The Heights Page 16

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I will. I don’t like any of this high-tech stuff. What happened to good, old-fashioned police work?”

  I pat his shoulder. “It’s okay, old man. You and I can focus on the good, old-fashioned police work and leave the newfangled Google nonsense to the whippersnappers.”

  He chuckles and drops his arms.

  We head back down the hallway. “Are you all right? Can you behave nicely in the conference room with the others?”

  “You’ve gone from calling me an old man to talking to me like a child. Pick one or the other.” He seems both amused and annoyed.

  “I just want you to chill out, partner. We’ve got good evidence so far. Tomorrow, we talk to Derek Struthers—assuming we can find him. And we go from there. Just let Sims do his job, okay? He’s good at it.”

  He nods and opens the door, and I lead the way into the conference room, where Sims is leaning back in his chair, trying to look relaxed. The twitch in his jaw gives him away.

  “Get me the evidence, and I’ll get you your warrant,” Becker says.

  “In the meantime, we’re holding him on assaulting Boyle,” Fishner adds. “You have seventy-two hours to get enough evidence to book him on Heather Martin. We cut Winona Andersen loose, and I’ve asked Patrol to keep an eye on her.”

  I unplug my iPad from the projector and flip its cover closed. “Ask at the bar if there’s a Mistress Natalia there,” I tell Sims and Roberts. “Winona mentioned something about her.”

  “Ten-four,” Roberts replies.

  Goran turns to leave, and Sims gets up and follows him. Behind Goran’s back, I hold out a hand and mouth, “Let me talk to him first,” at the younger man, who nods.

  I hit the bathroom and meet Goran at our desks. He’s on his phone, so I quietly slide my stuff into my messenger bag. He wraps up the call by saying “I love you too,” so it has to be Vera.

  “How’s she doing these days?” I shut off my lamp.

  “She’s good. The girls are good. I don’t know why I’m so angry.”

  “It happens, partner. It happens to the best of us. Wanna grab a bite?”

  He stands and shoves his laptop into his bag. “Nah. Thanks, though. I gotta get home.”

  “Just chill. It’ll be fine. Let the new guy do his new-guy things. Okay?” I pull my jacket on.

  He nods, and his face is less red than before. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Meet you here at nine. Then it’s all Derek Struthers.”

  “You got it.” As he leaves, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Good night, Boyle.”

  Never in a million years did I think I would be talking that man off a ledge. It’s always been his job to calm me down when I lose my shit.

  I guess being the calm one feels okay, but it makes me anxious. I’m too used to Tom being slow and methodical. Maybe I take it for granted.

  I swing by Cora’s on the way home, but she isn’t there, so I shoot her a text, stop at Chipotle for a burrito and the liquor store for beer, then return to my cat. I change into sweats and listen to The Clash while I comb the databases and social media sites for Derek Struthers. I don’t find much, but at least we have an address. He lives over on the West Side, close to Edgewater.

  CHAPTER 15

  Wednesday morning, Goran and I meet next to the Charger and decide to grab a quick bite at Shackley’s Diner, one of our go-to greasy spoons, before we head out.

  “You seem like you’re in a better mood today,” I say between bites of my breakfast sandwich.

  He jabs his omelet with his fork. “Something like that.” His eyes twinkle. “I think I’m gonna talk to Boss Lady about Sims.”

  I almost choke on my food. “No. You have to stop this right now.”

  “I can’t deal with it. You know how it is. Imagine if he was looking into, I don’t know, any one of ten cases that stick in your craw.”

  I narrow my eyes, imagining those ten cases. “I would talk to him directly. I wouldn’t involve Fishner. We need him on this, and you know it.” I stare at him. “Is this some kind of fragile-male-ego thing?”

  He sighs. “Honestly? It might be.” A fly swoops in, but he shoos it away before it lands on his plate.

  I take another bite of sandwich. “Let it go, Tom. Please. Get over it. Let the young guy do his thing, and let him be good at it. What if he solves the Lowell case? What if it turns out that the asshole who did that stuff to her has been out there for all these years, maybe doing stuff to other little kids? Then what?”

  He knits his eyebrows together and sits back in the booth. “You have a point.”

  “Uh-huh.” I finish my sandwich and sip my coffee, watching him carefully. “I need you to promise me that you will not pursue this, at least not until we wrap this up with Heather Martin.”

  He scrapes a piece of omelet through his hash browns and nods. “Fine. I won’t talk to her until we wrap up Heather Martin.”

  That’s not good enough. But why am I trying to protect Sims? What if Sims really is up to no good? What was in that folder he seemed to be hiding? No, Boyle. Don’t let Tom’s paranoia infect you. Sims is just doing his job. He wasn’t hiding the folder. He was just making copies. “Let’s go find Derek Struthers.”

  He takes a last bite then stands before throwing a twenty on the table. “You’ve got lunch,” he says, pointing at me.

  “Uh-huh.” I pull my jacket on and grab my messenger bag. “I’m driving.”

  We’re silent on the way to the car and for most of the drive to Edgewater. It’s unusual, but I try not to think too much about it. Goran and I have had plenty of disagreements over the years, but they’re usually short-lived. I hope the Sims thing isn’t going to be a problem. Underneath it all, I hope that he’s not misdirecting his feelings about my testifying against Grimes onto Sims. Everyone seems to be ignoring the Grimes case, and it’s weirding me out a little.

  I slow the car on West Eighty-Fifth and creep up to the address. It’s an older, well-kept two-story house on a street with many of the same. At the end of the street is an elementary school and a park—all in all, it’s a nice neighborhood.

  Goran unlatches his seat belt. “What’s the plan?”

  “We see if he’s home and pretend we’re investigating the extortion. We ask him a few questions and gauge his response. If he seems hinky, we go from there.”

  He nods and pushes his door open. I follow suit then round the back of the car to meet him, and we walk up to the front door together. He knocks three times on the door then rings the doorbell. I glance around, taking note of the Halloween decorations, the fall flowers, and the fact that someone takes good care of the place. On the mailbox is a placard that reads Derek Struthers & Janelle McArdle.

  There’s movement behind the door, and we both take a step back.

  A thirty-something blonde answers, holding a toddler on her hip. “Well, this can’t be good,” she says with a bright smile. “What can I do for you?” Her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s wearing yoga attire.

  The toddler squirms, and she sets him down but grabs his hand to stop him from running out the door.

  “We’re here from CDP.” Goran holds out his ID. “I’m Detective Goran, and this is Detective Boyle. We’re looking for Derek Struthers. Is he available?”

  Her smile falls. “Um, no, he’s not here. He’s at work. What is this about?”

  “We just have a few questions,” Goran says. “It shouldn’t take long. Mind telling us where he works?”

  She pulls her phone out of a pocket with her free hand, and I notice a substantial diamond on her ring finger. “Let me get him on the phone. I can’t imagine what would happen if you showed up at his work.”

  Why would a guy with money hang out with Anders Andersen? It has to be related to the bondage clubs.

  “Why would that be a problem?” Goran asks.

  The toddler squirms and finally bites her. “Jimmy! Stop it right now.” She turns to us. “Hold o
n. I need to put him in his swing. I’ll be right back.”

  “Can we come in?” Goran asks.

  She picks Jimmy up and hesitates—only briefly, but it’s definitely a hesitation—before allowing us inside. “Stay there,” she says. She disappears down the hall with the child, giving us time to look around.

  The house appears to have been renovated recently. Everything is nicely painted and well-kept. To our right, Jimmy’s toys are scattered on a blanket in the living room, which is filled with light and tasteful midcentury furniture. Above the mantel is a clock that reads 10:10 a.m., and in the fireplace is an ornamental candle arrangement that probably cost a fortune at Pottery Barn. To my left, there’s a door that must go to the garage. I step into the entryway to the living room and catch a glimpse of the woman placing the toddler in a swing that hangs between the living room and dining room. From here, I can see that the dining room is tastefully decorated too. She catches my eye, and I smile then move back into the hallway.

  The kitchen must be down the hall to the left, across from another entrance to the dining room, and there’s probably a three-season room out back. Between here and there is a door that likely goes to the basement. At the end of the hall, a door is ajar, and I catch a glimpse of a pedestal sink. Must be a bathroom.

  Jimmy emits a happy squeal, and the blonde traipses back into the hallway to talk to us. “What is this about?” she asks again.

  I notice the phone in the pocket of her leggings. I know as sure as I’m alive that she texted Struthers to give him the heads-up, but I need to figure out what to do with that—she could be involved.

  Goran adopts his good-cop voice. “We just have a couple of questions. It’s completely routine.”

  “Where does he work?” I ask.

  “He’s a contractor—we own McArdle and Sons. Right now, he’s working on building a house in Richfield.”

  I pull out my notebook. “Derek Struthers is your husband? And Jimmy is your son?”

  She nods and looks away.

  “Why would it be a problem for us to ask him a couple of questions?” Goran asks, still in his good-cop voice.

  I’m going for neutral today—at least so far.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s meeting with the homeowners, and things haven’t exactly gone very well.”

  “In what way?”

  She sighs. “You’d better come in. I need to keep an eye on Jimmy, and we might as well just sit down and talk.”

  Because Derek Struthers is on his way, because you texted him, I don’t say. It strikes me that Derek is the one meeting the homeowners, even though Janelle’s name is on the business. Where are the “sons”? I bet she can’t wait to hand the reins to little Jimmy one day.

  She leads us to the dining room and fusses with Jimmy for a minute before gesturing for us to sit down. I would bet money that he told her to keep us occupied until he gets here.

  Goran makes a face at the toddler, who smiles. “How old is Jimmy?”

  “Eighteen months yesterday,” she replies. She undoes her hair then puts it back into a messy bun. “Why do you need to talk to Derek?”

  Goran and I exchange a glance, and I try to communicate my inkling that she could be involved in the extortion—maybe the murder. “We’re investigating a homicide, and we hope that he can give us some information about a person of interest,” I reply.

  She leans back in her chair. “So he’s not a person of interest?”

  “Not at this time, no.” I hear Julia’s voice in my head, reminding me that all we have is a computer folder with an initial.

  “Who is the person of interest?”

  Jimmy shrieks, and she turns to him, smiles, and waves.

  “We can’t really say.”

  It goes on like this for several more minutes, and we don’t get anywhere. Suddenly, a loud knock on the back door makes all of us jump. “Who could that be?” Janelle muses. “I’ll be right back.”

  Why would he knock on his own door? And how did he get here from Richfield so quickly?

  I hear a woman’s distinctive voice. “Where the fuck is he?”

  “Shit, Goran, it’s Winona,” I whisper as I get to my feet.

  “Holy hell.” He moves past me and into the kitchen.

  I feel strange leaving Jimmy alone, so I stay with him. “Hey, buddy. What’s going on?” I’ve never been especially gifted at talking to babies.

  He coos and holds his hands out as if he’s asking me to pick him up.

  “Better just stay there, little guy.”

  There’s a loud crash in the kitchen. “Boyle, get in here!” Goran shouts.

  “Be right back, Jimmy.” I slide into the kitchen to see Goran between Janelle and Winona with his arms extended, holding them away from one another.

  “Winona, what a pleasant surprise,” I say. “How about you chill out for a minute so we can avoid having to take you back downtown? No repeats of yesterday, okay?”

  “Fuck this bitch,” she says in a low growl.

  “No, fuck you!” Janelle shouts. She struggles against Goran’s hand, but he has her backed into the refrigerator.

  “Let’s everybody just calm down, okay?” I move toward Winona. “Let’s all just calm down, and we can have a little chat.” What the hell is going on here?

  Winona takes a breath and backsteps through the outside door. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

  “Yeah, you can get your trashy ass the fuck off my property.” Janelle tries to get by Goran, but she doesn’t have a chance.

