Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (20 page)

He smooths his nonexistent hair on his bald scalp, a nervous habit he picked up during the Cutter Shark case. We all picked up a few nervous habits back then.

We debate whether to ask or not ask and determine to ask Mrs. Starks for permission . . . with a soft ambiguity. We’ll see how cooperative she is. The concern is she might go into a defensive stance based on what we already know—she didn’t come home the night before the murder. Someone dropped her off with Blackshear and his team already on the scene.

If she looks like she wants to help, we’ll ask, assuming she won’t say no. If she does say no—or it looks like she might be so inclined—we’ll interview Bradley anyway. Blackshear will hint that we might have to call Social Services to let them know about her leaving a fourteen-yearold home alone at night.

This is the part of being a cop that eats at you. You have to get the job done—and sometimes that means getting heavy-handed.

“What about the kid?” Sandy Green asks. “Shouldn’t we be calling Social Services either way?”

“If the kid helps us find a killer we don’t want to put his competency in question,” Blackshear answers.

“That’s what it comes down to?” she snorts.

“In this case, it does. Welcome to Homicide,” he answers.

“I’ll ask around the neighborhood to get the score,” I say. “If the kid is in a vulnerable situation, we can deal with it.”

“I think we already know the answer to that,” Sandy says.

“Listen, we might get lucky and the mom tells us to come in, serves us milk and cookies, and tells us to spend as much time talking to Junior as we want,” Blackshear answers, glaring at Green.

“His name is Bradley,” she says, undaunted.

If approaching Mrs. Starks goes anything like this, it’s going to be a tough interview.

We move on and finalize the plan. We start with the mom, in person, with no advance warning. Squires, Blackshear, and I will set up shop at my mom’s house and watch for her. Heck, my mom is keeping an eye on the neighborhood already—she can probably tell us when Karen Starks gets home. Second, it will be Blackshear and me doing the interview, but Konkade insists that will only be after we spend an hour with a child witness specialist.

“We got to do this right folks,” he says. “I want to make sure there are no new policies we aren’t aware of, and it sure wouldn’t hurt to get a briefing on the best way to connect with a fourteen-year-old.”

As we exit the conference room an hour later, I see Agent Torgenson standing by my cubicle. I walk over and she puts out a hand to shake.

“Kristen, I am glad this contract killer thing is over.”

“Not as much as me.”

“Probably true. But now I head back to the FBI office and that means no more workouts with Barry Soto. I figured I would help keep you safe and lose ten pounds in the process.”

“You don’t have ten pounds to lose,” I answer. “But you’re welcome to join me in Soto’s torture chamber anytime you want.”

“I may take you up on that.” She smiles. “I was told you are a unique individual, and the reports were correct.”

“Reports?”

“The background summary we got before we came over.”

“Any chance I can get a look at that report?”

“Not a chance in the world,” she says with a laugh. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Sharing sensitive personal data, even with the subject, is definitely off limits.”

“Sensitive personal data?”

“I’m making this sound awful. I’m sorry. Don’t worry about it. It’s all good. You’re a rock star.”

We exchange a few pleasantries. We promise to say in touch. She offices on the Loop. She says again that we definitely have to work out together.

So the FBI has a subject file on me?

32

“SO HOW’S THE place? You haven’t burned it down yet?” Klarissa asks.

“Uh . . . I should have called. I actually haven’t been there yet.”

“What?”

“I’ve been staying with Mom. We had a murder in the old neighborhood.”

“You are kidding me. Who was killed?”

“Do you remember Ed Keltto?”

“Mr. Ed? The school teacher? Of course I do. He was a nice man.”

“That’s what everyone seems to say about him, which makes finding his killer even harder.”

“Are you on the case?”

“As of this morning, yes.”

“That is terrible. Just terrible. How’s Mom doing?”

“She’s upset. That’s why I’ve been staying at the house.”

“Good for you, Kristen. That’s sweet. Do you think you can at least drive by the condo and make sure no pipes have burst in this weather or anything?”

