by M. K. Gilroy
By the time he comes out with the envelope held between a pair of rubber-tipped tweezers, the cavalry has arrived and my small place is packed. The brass has commandeered the kitchen and we working stiffs are sitting in my living room. I edge closer to the Formica counter that divides my kitchen and living space where Jerome has set up a light box. He.carefully lays the red envelope on it. Everyone has crowded in close, but I manage to muscle my way to Jerome’s immediate right. Hey, it is my letter.
Actually it’s a Hallmark card. Somebody cared enough to give the best. There’s a picture of a red rose on the front panel. The inside has no printed message, just a couple lines scrawled in the same crooked letters that were on the envelope.
You aren’ t bad, but not nearly as good as you think you are. I hope you haven’ t forgotten me already. We have unfinished business after all. Until then . . . think of me often.
“Someone find me a sample of Dean Pierre’s handwriting,” Reynolds orders.
Dean’s decided to run. Please God. Don’t let him get away.
70
June 15, 3:08 a.m.
I’M GOING TO miss this city. Not.
After such an auspicious, promising start, nothing went as planned. That’s never happened before. It still doesn’t seem conceivable.
What went wrong? Is it possible I made mistakes? Possibly. Okay . . . probably. But even my mistakes are evidence of my greatness. Despite living by no other man’s code . . . for no other man’s approval . . . for no god’s, no nation’s, no family’s glory and honor but my own . . . If I confess to any shortcoming, it is that of kindness . . . I let down my carefully constructed defenses. Because of her. I must admit . . . I grew . . . I grew . . . fond of her.
I have worked hard to hone my craft, my art. This is not the end of what and who I am. I pledge to make a new beginning. I shall arise out of the ashes like a phoenix. I will be greater than even before.
Undoubtedly my strengths have also been my undoing here. Discipline. Work ethic. I have committed myself each day to the perfection of my body and my being, without break, for nigh on eight years now. I will stop judging myself harshly. After Friday night’s ultimate act, I’ll disappear for a time. Perhaps a respite is in order. I’ve never traveled abroad. I’d kind of like to visit Paris, but the currency exchange is murder. I just said “murder.” Maybe that’s an omen.
I hadn’t really thought of it before. I could turn what feels like disappointment and defeat into a stunning victory. I could become the first international serial killer. I will give that serious consideration. Wouldn’t that send the FBI into a frenzy? They’d have to bring in their Interpol pals.
The thought of it makes me smile.
But before I leave . . .
Kristen Conner. Beautiful. Accomplished. Intense. Great skin. She’s good enough for Dell, but not good enough for me. Too messy. That’s one reason I let her live—it would’ve been another kill I’d regret. I’m through with regrets. The other reason is that I know she will think long and hard about what she might have done to stop what’s about to happen.
Kristen didn’t prove to be my soulmate, as fun as it would be to tweak the Feds by taking one of their nearest and dearest. But then, almost by accident, I saw her sister. Articulate. Stunning. And never messy. Much better dresser. I followed her home from the other sister’s house—the one with the cute daughter and bratty son—and found out where she lived. I strolled through her home while she was at work. I like her style. Much better than Kristen’s. I realized Klarissa was my true soulmate. Kristen was just the warm-up band.
I couldn’t have been happier when I found she was going to a different church than the rest of her family. As clingy as that brood is, it was almost as fortuitous of a break for me as when Kristen, my poor older brother’s girlfriend, was assigned as one of the detectives on my case. I finally met Klarissa at that interminably boring Bible class she went to before the church service. I’ve worked that angle more than a few times, so Hallelujah, I know how to fit in. I wonder if the FBI has ever figured that one out.
I asked her to meet me for a cup of coffee. Nice and innocent. She said yes. I thought we had a pleasant time. But that’s when she showed a cruel streak. I called her back for a real date and all she talked about was her ex-boyfriend—before saying no. No? To me? That was unacceptable. Hasn’t she read the books that explain you have to let go and move on in life?
