The Heights Page 17

  Winona makes a move next to me, but I gently put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s not make this any worse than it is, okay?”

  She nods.

  “I’m gonna need to you come downtown and make a statement about your husband being at home the other night, okay? And other detectives are gonna want to talk to you about your husband’s blackmail attempts.”

  She nods again.

  There’s a loud bang inside the house, and I’m terrified that someone has been shot. “Winona, come with me.” I grab her and lead her to the driveway, where I point at the Charger. “Go sit in that car. Please don’t go anywhere. Please.” This is completely against protocol, but I can’t leave Goran inside alone, and I don’t trust Winona not to freak out again if I take her back inside.

  “What? Am I in trouble?”

  “No. Sit in the passenger seat if you want. Just please don’t go anywhere.”

  She searches my face. “Okay.”

  There’s another bang as I approach the door, so I draw my weapon. “Goran,” I call through the screen.

  “In here, Boyle.”

  Exhaling hard with relief, I push through the screen door and into the kitchen. Goran sits at the dining room table with Janelle and Derek Struthers, looking as though they’re having a nice little chat.

  I reholster the Glock. “What was that noise?”

  Derek makes a goofy face at Jimmy. “Oh, sometimes the wind blows the doors shut upstairs. I always tell her to keep the windows closed, but—”

  “I just love this weather,” Janelle finishes.

  What the fuck is this? How is she so calm after what just happened with Winona? I lean against the doorway.

  “Did you get rid of Psycho Bitch?” Janelle asks.

  I nod. “What was that about?”

  “She’s nuts. And her dirtbag husband is even more nuts. I don’t want them around Jimmy.” She turns to her husband. “I wish you would stop talking to them.”

  He shrugs.

  “So you maintain that you were not with Anders Andersen on Saturday night?” Goran asks Derek.

  “No, I wasn’t. We hang out sometimes, but I’ve been trying to put some distance there. The guy’s a weird one.”

  “What do you mean, ‘weird’?” Goran asks.

  Derek blinks rapidly. “He’s into some kooky stuff is all. And he was trying to get money from a bunch of people around town.”

  My phone buzzes again, so I excuse myself and step into the kitchen to check it. I have two text messages from Roberts. Leather & Lace isn’t the right bondage club. Heading back to the squad. and What’s happening on your end?

  I tap out a reply. Winona Andersen alibied her husband. Tell Fishner. Kicking the extortion to the districts.

  I glance at their refrigerator and notice all of the happy-looking family photos, pictures of Jimmy at various stages, and magnets advertising McArdle and Sons. Then I stand in the doorway.

  “‘Get money’ how?” Goran asks.

  Good to get as many on the witness list as we can before we send Andersen’s case to district detectives.

  Derek looks from Goran to Janelle, who nods slowly, and back to Goran. “He cooked up this whole scheme. Winona could be involved too. So could that oddball guy he hangs out with. What’s that guy’s name, honey?”

  “Paul something or other.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck come to attention. Greenwade? Goran glances at me.

  “Can you tell us what you know about the scheme?” I ask. This has gone from verifying an alibi to something entirely different.

  The man looks at his son then at his wife. “Honey, will you take Jimmy upstairs?”

  I can’t tell if he’s trying to protect the woman or the kid. I take a step back into the kitchen to text my friend Leah Ramos, who investigates financial crimes. Got a good one for you, complete with two, maybe three witnesses.

  Janelle nods, stands, pulls Jimmy out of his swing, and leaves the room.

  “He’s into kinky stuff. He’s a member at sex clubs. I have no idea how Winona doesn’t know—maybe she does. I don’t know.” Derek looks embarrassed. “I only know because I was watching their dog back in February and opened a trunk in their house, looking for a blanket—they never turn the furnace on. I know I shouldn’t have, but I looked at the computer, and... Well, I found things that made me uncomfortable. Which is why we don’t hang out much anymore.”

  “And you aren’t involved in any sex clubs?” I ask from the kitchen.

  His jaw drops. “No! Of course not!”

  “What about the ‘scheme,’ as you called it?” Goran asks.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Ramos. Send me the deets.

  I do. Then I step forward into the dining room. “Mr. Struthers, let’s cut to the chase. Can you verify your whereabouts on the evening of Saturday the twenty-fifth?”

  Goran glares at me, but Andersen’s attempted blackmail isn’t our crime to solve, nor is the McArdle family drama. Time is moving quickly, and our chance of finding Heather Martin’s killer is dropping by the hour. Something is needling me about Greenwade—sometimes the least likely suspect is actually a homicidal maniac.

