Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (40 page)

Willingham was looking at me intently. I snapped out of my reverie.

“Why Grace?” I asked rhetorically. “Why not another accountant or attorney or human resources director or media personality or studio artist? Why someone in a filthy little hovel when every other person had a ritzy place that was clean as a whistle?”

I wondered where that phrase came from.

“I think his plans got messed up at the last minute,” I said. “And he had to improvise. I think Grace was Plan B. Maybe even Plan C.”

There was a silence in the room. Every eye was focused on me. I like creating awkward pauses for others, but hate them for myself. I wanted to explain my thought further or apologize for wasting everyone’s time with such a stupid idea or let the group know that I had to get home and go to bed because I didn’t feel well. Using all my willpower, I held my tongue and said nothing.

“Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . . I think we’ve got a winner,” Willingham said, breaking the silence.

A winner? Right. They think I dated a serial killer.

He dismissed us and set another meeting for ten the next morning. I looked at my watch. If I could climb in bed in an hour, I thought, I could cop a whole twelve hours of recovery sleep. I needed every second of it. I walked out of the conference room. My bodyguards were drinking coffee and looking at magazines in the reception area. I suddenly loved my bodyguards because they meant I could leave my car in the parking garage and get a ride home from them and then a ride back over here in the morning. I headed their way.

“Nice job, hot shot,” Martinez said as he held the door for me. “I like that Plan C theory you came up with. How’d you come up with it that fast?”

“I’ve learned from the best,” I answered him.

“And that would be me?” Don said, walking into the conversation.

Konkade, Blackshear, Big Tony, Zaworski, and Van Guten over-heard and joined the circle to see how this would turn out. Reynolds was still back with Director Willingham.

“Tell them,” I said to Tony.

“That’s easy,” he said to an interested audience. “Her daddy.”

Good answer. But my daddy would have known he was dealing with a serial killer—though Dell is not the serial killer. We headed our separate ways. One of these days I have to ask Scalia about his AA story and whether he really broke my dad’s jaw.

62

I CALL MY mom from the back of the squad car on my way home. I like being chauffeured; it feels different than when Don drives and I get shotgun. Mom lets me know she went back to her house for a couple hours to pack some things and feed the cat and is already back at my place. I tell her again that she doesn’t have to spend the night, reminding her Kaylen said she’d stay, which makes her indignant and hurt. I give in.

Kaylen is already back at the apartment, too. Mom tells me they’ve made my favorite chicken salad for me. Mom made me a quick ham and cheese sandwich earlier, but I suddenly realize I am starving and chicken salad with golden raisins, fresh dill, walnuts, grapes, celery, and a little mayonnaise sounds wonderful. I ask about Jimmy and the kids and Kaylen gets on the phone to tell me that it’s good for him to be on his own. All he has to do is finish a sermon and get James and Kendra to bed. I wonder how long it takes to write a sermon and practice it. I know how long it takes to get those two kids into bed. Kaylen tells me she isn’t planning to go to church in the morning, but is going to stay at my place and make sure I don’t go anywhere for the rest of the weekend, even if she and Mom have to form a human barricade in front of my door. I decide not to tell her just yet that I’ll be back in the office at ten. I wish I had one of those rope ladders so I could make an easy escape in the morning.

As far as Kaylen asserting that she is going to miss church, I think I’m going to pass out from shock. I’m not sure she’s ever missed church. When we were little kids, our church had a perfect attendance award system. You got a medallion for your first year with no Sunday misses, and then you got a gold bar that hung on tiny hooks from the medallion for subsequent years. She looked like a five-star general when she wore hers. I never made buck private. I didn’t dislike going to church; I just came up with excuses for missing from time to time. I know when we were teens my sisters—and my mom—resented that Dad took me to my weekend soccer tournaments in St. Louis or Champaigne-Urbana or Indianapolis or Springfield—and Mom took them to Sunday school. Nobody said they couldn’t try out for a travel soccer team.

