Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (9 page)

“What happened Mom? Was it a break-in?”

She’s crying and I’ll have to wait. Give her a second to pull it together.

I grew up on the near west side in West Lawn, a Chicago neighborhood near Midway Airport that was a mix of blue and white collar. Our house was small and definitely in the blue collar section of the village. I never thought of it as dangerous. It helped that my dad was a cop, which meant the rougher kids knew better than to mess with the Conner sisters. With Mom alone, I’ve begun to wonder if it’s time for her to move. She’s a librarian, which doesn’t necessarily make her helpless, but I still worry. All three of us have brought up to her that it might be time to move. She’s been very adamant she is staying in her house.

“I don’t think it was a break-in,” she says, clearing her throat. “It happened outside.”

Maybe this is why Squires has been calling—for sure it’s why Kaylen called.

“But you’re okay, right, Mom?”

“I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean. But my heart keeps racing and my mind is going a million directions.”

“Does this make you think about moving?” I ask hopefully.

“Of course not,” she answers quickly. “Your daddy and I got this house right after we got married. I could never leave our home.”

I have no answer for that. It’s sweet. Not many people left who put down such deep roots.

“What’s got my mind racing,” she continues, “is I’m afraid the police are going to treat Eddy’s murder as an accident.”

Okay. What’s going on? If Mr. Keltto was murdered, why would CPD treat it as an accident?

“Who’s working the scene, Mom?”

“Someone you’ve worked with. Detective Blackshear.”

“Blackshear is top drawer, Mom. You have no worries. He’ll get it right.”

“But I only got to talk to him for a second. He didn’t interview me. He came by and introduced himself, told me he knew you, and then left a couple kids to take my statement.”

“Kids?”

“You know what I mean Kristen. They’re all so young now. Even you.”

Even me? I’m only thirty but I sometimes feel like a grizzled veteran—whatever grizzled means.

“Listen Mom, Blackshear is good. If he says it’s an accident it’s an accident.”

“But he doesn’t know everything going on at the Keltto house.”

“And you do?”

“I know something.”

“Did you tell the uniforms?”

“I tried to, but I don’t think they were listening. One of them kept closing his book before I’d finish a sentence. He said they had a lot of people to talk to and would stop back if they had more questions. I’m not sure he meant it.”

This is getting stranger by the minute.

“What’d you tell them Mom? What weren’t they listening to?”

“Something I’ve seen a couple of times.”

Is my mom going to make me put her in an interrogation room and sweat this out of her? No wonder the uniforms weren’t listening. They did have a lot of people to talk to and needed to keep moving.

“What’d you see Mom?”

“I hate to say it out loud. Maybe it’s nothing. I was going to talk to Jimmy about what I should do anyway. Then this happened.”

I’m a cop. Jimmy is a preacher. And she was going to sort it out with him?

“Mom, what did you see? And by the way, how did Mr. Keltto actually die?”

“It looks like he slipped on ice and hit the back of his head on the ground.”

“Maybe that’s what happened, Mom.”

“I’m not so sure after what I’ve been seeing.”

She leaves that hanging. Her dramatic pause is pushing my impatient button, which doesn’t require too much pressure to ignite.

I got booted out of the meeting after thirty minutes by the group of NYPD officers and FBI agents who wanted to confirm what I told Tommy Barnes. I hated getting kicked to the curb but it did give me a glimmer of hope that I can get back to Chicago tonight—and possibly get a hot shower to clean off the gooey mess that still hasn’t completely dried on my clothes and skin. I need to get off the call with Mom if that’s going to happen. Actually, that’s not quite fair to her. I’m hanging around the precinct because Austin Reynolds called to say he’s close and wants to see me before I take off.

But I need to work the phone. I’ve got to book another flight. Then I’ve got to get packed. I’ve got callbacks to make. I need Mom to pick up the pace. But I’m not asking her what she saw again. I’ll wait her out because she’s not going to be pushed. I let her gather her thoughts.

“Ed leaves for work earlier than Nancy and gets home later most days.”

Yes? I wait.

“I get home from the library after she’s already home but before he gets home.”

And? The silence is deafening.

“The same car has been parked on our street a couple times now.”

“In front of their house?”

