Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (20 page)

He just shrugs.

Shelly walks into the room toward us with a kid who looks like he might be a sophomore in high school.

“Here’s Detective Conner now,” she says.

He looks up at the board, sees the cratered head of Jack Durham and looks down quickly.

“I got your phone, ma’am.”

Ma’am? I know he looks young but just how old do I look?

“Anything I need to know about this?”

“If you’ve ever had an old text and call phone with no bells and whistles you should be fine.”

“Then I’m fine,” I say.

“I taped the number on the back like you asked,” he says.

After dinner with Klarissa last night I talked with Bobbie and she said Derrick had called her three different times asking for my number. Not sure why we didn’t think of getting me a special number for this case up front. It’s obvious I need a number dedicated to my undercover assignment. We don’t need Derrick or anyone else calling me and hearing me answer it “Detective Conner” or even my usual brisk “Conner.” I’m supposed to be breathlessly awaiting his call as if nothing else in the world is more important to me. Bobbie told me to sound enchanted next time he calls.
Gag me.

“Could you sign here, ma’am?” the newbie IT kid says.

“I can, but if you call me ma’am one more time I’m going to arrest you for assault and battery.”

He looks flustered and his eyes dart to the left. I now know what’s up. I look over as Don tries to dart his fat head back around the corner.

“How much did he pay you?” I ask the kid

Now the techie looks real flustered. I look more closely and see the name Kenny on his laminated ID badge.

“I think it was just a little joke ma- . . . uh, Detective Conner.”

“How much, Kenny?”

“Just a $5 card for JavaStar.”

He has gone white as a ghost. He thinks he’s in trouble. Poor kid.

“Make Detective Squires’ phone go dead and I’ll make it a $20 gift card,” I say.

“I can’t do that . . . uh, Detective. What if a call came in for him with a hot crime tip? I could get in a lot of trouble.”

I shake my head and say, “Just kidding, Kenny. Just kidding. Enjoy your coffee.”

When you’re working a case that features a guy’s head cratered in, you need a little humor to keep sane. Despite what Czaka thinks.

30

“SANDERS,” SHE ANSWERS abruptly.

“Hi, Gretchen,” I say. “This is Conner. Detective Kristen Conner.”

A pause. I really do make a big impression on people.

“We met on the Durham case at the Second,” I add.

“Of course. Sorry, Detective Conner. I’ve had my head buried in a project.”

“Call me Kristen.”

Another pause. She doesn’t know why I’m calling.

“Gretchen, you gave me your card at the end of our meeting and told me to call you,” I prompt.

“Right. Thanks. I just need to get refocused.”

I wait.

“Uh . . . Conner . . . this is a little embarrassing.”

Okay.

“I probably shouldn’t have asked you to call. I’m out of line. But I know you’re the one who solved the Cutter Shark case so I thought I’d reach out to you informally. Off the record. That okay?”

“Sure.”

“I wanted to ask you how Randall is working out in the Second?”

Huh? Now I’m the one who’s tongue-tied.

“I’ve just been back on the job a week or so, so I really don’t know Randall that well. But he seems to be on top of things. I think he’s doing good.”

What else am I going to say about a colleague?

“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” she says with a sigh, no longer the stern professional I met a couple days ago.

Where is this going?

“Here, I’m just going to say it,” she blurts out. “Randall was getting a lot of attention with your Internal Affairs due to his finances. It spilled over to city hall. He may have been on paid leave—I’m not sure on all the details. IA came to us and asked for his tax records. I never heard how it turned out—but I thought he looked . . . uh . . . pretty corrupt. I hadn’t given him another thought, and then there he was in that meeting, knee-deep in a case that involves a lot of money. That struck me as a strange.”

“Should I be hearing this?” I ask.

“Probably not. Do me a favor and forget I called.”

She didn’t call, I called. And the answer is not
probably not
. It’s
for sure not
. I’ve been looked at by IA once myself, and I know I wouldn’t want any of that being whispered to the people I work with behind my back.

“I can do that,” I answer.

“I apologize,” she says again. “I told you I was way out of bounds. I’m sure he got cleared.”

You can’t be a detective if you don’t have an inquiring mind. But there are also things you don’t want cluttering your thinking in the middle of a murder investigation, namely, whether you can trust your colleagues. It’s a hard enough job without getting into your teammates’ personal life.

We exchange a few pleasantries and are both relieved to get off the call.

What kind of financial trouble did Randall have?

• • •

“Is Derrick going to be a problem?”

“Derrick? Not the Derrick I know. Why are you asking?”

“He’s apparently got a crush on Detective Conner.”

“Derrick? C’mon. You’re wasting my time.”

“He’s called multiple times, dying to get a second night with her.”

A long pause.

“Okay, good to know. I’m skeptical but who knows with Jack and his friends? Let me think about that one for a bit. Just keep me informed on what’s happening.”

“Do you think Derrick could be involved in Jack’s . . . in his murder?”

“I would be shocked, but let me give it some thought. No way anyone knows you’re calling me, right?”

“Not unless they find the prepaid I’m using.”

“Good. And good work. I’ll get back to you on Derrick if I have any ideas.”

• • •

“Conner,” I answer.

“Reynolds,” Austin says, mimicking my tone.

“So where does Willingham have you?” I ask. “Wait,” I say quickly, “don’t tell me because if you did, I know you’d have to . . . ”

“Very funny, Kristen,” he says. “But I’m glad you asked. I’m in D.C. now, but heading your way. I wanted to see if you wanted to get together for some dinner and catch-up on Thursday night?”

