by M. K. Gilroy
Nothing is going to keep me from being mad at her and Reynolds. But I love my sister. I already had one case put her in harm’s way. Dear God, please don’t let that happen again.
“You better call the Big Z,” Don says.
“You said it yourself. He looks awful. I’ll let him sleep. This can wait for morning.”
“This is serious business, KC. Call him now.”
“But they got the guy with my picture so it might be over. You heard Barnes say that yourself.”
“What I heard him say very clearly is that this might not be over.”
“Don, you need to go home and show your face and tell Vanessa how sorry I am I screwed up family plans.”
Don ignores me and points at my phone. On cue the battery dies and gives a death beep. Don sighs and calls Zaworski himself.
I walk down the tiny hall and peek in my mom’s room. She is fast asleep. Good. Hopefully she’ll forget that I told her I’d let her know what was going on in New York. She doesn’t need to hear this.
Don and I drive separate cars to the Second. Zaworski took Don’s call and is convening a late night meeting.
20
THE BEAR WAITED as long as he could. He lay on a sheet of plywood someone had put on top of some roofing joists for a full eighteen hours. The gunfire had stopped about fifteen minutes after it started. Then came the sirens. Then came the muffled sounds of police searching around the house for evidence and banging in and out of Genken’s estate house for hours. Then there were two sets of footsteps on the floor below him and the sound of furniture being moved around. He was sure someone would say something, point to his hiding place, and one of them would scrabble up the folding ladder.
He hadn’t decided whether to surrender or kill anyone who poked a head through the opening—it would be like the whack-a-mole arcade game he liked—when a radio squawked. Both sets of footsteps left the room and went downstairs.
He was still alive and free at the moment. What more could you ask for?
After it was quiet for a couple hours, he finally pushed down on the latch with a quick jab and the ceiling door popped up. He pulled it open with a loud squeak of unoiled springs. He held his breath for what felt like a full minute. No response. He lowered the ladder and climbed down stiffly. It was much easier to squeeze through the opening on the trip down. He took care of an urgent matter first and visited the toilet, cleaning himself up after lying in urine and excrement. He walked over to his prison door. Whoever had been there to check for signs of life was considerate and left it unlocked.
He went back to the window, pulled the corner of a curtain, and scanned the driveway. There were three black and whites parked there but no one was outside, at least not in his range of vision. He exited the garage through a rear door and wended through the trees to the back of the grounds where a wall awaited him. Was the security system still activated? With all the coming and going, quite possibly not. Heck, it might have been blown up in the battle. It didn’t matter. He had to at least try to get out of the area.
The stone wall blocking his escape was ten feet tall. Not good. At six-seven he was tall enough to reach the top with just a little jump. But with his weight, no way could he pull himself up and over. He looked around. In a small clearing there was a decorative concrete—heck it might be marble—birdbath, resting on a pedestal. He pushed the basin off the pedestal, trying to keep it from falling. The sound of it hitting tile seemed to echo for miles. He looked around. No movement. He heard no sound of footsteps running his direction. Sorry, birds, you’ll have to land somewhere else for a drink.
He gripped the pedestal in two hands. It must weigh three or four hundred pounds. But he was Medved. He couldn’t do a pull up with his body weight but he was the Bear, and everyone knows a bear is quite strong. He bent his knees, keeping his back as straight as possible, and hoisted it to his body. He duck-walked it over to the wall. Was there wire and cut glass on top of it? Didn’t matter. He couldn’t walk out the front gate.
Two minutes later he fell to the ground on the other side, turning his ankle. He hopped around in pain but bit back the urge to yell.
He was free. What next?
Yes, I did a bad thing. But I’m a good guy.
Everybody thought Kellto was a saint. But will the world miss him? His wife won’t.
He was so holier-than-thou. Religious do-gooders love to put on a show of humility, but I think deep down inside, they want to let the world know how much better they are than the rest of us. In the end, they are just as selfish and controlling as anybody. No way was I going to let him control my life.
