Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (26 page)

Chicago started so
splendidly. Then I decided to invest in some extracurricular activity, and boy, did that blow
up in my face. Her cruelty toward me has bordered on torture. I’ve
let her be for the moment. She may think she
is getting away with a
blatant disregard for my kindness and my needs, but she will discover
the heights and depths of
pain that a human being
can experience.

I have always been merciful
to a fault with my subjects. It’s taken a lot of trial and error, but I believe I have created the perfect mix of light paralytics
and pain inhibitors to obtain an acceptable anesthetic awareness when
I perform on them. I like for my girls to be awake so I can watch their eyes and imagine what is going on behind them—they kind of know and kind of don’t
know what I’m doing—but
I do want them to be comfortable. And they are.
So no one in his or
her right mind can accuse
me of cruelty or torture.

But I am going to
treat her like she has
treated me. No pain inhibitors. A large enough dose of pure Suxamethonium to completely paralyze
her—but where she will feel everything. With absolutely no muscle
movement, she won’t even be able to blink or shed a tear. But I know
she’ll be crying on
the inside. And I’m certain she will finally understand how bad she made me feel.

I would like to move her to the front
of the line. But knowing that I am about to
get back on schedule makes patience easier to
bear tonight.

I was afraid that Chicago was
getting too messy.
Tonight should tidy things
up.

I worked pecs and abs
hard this morning. I am ripped.

39

“YOU WENT ON a date with someone from work?” my mom nearly shouts down the table. “But you’re going out with Dell.”

I thought I made my feelings clear to her. She’s listening about as well as Dell. And why did Klarissa have to bring up my date on Friday night?

We’ve only been sitting down for five minutes at Sunday dinner and I have no idea what I’ve done to be on the hot seat.

“Where’s Dell?” James asks.

“Mr. Dell,” Kendra corrects him. “He and Kristen don’t like each other anymore.”

“Aunt Kristen,” Kaylen corrects Kendra.

“Why don’t you like Mr. Dell?” James asks me.

“What’s going on with you and Dell?” Mom asks again.

I give Klarissa a dirty look. She can barely conceal a smile. She pokes at the food on her plate and manages to get a single pea on a tine of her fork. She lifts it to her mouth and begins to chew slowly and thoroughly. The pea doesn’t stand a chance.

“Mr. James and Ms. Kendra, listen closely,” I say firmly. “I do not dislike Mr. Dell and I do not think he dislikes me.”

“But can you be sure?” Klarissa asks.

She snorts out a little laugh and goes into a coughing fit. That girl has to start eating. It’s pollen season and she’s always had allergies, but with her weight, I’m not sure she is healthy enough to fight off a cold at any point in the year. She does look marvelous on TV, however, which everyone knows adds ten pounds. Not just marvelous. Drop-dead gorgeous. With Warren out of the picture, she’ll probably make Chicago’s top ten list for hot bachelorette babes.

“Aunt Klarissa makes a valid point, and it is possible that I’m wrong and Mr. Dell does not like me anymore. Nonetheless, I told him last week that we can’t see each other anymore.”

Everyone at the table, including little James, is staring at me, willing me with their eyes to go on. Maybe I will. This is a new experience for me. I did not always get pluses for speech skills on my high school report cards.

“Are you sure it’s completely over?” Mom asks. “He’s such a nice young man. And I think he likes being with us.”

She is relentless today. Honestly, she’s never been particularly invasive in our personal lives—as long as we go to church and come for Sunday dinner each and every week. What’s the deal with Dell?

“I think he’s swell, too, Mom. But I’m just not feeling the romance.”

“Romance is kissing,” Kendra says to James with a coy smile.

“Gross!” he nearly screams.

“James!” Jimmy yells sharply. “No yelling!” James lowers his head and quiets down immediately, but I see the trace of a smug smile on his face. He’s no worse for the experience.

“So what if you don’t feel romantic toward him?” Mom grills me. “It’s always better to start as friends and then get romantically involved later.”

“Just like you and Dad?” Kaylen asks her with a laugh.

Bless Big Sis’s heart. She’s come to my rescue. We all know from family mythology that Mom and Dad were instantly, magnetically attracted. They got married within a few months of meeting.

“That was different,” Mom says defensively.

Now everyone has turned attention her way. I believe I’m off the hook. She gets a dreamy look in her eyes and Klarissa, Kaylen, and I make eye contact and burst out laughing.

“What? What?” Mom asks, perturbed now.

“Mom, just go on,” Klarissa urges. “What made things different for you and Dad? Kaylen’s got her man, but Kristen and I obviously need some serious help.”

“Seriously serious help,” I agree.

“You guys are just laughing at me,” Mom says.

“We are not. Just tell us!” Klarissa exclaims.

Mom relents and smiles. “We just knew the first time we met that we were made for each other. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and he couldn’t take his eyes off of me. My daddy was strict and I wasn’t allowed to hold hands with boys on a first date, under any circumstances. And I definitely wasn’t allowed to see a Catholic boy. I guess I wasn’t so good that night. We met at the skating rink and held hands the whole night.”

I want to laugh but the moment’s just too sweet and Mom will shut down if she thinks we’re still teasing her. Kaylen has scooted her seat right next to Jimmy and he is running his fingers lightly across her shoulders. I look closer and if my eyes don’t deceive me, I believe I see the very beginning of a baby bump on Kaylen’s belly. Kaylen is pretty but she is one of those women who get even prettier when pregnant.

Klarissa and I look at each other and sigh. Then she puts her finger and thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead. I return the compliment.

