The End of March

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold:
when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.
Charles Dickens

Chapter 1

March 31, 9:59pm

I should have stayed in California. It was like seventy degrees in San Diego yesterday. Almost orange on the weather map. It freaking snowed here last week. And then the DePaul kids showed up at Wrigley in swimsuits today. Oh how I love children. NOT. The screaming brats distracted me from a pretty decent game. One idiot spilled beer on my scorecard. I could have killed him. If I see him again and he's still yelling at piss drunk girls in bikinis the whole game, I will. That's a promise, kids.

I just can't figure out what to wear in this godforsaken wasteland of broken asphalt. I left my jacket home this morning and froze. I put it on this afternoon and was sweating like a dog. Edit that thought. Dogs don't sweat. Wonder what genius came up with that brilliant word picture. Chicago weather is definitely a mystery but it does set the mood of the story. My story. I bought a book on writing. Waste of time. If you're a writer you just write.

A new chapter opened. His quest for immortality continued.

Quest for immortality. Nice. I like that. Writing is a lost art, which is why I got to do this myself. Yep, it's a new day. Time to turn the page and start a new chapter. The weather is now officially irrelevant. Relief is so close at hand.

His days of living in a self–imposed limbo were coming to an end. Six months of restraint and anticipation were painful. Excruciatingly so. Denial of what was rightfully his felt like torture but such was his power of discipline that he would not jeopardize all he had established for an easy reprieve. But that's what made him different. Unique. Special. A name beyond all others.

They don't have a clue as to all I've accomplished yet. Losers. With a capital L. I know they know I'm out here but they're too stupid to do anything about it. Someone is sitting behind a computer right now looking for me and wondering where the hell I've gone. I bet I'm driving him out of his freaking mind. Or hers. Serves him or her right. I have more taste for a her. Hers are so much better out of their minds. Sooooo dumb. I love it.

Tomorrow is April Fools Day. Fools indeed. Especially cops. If I'm ever going to get the press I deserve I'm going to have to send the fools some clues. They make me do everything.

He sat at the precipice of his next great work. Ready. He was back.

The Month of April

April is the cruelest month.

T.S. Eliot

Chapter 2

Mom, I told you this isn't a good time. I've got to go."

"Honey, it's never a good time."

"I know, Mom, but it really isn't a good time this time. I have to go. Now."

My partner is looking at me with utter incredulity. He's just slammed the gear shift into park and unbuttoned his sports jacket. He flips the snap on his holster for easy access to his Glock. I shouldn't have picked up Mom's call but I thought I could get off the phone fast. She keeps carping that I never pick up. Now I'm going to hear about how I'm always the first to hang up. I can't win.

"Mom, I'll call you back. I'm getting off right now. I have—"

"You'll be at Danny and Kaylen's Sunday?"

"Yes, Mom. I have—"

"And church?"

I don't get to answer because Don reaches over, snatches my cell phone from my hand, and hits the red end call button. I wonder if it's possible to make the sound of slamming the phone down by hitting the "off" button with force. If so, Don just did it.

"Momma's going to have to wait, Kristen. He isn't going to hang around all day waiting for us to say hi. Let's get in there now."

A surge of adrenaline courses through my body as I step out of the car, touch the gun that's holstered on my side one more time just to make sure it hasn't mysteriously disappeared, snap and unsnap the top strap, and head into the Gas & Grub, game face on.

As we walk through the door the two guys working the cash register look up at us nervously, probably wondering if they're about to get busted for selling cigarettes to minors again. We pulled into the parking lot in our unmarked mud brown Mercury Crown Victoria, which is not the world's greatest disguise for detectives who want to make a collar by entering a public establishment under the radar. Maybe it's the extra antennas on the trunk lid. Might as well put a billboard on the roof that broadcasts Chicago Police Department in neon letters. We're here to serve but we do have a way of making people nervous—and disappear.

My partner, Don Squires, gives a nod as he heads down one aisle and I take the one next to it. I quickly round two corners to cut off our suspect's line of escape. Don is three feet away from him on one side and I position myself an equal distance away.

"Don't move. Leave your hands where we can see them." Don uses his menacing voice, the snarl he puts on for moments like this, which I might add is very menacing.

