The Heights Page 12

  “I tend to agree with you,” Watson replies as he ties the knot. He stands back and gazes at me through the glass. “He knew what kind of damage he was inflicting. I’ll chart the pattern of injuries for you, but we’re basically looking at a woman who withstood a great deal before the final blow to her head. That’s what killed her, by the way. Blunt force trauma caused a massive cerebral hemorrhage.” He matter-of-factly lists a bunch of other things that could have killed her if he hadn’t smacked her in the head: lacerated liver, ruptured spleen, punctured lung, blood loss.

  In other words, the killer bound her to that chair, raped her with the chair leg, then beat her to death.

  “I’m thinking your murder weapon might be a police baton,” he adds. “One of the newer ones.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” Tom says, “chair leg or baton.”

  Watson shudders.

  My mood darkens even more. I stand in the corner and glower. “Choke hold plus baton equals someone with law enforcement or military training.”

  Watson nods. “Or a solid command of YouTube.”

  Goran purses his lips. “There’s no way Paul Greenwade has the strength to inflict these kinds of injuries.”

  “We still have to follow up with him today,” I mumble. I check my watch. “Let’s head up to see Jo. We have over an hour before we need to take the fake GTO to Andersen Restoration.”

  “Okay, Detectives,” Watson says, “I’ve got to get to that backlog. Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll have the report to you this afternoon.”

  Goran and I mumble our thanks then walk silently down the brightly lit hallway to the stairs. He yanks the heavy metal door open and gestures for me to go first.

  “How do you want to handle it with Greenwade?” I ask on the landing.

  “He could have been an accomplice. He could have made the bomb.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I push the door open at the top of the stairs and step into another hallway, this one lit by natural light pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall. “Let’s hope Jo has something for us.”

  We turn left then right through the double doors of the crime lab. Jo’s office is in the far corner, and the door is open. We walk gingerly through the space, where technicians with microscopes and computers examine evidence, and I pop my head through the door.

  “Oh, hi,” she says from behind three widescreen computer monitors. When she sees us, she gestures for us to come in. “I was just looking at the tire tracks. They’re a match to Martin’s vehicle. And the mud you recovered from her tire matches the mud at the cemetery. And before you ask, we don’t have any DNA for your guy Anders Andersen.” She stands and stretches forward, letting her wavy hair touch the floor. “It’s hell to get old.” She returns to her chair.

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Goran says.

  I get no sense of vindication from the fact that the woman was abducted in her own vehicle. “Anything on the inside of the vehicle? And what about that transponder thing?”

  “A couple of human hairs—they look like hers—in the far back, near where they recovered the bomb, along with urine and saliva. The transponder, I’m still working on, but I’m betting it’s some kind of listening device.”

  “Listening device? Like spy shit?”

  She chuckles. “We’ll get it opened up and take a look. I’ll let you know as soon as I do. So you can quit sending me messages about it.” She winks at me.

  “Her urine, her saliva?” Goran asks, even though he knows it’s too early to make that call.

  “Tox will take a while.”

  Goran and I both nod at her.

  “How were the seats set?” I ask. “Was the driver’s seat back far enough for a guy that’s six two to drive it? And how about the passenger seat?” If Andersen and Greenwade were working together, that would explain the two footprints, the shed lock, and getting into the cemetery when it was locked. It might explain why Greenwade picked up evidence at the scene too—maybe he was trying to hide it, or maybe he screwed up.

  “Yeah, my guess is that the seat was set for someone with longish legs. Someone your size or bigger,” she says to me.

  I squint. My own car seat is pretty far back.

  “The passenger seat was closer to the dashboard.” She looks at Tom. “Someone as tall as you would hit his knees on it.” So Andersen could have been driving while Greenwade rode shotgun. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that there could have been two perps. One would have had a hard time controlling her, especially given that she had police experience and would know self-defense.

  “But there’s no way of knowing when either seat was moved,” Tom says.

  “Right. How tall was your vic?”

  “Five three. So she would have fit in the front. What about the bomb?” I ask. “You really think that thing”—I mean the transponder—“was to some kind of recording device, as opposed to being a detonator?”

  She nods. “It’s not a detonator, and so far, the bomb looks like a fairly typical homemade pipe bomb. I’ll have more details tomorrow or the next day, probably around the same time I have tox.”

  “Anything on the necklace? The rope?” I ask.

  “You’ll love this—bondage rope. And I was correct at the scene about the tape.”

  Goran and I exchange glances. Mine is an I-was-right look, while his is one of confusion and maybe disgust.

  “Fingerprint match on the necklace to Paul Greenwade. He retrieved it at the scene, right?”

  “Yeah, but he said he picked it up with a handkerchief.”

  “I’ll have DNA in a few days,” she says, “assuming that Watson got anything from the rape kit.”

  “Not likely. Chair leg.”

  She grimaces.

  “Thanks, Jo. Bye.”

  We walk to the car in relative silence and get in. I can tell that Goran is brooding.

  “Stop thinking about Martina Lowell,” I say.

  “How’d you know I was thinking about that?”

