Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

one of my eyes as I walk out the door and into the sunlight. Man, it’s bright today. I blink it away.
    Did my sister say I was thirty? She’ll pay for that.

7
    I FLIP STATIONS the whole way over to the Second Precinct. I know more about who to call for all my insurance needs to save money, but don’t catch a peep about our murder case or the score of the Cubs game last night, the only two items of vital interest to me. Bulls might make the playoffs but since the day Jordan retired, I was never as interested in the NBA. On the murder case, the media usually gets it screwed up anyway, so better to start with a clean slate and no false information embedded in my mind.
    I consider stopping by my place to grab a sixty-second shower and a change of clothes. No time.
    I’m still the last person to the conference room after parking, entering the back door with my electronic key, and pounding up five flights of stairs to Homicide in the Second Precinct, too impatient to wait for an elevator. I look around and realize this could be about a hundred different rooms in our precinct. Gray table and chairs. Gray walls. The white ceiling must have been the interior designer’s idea of a contrast. A couple of the ceiling tiles are cracked and chipped at the corners. Several tiles are rust-stained from a leak on the floor above and look like they are ready to cave in. I used to drink water from our antiquated porcelain fountains when I first joined the force. I shudder and thank God for bottled water. Who knows where that leak came from.
    “Grab a seat,” Zaworski says, barely nodding at me. I sit next to Don. He looks dapper in designer jeans and a white mock turtleneck. Summer weight. Loafers with no socks. You’ve got to be kidding me. Does he not have to clean the garage or mow the lawn on a Saturday morning?
    Four other men are at the table besides Zaworski and Don. One is in uniform with sergeant stripes; I think his name is Kincaid. Then there are two detectives from another precinct that I recognize, both wearing jeans with one in a cotton pullover and the other in a couple layers of T-shirts. I don’t know either by name. Finally, there is a very nice-looking man, maybe early thirties, wearing a suit way too fine for local law enforcement. Except for Don, of course. Navy blue with a light blue stripe, white oxford shirt with button-down collar and monogram on the chest pocket and sleeves—AER—and a pale yellow tie with a diagonal blue stripe. This guy has got to be a federal agent or a salesman for IBM. I am suddenly self-conscious of my worn-out soccer shorts and ratty NIU sweatshirt. I wore my cleats to the game but have switched into a pair of Crocs with Mickey Mouse smiling on one and Minnie Mouse on the other. Christmas present from Kendra.
    I don’t catch myself in time to not take a quick glance at the Fed’s ring finger, which is naked. I think he catches me looking, which is very embarrassing. I kick myself for even wondering because I have a sort-of boyfriend who is madly in love with me—at least that’s what he tells me. The problem is I’m not crazy in love with him. So I don’t reciprocate with the words he longs to hear. Every time I try to break things off completely, he assures me that he’s very comfortable just being very good friends and that he is willing to wait for me to feel the same way for him that he feels for me. I have got to put him out of his misery and end this thing.
    Captain Zaworski makes the introductions.
    Nice suit guy is FBI, like I guessed, and his name is Austin Reynolds. The sergeant’s name is Konkade, not Kincaid, so I was close. If he has a first name other than Sergeant, he’s not giving it out. The detectives are Bob Blackshear and Antonio Martinez from Third Precinct. We all shake hands, say our “heys,” and nod.
    The mood is somber and I resist any temptation to crack a joke. Don’t know why I would think to do so in the first place. We’re talking about