An EMT from one of the ambulance services recognized the punk's description from an APA bulletin while pumping fake nacho cheese sauce on a half–pound, buck–fifty Polish dog they sell at Gas & Grub. He goes to the same church as me and fancies himself a junior crime fighter, so he put the call straight to my cell phone. It's not the right time to lose focus, but I wonder to myself how Lloyd got my number. He's got to be pushing over three hundred pounds and, as I've already promised him numerous times, I am going to kick his butt for eating all those congealed fats and animal parts on a bun. He just says mustard is lo–cal. The butt kicking will have to wait for later.

The punk, late teens or early twenties, is a retro eighties piece of work. He's wearing a black t–shirt with a skull and the name of a group that I don't recognize in jagged, blood–red letters. Twisted Tweeters. Clever. He's got the chain hanging out of the front pocket of his black jeans, connected to a what I assume is a wallet that he doesn't like to use, based on his current little crime spree. All he needs is those black boots with the metal and leather straps, but unfortunately for me and my partner he has on a pair of comfort shoes that look like what we used to rent at the bowling alley; all black, of course, but you can see the stitching. Footwear isn't going to slow him down if he bolts, I think to myself. I quickly take a glance up and down the aisle. Not going to be an issue; he has nowhere to go.

Neither Don nor I have pulled guns because the convenience store is packed. Doesn't mean our hands aren't touching the brushed metal grips, however. There must be twenty gas pumps out front on a busy street. The back door services walk–ins from a blue collar, working class, urban neighborhood. So we've got people coming and going from every direction. No sense starting a panic. We have a CPD mandate that prohibits us from taking risks that are likely to result in collateral damage.

I'm not letting my eyes leave the punk's hands. If he even twitches anywhere near a pocket, mandate or not, my Beretta 96 is coming out in a hurry, whether it starts a stampede for the door or not.

The kid looks up and locks eyes with Don with a glare of anger and hatred. He soundlessly mouths something to Don that I can't make out, but I'm guessing he's not complimenting him on his choice of ties this morning. Don bristles and they face off. Don was a running back in college and still hits the weights a couple mornings a week. He's got the start of a paunch around the middle, but he has a lot of arm and chest muscle to keep his proportions right and project a serious formidability.

The punk is probably six foot one in height and less than 170 pounds soaking wet. Did I mention the tattoos and slouch? Even if he wasn't into armed robbery, which turned lethal for the seventy–seven–year–old victim who fought back and just passed away after a couple days in ICU at Rush Presbyterian Hospital for his efforts, I still wouldn't like this kid just on sight. We're obviously not supposed to profile, but my daddy didn't raise a fool. This is a kid who is screaming anger and rebellion at the world without having to move his lips.

My money is on Don if this takedown gets physical. Heck, my money is on me if Don decides to turn around, pour himself a cup of coffee, and leave the heavy lifting to me. I can take this punk. I've taken every hand to hand combat course the Chicago Police Department offers. I don't score well on the pistol range—which is why I traded the standard issue Glock 22 for a Beretta last week—but I do get superior marks on hand to hand.

The punk breaks eye contact with Don and then turns toward where I block the other end of the aisle. He looks me up and down slowly and smiles. He puckers up and blows me a kiss, and then he flips me off as he pushes a spinner rack filled with chips and other snacks in Don's direction, and vaults over the condiment counter between us. Nacho cheese sauce and pickle relish fly everywhere. He knocks two people down by the dairy cooler and crashes through the back door in a frantic sprint out the back door. I'm wishing like crazy he wore his boots with the silver rings today because we're going to be running. I'm not supposed to even think the thought but I do wonder if I can hit a moving target with the Beretta while running hard myself. Inflicting a flesh wound is all I'm thinking, of course.

I am furious and want to do him bodily harm, which as an officer of the peace I am prohibited from doing on the basis of me not liking him and him making me mad. But I'm half hoping he wants to play rough, because I'm ready. This won't be the first time I ask God to forgive me for a bad attitude today—or tomorrow—but I swear I want to be the one who cuffs him. Tightly.

Don and I are outside in a flash, bumping shoulders in the doorway but not losing a step. Don's wearing a black summer weight wool suit, Italian cut—that often means no vent in the back he has told me at least fifty times—with shiny black leather wingtip shoes, which are not good for speed. I think they're his Allen Edmonds, which cost over three hundred bucks, he reminds us in the detective's bullpen regularly. I'm sure Allen makes a great shoe, but that still doesn't make them good for a track meet. Don will be crying for a week about what the job does to his clothes and how we need a real expense allowance for clothing, just like the guys in uniform.

