Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (13 page)

Other than the food tasting so good, my first date under Bobbie’s direction and tutelage has gone from bad to worse. I know CPD is going to reimburse me for anything I have to pick up since this is on assignment. I don’t care if it’s not money out of my pocket. No way am I going to let CPD pay for Kevin’s drinks. I’m just not able to escape my habit of adding up the prices on a menu in my head and staying on a budget. I grew up in a working class home.

I ate plenty of different things—celery soup that tasted like potato soup to me, a beet salad, butternut squash ravioli, and an awesome black and white crème brulee that will probably bring me back here with Klarissa for a dessert night. All I drank was water. Nothing I ordered was labeled as a “large plate” on the menu though I saw the larger portion of the ravioli go by on its way to another table and it doesn’t quite qualify as big in my book. It wouldn’t fill me up.

Kevin, who specifically said, “Let me take you to dinner,” which I assumed was the same as saying, “Let me buy you dinner,” started off with a twelve-dollar martini, consumed an entire bottle of wine that probably cost as much as my weekly grocery bill, added two Irish coffees for dessert, and ordered just about every small, medium, and large plate on the menu, including the most expensive item, some kind of pan-seared duck. This is a French restaurant so I still haven’t figured out why there is Amish chicken on the menu. Are there Amish in France?

We can split this.
I don’t think so Kevvy.

The waitress lets a shadow cross her face at my outburst and then cheerfully picks up the black leather booklet and says she’ll be right back. It’s just me and Kevin again. He is pleasant enough but far from the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer. He doesn’t run with the same crowd that Durham was part of. That was part of the point. Bobbie said I needed a trial run. So she and I went through profiles on a couple local dating services.

In addition to posting a picture of himself that was probably snapped five years ago, I suspect Kevin told a few fibs on his dating profile. If he’s six-two, then I’ve grown from five-seven to five-ten in the past week. For someone who loves the opera and reading about the Civil War, he knows nothing about Verdi or Stonewall Jackson. I asked questions about both because the prep Ferguson gave me said I need to ask him about things he is conversant on. I’m to do everything I can to make him feel smart.

Gag me.

What Kevin loves to talk about is da Bears. I don’t mind guys loving their sports. Heck, I love my sports and I am definitely a Bears fan. They won the Super Bowl when I was in kindergarten and even if I didn’t know what was going on at the time I could still feel the euphoria emanating from all the grownups. It was contagious. Talking about the Bears was probably the only okay part of the date next to the crème brulee. I do wish he would have saved me from having to study the Civil War and recent operas that have played in Chicago. I went to Barnes and Noble and found the
Dummies
books on the topics. I need to remember to turn in the receipt tomorrow.

Most of all, I think Kevin lied about his six-figure income. I got to the near north side of the restaurant before he did so I could watch him show up. The car wasn’t nice enough—I don’t know makes and models well enough to say what he dropped off with the valet—but it wasn’t close to what Durham and his friends drive. His clothes don’t look like Saks or Macy’s either. I could honestly care less what the guy drove or wore. But wouldn’t you figure if you exaggerate everything about you on your profile that the person you go out with would figure it out pretty fast? There is that concept of “truth in advertising” and Kevvy flunked.

Bobbie said ChiTownSingles is owned by someone she knows and is legitimate in every way. It’s the best online dating service in Chicago and the go-to site for up and coming young professionals.

Well Kevin may be up and coming, but he still has a long way to go. Does he use this dating site as a scam to get half-off on real expensive meals?

“Is this Cutler’s year?” he asks.

“Might be,” I answer.

“We have a great defense but the Bears will only go as far in the playoffs as Cutler takes them.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I think you’re right.”

Now this is getting just plain painful.
I hadn’t thought of that.
Bobbie told me twenty times to let him think he’s the smart one at the table so I’ve stayed away from talking about whether Lovie Smith’s cover two defense is still effective in the NFL.

The waitress returns with two checks. Mine is a little over $60. I don’t want to think about how much his cost. We both pull out our plastic and slap it down on our checks before she can get away. I’m relieved he feels the same way about ending the evening as I do.

“Want to come to my place?” he blurts out. “Maybe we could get to know each other better.”

Where did that come from? I think his Irish whiskey is talking.

“I’m going to head to the office real early in the morning,” I say. “So I’m going to have to call it an early night. Sorry, Kevin.”

He doesn’t look too disappointed. His offer was made with the enthusiasm of telling someone you had picked up clothes from the dry cleaner the day before.

I studied the Civil War and opera last night and shopped with Bobbie today. Everyone on the task force agreed that my wardrobe wasn’t going to pass the “look test” for Durham’s crowd. Bobbie said it wasn’t going to pass the “look test” for CTS—ChiTownSingles—either. If the site is all Bobbie says it is, Kevin could use some remedial work on his presentation as well.

We add tips and sign the checks. Don thinks I am a miser when I tip. I bet my fifteen percent beat Kevin even if Don would have rolled his eyes and told me twenty percent is the bare minimum.

We exit the restaurant. I tell him my car is close—close being a relative term, so I didn’t lie to him. It’s about six blocks away as I refuse to pay twenty-five bucks to put my car in a garage for two hours even if the office will reimburse it. I tell him I can get there myself and no need for him to walk me. Despite some dramatic protestations, he looks relieved again. Then he gets a feigned look of shock and surprise on his face and slaps the middle of his forehead.

“I think I left my keys inside on the table,” he says. “If you think you’re okay walking on your own I need to go look for them.”