My cell beeps twice while we talk. I pull the phone from my ear and look each time to see if it is a private number that will end up going live with me and about a hundred FBI agents at the same time. It is Reynolds, both times. I’m not taking his calls. But if I do, it will be to let him make a fool of himself within earshot of his colleagues.

My cell starts beeping again. It’s Don. I tell Kaylen I have to take it and that I’ll see her in a few minutes.

“What’s up, Don?”

“Just talked to Vanessa. Need a roommate tonight? She’s already packed if you need her. She says I can get the kids ready for church all by myself tomorrow.”

“I would say no, but the thought of you being a mommy and getting those angels of yours ready by yourself makes me want to reconsider my first response.”

“Ha ha. KC, consider it done. She’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“Don, tell her to sit tight. My mom and Kaylen already have dibs on the beds in my guest room. I’m calling Klarissa next and if she comes over, she’ll get half my bed. That would leave the couch for Vanessa. I wouldn’t wish my couch on an enemy.”

“She’s made dinner to bring over,” he says. “Wouldn’t have to spend the night.”

“Tell her to get moving now,” I say without hesitation, laughing.

“And tell her to bring her pajamas and a sleeping bag, just in case.”

“Done.”

“And Don?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop calling me KC.”

“Got it.”

I love Kaylen’s chicken salad. But Vanessa is a gourmet and as I’ve noted, I’ve taken a liking to fine dining. I hold down the number four and Klarissa’s cell starts chirping Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” Her voice message comes up: “You’ve reached Klarissa Conner, reporter at WCI-TV, Chicago’s number one source for news. I can’t come to the phone right now, but your call is important to me. Please leave your name, a detailed message, and the time you called. I will get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, Klarissa, this is Kristen. Call when you get this. Better yet, just come over. It’s slumber party night.”

She wasn’t very talkative at my apartment earlier today, which now feels like a couple of weeks ago. She’s probably jealous of the attention I’m getting from Mom and Kaylen. She probably feels left out and she for sure feels I’m not listening to her.
Okay, cool it,
I tell myself.
You two have been getting along fine until that
last blowup. Better than fine. Better than ever. Even if you are a little mad at her, let things go.

Dear God, help me get along with my sister.

63

The ChiTownVlogger

June 6, 8:40pm

AXL WAILED, “WE take it day by day; if you want it you’re gonna bleed, but it’s the price you pay . . .”

GUESS WHO HAS BEEN OUT ON THE TOWN? scrolled across the screen. Then, THE CUTTER SHARK HAS BEEN A BAD BOY . . . AGAIN flashed over and over during the Guns N’ Roses intro.

“Your ChiTownVlogger hears that we are America’s number one city in the heart of the FBI. In fact, the national headquarters has set up shop and has just sent another ten agents to their posh new digs on the forty-eighth floor of the State Building. They are being led by Deputy Director Robert Willingham. And wherever he shows up, the bad guys tremble. He’s not only smart but he also brings his impeccable style and taste—at a significant cost to taxpayers. I hear he brought in a corporate designer to decorate and furnish temporary offices and is paying twice the going rate for downtown office space. The perks of being a legend are excellent, all the way down to the Blue Mountain coffee he has flown in at the beginning of every week.

“I happen to know the designer’s total bill. Get this: 150,000 bucks. For a temporary office space. That didn’t include the actual furniture. I don’t even want to guess what Willingham’s expense report is costing us. I don’t think he does the dollar menu at McDonald’s. I hope they catch the Cutter Shark before our government goes bankrupt. Too late. I think Bush and Obama already tag-teamed to make that happen.

“Sadly, it appears that Citizen Willingham is much like Citizen Doyle. Both like to sit on their tail ends all day. I guess that’s one reason they both feel free to spend so much of our hard-earned dollars making themselves feel very comfortable. Even with all that to-do, there are no new leads on the Cutter Shark case. Where is J. Edgar Hoover when you need him?