“Sure. I need to get some stuff anyway.”

“Really? How long you planning to stay at Mom’s?”

“I don’t know. Long enough to . . . listen, I’m actually prepping for an interview and don’t want to get into stuff now.”

“What stuff?”

“Just stuff.”

“You’re not planning to abandon the condo are you? We agreed you could stay there for the same amount you were paying for your dump.”

“Now’s not the time to talk, Klarissa,” I answer, sounding a lot like Zaworski and Reynolds.

“You are! I can’t believe it. Do you know how good a deal you are getting?”

“I know it’s a great deal. But—”

“But what?”

“I don’t have time to talk now.”

“Okay. Your loss. But I didn’t want the hassle of vetting a renter. And I would have brought my furniture if I suspected you were going to bail on me.”

“We just need to talk, Klarissa.”

“That sounds ominous.”

I don’t answer.

“What is up with you, Kristen? I call because I’m in the middle of a huge story that is putting me on-air nonstop and now I have to deal with you and your moods?”

The drama queen is accusing me of having moods?

“What story are you covering, Klarissa?”

“The only story there is. The Russian mob wars. Don’t you watch the news?”

“I should have figured.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It means nothing. I know that’s the big story in New York so I should have figured you were covering it. That’s all.”

“So what’s stuck in your craw?”

“I told you, I’m prepping for a witness interview. I just don’t have time to get into anything right now.”

“So you
are
mad about something.”

“I’m not mad.”

That might not be exactly true. But I’m hurt more than mad and telling her that will put things on the table and now isn’t the time.

“Have you talked to Austin?” she asks, piquing my interest.

“Not much. He’s on a case and I’m on a case.”

We don’t say anything. Maybe he was supposed to have broken up with me by now and she’s investigating whether he’s done the deed yet.

“Okay. I thought you’d want to talk about this Russian gang war— CNN is calling it Red Storm Rising, which is pretty weak if you ask me. We’re calling it the Red Mafiya Wars with the letter y added to mafia. Much stronger I think. But hey, sorry I called. Let me know when you have time to talk about
stuff
.”

I’m about to let her know what I think about stuff but realize she’s hung up.

Klarissa and I were close growing up. Then when she moved to Springfield, Illinois, and Kansas City, Missouri, for her first news gigs, we drifted apart. Then we reconnected during the Cutter Shark case, which made me very happy. Now I don’t know what happens next.

Thank God for Kaylen. Everybody loves Kaylen and she loves everybody. She is the mother of my nieces and nephew. I told her I would pick up Kendra and James tomorrow and keep them overnight and then bring them to church with me on Sunday morning. Baby Kelsey is too young to be away from mommy, but I know Kaylen is probably ready for some downtime, which doesn’t happen much when James is in the vicinity. I miss Kendra terribly. I coach her soccer team, the Snowflakes. We are two months away from the start of season. Yes, we will still be in our yellow uniform—the girls chose the team name and color, not me. Maybe spending time with sweet nine-year-old girls will get me back to normalcy so I can handle
stuff
better.

I think about the Cutter hiring an attorney to appeal his arrest. My stomach clenches in a knot. Normalcy isn’t in the picture at the moment.

33

WE WALKED THROUGH our notes on young adolescent males again.

• Growing interest in girls, but still very uncertain how to interact positively with opposite sex.
  
• Prefers to be in same sex groupings.
  
• Less conflict with parents.
  
• More independent. Strong desire for self-directed choices and activities.
  
• Despite desire for independence, struggles to plan and organize; still needs boundaries and direction.
  
• Less literal, growing ability to think in abstract terms.
  
• Very body conscious, particularly if he perceives himself to be bigger, smaller, more mature, less mature, or different than peers.
  
• Might struggle to understand and articulate emotions.
  
• Media saturated: music, movies, games.
  

