Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (28 page)

55

THIS IS THE second time in a year I’ve established a police command center in a hospital room. It worked out okay last time. We caught a serial killer a week later.

Frank Nelson is in charge. Hard to believe that only a week ago I was trying to save the life of another Frank Nelson. I wonder how his wife is doing? Maybe Austin knows. Where is Austin anyway? He usually shows up where the action is. I think I want to see him. I have no clue how to talk to my sister about what I saw, but I’ll happily punch him in the nose and let him figure out how get this mess resolved so I can still be friends with Klarissa. I’m the one who was done wrong. Why should I be responsible for fixing things? I’m delegating this to him.

I’m not happy with Klarissa, but she’s blood. My family drives me crazy—though probably not as much as I drive them crazy—but I’m glad we’re close. I’ll do my part to keep it that way. I don’t believe in forgive and forget. Forgive yes, but how do you forget? The harder you try the more you remember. But yes, I tell myself, I do believe in forgiving and moving on. Life’s not perfect but that’s the point of forgiveness. Maybe I’ll tell that to Jimmy and he can work it into a sermon. I laugh at that thought.

Zaworski doesn’t look good. He’s always been pale-faced. But it is Casper the Friendly Ghost-white tonight. He’s got to be wondering why he agreed to come back. If he has to deal with me much more he’s going to end up back in the hospital. Actually he already is back in the hospital—to see me.

Czaka showed up with the head of the organized crime division, Spencer Doyle, who is the nephew of our recently departed but long serving mayor, Michael T. Doyle, Jr., and great nephew of Michael T.
Doyle, Sr., another longtime mayor of Chicago. I’m a little surprised the big guns showed up. Squires and Blackshear pull chairs in from the waiting room, despite the head nurse’s protestations.

“I’m fine, I’m awake,” I say to speed up the process. I’m going to conk out soon, so I want to get things going. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with a bunch of questions and no one to answer them.

FBI agent and fellow workout warrior, Heather Torgenson, is present and so is Martinez. I know why she’s here, but not Antonio. Last time he visited me in a hospital room he ended up with an ice pack and walked funny for a week. I intend to remind him of that.

Nelson drones on about how we are going to keep me alive. He’s thorough and his ideas are right on but I don’t sense he’s a visionary. I can’t stay hunted long-term. We’re going to have to catch the hunter.

“Thanks Frank, good work,” Doyle breaks in. He looks at me kindly. “We’ll take care of you Detective Conner. No disrespect to the FBI, but you are one of our own.”

He’s smooth. He can follow his uncle and great uncle’s footsteps if he wants to be mayor. Busting a Russian mafia chief in Chicago would be a good springboard to higher office

“What I say next stays in this room. If I hear even a hint of a whisper I’ll be going through everyone’s emails and phone logs with a fine-tooth comb.”

I don’t know anything about him but he sounds tough enough to be a politician.

“I’ve been on the phone with the Director of the FBI. Honestly, no one knows how this Red Mafiya war is going to shake down. The FBI doesn’t even know who is behind it but is certain Moscow’s fingerprints are all over it. No murders in New York for the past twenty-four hours. We’ll soon have confirmation if the deal to get the blueprints for a bioweapon from PathoGen was killed before it happened. We can
pray that is the case, even if it only delays what someone in Moscow has in mind.

“We think the man who shot Conner is rogue and not acting under anyone’s orders. That’s the good news. The bad news is he is still at large—and we’re afraid the open warfare that hit New York could erupt here. Everyone in this room is going to get a dossier with pictures and information on Anasenko Sadowsky and his key soldiers. You’ll sign for your copy and be responsible to turn it in when this is wrapped up. No copies. No one peeks over your shoulder while you’re reading.”

Good thing I’m forgotten. I can barely keep my eyes open. If I fall asleep I hope I don’t snore.

56

ILSA ALWAYS TOLD me to lose weight. But she’s dead and I’m alive. That detective must be a bad shot. She fired more than ten times. Only one round hit me. The door slowed the bullet down. I’ve got enough meat it didn’t make it to my organs. I’ll dig it out later or maybe never, just like my uncle.

Medved sat in the bathtub, a hot shower running over him. His uncle told him heat and maggots were your best friends for cleaning a bullet wound. If you couldn’t find maggots, flies would do. They itch but let them do their work. There were no flies in ten degree Chicago weather. His uncle got shot in an ambush by Mujahideen rebels on the Salang Pass. Abandoned by his comrades, he trekked down the mountain, skirted Baghlan, Alkh, Kheyrabad, and other areas back under the control of the Tehran Seven, and walked into Uzbekistan, fifty pounds under weight, but none the worse for the bullet next to his brain. He claimed he never had another headache in his life.

