Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (36 page)

“Well, he or she seems to know where I am, including when I’m home. And what’s on my TV.”

He blew out air and said, “Not good.”

I then reported on seeing the punk, Jared Incaviglia. That led to a series of questions on Monster from everyone. I might have mentioned my self-defense strategy. I think Martinez and Randall were concerned for his safety. Maybe Reynolds was right with his advice. I guess it’s easier to love dogs than people sometimes.

“Blackshear, I think you should issue an APB with the escapees’ last known whereabouts. You should have called this in last night, Conner,” Zaworski said.

He was right.

“You know what else you should have reported, Conner?”

Uh oh.

“You should have reported that Durham’s friend, Dirk Jetson or whatever his name is, was pestering you. That might have saved us the hassle of getting chewed on by Flannigan.”

“But maybe we wouldn’t have found out about Jack being Penny’s dad,” I defended.

“We would have got it from Ferguson’s safe a couple days later anyway,” Randall said.

“You said he called and texted a lot,” Zaworski continued, ignoring Randall. “How much is a lot?”

“Maybe twenty missed calls and twice that many texts,” I answered meekly.

“Any voice messages?”

“A few.”

“What were those about?” he barked.

The captain was hitting his stride and appeared to be feeling more like himself.

“Uh . . . they were all the same . . . he wants me to go out with him on a date.”

“Did you say yes or no?” Martinez asked with a smirk.

Antonio might get knocked off my Christmas card list this year if he’s not careful.

“Is there anything else?” Zaworski asks.

“Seems like enough at the moment,” I answer.

This gets a laugh from everyone—and for once I think it is not because they’re laughing at me but because I said something funny. I am legendary for my ability to butcher a joke.

“Yeah, it is,” Zaworski says. “Anyone else feel like their life is pretty boring next to Conner’s?”

Everyone laughs even harder this time. I don’t think he was funnier. He just got the extra enthusiasm bosses always do.

“Can we exploit this?” Blackshear asks.

The laughter dies quickly.

“What do you mean?” Zaworski asks.

“What if she goes out with him? Flannigan said we need to find some new rocks to turn over and I mostly agree—but it still seems to me like we’ve already talked to the murderer—or murderers. This was a cozy little club. Conner said it. There’s a good chance the two murders are related. Derrick has held out on us before. He might still be withholding valuable information.”

“Derrick met Kristen’s boyfriend when the two went to his apartment,” Squires says.

“Not actually,” I say. “We met with him as colleagues. Derrick probably assumed Austin was CPD.”

“What do you think, Kristen?” Zaworski asks.

“I am kind of what I am, sir.”
Is that stupid or profound?
“I did three dates for the department and two were certified disasters. The middle one, the Bears game, might have been, too. Nothing really came of it. The big thing is . . . I don’t think I can pretend to be interested in the guy—he kind of gives me the creeps. So I doubt I’d be able to draw anything from him that we haven’t already heard through traditional interviews.”

“Fair enough,” Zaworski says. “I tend to agree, but your call, Bob.”

“Wishful thinking on my part,” he says. “Anyone else have any ideas?”

I came up with checking other vehicles that entered and left the parking garage. Doubt that yields anything. So we’re at a standstill. Again.

“One time,” I say. “But that’s it.”

“I appreciate that, Conner,” Zaworski says. “Now I want to give you some direction. You know how I always tell you to not get your panties in a bunch and fight with everyone?”

He’s never actually said that and I’m not sure that imagery is appropriate in today’s politically correct climate.

“I know what you’re saying,” I answer, letting it go.

“Good,” he responds. “My direction is to ignore my previous advice. If you’ve got one night on the town with him, grind him for everything you can get out of him.”

56

YET ANOTHER PROBLEM.

I don’t want this Detective Kristen Conner seeing the surveillance tapes and I don’t want her talking with Jensen.

I was right to wonder about her.

One way or another I need to deal with her.

• • •

I called Derrick back and asked if he was doing better. It took him all of fifteen seconds to ask if I wanted to go to the James Taylor concert at the Odium on Friday night. Heck yes. I love Sweet Baby James. It crosses my mind that we can’t have a conversation during a concert, which will make my night easier. Then I remember the point of going out with Derrick is to talk . . . actually to
grind
him for information.

Reynolds called. I told him what was going on with Derrick. He didn’t like the idea and didn’t seem very happy about it. He’s seen Derrick up close and personal. I know he’s not jealous. Is he being protective? I don’t think Derrick could harm a fly.

I’m sprawled out on the couch. I’ve got my Silva book open and am halfway through. It’s only 11:00 so I might knock out sixty or seventy more pages before I head for bed. I decide to send Reynolds a text. He’s a big boy and isn’t threatened by Derrick Jensen. But feeling good about where he stands with me is another matter. I’m going out on a limb but I guess I want him to feel good.

I pick my phone up off the coffee table. Before I can start my text, I get sonar pinged. Someone is texting me. Maybe Reynolds had the same idea as me. Wouldn’t prove true love but it would be sweet.

I swipe the screen and read:
What page are you on? Still on my mind with every breath you take.

I’m off the couch like a shot. I storm into my bedroom, open my nightstand drawer, snag the key tucked underneath, and open my lock box. I pull out the Sig Sauer and check the clip. Locked and loaded. I release the safety.

I turn all the lights off. My apartment has no side windows, but three in the back; the one in my bedroom, a double-wide in my living room, and a third in my guest bedroom. All have the same view, but I crouch low and look out all three. I see the same thing each time: a narrow ribbon of grass that is the backyard of my complex, an eight-foot cyclone fence that is an eyesore, and then the back parking lot of Van Buren High School. Nobody out there I can spot.

