Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (17 page)

27

“YOU TOLD ME two hours. Now you say you’se got seventy-five minutes tops. You’re going soft on me, Kristen. Soft. How am I gonna keep you’se alive if you’re soft?”

I warned Torgerson about Barry Soto, our fight instructor at the Second. I can’t remember his exact age but I know he trained my dad. I’m pretty sure he’s over retirement age, maybe seventy, but he’s still ripped. Short. Big chest and arms from five hundred dips and pushups a day. His legs look small in comparison but he can jump and kick like a man forty years younger than him. He’s bald on top with a ring of red hair that always made me think of Bozo the Clown from when I was a kid. When he lost his hair up top it found its way to his ears, nostrils, and arms.

“C’mon, Kristen. Keep up with your pal. Act like you want to be here. I don’t got time for your dawdling.”

Dawdling?

We have jumped rope for almost ten minutes. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes on one leg . . . whatever he barks.

“Stop! Put the ropes up. Where you found them, Kristen. Don’t teach your pal bad habits and make a mess of my palace.”

Cinder blocks and a slab floor. Some palace.

I’d bark back at him but I can’t breathe enough to speak. I put my rope on the exact hook I got it from. I lean over to get a drink of water and that gets him going again.

“So that’s how it’s going to be? A sip of water every time you want to take a rest?”

I hustle back on the mat in the middle of Mr. Soto’s palace of pain. Concrete floors, bare walls, and only a couple machines that plug into a wall.

“Where’s the love, Mr. Soto?” I gasp out.

“When you stay alive you’ll know how much I love you, Kristen. I told your dad I’d keep you alive, so it’s my cross to bear. Now enough of chitchat. This isn’t a tea party. On your backs ladies!”

Chitchat? A tea party? He’s in rare form. I think he’s showing off for Torgerson. He must think she’s cute. She is.

“I want you standing up. No hands. Keep ‘em folded on your chest.”

“How many?” Heather asks.

“You been hanging around Kristen too much, FBI tough girl. Keep doing them until I tell you to stop.”

Go ahead. Try it. Standing up without any assistance isn’t easy. You rock, arch, explode forward, and still fall on your butt two out of three times. By my sixth successful trip to get two feet on the floor, my abs and glutes are on fire. I pause.

“Keep going!”

I love Soto. Does that make me a masochist? He pushes and badgers us for an hour of exercises on the mat before pulling out the gloves and punching pads. Heather and I alternate three-minute sets of punching and blocking. Heavy crosses and straights are followed by rapid-fire jabs. Soto believes in body weight and balance. If the punch isn’t popping it’s because the feet are getting lazy. My arms are thin but by the time we call it quits so I could make my appointment, they feel like lead weights.

I shower and dress quickly. Heather is still sitting on the bench in front of her locker.

She looks at me and says, “Is he always like that?”

“Nah. He was in a good mood today.”

Maybe I’m trying to show off now.

“So your dad was a cop?”

“Yes, he was. The CPD has him to blame for putting up with me.”

“I think everyone feels lucky to have you.”

“I hope you’re right, but some days it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Looks to me like everyone loves you.”

“I need to ponder that. Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

Maybe do I need counseling. I’ll add what Heather said to the list for Dr. Andrews.

28

“NANCY IS BACK home. I saw her pick up the newspaper up off the front sidewalk this morning. Is she out of trouble?”

Just how close of an eye is mom keeping on the neighborhood?

“It’s not my case and I don’t know anything past last night, Mom. But even if I did, you know I can’t tell you. Besides, I’m guessing you already know more than I do.”

She gives a little snort and rolls her eyes.

I’m thirty, living at home—even if only for a few days—and eating tuna casserole with my mom. They write articles in the
New York Times
about what’s wrong with America when they describe my current profile. I’ve got to find a new apartment. I’m not going to live in Klarissa’s place. I’m mad at her. It would feel dishonest to turn around and accept a sweetheart deal from her. Kind of like I feel driving her GTR.

Mom added canned peas to the tuna casserole, something I protested vigorously as a kid, to no avail. I still don’t love the mushy texture but at least she covered them up in a lot of gooey cheese. Other than the peas I’m not complaining about dinner.

“I feel terrible,” she says. “I feel responsible because I told you about the man who was spending time with her.”

“You aren’t responsible for anything good or bad in Nancy Keltto’s life, Mom. You did the right thing. You were a good citizen who supplied an important tip in a homicide.”

“So she is in trouble . . . and I’m responsible.”

“You can’t look at it that way. People are responsible for their own actions. That’s how you and dad raised me. You just reported what you saw. You weren’t involved.”

“I know. It’s just so surreal. I can’t believe Eddy is dead. The thought that his wife . . . that Nancy was involved is almost overwhelming.”

I’ve got to find my own place. I love my mom. But if this is what we are going to talk about every night I am going to go crazy. Plus she does have a habit of adding canned vegetables to otherwise delicious recipes.

“You’ve not talked about your visit with Austin and his parents. How did that go?”

Talking about Nancy Keltto as a murder suspect is suddenly quite appealing.

“Let me ask you this Mom, what do you think of Austin?”

She gets an amused expression on her face. “Are you asking your mom for advice?”

“I always appreciate your thoughts, Mom.”

