Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (12 page)

Looking at the blonde sitting on a white leather sofa across from us, all I can think is double
wow.
She has her legs tucked beneath her. She is leaning against the armrest, her body slightly turned away from us. Is her position meant to be provocative and highlight her figure or is her body language firmly letting us know we ain’t getting anything from her? I suspect both. She is wearing white slacks and a black top that is tight and low. If it’s meant to distract and fluster Squires, it might be working.

Don is a confident guy but he’s being very formal and doesn’t know what to do with his eyes. I’ll give him a hard time about it later.

“Detective . . .” she says with a long pause.

“Detective Squires,” Don answers.

“Yes, Squires, thank you,” she says. “Well, Detective Squires, since you already know a lot about Jack and his relationships, the better question might be, who wouldn’t want him dead?”

“Tell us what you mean by that,” I interject.

She doesn’t look my direction as she speaks to Don, apparently the only other person in the room.

“I told you Jack was a very nice man. But he didn’t always choose to show that side of him. As I would guess you have already heard from others, he basically had a lot of friends because he had a lot of money. Not because he was always pleasant to be around. But he did know how to throw a fabulous party. So they all showed up.”

“Does that mean you would have liked to see him dead?” Don asks.

She laughs and answers, “Of course not. Maybe because he sensed I accepted him as he was, he treated me differently. But I saw him with others. Jack could be quite mean. I suspect it was a defense mechanism for a low self-esteem, but now I’m speculating and I’m certainly not a psychologist. He seemed to take pleasure in hurting people. So I’m guessing at some level, yes, a lot of people wanted him dead. But enough to kill him? I don’t think so. After all, who would kill someone who invited them to his parties? He would load us in his dad’s jet and fly us to an exotic island where his dad’s yacht would be waiting to ferry us to yet another exotic island or two.”

“So you traveled with him internationally?” I ask.

“Kos, Ios, and Mykonos last month,” she says to Don.

I am obviously not present.

“His dad’s yacht was only one hundred-sixty-feet-long, but sometimes you have to settle for what you can get.”

The way she says it reminds me of Barbara Ferguson saying her condo “will do.” I’m reminded I can never fit in with this crowd.

“Has anything I’ve said helped you find Jack’s killer?” she asks, almost flippantly . . . maybe with a touch of defiance.

Does Penny understand this is a murder investigation? Even if she is losing a ride on the Jack Durham gravy train, she doesn’t seem too upset with Durham’s brutal murder. She is not a suspect—yet—so we do not have to give her any warnings that anything she says can be used against her in a court of law. Once she moves to a person-of-interest status it’s usually time to suggest she consider the counsel of an attorney, even if we aren’t mandated to read her her Miranda Rights yet.

But that’s our dilemma. When to let her talk and when to warn her that what she says matters. If she was ever charged with the murder her defense team would try to have any previous testimony thrown out.

I look at her. She’s all façade. But I somehow don’t think she killed Durham—she doesn’t look like she has what it takes to have beaten his brains in with a Stanley hammer while he lay on his bed asleep or in a drunken stupor. But if she did kill Durham, she wouldn’t be the first murderer to draw attention to him or herself as a ploy to allay suspicion.

“When was the last time you saw him alive?” Don asks.

“I saw him the Sunday before last,” she answers. “The day before he was murdered. He has a private suite at Soldier Field. Strike that. His dad has a private suite at Soldier Field that Jack uses. So probably thirty of us watched the Bears game together.”

“Did he fight with anyone at the game?” Don asks.

“Of course he did,” she answers with a snort. “He always picked fights. Drunk or sober didn’t matter. He probably picked on everyone there.”

“Did you know everyone who was there?” Don asks.

“Not everyone. He always invited fresh meat to his parties. But probably twenty or twenty-five were regulars.”

“Fresh meat?” I ask.

“I’m old at twenty-three. Jack likes pretty young things,” she says with a laugh, but maybe a hint of resentment. “I guess I should say Jack
liked
pretty young things,” she corrects herself.

For the first time a shadow passes across her eyes. She shudders.

“We’re going to need you to make a list of everyone you saw there,” I say.

Randall, Martinez, and Don have caught up with about everyone close to Durham for an initial interview. I have a lousy feeling we are going to have to look at everyone again. We are going to be chasing a yacht-load of arrogant, dismissive, full-of-themselves jerks multiple times before this case is solved.

She finally looks at me and rolls her eyes. She has recognized my existence for which I am sure I should be grateful.

We ask Penny questions for another twenty minutes. If I had a buck for every time she rolled her eyes or looked at her jewel-encrusted watch I might be able to afford a cashmere sweater myself. If I had to give a buck for every time I wanted to knock that haughty smirk off her face, I might not break even. But now I’m being immature—or maybe a little jealous.

We thank her for her time and help. She promises to have her list of Bears’ game attendees faxed to us by Friday. I’m not sure why it’s going to take her all day Thursday to make the list, but arguing with her will be counter-productive.

• • •

“So I’m going to be made available to date guys that date girls like Penny?” I say to Don as we get in our mud brown Chevy Malibu. He was quicker to the parking spot so the keys stay with him. Both of us prefer to drive so our standing rule is first one to the car drives. There’s a reason after partnering two years with me that Don doesn’t hold doors open for me anymore. If we don’t think anyone is watching, we’ve sprinted to get to the car first.

He pulls the shift into reverse and says, “I’ll pay good money to see that.”

I punch him in the shoulder and he laughs at me. My phone rings. Tchaikovsky’s
1812 Overture
. I assigned the ring tone to the boss, Zaworski.

“Yes sir?” I ask after swiping the arrows on my new iPhone about three times. My old Nokia just had a button to push.

