Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (6 page)

8

THE FACT THAT I was running in zero-degree weather huddled over a man who was bleeding out made me an immediate suspect. I was walked up the hill and led into a van with no inside door handles for questioning. It was so toasty it hurt. I felt prickly, itching jabs as my fingers and toes partially thawed. But I wasn’t complaining—until I warmed up enough that the jabs turned to icy stabs.

When I reached for my fanny pack to pull out my detective shield, I was ordered to stop and was promptly cuffed. That got me wide awake and my blood started to boil. Five minutes later I was able to get an officer to fish through the crowded pack and pull out my badge. The cuffs came off quickly. My anger was turning to steam but I kept my cool. I get in enough trouble with CPD for my temper, why make enemies with the NYPD?

After the uniform left to find a detective, I asked a techie who stuck his head in the back of the van the million-dollar question: “Is he going to make it?”

“Is who going to make it?” he asked.

“The guy I was giving CPR to. Who do you think I was asking about?”

“Make it? What are you talking about?”

“Did he live?” I nearly hollered.

I didn’t call the techie what went through my mind. I thought I was doing so much better with my temper.

“Not unless his name is Lazarus. He’s dead.”

“On the way to the hospital?”

“No. He was dead when we got to you.”

Okay. So maybe I didn’t feel a pulse. I wonder how long I blew air into the broken airway of a dead man?

I’m a homicide detective. I’ve seen death. It’s never pleasant. Sometimes it’s horrific. I was at the murder scene where a twelve-yearold was beaten to death by kids his own age. I heard his mother scream to God for it not to be so. That case—that moment—will never go away. Neither will this one.

I followed in my dad’s footsteps and became a Chicago policeman. He warned me before my first day at CPD Academy that sometimes you have to forget what you just saw with your own two eyes and move on. Compartmentalization. I understand the word in my head. I do compartmentalize. I think everyone does. But sometimes the dividers let things slip through.

Someone has to deal with bad people. You don’t wallow in mud without getting muddy. You just hope a hot shower can get you clean enough to interact positively with the people you love.

My dad got shot on the job. I still wonder what he was thinking before he breathed his last. He knew I would be the first one to reach him. He set it up that way. Was I supposed to take that as a compliment?

I don’t understand what he did but I still agree with him on compartmentalization. Some things have to be left behind and forgotten as much as possible. His death is one of those things—even if finding the man who shot him isn’t. I carry this with me every day even if I don’t like to talk about it. People want me to open up and discuss my feelings. But what’s the point? What happened, happened. Dead is dead.

Life requires that we move on. Some things have to be locked away. That’s what my dad said and I’m sticking with it.

9

NAZAR KUBLANOV, MEDVED, the Bear, drove across the Brooklyn Bridge and pulled up to a 24-hour convenience store. He stared straight ahead, the engine idling roughly. Not the route he was supposed to be on to take the silver-haired man to an unmarked warehouse in Queens. Not the place he was supposed to be. He looked at his cheap cellphone. Eleven missed calls. The number was blocked but he knew who was calling.

Pasha. A legend in the
bratva
for his brutality combined with a businessman’s style. He could beat a man to death for breakfast and then change into a tailored suit for lunch at a fancy restaurant, all smiles and charm. He would be Pakhan one day.

Med replayed all that had happened. He went on his shift at eleven the night before. It was a slow night because of winter storm conditions. That didn’t keep everyone inside. He picked up a few fares. Tips were decent. Then business fell off. He sat in a line of cabs outside the only throbbing, crowded club in the Meat Packing District. No one was in a hurry to leave. He got bored. He sipped vodka. He might have dozed off a few minutes. A little after three o’clock, Pasha called him. A first. Not someone who worked for Pasha, but the man himself.

Medved was over thirty but was still the lowest-level street soldier. He got called from time to time to apply some muscle when a shop owner got behind on insurance payments, but nothing more. Not since his time on Riker Island. That’s when he started drinking all day and all night long. His age and his position were a bad combination. It meant he wasn’t going anywhere in the
bratva
. He’d get table scraps, but he was far from the real money that guys younger than him were now making.

He knew his days with Ilsa were numbered. She looked too good.
She had loyally waited for him to get out of Riker, but no way would she stick around with the man he had become.

Pasha’s call represented a big opportunity. Problem was he had been sipping vodka. He couldn’t tell Pasha that and miss out on a chance to show his value to the
bratva
, the family. So he grabbed a cup of coffee at an all-night Dunkin Donuts and headed for the Dexter. But he lost track of time when he went down into Central Park to pee.