  Struthers blinks at me. “I was home with Janelle and Jimmy. We watched Frozen and fell asleep early.”

  “And you didn’t leave the house at any time?”

  He shakes his head. “Not till the next morning, when I got up to go to the gym.”

  “Can anyone other than your wife verify that you were home?”

  He squints as if he’s thinking. “The security system will show that no one left. I can get those records for you if you want. What is this about? I thought you were investigating Anders’s blackmail ideas.”

  “We are. Another detective will be by shortly to follow up. Her name is Leah Ramos. Thanks for your time, sir. We’ll be going now.”

  Goran stands and obviously tries not to glower at me.

  Derek stands and gestures for us to follow him to the front door. “Let me know if I can help with anything,” he says as he pulls the door open.

  “Thank you,” I reply. I pull a business card from my wallet and write Ramos’s number on the back. “Give her a call to set a time.”

  “Okay.” He looks concerned.

  “Thanks again for your time,” Goran says.

  We turn to leave, and I hear Jimmy squeal upstairs before Derek Struthers closes the door behind us.

  “What was that about?” Goran grumbles on the way to the car.

  “That was about not wasting time on people who didn’t kill Heather Martin.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Goran, they all have alibis. We need to kick Andersen to Ramos and start over.” I flex my jaw and feel tension creeping up the back of my skull.

  He checks his phone. “Fishner moved the briefing to one o’clock.”

  I nod at the car. Winona sits quietly in the back. “Then we should figure out what to do with her.”

  “She’s not under arrest, and you just said you don’t want to investigate this case.”

  “I said I don’t want to investigate a blackmail case. I have every intention of investigating the homicide.”

  “I say we kick her loose and let Ramos follow up with her.”

  I narrow my eyes then walk to the car. I open the passenger door and let Winona out. “Winona, I need you to drive to this address”—I scrawl the address of the third-district station on the back of a card—“and ask for Detective Ramos.”

  She takes the card. “Yeah, maybe.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Just do it. Let him take the fall for what he did, and get the hell out of Cleveland.”

  She nods and looks as though she might cry. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “You’re welcome. Take care of yourself,” I call after her.

  Goran gets in the car and slams the door. I watch Winona walk to her car, open the door, get in, and drive away, then I join him in the Charger.

&nb
sp; “What the hell, Liz?”

  “What are you so pissed off about?” I put on my sunglasses and start the car. “They didn’t have shit to tell us about our case. Ramos will take it from here. I’m saving time so we can get back to our actual jobs.” I ease away from the curb.

  I feel him staring.

  “What?” I ask as I hit the blinker to turn left on Detroit Avenue.

  He sighs. “I hate it that you’re right. I hate that this guy isn’t who Sims said he was and that it’s a dead end. I hate everything about this case. I hate what’s going on with you and the whole department. I just hate it. I need to take some vacation days. It’s getting to me.”

  I make the turn then swing into a driveway, push my sunglasses up onto my head, and turn to face him. “Goran, relax. Whatever happens with Grimes has nothing to do with this. Let’s get back to the squad and do paperwork on all of this until it’s time for the briefing. It’s all good, partner. Okay?”

  He nods, and I back out of the driveway.

  “I still don’t like it,” he says under his breath. “It reminds me of the bad old days. And you owe me lunch.”

  CHAPTER 16

  We get back to the squad in time for Fishner’s one o’clock briefing. Tom and I are last into the squad room—Fishner stands at the head of the table next to Jo Micalec, with Sims and Roberts on either side. Becker is there too. I smile at her and take the seat next to Sims.

  “What happened with Derek Struthers?” Fishner asks.

  “His alibi is clear. Unfortunately, so are Andersen’s and Greenwade’s,” I reply.

  Becker stands and grabs her briefcase. “That’s my cue. Let me know when you have evidence to indict. Liz, will you give me a call when you have a chance?”

  I nod, and she exits the room. Goran glares at Sims, so I shoot my partner a look. He scrubs a hand across his face.

  “Okay,” Fishner says. She turns to Jo. “Where are we on physical evidence?”

  “Well, the device”—she puts a photograph of the transponder on the screen—“isn’t a recording device, so there’s that.” She chuckles. “I’m not usually wrong, but I was dead wrong on this one.” She advances to a photograph of the inside of the thing. “It’s actually an RFID chip, which I imagine opens or closes some kind of door.”

  “I knew it,” I mutter. The question is what kind of door.