21
IT FINALLY HITS me. I’m exhausted. I barely slept my last night in New York City—and that was after a long day that included administering CPR to a dead man and running through the arctic tundra of Central Park. I was up before four to catch a six o’clock flight. I hit the ground running and then ended up in an all-night meeting at the Second that included Commander Czaka, Captain Zaworski, Sargent Konkade, Don—no good deed goes unpunished, the captain of our CPD internal security—a man named Frank Nelson—how is that for coincidences?—one of his lieutenants, Beverly Sams, and two FBI agents, Heather Torgerson and Carl Doornbusch. Detective Tommy Barnes and Austin Reynolds were added to the meeting by our video conferencing system—Reynolds looked as dapper as ever in sport jacket and open collar, but Barnes looked like a man who has been up for two straight days without sleep, which he had.
When Heather Torgerson said to Reynolds, “With what you have going on in California, I think we have this under control,” Reynolds answered tightly, “take it up with Deputy Willingham; he insists I participate.” She reddened and didn’t say much the rest of the meeting. I’ve stepped on enough social and professional landmines and been put in my place accordingly to know the feeling. I felt sorry for her.
We only stumbled a couple times on which Frank Nelson we were referring to; the New York City murder victim or the captain of internal security at CPD. We started calling the victim by his given name, Francis Nelson.
I only had one concern and question—my family’s safety.
“Is my sister or anyone else in my family in danger?” I asked for the tenth time.
“I don’t think so,” Reynolds said.
That’s not very reassuring.
“My understanding is the Russian Mafiya is notorious for going after family members,” Frank Nelson said.
That’s what I thought.
“They are,” Reynolds answered. “But here is why the FBI thinks . . . let me say that stronger . . . why we strongly believe Conner’s family is not currently in danger.”
I wondered if he was going to say it is because he, personally, will keep a very vigilant eye on Klarissa. There I am picking at a scab that hasn’t even formed.
“If this was a matter of vengeance, then yes,” Reynolds said, “the FBI would need to put security detail on all members of Detective Conner’s family. But Detective Conner is being targeted as a potential witness. So we feel very satisfied in putting protection strictly on Kristen herself.”
“We can watch out for our own,” Nelson interjected. I think Czaka gave him a dirty look.
“We appreciate any support you might provide,” Reynolds said smoothly. “But this is a federal case. If you’re going to add backup, we need to coordinate so everyone knows who the good guys are and no one gets shot with friendly fire.”
“We’ll discuss details in a separate meeting and get back to you,” Czaka said, giving Nelson a pointed look.
If I know how things work with CPD, I’m guessing anybody assigned to babysit me and my family comes out of his budget.
“How concerned should we be about Conner?” Zaworski asked.
“Concerned, but not overly,” Reynolds answered. “Aleksei Genken and his praetorian guard are dead. No question Pasha Boyarov is responsible. He has been Genken’s top brigadier and protégé. Apparently he felt it was his time to take command. T
hat’s why he was meeting with Frank Nelson.”
Everyone looked up.
“Sorry. Francis Nelson,” he corrected. “Bottom line, Boyarov has gone underground and hasn’t surfaced. Whatever was supposed to happen between him and Francis Nelson went wrong. He hasn’t grabbed control of the bratva and it is now in the middle of a family war he probably can’t win. We don’t think Detective Conner will be his top priority. And that’s assuming he called the hit. If it was Genken, he’s already dead and his shooter is scooped up. We’re squeezing the shooter hard but he’s not singing yet. But unless Genken gave the job to multiple contractors, no one is going to risk shooting a police officer without getting paid for it. And like I said, Boyarov has bigger worries than to order a hit, even if he could.”
Hard to argue with his logic. Should I feel better?
“How does a biotech guy get involved with the Russian Mafiya?” Barnes asked.
I know he already suspected the answer but wanted it confirmed.