I almost answer yes, but then realize I’m going out with Derrick Jensen.

“Bad timing, Austin. I’m booked Thursday night.”

“Snowflake soccer or a hot date?”

I pause. How do I answer this?

“I think you just answered my question,” he says.

Do I detect a trace of jealousy? We’re not actually a couple, last I heard.

“I guess you could say I’ve got a hot date,” I answer. “But it’s on the clock. It’s this Durham case. Rain check on Friday?”

“No can do,” he says, just a little too cheerfully. “It’s a one-day trip.”

We make some small talk but it’s suddenly awkward. He signs off quick.

Okay. Maybe he has thought of me some—and I’ve been thinking of him way too much. But we don’t even know each other and we’re way too much alike. Neither of us expresses our feelings very well, so a long-distance relationship isn’t very feasible.

The problem is the only kind of relationship I’m good at is long distance.

31

SEVEN OF US are standing in Zaworski’s office. When did stand-up meetings get so popular? Standing is supposed to keep us on task and shorten meeting times so we can be more productive. I’ve not seen that benefit yet. I feel like I’m at church during the singing.

Besides Blackshear and me, there is the usual list of suspects—Squires, Martinez, Randall, and Konkade—and a money investigator, Byron Tedford.

It is strange to be in Zaworski’s office and see Blackshear behind the desk, standing of course. Between Zaworski popping back into the office between chemo treatments and Czaka meddling, he’s not been allowed to run the show, but he’s just been given title of acting captain. If we can close this case, it will probably become a permanent promotion. That’s why we’re meeting. After a few weeks of chasing our tails, we found something.

“Go through this for me one more time, Byron,” Blackshear says. “I meet with Czaka in twenty-five minutes and he wants something. I don’t want to force anything, but this actually sounds good.”

It’s Wednesday afternoon. Don and I spent all morning with Byron Tedford, one of the financial forensic investigators assigned to our case. I met him once before on a case where a low-level drug dealer got killed; I thought I remembered his name and called him Bryan. Close but no cigar.

Byron built a spreadsheet on everyone that is an independent contractor for Barbara Ferguson that proved quite revealing. Don told him to clear his afternoon schedule and get over to the Second with us to show the team. He handed out an impressive set of printouts for everyone.

“This is very simple and basic,” he says. “Don’t make it more difficult than it is. All I’ve done is chart an annual and monthly profit and loss statement and then a balance sheet for each of the ladies. I’ve built in cross-tabulations based on demographics like age, years of service, debt, and assets prior to working with Ferguson, and then the obvious numbers like monthly expenses and earnings.

“Penny Martin is off the charts on topline income, literally. I had to build her as an inset on Excel before graphing her with the others. She’s a little like Alaska or Hawaii on a US map. She doesn’t fit real easy.”

I’m not very good with numbers—and when he throws in the cross tabulations I don’t see it as that simple. I was okay in math but the stats class I had to take for my criminal justice degree was tough sledding. I didn’t take any business courses other than a government management principles class my senior year. Tedford should have taught my stats class. I have a simple mind and he has drawn a picture simple enough that even I can see it.

It’s simple. Penny makes a ton more money than the others who work for Bobbie. She had less money than all but a few before she came to work for Bobbie, but now has a couple accounts that show her to be just south of being a millionaire. Tedford doubts she has shown us all her accounts. So unless she is working twenty-four hours a day, seven-days-a-week, something doesn’t add up.

That leads to a second comparison chart. All the other contractors make an average of ten deposits per month. Penny makes two deposits.

“She’s either blackmailing someone or she’s got a sugar daddy,” Tedord says. “Either way, whoever is supplying the monthly nut is being way too careful, which makes this even more suspicious. I’ve been able to track her main source of income back to a bank in Switzerland.”

“Is there a name on the account?” I ask.

“None.”

“Can we find one?” Blackshear asks.

“Not a chance. The Swiss have relaxed privacy laws in the case of terrorists and the like, but not because we think someone is funding a call girl in Chicago.”

“It’s a murder case,” Konkade says.

“It’ll be in the cold case files by the time you get the name,” Tedford says. “Doesn’t mean we can’t file paperwork, I’m just telling you it’s going to take a year, minimum. Oh, and by the way, there may not even be a name on it—just some initials from a shell corporation in the Cayman Islands or some other banking center for people hiding money. I’m not telling you your business, but you’re going to have to leverage the destination of the money, namely Penny Martin, and maybe you won’t need the name.”

“So you think she is blackmailing someone?” Don asks.

“You’re the detectives,” Tedford says. “I can’t give you motive. All I’m showing you is someone is giving her a boatload of money every month.”

“She’s hit paydirt,” I add.

“Just about everyone on Jack Durham’s known associates list is paydirt,” Tedford says.

“Who gives someone a hundred-grand a month if it’s not blackmail?” Konkade asks rhetorically.

Tedford answers anyway. “Like I said, I’m not getting into motives. But a hundred-grand a month isn’t much for someone like Jack Durham or Derrick Jensen or Kelly Granger. Those three have the most. It would take a bite out of some of the others—and yeah, then it might be blackmail. If you can get Martin talking and find out the source that would at least be a clue on motive. If it’s Jack for example, he might just be a very satisfied customer—in other words, a sugar daddy.”

“You can’t find a hundred-thousand-dollar expense in his accounts?” I ask. “That’s a big chunk of money for anyone.”

“We’re still working on it,” Tedford answers. “I’m telling you, everything we get from his dad’s firm, which serves as his money manager, is like pulling teeth.”

“You’d think his dad would open the books on Jack to help find his murderer,” Squires says.