Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (12 page)

Somewhere warm and sunny. That is what he would do.

16

“SO KRISTEN, WHAT has brought you here today?”

My eyes narrow. Is she being polite or is she really asking why I am here? CPD is outsourcing more and more services, including psychological testing and therapy. Surely they provided her with a report on why I am required to be here.

“CPD policy,” I answer tersely.

She pauses with raised eyebrows. Zaworski warned me to at least pretend to appear warm, open, healthy, and normal. “We need you working,” he said.

“Which I think is good,” I quickly add. “I’m way overdue. I’m glad to be here.”

How stilted did that sound?

“Okay. And what do you hope to see happen in our sessions?”

“Uh, basically I want to . . . uh . . .” What I want to say is get this over with, but I behave myself and say, “make sure I’ve properly processed a couple violent incidents that have been part of my job experience.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?” she asks, perhaps a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.

“Just to clarify, are you telling me to tell you about them in question form or actually asking if I want to?”

“Which should it be?” she asks primly, looking me in the eyes serenely, though she is starting to give little kicks with her high heeled right foot that is dangling from her crossed legs. That means I am irritating her or making her nervous. I’m not a psychologist but I do have some psychological insights.

I try not to let her see I’ve noticed, but she does, and stops. She recrosses her legs with left on top and smooths an imaginary wrinkle
from her black skirt. We are sitting in two facing chairs, leather on wood, ergonomic design, probably very expensive. I’m thinking she is late thirties or early forties. Black hair—might be some subtle hints of red and purple from a bottle—pulled back in a loose French braid. Knee-length black skirt, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and a lovely purple cardigan. Or eggplant. Nice. Maybe I should look at upgrading my wardrobe. She is holding an electronic tablet with a thin stylus poised over the screen for taking notes. Or she’s watching screaming goats with the sound turned off and is pretending to listen to me.

I hear Zaworski’s growl echoing in my mind: “Behave. This is serious.”

“I think I’m getting off to a bad start and being difficult,” I say contritely. “It’s an occupational hazard. I’m used to being the one who does the questioning. I apologize.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Sorry about that.”

Now she’s really making me nervous.

“Where should I start?”

“Where would you like to start?”

Just tell me what you want lady. I’m exasperated but trying not to show it. Just hit it, Kristen, I say to myself. I walk through the main points of the Cutter Shark case in the next fifteen minutes, concluding with our violent encounter. For some crazy reason I show her the scar on my wrist and knee and then spend the next twenty minutes talking about my soccer career. She looks like she might ask a question so I keep momentum and plow right into my last case, the murder of billionaire heir Jack Durham, which ended with me in an apartment with a dead body. It takes fifteen minutes.

“I think that’s everything,” I say, coming up for air.

“I understand you were witness to a murder yesterday morning as well?”

“Not exactly a witness. The murderer fled before I got there.”

She watches me.

“That really wasn’t CPD business.”

Her look remains impassive but she jots down another note. That might not have been the right thing to say.

A soft ping sounds from her desk. She looks at her oversize man watch. I wonder if that might signify she is more motivated by control and power in her dealings with clients, but I stifle the temptation to broach the subject.

“I’m afraid that our time is up.”

Whew. I’m relieved. That wasn’t so bad.

“Shall we make this our regular time to meet each week?”

Uh oh.

“Ummm . . . earlier is actually better for me. Once I hit the office and we get rolling on things it’s sometimes hard to pull away from a case.”

“Are you planning to go back to work?” The eyebrows are back doing their thing.

“I was certainly hoping to. I had quite a bit of down time last year after the Cutter Shark case. I took a couple months off.”

“I thought you were part of a training program at the FBI Headquarters in Quantico.”

“Well, I was. But I spent a lot of time rehabbing my knee and then I went to classes so it kind of felt like a vacation.”

“I see.”

I wish I did. I’m pretty good at reading people. She has the therapeutic neutral look down to perfection.

“Is there a problem with that? I really would feel better working than sitting around.”

“You love what you do, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I should have an initial report to your Human Resources Department by early next week. It will be up to them.”

It’s Tuesday. I landed at 10:30, took a cab to the Second, met with Zaworksi for fifteen minutes, then headed to Dr. Jeana Andrews’ office in Wrigleyville for our two o’clock appointment. I can’t believe I’ll be sitting the pine the rest of the week.

