The Heights Page 15

  “When was this?”

  She squints. “Whenever the fuck that lawsuit was. Why?”

  “Were you there when it happened?”

  She nods.

  “So cops didn’t break his fingers?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just curious. Thanks.” This guy’s blackmail plans never seem to work out. I let the door close behind me then join Goran in the hallway. “Where’s Fishner?”

  He nods at the observation room.

  “Oh, good. Maybe I won’t have to give her a statement.” I roll my eyes.

  He chuckles. “The wife’s alibi checks, but boss wants us to keep her occupied long enough to get the search warrant. Doesn’t want her there when we are.” He narrows his eyes. “Think he did it?”

  “Looks that way. Question is why.” I turn to walk down the hallway, looking for Sims, who can copy phone data more quickly than I can.

  I find him in the mail room, fiddling with the copier. He gives me a little salute when I walk in holding Winona’s phone in an evidence bag. “Got something for you.”

  He kicks the copier.

  “Problems?”

  “Something like that.” He removes his original, which is held in a manila folder with a metal clip, and holds it behind his back.

  I blink at him and extend Winona’s phone. “This phone contains screenshots of emails sent between Anders Andersen and Heather Martin. Winona claims to have had the originals at one time, but her husband deleted them. Can you get me the originals?”

  He takes the bag with one hand, keeping the folder in the other with its tab facing his leg. “I can’t figure out why anyone uses these shit phones. You can get a better one for even cheaper.”

  Why is he hiding that folder? It had better not be more Martina Lowell info. “Can you get me the emails or not? And can you do it quickly? Because I’ve got to cut her loose soon.”

  He nods. “I can definitely try. I’ll need her to unlock it first. And if she gave me her email password, it would be even easier.”

  “Great. She’s in interview two.” I move behind him and pretend to check my mailbox, but really, I’m attempting to see the folder. No such luck. I’ll have to snoop later.

  “All right, Boyle, I’ll get on this right now,” he says as he leaves the room.

  WE GET THE SEARCH WARRANT quickly, and after I talk Fishner out of taking a statement about Andersen shoving me—and after eating lunch—Goran and I head to Andersen Restoration with a forensic team and two uniforms.

  “I’m starting with the rig,” I shout over the dog’s loud barking, pointing at the trailerless semi parked in the grass.

  “Makes no sense,” Goran replies. “If it’s him, it’s not his rig. Let’s start in the garage and make our way inside from there.”

  I sigh.

  “You know I’m right.”

  “Fine.” I gesture for a forensic tech as we zip ourselves into Tyvek suits.

  “I’m not a fan of these suits,” Goran grumbles.

  “But you look so good in Tyvek.”

  He grunts. After we slip on the booties, we enter Andersen’s workspace, which is exactly how we left it hours earlier, complete with the overturned chair in the garage. I direct the tech to bag some of the cigarette butts in the hopes that we’ll recover his DNA and get a hit on the evidence from the crime scene. We’re looking for a black motorcycle jacket, a black hoodie, bomb-making equipment, and anything else that will show that Andersen murdered Heather Martin.

  “Here’s something,” Goran calls from the office as I’m poking through cans of paint and myriad tools in the garage. “This is good. Come check this out.”

  I peek around the doorway to find my partner spreading photos onto the counter in the office. “Are those pictures of naked women?”

  “Ten-four, partner. And one looks a lot like our vic.”

  I walk over to look at the photos. “That one”—I point at it—“looks almost identical to one that Winona had saved on her phone. The one he sent to Martin with the threat.” I squint at the other photos and slide a different one my way with a gloved hand. “This one looks like it could be her too.” I don’t see anyone who looks like Eric Martin.

  “This is some weird shit.”

  “Yeah, well... Winona said he’s into kinky stuff. It looks to me like we have near confirmation that he was involved with Martin, though, which could give us even more motive. Let’s keep looking. Bag those. I’m going back into the garage.”

  Nothing in the garage is remotely interesting, but everything changes when we get inside the house.

