Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3)

by M. K. Gilroy

  86

  CPD AND THE FBI were minutes behind Squires. Then three more ambulances arrived with an army of EMTs. I got a wave and concerned look from Lloyd, an EMT who goes to our church. He lost a hundred pounds last year but I think he’s got it all back and more—he looks like himself again. He loves those jumbo hot dogs at Gas and Grub. Then more CPD and FBI arrive. It’s turning into a circus. Spencer Doyle showed up, then Czaka. The brass are coming out in force.

  Squires finally got control and managed the overall crime scene quite well. He even sent a few of the CPD big wigs home so we had room to work. The tape and barricades were in place before the press started arriving. We’d have to deal with a mob of gawkers outside the tape if the weather hadn’t dropped to seven degrees above zero, Fahrenheit.

  Whoever questioned my mom played it by the book and was perhaps a little overzealous. I can’t believe he threatened to cuff her if she couldn’t find her handgun permit. Squires saw what was happening and barked for him to stand down.

  At two in the morning I finally got back to my mom’s bedroom. I had a few questions to ask her. She was fast asleep with Kendra and James on either side of her. I wonder how the kiddos are doing and if they are going to need counseling. At least James isn’t complaining that my mom’s house smells funny—though he might be right.

  My mom shot a ferocious Russian mobster. Inconceivable.

  I shut the door quietly and head upstairs. Jimmy is snoring. Kaylen is just finishing nursing baby Kelsey. I take the baby from her and volunteer to burp her. I breathe in that beautiful scent of innocence until she erupts with a sound loud enough to wake the neighbors—again. I quickly and gently hand her back to Kaylen who puts her in the bassinet Mom keeps in her old room.

  “You okay, Kaylen?” I ask.

  “Is this normal for you?” she asks back.

  “Nah. Being a cop is boring most of the time.”

  I can tell she doesn’t believe me. I’m almost being one hundred percent truthful.

  We hug after I tell her to go to bed—and to consider investing in a sleep apnea machine for Jimmy. That gets a smile out of her.

  I can barely move but know where I need to be.

  I wake up at six-forty-five—just two hours sleep—step out of the room, and call Blackshear. I wonder if he is up yet.

  “Blackshear,” he mumbles incoherently.

  I guess not.

  “Bob, you awake?”

  “I am now, Conner.”

  “You hear about last night?”

  “In detail. Konkade and Zaworski were working the phones. I wanted to come over but was told no more bodies in the area.”

  “It wasn’t Bradley.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t Bradley,” I repeat.

  “What are you talking about Conner?”

  He is skeptical at first, but as he begins to wake up, I can tell what I’m saying is sinking in. I hear a slurp.

  “You get a cup of coffee?”

  “Thankfully. Tell me again, how’d you think to figure this out?”

  “I went back to the scene of the crime one more time and got one of my feelings.”

  “No way,” he says. “No way. What’d it feel like? Did you see a ghost?”

  “Bob, if you say I see ghosts one more time, I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Okay, I won’t use the word ‘ghost’ again.”

  “I knew something Nancy said felt all wrong. So I walked through the back and side yards and realized she was lying through her teeth about Bradley.”

  Is there any other way to lie than through your teeth?

  “How so?” Bob asks.

  “There is no way Bradley is a peeping tom, which Nancy—and Leslie—accused him of being. The houses where I grew up are so small and so close together—not to mention they have small windows— that it would be impossible to look in and see her in her house from his house. Their houses have mirror layouts. The two sides closest to each other are walls and hallways. The angles to see inside her house from his house are all wrong. He would have had to be sitting in Mrs. DeGenares’ house to have any hope of seeing her in any of the living spaces. She was lying.”

  “I’m not sure I understood all your words but I think I know what you’re saying.”

  “I’m not done,” I say.

  “Keep going,” he says.

  “That got me thinking, if she lied about him being a peeper, what else did she say that was untrue.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Don’t know if you remember, but she also made a point of letting me know that Bradley and Ed weren’t spending quality time together—and that Ed didn’t think Bradley liked him. But Ed had a special cubby for Bradley in the garage filled with a half-finished project and plans for future projects. Bradley had his name on the cubby and burnished on a tool built. He had already completed a couple of really nice projects—way too nice to be done without a mentor. She was lying again.”

  “So you think Nancy did it?”

  “I’m not convinced of that.”

  “Leslie?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So where does Nancy fit in?”

