Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (10 page)

“Tom, there is no contradiction in my testimony. If there’s a contradiction, maybe it is in your questions.”

My heart is starting to race. I’m feeling nauseated. Am I in trouble? Over a punk? Had I contradicted myself in something I said?

Another eternal pause. He looks up, closes the folder, places one hand atop the other on the table, and raises his left eyebrow with a polite, quizzical expression. I’m not going to answer an eyebrow, so he is going to have to ask it. We face off for thirty seconds, and I know that for a fact, because I count from one-Mississippi all the way up to thirty-Mississippi.

He breaks the silence, asking, “How so?”

Ever difficult and actually not understanding what he’s asking, I respond, “How so, what?”

He stifles a sigh and asks politely, “How are my questions contradictory, Detective Conner?”

“I’m glad you asked, Tom. When you asked if I used excessive force, the answer was no. When you asked if I pushed my attacker to the ground, the answer was yes. So maybe the questions aren’t technically contradictory, but neither are my answers. Yet you seem to find something contradictory there. I think your questions are ignoring an important qualifier. The qualifier is that the punk, someone who is suspected of beating a senior citizen half to death, wielded a weapon with deadly intent and needed to be restrained.”

“And yet your training specifically prohibits using retaliatory force once an alleged perp is remanded. So pushing his face to the ground was unnecessary and extra.”

“But he wasn’t absolutely, 100 percent remanded. I pushed him to the ground in the process of remanding him.”

“But why with the force to create contusions and abrasions? You said yourself that your partner had a gun trained on him.”

“Well, Tom, when you’re in the field, you learn a lot can happen between the time a dangerous criminal is initially subdued and when he is actually in handcuffs and contained in a safe space. With all the action of the previous few minutes, we didn’t know if he had another weapon or would make a desperate play for freedom that might involve
additional
harm to my body. If he had chosen to make things rough again, there may very well have been a moment when my partner’s gun was trained on me, not the punk.”

Tom interrupts, “But he was flat on the ground. You had cuffed him. The hard push came afterward.”

“Tom, let me repeat, the push was because (a) he was squirming and struggling, and (b) he was not yet cuffed.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s not what I’m reading.”

“I’m positive that the cuffs were not secured and that I needed to keep him down to protect myself from a head butt or donkey kick. The punk was resourceful.”

“Why do you keep calling the alleged perpetrator a ‘punk’?”

I say nothing. We stare at each other to see who will break eye contact first. He looks down. Ha! My first win of the day.

He reopens the file and riffles through a number of papers until he finds what he is looking for. He reads it studiously.

“Well, maybe this explains my confusion,” he says looking up, his eyes piercing into me. “The report, signed by you and detective Don Squires, doesn’t mention the alleged perp squirming or struggling. In fact, it says he went down easy once Detective Squires entered the scene with drawn gun.”

“It’s a police report, Tom. Not a chapter from
War and Peace
. And easy is relative to our fight.”

This is ridiculous. Am I going to get punished on a sequence of events that covered less than two or three seconds? Did I go too far with that push on the punk’s head? I don’t think so, so why in the heck am I getting grilled by my own department? If I hadn’t run like a gazelle, he would have gotten away. I was attacked. Despite words like “abrasions” and “contusions,” I didn’t really hurt him. I should have emphasized that the punk was squirming, but I didn’t think about it when I was typing. He was sly and dangerous and I did want physical distance, even if it meant only inches of additional separation. And yes, I was mad. I’m wondering if this will kick me off the biggest case in the city.

“Detective Conner?” Gray asks. “Is there something more you want to say?”

“I didn’t know you asked another question,” I answer defiantly. Probably time to read
How to
Win Friends and Influence People
again, an assignment my dad gave me several times in my teen years, requiring a three-page report filled with life lessons I had learned each time.

Gray is apparently done. He carefully organizes the file and places it in his briefcase. He snaps the clasps and then places his case on the table. He takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses on his red tie with paisley amoebas. I’m not sure it’s in style. That looks like one of my dad’s ties. From before I was born.

He picks up the case and walks toward the door. I guess we’re done and I stand, eager to stretch my back. I don’t know whether to be relieved or worried. He opens the door halfway, pauses, pulls it shut, and turns back to me. I am suddenly wary.

He looks at me with his deep brown eyes and says, “Detective, I knew your father. Great cop. An even better man.”

I freeze. Where’s this going?

“I worked in the same office with him the last year or two he was on the force. I wasn’t always in IA, so I know what you deal with on the streets.”

I start to mumble something but he holds up his hand to stop me.

“Your father was one of the good guys.” Gray is speaking softly. It’s hard to hear him and I lean forward, despite a burning desire to get as far away from him as possible. “I never once heard him refer to any of his collars as a ‘punk.’ And not because he arrested a bunch of saints. It’s just not how he went about his business. This thing with Incaviglia is done. But for your old man’s sake, I’m telling you I don’t like the vibe you’re projecting. I don’t have to tell you that you’re not real popular with top brass right now. So why make people wonder if you have your act together? Unless you don’t.”

