Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (7 page)

“Okay, Detective Tommy, I know the routine. You’re just doing your job. You’re asking the same questions over and over because it might jog a memory. But I’m telling you I have zilch.”

His fingers continue to drum in a broken pattern of threes.

“So, Tommy. Who did I find?”

He turns to me and I can see him debating with himself. He finally says, “The victim was a big tuna in the business world.” He pauses and holds up a hand. “Let me correct that. Not a tuna but a whale. The kind of guy that gets his picture on the cover of Forbes. But what made the ID come up so fast was he was on an FBI watch list.”

“FBI—really?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he into?”

“That’s above my pay grade too,” he answers and pauses. He decides to end our battle of who can respond the least to the other’s questions and continues, “He’s the CEO of some biotech company. From what I picked up, Homeland Security, the FBI, CDC, and some other agencies with initials I’ve never heard of think he’s into some very deep and dangerous territory. When Homeland Security is in the same sentence as biotech, my mind starts thinking things it isn’t getting paid to think. So I’m leaving it at that. You know everything I know now. You’re a detective. You figure it out. I still expect some reciprocity when you know more.”

“I’m going to make a call,” I say.

“It’s a free country,” Barnes snaps. “So have at it.”

“Where do we go from here?” I ask as I start scrolling through names on my phone.

“Our relationship?” he asks, putting his hand on my arm.

I shrug it off. I’m used to guys flirting with me on the job. It never gets old. Right? I give him a dirty look.

“We’re on hold,” he answers. “We’re going to drive you to wherever ‘what’s next’ is as soon as the brass tells us where that is.”

“Can I at least get a shower and change?”

“I’ve been told you aren’t going anywhere between points A and B. Apparently you’ve got the reputation of being a lone ranger who doesn’t always play team ball.”

“Who said that?”

He smiles and holds up his hands, palms face up, in the universal “can’t say” sign. I glare at him, but not because I’m mad. I’m wanting him to feel he won something, so he’ll give me what I want later.

I need to let Klarissa know there’s been a change of plans and I won’t be checking out of the hotel. I look at my phone again. Five missed calls from my mom. No surprise. A bunch from my partner, Don Squires. Very surprising. He compartmentalizes work and home better than any other cop I know. I’m still technically on vacation until morning. So this is out of character for him to intrude across boundaries. I have missed calls from Klarissa, Kaylen, and then someone calling from a number inside CPD. Wish I knew who but all I have on my log is the main switchboard number. Squires from work? Maybe he’s the new boss. I have five voice mails.

I’d like to clear them but I need to call Austin Reynolds first. My sort of boyfriend, ex-Special Forces for the US Army Rangers, and agent-at-large for the FBI is the one who has all the connections and who can tell me what I’ve gotten myself into. This time.

The blood from the dead man has thawed out. I don’t get grossed out easily, but the goo is definitely getting to me. I’m starting to itch.

I wonder again if I can get someone from the NYPD to replace my ruined cold weather gear.

10

MED LOVED ILSA as much as he loved anyone in the world but his mother. But she was dead or as good as dead. His fault. Nothing he could do to save her. Even if he tried to be a hero, Pasha or, worse yet, his
byki
, Vladimir Zheglov, would beat him like a dog and then tear him apart, limb by limb. No point dying to save someone who was already dead.

As he went through his options all Medved could come up with was that there was someone who trumped Pasha. The Pakhan. Pasha’s boss. When Pasha told him no one else in the
bratva
could ever hear of this night, Med suspected Pasha was doing something he didn’t want the Pakhan to know about. Could he go directly to Genken without getting killed? Maybe. Would Pasha kill him for screwing up a simple task of delivering a man to Queens? Almost for certain.

Medved wasn’t clever or cunning but he knew “maybe” was a better option than “for certain.” The code of the Russian Mafiya demanded he follow chain of command. But what if he brought the Pakhan a gift? Information he needed? Med opened Frank Nelson’s wallet. There on top of the bills was a sheet of paper with a series of numbers on it. He sensed this was the only way to save his life—and it might work.

He looked at the gas gauge hovering near E. He backed the yellow cab to the fueling island and filled the tank with the company card. Instead of turning right and continuing into the heart of Brooklyn and then up to Queens, he swung out to the left and headed back across the bridge. Change of plans. He would head out to Long Island. Ilsa was dead but there was one man that might save his life. The Pakhan. Aleksei Genken. The most powerful man in the American
bratva
.

“Where are you Conner?”

I’d recognize that growl anywhere. Zaworski. Why’s he calling me? He’s retired. At least his call saved me from pulling a muscle in my brain trying to figure out who to call after Reynolds.

“New York City, sir.”

“I know.”

Then why did you ask?

“You’re scheduled to be in the office at eight sharp,” he says. “You going to be here?”

Why do I suspect he already knows the answer? Is it my crack instincts as a detective?

“Doesn’t look like it, sir. Are you?”

A good offense can be the best defense. But when I try it, it usually just makes people mad.

“Indeed I am. Our good friend, Commander Czaka, along with other members of the executive leadership team of the Chicago Police Department, in their infinite wisdom, have asked me to return to active duty to clean up some messes.”

“That’s good, sir. That means you’re doing good, right?”

I feel another pang of guilt for not checking up on him while he was in cancer treatment.

“Don’t worry about me. The only reason it is good is the Second Precinct homicide department is a mess since I’ve been gone and the powers that be still think I can fix problems. I might add that a lot of the mess I’m coming back to is due to the daughter of my good friend, Michael Conner.”

Okay. That hurts. Not fair play.