  “This place is disgusting.” Goran gestures around with an empty evidence bag. “Don’t people clean up after themselves?”

  “How long have you been doing this? You know as well as I do that people in general are disgusting.”

  “But seriously. Look at that.” He points at a coffee table, next to a recliner, that contains about thirty takeout containers. “How hard is it to throw your trash away?”

  “Think of it as more possible DNA, partner. Check this out.” I hold out a burner phone, and he slides it into an evidence bag. “Oh, shit, Goran, we just hit the motherlode. Look at this.” I slide a bunch of magazines and newspapers to the floor and open the trunk. “What do you think is in here? Is it ever this easy?” I pull the lid open.

  On top is what appears to be a locking chastity belt for a man. “Bag,” I say. Underneath is a variety of sex toys and leather harnesses, neatly arranged by size. We bag those too. The next layer contains black bondage rope, bondage tape that looks similar to the tape at the crime scene, a weird assortment of metal instruments, and a laptop.

  “How much you wanna bet there are more pictures on there?” he asks. “This is some creepy shit. I mean—”

  “Let’s find out.” I open the computer to find that it’s unlocked. On the desktop is a single folder, which contains thousands of photos, organized by name. There’s an entire file for Heather Martin. In a subfolder marked “D.,” there are photos of a smaller man with a plethora of other women. “Could be Derek Struthers. Could be his accomplice,” I mutter. “We need to follow up on this Derek dude.”

  In the bedroom, we find a black hoodie in Andersen’s size and a black motorcycle jacket that looks as though it would fit him.

  “How stupid is this prick?” Goran mutters, still visibly uncomfortable.

  “He’s either guilty and stupid as shit, or he’s not guilty and we’re heading down a rabbit hole. Pick your poison.”

  “I’m going with guilty and stupid as shit.”

  “My money is on rabbit hole. This would be way too easy, and Winona said he isn’t into hitting people—all his kinky shit is consensual—and none of the photos depict anything beyond regular S and M shit. I suppose we’ll find out. Let’s get all of this into evidence, and we’ll go from there.”

  At the forensics van a couple of hours later, we take stock of what we’ve found. “Bondage equipment, dirt, wood, grass, motorcycle jacket, carpet fibers, packets of manila envelopes,” I say, shining my flashlight into the back of the van with relief tempered with cynicism. A text comes through from Sims: Got the original emails. It’s not just our vic he was trying to blackmail. I show the message to Goran.

  “Hot damn. And don’t forget the laptop with the photos,” he adds.

  “Check and check. Looks like we can keep him for a while. Even if he didn’t kill her, he’s obviously guilty of something.”

  “No murder weapon, though, and no signs of bomb-making supplies.”

  “Yeah, but this is good circumstantial evidence. We need to talk to Fishner and Becker. We’ll check in with Sims first, though. Maybe there’s something in those emails that will lead us to a witness.”

  “This Derek dude, maybe?”

  I close the back door to the van. “Olivet,” I call to the tech, “can you get all of this to Micalec ASAP? We’re taking the laptop for our tech guy.” I wait for Goran to say something rude abo
ut Sims, but he doesn’t, and I don’t tell him about the folder Sims was hiding from me.

  He removes his Tyvek suit and shoves it into a bag. “Sure thing, Boyle.”

  As Goran and I walk to the car, I send Micalec a quick text: More evidence on its way.

  On it in the morning, she replies.

  FISHNER CALLS A BRIEFING when we return, so we gather in the conference room. It’s past dinnertime, and my stomach grumbles.

  “Okay,” she says. “What did you find at the Andersen property?”

  “Solid circumstantial evidence,” I reply, taking them through the photos. “If any of this comes back a match to what we found at the crime scene, we have our guy. Micalec is on it starting tomorrow morning.”

  Roberts chuckles when he sees the bondage equipment and turns to Sims as if to make a joke, but the other man appears more focused on preparing his part of the briefing. Maybe the folder was nothing.