We really are getting along good these days. Even if we’re both losers when it comes to romance.

• • •

You look down at your own peril when James has a certified weapon—a Wiffle bat—in his hands.

We headed to the back yard after lunch and I’m pitching a Wiffle ball to the kid. The kind with air holes to enhance velocity. He may be four years old, but he can already smack that ball. I’m about done throwing to him underhand. And if he keeps parting my hair every time he whacks the ball, I may have to give him some chin music to move him off the plate and then throw him the curveball away and down.

I played soccer, not softball. But I do have fabulous memories of going to Wrigley and Comiskey with my family for Cubs and White Sox games. I thought it was neat that Dad bought a scorecard and filled it out in pencil the whole game. A couple of times I caught him comparing his card with the
Tribune
’s box scores the next day. He was pretty sure he was more accurate than the official scorekeeper.

For the first couple of minutes out here, I had Kendra and even Klarissa to help shag James’ prodigious swats of the bat. Both lost interest pretty quick. So now I’m pitcher and solo fielder, which means I’m running around and sweating in a jean skirt.

Jimmy’s sitting on a lawn chair next to Mom on the patio, talking. She’s crying about something. I’m not about to complain about having to shag James’ fungoes; Jimmy’s got the real work today.

I glance around. This is Chicago weather at its most beautiful. It was a deluge yesterday, but today it’s breezy and in the lower seventies. The grass is a velvety green. Kaylen’s flowers and her tiny vegetable plot are already bursting with color. She is showing Klarissa and Kendra something that is growing by the side of the single-car detached garage.

My phone buzzes on my hip. I pitch the ball to James and look down to see who’s calling me on a Sunday afternoon. Big mistake. James clocks me on my forehead with a scorching line drive. I put my hand to the spot where the ball hit. It feels hot and is instantly swelling. I’m going to have an angry red circle for the entire world to see; an alien crop circle in the center of my forehead. I will look like a unicorn that has had his horn surgically removed.

Konkade is calling and I ignore the pain on my forehead. My stomach does a somersault as I push the receive button and answer. “Conner.”

I feel sets of eyes on me from every point in the yard. James is tugging on my skirt and asking if I’m okay. I put a finger on his lips so I can hear the details of my call.

“Got it. On my way, sir.”

• • •

“This better be good,” Don mumbles drowsily. “You’ve woken me from a perfectly good Sunday afternoon nap.”

“Wish I could say it was good, but our friend the Shark has struck again.”

Instantly alert, he says, “Already? This early?”

“Yeah. Not good.”

“We meeting at the precinct again?”

“No,” I answer. “We are getting back to protocol and heading directly to the crime scene. Konkade has been calling the troops to action and you didn’t pick up. So he asked if I could try to reach you and give you the location while he called the others. You got something to write on?”

“Shoot,” he says.

40

I AM THE first one on the scene from the task force. Miracles do happen. As I stride down a long brick sidewalk toward the front door, I see Konkade and Zaworski drive by looking for a parking spot. Looking ahead, I recognize the officer working the front door. Chuck Gibson is a tough twenty-year veteran of CPD. I nod at him.

Gibson nods back and answers my question before I can ask it: “A neighbor was out walking his dog. Hundred-pound-plus Lab basically dragged him here to the front steps. The man took the time to throw up and then called 911.” He pauses, grimacing. “I took a look upstairs. We’re past initial decay and into full-blown putrefaction—maybe even a little black putrefaction. You’re going to need a mask.”

I grimace, too. With the body in that state, the victim has been dead more than a day and a half. Maybe two days. That means it has already swollen to as big as it’s going to get and the gasses are starting to leak out. I sigh. The death odors are going to be at their very worst. Even with hustling over here as quickly as we could, our team will not be on the Cutter Shark’s fiftieth crime scene—known fiftieth crime scene—within a twenty-four-hour postmortem interval. Stats for apprehending criminals after the first twenty-four hours are not good. Although with the Cutter Shark the stats are never good.

My bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon has gotten dark in a hurry. With one finger I lightly touch the angry welt on my forehead from the Wiffle ball. I think I’m stalling.

I walk partway back down the sidewalk, turn, and catch the grandeur of this stately three-story townhouse just north of the University of Chicago one more time. The other two places had been very nice, even high-end by my civil servant standards, but this one must have cost a fortune.

Gibson hands me the mask as he signs me in at the checkpoint. I walk up the wide stairs of an impressive front stoop to the front door. I take four steps onto the porch and before reaching the egress, the odor is already overwhelming. I quickly pull the mask over my face. The 911 operator called the closest squad car to investigate but had a pretty strong inkling that the Cutter Shark was back in action. He called Zaworski one minute later, and he started a chain of calls to rally the troops.

I put sterile cotton slippers over my shoes. I pull the mask away from my face and hit three drops of ammonia under my nose and flinch as the chemicals make a mad charge up my sinuses and into my brain. Reynolds has ordered an extra level of care at the scenes, so I also put on a cotton version of a shower cap, similar to what the food vendors wear at Sam’s Club. Nylon gloves complete my ensemble.

I step inside to view a wide front-door-to-back-door hallway with a room on each corner of the first floor, and an ornate staircase dominating the middle of the house. All the floors are open around the staircase, with a widow’s perch constructed mostly of open windows on top of the third floor, so there is plenty of light in this weird mixture of classic and contemporary architecture. A second uniformed officer—I don’t recognize this one—stands in front of the staircase.
He’s got to be miserable getting assigned inside.