Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

“What’s wrong with my car?” I ask, a little ruffled by the news that he knows my salary with the CPD.

He doesn’t answer. He knows I’m stalling. And I admit, this is a shock. Almost as big a shock as a terrorist blowing me away in a simulation event. I’m suddenly having a little trouble catching my breath. Thoughts fly through my mind. Would I move away from Chicago where I’ve lived my entire life? Away from Mom? Away from my sisters, Klarissa and Kaylen? Especially Klarissa.

Mom drives me crazy. She drives all of us crazy, even my angelic older sister, Kaylen, who is a pastor’s wife and the nicest person in the world. But so what if Mom drives us crazy? We’re still crazy about her. We love her. Could I exist without her Sunday afternoon lunch sermons? Kaylen’s husband, Jimmy, may be the preacher, but Mom makes sure we know what’s right from wrong.

I’m actually dying to get home tomorrow night to see everyone. Even if my mom hit redial a hundred times while I was on assignment.

I realize Austin is watching me closely and waiting for a response. I don’t think his look of amusement is going to last much longer. But I’m not ready to answer. I need to change the subject for at least a minute.

“So did we get the bad guys just now?”

Not a particularly smooth segue but apparently successful.

“We did,” he says with a beam.

That was an inspired change of direction; he really is proud of his work and this was his baby all the way so he wants to talk about it.

“How many did we lose?” I ask.

“Just one.”

“Dang. You mean I’m the only one that got blown away.” I try to correct how that sounded by adding, “Not that I want any of my teammates to have got wasted, even if it was a game.”

“You’re not quite right on that,” he says. “We only lost one but it wasn’t you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Cool.”

I did it again. That doesn’t sound right.

“Yep, I took a quick peek at the event post mortem and you’re on your way to the emergency room right now for a couple nights’ stay—longer if the sternum is cracked. We’ll find out later. You got shot with a tungsten tipped can opener—if he had loaded his shotgun with traditional shells he wouldn’t have missed you coming through the door and you’d be dead. But even though he got you with a body shot, the jacket saved your life. Cane, however, is dead.”

“Lieutenant Cane? My group leader? How in the heck did they get him? He’s the best.”

“That he is. Army Rangers tend to be. He took out three bad guys, including the one trying to push the button to blow up the entire house and half the neighborhood. This group wasn’t going to allow themselves to be interrogated at Guantanamo and were ready for the shortcut to heaven.”

“Is Allah’s Fatwa a real group?”

“Not in name, but in makeup, disposition, and tactics, yes. It, and a hundred just like it, are real.”

“So what happened to Lieutenant Cane? Was it the turned ankle?”

“Nah. Ted would never let a little sprain slow him down. He did his job, then heard what was happening in the living room. He came in with a smoke grenade and gun blazing. Your target pulled out his Colt 45 and shot him cold dead. No one shoots better with a handgun than a shotgun, but in this little game your target did.”

“So I got him killed?”

“Can’t look at it that way. But Cane did get blown away trying to save your life.”

“Wow,” I say with no enthusiasm.

I do have a way with words. I wish I hadn’t said “cool’ when he told me I didn’t die.

“Yeah, wow,” Reynolds says. “So you want to talk about that job offer later on? Maybe grab dinner?”

“This somehow reminds me of how you asked me out for that first date. I’m never quite sure if you want to go out for business or social.”

“Not that you make it easy,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, after Chicago, I’ll make it easier and say yes, but no negotiating—we can have dinner if it’s strictly business.”

“After Chicago? Don’t pin what happened in Chicago on me, Kristen,” he says with storm clouds in his eyes, the twinkle instantly gone. He’s not playing now. “Besides, I think you’re the one who has an obsession about negotiating everything.”

“Well, with some people, when you sense they’re not telling you the whole truth,” I say, even as a I wonder why I’m turning this into a fight, “you do have to be a little more careful up front.”

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying . . . that I was in some way untruthful with you,” he says, “I’ll take your obvious but unspoken assessment under advisement and consider the best way to let the next woman I ask out know ahead of time that my wife cheated on me before she left me. And I’ll make sure on the first date to let the lucky girl know that my ex-wife happens to work for the FBI, too. You got any more advice on the subject, give me a call. Better yet, just send me a text.”

I think I deserved that. And I would have apologized but he was already on his way out the door.

If this was part of the job interview I’m not sure the offer is still on the table. Ditto if he was asking me on a date.

9

BEN FRANKLIN SAID if you have a tough decision to make, you draw a line down the middle of a piece of paper. On the left side of the line you list all the positives and on the right side you list all the negatives. Then you see which column is bigger and make your decision.

I’m actually not sure Ben said that. My dad said he said it, so there’s probably some truth to it. Dad was known to paraphrase and improvise on the fly.

I look at my yellow sheet of ruled paper again. The line is straight and true. The plus sign and negative sign look just fine. Problem is I haven’t written anything else. I rip the sheet of paper from the pad, crumble it, stand up from my desk, and do a fade-away jump shot at the wastebasket in the corner. It hits the rim, bounces against the wall, and falls to the floor next to ten other yellow paper wads.

I might kill a forest figuring this out. Even if Ben Franklin did come up with the decision tree, it’s too simplistic. Not all pluses and minuses are created equal.

Despite getting into it with Reynolds, the package awaited me when I returned to my motel-style room nestled in the heart of the FBI National Training Center in Quantico. I knew the cafeteria would be closed so I talked the shuttle driver into stopping at a Roy Rogers fast food restaurant as we left D.C. Since I was his only passenger he said fine. I was starved after the simulation and wolfed down three deluxe roast beef sandwiches, waffle fries, and a glass of water. He must have been hungry too and munched on a couple burgers while we drove south.

It was close to midnight when we passed through the security gate. I had planned to shower and hit the sack right away so I could get an early start on my final FBI-conducted knee therapy session in the morning. I took the shower. I got in my jammies. I got under the covers and turned off the light. Then I stared at the ceiling for an hour.

I finally threw off the covers and started scribbling notes on yellow sheets of paper. I didn’t have to write down a thing to know what the issues are. Accepting the offer from the FBI means more money, the prestige of working for the world’s greatest law enforcement agency, and a chance to serve my country. My media star sister likes to remind me that I’m so old school I make our dad look a crazy teenager with acne and hormones. If being old school on God and country is a crime, I confess. I’m old school.

On the negative side of the sheet is the fact that I already have my dream job. My dad was a detective for Chicago Police Department. As far back as I can remember, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I grew up in Chicago and like it there. Maybe I would like living somewhere else, but why pursue that possibility for the sure thing I’ve got? I don’t care what people say about Chicago weather. I don’t mind bitter, cold, icy, snowy windswept winters—at least not theoretically. It’s like cheering for the Cubs. Doesn’t matter how bad they are in a given year, sitting in Wrigley Field, section GA, during a 10-game losing streak is proof that you are tougher than the rest of the country. Throwing a nice souvenir ball back on the field because it is a home run by the other team is part of our DNA as well. That’s how we do it in Chicago.

The real two-ton elephant on the right side of the paper, the negative reasons that argue against moving, is my family. My mind regrinds those gears.

Could I really live a thousand miles from my mom and sisters? Who would coach my eight-year-old niece’s soccer team, the Snowflakes?

And then there’s James, my five-year-old nephew. This will be his first year in kindergarten. I don’t like that he has only one volume, yelling, and that he always wants to punch me and sticks his feet in my face when we watch TV, but I do admire his fiery personality. That kid is going to play middle linebacker for the Bears some day. Butkus. Singletary. Urlacher. King. James King—has a ring to it. Lebron is already King James but my nephew will make a name for himself. I’m not going to tell his dad, Jimmy, that James got his athletic ability from my side of the family. Probably don’t have to.

And Jimmy and my big sister, Kaylen, have a third on the way. I think they want it to be a surprise whether it’s a boy or girl. Mom went with Kaylen on her last ultrasound checkup and spilled the beans. That actually helped. I found a Manchester United soccer outfit at a baby boutique in Georgetown that will look great on my new niece. My news reporter sister, Klarissa, will be impressed I went shopping. She claims I missed the shopping gene—and usually she’s right.

Klarissa. Is she the real reason I want to—maybe need to—stay in Chicago? I feel responsible for her. She was actually held hostage, even if only for a couple hours, because of a case I worked. Like me, she has the scars to prove it.

More money and prestige. A new adventure.

Or family.

Where is Ben Franklin when you need to talk to him? I’ll have to figure this on my own. My history professor at NIU said Ben wasn’t much of a family man anyway.

10

“IT’S NOT HIS vomit,” the ME techie said to Martinez and Squires.

“How can you know that?” Squires asked.

“Nothing in his throat and everything he ate is still in his stomach.”

“You’ll get that categorized and in your report?” Squires asked.

“No—I plan to mop up evidence with Mr. Clean and hope it wasn’t a big deal.”

Squires was about to rip into the kid but let it go. It was a stupid question and murder scenes put everyone on edge.

“Why does the Second get all the good cases?” Martinez asked Squires. “I like the excitement but sometimes boring is good. I could be looking for gang bangers if I stayed in the Fourth.”

“We get plenty of boring,” Squires answered with a smile. “Just not recently.”

“Look at this place. This guy was rich,” Martinez said. “This is going to be big.
Muy grande
. It’s the kind of case where you get promoted.”

“Unless it drags out,” Squires said. “Then you get bumped back to checking parking meters.”

“Guys, I can’t tell you’se the hammer is the murder weapon,” the ME assistant said, interrupting. “But I’d be willing to bet you ten bucks or breakfast at Eggsperience Cafe it is.”

“I’m not eating breakfast for a year after looking at this mess,” Squires said.

“You know our day has already started,” Martinez answered. “We better eat something on the way over to the office.”

Squires had written more than twenty pages of notes in the past three hours. His stomach growled.

No runny eggs, he told himself.

• • •

It’s not fancy, but it’s plenty nice. Open the door and on the right there is a small sitting area with facing love seats and a coffee table between. On the left is a round table that’s not quite big enough for the four chairs arranged around it. Behind the table is a kitchenette with a full-size refrigerator, stove, dishwasher, microwave, and a single sink. The bedroom is in the back. This has been my home for the past six weeks.

My black rollerboard suitcase is packed but still open on the bed. It’s too big for the overhead bin on the Airbus A33 I will be on so I have to check it. I’m dressed comfortably for travel. I’m also dressed like I am every work day. Black slacks and jacket. White blouse. I’ve put on my Ecco Mary Jane-style shoes that have maybe a quarter inch heel. That’s about as stylish as I’m going to get with footwear. My partner gives me a hard time about my fashion sense but he’s the one that cries when his dress shoes get messed up chasing a punk down the street.

I’ve opened, closed, and reopened every drawer and closet. I’ve looked under the edges of the bed twice. I haven’t forgotten anything. Satisfied, I zip up the suitcase and move it to the door. My laptop and power cord are in my tattered and scuffed black carryall.

I have a six o’clock flight back to Chicago from Reagan International tonight. I had my final checkup with the orthopedic doctor that works at the FBI’s Rehab and Surgery Center earlier. The majority of FBI agents work in accounting and law, but there is still enough rough and tough field work that they staff their own surgi-center for on-the-job injuries. When Deputy Director Willingham extended the offer for me to participate in training for TARP—Terrorist Attack Response Program—he added the inducement of using the rehab service to the offer. How do you say no to that? I went in every morning at six o’clock to be put through a torture session. It worked. Even after tearing the ACL and MCL a little over two months ago, my knee feels great. Maybe better than before the injury. And it held up nicely in the terrorist takedown. The doc said I’m a fast healer.