Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1)

by M. K. Gilroy

Vanessa also whipped up the most unbelievable coffee cake that my mom popped into the oven before I woke up. I am currently on my second piece. Even Klarissa, who eats less than anybody not living in a famine-stricken country, has cleaned her plate. Granted, it was a small piece to begin with, but this still represents a breakthrough in my mind. I may have even caught her looking at the half-eaten second piece on my plate with something other than disdain. Interest?

  “She can come home with me and stay in her old room,” Mom says.

  “We have room for her and you,” Kaylen says.

  “She can come to my place,” Klarissa says.

  “She’s in the room, guys,” I say. “So you can talk to her, not about her. And we’ve already settled it. Kaylen can spend the night. Just one night.”

  I’ve been up an hour and still have a summer-weight nightgown on. My hair is pulled back in the default ponytail I wear when I’m out of time or too lazy to fix it otherwise. That would be almost all the time.

  “I have two of Chicago’s finest as my bodyguards. They’re sitting in the parking lot right now. I’ll be fine.”

  “Bodyguards? I’m impressed,” Klarissa says. “Are they cute?”

  “Think they want something to eat?” Mom asks. “We could take them a piece of Vanessa’s coffee cake and a cup of coffee.”

  “We’re not supposed to do that, Mom,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. “Remember Dad’s undercover days? And Klarissa, we can’t go on a double date with them until this case is solved.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t the Cutter Shark who attacked you?” Kaylen interrupts with a shudder.

  “If it was the Cutter Shark, I wouldn’t be here,” I answer. “We have no way of knowing who attacked me, but I doubt it’s connected to the case I’m on. I think my attacker might be a guy named Timmy. He was one of the fight trainers at CPD for a month or two. He was working for Barry Soto.”

  “And Barry didn’t know this guy was trouble?” Mom asks. “I always thought Barry was sharp. He must be slipping if he let a murderer work for him.”

  “Mom, I didn’t say Timmy is the Cutter Shark,” I say again. “This could be a random attack, which is doubtful, but there are at least a couple options we’re exploring.”

  “If you’ve got colleagues attacking you,” Klarissa says, “you must be a real bear to work with.”

  “Thanks, Baby Sis,” I say. “You really know how to brighten my day.”

  She laughs and gives me a punch on the shoulder. I wince. Every movement still hurts. I guess everything is fine and she forgot about how our last conversation ended with her hanging up on me. I haven’t forgotten.

  “Sorry,” Klarissa says, giving me a rueful look. “Who else is an option?”

  “I just can’t say,” I tell her. “Honestly, I’m not even going to speculate. I got no look at his face and he whispered when he spoke to me. After working this case for a couple months, honestly, I am just grateful that whoever attacked me left me laying where I was.”

  “That gives me the creeps,” Klarissa says with a shudder.

  I haven’t been up long, but I’m considering a nap. My family is wearing me out and it’s obvious they are not going to leave me alone any time soon. Sweet, I think, but irritating. It’s been tough this spring and early summer—really, the whole past year—so it’s nice to have everyone close.

  We finish the coffee and Mom goes to the kitchen and puts on another pot. Kaylen pulls Scrabble out of her overnight bag. Scrabble? That’s only for Christmas holiday. She sets up the board deliberately and wordlessly—I think to make sure I know that this is what we’re going to do and there’s not going to be any debates or jokes about it. I get up and take one of my many bathroom breaks—the doc has me drinking a six-ounce glass of water every hour. I look down; no pink in the fluid. As I return, Mom is pouring coffee refills. I’ ll be back in the bathroom in thirty minutes, I think. I take the fourth chair at my kitchen table, giving up my ideas of an escape. Kaylen draws the A tile and gets to go first, which means an automatic double-word score. She gets a cute little smile on her face and plays all seven tiles first move. Not only does she get a double score on a word with a Q in it, but she gets fifty points for playing all seven letters in one turn. Basically, none of us have a snowball’s chance in Death Valley to win after she adds up 140 points. I think about suggesting that this is a sign that maybe we should watch a video or that everyone should go home and I should go to bed.

  “Oh dear,” Mom says. I think she’s figured out that resistance is futile.

  I open the little drawstring game bag and make everyone put their tiles back in. This time I shake it up extra good and we start over. I pull out a Y. Guess who starts last? Talk about a blast from the past. Scrabble with Mom and my sisters. Beats getting grilled about who my attacker might be.

  • • •

  I look at my wall clock. It’s four in the afternoon. I couldn’t take any more excitement from Scrabble—and yes, Kaylen won again and again—so I fell asleep on my couch at about 1:00. I feel groggy now. But the vibration of my cell phone has wakened me.

  “Feeling better, honey?” Mom asks. “What can I get you?”

  I look around. Kaylen and Klarissa are gone at the moment. It’s just the two of us now.

  “I could use a glass of water and another pain pill,” I say.

  Percocet—a witch’s brew of oxycodone and acetaminophen—definitely makes pain management easy. When I was a uniformed officer, painkillers were becoming a real problem on local college campuses. I guess all you have to do is take one of these bad boys and chase it with Jack and you’ve got a major buzz for the evening. Kids were paying thirty or forty bucks per tablet.

  “Is it time for your antibiotic, too?” she asks as she puts down a crossword puzzle book and gets up from the recliner to head for the kitchen.

  I’m no longer thinking about pain pills. The vibration isn’t from a call. Two text messages have popped up. The first is from Reynolds:

  On my way back. Lots happening in Durango. Late dinner tonight? Carmine’s on Rush? I’m starved! I want to see you!

  I want to text back that he is on a “need to know” basis with my dinner plans and that he probably needs to touch base with his ex-wife when he lands. I go to the next message instead. It’s from Don. I’m surprised. I didn’t think he could text with his fat thumbs. I read it and my heart sinks:

  Our friend strikes again. Another body found.

  Sit tight and get better. I’ll call u later w the details.

  In your dreams, Don.

  “Mom, can you make me a sandwich?”

  “Sure, honey. Go sit down and I’ll bring it over to you.”

  “Better wrap it. I’ve got to take a shower and get rolling.”

  “What? Tell me you’re not serious. Kristen, no.”

  I look her in the eyes. “Our guy has struck again.”

  She shakes her head and sits down on one of the kitchen chairs, tears in her eyes.

  “Why do people have to be so hurtful? So evil?”

  I walk over and give her a careful hug. Not for her benefit—she’s fine—but I’m still aching. I gently touch a scrape on my forehead that has started to scab over but is still oozing yellow a little. It’s in the same spot where James whapped me in the head with an oversized Wiffle ball last week. Am I going to have a permanent red mark in the middle of my forehead? Would that mean I have to change religions? “I don’t know, Mom. But I’m going to put this guy in a place where he can’t do any more harm. I promise.”

  I give her another quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head. Then I break away and head for the shower. I call Dispatch first, identify myself, and tell them I need the address of the latest murder repeated.

  • • •

  I wipe mayonnaise off the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. Glad Mom didn’t see that. She’s already very unhappy with me. I walk straight to the unmarked police car where the two officers assigned to guard detail
are sitting. They’re out of the car before I get there.

  “Yes, ma’am?” a kid with a buzz cut and acne says.

  Ma’am? That hurts worse than a kidney punch. I’m still not thirty.

  “I’m heading over to the crime scene. You all going to stay here and watch my apartment or come along and keep an eye on me?”

  The two officers look at each other, both hoping the other knows the right answer. Their instructions are that no one enters or even gets near my place without clearance. They’re not sure if that includes me since the assumption was I wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

  “I think we need to call it in, ma’am,” Buzz Cut says.

  “Well, while you do, I’m going to be driving over there. Stay or come. Your call. But if you do stay, my mom will be leaving in a few minutes and she is authorized to move freely.”

