Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (32 page)

“Are you sure, Kristen? Jimmy and I were just talking about all you’re going through right now. Life’s been so crazy this past year for all of us, we haven’t been there for you. This Cutter Shark thing is so scary. What happens to people that they become monsters?”

“Hey, Kaylen, I’m actually doing okay today and I want to take the kids out and have them spend the night. I miss them! You and Jimmy do something fun, you know, get out the old Scrabble board or maybe play some Parcheesi. Jimmy can pop popcorn over an open fire in the back yard and lead Mitch Miller choruses.”

“Ha ha,” she says with not even a scintilla of humor in her voice.

“Hey,” I add, “if you’ve got other ideas, maybe even romantic ideas, you’re adults and you’re even married, so have at it.”

“You are so dead when you get here, Kristen,” she says. She pauses and continues, “You know, that’s probably not the best choice of words right now.”

Then she starts crying. I immediately swear to myself I’m not going to join her in crying. Kaylen cries easily. I don’t. This Cutter Shark guy is a shadow over the whole city. He’s getting inside people’s minds. Either that or big sis is about to finally own up that she’s preggo.

“Kaylen,” I say as I bump into the parking lot, “I’m sorry I have to sign off but I’m at the office. We will talk more later. I promise. But I have to run now.”

I sit in my car for five minutes, trying to get my thoughts focused on what I can get done in the next hour or two so I can obey Captain’s orders and do something fun with family. I crank up a classic rock station and listen to Chicago belt out “25 or 6 to 4.” I once heard a deejay earnestly explain that the “25 or 6 to 4” phrase was just something nonsensical someone in the group came up with at the end of a studio session so they could go home. Nonsensical? Gee, do you think so?

Whether it was the peppy beat or a flare-up of my sarcasm gene, I now have my game face on and head into the building. I nod at the officers working the front desk and sign in. I eschew the elevator and jog up four flights of loud, metal stairs. The floor is reasonably quiet this Saturday morning but I can hear voices here and there. I get to my cubicle. There is another yellow sticky note in the middle of my computer screen:

ROSES ARE RED

VIOLETS ARE BLUE

DOES
THE FBI STUD

REALLY
LOVE YOU?

Someone is going to pay for this. Shelly, if it’s you, leaving an apple on my desk is not going to get you out of this.

It takes me almost an hour to stop fuming about the Post-it note and get my mind fully on task. In terms of progress on the case, no one would be able to tell the difference.

Dear
God, something has to give. Please give us a breakthrough.

A lot of people have all sorts of questions about God. I guess I took to heart early on that faith should be childlike—or it isn’t faith. So I don’t try to figure everything out even if I have a few specific questions, like the “once saved, always saved” debate I ponder every now and then. I’m simple-minded. I believe in God with all my heart. But right now my real question is why he doesn’t seem to hear my prayers.

49

May 16, 2:00 a.m.

CAN YOU SAY
breakthrough? Everybody is talking about me now. Not just local media and
an occasional mention on
national outlets. The
world is talking about me. And
the reporters are finally getting some of the details
right. I like that. I want my legacy preserved. I’m tired of writing
in my journal. It doesn’t look right in pencil,
and when I write in pen there are smudges. The whole thing looks like
a mess. I wanted it to look neater. So I’m
not going to do it anymore. I can’t let anyone read it now anyway. It’s better the way
it’s unfolding, slowly.
Give the media some juicy details to get everybody hot and bothered—but
not enough details that they would ever be able
to apprehend me. There are gaps they will never fill in.

I hate that ChiTownVlogger guy—contacting him might
have been a mistake. He
wants too much glory
for himself. He’s a typical media hack. He thinks the story is about him. But this story
is about me. He’ll get
his fifteen minutes of
fame and then they’ll forget him—but they’ll
always remember me. I hated when he gave me the Cutter Shark name. Even if it is catchy. I
have to admit, he does
get results. He’s already
been on Fox, CNN, and the
BBC.

But I will not
tolerate it if he continues to speak caustically of me. I will show him the true meaning of cutting. So if
he wants any more exclusive news tidbits—and if he wants to continue breathing—he will show
me the respect I deserve.

This vlogger—Allen Johnson—is one messed up
individual. He has an acute sense of paranoia.
He thinks the mayor
got him fired and monitors
all his electronic
communications. But it
won’t be the mayor monitoring his emails and
Internet activity now. No, the FBI has to
have taken on that particular task. That’s
why I’ve already sent him another message via the old-fashioned route: the post
office.

I’m always one
step ahead.

The most important thing is I’m building my legacy and receiving some long overdue fame. I have been punished with obscurity because of my own brilliance. The only thing that
will knock me from
the lead spot of all
news programming is if some some teenage actress
gets drunk and runs
over a paparazzi again.

Two weeks ago, GiGi
was a perfect one-month
schedule behind Sandra.
But what if I decided
Candace wasn’t a mulligan? That would mean I
could go back to work this weekend and be perfectly on schedule.

I
like the way I’m thinking! I make the rules,
so I can bend them or break them. At will. Track that, FBI psychologist!

