Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (42 page)

Now I wish it was them watching me. If it’s not the police, I have a pretty good idea who it is. If I didn’t already know, I do now. I am in danger.

My attorney was good to move the contents of my safe to his office vault. But now he’s dragging his feet on giving me anything back. He says the warrant is open-ended and the police can come back any time they want.

I want my gun. I need my gun.

I hated Barbara, but maybe she was right all along. The things she taught me are what is keeping me alive.

My attorney has also informed me of what I already knew was coming. Flannigan is going to pursue me on Jack’s murder and treat Barbara’s murder as a separate incident.

He’s not sure when, but I’ll be back in court for an initial plea and an official bail hearing.

Would I be safer in jail?

I don’t know how that world works except for what I’ve seen in movies, but I suspect if someone wants me dead, I’m in danger either place.

I misplayed Derrick. I should have used him to bring the two of us back together as partners. But could I live with myself if I worked with the man who I think killed my parents? I doubt it.

If my attorney won’t let me have my gun I have to hire one. Where do I start? Maybe I can call Detective Squires—or Conner, even though she is a . . . I guess I better play nice if I need help.

So how is this going to play out?

• • •

“So it’s official? CPD is no longer investigating the murder of Jack?”

“It is official. Doesn’t mean that wouldn’t change if new evidence showed up.”

“So what’s happening on the follow-up to the parking garage? Are the license plate numbers going to show up?”

“I called and cancelled the request, which puts me at big risk.”

“Big risk, big reward.”

“The assistant in DMV I talked to thought the report might have already gone out in interoffice mail.”

“That’s not good.”

“No it isn’t. But I’m first to the mail slots. I make sure of that. I’m keeping my eyes open.”

“Good. That’s all I can ask.”

“I doubt that. You always find a way to ask for more.”

That got a laugh before the man hung up.

What have I gotten myself into? I’m going to end up rich or in jail . . . or dead.

70

I LOOK DOWN at my plate and poke at the last of the ribs. Reynolds and I are tucked in the back of Chicago Q. When I go out with Austin it always seems to be a new restaurant and one I’ve never heard of. He said the reviews were great if you wanted a bistro approach to a barbecue joint. I don’t know about the bistro part of that equation, but I do like barbecue. We split two appetizers, the fried green tomatoes and an order of shrimp and grits—first time I’ve ever had grits or tomatoes that aren’t red. I held my own. I went with the full slab of baby back ribs and he ordered prime rib. I know he is on some hardcore fitness program that alternates anabolic and aerobic training throughout the week. He better keep it up. He might have a bigger appetite than me—and that’s saying something. If we become a real couple, we could end up as contestants on
The Biggest Loser
. I wonder when my metabolism is going to change and announce I have to change my eating habits.

The snow outside has begun to fall. The TV and radio stations have talked about the arrival of snow with the solemnness of announcing an alien invasion. If my memory serves correctly, it happens every year about this time The snow is accumulating in a beautiful white blanket. That will change tomorrow. It will be a mix of black and gray sludge.

I look down at my phone buzzing. Penny Martin.

“I have to take this, Austin,”

He just nods.

“Detective Conner. What can I do for you, Penny?”

“Do you know a good personal security guard?”

“You might be in luck. It just so happens . . . but do you mind telling me why you need security?”

• • •

“Sorry, Austin.”

“No problem. Everything okay?”

“I called Gary and he said he’d call her right away, so I think so,” I say after telling Austin about Penny’s surprising request.

I update him on the Jack and Barbara murders.

“And you still don’t believe there are two murderers?”

“I couldn’t testify to that on a witness stand. But I have a strong gut feeling it is the same person.”

“Any ideas on who?” he asks with a wink.

“Do you know stats on parents killing their children?”

“A little . . . I could give you some ballpark figures . . . but I’m guessing you are more up-to-date.”

“Six-out-of-ten parents who murder are male. But seventy percent of those murders are done before the child reaches age five. For mothers who kill children, it usually happens before age one.”

“Your conclusion?”

“It doesn’t happen often. So I’ve almost eliminated Robert Durham, Sr. in my mind.”

“Do you have an alternative?”

“I do.”

“Then go get him.”

“I’d love to, but I have two problems. The investigation into Jack’s murder is officially closed and . . . there is that little matter of evidence. There’s a ton that says Penny did it and none for him.”

“But you have a strong gut instinct—and an impressive appetite to match the strong gut—so keep knocking on a few doors.”

“Are you saying I eat too much?” I ask, smiling innocently.

“I love that smile . . . it makes my knees weak . . . but I refuse to confess to anything that might get me in trouble with you.”

I stand halfway up and kiss him. Not quite full on the lips but pretty close.

“I absolutely don’t think you eat too much . . . you’re perfect.”

I don’t care who is watching. I stand up, walk over, and give him a long hard kiss. Might be the most kiss I’ve delivered since college. I sit back down and smile again.

“So what are we going to do about us, Detective Conner?”

“Have dessert?”

“You read my mind.”

While we wait for a key lime pie to arrive, I tell him again about my first experience with Barbara Ferguson, my blatant dislike of her, and how I think we ended up being friends at some level. He just listens and takes it in. I don’t think he minds shop talk. He’s gung ho on work. Or is that hoorah? Nah, he wasn’t a Marine.