Now everything was a mess. The question wasn’t promotion and getting back in the action. The question was staying alive.

His phone rang again. He looked at the flashing number with a dawning sense of dread. It wasn’t blocked. It was Ilsa. Ilsa never got up this early. She worked graveyard shift at a bakery. She had been home less than an hour. She was always asleep by now.

He hit the green answer button.

“You okay,
konfetka
?” he asked quickly.

“Med,” a gravelly voice responded. “You are there. I was getting worried about you. Very worried. You didn’t show up and you haven’t been answering.”

It was Pasha Boyarov.

“I can explain, Pasha.”

“Good. I hope you can explain things to me and to your lovely wife. Your
konfetka
. Neither Ilsa nor I are very happy with you right now.”

“I’ll come explain. Where do I head? The warehouse or my apartment? Just tell me where.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid you would say that.” A pause. “Where is the man? Answer me truthfully. It will make Ilsa and me happy.”

Med heard Ilsa scream in pain.

“Pasha, I can explain. He ran. Into the park.”

“He escaped then?”

“He fell. Bad. He’s . . .”

“Yes?”

“He’s dead.”

“Who has him? Where is the body?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s at the morgue. Just tell me where to meet you. This has nothing to do with Ilsa.”

“Do you have the man’s wallet?”

Med hesitated and then lied, “No, I just take the cash.”

Pasha sighed. “You found no small sheet of paper with numbers on it?”

“No, Pasha. Just the cash.”

“What am I to do with you Med?”

“Do as you will. Just don’t hurt Ilsa.”

“Come to the office.”

“I’m on my way, Pasha.”

“Good. Be fast. We are on a tight schedule and you have messed it up.”

“Can I talk to Ilsa?”

“Of course.”

Med waited for her voice. But it was Pasha who spoke.

“You can talk to your
konfetka
when you get here.”

“So tell me again. What were you doing alone in the Park at four in the morning?”

“Like I told you, I wanted to get a run in before flying back to Chicago.”

“In zero degree weather? Who does that?”

Lots of people. Okay, maybe a few people. But either way, I’m not answering this guy. I don’t like his condescending attitude. Of course I’m a cop and nobody likes my attitude when I’m asking the questions either.

“So you’re a Chicago detective?”

I’m not covering old ground. Best way to put an end to this repetitive nonsense is to say nothing.

“I’m just trying to work with you, hon.”

Hon? What year is this? If that is supposed to be the good cop half of his one-man shtick, it’s pretty pathetic.

“You checked out,” he says after another long pause. “And based on what I’ve been told I guess I’m supposed to be impressed. You’ve closed some big cases the last couple years. You’re the one who broke the case on that serial killer guy. What’d they call him?”

I’m not answering. I know he already knows. Some guy with a popular website—the ChiTownBlogger—dubbed our infamous serial killer the Cutter Shark. It was a stupid name but it stuck. I hate that name but we all use it. Some nicknames just stick. This guy is just trying to get a rise out of me. I got a lot of press busting the Cutter. My sister did an exclusive interview with me that probably got her the job offer with WolfNews, a national network headquartered in New York.

“Still not feeling talkative?”

“I’m thinking about how I’ve missed my flight and I need to get rebooked on a later one. I’m soaked in blood. I need a shower. I’ve got to get packed. Is that talkative enough?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Might as well put all that packing and rebooking stuff out of your mind and just relax. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I’m due in the bullpen tomorrow morning. My vacation in New York City is over. Let me thank you for a grand finale.”

“We aim to please. And since you aren’t leaving the warm embrace of our hospitality today, better call in and tell your boss you’ll be late.”

That gives me pause for thought. Who is my boss? Captain Zaworski retired because he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He was doing chemo or maybe it was radiation last I heard. I haven’t checked to see how he’s doing since . . . more than a month. I feel a pang of guilt. One of my colleagues on the Cutter Shark case, Bob Blackshear,
was named acting head of homicide detectives in the Second Precinct. We busted a huge case with him in charge, which should count for something, but bad luck for him, it was discovered someone in our department was feeding the murderer information the whole time. That reflects bad on all of us, but Blackshear was boss so he took the fall. He’s back at the Fourth.

I went into Christmas holiday not knowing who my new boss would be. I think they should look at my partner, Don Squires. He’s put up with me for going on three years. Everything else should be a snap in comparison.