  “Ma’am, please,” he says.

  I follow Winona through the back door, leaving my partner to deal with the high-strung yoga mom.

  “Shit.” She turns away, shaking her head. “Goddamn it.”

  I guide her down the stairs of a wooden deck and over to a patio set that sits on a stone patio next to a swing set in the backyard. “C’mon. Tell me what’s going on here.”

  She bows her head, and the unmistakable rise and fall of her shoulders tells me that she’s crying.

  “Winona, let’s have a seat.”

  She takes a seat facing the back fence, and I angle a chair next to her so that I can see the back door of the house. I catch Goran giving me a thumbs-up through the glass and relax a little.

  “I never should have come here.” She sobs.

  I awkwardly pat her on the shoulder. “How do you know these people? What are you doing here?”

  She sputters and sighs then wipes her eyes with a sleeve. “She’s my other sister.”

  “So all of that before about not knowing much about Derek Stru—”

  “Yeah, of course I know him. I didn’t tell you before because talking about that asshole makes me physically ill. He took the fucking company from us. It’s McArdle and Sons, right? Well, our peach of a dad never had a son, so he left it to that asshole when he died.”

  Jesus, that sucks.

  “She was always his favorite, with her perfect fucking little Barbie self and life.” She gestures around. “Look at this place. I would love a place like this. But it’s not like fucking Anders would ever have been in the will. Derek did what he had to do, the fucker.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he married a much younger woman and angled for the company, which he got. They’re loaded. Do they help us? No. And that’s exactly why Anders was trying to blackmail those other people. We don’t even have enough to pay utilities, and here they are. I came here to demand what’s rightfully mine. We need fifty thousand to pay off our debts, and then we can get the fuck out of this fucking city for good.”

  I’m no family counselor, but this sounds like a shit show. “Let me get this straight. Janelle is your sister, and Derek is your brother-in-law. They own the business and don’t give you a cut, so you came here today to demand money?”

  She nods. “If you knew anything about our shitty family, you’d get it. I was supposed to be the one to go to college
, but no. Of course Janelle goes to college. I was supposed to be the one to have a baby. Nope. Not me. It’s all her. I was supposed to be the one to inherit the business. Nope, nope, nopety—Dad gave it to them because he liked Derek better than Anders.” She shakes, and her face gets red. She’s making fists.

  “That really, really sucks, Winona.”

  “You have no idea how much. Yesterday just about pushed me over the edge.”

  “But Derek and Anders hang out? They’re still friends?”

  She nods. “Anders is a fucking bastard. They all are. I’m gonna get out of here for good, start a new life somewhere. I just need the money to do it.”

  The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, my dad used to say, quoting Thoreau.

  “Why doesn’t an internet search of Derek lead to McArdle and Sons?” It’s not the most sensitive thing to ask, but it’s been needling at me.

  “Because the whole thing is in her stupid fucking name. Keep it in the family and all. Technically, she owns it, but the whole idea was that Derek would run it. Now, I guess it’ll go to Jimmy one day.” She softens. “I do like that kid.” I follow her glance to the back door, but it’s quiet inside the house.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.

  “Look, I lied. Anders was with me on Saturday night. We got in a huge fight, and I threatened to leave, but I just went and sat in the shop. Anders hung out inside, doing God knows what. I didn’t see him leave at all. And I wasn’t at a Halloween party.” She gives me a sheepish glance. “I told Tiffany—who hates this bitch as much as I do—to lie for me. I really wanted to see that fucker go down. But not like this.”

  So Andersen is basically cleared. Back to the beginning. Shit.

  A neighbor’s dog starts to bark as a large black pickup truck pulls into the driveway. It stops in front of the garage, and I see McArdle and Sons emblazoned across the side in silver letters. A man kills the engine and pushes the door open. Derek Struthers. He’s heavier than his BMV photo suggests—too heavy to be the other man in the sex photos, assuming they’re recent.

  His gaze is trained on his phone, so doesn’t see us as he stomps to the back door.