Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (8 page)

“Time of death is fixed?” Zaworski asks.

“After ten. Before midnight.” Jerome says.

“Anyone else check in at the front door to see him?” Blackshear asks.

“Nope,” Martinez answers sharply. “We didn’t think to check, Bob,” he says sarcastically.

“No offense intended, Tony.”

“
Sonaba como a m
Í mi amigo.”

“Can it, you two,” Zaworski snarls. “So who killed him? The Stanley Hammer fairy?”

That’s actually pretty funny if you ask me. But no one is laughing. The boss is a bear today. Is it because I’m back?

“We spent the weekend following back up on family members and calling his main contacts again,” Don answers. “We don’t have a specific suspect identified but I think we’ve finally got a clear enough picture of his life to draw the circle of interest around a fairly small group.”

“Why has it taken so long to get to this point?” Zaworski asks.

“I think I can explain,” Don says.

“Let’s hear it,” Zaworski growls.

“When Randall said ‘the life of the idle rich’ he wasn’t kidding,” Don continues. “Durham is thirty-eight years old and never worked a day in his life. He’s a caricature of a trust fund baby.”

“I don’t know what ‘caricature’ means so save the big words,” Zaworski snaps without looking up from a paper he’s reading.

Unruffled, Don says, “He and some pals from high school and college run around and party like they are still twenty-one-year-old frat boys. There’s at least five of them that never work and another four or five that work but still manage to keep up with an unreal social schedule. A few are married but they all prefer to date hot young ladies—and apparently going out and meeting them is too much trouble, so they use a very exclusive and discreet dating service to set up their girls.”

“What’s it called?” Zaworski asks.

“Doesn’t have a name. Like I said, it’s discreet.”

“Something can be discreet and have a name,” Zaworski growls.

Even the unflappable Don backs off.

“Prostitutes?” Zaworski asks.

“More or less,” Don responds cautiously. “But impossible to prove. The owner has built a pretty slick and careful operation. No website, no business card, no brochures. All her business is word-of-mouth. Her name is Barbara Ferguson. She’s been looked at and leaned on hard by Vice through the years. But she has never been charged with a crime. She charges a monthly ‘matchmaker’ fee that is for female companionship only. If anything else happens, it is between her clients and the girls she matches them with. Randall talked to Conroy over in Vice and this Barbara Ferguson has apparently insulated herself from criminal activity and has an expensive lawyer on retainer to guard her little black book. But Randall discovered something real interesting from Conroy.”

He stops and nods at Randall to take over. Randall hesitates and clears his throat.

“Our body is getting cold,” Zaworski snaps. “You gonna tell us what you got or do we have to play twenty questions?”

Zaworski has always been gruff, though he and I actually started getting along during my last case. Something is eating at him. Got to be the heat from above.

“Sorry,” Randall says quickly. “What Conroy told me is that City Finance has her dead to rights on tax evasion. They think they have a case against her that could result in a serious prison sentence and some enormous fines. Conroy hooked me up with the Director of Revenue at City Hall. He’s working with the IRS, County, and State agencies. I explained what we have going with Director Stevens. He wasn’t sure they could help us but he agreed to make a call. I was barely out of his office when he called me back and told me to get back upstairs. Whoever he called—it was the mayor, though we’re not supposed to repeat that—told him to say they would offer us whatever we need to leverage her to help us clear the Durham murder.”

“If we’re not supposed to say it, don’t say it,” Zaworski says. “So what do we have to offer her?”

“Full immunity from prosecution if she helps us find the killer. She does have to pay back taxes but the fines will be waived.”

“We got that in writing?”

“I’m supposed to call back this morning and if I give them this”—he hands Zaworski a sheet of paper—“with your John Hancock on it, they will have Legal draft a contract to present her. If she signs and cooperates fully, we are off to the races.”

Zaworski takes thirty seconds to read it. He pulls a fancy ball point pen out of his suit coat, unscrews the cap, and scribbles his name at the bottom.

“Good work, Randall. That’s what happens when you get to work early, Conner.”

Oh man.

“Make sure Shelly makes a copy and puts it in the file,” he says, sliding it to Randall. He turns to Don and asks, “Squires, are you sure this is the route the investigation needs to take?”

“Absolutely, sir. Whoever killed Jack Durham had free access to his place. Durham was a player and not a particularly nice player. Lots of people—including those closest to him—disliked him. So one of those frat boy friends or one of the working girls did it or can give us a better idea on who did.”

“How’d the killer get past security in the lobby?” Zaworski backtracks.

“When we kept leaning on him,” Martinez jumps in, “the security guard admitted that Durham had enough comings and goings at his apartment that he had some of his visitors regularly use the back service entrance. We took a look back there. We think the killer got into the building that way and then walked up the stairs.”

“Someone walked up twenty-five flights of stairs?” I ask.

“You aren’t the only one who likes to exercise,” Zaworski says, cutting me off. “Randall, Martinez—get moving. Get the document down to City Hall and tell them we need the Legal offer ready yesterday.”

They get up to leave.

“Randall,” he nearly yells, “don’t forget to have Shelly make a copy and put it in the file.”

They nod and head out the door pronto.

“Jerome, you can scram,” he says. “This case is priority. Go over the blood and the contusions and any other forensic evidence you got again.”

“We have vomit,” Jerome says.

“Good for you,” Zaworski answers with a sigh. “Look at that too. Let us know if you find anything else. Most of all, make sure the evidence is righteous enough to convict whoever it is that did this when we find him.”

Jerome gathers his papers and quickly beelines for the door.