“Let’s stick to your gut instincts,” Austin says after the desserts are delivered. “When identifying the motive for a murder, what motivations top the list?”

“Jealousy and greed are always up top in some form or another,” I say. “Revenge is up there.”

“Good. Apply that to Penny since the evidence points her way.”

I pause to think. “You can obviously cite revenge, like the DA is doing. Her dad abandoned her. You can add jealousy if you want to argue that she grew up in a nice middle class home while her dad lived like a Saudi prince. Plus there’s greed. But that third motive gets a little tricky. Her path to wealth was easier going through Jack than through the family. She didn’t know if her grandpa would welcome her, which is about to change anyway with her back on the murder stand for killing his son.”

“How about your alternative?” Austin asks. “By the way, you didn’t give me a name.”

“I’m almost afraid to say it,” I say. “I need to think on this a little more.”

“Does he have a key motive?”

“I don’t know about jealousy or revenge. I doubt it. But on greed, he has the most to gain with the death of Jack Durham.”

“So ignore Penny—and ignore Flannigan and Czaka’s orders,” he says. “Stick with your gut: one murderer. Turn him inside out. Personally, I’d ignore love and jealousy and revenge and everything else. Make it simple. Follow the money; his money. You already said he stands to profit the most from the deaths of Jack Durham and Barbara Ferguson. Go find out how he’s using it to move pieces on the chessboard.”

“I might need some help on that. I’ve already hit a dead end looking at his finances. And you know I could get fired if I ignore Czaka’s orders.”

“What have you got to lose? There’s a standing offer to come work for the FBI.”

• • •

We talked until midnight and shut Chicago Q down. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that I have . . . or might have . . . a steady in my life. He’s staying up by the airport and flying out early. Good. I need him out of town a few days so I can focus. I have to figure out how to turn this guy’s life upside down. Austin said he’d help if he can.

71

IF I GO DOWN in a blaze of glory, I want to do it out in the open. No secret visits to Zaworski. Everyone included. But I know that will shut things down before they start.

Don and I visit Tedford in his office.

“I agree. No one has as much to profit. But I’ve not heard his name as a suspect.”

“He’s insulated himself from day one,” I say.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Tedford says.

“Can you do it?” Don asks.

“I’ve got to look and see what he provided us from our initial requests. Between what we’ve got and public records . . . I might be able to find something. But don’t forget the whole list of those closest to Jack Durham have a labyrinth of financial transactions to search through. His might be the toughest.”

“Do what you can. We appreciate it,” Don says.

“Who do I send results to?” he asks.

“Me,” I say.

“And everyone is good with this?”

“Everyone is good with us finding the real killer,” Don says. “But it might be best to keep this on the down-low for the moment.”

Tedford isn’t happy. Can we trust him? I should have come alone. I’ve got a backup plan with the FBI if I get canned. Come to think of it, Don has a standing offer to work with his rich brother.

“I’ll take a look, but don’t forget, you guys owe me a big favor.”

“You got it,” Don and I say in unison.

• • •

“If you sent it, I didn’t get it,” I say.

“It went in interoffice two days ago. You should have had it yesterday.”

“I’ll look again.”

“Hold on, Kristen, I’m checking the log. It says the request was canceled.”

“By who?” I ask sharply.

“Detective Randall.”

Oh, man. This is getting interesting. I look across the table at Don. We stopped at Portillo’s Hot Dogs on the Magnificent Mile.

“Can you just email me the list?” I ask. “I needed it a couple days ago.”

“Sure. I should have done that in the first place. Anything happening with the Lincoln Park Madame murder?”

“Maybe. You’ll know when I do.”

What’s happening?” Don asks after I hang up.

“What do you think of Randall?”

“He’s slow.”

“I think I know why.”

• • •

I read through the list with Don looking over my shoulder.

Dang. There it is. A license plate registered to Lynda Durham—Robert Durham, Jr.’s wife.

“Would he send his wife to do his dirty work?” I ask Don.

“I think the answer is a lot simpler than that,” Don says. “He drove his wife’s car.”

Duh.

“We got to get this to Zaworski,” I say.

“It’s 6:00 on a Friday. I think we need to make sure we’ve got this thing thought through. We’re only going to have one chance.”

“One chance to what?” Randall asks.

Where did he come from? How long has he been listening?

“One chance to put Penny Martin away,” Don says smoothly.

“You worried about it?” he asks. “I don’t think there’s any way Flannigan doesn’t keep her undefeated streak alive.”

“You’re probably right,” Don says. “But better safe than sorry.”

“Good point,” Randall says. “You two have a good weekend.”

“You, too,” I say.

After he gets in the elevator and the doors close, I ask, “Do you think he believed you?”

“Not a chance,” Don says.

“We have to move carefully, but I don’t think we have much time to get to Zaworski before Randall gets to whoever is going to shut us down.”

“Have you heard from Tedford?”

“I’ll call him.”

“Okay. I’ll call the captain and see if we can meet at his place. I think it would be good to have Blackshear and Konkade there.”

“I’ll touch bases with you tomorrow. Thanks for believing me, Don.”

“Unfortunately, I think you are right. This is going to get ugly.”

72

I’M SORRY, BARBARA.
You were right. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m in way over my head. Maybe you did have my best interest in mind.