“The big guns have indeed rolled into town. You didn’t hear that from the mayor. You won’t read it in the
Tribune
—until after they learn it from the ChiTownVlogger. But it makes me wonder, what else aren’t they telling us? Methinks our deputy director has spent too much time cloaked in the veil of ‘national security’ while fighting the fight on terrorism. Maybe he’s forgotten we live in a free society, with a free press. Well, the mainstream media doesn’t seem to care—too much work—but I’m old-school and I do. That’s why you tune them out and tune me in.

“If you want to know what’s really going on with the Cutter Shark investigation, check back in my jungle, early and often. Because if you want to be in the know, you have to get it from your ChiTownVlogger.”

Satisfied, Johnson hit the upload button. He stood up with a grunt to stretch his legs and looked down at the front of the polo shirt stretched across his belly. He brushed crumbs from the tacos he had for dinner.

64

“MORE COMPANY,” RANDY says. “They say they know you. Jeff and Patricia Williams. Want to come to the front door and verify?”

“On my way.”

I hit the red button and put down my cell phone on the coffee table. I’ve got two new babysitters guarding me outside, and Randy is one of them. Mom, Kaylen, Klarissa, and Vanessa are in my living room, all staring at me to make sure I’m okay. I think they’re all spending the night now, couch threat and all. Mom’s in my recliner, I’m laying on the couch, and my sisters and Vanessa are leaning against big cushions on the floor. It’s like I’m back in sixth grade. And my mom has insisted she be a part of the party. I get up with a groan.

“I can go to the door for you, honey,” Mom says.

“That’d be great, but Randy needs me to identify who is there,” I say.

“You just want to do it yourself because you think Randy is cute,” Klarissa says.

Yep. I’m back in sixth grade, I think as I grimace a smile at Klarissa. I walk slowly to the front door and look out past a kid with a shaved head, not Randy—I think this one’s name is Carter—in a neatly pressed dark blue uniform and shiny black shoes. He’s got to be ex-military. You can usually tell. He can’t be twenty years old, can he? Did he do a turn in Afghanistan and still have time to go through the academy? I’m still almost a month from turning thirty, but I suddenly feel old. I look past him.

It’s Patricia and Jeff. She has a splint on her nose and her face is bandaged. She looks worse than me by a long shot. I talked to her earlier and told her what happened and she said she wanted to come over. But I didn’t think she would. I don’t quite know what to do, but she just gives me a hug and strides in like she owns the place. Jeff hands me her small overnight bag with a shrug, a smile—sincere but slightly strained—and does a quick about-face.

“Have fun, ladies,” he calls over his shoulder.

• • •

I can’t keep my eyes open, but for once, the party is at my house and I don’t want to be left out. So I’m sort of in and out of sleep on my couch. Every time I lift my head, I see Mom and Kaylen talking with Patricia at my kitchen table. They’re laughing, crying, hugging, praying, and heaven knows what else. I wish I would have thought of them earlier to help with Patricia. I couldn’t be her sponsor or provide the support she needed after what happened, but the combined forces of the Conner family led by my relentless mother, might have kept her out of the hospital.

Klarissa and Vanessa are sipping chardonnay and sitting on the floor talking about the contemporary furniture exhibit coming up at McCormick Place. Mom gave Klarissa’s glass of wine one disapproving look and hasn’t glanced that way since. I can’t quite follow the conversation but I think matte pastels are back in. And it doesn’t sound like pink and brown are going anywhere soon. I’m not sure if they said chrome and painted concrete are making a serious comeback or not. Might have been the other way. But I’m pretty certain they said that the rich-grained mahoganies and other dark woods have got to be on the cusp of a breakthrough. That’s good to know. I drift back to sleep. Again.

Vanessa brought a chicken casserole that was to die for. Even better than my favorite chicken salad. Rosemary and thyme, straight from her garden, she explained. I tried to make a joke about a song from the ’60s but couldn’t quite get it out. Wouldn’t have been very funny anyway.