Then it got worse. She refused to go out with me . . . again and again and again. She f lat out refused. I checked back nicely and she stopped taking my calls. I still can’t believe it. Last time I looked in the mirror I saw a man that women are crazy about. I guess she’s the crazy one. She wants a good Bible class? Well, her moment of truth and repentance is at hand.
I’ll wait at her lovely home on Friday night as long as it takes until she returns . . . to me. I’m ready to get out of this stinky motel anyway. I can barely leave the room with my picture posted everywhere. Some skin bronzer, a much shorter haircut, some temporary tattoos, and a couple of biker outfits complete with wife-beater t-shirts should throw anyone off. But people are on edge.
I have just a few loose ends to tie up this week.
I am going to have to figure out a new revenue source. Big Brother has taken good care of me. I love manipulating his complex set of guilt inducers to get what I need. But he’s moved things around on me. I can’t get to the accounts I’ve accessed before. I think he’s trying to cut me off.
Dell, Dell, Dell. I’m the one who cuts things off.
71
I WAS RUNNING so late for work this morning that I figured once I hit my cube and started working I’d never be able to break free to get a work out in. At first Soto wasn’t going to let me into his gym because of my brief stay in the hospital, but when I told him I wanted to work the light and heavy punching bags he relented. All I really wanted to do was a soft spin on the recumbent bike, but that was never going to get me in the doors.
“Maybe you’re going to start paying attention and figure out how to defend yourself,” he said while taping my hands. “You shouldn’t be in here but consider this a favor to your dad.”
He crosses himself and says, “May his soul rest in peace. Good man. He had a heck of a punch, too. He was a real fighter. He and Big Tony. That was a team you didn’t want breaking up your party. They could do the heavy lifting.”
After finishing the tape he personally put me through the paces.
“Left cross! Left cross! Right straight! Again! Again! Again! Harder! Hands up and keep hitting. I said, hands up. You’re about to get popped in the nose. Move and hit!”
I keep my hands up and keep hitting. Soto still doesn’t seem to think my hands are up high enough.
“Don’t stop. Hit! Hit! On your toes. On your toes. Dance, Kristen. Get off your heels and move. Get your hands up! If you’re tired, quit and go home! Now hit!”
The only piece of exercise equipment that Soto likes better than a floor is the heavy punching bag. He likes the small speed bag, too, but he loves the big bag for building strength and upper body endurance. Go punch a bag for five minutes and you’ll experience a profound and newfound wonder and appreciation for boxers. My arms are screaming for mercy and turning to Jell-O. I can taste bile in the back of my throat. My calves are burning. Even my butt feels like it’s on fire.
“Don’t quit! Don’t quit! Kristen, get your hands up! This guy wants to break your nose. Hit! Mix it up. Cross, cross, straight, straight, left, right, right, left! Mix it up!”
Hearing him tell me to mix it up is a blast from the past. Dad kept a heavy bag hanging from the first-story floor supports that were open in the basement and he was always after me to change up my rhythm and sequence of punches. “Mix it up” was also a favorite of his from the sideline when I played travel soccer. About the time I really mastered my scissor step he was after me to work the helicopter spin. Dad was an interesting combination of laid-back and intense, of encouraging and in-y
our-face challenge.
As I walked toward the shower rooms, my legs and arms wobbly, Martinez exited the men’s locker room. He gave a not-too-discreet up and down to my loose-fitting T-shirt and baggy running shorts, soaked through from perspiration, my hair a stringy tangled mess. He chuckled and gave a whistle.
“I know, I know,” I said to him. I look awful.
“No, no. Te ves bien. A quién tratas de impresionar además de mi?”
I poke him in the chest with a forefinger and ask, “What’d you just say?”
Unfazed, he answers, “What do you think I said? I just wished you a lovely day. You’ve got to learn some Español if you want to live in this country.”
I roll my eyes and laugh as he flexes for me. I head for the shower and he heads for the workout room. I’m pretty sure he didn’t wish me a lovely day.
• • •
There’s another sticky note on my computer screen when I get upstairs.