  “You’re an open book. And we’ve worked together a long time. I told you, I talked to Sims. He’s working a cold case as a favor to a friend of his. Just talk to him about it. If you need an excuse, he’s supposed to have Martin’s location data today.”

  He grunts. “Did you get sick back there?”

  I pull out of the parking lot, deliberately expressionless.

  “You haven’t done that in a while.”

  “Yeah, the chair-leg thing got me.” I accelerate onto Jennings Freeway.

  He nods. “What about the bondage stuff? You think she was kinky?”

  “Could have been.” Something occurs to me. “Especially given that black business card. I called the number, and it went to some voice verification thing. We need to look into that later.”

  He shoves a stick of Doublemint into his mouth.

  “Either way, she obviously had secrets.”

  “We all do,” he replies.

  We’re quiet for the rest of the drive.

  CHAPTER 12

  Andersen Restoration is over on the West Side in Old Brooklyn, near where Bobbie Butler said they all used to live but in a run-down section that so far has escaped gentrification. To get there, we pass another place that used to be a different car repair shop, and a bell goes off in my brain. I think it’s where Anna Mattioli, the wife of the famous cop-turned-memoirist, was killed back in the day. I slow the Charger and glance over my partner and at the building, which today is boarded up and covered in graffiti.

  Fuck dyke, it says. It’s actually nicely done, the kind of graffiti that some might call art. It’s surrounded by other, less-artistic gang signs.

  I ease to a stop at the curb by the old mechanic’s shop and squint at Fuck dyke.

  “What are we doing?” Goran asks.

  I push my sunglasses up onto my head and try to remember what Joe Mattioli wrote in his book—that stupid bestseller that I couldn’t even finish�
��about his wife’s murder. “Similar,” I mutter. My gaze flicks to the rotted-out carcass of a fifties pickup truck. “When did this place close?”

  “Huh? This isn’t Andersen Restoration. It’s up there. Make a right on Brookpark.” He points at the map on his phone. “You’re talking in riddles. Don’t we have an appointment with this guy?”

  I glance at my watch. “We still have ten minutes before the appointment. When did it close?”

  “Dunno. Why? You need more work done on that piece of crap VW of yours? You should get a new car.” He chuckles. “You could upgrade to the Chrysler 300. It’s fantastic. Best car I’ve ever had. And it’s all-wheel-drive, which is good for you and your stunt-driver stuff.” He winks at me.

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about a new V-dub.” But I’m trying to save money in case I have to retire early in disgrace. “Anyway, you know Joe Mattioli wrote that book, right? I mean, you have to have seen it on the news or whatever.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You reading it or something? Why? Where are we going with this?”

  “I started it. It’s horrible. But I got through the chapter on how his wife died. Her name was Anna. She died here.”

  “Uh-huh, and? Liz, we—”

  “Now that we’re here and I’m thinking about it, she died in ways that are really similar to our vic, and we’re looking at a very organized killer. Anna Mattioli was beaten and raped with an object at some point during the beating but prior to death. Tons of blood everywhere. Tied to a chair. It wasn’t robbery. It’s a lot like the way our vic died.”

  “How do you remember stuff like that from a little piece of a book you read?” He laughs.

  I push my sunglasses back up my nose and tap on the side of my head. “My mind is a steel trap. You know that already.” I attempt a smile. “You know what I’m getting at.”

  “Show me the evidence, partner. It would really surprise me if the Mattioli case had anything to do with this, and Andersen would have been, what, sixteen when Anna Mattioli died?”

  “Did you know Mattioli? You were, what, a rookie back then?”

  “Nah. I was out in the fourth back then. He was already downtown. He had a reputation, though. Him and his partner—”

  “Ray Gibson. Mattioli paints Gibson as kind of a tool in the book.” A doofus, a dipshit, someone who was far below Mattioli’s own intelligence and ability.

  “Yeah, Mattioli was always the smart one. They were part of a pretty bad time in the department. It’s nothing we should be messing around with. No one thought he killed his wife, and there’s no evidence to link—”

  “Now you’re the one talking in riddles. You sound like Fishner. ‘Tread lightly.’” We shouldn’t be messing around with it, but that doesn’t change history. “You think she’s gonna let us do our jobs? Why is she protecting Eric Martin?”

  “It was bad,” he repeats. “A lot of those guys... Well, we all heard that they did stuff to women. Other women, who were cops.”

  “Women such as Heather Martin?” I ask. “There’s another connection that I don’t like. Martin didn’t last long on the job. Think she bailed because of something that happened to her? Maybe Mattioli did something to her and that’s why she left for law school. If she was a rookie with you and Fishner, that would make him part of whatever it is you’re not telling me, right?”

  He rolls down the window. “It’s gotta be coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “I get what you’re saying, but there’s no way in hell Joe Mattioli has anything to do with this vic. He’s too busy signing autographs and doing interviews, if his little appearance on Channel Eight is any indication.” He chomps his gum. “Let’s run down this lead and see what happens. Stick with the agenda, partner. Right now, it’s all Andersen and Greenwade. We’ll check in with Sims to see what our vic’s movements were before she died and figure out what’s on that recording device, assuming that’s what it is. We gotta dot our i’s and cross our t’s on this one. You heard Fishner.”

