Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (37 page)

“I could have had a thirty-pound spare tire and the result would have been the same. Martinez, you would have gone down same as me.”

“That’s not saying much,” Don says with a wicked smile.

“You want to see how easy it is to take me down,
amigo
?” Martinez challenges back.

“Ladies, not now,” Zaworski says, cutting them off. “Kristen, can you think of anyone else? No other enemies or scorned lovers?”

“He wasn’t a lover,” I say with a sternness that makes even the captain back off. “If you don’t count my family or Internal Affairs and someone in the office who writes me nasty Post-it notes, I really can’t think of anyone else that mad at me right now. Everything’s good with Jeff and Patricia as of last Sunday, and you met Jeff yourself, Captain, so you know if he wanted to hurt someone, it would be in the wallet and happen in a court of law. Honestly, I’m flying below the radar these days.”

“What is this Post-It notes thing you are talking about?” he asks, frowning.

“It’s nothing,” I answer. “Someone is having some fun at my expense. Just a harmless prank.”

“We don’t prank in my office,” Zaworski answers. “I want those notes.”

“I’m not sure I kept them.”

“And you deleted a threatening phone message from this Dell Woods. Use your head, Kristen. If there are any more notes or messages, you keep them. And you give them to Shelly to give to me.”

Shelly is still my chief suspect. I wonder if he will get them . . .

“Now think, Kristen,” Zaworski says. “Because if you can’t come up with somebody else, I’m going to assume it’s this Woods guy.”

“What about the punk we collared a couple months back?” I ask, looking at Don. “Hard last name, Polish or Russian I think. Started with an
I
.”

“Couldn’t be him,” Zaworski breaks in. “He’d still be locked up.” He squints at me, like I should remember that. Maybe the drugs they’ve given me are stronger than I thought.

Don’s frown deepens. He slaps his leg and mutters something.

“What?” I ask.

“Incaviglia. The punk. He got cut loose. I stayed late at the office so I could do something with the family tomorrow morning. As arresting officers, you and me got an email after hours tonight. There was a big bureaucratic snafu. The punk got in line and gave somebody else’s name and walked out of Cook County Jail.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Zaworski says.

“Not the first time something like this has happened recently,” Martinez adds. “With all the budget cuts they can’t keep up down there. My
el primo
works there and says it’s getting sloppy.”

“You’re telling me the punk who about beat an old man to death and who gave me a brand-new scar just walked out the front gates of our judicial system?” I ask. I’m stunned. I feel sick to my stomach. I want to let someone have it. I count to ten and take a couple deep breaths. Weariness overwhelms me. I’m too tired to stay focused.

“Guys, I can barely keep my eyes open,” I say. “But I don’t think it was Incaviglia. Now that kid was tough, I’ll admit. But I don’t think he weighed 170 pounds. I don’t think he could generate the power the guy who punched me had.”

“Well, we’re going to let you catch some sleep and get rested up,” Zaworski says. “You think of anything or anybody, you call me directly. Not even Squires gets the first call.”

Before they have a chance to exit, Big Tony Scalia comes through the door and beelines over to my side.

“I promised your daddy I’d look after you and I’m doing a crummy job of it,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek and smoothing my hair down.

He turns to look at Don and then at Martinez and starts laughing. Zaworski, who I’ve seen smile maybe two or three times in the not quite two years I’ve been in his department, finally lets loose and joins Tony. Don rolls his eyes. Martinez still looks a little glazed.

“I guess you can take pretty good care of yourself,” Scalia says.

Don and Martinez are not amused.

“You all got anything on the attacker?” he says to the three men present.

“We’re not sure. It might be this Woods guy or maybe an escaped prisoner that Kristen collared,” Zaworski says. “But she doesn’t think either could punch like the guy who hit her.”

“I got a call from Soto,” Tony says to me. “He heard you got sucker punched and wondered about that guy he had working for him in the training room. Says he hit on you.”

“Timmy,” I respond with my eyes half open. “He’s a lot more likely than Dell or the punk.”

“We got a name?” Zaworski asks Scalia. “If so, let’s get an APB out and bring him in for questioning.”

“Consider it done. We’ll get some officers on it.” He turns toward me and continues. “By the way, Soto is on his way down here. He swears he’s going to kill Timmy or whoever it is that did this. With his bare hands. He’s also not happy with someone in this room. He thinks she’s not taking the personal threat of the Cutter Shark case seriously enough and is being way too careless.”

“Any truth to that?” Zaworski asks.

Before I can answer, more visitors arrive. Konkade and Blackshear enter the room first. Is anyone going to let me sleep off the rest of the knockout shot they gave me? Both come over and give me a pat on the shoulder. Both look at Don and Martinez with incredulity. Konkade whispers something in the captain’s ear. Zaworski quickly glances up toward the door. On cue, Willingham and Van Guten enter. This is getting interesting. I think we’re having a party. I’m starting to wake back up now.

Willingham ignores Zaworski and walks over to the side of my bed. He takes my hand and looks at me kindly. If Willingham hadn’t decided to be an FBI bigwig, he would have made a great doctor. His bedside manner is impeccable.

“How are you doing, Detective Conner?”

“Fine, sir, thank you for asking. As soon as the pain medicine wears off, I’ll be out of here and back to normal.”

“I hear you don’t have the doctor’s clearance.”

Despite the ice packs—sure hope their ice machine is industrial strength—my side still aches dully. I was also passing a little blood as of an hour ago. Until there’s no blood in the urine, Dr. Singh is not letting me go home.

“They’re just being cautious,” I say.

“That’s good,” he says. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to do the same. Don’t get in a hurry to get out of here. You’ll slow down recovery.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer as he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“When did I become ‘sir’ to you?”