  The young men look at each other and shrug. The second one speaks for both of them and says, “We’ll follow you.”

  • • •

  I nearly go airborne over the speed bump halfway around the circle drive in front of my apartment and bite back a scream. Bad move. That hurt. My guards follow close and bounce out of the parking lot right behind me. I pound through the gears and drive fast through city traffic on my way to the toll road. I run at least four yellow lights, so I don’t know how the heck they keep up with me.

  I’ve got an EZ-Pass on my windshield for the toll booths, but as I enter the highway, already doing sixty-five, I think I pass through the automated lane too fast for the camera to scan the barcode on it. I hear a loud buzzer behind me as I immediately cut across three open lanes on my left, downshift into third, and push the pedal hard to zip around two cars that are poking along, and then zip back across two of the lanes to the right while shifting into fourth and fifth in rapid succession. I am not going to let slow drivers get in my way as I head for the crime scene. I look in the rearview mirror. Buzz Cut is doing a nice job of not losing me. He’s kind of got that NASCAR look about him.

  There’s a rumble in my brain that’s about as loud as the buzzer at the toll booth. Every part of my body hurts, particularly at my temples and on the lower left side of my back. I should have taken two Percocets. But then I couldn’t be driving. I look down at my phone and see the red light is still flashing. I got to my text messages before hopping in the shower, but didn’t check to see if anyone had called. I scroll down and see that I have a missed call from a private number and that I have a voice message. I press down on the one key and listen.

  It’s Dell.

  I almost swerve off the road.

  “Kristen. I need to talk to you. You can’t reach me, so I’ll call back later. I know I got out of town in a hurry and I’m sure my last message on your home phone freaked you out. I apologize. Sincerely. There are a few things about my life I never mentioned to you that have come up and that I have to deal with. I’m in a little bit of trouble right now. I know you probably hate me, but you’re still the only one I can talk to. Keep your phone close, would you?”

  THE MONTH OF JUNE

  It is dry, hazy June weather.

  We are more of the earth,

  farther from heaven these days.

  HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  60

  June 1, 4:30 p.m.

  LET’S BE HONEST. Not all people are created equal. Equal rights, equal value, equal needs—all nice thoughts. But some people matter more than others. I didn’t have any say in the matter. God just made me one who rises above the masses, who matters more.

  When I spent that year in a group home run by some church, a group leader asked us to share as honestly as possible what we really thought about ourselves. He was earnest and persuasive.

  So I shared. “I matter more than others,” is what I said. So much for being honest. Next thing I knew he wanted to cast demons out of me. I don’t have demons; I have angels. They go before me and see that my plans always work.

  But I’m going to have to fire the current host of angels working on my behalf. They aren’t doing their job very well. I don’t like my recent work. Oh, I like the work part, just not the results. They aren’t neat. They are messy. Just like that stupid journal.

  It all started with her. Nothing has gone quite right since I let her get under my skin.

  I’ve always made sure I’m the only that gets under other people’s skin.

  I taught her a little lesson she won’t forget soon last night. But even that feels hollow. It’s not commenserate with the pain she has caused me.

  I went with Plan B two nights ago. I had to hurry and find someone new. I don’t like hurrying. The moment just didn’t feel as good as it should have and that’s not fair to me. Now I’m probably going to want to start early to get things right. Again. When will people stop messing with my perfect plans?

  It’s interesting to watch the FBI team grow. When I leave Chicago, they’re going to love disbanding and starting all over again. The psychologist from the FBI is going to get a lot of undue acclaim when she writes about me some day—and she’s the type that will. I’ve watched her. She’s cold and arrogant. Full of herself. Just like so many others who came to see me and analyze me. Her exalted sense of self-esteem will lead her to underestimate me. She will write about this period of my career with pejorative adjectives—hurried, desperate, frantic, and the like. I read too. I know how these shrinks think. But despite the pseudo-sophisticated veneer of her beloved academia, she will never fully understand me, my greatness. I am too complex, too nuanced to be put under her flawed microscope of psychobabble.