“No problem,” I say, and give him a thumbs-up. He scurries back into the restaurant like his hair is on fire. Since I saw him use valet parking I know he’s lying about his keys. They are on a portable pegboard at the valet stand. I walk twenty feet down the sidewalk but curious, retrace my steps back to the picture window to look inside. Kevvy has already elbowed his way to the front of the bar and is ordering a drink.

He turns to a woman and says something that is obviously very funny. He and Bobbie Ferguson touch glasses, take a swallow of whatever they’re having, and laugh their heads off.

I actually agreed with Ferguson that I needed a test run before going out socially with one of her clients. But I don’t like being played for a fool.

Nice, Bobbie. Not sure I will visit you when you rot in prison for tax evasion.

• • •

I get home and hit Cancel Account on ChiTownSingles. A message tells me it can take up to one month for this action to take effect. A month? Are you kidding me? They next offer me a fifty-dollar coupon toward their video service to reconsider parting ways. I hit no. They ask me to fill out a survey. I say no. They tell me more people have looked at my profile and messaged me.
Help.
Can someone stop this thing? It’s alive.

Bobbie hovered over me as I filled out the ChiTownSingles profile at her condo a couple days ago. I thought she seemed a little too enthusiastic at the time. Now I know why.

I thank God over and over I didn’t use my real name. We did use my picture. But after her makeup artist, Tracy, finished with me and George the photographer took a few hundred shots, what we posted didn’t look like me. Bobbie assured me I could take my profile down immediately after my evening with Kevin was over. She may still be laughing. I bet she picked up his tab.

Bobbie’s crew truly were miracle workers. Between Tracy and George, I have to admit they made me look great—even if I don’t recognize the person smiling back at me. When Bobbie gave the green light and I hit upload, I got an email expressing interest in meeting me within five minutes of my account going live. It has been pinging like a pinball machine ever since.

I’m thirty. Single. Haven’t been in a relationship longer than six months since my first year at NIU. I was on the soccer team and he was on the basketball team. Neither of us had time to see each other so it lasted almost the entire school year. We actually went out on real dates a couple nights a week the last month of spring semester when he got some time off after the basketball team lost in the opening round of the NIT. That time together let both of us take a look at the other more closely and click no.

I’m tired and need to hit the sack. Time to shut the computer down. I look back at my account again. I may not have this relationship thing figured out, but watching my inbox pile up I realize I’m not the only one who has problems connecting.

The thing is Bobbie didn’t even need to go to the trouble of setting up a lousy date for me. I’ve usually been able to do that myself.

I did like going out with Reynolds. Maybe it was because we both like restaurants that serve big portions. But that’s water under the bridge somewhere on the Penobscot River.

22

NO WAY.

“I told your captain this was a bad idea,” Bobbie says, arms crossed, a furrow between her neatly plucked eyebrows.

“So you’ve told me about a thousand times now.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs in exasperation. People close to me tend to do that.

I wear a size 2-long jeans. I think that’s plenty form-fitting and my mom believes that’s too tight. Bobbie and I are in the dressing room of Bloomingdales on Michigan Avenue, across from Water Tower Place. She has handed me a pair of size 0-long to try on. The last time I wore a size 0 I was a sophomore in high school. Maybe a freshman.

“Just do it,” she says.

“Even if I could pull these over my butt, no way can I get them buttoned.”

“Trust me. They’ll fit. They are the perfect size for you.”

Maybe for Klarissa. Not for me.

When she handed me these to try on I don’t know if my eyes got wider at the size on the label or the price tag. More than $1000 for a pair of jeans? Really?
Really?
I already helped bust the department’s budget on my last case—serial killers are expensive to find—and I don’t want to go through another round of glares and mutters from Zaworski when he gets back to the office and has to look at his financial reports.

“Take your time,” she says. “I have nothing else to do. You people have seen to that.”

Her tone on
people
was not affectionate. The fact that she has nothing else to do wakes me up. I do have things I need to get done. I need to do a little grocery shopping and I want to work out. We couldn’t meet until one o’clock because I had an eleven o’clock game with my Snowflakes—we won 5-3 and Kendra was a beast with four goals. I’ve been back in Chicago for nine days and I’ve barely caught my breath. I’ve coached two games, been assigned to a high-profile murder case of a prominent socialite who dates girls from a less-than-savory service provided by Bobbie Ferguson.

To hear her explain and defend what she does, I should say, St. Barbara Ferguson, Blessed Martyr of the Gold Coast. Her clients are gracious, kind-hearted, generous gentlemen. Her independent contractors are angels with nothing on their minds but the betterment of mankind. The evil Chicago Police Department is a bunch of bullies that love to persecute law-abiding citizens.

I’m not supposed to remind her she doesn’t pay her taxes and she is no saint.

I only met her at the beginning of this week. She was much more composed in our first few meetings. I don’t think it’s all me—despite what Don said about my effect on people—but she seems to be unravelling a lot easier than I thought someone with her poise would. She’s preoccupied. I nailed her hard on the set-up date with Kevin and she mumbled an apology. I’ve never heard the queen of elocution mumble or apologize.

It probably didn’t help that Squires, Martinez, and Randall paid her a visit last night to question her on whether she had ever visited Jack Durham in his condo. The Martin girl told Don she thought Barbara and him spent time together. That got everyone buzzing for a second—but Bobbie’s alibi the night of the murder was rock solid.

“Is there a secret to pulling these things on? Like Vaseline on my hips?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

She slings something over the door.

“Try this top with the jeans.”

No way.
No way.

• • •

Bam. Bam. Bam.
I’m pounding up the steps of Section 1. I hit every step from A to Z and am working on the double letters—DD, EE, FF, GG . . .
Bam. Bam. Bam.

I am at the local high school football stadium. One of my favorite workouts is running every step on the home side of the field. Sometimes two or three times.