“We think he was trying to—” Heather Torgerson began.
“That’s classified,” Reynolds interrupted. “Suffice it to say, Frank . . . Francis . . . Nelson was not a central figure in Russian Mafiya politics. This was a one-off deal. Someone, we believe in Moscow, connected Nelson with Boyarov. I’m only speculating, but I would guess that Boyarov’s reward was control of New York. He was to become Pakhan. But whatever happened in the moments before Detective Conner arrived on the scene had already gone so wrong that he is a hunted man—and not just by the NYPD and FBI. Again, let me reiterate, that’s why we think Conner is safe. She represents a low level risk to him in light of his other problems. He won’t be sending anyone after her.”
“But why do I represent any risk to Boyarov or Genken or anyone else?” I asked. “I know nothing. I saw nothing. I’m not a witness.”
“They obviously don’t know that,” Reynolds answered. “All they know is a detective showed up in the middle of a high level deal. If they know you spent time with the FBI—and they have informers everywhere, so they do or eventually will—it would just confirm in their minds you were there for a reason and saw everything or something.”
“That’s what worries me,” Frank Nelson said. “There’s nothing we can do about what they think. This threat could go on indefinitely.”
That cheered me up.
“Actually there is something we can do.” Reynolds answered, “We’re working with the NYPD to make sure the fact that this was a chance encounter and that Conner saw nothing is well known. Detective Barnes will help us on that. We want that circulated throughout NYPD far and wide, not as a rumor, but as fact. Word will get out organically. Genken’s brigadiers will get word. If Boyarov is alive and in the picture, one of his informants will let him know. I’m just guessing, but it’s an educated guess, that a hit was ordered on Conner before it was known she wasn’t a witness to the crime. If that’s the case, she can get back to normal sooner than later.”
I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Agent Reynolds. But I’m not thinking about something as inconceivable as a contract to kill me being out there. I’m not used to normal anyway.
“If Moscow is involved, why isn’t the CIA represented in this meeting?” Don asked.
Reynolds paused and his eyebrows knitted together, larger than life in HD. Maybe that was an oversight.
“Deputy Director Robert Willingham is personally briefing the Directors of the FBI and CIA as we speak,” he said smoothly.
“So this threat on Conner might blow over in a few hours?” Czaka asked.
Was his hopeful tone due to protecting the budget or my wellbeing? I’m sure I’m not being fair to the man. He was my dad’s partner and then boss. I’ve known him since I was a little girl. But everyone in the Second knows he and I had a major falling out when he moved the investigation into my dad’s shooting to the cold case files.
“That’s exactly what we are hoping and expecting,” Reynolds answered. “But to quote someone, ‘hope for the best, plan for the worst.’”
He and Barnes signed off as an early breakfast was brought in. Bagels and a tub of coffee from JavaStar. Czaka scowled at Nelson, probably for putting another thirty-dollar dent in his budget.
We ended the meeting after a few minutes so everyone could follow up on their assignments. Torgerson and Doornbusch are in charge of my security and were assigned first shift. They were given a small interrogation room to work from so they could coordinate additional FBI staff and shifts and be close to Frank Nelson. The CPD’s Frank Nelson.
Don Squires was cut loose to go home and sleep.
“We need to talk,” he said, holding up his hand in the shape of a phone and wiggling it on his way out. It seems everyone needs to talk to me about something scary and mysterious. Zaworski still hasn’t hit the subject that was too big to put on me over the phone.
I spent the next three hours with Torgerson and Doornbusch going over my daily routines.
After twenty-eight hours of no sleep, I am ready to head back to my mom’s house and catch some sleep. As I head for the door, Zaworski motions for me to come into his office. He points to a chair and shuts the door.
“Hold calls, Shelly.”
Uh oh. This is it. I know my expense report is in order—I’m a cheap date for the CPD. I know what others turn in. I haven’t been sneaking into the file room to find the box with the case files for my dad’s shooting—namely because I haven’t been around. What could I be in trouble over?