  Fishner narrows her eyes. “What about the knots?”

  “Well, there’s that, and there’s also the black business card we found in her office.”

  Sims stands. “I think I know what that’s about.” He turns to me and gestures at the iPad. “May I?”

  “Sure.” I sit.

  He pulls up my photo of the business card. Next to it, he pulls up a screenshot of an email, which contains the same phone number. “I did a reverse search for the number. It goes to an internet phone service that allows users to require a voice verification to connect, so I had to get creative.”

  He swipes to a photo of an old brick building with a sign outside that reads Leather & Lace.

  Roberts guffaws again, and Fishner shoots him a look.

  Sims clears his throat.

  “A little internet digging tells me that it’s not just a dive bar.” He advances to a photo of the inside, which does indeed look a lot like a shitty old dive bar. “This is the main room. Looks like a regular bar, right?”

  I make note of a cigarette machine, which looks like it belongs in the Smithsonian, in the corner. “Where is this place?”

  “Just outside of Chardon.”

  “Chardon?” Goran asks. “Chardon has a population of, like, five thousand people. That’s impossible.”

  I elbow him. “BDSM isn’t limited to big cities.”

  Everyone looks at me.

  “I mean, it’s not.” I don’t want to remind them that I learned most of what I know about kink from a sociology-of-sex class that I took in college. They still harass me about having a college education.

  “Anyway,” Sims continues, “this is where the phone number leads.” He looks vaguely proud of himself. “And that number was in one of Andersen’s emails. I should add that it looks as though he was attempting to blackmail several other high-profile people in Cleveland.” He swipes to a collage of photos with a name and a title below each one.

  We collectively gasp when we see the county safety and protection chief, a high-ranking official who oversees the sheriff’s department and the medical examiner’s office. There are also photos of three Cleveland City Council members.

  “Thing is,” Sims says, “he’s a dumbass. He didn’t try to hide any of this on his computer.”

  Fishner uncrosses her arms and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Combined with the circumstantial evidence from the Andersen property, I think we have enough to book him.”

  I lean forward onto my elbows. “What about the city council connection?” This could turn into a horrible scandal, which would be both good and bad for the city. If the media seizes on the city council, the police can keep doing whatever they—we—want.

  Fishner glares at me.

  “Okay, then. Sims, have you found a money trail? Has this guy actually gotten anything from these people?”

  “I don’t know yet, but that’s not all.” He swipes to another photo, a BMV shot of a scrawny-looking man in his early forties. “This man, Derek Struthers, appears to be Andersen’s accomplice of sorts. I was able to hack into Andersen’s email account directly, which is how I got all of this.”

  No one asks him how he did any of it.

  “Derek Struthers might be in some of the photos we recovered at Andersen’s property,” I add.

  “Good work, Sims,” Fishner says. She turns to Roberts. “Anything on your end?”

  He rolls his massive shoulders back and looks impressed with himself. “Well, I was able to get bits and pieces of Andersen’s juvie record. Looks like the info Boyle got from the woman at the cemetery—”

  “Bobbie Butler,” I add.

  “Was good. He never served any time. Community service, promises not to do anything like that again. That led me to his service record, and he was in fact an explosives expert in the Marines, but he’s been mostly clean since then. Basically, there’s nothing there that connects with this.”

  Fishner nods then turns to me, looking expectant. “Tomorrow, first thing, you and Goran follow the Derek Struthers lead. Sims and Roberts will visit Leather & Lace. I want a full report at the end of the day tomorrow. We’ll have another briefing at five o’clock.”

  We all nod.

  “What are we doing with Andersen?” Goran asks.

  “The four of you will stay as late as you need to tonight to compile evidence. It looks like we have evidence of attempted extortion at minimum. Coupled with the assault on Boyle earlier, we can arrest him for something while we track down more evidence for the Martin homicide. Becker couldn’t make this briefing, but she’s on her way.”

