Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (39 page)

“I wasn’t playing.”

“Even better. You were hard to get. You were a true whale. So when he finally caught you, he . . .”

She hesitates long enough for me to finish for her: “He got bored and had buyer’s remorse.”

She sighs. I’m incorrigible.

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you,” I say. “I agree. I’ve always confessed to being boring.”

“You’re not boring.”

“I’m thirty. All I do is go to work, coach my niece’s soccer team, go to church with my family, run the steps at my local high school, read the paper and do the crossword, and repeat the following week.”

“And you do have a knack for catching bad people. That’s interesting.”

“True. But that’s covered with my statement that I go to work.”

“I think it’s sweet you’re calling him Austin.”

“I haven’t talked to him for five days, so I’m actually not calling him anything.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a little confused. It was kind of interesting to get a little closer to someone. On purpose. And kind of like it. But I wasn’t looking for a relationship and I have some pretty big questions on getting serious with him. Little things like religion.”

“What is he?”

“I’m not sure. I seem to remember him saying Episcopal.”

“Have you explained that Conner girls are Baptist?”

“Not yet.”

“Well next time he’s in town, invite him to Sunday dinner at Kaylen’s. Mom will set things straight for you. It’ll save you a lot of time.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“It’ll force him to fish or cut bait.”

“Do you know what that means?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says wrinkling her nose.

So I’m a whale?

• • •

I’m not setting my alarm. I’m exhausted. If I wake up by 8:30, I’ll go to church. If I sleep later, can I assume God wanted me to catch up on my sleep? Does He approve of me attending Bedside Baptist?

62

“I’M NOT ASKING you to hurt her, am I?”

“No, but this has gone far enough. I didn’t sign up to harass cops.”

“All I’m asking is for you to keep her off-balance. The text messages have probably run their course.”

“So she has you worried too?”

“Concerned . . . and yes, maybe a little worried. She’s interesting. I can see where it would be easy to take her lightly and then,
bam
, she’s all over you.”

“Listen, she found the camera and bugs in her place. She’ll be on guard. I’m not sure I can risk anything else.”

“But you said she didn’t find the location tracker on her car.”

“If she did, she’s left it there as a trap.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Not really.”

“Then just do something . . . doesn’t have to be a big deal . . . just do something when you know where she is and will be occupied.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“No. You’ll do more than think about it. I’m not paying you to think about things.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Don’t forget that. And don’t forget you owe me big time.”

“How could I with you always reminding me?”

• • •

Not sure why, but I woke early and read the
Chicago Trib
at JavaStar. The reviewer said the James Taylor concert was incredible. Would have been nice—but I’m relieved I didn’t have to go out with Derrick. But the big story was on the front page and had a big picture of Penny Martin next to a big picture of Angela Flannigan: “Flannigan Keeps Murder Victim’s Daughter Under Arrest.”

I read the article, which is amazingly accurate on our internal discussions. I know leaks to the press is a way of life, but this is ridiculous.

The article has an inset that will get a lot of attention: “Who Is in the Brookside Madame’s Little Black Book?” I flip back to the story. Not sure where that piece of evidence is being held, but so far it hasn’t sprung leaks.

There is a third Durham/Ferguson story that starts on the front page: “Billionaire in a State of Drunken Depression.” Okay, is this a major city newspaper or a rag you would buy at the grocery store?

Durham, Sr. didn’t look drunk or depressed when I saw him. Junior looked fine too. If one of my siblings had been murdered I would be devastated.

I pull my sprial-ring notebook out of my purse and write a note:
Talk to Junior without his dad present.
I doubt we can keep McGill away.

I write another reminder to myself in question form:
What the heck is taking so long to get a new search warrant for Penny’s place?
Randall is working on it for Konkade. Despite what Sanders said to me, he seems okay. He’s just slow on everything. I know something is in her condo and I know right where it is.

• • •

After church I took the kids out for pizza and back over to the hospital. I held the baby again. A bunch of people have come through and apparently Jimmy has been loaded with more casseroles than the refrigerator and freezer can hold. I walked downstairs with him so he could put a few in my trunk. I might have enough variations on cheese and noodles to last a lifetime. Jimmy offered some to Klarissa who just looked horror-stricken.

Kaylen is sleeping again, which is good, since she can’t take pain pills. Jimmy, Klarissa, and Mom look tired but have everything under control. Time for me take my leave.

The temperature dropped below freezing overnight. It’s a little warmer than that now but cold. Weather guy on WCI Radio said first snow could hit by tomorrow. Time to get out my tarp and cover my car.

I decide to get at least one more outdoor run in and drive west to River Forest and park at the Thatcher Woods Forest Preserve. I take off on a seven-mile course I’ve done before. I’ve switched my Sig to a sport holster under my Under Armour cold weather gear. I need to think. I put in earbuds from my iPod but turn the volume way down low.

Someone set up a surveillance camera in my home. Lots of times people have to go to counseling after their home has been burglarized. They feel a sense of personal violation even if they weren’t there, which is usually the case. In essence, someone was present and right beside me. What am I feeling? Definite concern over what images someone got of me and what they might do with them. Once something goes up on the Internet there is no calling it back. It can run off to a million different sites and a million different personal computers. Heck, I didn’t go to counselling after a fight to the death with a serial killer, so I doubt I’m going to seek help on this. Do I feel violated? Yes. But I think what I feel most strongly is anger.