DEAR DETECTIVE KRISTEN—SOME GIRLS HAVE A WAY WITH THE GUYS. HOW MANY BOYFRIENDS CAN ONE DETECTIVE HAVE? I NEVER KNEW YOU WERE SO ROMANTIC. I GUESS THE LAST GUY WAS A REAL KILLER. PLEASE MAKE A LIST OF WHO’S LEFT FOR THE REST OF US!
The signature is a smiley face. I’ve had enough of the notes. I pluck it off the screen and stride out front to Shelly’s desk.
“Did you put this on my screen?”
“What are you talking about?” she asks with a coy smile.
She looks over at Connie Davis, Zaworski’s office manager, and winks. So it is her. I’m mad and I’m glaring and I can see some of her smug confidence starting to erode. She looks over at Davis for support, but Davis is suddenly very interested in her computer screen. Some of the other support staff and a few of the detectives peek over and around cubicles in our direction, suddenly curious.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“You have no right to accuse me of anything,” she says, her cheeks turning a crimson red.
“You know what, Shelly? Your job is to make this place run smoothly,” I respond. “Maybe you’re the one posting the notes, maybe you’re not. But if it’s you, you better stop. If it’s not you, you better find out who it is and make it stop. And I’m not jacking around with you. This stopped being funny the first time and it is a distraction on a case that is very important to the big boss. When the next note shows up in my cubicle, he’s going to hear about how funny you think this is—he’s ordered me to hand it over. I don’t care if you or anyone else thinks I’m a snitch,” I say extra loud so everyone else can hear. “Another thing, you want to write me up, go ahead and do it. In fact, I hope you do. Because I promise, I’m bringing your call logs during office hours with me to any hearing and it’s going to get ugly.”
Her mouth is wide open as I slam my fist on her desk and yell, “Don’t jack with me!” Turning away, I bump her ceramic coffee cup and it falls to the floor and breaks. I ignore it and keep on walking toward my cubicle.
My hand is throbbing and I’m shaking as I log on and start working through emails. Just do your work. I send quick answers back and make notes on a separate sheet of paper to remember the bigger things.
I am in so much trouble. She’s going to say she felt her personal safety was threatened. Internal Affairs is going to be paying me another visit.
I get to a message from Reynolds. Quick and to the point:
I’ll be by your offices late afternoon. Let’s go to dinner and talk.
• • •
Hmmm. Explaining to Van Guten’s ex that I won’t be having dinner with him tonight could take more than two minutes, so I just delete it.
The next email is from Klarissa. She lets me know she’s going out with Warren tonight to talk through all the reasons they’re not together. She goes on to say that she has a corporate dinner on Tuesday but that she wants to have dinner with me on Wednesday or Thursday. I’m glad she can fit me in.
Don pokes his head in my cubicle and asks if I’m ready.
“You bet,” I answer. “For what?”
“Coffee. Let’s talk. And it’s my treat.”
• • •
We walked to the JavaStar down the street. I assumed Don was going to chew me out for going off on Shelly. It never came up. He let me know Vanessa wants him to quit the cop job and to work with her selling real estate. Once the Shark business is finished, he says he’s going to consider it. I’m numb as he talks. I don’t make friends very easily. And Don is a friend.
I just lost it in the office today. And I might be losing my best friend on the force.
72
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT and I’m driving over to Jimmy and Kaylen’s house. I’m working gears like Jeff Gordon at Taladega. I miss James and Kendra terribly. Between missing church and working overtime, I haven’t seen them in two weeks. Or is it three? Time is blurring.
I wonder if Klarissa will be there. I’m still irritated with her. After making such a big deal about getting together and me not being there for her—blah blah—she stood me up for dinner last night. I know she’s on air four to five nights a week and understand her schedule can change on the fly. A simple text to cancel would have been fine with me. She wanted to meet at Spiaggia on Michigan Avenue. I wasn’t in the mood to head into the city in the first place and I was definitely not looking forward to spending a hundred bucks on a meal. She’s a news reporter for the biggest local station in Chicago, landing quite a few commercials, and I’m a public servant—there is a difference in what we can afford. I don’t begrudge her any lifestyle or cuisine that she wants, but she should be sensitive to my budget constraints.