  “She might have been working with Leslie the whole time. But why have divorce papers ready to be served that very day? Why attempt suicide? And why did she about have a seizure when Don asked her if Leslie was there the morning of the murder?”

  “Maybe she realized the two of them had been found out.”

  “Maybe. But maybe Leslie was manipulating her to cover his tracks. He didn’t want her to go to jail so he fed her a plausible story-line, knowing she would use it to get us looking another direction.”

  “But you said she lied. That still sounds like she’s an accomplice to me. Maybe you just don’t want her to be guilty.”

  “You might be right, Bob.”

  “Heck, I’m so confused I’m not sure what I’m saying.”

  “Drink another cup of coffee and then get Bradley out of Cook County Juvenile Center. You and the DA can figure out later whether you like Nancy as an accomplice or a stooge.”

  87

  I’M NOT GOOD in hospitals. They wear me out. It is much worse when I’m not the patient. I decide to stay in Reynolds’ room again tonight. He’s at Northwestern Memorial Medical Center just off Michigan Avenue. I have checked on Torgerson who is still in ICU. Not much I can do there. They’ve induced a coma and she’s going to be unconscious for a while. I’m hoping and praying she makes it all the way back.

  I still can’t believe my mom saved Reynolds’ life. Would I have got there in time if she hadn’t acted? Looking at the bruising on his face and his welted swollen neck, I’m not sure. He’s beat up to the point it’s hard to find his face in there. They reset his jaw tomorrow—if they can get the swelling down enough.

  It will be a couple weeks before he can talk. I wonder if he’ll remember what he just had to say to me when I was the one lying in a hospital bed. I wonder if he remembers what I said to him when I found him next to Vladimir Zheglov’s dead body.

  He really is a handsome man, which is part of the reason I’ve always been surprised at his persistent interest in me. I’m guessing it will be more than a couple months before he’s ready to have his picture taken for the cover of GQ Magazine, if ever.

  I pull apart the chair that doubles as a bed and test it. I think it was invented by a guy who flunked out of Chiropractic College. I brought in my phone charger, plugged in, and set the alarm for seven. Hopefully I’ll wake up before it goes off. I don’t want to wake Austin. But I need to at least stay in touch with the office, even if I’m not expected to be there. My mind almost let me make a joke about him needing his beauty sleep, but I self-censored.

  “How’s our soldier?” Willingham asks as he and Van Guten enter the room.

  She’s cold and severe, but no denying, she is beautiful. She wears expensive clothes that fit and flatter perfectly. Her jewelry, unlike the few baubles I have,
is real. She has a way of looking at me that makes me feel very self-conscious. I don’t aspire for what she has or how she presents herself. Not by a mile. But I almost . . . only almost . . . feel inferior when she’s present.

  I’m holding hands with Austin and have been giving him the skinny on everything that happened after he passed out. I might have put him to sleep with my scintillating narrative. It was either that or the drugs. I’m used to having that effect on people when I wax eloquent.

  I feel awkward and self-conscience and I’m tempted to let go of his hand. He squeezes tighter. That might mean he wants to stay connected to me. Or it might mean he’s having a bad dream about a bear chasing him. He’s definitely playing possum with Van Guten present.

  “The soldier probably isn’t going to be able to say much for a while,” I say.

  I feel the squeeze again. Good. He wants to be close. Doesn’t mean we can talk things through. The internal and external damage to his neck, throat, and jaw is going to ensure he is the strong and silent type.

  If he gets better I’ll ask him why he’s giving me the silent treatment. Sometimes people think my jokes are funny.

  A couple days ago I thought he and my sister might be an item. I have to get my thinking back in sync. But what’s the hurry?

  Willingham comes close to Austin and lightly touches his hair. He leans over and whispers in his ear. Do men tell each other “I love you”? Or is he giving him the score of the Rangers-Bruins hockey game? Heck, he may be giving him his next assignment.

  I give them some space.

  “You’ll do just fine,” Van Guten says.

  I nod sagely, wondering what she is talking about.

  “The Cutter Shark appeal doesn’t have a chance.”

  I nod. He’s her subject. I guess she would know what he’s up to.

  “And with Austin.”

  Is that her business? I don’t think so. Dr. Andrews says I need to take down some of the bricks that I’ve used to build a wall to keep others from seeing the real me. She might be right or the real me might be so simple and straightforward that what you see is what you get. Probably both. Either way, I’m leaving the bricks up when Van Guten is around.