  I make a face. Julia and I might be sort of friends these days, but it’s still too early to get her involved. “Winona mentioned a different club too. I’ll try to track it down.”

  It strikes me that Fishner is covering her own ass, and I don’t like it.

  “FOOD,” ROBERTS SAYS as soon as the lieutenant leaves. He runs his hand across his high-and-tight haircut. “We need food if we’re really gonna be here all night.”

  My stomach grumbles again. “We won’t be here all night, but I agree that we need food. Here or elsewhere?”

  Goran stands in the corner with his arms crossed, glaring at Sims, who doesn’t seem to notice. I shoot him a glance, and he fakes a smile.

  Becker knocks then enters. “Hey. What do you have for me?”

  I roll my eyes. “Sorry. That wasn’t directed at you. It’s because you’re here way too early on this one, and we’re all famished. We’re supposed to be assembling evidence to give to you on Anders Andersen. Here’s what we have so far.” I take her through the list but allow Sims to give his updates. It can be easy for me to talk over guys I outrank, but Sims is a good detective, and what he’s gotten could break this case wide open.

  Becker pushes a wayward copper-colored hair out of her face. “Have we gotten complaints from any of Andersen’s other potential victims?”

  Goran steps forward, obviously wanting to take control of the conversation. “Not as of now, no.”

  She leans a hip against the wall. “If we don’t have a victim, we don’t have a crime. And I’m not seeing a lot to take to a judge for the homicide.”

  Sims takes a step back, shaking his head. “Seriously? We have a direct link to Heather Martin and a phone number that Andersen used in his blackmail messages. There are multiple crimes here.” He gestures at the screen, still displaying the BMV photo of Derek Struthers.

  “Could be unrelated,” she replies. “I can’t get you a warrant until we know for sure that these crimes are connected. Even then, we need forensic evidence. We have absolutely nothing on Struthers other than a file folder labeled with an initial. That doesn’t quite cut it.”

  Fishner isn’t gonna like this.

  “She’s right,” Goran says to Sims.

  I have rarely known my partner to agree with the assistant prosecutor, and my gut says he’s doing it just to egg Sims on.

  “Hey, man, I just busted my ass to get all this. Now you’re gonna tell me it’s for nothin’?” He steps toward m
y partner, who puffs out his chest.

  “It’s just ones and zeroes on a server somewhere, buddy.” He points at Becker. “She’s saying we need real evidence. Evidence that comes from real work, not playing on the internet all day.”

  Sims takes a deep breath and makes a fist.

  I get to my feet and step between them. “Stop it.” I put a hand on Goran’s shoulder. “Cut it out. Listen to what she’s saying. We obviously have evidence of some kind of wrongdoing, but it may not be our squad that investigates it. We’re investigating the death of Heather Martin, not whether Andersen attempted extortion on half of the county. Remember?” I feel his shoulder relax, but his nostrils are still flaring.

  Julia smiles at me as the men stare each other down.

  “Goran, I need to see you in the hall,” I say.

  He doesn’t look away from Sims.

  “Now.” I step back and hope he’ll follow me.

  “Whoa,” Roberts says. “This is getting intense. How about everybody just chills out for a minute? I’m sure we can figure something out. Right, guys?”

  I clench my jaw and stare at my partner. “Goran.”

  He finally stomps out of the conference room. I turn to Julia, and we exchange a glance before I follow him.

  He’s down the hall by the vending machines already, pacing.

  “What the hell was that about? What is going on with you? It is really not cool for me, of all the people in this whole world, to be the one trying to calm you down.”

  “I’m sorry, Boyle. I just think that guy is up to something.”

  I catch Fishner out of the corner of my eye, striding out of her office and heading in our direction, so I turn away from her and speak in a low volume. “Without him, we would have no evidence whatsoever that gets us anywhere.”

  “That’s not true. We would have a lot of things.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and let them pop back open. “Tom. Listen. You have to stop this. He’s a good detective, and he just uncovered a whole lotta bad shit on Andersen—”

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest.