Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (30 page)

After all the speeches were done, Rev. James Wilson Cleveland gave a forty-five-minute sermon on heaven. It was good. He was good. If someone taped the service I’m going to give a copy to Jimmy. Might give him some ideas about moving around and mixing up his tone a little more when he preaches.

Kristen, you are so bad.

I watch as he nods to one of the pallbearers who steps forward and closes the coffin. The auditorium is silent. A slow murmur begins throughout the congregation and then Tandi bolts to her feet, a look of terror in her eyes as she stares at the coffin lid moving down. Now fully awake from a near stupor throughout the service she screams with the same soul-piercing wail I heard seven nights ago when I held her against my chest in front of the broken body of her dead son. My impatience evaporates. Even I know that a moment like this takes as long as it needs. Tandi’s friends and family surrounding her in the pew gather as tight around her as they can. Those closest hug her and the others reach out and lay hands on her. Her wail has been joined with a chorus of crying, praying, and screaming. I just close my eyes and shake my head back and forth. I pray for a mom who has looked at her son’s body for the last time.

After five minutes, Rev. Cleveland begins to pray with a humming tone I have never heard before. Sometimes I can make out his words, sometimes I think he is just humming notes and tones. I am looking at him when I see his head jerk up. His eyes narrow as he looks at the back of the church. Then a thousand heads turn. At the very back of the center aisle is a Hispanic man in a black suit. He is being held by two CPD uniforms.

“Let me speak. I pray, let me speak,
senor
,” he calls to Wilson.

I think everyone in the church service collectively holds their breath.

“I come in the name of the Lord, please let me speak,” he calls out, his voice rising with urgency.

Heads turn slowly from front to back and to front again.

“Step forward,” Cleveland says with a nod. “Let him go,” he says, glaring at the two police officers.
No matter what you do
. . . nah, it’s not the time to be defensive and let my mind go there.

The officers release him. He squares his shoulders and walks down the center aisle with every eye on him. I look around and see hatred in the eyes of some and curiosity with others. He nods in respect to Cleveland and slowly passes the closed casket. He kisses two of his fingers and touches the casket. He steps up the four risers to the platform and stands next to Cleveland. He nods at the microphone as if to ask permission. Cleveland nods in assent.

“My name is Rodrigo Espinoza. I was born in
La Playa Ortes
, the Dominican Republic. My family came to this country to flee from the hideous dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo three years after I was born.”

No one is stirring. Where is he going with this?

“We came here for a better life. For safety. For prosperity. We did not come here to continue the hatred and violence of my native land.”

No one is restless or stirring. Except for me. I have had to go the bathroom for the past hour.

Focus.

“I come before you today because we love one God and one
Jesús
Cristo
. We are brothers and sisters in Christ.”

He puts his head down and begins to sob. Amazingly, Cleveland puts an arm around him to comfort him. Espinoza raises his head and looks to heaven and then directly at Keshan’s mom, Tandi.

“My nephew, Tito, was one of the boys who have done this evil thing in the sight of God and man. I wish to apologize from the deepness of my heart for what my family has done. My heart is broken. My words cannot bring back your son. I know I can’t ask you to forgive me, to forgive us, for what we have done to you. I only ask you to pray in your heart that you can forgive us some later day. I ask everyone here and I will ask everyone where I live to shed no more blood. I don’t want my family to cause no more bloodshed.

“My name is Rodrigo Espinoza, born in
La Playa Ortes
, the Dominican Republic, where the stones of the land still cry out for justice. Sometimes you can’t get no justice so I ask for forgiveness. That is all I came to say.”

He turns and embraces Cleveland and begins the slow walk to retrace his steps.

• • •

We are in the conference room at the Second. Don has just told everyone what happened at the funeral.

“Rodrigo Espinoza?” Martinez asks again.

“Yes,” I answer for Don.

“If he’s who I think he is, he’s a longtime gang banger. Drugs and violence. Just like his old man. We need to watch that cat.”

“He looked sincere,” Don says. “If that was an acting job he should be nominated for an Academy Award.”

“People do change,” Blackshear says. “Just not often.”

“Well if that’s the Espinoza I think it is and he got religion, then I better start going to mass and confessing my sins more often.”

“Do you have that much free time?” Don asks with a wink.

Eight of us sit around the table silently for what feels like five minutes. Konkade smooths the nonexistent hair on his bald dome. Martinez blows in and out as if he wants to say something but then decides not to. Blackshear picks nothing off his spotless tie. Randall moves a pencil around his knuckles and between his fingers in a practiced routine. I close my eyes and sigh. I look up at the broken tiles of the drop ceiling.

I’m glad Don told the story for us. He’s much better at presentations than I am. I’m also a little mad. I know I’m mad because of foolish pride. I still can’t fathom what Tandi Brown is feeling right now. But on the way out of Prince of Peace someone spit on me. It took every ounce of self control I had to keep looking and moving forward. I saw who did it and still want to pop him in the mouth.

I pray for a forgiving spirit. I pray that I can keep things in perspective. And I pray I keep my mouth shut.

Yep. Five minutes. I think that was a record for one of our meetings going without a word spoken.

46

“DON’T TELL ME. You’re still at the office and you haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Good guess, Austin.”

“Hungry?”

“Always.”

I was actually about to turn off my computer and pick up some Chinese carry-out on my way home. It’s after 8:00 and between the six hours I spent at the Prince of Peace Church for the funeral, a staff meeting, and rereading my notebook so I could write summary file reports on the Keshan Brown funeral, I am beat.

“I was only partially guessing that you were still at the office. I have my sources you know.”

