Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (41 page)

• • •

I wake up with a start. I look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s 2:55. I don’t know how I got into my bed and under the covers. I just know I was dreaming. I was being chased. I was sure it was Timmy, but when I looked back it was Dell. But then when he caught me and knocked me to the ground, it was the punk. He was leering and slowly moving a blade side to side, inches from my face.

My head clears a little. I had forgotten about him until I mentioned him in the hospital as a suspect and Don told us he had been cut loose. I wonder where the punk is now.

So who attacked me? Dell? Timmy? Incaviglia? The Cutter Shark?
Who is not Dell.
I try to sort it out but can’t. Then a crystal-clear thought jumps into my mind:
If Grace
Mills was Plan B, who was Plan A
?

I’ll bring that up when we meet. I fall back into a restless sleep.

• • •

I swing my legs over the side of the bed at a quarter past four. I really have to go to the bathroom. I finish and look down before flushing, relieved to find no blood in my urine. I pad out to my kitchen, pour a glass of water from the dispenser on the door of my Frigidaire, and pop a pain pill in my mouth.
Last one,
I think. If things still hurt, I’ll just take an over-the-counter ibuprofen. I creep around my apartment; look in the door of the guest room. Mom and Kaylen are asleep. Usually it’s James and Kendra in there. I miss them.

I walk into my living area. Klarissa is asleep on the floor. She has made a nice pallet with blankets I inherited from Grandma. I offered her half my bed but staying up and talking must have been a better offer. I look at her face. She is so beautiful, my breath catches. She is an angel. She can be so hard and tough, but right now she looks childlike and elfin.

Patricia has made a little bed on the floor, too, and is at a ninety-degree angle from Klarissa. Her face is about an inch from Klarissa’s feet. She’s going to end up with a toe in her ear. I want to laugh, but my side and back still hurt too bad. She called Jeff earlier in the evening, and he spent an hour on the phone with my mom. He is going to go with the kids to Jimmy’s church in the morning. We’re all meeting at Jimmy and Kaylen’s for lunch. They think I’ll be there, too, and I’m not lying; I’m just not telling them that I have to be at the office at ten.

Patricia continues to be a mess, but I somehow think things are going to work out for her and Jeff, now that they have a real support system. I think I’m good for a shot of adrenaline to kick your butt in the right direction—Red Bull for the soul—but it’s the saints of the world like Kaylen who can help you make it over the long haul.

Vanessa is asleep on the couch. She is on her back with one arm hanging over the side at a weird angle. She’s going to be sore in the morning. Probably not as sore as Don when he actually has to get the kids ready for church by himself. I bet they get there late. But then I remember at their church, it doesn’t matter. I walk back through my little home and look out my front kitchen window. An unmarked Chevy Malibu is in the parking lot with an interior light on. No Carter tonight. One guy is obviously asleep and the other is reading. Some bodyguards. But I’m not worried. I feel very safe surrounded by my friends and family.

I go back to my room and climb into my huge bed. I feel guilty for having all this space to myself, but only for an instant. I feel myself falling back asleep while rubbing my feet together. A professor in one of my psych courses said that we rub our feet together to comfort ourselves. A punch to the kidneys always demands a little comforting.

• • •

My phone chirps on the nightstand. I fumble for it so I can turn off the alarm. Then I realize it is not the wake-up signal but a phone call. I look at the small display. It’s only 4:58. It is a call from a private number. I pick up at the very end of the fourth ring, hoping that whoever is calling hasn’t already been transferred over to voicemail.

“Dell?”

“Yeah, it’s me. How are you, Kristen?”

“Uhh, just so-so.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Other than getting attacked in the parking lot two nights ago, I’m still in the middle of the city’s biggest homicide case in decades.”

“Are you serious? Someone attacked you?”

“Very serious. Imagine that. Someone not liking me enough to get violent.”

He laughs. And then he starts to cry. I consider how I’m going to play this. What I can—and can’t—say. One way or another, I am going to find out, right now, what I know to be true—that Dell isn’t our man. But his crying? Well, yeah, that’s troubling me . . . “Dell?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, you can. That’s why you called.”

“I can’t. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Probably not. But I think you’re in a lot of trouble and you’re going to have to start talking to someone, sometime. Why not now? To me?”

“This call is probably being recorded, isn’t it?”

No use lying. Dell knows technology. It could be his tagline. Dell Knows Technology. I shake my head and force myself to focus. “It is,” I answer.

“So I wouldn’t really be talking just to you, would I?”

“No.”

“You’ve probably been told to keep me on the phone as long as possible, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“They probably already know what city I’m in right now, don’t they?”

“I’m not sure about that,” I answer truthfully, though I suspect they do.

“It’s funny, but you were always afraid of hurting me . . . that’s why you didn’t just break things off completely even though I knew almost from day one that’s what you wanted to do. But you went ahead and kicked me in the stomach anyway. You know something that might surprise you?”

“What?”

“I was always afraid of hurting you, too. I have a secret, you know.”

“That’s what you said.”

“Know what it is?”

“I think so,” I answer, my heart hammering in my chest, afraid of what he’s going to say next.

“I’m not sure you do.”

“Come meet me, Dell, and let’s talk this through.”

“Alone?”

“Absolutely.”

He laughs under his breath. “Kristen, even if I accused you otherwise, I always respected that you were honest with me—even when you were a little
too
honest for my state of being. But I somehow suspect you aren’t telling the truth right now.”

