to perk up when I arrived and held my hand a little longer than I was comfortable with when we shook. I think Don gave him a dirty look.
“Did she leave anything behind?” I asked. “Could she be coming right back?”
“Nothing,” Don said.
I know men don’t always look very good so I scoured the place myself. Even the refrigerator. They were right. She’s gone. Not only am I judgmental but I might be a sexist too.
I put the milk carton back in the moldy refrigerator and shut the door with a shudder.
“Vanessa said you were on your way,” Don says. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“That’s what partners are for.”
“Looks like a wasted trip,” he says.
“You’re missing the sales at the mall,” Rodney adds.
This time I gave him a dirty look. He holds his hands up in surrender. Don was right. He is a smart man.
“She might call back,” Rodney says to Don as they head out the door into the a freezing cold Chicago morning.
When we part ways in the parking lot, Don simply says, “Thanks, KC.”
I hate the nickname but don’t have the energy to get on his case.
“Nice to meet the superstar detective I’ve heard so much about,” Rodney says. “You ever get out to Hollywood, look me up,” he adds as he hands me his card.
• • •
I move the gear-shift between third and fourth on my way to meet Reynolds for breakfast at Café Selmarie on Lincoln Park Square. With Debbie back on the run, meeting up with Squires and his brother didn’t take long. I called Austin and he said he was starving.
I’ve already got my heart—and stomach—set on the brioche French toast. I don’t know all the flavors they have in it but there’s lots of orange and cinnamon. I’ve met Klarissa there a couple times and love it. I like my JavaStar, but they serve Intelegensia coffee and that’s an okay change of pace. Still nice and bold. Cream, not half-and-half, in a silver server.
I think back on Debbie’s refrigerator and the squalid hovel she was living in, the dirt and stains and odors. I need to think about something else or I’ll lose my appetite completely.
“Why do you keep running from those that love you?” I ask Debbie wherever she is.
Dear God, help Debbie find her way home.
84
IT’S 8:00 ON Monday morning. The calendar now says December. I made it to work on time—by one minute—despite another overnight snow. Last winter was proof of global warming. This winter has brought back the phrase global climate change. It’s been as as cold in November as it usually is in January.
It’s quiet. Where is everybody?
I had no time to stop at JavaStar. I’m thinking of buying a nice Christmas present for myself this year. Maybe a grinder and space age coffee maker like Penny Martin has? I haven’t priced her brand yet but looked it up and saw it was only available at Williams Sonoma. Probably not going to happen on my budget. The windfall from drawing a paycheck from CPD and FBI at the same time for six weeks is long gone.
I stumble down the hall to get my first cup of the wretched sludge we call coffee in Homicide.
I open the door and everyone screams, “Surprise!”
I was surprised enough I about wet my pants. I know it’s not my birthday.
A smiling Zaworski steps forward with a cake that says CONGRATULATIONS CONNER.
“What the heck is this?” I ask, dumbfounded.
If this is a late welcome back party from my time in Virginia, it’s so long overdue, it will be awkward.
Czaka steps out of the crowd, shakes my hand and places a small black box in it.
“Open it,” he says.
I lift the lid, look in, and am stunned. The Award of Valor. Same thing my dad got from Mayor Doyle. I guess I can stop looking over my shoulder and wondering if I’m going to get axed. My eyes mist up and I am speechless.
“What is this for?” I ask.
“Now you’re bragging,” Martinez calls out, getting a chorus of laughter.
“The Cutter Shark,” Zaworski says quietly, shaking my hand.
I wonder why I’m getting this here. Czaka reads my mind and announces:
“As everyone knows, our fair city and state are broke. Little things like award banquets are cancelled until further notice. Mayor Doyle hasn’t let us know if Christmas is still good to go this year.”
That gets lots of laughs.
“I’d argue, but honestly, those rubber chicken dinners bore me to death—and we really are out of money. But something this special, a second-generation cop getting the Award of Valor, we got to do something and we’re doing the best we can. Zaworski thought it’d be good to invite some of Conner’s friends—all five of them—”
That gets near-thunderous laughter. I turn red. The problem is he might be right.
“So Kristen, expect people to be stopping by throughout the day to shake your hand and hug your neck. So congratulations . . . let’s hear it for Detective Kristen Conner. Eat up you’se guys.”
Not a bad turnout. Maybe forty people here and more to come.
Big Tony, my dad’s last partner, is here. He’s trying to hide in the back, which is nearly impossible when you are six-feet, four-inches, and weigh at least 260 pounds. He’s beaming.
Czaka taps me on the shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Well-deserved. Time for us to talk.”
Yes sir, it is. Time to open the file on who shot my dad.
I take it all in and feel gratitude with every breath I take.
About the Author
MARK “M.K.” GILROY is a veteran publisher who has worked with major authors and acquired and created an array of bestselling books and series.
When not writing Detective Kristen Conner novels, he creates book projects for publish
ers, retailers, organizations, and businesses as a freelance publisher.
Gilroy’s debut novel, Cuts Like a Knife, quickly garnered critical acclaim from national media, bloggers, and readers—and hit #1 at Barnes & Nobel (BN.com).
The Kristen Conner Mystery series now includes Every Breath You Take, Cold As Ice, and releasing in February 2016, Under Pressure.
Gilroy is a member of the prestigious Mystery Writers of America. He holds the BA in Biblical Literature and Speech Communications, and two graduate degrees, the M.Div. and MBA.
Gilroy is the father of six children. He resides with his wife Amy in Brentwood, Tennessee.
Stay Connected with M.K. at:
www.facebook.com/MKGilroy.Author
www.mkgilroy.com
@markgilroy