Truth be told, I’m still not over the phone conversation when she referred to Patricia as “the drunk” and slammed my skills as a detective. We’d been doing so good. I guess too good to last. We’re different cats. We’ll always look at things differently. Even with her spending a night at my house we really haven’t talked since that blowup other than to say we need to talk. So what’s really bugging her? The dad situation? Probably. Is it Warren? She says no, but probably yes on that, too.
• • •
Jimmy picked up a giant deep-dish pizza from Giordano’s and I ate three full pieces—no small feat for a man of any size, and simply amazing for a delicate young lady like myself. At least that’s what Kaylen said. I’m going to run five miles in the morning. I may be under stress and Lloyd may think I’m too thin, but I haven’t lost my appetite.
I plop between James and Kendra to watch the fourth Shrek DVD. I like the music. I love the tickling and cuddling, but James really does have a weird thing about sticking his feet in my face that gets irritating after a while. Plus you never know when he’s going to hit you where it hurts when he starts roughhousing.
Jimmy is sitting on the floor in front of Kaylen and is rubbing her feet. I feel a pang of jealousy. James is sticking his feet in my face again and asking if they stink. Kendra is clutching her Kristen doll, the one with a far better figure than the real-life model, and stroking my hair. I sigh. No complaining. Life’s not too bad. Not too bad at all.
Earlier Kaylen asked if I was up to coaching Kendra’s soccer team in the fall.
“Please, Aunt Kristen,” Kendra immediately chimed in.
How do you say no to that? I think the Snowflakes are going to take some people by surprise, come next season. Attila the Hun is probably already preparing for us. We handed his Lady Titans their only two losses of the season.
The phone rings. Jimmy gets up to answer while Shrek and the donkey fight some bad guys made up of fairy tale characters. There’s no blood. Must be nice.
“Who was it?” Kaylen asks.
“Your mom. She’s coming over.”
Jimmy plops down on the couch beside Kaylen and kisses her on the head. He gives her slightly growing belly a tender caress as they wordlessly look each other in the eyes. Oh man. I am a loser when it comes to love.
• • •
Mom, Jimmy, Kaylen, and I are sitting at the
table drinking coffee. The kids have gone upstairs to go to bed. They’re not happy about it. James got a swat on the butt when he yelled, “Smell my feet!” as he tromped up the stairs. Sorry, buddy. You deserved that one.
They don’t know how good they have it. I worked four fourteen-hour days Monday through Thursday and another twelve today. I would love to be heading upstairs for bed. Heck, I may jump in James’s bottom bunk I’m so tired. The Cutter Shark has said his next kill won’t be until summer. That’s three hours away—though he didn’t specify a time in summer. So what am I doing here? Not much less than I would have been doing in the office. The Shark and his brother have disappeared. Zaworski ordered us home to get some rest—and to be back in the office at seven sharp—but I couldn’t help but notice he and Konkade were still on a phone conference with the FBI contingent across town when I left. I could hear Willingham’s voice booming over the speakerphone. I assume Reynolds and Van Guten and a host of agents and staffers are there with him. Don had left but he’s put in even more hours than me this week.
Who knows? Maybe tonight will go uneventfully. Mayor Doyle finally called a press conference and advised women to stay in tonight with all doors locked. I wonder how many false alarms will get called in to 911 the first time someone hears a creak in the house. It doesn’t help that a bunch of bars are holding Cutter Shark parties. I heard a radio commercial for one promising free Bloody Marys to the first hundred women who showed up. The scary thing is, the place will be packed.
I think back to lunch at the Devil Dog. Our team was so excited when we finally had not just a lead, but a lead with a name and face to it. Okay, a couple names to it. Dean Pierre. Dean Jorgenson. Dean Woods. But the excitement was waning by Wednesday—and tempers were short and flaring yesterday. We could almost feel him in our grasp, but the trail went cold immediately. No sign of Dean—every motel and hotel front desk clerk in the city has been shown his picture. No sign of Dell either. He hasn’t called me back. Is he more involved in this than I want to admit? At minimum he’s seriously enabled his brother.