I have no sympathy. I've told him forty times to get some Rockports or Eccos with a soft, flexible, comfortable sole. He just looks at me in abject horror. I've got on my Eccos, the very best comfort shoe in the world the clerk at Timberline in the mall said. Dad always told me to buy American, but I'm not sure that's possible anymore, and I've got to say, those Danes or Scandinavians or whoever it is that does Eccos, make a great shoe you can actually work in. My sister Klarissa agrees with Don on matters of fashion and looks at my shoes with undisguised disdain. I think Nike makes a custom cross training high–heeled model for her to wear to the health club. That's why she's the weathergirl on WCI–TV and I'm a newbie detective who's about to rock some punk's world.

The kid is surprisingly fast. Real fast. I wish some nice high school track coach could have got hold of him before he got into all this trouble. He's clearing the alley behind the Gas & Grub and turning right on a residential street of classic Chicago row houses, and Don and I are still fifty yards behind. Don's a sprinter so if the kid makes us run more than half a mile he'll be out of the race. I, on the other hand, was a soccer player and middle distance runner in college. I may still complete a marathon some day. Depends on getting my surgically repaired right knee stronger.

I was my dad's third daughter, bless his heart. Mom couldn't have any more kids so he was never going to coach a son in football, basketball or baseball, the red–blooded, testosterone filled, All–American sports. I give him credit for making the best of a tough situation. No tea parties or Barbies. It was basketball, volleyball, year–round soccer, and track for me. For us.

For a while we thought I might be the next Mia Hamm. After a couple of torn ACLs and the slow–dawning acceptance that I never could hit a good left footer anyway, I started thinking about a day job. My dad was a cop. Why not me?

When Klarrisa the weathergirl begins a sentence, "Just because Dad was a cop," I know what is about to follow. Something to the effect of "It doesn't mean you have to rub shoulders with the city's lowlife." I never let her finish anymore. "Don't go there, weathergirl," usually stops her in her tracks.

I hear Don's labored breathing as we turn the corner. I've broken a sweat but I'm still breathing easy and can go like this all day if necessary. I've got to get serious about running the Chicago Marathon in October, I think to myself. I've done the half–marathon a couple times. The punk's still forty yards ahead, not a good thing, so its time to turn it up a notch. My partner won't like it, but this is no time to make sure his male ego gets proper care and attention. I'm breathing easy—this is just a warm–up on the elliptical machine—so I start to leave Don behind. Then he says it; gasps it is more accurate. I was hoping against hope he wouldn't, but the words rasp out: "Let's fall back and regroup. Too dangerous."

I nearly stop just so I can argue with him. He's barely wheezing the words out but I understand loud and clear what he's saying: girls aren't tough enough to be cops. No way would he have said that if his partner was male. At least I assume he wouldn't.

I don't know what gets into me, but as I ignore him and pick up the pace I suddenly want to flip him the bird. Honestly, I'm not a big time feminist. The right guy asks me out, he can open every door in the world for me if he so desires. More to the point, I'm not crude or profane. I'm not a bird flipper; it was definitely not allowed in my house growing up. Dad may have had a nitty gritty job, but we did the Ozzie and Harriet thing as a family. No R movies and not many PG or PG–13 either. Sunday school and church every week. Mom took us to Wednesday night Bible Study, though Dad let me miss if I had an athletic event. Mom didn't like that and I think Klarrisa and Kaylen, my older sister, resented that a little bit. Okay, a lot. However, it didn't mean they were going to go out for the softball team, especially Klarrisa, so they were in youth group every Wednesday night. Bottom line, no cussing and no bird flipping in the Conner home.

Like I said, I don't know what gets into me. I don't think I have an anger issue. I do have a temper, but it's never crossed the line professionally or personally. But I've been getting mad at people pretty easily lately. I wonder if it's an occupational hazard.

Don's a great partner and I won't stay mad. It helps that he is a big time family guy. He's got an almost stay–at–home wife and a girl and a boy—bless my poor dad's jealous heart. Talk about a committed guy, Don doesn't smoke, drink, cuss—at least not much—and great for me as a partner, he doesn't flirt and would never think about fooling around on his wife. I'm not trying to be presumptuous, but let's be honest, when you're a female in a male dominated work environment, inappropriate things get hinted at. And sometimes not hinted, just said outright.

Don and I are friends and we have work chemistry, but we're all business. I think his wife gets just a twinge of nervousness about our relationship—I've seen her size me up when she doesn't think I'm looking—but Don and I don't have this tension hanging in the air where he's trying to make something happen. What is it with some guys always testing the waters? Sometimes the married ones are the worst.