“No. About four doors down. In front of the Yaconelli’s house.”

“So what does that have to do with the Kelttos?”

“I’ve seen the same man walk from Nancy’s side yard and go straight to the car. He always takes a look around and then walks fast. I thought it looked suspicious.”

“Are you watching her house?”

A slight pause and Mom answers, “Maybe a little bit the last couple weeks. But it didn’t start that way. I’d get home, go inside the back door, and then come out the front door to get mail and the newspaper off the front steps. I didn’t think anything about seeing him the first or second time. The third time, I started thinking something wasn’t quite right. I’m not surveying their house or whatever the word for it is.”

“Surveillance.”

“Right. I’m not doing that. But I do take a look out the front window about the same time every day now. It’s not every day he’s there. But it’s pretty regular that he leaves her backyard and walks down the street to get his car by the Yaconelli’s. Does that not sound suspicious to you?”

I might argue with her for doing surveillance on the neighbor’s house—even if she says she isn’t—though as an officer of the peace I know that is actually a great crime deterrent that is on its death throes. But I can’t argue with her conclusion. Mom’s right. It does sound suspicious.

“Did you get the make and model?”

“I did better than that,” she answers, now sounding triumphant. “I’ve written down the license plate number.”

Keeping an eye on her street is a good thing. But recording license plate numbers? I stifle a laugh.

“You’re not saying anything, Kristen. Do you think I did something wrong?”

“Not at all, Mom. You did great. Listen, I have to get to the airport and see if I can catch the last flight out of JFK or LaGuardia. I’ll talk to Blackshear about what you saw tomorrow. He’ll make sure it gets followed up on.”

“You will?”

“Absolutely. Email or text me the license number and the description of the car. Anything else you can remember about him.”

“I will. But I thought you were catching a morning flight back to Midway.”

“It was O’Hare and I missed it.”

“You need to pay more attention, Kristen. I told you New York City traffic would be bad on the way to the airport.”

“It’s a long story, Mom. I’ll catch you up when I get home.”

I need to pay more attention?

12

IT WOULD HAVE been easier to head east from Brooklyn through Queens to Oyster Bay. Med didn’t want to risk being spotted by Pasha, so he cut back and forth in a northwest pattern through Manhattan and jumped on I-87. The roads were still lousy but he could be there in less than two hours.

The phone blared again. Pasha. Always Pasha. He lowered the window to throw the phone to the side of the road. With more snow coming tonight plus the road crews laying down ice and pushing the slush into embankments on either side of the concrete thread, it would be a month or two before anyone found it. He needed the names and numbers that were stored in it. He held down the red button and powered it off.

Better to forget the phone for now. Having it on might allow someone to trace his location. It didn’t matter if it was the NYPD or Pasha—if he was found it would mean prison or death. Plus if he answered, Pasha would promise him everything was okay and all was forgiven. But a man like Pasha never forgave. It had been a couple hours since Med had taken a sip of vodka and he realized he was thinking clearer. He had gone through the dead man’s wallet. He had found what Pasha wanted. But why work with a man who had undoubtedly killed Ilsa and who would kill him with his bare hands?

If Pasha wanted the numbers there was a good chance the Pakhan did too.

“What were you thinking? Seriously, Kristen, what was going through your mind?”

Reynolds is mad, something I’ve never seen from him.

“Central Park in the dark in subzero weather? Are you kidding me?” he continues.

The park in the dark. I just learned something. Reynolds is a poet. I’m a little surprised at how mad he is. I’ve never really noticed before but nostrils really do flare when someone is ranting. Check it out for yourself. No big biggie for me. I’m used to getting scolded. This is the third time I’ve been chewed out in one morning, counting Barnes and Zaworski.

I just look at Reynolds, waiting for him to get the lecture out of his system. I would think I am due for a hug or some other sign of comfort. I did just perform CPR on a dying man. No way was he dead when I found him. Impossible. Inconceivable. Reynolds isn’t making a move my way. Maybe it’s my blood-soaked ensemble. I wouldn’t want to hug me either.

I actually shouldn’t be surprised about the lack of bodily contact. Our relationship has been strictly platonic. I’m not great with affection under most circumstances—unless it’s my niece and nephew— and James doesn’t count because if I get a hold of him, he’s wriggling and moving like a greased pig and releasing appropriate smells that make this a great analogy. Maybe I have arrested development. Should I bring it up with the shrink that Zaworski is making me see? I’ve got to stop thinking the word shrink or I’ll end up saying it out loud.

Austin has seemed fine with my reserve. The perfect gentleman. I’ve assumed this works out for him because he wants to take things slow after going through a divorce. His ex is a colleague he has to work with on a case basis. I’ve met her. The ice queen. You can catch a whiff of her aura of condescension before she enters a room. If I had lived with her, I might volunteer for counseling.

Maybe I’m not being fair to her. How well do I really know Reynolds? He may be too much like me. Just keep active, keep moving—we can talk about our feelings later.

He knows I’m old school and don’t sleep around. I know that
makes me a dinosaur and Klarissa says I’m repressed and will die a spinster. Anyone that uses the word spinster might have a few issues of her own.

I grew up in a warm and affectionate family. I’ve never been abused. So why do I keep people at arm’s length—and I’m not just talking about jumping in the sack with someone? I keep a protective wall up. I’d like to blame it on my dad’s death. But it was there before. Is it possible that that’s just the way I am? Is that a crime?

Right now, even if Austin isn’t the right guy for me—and I suspect, the truth is, I’m not the right girl for him—I feel a need to be held and comforted.

I guess you can’t push somebody away for months and expect him to read your mind when things change and you need him close.

We’re in a coffee shop across the street from the 54th Street Precinct where Barnes brought me to meet on the Frank Nelson murder. When I called Reynolds from Barnes’ car to ask what was going on, he said he was already on the way and would talk when we both got there. If he considered being in the same meeting the equivalent of us having a talk, then I guess we’ll have to put our talk on hold since only one of us has a ticket to get in. Spilling coffee as I exited probably guarantees whoever is in charge won’t reconsider and invite me back.

Reynolds drums his fingers on the table and repeats, “What were you thinking? You’re not talking.”

“Hey Austin, I heard you the first time and I think it was obvious what I was thinking. I just wanted to get a short run in the park before I flew back to Chicago. Simple as that. You’re making way too big a deal out of this.”

“In zero weather? In the dark?”

“You’re sounding like Klarissa,” I say, resisting the urge to rhyme dark with park.

“If she said you were out of your mind, then good. I hope I sound exactly like her.”

“Okay, Austin, I’ll check in with you next time I want to do a cold-weather run and make sure I have permission.”

“Very cute. I figured you could do better than that.”

“Hey, you bought me cold weather gear so blame yourself for tempting me to actually use it.”

“That’s a little better.”

“Listen, I don’t need this,” I say, fed up with everyone getting in my grill for the crime of finding a murder victim. “Next time you try to hold a guy’s windpipe together while you keep him from bleeding out and give him mouth-to-mouth and he dies as an added bonus, let me know, and I’ll find something to grind you on.”

“You can deflect and counter all you want but this isn’t about me grinding you. It’s about you jumping into things before you think.”

Now he sounds like Zaworski. If they have the same belief about what it means to chew someone out then I guess this is his way of saying he really
really
cares.

This is the point when I’m supposed to stomp out. We just glare at each other. I wonder if we’re causing a scene in the crowded JavaStar. I think my comment that he died as an added bonus insured that.

“How do you do it Detective Kristen Conner?” he asks, a bemused smile slowly appearing on his face.

“I have an instinct for trouble?” I ask back.

“That you do.”

“And I might add I have a flair for getting out of trouble.”

“But never for long.”

He folds his arms, shakes his head, and laughs.

“You okay?” he asks.

Am I okay? Is no one listening? I just had someone die in my arms while I tried to save his life. Everyone I know bugs me to death about opening up and sharing my feelings. Now they’re surprised I have emotions? I guess I’m supposed to save that for the counselor.

“I’m fine, Austin. I’ll be a lot better after a shower. I think I’m ready to get Frank Nelson’s blood and body tissue washed off.”

Was that enough of a hint to lay off and give me a little sympathy—and maybe a hug? Last chance to read the tea leaves, soldier.

“Good, because I got to hustle over and get in that meeting.”