“Is there any way we can expedite the report?”

“Why the hurry?”

“I do better when I’m moving, when I’m busy.”

“Is it possible that slowing down right now might not be a better idea?”

“Look . . .” I take a deep breath. Slow down. Don’t attack. “I will confess I’m not the most expressive person, though that doesn’t mean I’m not introspective and self-aware. But I know myself. I love my job. I have no qualms about my actions in putting away a serial killer. I have no qualms about defending myself against a murderer.”

“What about your dad’s death?”

Oh boy . . . she did read her notes. I’m not going to tell her that my sister is dating a guy I thought I was dating less than twenty-four hours ago.

“That hurts every minute of every day. But I deal with it and am dealing with it. All the more reason to work.”

She looks at me long and hard. She glances at her watch.

“I’ll see what I can do, Detective Conner.”

“Thank you, Dr. Andrews.”

“Next Tuesday at . . . ?”

“Is eight too early?”

“Let’s say nine.”

“Sounds good.”

I was actually hoping to be in the office by nine but don’t want to seem difficult. I add the appointment to the calendar on my iPhone.

“I’ll be here with bells on.”

We shake hands and I exit her office into the empty waiting room. I wonder why we couldn’t have kept going if no one else is waiting to meet with her. Next week might not have been necessary. It then occurs to me that this is not going to be finished to her satisfaction in two or three weeks. How long is she expecting us to meet?

I exit the waiting room and walk down the hall to the bank of elevators. I put on my coat in the lobby. It’s a gray, windy, freezing Chicago day. Lake Michigan is threatening to dump another load of snow overnight.

With bells on?
What does that even mean?

Am I really going to be in therapy for an extended period of time? Inconceivable.

17

“GOOD TIP, CONNER, tell your mom thanks. She rocks.”

My mom rocks?

Blackshear called as soon as I pulled into traffic. I’m still driving Klarissa’s Nissan GTR, which will do 160 miles-per-hour—though not advisable in Chicago’s winter land. It has bluetooth and I’m hands-free. My beat-up Miata with a couple plugs on the dashboard that don’t work is in the shop. I was planning to drive Klarissa’s car for a week. Not after what I saw. I wanted to drop it off at her condo and then get a cab to the shop before it closes tonight. It was kind of settled that I’d live in Klarissa’s place for however long she is in New York or until she wants to sell the place. After her betrayal? No way. I’ll pack my stuff and go to Mom’s house tonight. I wish I hadn’t given up the lease on my apartment. I’ve never felt quite right there since I discovered I had an electronic stalker. But this new arrangement is unacceptable.

“So there’s something to what my mom saw?” I respond.

“There’s a lot to what she saw.”

“You don’t think it’s weird my mom was monitoring Nancy Keltto?”

“Hadn’t thought about it being weird or not weird. I’m glad she noticed something amiss in the neighborhood. Your mom delivered a gold mine. Things are not looking good for Nancy Keltto—except to us. We’re driving over right now to read her rights and bring her in.”

“Mom’s lead was that good? Oh man. What have you found?”

“She’s been having multiple affairs the past five years. She’s been with her latest lover for a couple months. She actually had divorce papers ready to be served to Mr. Keltto today.”

Mr. Keltto. Ed. Rhymes with Ned. Seemed like an awfully nice guy. Nancy seemed okay, too. What happened to those two?

“Are you looking at the boyfriend, too, Bob?”

“No, Conner. We don’t think of things like that unless you are on the case with us. We’re idiots.”

“Sorry, Bob. Just checking. Don’t blow a gasket.”

“Yeah, sorry, Conner. It’s been a lousy few months after getting busted back down to lieutenant and put through the ringer over the Durham case.”

“None of that was your fault.”

“Tell that to Czaka.”

Maybe I will. We’ve had a few run-ins over my dad’s shooting. Czaka put the investigation into the cold case files.

“But to answer your question, Conner, yes we’re looking at him. The boyfriend. I could definitely see him being an accessory. He is in LA on business so he’ll have a convenient and ironclad alibi for the time of the murder. I’ll be disappointed in him if he doesn’t.