  88

  THREE WEEKS AFTER the shootout at my mom’s house, life feels a little bit like normal. Blackshear had to come over to the Second to prepare for a meeting with the District Attorney to review notes for Leslie Levin’s grand jury hearing on charges of first-degree murder and a list of lesser crimes. It’s still not decided what to do with Nancy, even though Levin has turned on her. He’s painting her as the mastermind and an accomplice from day one. Blackshear agrees. I don’t. I think Levin is trying to negotiate a plea bargain that lets him see the light of day before he’s sixty. I wonder if his kids will visit him in prison.

  Blackshear, Squires, Martinez, the new detectives—Sandy Green and Collin Smith—and me are at Big Mike’s on State Street south of the Loop plowing through some gyros. Martinez asked for extra tzatziki, apparently to coat his beard and moustache. He still eats with his mouth half open. I’m not looking his direction.

  “Qué quieres ser el gran jefe?” he asks Don.

  “I haven’t decided. Vanessa and I are still talking—which is a good thing. A big improvement. I still think she still wants to move to LA, but me getting promoted is something she’s wanted, too.”

  “And you?” I ask. “What do you want?”

  “I always wanted to be an attorney. Now I’m not so sure. I definitely have questions about moving. My sister is in rehab and might be doing well—say a prayer. I’ve been given two months to let Zaworski and Czaka know if I’ll take the job. That’s when the Z-man rides back into the sunset. So no hurry.”

  I’ve never heard Don mention his sister to our colleagues. I see questioning looks but that’s apparently all he’s going to say about Debbie. But maybe taking down a single brick is an okay thing.

  “If you stick around here, how about you tell your brother about what a great amigo I am!” Martinez says, about three chews into an enormous bite of gyro. “Tell him I speak much better Spanish than you. That be very good in California.”

  We munch our gyros and discuss a range of topics. Zaworski really is going to retire this time. April or May will be his last month. He says we’ve stolen another ten years from his life. He looked at me when he said that. When we circle back and talk about Squires’ job offer some more, I wonder how Blackshear is taking it. I know it about killed him to get demoted. But he seems fine at the moment. Who isn’t fine when eating? It always helps me.

  We talk about my thrice delayed but upcoming deposition for the Cutter’s appeal—I couldn’t follow all of Martinez’s Spanish when he went on a tirade about it. Gray keeps telling me not to worry. We’re solid.

  We then hit serious issues, like whether the Blackhawks can win the Stanley Cup again and whether Michael Jordan or Lebron James would win a game of one-on-one basketball. We are all amazed at how incredibly well Bradley Starks seems to be doing—knock on wood and say a prayer. It would be nice if he can keep it going and be one of those all-too-rare success stories we need in Chicago. If the kid makes it as a good, decent, normal adult, he would become a nice part of Ed Keltto’s legacy.

  I went to Mr. Ed’s funeral. I don’t know if I was more impressed or sad. He helped a lot of kids. When I got up to leave I saw Nancy heading for the door. It’s a strange funeral when the widow isn’t invited. Nancy. What were you thinking? What is going to happen to you?

  “How’s Austin?” Don asks with a wink, knowing he’s put me on the hot seat.

  I redden and fidget a little—and realize I shouldn’t have ordered so much food. I’m having dinner with Austin tonight. He’s not able to eat solids yet so I end up eating enough for the both of us. I still meet with Andrews every week, not just because I’m required to, but I figure I need some help opening up to people. Austin is top of the list.

  “He’s fine,” I say. “He still can’t talk much so it’s working out pretty well for me. I’m not sure if it’s working out as well for him because he can’t seem to get a word in edgewise.”

  That gets horrified groans from the three guys—and some of it didn’t seem to be play-acting. Green and I look at each other and roll our eyes.

  We pay our bills and head out the door. My foot hits a patch of ice and I end up on my butt. I’ll give my colleagues credit for trying to look concerned before laughing at me. I join them and even Green can’t hold back.

  Martinez reaches out a hand and pulls me up.

  Life can be cold as ice some days, but the people I love are alive, so I’m not complaining.

  89

  I’VE BEEN PLAYED for the fool. It is so obvious and yet I missed it when she planted the seed.

  Dr. Van Guten. You must be taught a lesson. I will let you think you are winning. I will draw you in closer. You’ll never see what I have for you coming.

  Dear Detective Conner . . . dear Kristen . . . I must find a way to let you know that I have not forgotten you. I still think of you every day. Expect to hear from me soon.

  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 publishers, 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