“You and Squires close to the shop?”

“Thirty minutes, sir.”

“Good. Come on back. I sat down for a final planning meeting with Konkade and Blackshear. With you going undercover to meet Durham’s friends and Ferguson’s girls, we don’t want you on any of the interviews.”

Ruh roh.

“I thought you had already left the office, sir.”

“Why would that be your concern, Conner? You trying to get rid of me?”

“No sir.”

“Good. You and Squires hustle on in.”

“Why do I get the feeling I don’t want to hear this?” Don asks as he mashes the accelerator and darts into a gap in heavy rush hour traffic.

20

“OKAY, HERE’S WHAT we’re going to do,” Zaworski says.

So much for being gone. Seven of us are crammed in his office for a “stand-up meeting.”

“I’m not supposed to be here, but I had to pick up some stuff I forgot,” started things off as we all trooped in. He was picking at a stain—probably mustard—on his white shirt. Not going to come out, I want to tell him. His jacket is off. He has dark sweat circles under his arms. Must be heavy stuff he forgot.

“I gotta get out of here in ten minutes so we’re not sitting down. We sit down we get comfortable and the meeting will go forever. Konkade watch the clock for me.”

Konkade nods and pushes some buttons on his wristwatch. Ten minutes later an alarm starts beeping as Don and I are still reporting on our interview with Penny. I’m losing focus as time drags on. I start shifting my weight from one foot to the other and counting to sixty while I exercise my calves by going up and down from flat-footed to tippy toes.

“Stop fidgeting, Conner. Here’s what we’re going to do,” Zaworski finally says. “We’re going to stay the course. I’ll call Ferguson myself and let her know that Conner has been ID’d as a cop by that Penny girl. I’m taking blame for that one. We were moving too fast and didn’t establish the correct protocol. My fault.”

He looks up and sighs. Is he waiting for someone to disagree with him that it was his fault?

“If we need to talk to Penny again,” Martinez says, “maybe I could go over and talk to her.”

He’s got a little smile so he’s already heard she’s the knockout of all knockouts.
Don.

“Not now, Martinez. I have to get out of here. What you say, Squires? Do we tell Martin too? Your call.”

“How about when you talk to Ferguson you tell her not to schedule Penny for any place she knows KC is going to be,” Squires says.

“Detective Conner, not KC,” I say.

“Right, Detective Conner,” Don corrects with a roll of his eyes. “I know Barbara said the boys call the girls directly after they’ve been introduced, but this at least cuts chances they’ll run into each other.”

“Okay. That’s what we do. No one figures Conner is going to be undercover long anyway. She mingles with the crowd a time or two, listens, only asks questions if it won’t throw suspicion on her, and writes down impressions to see if we can narrow our field of suspects down a little. Anyone disagree?”

Twelve stoic eyes look solemnly at him.

“Okay, folks, Blackshear is running the show starting now. Not sure when I’ll be back. Just so you know and can stop speculating, I went in for my routine annual checkup. My PSA count in the prostrate was fine last year. Not fine this year. Cancer has metastasized so they’re going after it hard. Chemo and then radiation. If that doesn’t get it, surgery is next. I’ve been doing the chemo treatments for a month. Time for me to take a little time off before I kill somebody and you’se have to investigate me.”

I think six jaws just dropped to the floor.

“
Santa madre de Dios, apiadate de nosotros
,” Martinez says and crosses himself.

“Thanks, Anthony,” Zaworski says and does the same crossing motion. He then holds up his hand and says, “No one else say anything. I know you want to say something encouraging and I know Squires will want to lead a prayer meeting and lay hands on me. Believe me, I’m not knocking any man’s faith. I appreciate it and know what’s in your heart already. If you all pray and want to say a prayer for me when you’re going about your business, I won’t complain. Put in a good word for me. I’d love to tell you that this is nothing and I’m going to beat it, no problem. But that’s not the way it is and I don’t lie. It’s hell. Men, get your exam. Conner, do whatever women are supposed to do.”

He gives a quick nod, slings his coat over his shoulder, picks up a heavy airline pilots case, and is out of the office in a flash.

I don’t cry but I do have some moisture around my eyes. We all just stand there for a moment and breathe.

Konkade breaks the silence and says, “Blackshear, you maybe want to give Barbara Ferguson a call to update her. You might want to go over with Squires so she knows you’re running the show now.”

“Captain is calling her,” Blackshear says.

“Captain has been forgetting things,” Konkade says. “I’ll call him in an hour and tell him we already got Ferguson covered. He’ll gripe and complain a little. He might chew me out a little. But he’ll know we did the right thing. Sends him the message he can stop worrying about things.”

“When will he know if he needs surgery?” I ask.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Konkade answers.

• • •

I feel a little guilty going home at six o’clock. Don is already driving with Blackshear to meet with Bobbie personally. I wasn’t invited. They want to keep my complicated relationship with Ferguson as simple as possible.

Traffic is at a crawl. Maybe I should give public transportation another shot.
Not.
I have a lot of time to think. I’ve really not prayed like I should lately and it seems like the right time.

Dear God, I’m putting in a good word for the captain . . .

21

THE WAITRESS BRINGS the check and puts it next to Kevin. He looks at her and looks at me and says, “We can split this.”

“I don’t think so,” I quickly interject. “Bring two checks.”

Did I just say that out loud? I did. You are so bad, Kristen. We are at a pricey restaurant called Tru on St. Clair, just off the Magnificent Mile. The menu features French and global fusion.
Okay
. I don’t know exactly what that means but everything I ate was very tasty. And small. I’m not totally unsophisticated and refined, no matter what Klarissa claims. I just like bigger portions.