“When I got him on the phone he tried to bluff me that he didn’t even really know Nancy Keltto. I’m not sure why potential suspects think lying on something we can check on easily or already know is going to help them. It only and always makes them look worse. The same with Nancy telling us there were no problems with her and her Edward. If she’d told us straight out they were on the ropes we’d at least give her the benefit of being forthcoming.”

“So you are going to for sure read her her rights?”

“I think we need to. She’s crossed the line from person of interest to suspect with this affair your mom handed us. I don’t want Nancy Keltto saying anything else incriminating that a lawyer will argue later on was coerced or otherwise inadmissible.”

“How about the guy? You going to read him his rights?”

“We’re not going to charge him yet. He’s flying back from LAX tonight. We’ll pick him up for formal questioning when he lands. But the talk will be voluntary, at least this once. No Miranda yet. He didn’t
indicate he felt the need for an attorney to be present. I’d like to keep it that way for our first sit-down.”

“You know this is really strange for me, Bob. This is my growing up neighborhood. We weren’t close with the Kelttos or anything, but I saw them around. Nancy always seemed fine to me. Now she’s a murder suspect.”

“She was a suspect the day her husband was killed. You know as well as I do the spouse is going to be the first suspect.”

“Maybe there’s a reason I’m single,” I say with a laugh.

“Sad but true, the vast majority of murders in America are at the hands of someone close to us. We have a funny way of showing love.”

“So you like the two of them on this?”

“Why not? I’ll say it the other way around. I would be surprised if we found they were
not
in this thing together.”

“Any forensic help?”

“A couple things. Again, tell your mom her lead was solid gold. We went back to the crime scene and looked at things a little differently and, hate to admit it, a little more closely. The ground was frozen solid but there were just enough flurries that we were able to trace Edward Keltto’s movements the morning he died. He shoveled his walk and drive and the neighbor lady’s. But then we discovered something strange. We couldn’t find his footprints from the house to the garage. But guess whose slippers we do have?”

I don’t even have to answer.

“But Nancy found him,” I say.

“Right. But what happened to his footsteps to the garage that morning? We think someone might have done some sweeping.”

“Which means someone else might have been there.”

“True. But how did they get there?”

“And you don’t think he just slipped and fell?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. We asked the ME to take a closer look. Apparently Keltto’s got bruising on his front left cheek and two
contusions to the back of his head. The ME is digging a little deeper on it. At first glance he said either of the contusions would match up with falling backward and hitting the back of his head. But not both. He isn’t confirming anything yet but he thinks he was hit in the back of the head twice, once from a blunt object and once from the concrete. You add that with no other footprints but Nancy’s—and her having motive—and I think I might have a righteous case.”

“Sounds good.”

It actually sounds horrible. Ed Keltto—Mr. Ed—he was a nice guy and now he’s dead.

“I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, Bob, but if she was planning to murder her husband, knowing she’d be a suspect, wouldn’t Nancy have thought through all this? She sounds good for it but I would like her even more if she had an alibi. Seems almost too easy doesn’t it?”

“This job is tough enough not to take a gift. I’ll take easy every now and then and be grateful.”

“No argument there. On a personal level, this is just sad. I was planning to head over to Mom’s house tonight anyway. Now I will for sure. She’ll be freaking out when word gets out that Nancy has been arrested.”

“Thanks for reminding me. That’s why I called. I’m heading to your old neighborhood in a few minutes. You want to join me for the arrest? My new partner, Michael Shepherd, has got this flu that’s going around and went home early. I need a second. Then you can go over to your mom’s.”

“It would be weird to arrest the lady down the street I grew up with.”

“I understand. I’ll find someone.”

“Forget it. It’s part of the job. I’m on my way.”

“Good. You’re a life-saver, Conner.”

One part of this mess will actually work out good for me. It will save me having to explain to Mom why I am moving out of Klarissa’s
place and in with her. I’m not ready to deal with Klarissa and Austin. Truth is, I have no clue how I’m going to handle that personally, much less with the family.

Klarissa. Klarissa. You could have had him. All you had to do is wait for Austin to break things off with me. I don’t know where things stood with us, but common sense and family loyalty would tell you to give it a few months. I would have been fine with that.

I arch my back, which is aching. That usually means I need to stretch out my hamstrings. My bed in Harlem was awful.

The phone chirps. Austin Reynolds calling. I let it go into voice mail. We really do need to talk. Just not yet.