Okay. I think that could describe a few twenty and thirty-something males, too. Blackshear and Squires didn’t laugh when I pointed that out. Mom made a big pot of chili and we ate in the kitchen. She thought Karen Starks was home from work by seven most days. She said she would watch for us while we ate. We looked at each other and shrugged. Why not?

Understanding generic profiles is great. But how do you get a fourteen-year-old to open up? I pointed out to our child witness specialist that I thought Bradley might be a little immature for his age.
Not physically. He looked bigger and thicker than average—maybe 5’10” or so. But he seemed a bit self-conscious and shy.

We brainstormed a list of ice-breakers.

• What’s your favorite band? Sports team? Movie?
  
• What’s your favorite class at school? Have you started to think about what you might want to do for a living?
  
• What activities are you in at school?
  
• What are your friends like? Do you have a best friend?
  

We decided to stay away from the subject of his parents. If he felt neglected or alienated from them in any way, he might shut down. Dad’s in Florida and mom is gone all the time. That might do it.

Mom was right. Karen got off the bus and walked up the front steps of her house at seven sharp. We were pretty certain Bradley was home from the time he exited the school bus.

You can live without a car in Chicago with the El and the bus system. But a lot of people still own one. No car for the Starks probably means money is tight. Duh.

Our approach was a disaster. No, we could not talk to Bradley—he wasn’t even home.
So who was playing the music upstairs? He must have left it on. It was Blackshear’s show so I watched.
When she ordered us out of the house he let her know we would be back with a judge’s order and that the interview would take place at the Second Precinct. I thought she might attack him and moved on to the balls of my feet. She wheeled at me and let me know what a crummy neighbor I was. I kept my mouth shut and didn’t point out that I hadn’t lived in the neighborhood for more than ten years.

Blackshear went for the jugular: “We know you weren’t here the night or morning of the murder and that your son was all alone. I’m
starting to get the idea that you might have something to hide. It might be time for me to make a call to Social Services.”

She folded her arms in defiance and then signed a permission form he pulled out smoothly. I felt sorry for her. I felt sorry for Bradley. I felt sorry for all the things that happen to make people shut down and put up barriers to keep the world out.

Is that what I’m doing?

Bradley didn’t have a favorite band, movie, book, sports team, or subject at school. I threw color into the mix. He didn’t have a favorite color either. No activities at school. No idea what he might want to do for a living or if he wanted to go to college after high school.

He didn’t remember telling me to tell Blackshear that Mrs. Nancy didn’t kill Ed, either. We’re sitting at the dining room table. Karen is banging pans and dishes around in the kitchen. After Blackshear insisted we talk with Bradley alone, she insisted she would be in the next room taking care of housework. I’m racking my brain to figure out a way to get this conversation going.

“How long were you in the Scouts?” I ask.

“Couple of years,” Bradley answers.

“I know you don’t like the word ‘cool,’ but I’ll use it anyway. What was the coolest thing you did in Scouts?”

“I liked the campouts.”

Blackshear and I nod our heads vigorously and without looking at each other, realize we are way too eager, and back off.

“Where’d you guys camp?” I ask.

“A couple times we went to a state park on the Kankakee River,” he answers.

We wait.

“That was okay. But my last year we went up to Wisconsin.”

Patience . . .

“That was on a lake. It was really . . . cool.”

He smiles.

“Was Mr. Keltto your leader?” Blackshear asks.

The smile is gone. He nods, shrugs, and folds his arms.

“What kind of things did you do?” I ask.

“I know you guys don’t care about my stupid scout campout or what classes I like.”

Before I can protest, he continues, “You want to know if I saw something to help you find who murdered Ed.”

It’s interesting he referred to Keltto on a first name basis. Do I assure him we care or let him continue what he started? He makes the question a moot point.

“Mrs. Nancy has a boyfriend. Not her husband. I wasn’t watching or anything, but every now and then I would look outside and she would be . . .”

She would be . . . ? I can hear the second-hand on an old-fashioned wind-up mantle clock tick.

He shrugs and says, “She would be hugging and kissing him at the back door when he got there or was leaving.”