I’m not sure what Flannigan is going to do with Martin—with today’s lead story she is going to have to fish or cut bait, whatever that exactly means.

I think of the evidence against Penny, her DNA at the site and proof she was in the area, which proved she lied about her alibi. It won’t be hard to weave a motive around her feeling rejected by her father. I’m sure Flannigan can tell a good story.

Personally, the Durham and Ferguson murders feel absolutely related to me. If Flannigan determines they aren’t, we will officially be investigating only one murder, Bobbie Ferguson.

Derrick told me he can change. Color me skeptical. Bobbie did worse things, but seeing her that last time humanized her for me. Maybe through her love for her daughter and God’s forgiveness she could have become a new person.

I can faintly hear Foreigner in my earbuds. I reach down and turn up the volume. Kelly Hansen is wailing, “You’re as cold as ice, you’re willing to sacrifice our love . . .” Was that what Penny felt toward her dad? Did his betrayal, known and unknown, drive her to kill him?

I need to keep thinking about the Martin and Ferguson cases but my mind keeps jumping to Reynolds. I don’t think he’s done anything to sacrifice our love, since neither of us has ever said anything remotely related to love and being together forever and all those other mushy things people in love talk about. Klarissa asked if I am hurt that he’s gone silent. I’m still not sure. I might be feeling a little relief. In the Middle Ages I might be a grandma. But even though I’ve got the number three in front of my age I think there are a lot of teen girls more ready to have a steady boyfriend than me.

I look at my watch. It’s 4:00. I do a quick estimate and calculation in my mind. Seven-minute miles give or take. Not that bad. The sun is dropping real early these days. Thanksgiving is less than three weeks away. I’m an aunt again—I really do have a lot to be thankful for.

Back to you, Penny. You really are cold as ice. I know it must be tough to find out you are adopted and then discover your parents are both rich and creeps. I know that the curiosity to know your blood relatives had to have been great. But from everything I saw, you didn’t have too bad of an upbringing in Madison. Do you regret leaving that behind for the big city and all the junk you’ve got into?

• • •

I am still breathing heavy—not because of the run, but because I’m furious. I’m glad I remembered to charge my iPhone last night. I had enough battery to call a tow truck. I can’t believe it. Someone slashed all four of my tires.

“So whose heart did you break?” the tow driver asks me while I bounce along in the passenger seat of a Mack truck that may have lost its springs on one side.

“Not guilty,” I say.

“Well you’se made someone real mad. No ideas?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” I answer.

“Yeah, I figured you for the sort that gets along with everybody.”

“
Au contraire
. The reason I don’t know where to begin is the list is so long.”

That got a laugh out of him. The driver said the tires can’t be fixed—“He cut through sidewalls so you’re getting four new tires”—and the cheapest place he knew was Wrigleyville’s Discount Debbie’s Tire Store.

Discount Debbie?

He sensed my concern about Debbie and said, “Same tires, same service, but about fifteen to twenty percent less.”

Does he do Debbie’s Discount Tires commercials when he’s not loading broken-down cars on his flatbed?

“And nobody does this on a Sunday night?”

“No one is open. You need to let me know if we’re dropping your ride off at Debbie’s or somewhere else.”

“Debbie’s it is.”

I call Klarissa, hoping for a lift. She’s too tired, she says. She does get online and find a rental car place still open other than at Midway or O’Hare. I take the cheapest deal they had.

It’s 7:00 when I get home. Two hours later than I planned. I kept trying to shift gears with an automatic transmission the whole drive. I don’t mind the manual transmission on my Miata. But if I ever buy a new car—actually, newer car—I might think about automatic. It would be nice to keep two hands on the wheel so I stop sloshing coffee on my carpet when I shift gears. I’m guessing four new tires is going to run me six to eight hundred bucks. I’m not gonna be buying anything in the near future.

Two phone calls to make. Jensen and Reynolds. I’m not looking forward to either.

Tomorrow I’ll report the tires to Konkade. That’ll give him something else to worry about.

• • •

So I threw her a bone, even if she doesn’t know I’m the information source. My guy called her lawyer and warned him what was coming down. I’m sure it feels like a near-escape to Martin now. In the long run, I think it reinforces the perception that Penny is guilty as charged.

63

“LOOKY THERE . . . you were right Conner.”

Don didn’t need to sound so surprised. I can’t believe I was the only one who thought of it.

We knocked on Penny’s front door with an army at ten this morning. Konkade served her the search warrant.

She just shrugged and said, “Well come on in, but please wipe your feet on the mat—and pick up after yourself this time.”

She is a cool cucumber.

The place is immaculate. Just like I remember it. Very stylish. Contemporary. Great taste. Very different than her mother’s vibe, but she could still be featured in a style magazine.

Randall and I led the way to her bedroom and into the closet. He got on one knee and reached under the bottom shelf. We all heard the sound of a latch releasing. The shelving unit opened. And there was the built-in safe. Bobbie taught her daughter a few tricks, no pun intended.

“Okay, let’s call in the mechanic and get this bad boy opened,” Don says.

“Why?” Penny asks. She has followed us and is behind us in the doorway of the closet. “I can open it for you if you’d like.”

Martinez was supposed to keep her segregated from our search. I think Martinez’s brains turn to a macaroni and cheese casserole when he’s around a pretty girl.

Don looks at me. I shrug. We look at Konkade. He nods yes.

“Make room for the lady,” Martinez says.

Last time he mentioned Penny without her present, she was anything but a lady.