I want to say something. Maybe I want to say I’m sorry—sorry for pushing the perp’s head into the pavement even if the APB described him as armed and dangerous; sorry for having such a crummy attitude; sorry for not respecting that he has a job to do, too; sorry that I don’t care what the top brass thinks of me after what they did to my family. Or maybe I want to call him out for trying to lay a guilt trip on me.

I look up to say something, but he’s gone.

I stand and stare at the door for a full minute. I look at my watch. It’s almost 9:30. Time to work on catching a killer.

Time to get serious about my anger problem. I picture myself in a support group.

Hi, I’m Kristen and I’m an angerholic.

14

April 3, 11:00 a.m.

THE CRIME SCENE
was
certainly interesting.
A simple murder and half the city’s finest showed up. Has someone picked
up my scent? I believe so.

The guy that got
out of the Cadillac wasn’t local. His suit was way too nice. From the
cut, I’m guessing a
Hugo Boss. I like a nice cut. Nice handsewn shoes too. I can tell
handsewn a mile away. In
this case I was only
300 yards from the scene, so not so hard to spot. The assymetrical laces aren’t to my liking—I truly prefer symmetry—but I’m willing to recognize good craftsmanship. I am a craftsman myself. The
suit was navy—boring.
It might have had a light
chalk stripe in it. Couldn’t tell for sure.
My Sunagor binoculars are supposed to be the best, but it’s probably time to see if anyone is making a better lens.

The Italian suit guy has got to be
Fed. FBI. Federal Bureau
of Incompetence. No big deal. About time they
showed up. His Caddy was a rental so he’s not
from the Midwest office.
I do believe the boys
and girls in Washington, D.C. finally know something about me and
my manner of business.
All I can say is, it’s about time. I invited them out to play seven
years ago. I’ll take
this seriously, but it’s one thing to know I
exist and entirely another to figure out how to
find me.

The star of
the show was none other
than my dream girl, Detective Conner. Kristen Conner. The only word I can use to describe her is “exquisite.” That chestnut hair;
I can just imagine it
cascading like pure silk
between my fingers, right
before I kill her.

She turned in my direction
once. I know she couldn’t
see me, but I wonder if
she sensed me. Somehow, our
paths are destined to intertwine.

Little does Kristen know how much I
know about her. And her family. Her niece is cute—the spitting image
of her. The little guy could learn some manners.

I took some risks to increase the chances
she would work this case.
And voila, a little surveillance at the crime scene and there she was. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you’re just good.
Sometimes you’re both.

I
know her—and she will
know me some day, much more intimately. But
I’ve got more work to do
in this city first. For the record my intentions are purely platonic. I am, after all, always the consumate gentleman.

Kristen. I took my time, studying her through the binoculars
again, daring her
to find my window.
Almost wanting her to find me. But she didn’t,
of course.

I love that she’s tough, strong, and yet weak and insecure below the surface. Savvy. Naïve. Such a delicious mix of contrasting forces. If only she
was neater. Her car
is dirty; inside and out. I don’t like that.
And something has to
be done with her wardrobe. Maybe I’ll buy a
nice outfit to dress
her up in when we are finally together. She
would look good in Vera Wang. Her coloring can handle the patterns.

Okay. Enough. Kristen’s tantalizing to think about, but she’s not the
only beauty I have my
eyes on. More importantly, I need to think
through how I proceed with
the Feds in town.

I need a diversion. I already
lifted weights—chest and arm day. Think I’ll
head to the Cubs game.

Those DePaul primates better not show up.

15

I’M FURIOUSLY SCRIBBLING notes from phone messages on my cell and office lines while trying to scan and delete email messages that don’t require an immediate response. I fear my inbox is going to explode. But the last message on my cell makes me stop and just listen.

“Kristen, this is Dell. I know you’re swamped. Don’t worry about calling back. Just wanted to say . . . just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m reading the
Trib
right now and can’t imagine what you’re having to deal with. I was just feeling sorry . . . just thinking of myself last night. You didn’t . . . you don’t need that burden right now. I also want you to know Carrie doesn’t mean anything to me. Even if you don’t feel the same way about me, you’re the only one in my life. I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Whenever. Doesn’t matter what time, day or night. I was miserable all day yesterday. Bringing Carrie to church was a bad idea. Well I guess it’s not a bad idea to bring someone to church, but you know what I mean. She’s in my office and we’re just friends. I have to tell you, even if you don’t want to see me again, I’m still going to invite myself to Sunday dinner with your family. I didn’t grow up with that. You all are amazing. I really missed your weekly fight with Klarissa. Plus James is a buck short on his college fund now. Tell him I’ll pay him double next week. Okay? Seriously, I’ve . . . I’ve never felt like this for anyone in my life. Don’t cut me off because I was ugly to you yesterday. I just want to say—”

Dell never got to finish his sentence. He ran out of message time. I shake my head and laugh out loud. His life story with me; I have no time for him. He deserves better. And he’s weirding me out.