The bullet stays. I will name it Kristen Conner. That way I never forget her, even after I kill her.

Warmed up, he lifted his three hundred and fifty pounds from the tub and reached for the rubbing alcohol. He put a washcloth in his mouth and poured half the bottle over his upper chest. He clenched his teeth hard enough to break teeth but remained silent. The TV was blaring a war movie in the other room to disguise any sound of pain that might escape his lips through the paper-thin walls.

Next came the hydrogen peroxide. His mom told him that the white foam and bubbling meant germs were being killed. He poured it on the wound and watched the clear solution turn white and bubble. He was killing germs all right. Lots of them. Next he doused his chest
with the red iodine. He didn’t worry about drying off. He sat on the end of the bed and applied a thick coat of Neosporin, covered the glop with gauze, and ran half a roll of tape around his upper torso.

He grabbed five Excedrin P.M. tablets and downed them with a swig from a fresh bottle of vodka.

No question I’ll sleep. We’ll see how it looks in the morning. I can decide what to do then. One more shot at her or get out of town.

I wish my uncle was alive to tell him about this. My family is all dead. Ilsa is dead. I am alone. That’s okay, I’m alive and I have a truck.

He was snoring almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

“Let’s get out of here, Squires. Unless he has a twin brother, no doubt Conner is right, that’s Levin.”

Before she fell asleep in her hospital room, Kristen was able to let Blackshear know what she’d found on the O’Hare surveillance tapes. She told him her time stamp notes were on a notepad on the kitchen table.

Blackshear and Squires watched together, running the footage backward and forward. Levin’s car pulling into the long-term parking lot at O’Hare and Levin pulling a roller board suitcase in the door of the main terminal.

“So who does what tomorrow?” Squires asked. He had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.

“Since I’ve been to the house a couple times and questioned Bradley Starks first time around, I think I better follow up there.”

Squires scowled.

“Listen, Don, I know you live further away and got to get up a little earlier to drive the route from the Keltto’s house to O’Hare to see if he had time to whack Ed Keltto in the head and still make his flight. But I got to get there before the kid goes to school. I’ll be pulling up
only fifteen or thirty minutes later than you. Just thinking about how his mom is going to respond when I knock on the door, I’d be happy to switch.”

“No problem, Bob. Makes sense,” Squires said, accepting Vanessa would not be happy with him getting home so late and leaving so early. It just added fuel to the fire of a long running argument about his job.

He wanted to apologize to Conner for not taking her call seriously but she was asleep before the meeting in her room ended.

Why would she try to kill herself? Did she actually love her husband—after all the other men in her life? She isn’t my problem. Stop worrying about her.

57

I AM BEING chased by a bear in the woods. Everyone knows you can’t outrun a bear. I can hear him crash through leaves, twigs, and branches on the path behind me. I can hear his ragged breath and a snarl. I am sprinting with all my might—my feet are barely touching the ground. But he’s relentless. The bear draws closer, before falling back, but then gains ground and gets close enough that I not only hear his breath but feel it on the backs of my thighs and calves. I don’t know what’s sweat and what’s the foam spraying from ferocious jaws, yearning and poised to take a chunk out of my backside.

Time and distance are fluid and the topography changes so often I’m not sure where I am anymore. Isn’t that something Einstein wrote in his Theory of Relativity?

Is that what Einstein was trying to explain? Am I awake or asleep? My mind is somewhere between hyper-drive in deep space, a forest trail in Wisconsin my family hiked when I was a kid, sheer terror, and a strange serenity. The question of Einstein jars me awake. I’m breathing heavy even though I’m flat on my back in bed. I feel a hand touch my cheek and I open my eyes. Kaylen’s face is the first thing I see, with her beautiful hazel eyes pooled with tears. She looks angelic. She definitely got the angel DNA between us three sisters.

“Are you okay, Kristen? You were calling out in your sleep.”

Uh oh, what did I say?

“What did I say?”

“I think you were saying there’s a bear chasing you.”