“Sorry, Bob. I promise to be cautious.”

He likes that and chuckles. Then he turns toward Zaworski and the smile is immediately gone. The two men lock eyes. I don’t think either is willing to blink first.

Van Guten breaks the impasse. “Why don’t you gentlemen clear the room and let our intrepid detective have some privacy. You can run your task force meeting out in the hall.”

“Good counsel, Leslie,” Willingham says. “However, I think Captain Zaworski and I might have a private conversation in my car. Can you get a ride back?”

“No problem. I’ll catch a cab,” she says.

“I can give you a lift,” Martinez says, straightening his collar. Leslie doesn’t look very excited about that suggestion.

She gives Don, who is now standing, a playful but firm nudge toward the door. Everyone but Leslie begins to shuffle out. I notice that Don has ditched his ice pack, probably in the foolish hope that everyone will forget I got a pretty clean punch off before I was subdued. His dark skin might hide discoloration—but he’s already got a golf ball swelling on the side of his face.

Martinez isn’t letting go of his ice pack. But he seems to be taking my counterattack more in stride than Don. He moves gingerly as he follows the others out of the room. With the men gone, Dr. Leslie Van Guten closes the door and walks over to me. She looks at me without saying anything for a moment. I feel like a bug under a microscope.

“So what was my ex-husband working on tonight?”

“Come again?” I answer, confused.

“In Durango.”

“I have no idea what you’re . . .”

My head is spinning. I’m sure it’s the reaction she was hoping for. She is now looking at me with detached amusement.

“I guess he didn’t mention that to you. Typical Austin. What I want to know is why he’s in Colorado.”

“You’re the Mensa member; why are you asking me?”

“Clever and correct,” she deadpans. “Let’s just say the deputy director and I are not absolutely sold on the way Major Reynolds is conducting this entire investigation, and he’s not keeping the chain of command as apprised as he should.”

“Well, Leslie, at least he’s doing something.”

And I’m sticking up for the guy who didn’t bother to let me know that I am working a case with his ex-wife? Why?

“We have processes for a reason. But no matter. Reynolds is good.
Very
good. And after tonight, I think the threads are all coming together anyway. We have you to thank for that.”

“How is that?”

“What sedative did they give you—or are you just that slow? I think you’re the only one on the team who hasn’t figured this out yet.”

I say nothing. I am too doped up to work out anything hard and I’m fading fast. I can’t for the life of me figure what she’s talking about so I say nothing, but it must center around Reynolds and this Durango lead. Thanks for making me look like a fool, you jerk. She just looks at me, I guess to see if the uncomfortable pause will coax me into blabbing.

Not going to happen, girlfriend. I’m basically shutting down and she realizes it. She turns and leaves without another word.

She could learn something from Willingham’s bedside manner.

Dell can’t be the Cutter Shark . . .

59

“YOU’RE STAYING AT our house,” Kaylen says. “There is no way you’re staying here by yourself.”

Kaylen, Klarissa, my mom, and I are at my kitchen table. It’s eleven on Saturday morning. I left the hospital twelve hours ago, but suddenly I wish I was still there, safe from my overly protective friends and family. Don and Martinez, fortunately not holding grudges, drove me home. Vanessa was already at my place when we arrived and had brought flowers, stocked my fridge, and done some cleanup, including a couple loads of laundry. I was thankful beyond belief that the place was fairly clean before she got there, though I don’t think I’ve ever vacuumed the traps of my sinks.

Vanessa also whipped up the most unbelievable coffee cake that my mom popped into the oven before I woke up. I am currently on my second piece. Even Klarissa, who eats less than anybody not living in a famine-stricken country, has cleaned her plate. Granted, it was a small piece to begin with, but this still represents a breakthrough in my mind. I may have even caught her looking at the half-eaten second piece on my plate with something other than disdain.
Interest?

“She can come home with me and stay in her old room,” Mom says.

“We have room for her and you,” Kaylen says.

“She can come to my place,” Klarissa says.

“She’s
in the room, guys,” I say. “So you can talk
to
her, not
about
her. And we’ve already settled it. Kaylen can spend the night. Just one night.”

I’ve been up an hour and still have a summer-weight nightgown on. My hair is pulled back in the default ponytail I wear when I’m out of time or too lazy to fix it otherwise. That would be almost all the time.

“I have two of Chicago’s finest as my bodyguards. They’re sitting in the parking lot right now. I’ll be fine.”

“Bodyguards? I’m impressed,” Klarissa says. “Are they cute?”

“Think they want something to eat?” Mom asks. “We could take them a piece of Vanessa’s coffee cake and a cup of coffee.”

“We’re not supposed to do that, Mom,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. “Remember Dad’s undercover days? And Klarissa, we can’t go on a double date with them until this case is solved.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t the Cutter Shark who attacked you?” Kaylen interrupts with a shudder.

“If it was the Cutter Shark, I wouldn’t be here,” I answer. “We have no way of knowing who attacked me, but I doubt it’s connected to the case I’m on. I think my attacker might be a guy named Timmy. He was one of the fight trainers at CPD for a month or two. He was working for Barry Soto.”

“And Barry didn’t know this guy was trouble?” Mom asks. “I always thought Barry was sharp. He must be slipping if he let a murderer work for him.”

“Mom, I didn’t say Timmy is the Cutter Shark,” I say again. “This could be a random attack, which is doubtful, but there are at least a couple options we’re exploring.”

“If you’ve got colleagues attacking you,” Klarissa says, “you must be a real bear to work with.”

“Thanks, Baby Sis,” I say. “You really know how to brighten my day.”

She laughs and gives me a punch on the shoulder. I wince. Every movement still hurts. I guess everything is fine and she forgot about how our last conversation ended with her hanging up on me. I haven’t forgotten.