It would be good to wait for a full moon, but the pressure is building.
I know myself too well. I can’t wait. And I
have a date tonight .
. . even if she doesn’t
know it yet.

This city
is going to explode when they find out who she is.

She’s going to
explode when she finds out who I am!

Freedom.
It is hard for average,
normal, pedestrian individuals to cherish
that like I do. I once
was a prisoner. Now I’m
free. Free to live life to the fullest. Free to soar.

50

“I TOLD YOU why I can’t go out tonight. I’ve already got a date with my adorable niece and fabulous nephew. Even if I hadn’t made plans, I’m not ready to go out two nights in a row.”

“And why would that be?”

I shift into fifth gear and drop the phone off my shoulder. I’ve got to get a hands-free earpiece. I fumble around with my right hand while keeping both eyes on the road. I’m doing seventy-five in a sixty-five zone and Saturday afternoon traffic is surprisingly heavy.

“Are you still there?” Reynolds is asking as I get the phone back up to my ear.

“I am.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Sorry, I dropped my phone. But you know what, Austin? I don’t think I’m going to answer anyway.”

“That hurts. However, you did use my first name, I believe for the first time, so I’m not going to complain.”

“I’m honored, Major.”

“Listen, I think it’s great that you’ve got your sister’s kids tonight. But you’ve got three hours before you pick them up and knowing you when you get working, you haven’t had anything to eat since you poked that bagel around your plate this morning. Meet me for a late lunch on your way home.”

“I’ve got to get cleaned up and do some housework.”

“You’ve got to eat lunch sometime. We’ll just sit down for an hour.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Keep thinking and see if this helps. There’s a great little Philly cheesesteak place near the corner of Clark and Belmont.”

“After eating a pound of cow last night, for some reason the thought of a sandwich piled with meat is not making me lean in your direction.”

“There’s a vegetarian place a couple blocks away. The Chicago Diner. Are you still thinking? Does that help?”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there, but two things.”

“Name them.”

“First, I buy my own meal. Strike that. I buy both meals. Just make sure it doesn’t go over twenty bucks between us because they don’t take credit cards and that’s all the cash I’ve got.”

“Sounds good. I like a strong, independent woman and I can eat on a budget. Been there, done that. What’s number two?”

“Forty-five minutes, tops, is all I’ve got. I have to have some down time at my place before I pick up the kids.”

“Doesn’t sound as good as number one, but you got it.”

• • •

Lunch was great. Austin is a good conversationalist and the more I relax with him, the more fun we have.

The Chicago Diner is vegetarian and organic, but that’s not the same thing as low calorie and small portions. I was in the mood for an omelet so I ordered up one with tofu bacon, caramelized onions, asparagus, olives, fresh basil, and feta “cheese.” I get after Klarissa for never finishing her food, but I left half the omelet uneaten and didn’t touch the potatoes or whole-wheat toast. I did drink one of their juice mixes with carrots and apples and wheat germ. I may wear my love beads and Birkenstocks tonight.

Agreement number two was that I had to be out of there in forty-five minutes. I should have stuck to the plan. We went twenty-five minutes over. That’s when things went downhill in a hurry. I went to pay the bill at the cash register and was a couple bucks short. Austin dropped my twenty back in my purse and pealed off a ten and a twenty from a pretty fat wallet. He told the cashier to give the change to our waitress.

As we turned toward the door, Austin put his hand lightly on the back of my shoulder, which shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but it did. I know I stiffened and reddened a little. But I went beet red when I looked up to see Dell standing ten feet from us. His mouth was slightly open in surprise and he was still as a statue. I froze, too. I hadn’t talked to him in . . . what? Two or three weeks? He had called and left messages at least twice. I never returned either call. I finally snapped out of my shock and walked forward. Dell seemed to recover, too.

“Well, Kristen Conner, it’s good to see you again,” he said.

“Hi, Dell. How you doing?”

“Not bad? You?”

“Dell, I’m Austin,” Austin said, interrupting to introduce himself, for which I was grateful. They shook hands.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too, Dell.”

Reynolds does the same thing as Klarissa with people’s names. Repeating them, so he remembers them. That’s why he’s a major.

As we exited the restaurant, I looked back in and Dell was sitting down at the counter. Austin wanted to know who Dell was. I told him I didn’t have time to get into that now and almost sprinted to my car. I was embarrassed. I felt like some of the muck in my life splattered on my relationship with Austin.

I didn’t feel good about myself the whole drive home. No one can make me reciprocate romantic interest—not even with my mom’s assistance—and I have no qualms with that. But I was pretty abrupt when I told Dell it was over. Maybe I could’ve done something to soften the blow. Nah. Dell made that impossible. Stop beating yourself up.

I used to think of myself as a very nice person. Christian. Caring. Interested. Ready to get involved and help. Conflict—even when it’s not your fault—has a way of making you pull back and retreat within yourself. It does for me. Plus there’s all the conflict in my life that is my fault. A lot of it is little and petty, no big biggie. But I still don’t feel good about myself.