Whew. Nothing too psycho. We all need to keep a few secrets safely buried in our subconscious. Unless Dr. Andrews tells me bear dreams indicate a deep pathology. I’ll tell her about this one even though I think I already know what it means. Someone’s trying to kill me. Duh.
If it’s the same mountain man I saw in Central Park, he might have a bear for his mother.

I think I read a long time ago that Andre the Giant died of a heart attack. His lookalike is still alive and well—and trying to kill me. Inconceivable.

“What time is it, Kaylen?”

“Just after midnight.”

“What are you doing here? It’s late.”

“That’s a dumb question even for you, Kristen.”

“Are you calling me dumb? I’ve been shot. Everyone is supposed to be nice.”

She laughs, bursts into tears, and then presses the side of her face next to mine, draping an arm gently around my shoulder. It feels wonderful. Even the tears. How come everybody else knows how to express their emotions but me?

“Does Mom know?” I whisper.

“She’s here. She’s been sitting by your side for the last two hours. She just got up for a potty break.”

Do people still say potty break?

“She okay?” I ask.

Kaylen sits up and looks at me with haggard eyes.

“None of us are okay, Kristen. Especially not Mom. Two uniforms knocked on her front door. Again. It wasn’t that long ago it was for Dad.”

No it wasn’t. Four years, five months, and sixteen days since my dad was shot. Two years, one week, and thirteen days since he passed, with yours truly finding him.

“Does she know I’m okay?”

“The doctor says you are lucky to be alive. Mom set him straight and told him it was her prayers. You do have an angel looking out for you, Kristen.”

“I was just grazed. The bullet passed right through my side. No bone, a little muscle, and two nice new scars, front and back.”

“I’d yell at you for being too skinny, little sis, but maybe that makes you a smaller target.”

We both laugh, which cuts off quickly for me as I feel a stab of pain and give a little yelp.

The door opens and Jimmy and Mom walk in. She rushes to the bed and bends over to give me a big hug.

“Careful, Mom,” Kaylen says.

Mom bursts out in sobs. I wanted to tell her I love her and I’m fine—and I want to ask who was watching the kids. Problem is I hit the painkiller button and I’m drowning back to sleep before I can get the words out.

“No, Donald! This is not a reason to hold your letter. First you were supposed to turn it in last Monday, but you just had to tell Kristen first. Then you promised it would be Friday—but things got too busy. What happened to Kristen is exactly the reason you turn your letter in now. Tomorrow.”

“Vanessa, it’s not right to bail when your partner has been shot.”

“Oh, is this bailing? I thought this was about your kids growing up with a father that wasn’t always in harm’s way. I thought this was about you thinking about your wife so she doesn’t worry to death every night you are out working on a murder case. I thought this was about you following your dream of being a lawyer. But I guess I was wrong on all counts. This is about me forcing you to bail. Thanks a lot, Donald. Thanks a lot. I guess I know where I rate in your life; definitely below your real partner.”

“Vanessa, you are taking this all wrong.”

“Am I? Am I?”

“Yes. This is about me finishing the job.”

“No, this is about your work being more important than your family. Look at your partner. She’s in the hospital—again. Her dad got killed on the job.”

“Not exactly on the job. He died a couple years later.”

“Well that’s great. Now we get to take care of you in a wheelchair. That’ll be great for me and the kids.”

“Now you’re being unreasonable.”

“I’m not listening to what you’re saying. I seem to remember you telling Devon you would coach his basketball team. You’ve missed more practices and games than you’ve been there.”

Vanessa stormed out of Donald’s man cave office and slammed the door shut.

Man, oh man. Why isn’t life simple? You try to do the right thing and it’s still all wrong.

What in the world did KC get mixed up in? What has she got all of us mixed up in?

He’d had an internal argument as to what his next career move would be for a couple years. When Blackshear got promoted it sealed the deal in his mind. He wasn’t on the radar screen of the brass for promotion. It hadn’t worked out well for Blackshear but it didn’t undo the sting of not even being interviewed.

He didn’t want anything given to him because he was black. He wanted to move up because he was good. And he was good.

Partnering with Kristen Conner was great. They worked well together. But she was a force of nature. She burned so brightly everyone else ended up in the shadows.

No excuse missing all of Devon’s practices. I’d like to tell him I’m sorry but I’ll be on the road before he’s awake.

He looked at the business envelope with his neatly typed resignation nested inside of it.

I’m too shot to think tonight. I’ll figure out whether to hold it or turn it in tomorrow morning on the drive back from O’Hare.

I wonder if Vanessa locked the door to the room.