The front of my apartment has a small window over the kitchen sink that looks out an open air landing with a staircase to the right that leads up and down. Can’t see much from there. I walk into my entry hall and open the door. I turn the deadbolt so it doesn’t latch shut on me. I look over the railing into the parking lot. No movement.

There really is no vantage point to look in my apartment. I have a sudden flash. I wheel back in, locking the door behind me. I turn on every light and get a flashlight for good measure. I start in my bedroom. Nothing. Kitchen. Ditto. Spare bedroom. Nada. I find it hidden in some fake plants on top of my TV-stereo cabinet. I don’t touch or move it.

My face flushes an angry and embarrassed red trying to remember if I walked through here without any clothes on. I don’t usually parade around naked, but I live alone so I don’t worry about modesty when taking a load of laundry to the closet where I have a stacked washer and dryer.

My stalker is an electronic Peeping Tom. I’ve been on Candid Camera.

• • •

“I can come over but it isn’t my specialty,” Jerome, the ME techie says.

I remembered him telling me he lives close to me so I buzzed him after calling it into Dispatch. A couple uniformed investigators are on their way over. Do I call Konkade? He coordinates action plans in Homicide. There’s a good chance this isn’t connected to the Durham-Ferguson murders. But you never know. I decide to let him sleep and leave a message for him on his office phone. Nothing to do tonight but make a report.

“Don’t worry about it, Jerome.”

“No problem, I’m on my way,” he says. “The uniforms won’t know what to do with what you’re describing. I’ll at least make sure it gets sorted and bagged right.”

“Thanks, Jerome. You’re my hero.”

“Here to serve. And by the way, after what you did to that psycho this summer, you really are my hero. And I’m smart enough to know I’ll never start a fight with you.”

• • •

Three in the morning. My place is finally empty. I’m too wired to sleep. I remember I was going to send Reynolds a text.

Sweet dreams.

I open my book to read, but I think I was secretly hoping he’d wake up and text something back. I’m too distracted to follow the storyline and I don’t want to get things mixed up. I snap the book shut. I put my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling for thirty minutes. I get up, shower, get dressed, and head for the office. JavaStar isn’t open yet. Wish I could make coffee like Penny Martin does at home.

Sleep eludes me. I stare at the ceiling. Who really killed Jack Durham? I’m willing to bet it’s the same person that killed Barbara Ferguson, which means it wasn’t Penny Martin. I urge my mind to walk through interviews and reports and pictures.

An idea pops into my mind. I’m not sure it gets us any closer to the killer, but it’s probably something we should have thought of before.

57

MEN. THEY THINK
they rule the world. But as long as you let them think they are in control they are so easy to manipulate.

Barbara did it with Jack from his sixteenth birthday on. Some role model you were, Mom. I still can’t believe his dad, my grandfather, hired a hooker for him as a birthday present. What were you thinking? I guess I can’t protest too much or I wouldn’t exist.

So grandpa wants to meet me. Will he claim me as part of the family or write one of his checks for me to go away? We’ll see how that goes. Either way I am going to become very wealthy—if I can stay out of jail. Maybe I can. Maybe grandpa can help. I didn’t kill Jack but it still looks like I did. The DA won’t let it go.

Derrick said my grandpa ruined my father’s life. But even so, Barbara—I will never be able to think of her as Mom—controlled Jack’s life.

Sad to say, Jack was a weak man. He didn’t know how to deal with Barbara and his dad, so he checked out—and took his friends down the rabbit hole with him.

It took me five years to find Barbara. She didn’t even recognize her own daughter. Then Jack saw my picture and asked for me. If it hadn’t been the same day I confronted her, things would have been even messier than they were. Can you imagine?

She told me he changed his mind about seeing me. I knew she was lying. I just didn’t know why.

It was Derrick that connected all the dots for me. When I let Jack know I knew I was his daughter—and that Barbara was my mom—he knew Derrick told me. I thought it was Derrick who would be a murder victim.

Barbara and Jack, mom and dad, agreed on one thing and one thing only. Stay away from Derrick. That’s not something I totally understand even now. Maybe I’ll ask him.

He’s the only one who has been nice to me from the start.

Can he help me? I don’t know. Will he help me if he can? I think he might.

I’m going to need all the help I can get.

• • •

“Do you think this Penny is innocent?” asks Robert Durham, Sr.

Don and I are in his palatial office along with his son, Robert, Jr., and my football buddy, Stanley McGill, Durham, Sr.’s personal attorney and a partner in the firm.

Don and I look at each other.

“You know we can’t answer that directly,” I say. “We’re here to ask you questions.”

That gets a wry smile and nod of the head in my direction.

“I would never want hinder the police from doing their duty. So, by all means, ask away.”

I look down at my notebook. Not sure why I’m lead questioner. Don is better at it than me.

“How well—”

“Let me just interrupt once,” Durham, Sr. says. “You can appreciate the position I am in. If Penny is my granddaughter, I by all means want to welcome her into the family. But if she killed my son, that will not go over well with Jack’s mother.”

“Or you?” I ask.

“Nor me,” he answers, icy blue eyes boring a hole in my skull. “I simply wanted you to understand our dilemma and why I asked.”

“What we can say,” Don says, “is District Attorney Flannigan has not dropped the charges. That’s a matter of public record.”

“Thank you, Detective Squires,” he says.

Durham, Sr. sits back comfortably in his chair. He looks at Durham, Jr. and at Stanley. He looks me straight in the face. Don is getting ready to play the role of the Invisible Detective this time around.