“Did she know you saw her?”

“Yeah. I walked up the driveway to start working on one of the birdhouses before Ed got home. They were there. I tried to stop and get back to the side of the house but they already saw me.”

“Did she say anything? Did he?”

“She just put a finger to her lips and blew like she was saying, ‘shhhh,’” he said, looking absolutely miserable.

So far, he’s told us nothing my mom hasn’t already tipped us to. How will this clear Mrs. Nancy? Makes her look guiltier.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I think I have a new understanding of Edgar Allen Poe’s
Pit and the Pendulum
. I didn’t quite get it when I had to read it in high school.

He looks up. “On the morning Ed was killed, I saw the man. He was there.”

“Where Bradley?” Blackshear asks. “In the house? Outside the house? Did you see something happen?”

Blackshear might be leading the witness.

“Take your time, Bradley,” I say. “Just tell us what you saw.”

“It was before Mrs. Nancy found Mr. Ed and screamed. I woke up early because I had to finish some homework I didn’t do the night before. I looked out the front window. He was walking down the street and got in his car and drove off.”

“So you didn’t see him murder Mr. Kellto?” Blackshear asks.

Bradley shakes his head no.

Blackshear takes his time and probes what Bradley did and didn’t see. Bradley described the car in detail. Even though it was dark, he got a good enough look at the man that he was certain it was the same guy Nancy had been seeing. The man passed under a streetlight between the Keltto home and his car—which was in the same place my mom said he usually parked—and he got a good look at him. The same hair. The same coat. The same walk. The same car. He was sure of it.

Blackshear asked Bradley if he could tell the whole story again with a tape recorder on. He nodded yes. By this time Karen Starks was seated at the table. No one objected.

When he was done, she burst into tears and hugged him fiercely. It was sweet. Maybe something good can come out of something rotten.

“Mrs. Starks,” Blackshear said at the door, “you should be very proud of that young man of yours. He did good. He helped us tremendously.”

“Yeah. He’s a good boy. Deserves better than I can give him.”

Bradley is watching from the dining room doorway. I walk over and hand him my card.

“We do care. Call if you think of anything else or need anything.”

“I thought our man was in California when Keltto was murdered,” I say.

Blackshear, Don, and I are huddled at a table in a matching tiny dining room at my mom’s house.

“I got a young pup working on tracking his movements, so it’s not confirmed,” Blackshear says with a sigh.

“Can you move him along? We need to know,” Squires says.

“He is a she. Alyson. Alyson moves at her own pace. And she doesn’t work past five. If the mayor was on fire and it was one minute after five, she’d politely let him know she would put him out tomorrow morning.”

“Did you get a feel for him?” I ask.

“He landed two nights ago about seven. I met him at the airport. He came straight up to us like he was told. TSA let us use one of their offices to take his statement. He was very forthcoming. Admitted to the affair if you call meeting for sex an affair. But he didn’t admit to having plans to leave the missus to run off with Nancy Keltto. In fact, he all but promised to show up anytime, anywhere to talk about anything if it would mean we wouldn’t have to be at his house where his wife would learn about his extra-curricular activities. Nothing he said cleared him as a suspect from complicity with Mrs. Keltto in this. But the vibe I got was he was telling the truth. He was afraid his wife was going to find out and he would lose her. He didn’t sound like a guy who was ready to have his wife served with papers so he could run off with the love of his life. He didn’t look much like a killer either.”

“Most don’t,” Don says.

“So you cut him loose after his statement?” I ask.

“I did,” Blackshear says unhappily. “I told him not to leave town or see, speak to, or otherwise communicate with Nancy Keltto without calling me, but that was it. I didn’t see him as a flight risk.”

“You didn’t Miranda him?” Don asks.

“No. That would have shut him up fast. I felt like I was okay treating him like a person of interest, not an official suspect.”

“I would have done the same thing,” Don says. “But tonight changes everything. We gotta get his movements checked out and confirm his whereabouts on the morning of the murder.”