“With all due respect sir, I don’t appreciate you throwing my dad’s name in my face.”

Did I just say that? I told myself to let it pass. My mouth didn’t listen.

Zaworski has always scared me half to death. Now he’s silent. I’ve thrown him for a loop. Inconceivable. Klarissa and I watched Princess Bride on Netflix last night. I’ll be using the word inconceivable for the next year.

Zaworski and I were starting to get along at the end of the Cutter Shark case. On my next case, he supported and defended me when I disobeyed orders and followed a lead.
Maybe I don’t play team ball all the time.
Seems like we are back to square one, where every time he scolds me I feel like a fifteen year old who gets called to the principal’s office. Heck, he’s known me since I was younger than that and tagging along with my dad when he caught up on paperwork at the precinct on a Saturday morning.

“Okay, Conner. You’re right. I should not have mentioned your dad the way I did. May he rest in peace. Heck of a cop.”

“Yes, he was.”

“And the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, Conner. You’re good. Almost great. It’s those messes that hold you back.”

I don’t know what to say. Am I supposed to respond?

“Now listen carefully, Conner.”

“Yes sir.”

“I have chewed you up one side and down the other since you’ve worked for me. Right?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m going to tell you secret . . . if you ever tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, I’ll swear to them you are a liar with an active imagination. Are you ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“When I’m chewing you out you have nothing to worry about. I chew you out because I care. Because I believe in you. It’s when I stop chewing you out that you need to worry. Because it’s going to get ugly. Real ugly. I’m old school. I do things one way. Direct. No cream and sugar needed. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

I think I know what he’s saying but my mind wanders to the glorious thought of a hot cup of coffee with cream, no sugar.

“Okay, good. Back to where we are. I’m back on active duty because the Second is a mess. And you are a big part of the mess. What’s the deal? You didn’t like Blackshear? Did you work to get him bounced from leadership?”

Wow. I guess he really does believe in me. Here we go.

“I did, sir.”

“You tried to get him demoted?”

“No. What I meant was yes, I liked Blackshear a lot. I thought he did great.”

“So you liked him better than me?”

Okay, he’s busting my chops. He’s got to be joking. I think. I just had a man die in my arms. This isn’t a good time to gig me. I don’t answer.

“I’m going to ignore that silence. What is going on there? All I know is you found a dead guy.”

“Then you know about as much as I do.”

“About?”

“I’m about to find out more. Unofficially I’ve been told the victim was on an FBI watch list. This is apparently a pretty big deal.”

I can hear him blowing into the phone. “Everything’s a big deal with you, Conner.”

That’s not fair. I don’t answer. I did eight years of grunt work for the CPD. No one knew who I was unless they knew my dad. Then one day, things, big things, started happening. I didn’t ask for it. I got it. I can’t help it if I busted a serial killer. Or the murderer of a trust fund billionaire. Big cases are messy. That’s why I leave messes.

“Let me know what’s going on when you know. Then figure out how to get on the next flight to Chicago. We got to get some problems fixed here.”

“I’m sorry to ask sir. You’ve made it clear that things are a mess. But what kind of real problems am I looking at?”

“I’m not sure I can cover all of them on the phone but I’ll just give you one example. Have you attended mandatory counseling sessions since being involved in not one, but two violent and lethal altercations with the public?”

“Uh . . .”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I thought my three months with the FBI counted for that.”

“Did you go to counseling?”

“No, but I was in rehab.”

I’ll admit that is a pretty feeble response.

“Exercising your knee and pretending to capture terrorists doesn’t count toward what is needed to fix your mental health,” he says with a sigh. “And by the way, even though my doctors have beaten me like a rented mule with radiation and chemo and my memory is still a little blurry at times, I know that you were required to meet with a CPD counselor before violent altercation number two occurred. If I read the reports and newspapers correctly, that second altercation included a dead body.”

“You’re the boss of homicide. Are you blaming me for working with murderers?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Conner. At issue is counseling. Believe it or not we take your well-being seriously. That’s why I want to know why you haven’t seen a counselor.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know that the psych department can suspend you from active duty?”

“I guess I did . . . I guess I do.”

“Well you need to start doing more than guessing. You are officially suspended from street duty until you follow the rules.”

“They can’t do that, sir.”

“Really? That’s a good one, Conner. In fact they can and they have. And this is just the first problem I have returned to that has your name written all over it.”

“Is there something that can be done? With the psych people?”

“Of course there is. Follow the rules. When you get back, you will present yourself to my office. Once we cover some other messes that need to be cleaned up, you will head directly to your first counseling appointment. I had you scheduled for ten tomorrow. I need to know when you’re going to find your way back home so I can reschedule for you.”

Ugh. I was hoping they had forgotten about the counseling. Does it make me a bad person to not want to beat a dead horse to death by spilling my guts over things I’ve experienced? What’s wrong with moving on?

“Conner, I didn’t return to active duty to be your scheduling secretary. Get things figured out there and call me back immediately.”

“Yes sir. Any other mess I should know about ahead of time?”

“Probably. But it’s more than I’m going to put on you at the moment.”

Huh? I’d rather know. My stomach balls into a knot.

Barnes pokes his head out a conference room down the hall from where I’m on the phone with Zaworski. He whistles and jabs his head sideways. No doubt, Tommy-boy is a charmer.

I realize I haven’t been able to get back to my partner, Don Squires. I have to call him next, even if he’s not the new boss.

I sign off with Zaworski and hustle toward where we are going to meet on the murder of Frank Nelson.

More than I’m going to put on you at the moment? What does that mean?