A swing and a miss. Thank you for your tender concern, Austin. He’s preoccupied. The only reason we’re not yelling at each other with me stomping off is he has more important things on his mind. No more time to lecture me on not running in the park in the dark.

I do think of myself as self-aware and empathetic to the world around me. I’m just not good at this romance thing. And people wonder why I’m single and never dated much. My last reasonably long-term relationship was when I was in college. I was on the soccer team and he played football—we were both too busy to spend much time together. There it is again. I do well in a relationship as long as I don’t have to regularly interact with someone. I guess I’m good at relationships as long as they aren’t really relationships.

I’ve been told I’m good looking. But when you grow up with a sister that looks like Klarissa, you learn early on that good looking is a very relative term. She’s breathtaking. When I walk with her down a busy street, men nearly break their necks to make sure they get a good look. Not at me.

I met Reynolds on the Cutter Shark case, which went almost half a year. We ended up going out for dinner a couple times. Things didn’t end well between us; par for the course in my personal history of dating. Halfway through my work on the Jack Durham murder—another one of those “whales” that Barnes alluded to—Reynolds showed back up in Chicago and we made up. We’ve sort of been an item since. I think. I’m never sure what is up or down when it comes to my love life.

He flew to Chicago and spent Christmas Day with the Conner family—my mom, my media star younger sister, Klarissa, and my older
sister, Kaylen, and her husband, Jimmy, and three children, Kendra, James, and baby Kelsey.

I still haven’t figured out why the grownup male in my sister’s family is Jimmy and the kid is James, but I need to let that one go. There are more important things to figure out that I’m still clueless on.

Spending time with my family is usually enough to scare anyone off, but Austin invited me to Schenectady, New York, to meet his parents. That was interesting if you like long discussions about the history of Schenectady and why the New York State economy north of the City is a sleeping giant while plowing seconds of Yankee Pot Pie, followed up by a huge bowl of Aunt Sylvia’s apple crumble with ice cream.

I went to the Y with Austin the next day and did a hard two-hour workout to burn off a few pounds of dead cow.

I survived a three-thousand-calorie dinner and that awkward moment when Austin’s mom was trying to figure out if we needed one room or two. I like Austin. More than any guy I’ve dated. Doesn’t mean he’s the one. Heck, my previous item—who really wasn’t an item—bought me a diamond ring after I’d told him I wasn’t going to see him anymore. He still didn’t believe me after I refused the ring. He said I could hold onto it in case I changed my mind. So not quite trusting my ability to spot a winner is a valid perspective on my part. When Austin and I worked the Cutter Shark case together with his ex-wife, a small detail he decided wasn’t something I needed to know, I pushed him away. Hard. I disagreed strongly with his decision that I didn’t need to know that Van Guten was his ex. He hung in there and I finally accepted his explanation and apologies.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have reservations about him. He is smart. He has a good personality. He is good looking. He is successful. He seems to like being with me without putting any demands on me.

Maybe that’s what I like most. No demands.

Klarissa is a free agent these days. I wonder why he hasn’t dumped
me and made a move in her direction. Apparently they are in absolute agreement that I’m out of my mind. Not quite up to both of them kind of liking the movie,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, but it’s a start.

Would that bother me? Of course it would. But the fact that I’m even wondering something like that doesn’t bode well for the dashing FBI Agent and me. That and him not knowing the one time in our relationship I really need a hug.

Klarissa begged me to come with her to NYC while she interviewed and did guest appearances for the gig with WolfNews. I think it’s a done deal if they agree on the money. Her agent is in New York and pushing hard to get Klarissa there. She’s done just enough modeling to generously supplement her pretty good salary, but not so much as to seem too shallow to report hard news stories. I’m guessing he sees more opportunities for enriching her and himself in New York. She just bought a condo in Chicago. She wants me to stay in it so she doesn’t have to sell. She says I can pay what I’ve been paying on my not-nearly-so-nice place. How do you turn down a deal like that?

I had some vacation time I had to use or lose, so here I am in New York, soaked in blood.

I do wonder what Reynolds’ parents think of me. Nice people. But more to the point, what does Reynolds really think of me? He will tell me, I’m sure, when he thinks I need to know.