  “Uh-huh.” I guide the car away from the curb and head to keep our—my—appointment with Anders Andersen, sans cool muscle car.

  Goran keeps raving about his new car. “It has heated seats.”

  “So does my Passat.”

  “It has Bluetooth and CarPlay, so I can connect my phone and listen to music.” He’s going for the jugular there—he knows how important music is to me.

  “You have my attention now, but any new car is gonna have that.”

  “It’s an American car. I’m surprised VDubs are still legal. Didn’t that guy threaten to outlaw German cars?” He winks at me, knowing full well how I feel about politics.

  “Don’t go getting all patriotic on me, now, partner.” I hit the left-turn signal when I see the sign for Andersen Restoration. “You know that most American cars are actually made overseas, right? And a lot of quote-unquote ‘foreign’ cars are made here.” I pull in next to a big rig that’s parked in the empty lot next to the house.

  “I thought he owned a restoration business,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt. “How are we gonna handle this guy?”

  “He does. Look over there.” I point at a three-car garage about a hundred yards away. Several older cars are parked next to and in front of it, including an old GTO. “See that? I’d drive that.”

  He guffaws. “You’d be terrifying in that.”

  I grin and push my door open. “Let’s go talk to this guy. Plan is to throw him some softball questions then ask him where he was on Saturday night. We need to pin down his connection to Martin. Shit, watch out.” I point at a big, growling dog who strains against his chain, which is wrapped around a tree to the left of the garage.

  “Let’s hope that chain holds him.”

  I lead the way to the garage, because I’m ostensibly the one with the appointment.

  Goran looks over his shoulder at the dog. “I think he’s okay. He’s sitting now.”

  “I’m sure he’s friendly. Why don’t you go pet him and find out?”

  “I’m not getting near that dog.” He stops and reaches for my shoulder. “Listen. I’m gonna let it go after this, but I feel bad about stuff that happened a long time ago, and I’m worried about Sims and the Lowell case. I don’t like any of it.”

  I make a conscious decision not to ask him about what happened a long time ago. The time isn’t right. I squeeze my eyes shut then let them pop back open.

  “You know how I feel about coincidences.”

  “Let it go, Goran. Seriously. Let me quote Fishner. ‘Get your head in the game.’”

  He nods.

  “We have to believe Sims about Lowell. Let it go.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be all over the place. Remember?”

  He forces a smile and nods.

  Once we reach the side door, I yank it open, and we walk inside. Behind a small, dingy counter, a very large bald man stands with his back to us, doing something on a computer. “Mr. Andersen?” I say in my pretend-I’m-not-a-cop voice, hoping he won’t do anything stupid like run.

  “Just one sec,” he replies. He closes a window on the computer screen and turns to face us. When he does, he fails to hide his surprise—his thick eyebrows come up briefly, and he flexes his massive jaw. “You’re Candy Cooper?”

  I guess I don’t look like a Candy.

  “Something like that.” I pull my police ID out of my pocket and flip it open. “I’m actually Detective Boyle, Cleveland Special Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Goran. How’d you get that black eye?”

  He looks back and forth between us for a few seconds, as if he’s trying to make a decision. He’s going to run. Goran must see it, too, because he hulks in the doorway. Another door, behind the counter and to his left, leads to what I presume is the garage work area. The garage doors are closed. I calculate that I could leap the counter and tackle him if need be, but he’s easily got a hundred pounds on me. And we’re only here
to question him. We have no evidence to arrest him. He shifts from foot to foot and blinks fast a few times.

  “Sir, we just have a couple of questions. Nothing to worry about,” Goran says from behind me, but it doesn’t have a visible effect on the other man.

  I’m watching Andersen’s hands to make sure he doesn’t reach for a weapon or something. Whether he’s guilty of killing Heather Martin or planting a bomb remains to be seen, but he’s hiding something.

  People act crazy when the police show up, whether they’re innocent, guilty, or some combination. The innocent freak out because they’ve seen too many TV shows where people who haven’t done anything end up convicted and on death row. The guilty get defensive because they think we’re on to them, unless they’re the kind who get off on watching police work. The not-quite-guilty-of-this-particular-crime are the worst, though, because they’re convinced that we’re going to bust them for their pot plants or stolen vehicle or fake ID or whatever the hell, so they get twitchy and start to entertain notions of running from us, even if all we want is information.

  Honestly, at this phase of my career, I couldn’t give two shits about their whatever the hell, unless it involves sex crimes, murder, or it would seem, police brutality. I sometimes wish I could come out and say that to guys like Andersen, just so they would calm down and give us the information we need.

  “Sir?” Goran says. He moves closer to me.

  Andersen takes a visibly deep breath and blinks some more. “You said you were with Special Homicide. I can tell you right now that I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Interesting tack to take, especially given the lawsuit against him for forgetting to reconnect those brake lines.

  “Okay, that’s great,” Goran says.

  I guess I’m bad cop today, which is fine by me.

  “Would you be willing to chat with us for a few minutes?”