“Dell, I promise, if it is within my power to make it so, we can meet alone.”

“Empty words. You know it’s not within your power. And it’s too late for that. I need to hang up now. But I’ll call you again in the next couple days.”

“Dell? Dell, don’t hang up.”

He’s already gone.

He’s either the world’s greatest actor or he’s broken up over things. The guy can’t be the killer. No way. Surely they can hear that when they listen to this call. But what’s this secret?

• • •

It’s seven. I’m showered and dressed. I actually feel pretty decent, despite having had my sleep interrupted a couple times. I have three hours before the task force meets in the dingy, gray conference room at our CPD precinct. My plan is to sneak out without anyone hearing me. I never told Mom or Kaylen that I was heading back to work today. I am about to pull the door open, when I hear footsteps behind me.

“You could have told me,” Patricia whispers.

“Told you what?”

“That your dad was shot in the line of duty. That he’s dead.”

I say nothing. I just look in her tear-filled eyes that peer out from the bandages.

“You never said anything.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. I just know it’s something I don’t talk about.”

“I
knew
you were hurting inside, just like me. I could tell. And as we’ve learned in AA, alcohol is not the problem, but a symptom of the problem. We just have different ways of coping. I turned to vodka and you keep people at a distance.”

“I can’t argue with that, Patricia, because everybody else is saying the same thing. But I will defend myself and say that some things, like how many open relationships we have, is a matter of personality, too. Even when nothing is eating at me, I’ve always preferred to do things with people rather than sit around and talk with them.”

“Really?
I couldn’t tell,” she says sarcastically. “I’m sorry,” she continues, seriously. “This isn’t a joking around time. So I’ll just say, you’re going to have to talk about what happened the past year sometime. A year is a long time to hold things in. So when are you going to open up to someone?”

“You’ve met my family. My life is an open book.”

“Really? How come your mom and sisters told me you won’t open up with them either?”

“Because they obviously can’t help sharing with others,” I say with a laugh.

“You really aren’t ready to talk . . .”

“Even if I think talking about things is overrated, I agree it is a very good thing to connect with others when we have problems. I at least learned that from AA. But even if now was the perfect time to talk, you wouldn’t understand everything that goes into my situation, Patricia. Not all of it.”

“Try me. Trust me. I trusted you.”

I start to speak and then pause. The words won’t come out. I try again, still no words.

“Just say it,” Patricia says.

“Your dad died of a sudden stroke, Patricia. That’s awful. You didn’t have time to work out the things that came between the two of you and that makes it even more awful. My dad didn’t die the same way.”

“He died a hero in the line of duty. Doesn’t that help a little? You had a great relationship with him. I didn’t.”

“He didn’t die in the line of duty,” I answer dully. I can feel the familiar, deep-seated wave of emotions rising in me—grief and then anger—ready to spill over and cover everything in my path. She just looks at me, confusion on her face. She doesn’t get it. “I’m angry because someone shot my dad in the line of duty—but it took him a year to die. We still don’t know who shot him and there’s nothing I can do about it. They closed the case in February of this year. Now I can’t poke around the files—even if it’s on my own time—without permission from the commander’s office. And he’s not giving it. He doesn’t think it’s healthy for me. I can’t do anything without getting fired and that’s driving me crazy. Like I said, I prefer doing over talking.”

Her eyes are a little wide from my vehemence. We look at each other in my little hallway, neither knowing what to say.

“I’m so sorry, Kristen,” she finally says. “I don’t think anyone would know how to handle what you’re going through.”

She steps forward and gives me a hug. I nearly flinch because the last thing I want is sympathy right now. I don’t want a hug. I don’t want comfort. I want to set this right—and that requires some anger. I pull away and start talking fast.

“My family is worried about me and my anger. They seem to be coping okay, but they’re all struggling, too. Klarissa’s always been a twig but I don’t think she’s eating enough to feed a cat. Kaylen has Jimmy and she’s a rock, but that’s because he’s a rock. But I don’t hear her talking about the dad thing either. No one’s busting her chops—she can hide behind two kids and another on the way. Mom is from another planet these days. So bottom line, we all feel betrayed but it shows up in different ways. With me working the case, even when it wasn’t mine, it did help. All of us. But since CPD closed the case and moved it to the cold files . . . I’m . . . I’m angry. I’ve grown up with the CPD. The CPD helped raise me. My dad even worked for the guy who put his file on the back burner and took away my access. Czaka has had dinner at our house. He’s known us girls since we were babies. The CPD I know and love would never put a cop-shooter case in the cold files. But they have. And it makes me furious.”

“Listen to someone who has screwed up her life so much that she’s holding on to her world by a thread. Deal with your pain somehow, some way. Right now. I know you don’t want to hear this and I have no right to say it, but it’s possible to end up in a hospital—or some other equally bad place—even if you’re not a drunk.”

I close my eyes at the memory of Patricia in ICU. Was it just a week ago? Her beautiful face will come back—but it’s gonna be a while.

“Patricia, I am dealing with things right now. At least a little. The funny thing is, AA actually helped me. A lot. That was the farthest thing from my mind, getting help, when I showed up at that first meeting. Same as you. Over time I kept trying to make up a drinking story, and I finally just started substituting the word
alcohol
for
anger
and you all ate it up.”

She has a hurt look on her face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. Diplomacy has never been my strong suit. What I mean to say is that I was finally one of you—one of the group and I fit in. And it wasn’t that I had a better cover story—I could relate and get help. And maybe even help others.”