I make no obscene gestures at Don for which I'm grateful. I'll not have to apologize to him later, and now I am closing the gap on the punk. I'm not going full speed but I've lengthened my stride and am on pace to run a six–minute mile I think.

The punk turns into another alley and I'm less than half a basketball court away—top of the circle and taking it to the hoop, baby. I barely slow down as I round the corner and now he's in my sights. He's rolled two metal trashcans in my path. Amateur. Did I mention that I did hurdles for my high school track team, too? The effort has slowed him down, but not me. Doesn't make any difference, I am going to be catching him soon any way you look at it. He senses this and makes his decision. Fight or flight?

Fight.

The punk turns to face me and he's got a knife in his hand. He's full of surprises. Not only is he fast enough to make any high school track team in the city but he can just as easily get a part as a Shark or Jet in the school's rendition of West Side Story.

I shouldn't be surprised and I am mad at myself that I am. The knife has been his MO in all three of his robberies. Known robberies. Being surprised at a moment like this is not a good feeling. I put on the brakes fast or I'm going to run myself right into his range of attack. I'm reaching towards the small of my back for my dainty little Beretta, but the punk is already moving in on me. He's red in the face and breathing loud, but he lunges quickly to close the gap before I can de–holster my weapon. He's made his decision to fight alright.

On cop shows and in the movies all you have to do is employ a series of martial arts moves to deflect and negate slashing metal. I don't care if you're Jackie Chan's cousin, it doesn't work that easily. When two people fight and one has a razor honed blade, the person without the weapon, even if that person is a superior fighter and ultimately prevails, is going to lose some blood.

I have on my anti–cling black slacks and suit top, a very comfortable lycra–type material that fits and wears well—and allows me to move freely. I got both at a great sale at Marshall Fields. Half off of half off. I'm not thinking of the suit right now, but I am concerned about the skin underneath it. I've got noticeable scars around my knees from the ACL surgeries, but otherwise, God forgive me for my vain pride, I've got great skin. Even Klarrisa, all five foot nine and one hundred and ten pounds of her, is jealous of my skin. She doesn't have bad skin of course. But constant dieting and TV makeup do exact a cost.

His first slash catches the sleeve of my suit coat and pops the button off. No problem. I can get it sewed back on. The good news is he got no skin.

I'm on my toes and jump back and dance to the left. I've had to pull my right hand from across my body where I was reaching for my gun, so now I have to start over trying to pull my weapon out and into a firing position while keeping him at bay. He's circling and giving head fakes in my direction, which indicates he's played basketball, too, and he's trying to make me lean the wrong way on his next charge, so he's making it next to impossible for me to get my firearm.

Well, if the punk can go on the offensive, so can I. I feint to my left and he leans with it. I quickly spin to the right and let loose a round–house kick that I'm guessing is beautiful to behold and would film well. Not as good as what Jackie Chan's cousin might do, but well executed.

The punk doesn't look like a fighter but he's obviously been around the block. He partially ducks under the kick intended for his head, so I catch a lot of shoulder and hit him with a glancing blow to his jaw. It staggers him, but just barely. He stays in ready position and makes another lunge at me. We're still too close for me to reach my gun with the confidence that I'll have it in hand and in firing position before he reaches me with the knife, so I just forget about trying for it and keep my hands in fighting position. I'm crouched and ready to spin in either direction. I'm looking for my opportunity to attack. Our eyes meet and lock.

His eyes dilate. He drops the knife and raises his arms. Wow. That was easier than I thought.

Don walks past me calmly, his gun in both hands, aimed at the center of the punk's chest.

"Keep your hands where we can see them, kick the knife to the side and get down on your knees." There's a nana–second of hesitation and Don shouts, "Now!"

"Make it easy for us and I'll make it easy for you," I add as I push him flat on his face, maybe with a little extra nudge, and cuff his hands behind him.

Don's on his cell phone calling in the uniforms.

"Good work, we got him," he says to me as he snaps his flip phone shut. "You okay?"

Don, you better not go there, I think, but hold my tongue.

"We?" I ask him, but not loud enough or with enough conviction to start a fight. I know it was we who got the guy, but I wouldn't mind getting singled out for getting the call and getting to him first. I can already hear sirens heading our way. No time to fight with the partner.

God, forgive me for my bad attitude ... and the next one I am about to have.