  It’s interesting that even as the Cutter Shark Team grows, they still haven’t shown up at my latest venue. It may not be up to my personal standards, but in a sloppy way, it is still a work of art. More Jackson Pollock than Mark Rothko.

  I like my use of the word, pejorative. Clothes and vocabulary make the man.

  A ripped physique doesn’t hurt either. Helps to grab the ladies’ eyes . . .

  61

  ZAWORSKI IS WAITING for me as I drive up. My babysitters called ahead, as I knew they would.

  “Who told you?”

  “I am a detective, Captain,” I answer. “I detect for a living.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Conner. I know it was Squires and I’m going to kick his tail back to parking meters over this. Everyone had strict orders to leave you out of this one. I want you to get back in your car and drive home right now. You don’t need to be here.”

  “Sorry, Captain, I’m not going to do it . . . And before you say it, I’m not leaving, even if you give me a direct order.”

  Please don’t give me a direct order.

  We stare each other down, hands on hips, jaws set. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a mob of journalists, photographers, and video cameramen hustling to get as close to us as the perimeter tape will allow. Digital cameras are taking in everything. Zaworski takes me by the arm and walks me toward the front door of the crime scene to get us out of that particular line of fire.

  “I knew you were going to be even more difficult than usual when they let you out of the hospital against everyone’s better judgment but yours,” he says with a dull tone. “Keep moving and don’t smile.”

  He looks back at my two bodyguards who have caught up with us and says, “You have a new job. Help out the border patrol. The mob is getting unruly. No one gets past the tape. And you don’t leave until we do.”

  He nods for me to follow him. I’m an hour behind Don, Blackshear, Martinez, Konkade, Big Tony, a couple of other detectives from the Third, and a host of new FBI faces. Everyone on the perimeter—reporters, uniformed cops, spectators—follow Zaworski and me with their eyes and cameras and shout questions as we walk up to the front door of a small ranch house with beat-up aluminum siding. There are brown patches all over the yard. The shrubbery, which looks like it hasn’t been trimmed in years, is growing in wild and grotesque shapes, half covering the front picture window. The sidewalk is uneven a
nd cracked and missing whole chunks of concrete. One of the downspouts has broken free of its moorings and is hanging away from the eaves of the house, ready to fall in a twist of metal. A pane is missing an entire corner in one of the front windows. Tar paper shows through some areas of the roof with missing shingles. I take it all in. This is different. Whoever victim number fifty-one is, she is no Sandra, Candace, GiGi, or Stefani.

  Without turning my head, I say to Zaworski, “Dell Woods called and left me a message while I was sleeping.”

  He stops in his tracks in the doorway and looks at me.

  “He says he’s calling back. I figure you’ll want to huddle the team and let them listen to his message.”

  “You got that right.”

  “And I’m guessing the FBI is going to patch into my cell line so they can triangulate his location when he calls back.”

  “How do you know he’ll call back?”

  “He said so in the message.”

  I hold up my hand before he can say anything else, pull out my phone and get into my voicemail, then let him listen.

  When he’s done, he hands it back to me, and I save the message, then hand it back to him again. “You gather the team to listen in and discuss and that will give me fifteen minutes to catch up on the crime scene. You all will know as much about Dell’s most recent contact with me as I do at this point.”

  “Anything else, Conner?”

  “No, sir, that will be it.”

  When did I get so sassy with my boss? He’s giving me a lot of rope these days—I better cool it before I hang myself.

  • • •

  I know everyone is enthralled with crime scene investigation dramas. That’s because they’ve never been to a crime scene. A quick camera shot of a dead body is one thing, but when you’re actually there and have to take in real flesh and blood that has been traumatized with a knife or blunt force, the sights and smells of decomposition, then it’s not so glamorous. I’ve watched the show set in Miami a couple times. Sure they put plenty of white and blue makeup on the corpses, but the victims still tend to be beautiful. That’s not the stuff of a real crime scene.