“You really aren’t going to talk to me are you?”

“Sorry, I was thinking. I do need to make a couple calls, but you or one of your pals still has my phone.”

He fishes in his pocket and hands me my iPhone. I should probably say thanks but seeing his smug face, I don’t. I hope I haven’t scratched the glass face when I dropped it. I keep meaning to get one of those plastic covers.

I stare at the screen—can’t tell if it’s scratched because of the bloody smudges on it—wondering who I should call first. I put it on my lap and look up to organize my thoughts to make a list, not sure where to start.

“Ready to talk now?”

Here we go again.

“I’ve talked and talked,” I say. “You know as well as I do I can’t be of any help here.”

“Not my call.”

“Whose call is it?”

“Up the food chain. Way above my pay grade.”

“Just because I found a dead guy?”

“You solved the case where the billionaire’s kid got whacked, too, didn’t you?”

Yes I did. I give Barnes a sideways look. We’ve moved from the van
to the back of a patrol car. The heater is blasting away and I’m sweating in my Gore-Tex and fleece running gear but my toes are still tingling. I’ve already shed the Patagonia coat. There is no way the blood is coming out of the fabric. I doubt I can sell it on Craig’s List, even though I can honestly claim it is only slightly used.

“How long you had your detective shield?” he asks.

I think about saying nothing, but answer, “A little over two years. Actually, it might be closer to three now.”

“I’ve had mine for twenty years and I’ve made a few decent take downs. But I’ve never landed a whale. You, Detective Kirsten Conner, have just landed in the middle of a case with whale number three. Keep it up and you’ll have your own TV show.”

“It’s Kristen.”

“That’s better. My name is Tommy.”

“I was just correcting you for calling me by the wrong name.”

“Huh?”

“You said Kirsten. My name’s Kristen.”

I’ve corrected my barista at JavaStar for the same thing for five years with no success. Why do I even try?

“Glad we got that settled,” he says. “But either way, sounds like you’re finally ready to be friendly and you want me to call you by your first name.”

Funny guy. I’d say something sarcastic back to him but now I’m wondering about what he just said. A whale? Who did I find dead? Actually, I found him alive. He died in my arms. I hope. Who was he?

“If you ever consider a move to New York City,” he continues, “let’s partner up. I’m spinning my wheels and need a promotion or I need to get rich writing a true crime book. Or maybe I could do a documentary. Either way I could use the press.”

“So what’s going on, Barnes?” I refuse to use his first name. “Who did I find?”

He’s looking forward now and it’s his turn to dish out the silent
treatment. Touché. I deserve it. Although he could cut me a break after what I just went through. A guy died in my arms. That should count for a little sympathy.

“I didn’t have time to look for an ID when I found him,” I say. “You’d think trying to keep a guy alive counts for something.”

No answer.

Okay, I’ll play ball. “Tommy, who was the victim?”

“His wallet was already gone when I got there. I didn’t get to check for an ID either.”

I sigh. “So how do you know he’s a whale? How’d you come up with a positive identification so fast?
Tommy
.”

Hearing his first name a second time satisfies him and he answers, “The ID is not officially confirmed but strongly believed to be known. We know who he is because he’s known.”

“Okay . . . he’s known because he’s known,” I say, confused.

“You’ll figure it out later.” He’s still holding out.

“Looked like a politician to me. Is he someone I should recognize if I paid more attention to the news?”

“Nice guess. But no cigar.”

“Are we going to play twenty questions?” I ask.

“You sure you didn’t get a look at the guy leaving the park?” He isn’t giving me anything until I give him something first.

“I don’t even know if I saw a guy,” I answer. “Might have been a three hundred-pound woman. It was dark and someone was stumbling up the path. I just caught a glimpse when he—and note that ‘he’ is an assumption—passed under the light pole. I was at least a hundred yards away—probably farther—I wasn’t even thinking there was anything wrong because I hadn’t heard the scream yet.”

“I would have liked to hear that scream,” he says. “The medical techie told me you weren’t lying. When someone with a severed windpipe screams, it’s like nothing else you’ll ever hear.”

Really, Tommy? You just said that? I stare forward. He drums his
fingers on the door handle and knows to hold his tongue.

“Okay, Detective Barnes—”

“Call me Tommy since we’re on a first name basis,” he interrupts, almost with a snarl. He’s giving me that New York attitude. A little exaggerated if you ask me. Am I supposed to be intimidated?