“I need to mention one more thing,” he says.
“Did they clear me for active duty?” I ask as a delay tactic.
“This Russian crap changes everything. I actually think it would be better to have you here than home. So I’ll work on that. But something else came up while you were on vacation.”
My trip to New York doesn’t feel like a vacation anymore.
“The Cutter Shark,” he says.
That wakes me up. The Cutter Shark. The nickname that just won’t die. The serial killer I put behind bars at the Metropolitan Correction Center in downtown Chicago. Is it wrong to wish he fell out a window too narrow for anyone to fit through?
“Is he finally talking?”
“Yes he is. And he’s hired a lawyer.”
“That shouldn’t be a big deal. Not hiring a lawyer probably slowed things down more than if he had one.”
“Just hear me out, Conner. He’s hired a high powered defense attorney who has agreed to take his case pro bono.”
“We have everything needed to give him the needle or life without parole.”
“Agreed. We do.”
So why does Zaworski look concerned?
“But here’s the deal. His attorney is Joseph Abrams—have you heard of him?”
I shake my head no.
“I’m surprised. He’s a professor at University of Chicago and a spokesman for the ACLU. He’s on TV a lot. He’s a big deal. The ACLU funds him when he takes cases on. And he never loses.”
“There’s a first time for everything. We have so much evidence that Houdini couldn’t get the Cutter out of the cage we have him in.”
“You mentioned evidence. Mr. Abrams has filed a motion of appeal to have all evidence thrown out.”
“What?! On what grounds?”
“Illegal search and seizure.”
“Reynolds and the FBI took care of that. No way was anything illegally searched or seized.”
“They indeed got all the proper warrants. But Abrams is arguing that they did so on the basis of his rights being violated.”
“No judge will hear that.”
“A judge has agreed to hear it.”
“Who?”
“Probably the only who would. Bernard Jankowitz. He’s no friend to law enforcement.”
“But not even he would cut a serial killer loose.”
“I don’t think so, but we have to take this seriously and carefully.”
“How were his civil rights supposedly violat
ed?” I ask.
“When you broke down a door, without a warrant, to apprehend him.”
“Are you kidding me? To save a life? Whatever happened to Imminent Danger?”
“That’s our argument and we think it will prevail. But defense is arguing you had no probable cause to enter the home where you found him.”
“But I knew he was holding another victim. I think that gave me the right to break into the White House to find him.”
“We know that, Conner. The law has always recognized Imminent Danger as a clear cut exigent circumstance that supersedes a need for warrant.”
He’s obviously been meeting with the attorneys on this. I’ve never heard him speak so formally.
“Then we’re good,” I say.
“Here’s the tricky part. Your report, confirmed by the testimony of the witness who pointed you where to go, indicate that he really didn’t know where the Cutter was. It was a lucky guess. They are arguing that breaking into a home on the basis of a lucky guess is not covered by Imminent Danger.”
“I never used the phrase lucky guess. And my witness was right and so was I.”
“I’m not the one arguing with you. It’s gonna work out okay.”
“He also confirmed the Cutter had another potential hostage,” I nearly shout. “I worked with facts I had in front of me on the basis of Imminent Danger—and no one can ever question how imminent that danger was.”
“Correct. That should settle it. But don’t kid yourself, you’re still going to come under attack by Abrams.”
I am steaming. I look down. My hand is shaking.
“Listen, Kristen,” Zaworski says, raising a hand to stop me from saying more. “No one thinks you did wrong and no one thinks this appeal is going anywhere. But you are going to be deposed. I’m just giving you a heads up.”
“When and where? I’ll do it now.”
He snorts. “No. Not now. You’re going home to get some sleep. We don’t know when. It could be days, weeks, or months. Probably weeks. But believe me, you’ll be prepping with our legal team and will have had a good night’s sleep.”