“You’re my favorite stalker.”

“There are others?” he asks with mock hurt.

“Come to think of it, there might be one. Either that or someone keeps texting love notes to the wrong number. So how did you know I’m still at the office—or are your sources confidential?”

“You know the answer to that. I work for the FBI—all our sources are strictly confidential.”

“Well they are good . . . or maybe you just have me under electronic surveillance. I hear the FBI is good at that, too.”

“Electronic surveillance is for sissies. Just don’t look behind the potted plant next to Shelly’s desk or you’ll find my hiding place.”

“Now’s your chance to clear out. I’m getting ready to water that with the burnt sludge we call coffee here.”

“I only tried Homicide’s coffee once—and it is toxic. I’m already out the door. But the good news is I’m parked in front of your building and I’m ready to whisk you off for dinner. I’m in the mood for steak and the Morton’s on State Avenue has a table with my name on it awaiting us.”

“You’re in Chicago?”

Duh.

“I’m back, even though I got better-offered last time I tried to take you out. And I’m starved. But what you really need to know is I’d like to see you.”

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for Morton’s.”

“No worries. The lighting is low and you look fabulous whatever you are wearing.”

“That means you have to bring me back here to get my car.”

“That’s not a problem. Or I could drive you home.”

“But then I have to take the bus in the morning.”

“I can drive you to work, too. My day starts late.”

“So you’re gonna drive me home, go back to wherever you’re staying, then come back and get me in the morning.”

“If necessary,” he says flirtatiously.

“It is. Or would be. Just bring me back here tonight.”

“I can’t change your mind?”

“Nope. And I wouldn’t push it if I was you.”

“I somehow knew you were going to say that,” he laughs.

“And Austin, if you want to go somewhere quicker and cheaper that’s fine with me too.”

“I told you, I’m starving for a Chicago steak.”

“You really out front?”

“I am. Would I lie to you?”

No. But you have been known to leave a few details out.

I hang up and power down my computer. I can print my reports in the morning. I need to do a final edit on the Ferguson report.

I put things away and lock my desk drawers and file cabinet. I unlock the top desk drawer and pull out a compact I keep there and take a quick peak.
Ugh
. I actually did my hair this morning with a soft curl. It’s fallen flat. I have dark rings under my eyes. Long day. I have on my best skirt suit. Black of course. White blouse. A string of fake black pearls and matching earrings. All understated because of the occasion. Bobbie wouldn’t approve but
I yam what I yam
.

I relock the drawer and exit my cubicle. I stop and reenter my cubicle. I unlock the top drawer yet again. I pop a couple Tic Tacs in my mouth. I’m not going to get close enough to Reynolds to need them but I’ve drank enough bad coffee all day that my breath is rivaling my sweat socks after a ten-mile run through the Drake Memorial Forest Preserve.

I make fun of Don for keeping a toothbrush in his cubicle. I now wish I shared his meticulous planning.

I lock up and head for the elevator. My phone pings. A text.

I think of you all the time. Every breath you take.

Reynolds, are you messing with me? I’ll be there in a second. I look again and see a blocked number same as before. Austin wouldn’t joke like this anyway.

Five minutes ago I was telling Reynolds I might have a real stalker—but not really believing it myself or taking it too seriously. Now I’m wondering if something is going on I should be concerned with. Is this my third or fourth text from an unknown admirer? At least I assume it’s an admirer. That might be wishful thinking.

I walk through the nearly deserted downstairs lobby and out the front door. The air is crisp. I think fall is Chicago’s best season. I look up and see a full moon above our amber glow of smog. Reynolds has stepped out of his rental car. A Cadillac of course. It would be a Mercedes but the FBI requires their officers to select American-made cars. He is wearing his Reynolds uniform. Navy suit. White French-cuff shirt with black onyx cuff links. I’m not close enough to verify, but I’m sure his initials are monogrammed on sleeve and chest pocket. Red tie with subtle designs I see as I get closer.

We give each other a quick hug and he places a small kiss on my cheek, as close to the corner of my mouth as you can get without touching it. No doubt, he is a good-looking man.

He walks me around to the passenger door and opens it for me. He doesn’t even walk back around until my legs are tucked in and he can shut the door for me. What a gentleman, especially when you consider we were yelling at each other a month ago.

So who is Major Austin Reynolds of the FBI to me? And who am I to him? I keep trying to deny it but he is unmistakeably a person-of-interest in my seemingly nonexistent love life.

• • •

I need to shower off the remains of a long day. All I want to do is stumble into my bedroom and fall on my bed and go to sleep. I force myself to spend two minutes under a steaming hot spray of water. Can my teeth wait until morning? I run my tongue over the front of my barnacle-encrusted top teeth. Not a chance. I fire up the Braun after loading it with enough AquaFresh to caulk a log cabin.

I put on some face lotion and head to the bedroom. I look at the phone on my nightstand. The red message light is flashing. I should listen. But I’m too tired and ignore it.

Dinner was marvelous. I’ve never eaten at Morton’s. They don’t have a printed menu. I thought every restaurant had a menu. The server brought a shiny silver tray with the various cuts of meat that old Mort offers. He also showed us fresh asparagus and a raw baked potato. Both looked to have been genetically altered to feed a tribe of giants. I wondered if they had an electric chain saw to cut through the stalks of the asparagus. Ever the delicate fair maiden, I ordered the sixteen-ounce Kansas City strip. The waiter said it was boneless. I hope he was right because I ate everything on my plate. My mom yells at me not to eat fat. I usually don’t. But that fat tasted way too good to leave for the garbage disposal.