“Squires and Konkade, I want you two to sit down together and write up a plan of action. Keep it to two pages.”

They nod.

“What about me, sir?” I ask.

“You got to go down to HR and sign a bunch of papers saying you are back on the job. I think they have a physical scheduled for you.”

“My knee is fine,” I say.

“It’s fine when the doc they send you to says it’s fine. We need all the bodies we can muster on this case. The heat from up high is blazing hot. The dead kid’s dad is a billionaire that has contributed big time to Mayor Doyle and anyone else Doyle has wanted elected to something. Daddy wants something for his investment now. The mayor and Commissioner Fergosi are happy to oblige. They don’t want another media circus like we had with the Cutter Shark.”

“I do have a complete medical report from the FBI,” I say, wanting in on the action from the start.

“Good for you. But your knee and wrist aren’t okay until our doc says they’re okay. I hear that’s not the only thing they gave you.”

Does he know they offered me a job?

“You got to get that Sig Sauer cleared with the Armory.”

Maybe not.

He rolls his eyes. What’s wrong with carrying a Sig?

“We won’t be getting much out of you today. So why don’t you hoof it down to HR and get things rolling so you can actually get back to work at some point. And don’t be late tomorrow.”

I’m ready to fight back. I have a couple names I want to call him. Discretion is often the greater part of valor so I take a deep breath and just nod and stand to go. Then I freeze at a sudden thought.

“What, Conner?” Zaworski demands impatiently.

“Nothing, sir.”

I turn quickly and head for the door. I can’t believe I don’t have my car. What was I thinking this morning? I wonder how much cash I have in my purse. If I have to go to a doctor’s office after meeting with HR and then out to the armory to get my new gun properly registered, I am going to be forking out tens and twenties all day to cab drivers. My green commitment to public transportation is officially over. I walk to the door.

“Conner,” Zaworski says.

I stop and turn. What now?

“Welcome back.”

I would have said thanks but he’s already huddled with Don and Konkade again.

15

WHO KILLED JACK?
That’s the million-dollar question. Actually, it’s a couple hundred-million-dollar question.

The press is right, there is a long line of potential suspects. It’s nice to see so many of Jack’s friends get their lives turned upside down and revealed to the world as the debauched, petty, juvenile miserable human beings they are. I have no sympathy for any of them.

I’ve barely left my place since the night of the murder. I stay at home, waiting for the knock on the door. But I have had time to think.

Jack’s murderer was one of two people. It had to be him or her.

He hated Jack most. But why would he risk all that he has just to put Jack in his place? Wounded pride can be foolish—but that foolish? Doesn’t make sense.

She had most to lose if Jack moved on with his life apart from her. But killing him would cost about the same or possibly more. She’s wicked. But is she a murderess?

If they come for me, I need to send the police to him or her if I’m to save myself.

But which of the two did it? And can I trust either to help me?

That’s almost a funny question. The answer is absolutely not.

• • •

I thought I looked pretty good this morning. I spent some time getting myself ready. At least
some time
for me. I actually blow-dried my hair and must have spent all of two minutes with the curling iron. I think that two minutes made me miss the first bus outside my apartment complex. I gave my coif a couple shots of hair spray. I didn’t recognize the bright red metallic can that’s about as big as a scuba diving air tank, so it must be something Klarissa left behind after spending a couple weeks at my place. That means it’s a lot better than anything I buy. I’ll tell her she left it but she’ll have moved on to the next product and now I probably have enough hair spray to last a year.

I got off to a great start on my first official day back in the office until I missed the bus and was late for briefing.

My first stop after getting up-to-speed on the Durham murder and getting chewed out by Zaworski was HR. Claudia Jones has got to be pushing seventy years old. I’ve known her since I was ten, or maybe younger. She and my dad kidded each other a lot so that means she likes me. She worked me through the paperwork in thirty minutes. I’m not sure everything I signed but she assured me that if I ever were to have a baby, I hadn’t given rights to my firstborn to CPD.

The doctor’s office was when my carefully coiffed hair and makeup started going south. He asked where my workout clothes were. I could have told them I had some in the trunk of my car but with my car back home it didn’t seem pertinent. I explained that I didn’t know we would be doing this today and he said fine and that we could do it later in the week. The thought of explaining that to Zaworski helped me improvise. I put on the baggy shorts and t-shirt they supplied and went through the exam. I had to sign an extra waiver when I told them I was happy to run the treadmill in bare feet. I think I have a blister for my commitment. There was no shower room at the doctor’s office so I put my outfit back on over a sweaty body.

The Armory was even worse of a hassle. The guy in charge of inventory had never seen paperwork from the FBI transferring ownership of a handgun to a Chicago police officer. He went to show it to his boss but his boss was already at lunch and apparently very hungry. It took him a full two hours to return. He still wasn’t in a hurry to move me through the grinder. I was about to go through the roof with impatience. The only thing that settled my nerves was the thought of punching his lights out, which is not a very mature, politically correct—nor Christian—thought.

How old are you, Kristen?

I used the down time to shoot four rounds of twenty-ve shells from thirty, sixty, ninety, and one-hundred-twenty feet. Problem is I wanted to shoot with my new Sig and since it wasn’t registered with CPD the guy in charge of the range wouldn’t let me bring it in. I used the standard Glock 23, a 40-caliber handgun, and did okay. Not great, but better than usual. That has now planted doubts in my mind whether I should have ever switched from the Glock to the Baretta and now over to the Sig. All I want is to improve my handgun score to better than average. I might be able to live with that.