She laughs. I can’t help myself. I have to laugh too. I suddenly feel better. Good endorphins can do that. It won’t last long. I saw my sister with the guy I was dating. I’m not officially cleared for active duty until Dr. Andrews says so—hopefully tomorrow. An evil guy I put in jail is trying to get out on a technical error in the investigation, an error that is being pinned on me.

I chew thoughtfully. I’ve been trying to pick my bites carefully to even out the number of peas. They overwhelmed the noodles and tuna on this one and I grimace.

“Am I really that difficult Mom?”

Mom pauses. Is that an answer?

“I love all three of my daughters. Exactly the same amount.”

Of course. What else can a parent say?

“But you three couldn’t be more different. Of the three of you, you were born determined and ready for action. You had your own mind and were going to do things your way. You couldn’t sit still. Kaylen and Klarissa would sit on my lap and I could read a storybook to them for an hour before bedtime. You wanted to look at the pictures and would turn the pages before I could finish the first sentence. Then you were off to climb on the kitchen counter or get into something you weren’t supposed to.”

“So does that mean I’ve always been difficult?”

“No, honey. Different. You’ve always been who God made you.”

Last time I heard Jimmy preach he said God has a sense of humor. I might be living proof of that.

Maybe I should have been a counselor. People accuse me of answering questions with questions of my own. Andrews is obviously the Ph.D. on that tactic.

I had a lot of questions for Andrews. Her answers were pretty consistent: “What do you think, Kristen? How does that make you feel, Kristen?”

At one point I told her that when my dad’s case was moved to the back burner it made me angry . . . really angry with CPD and particularly Commander Czaka. She asked me how that made me feel. Uh . . . angry.

I guess the point is I’m supposed to dig deep and get in touch with what I think about seeing people get killed and personally being in harm’s way and pulling a trigger. But what if there is nothing deeper inside of me than what I’ve already said?

I would really have liked to talk to Dr. Andrews about Klarissa and Austin—not just my feelings—I know I’m pissed off—but what to do about them. It would be nice to know if there are some tricks of the trade where I can confront my sister for sneaking behind my back without destroying the relationship forever. A month or two of mad would be fine.

Heck, that brings me back to where I started with Andrews. I’m a church girl. I know the right answers spiritually even if it takes a while to apply them. I’m going to have to forgive her . . . at some point.

So how does that make you feel, Kristen?

29

I GO OUT for an early walk. My mom said I was crazy as I stepped outside and got hit by a blast of wind. The temperature is still in single digits. Last time someone said I was crazy for going out on a bitterly cold morning it didn’t turn out well. What can happen in my old neighborhood? Besides murder, of course.

I get to the end of the block, trying not to look at the Keltto house. How sad. I want to call Blackshear and ask what’s going on. Zaworski has made it clear I need to keep my nose out of anything and everything that has to do with police business until cleared for active duty. Hopefully that changes this afternoon when Andrews sends her report to our HR people.

There’s a young teenager standing on the corner. That’s a blast from the past. My old school bus stop.

“How’s it going?” I ask as I walk up.

“Not bad,” he mumbles.

“Which house you live in?”

“Over there,” he says with a jerk of his head, which I think is pointing to the house next door to the Kelttos.

“Too bad what happened on Monday,” I say.

“Yeah. Ed was a nice guy.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I guess. He was my scout leader when I was a kid. We started doing some projects this year.”

“What kind of projects?”

“I’d go over there and do woodworking stuff in the garage. He was teaching me how to use all the tools he’s got.”

“Even in the winter?”

“He puts the car in driveway and turns on a kerosene heater he’s got. It gave us room to work and the cold wasn’t too bad.”

“Very nice. You build anything cool?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “I guess some of it was getting okay. I made my mom a couple bird houses and a stepladder for the pantry. Just little stuff. Nothing big.”

“Sounds big to me.”

He just nods with a shrug.

“I’m gonna keep walking,” I say. “Hope your bus gets here soon. You can freeze standing around out here.”

He nods. On cue, I can hear the brakes on his bus squeal about a block away. As I turn he asks, “Are you the lady cop that grew up down the street?”

Lady cop?

“I am.”

“You working on finding who killed Ed?”

“It’s not my case.”

“Do you know whose it is? Who is looking for the killer?”

“Yes. A friend of mine is in charge. Detective Blackshear.”

“Is that a guy cop?”

“Ah . . . yes . . . Blackshear is a guy cop. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Bradley.”

“I’m Kristen.”

He nods. I want to ask his last name but the bus pulls up and the door hisses open. He puts a foot on the first step, pauses, and looks at me. “You need to tell him, the guy detective, it wasn’t Mrs. Keltto. It was her boyfriend.”

He hustles up the last two steps and into the warmth of the bus. After giving me a suspicious scowl for possibly trying to corrupt America’s youth, the driver pulls the lever to shut the door with another
hiss. I stand there and watch as he releases the brakes, shifts into gear, and rounds the corner.

Did Blackshear’s team talk to the kid? I’m sure they did. I wish I’d got his last name. I want to call Bob right now but there are two problems. My hands are frozen and I’m not sure I can work my phone. Second, I think I just put my nose in police business, even if by accident. Better wait until I am officially cleared for duty this afternoon. See, I’m following the rules.

Nothing is going to happen in the next six or seven hours. Whatever the kid might know, which might be nothing, can wait until then.