  “There’s good news too,” Jo says. “We got DNA off of one of her fingernails. It’ll be a couple of days, but if he’s in the system, we’ll get him that way.”

  “Great work,” Fishner says.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” Jo says. She looks at her watch. “I’ve got to get back, but I was around and figured you could hear it directly from me.”

  “Thanks, Jo,” we all say.

  She says goodbye, and Fishner turns to me. “What is happening with Andersen?” She puts his picture on the screen.

  I give the download on Andersen and Struthers and almost scream when Goran makes a snide remark about the fallibility of technology. Sims rolls his eyes.

  “All three of these guys are moving lower down the list of persons of interest,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Their alibis are relatively solid.”

  Fishner nods.

  “I did let Leah Ramos know about Andersen. She should be following up with Struthers on the blackmail allegations later today. I’m expecting to hear from her soon about how she wants to handle the arrest, assuming there is one.”

  Fishner sits heavily in her seat. “Roberts and Sims, what did you get at Leather & Lace?”

  Roberts expels a breath. “Nothing. It’s not the right club. The owner gave me a membership list, and no one involved with this case, at least so far, is on the list.”

  So we have no suspects. Great.

  Sims chimes in. “The club owner was surprisingly forthcoming. He said that Andersen used to frequent the place but hasn’t been there in at least three years. And there’s no Mistress Natalia there. Never has been. I asked whether they knew of a Mistress Natalia anywhere in the area, but they said no.”

  “So there’s that,” Fishner says. She squeezes the bridge of her nose then leans back in her chair, obviously frustrated.

  “You want the good news?” Sims asks.

  We all nod.

  “I got the dump on her regular phone, which gives us a lot of information.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What about the sex app that Eric Martin used? Was that on her phone?”

  Sims shakes his head. “Looks like it was mostly a business phone. My guess is that she used the burner for everything else.”

  “Think we need to look and see whether Andersen and Martin connected on the app at all?” I ask.

  “Good call,” Fishner says. “Sims, get on that this afternoon.”

  Goran, whose silence is becoming awkward, chomps his gum loudly.

  “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Fishner asks.

  “I’m on the sex app,” Sims says.

  “I’m following up with Andersen’s neighbors, just to make sure he’s clear,” Roberts replies.

  “Boyle? Goran?”

  “Paperwork and trying to figure out what club Andersen was affiliated with,” I reply.

  “I’m with her,” Goran mutters.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Leah Ramos, which I read aloud: “Keep him there. I’ll arrest him this afternoon. Thanks for the tip. Your guy Struthers has good info.”

  “Roberts, act fast with those neighbors,” Fishner says. “All right. Get to work. Keep me posted. The captain wants a full report tomorrow morning.”

  “Ten-four, L-T,” Sims says, standing.

  We file out of the room and back to our desks. Per her request, I call Julia Becker, but it goes to voicemail.

  A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, I’ve finished working on the Struthers report and am thumbing through our vic’s text messages when Julian Martin, her son, returns my call. He leaves me a message while I’m in the bathroom. “Detective Boyle, this is Julian Martin. I can’t believe what’s happened. I’m trying to get time off work to come back to Cleveland, but maybe you could come to me or talk on the phone. Oh my God. Anyway, call me back when it’s convenient. Thanks.”

  For some reason, I was expecting the opposite, given their mother’s phone records—it seems like she was a lot closer to Elise. But text messages tell us only so much. Most of what Elise sent are updates about school, various things about a guy named Sam, worries about one of her sorority sisters smoking too much pot. Martin’s replies, written using correct grammar and punctuation, seem supportive enough. There’s a lot of “You can do it!” and “I want to meet this Sam” and “Katie has problems, and they aren’t your problems.” An occasional smiley-face emoji. Lots of xoxo, that kind of thing.

  I guess it looks typical, but then again, I’m not sure what typical mother-daughter relationships look like. I just gave my mom my cell phone number, like, six months ago, she recently learned how to text, and I sure as shit don’t text her about my life. I briefly consider what I’m going to do about my brother, Christopher, but there isn’t time for that right now.

  Anyway, I call Julian back from the landline, so that “Cleveland Division of Police” will show up on his caller ID. He answers on the second ring, and I introduce myself.

  “Detective,” he says. “Oh my God.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Martin,” I reply. “Thanks for calling back.”

  “Please call me Julian,” he says, almost in a whisper. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call right away. This has been a lot to process.”

  “Julian, I’m sorry to have to do this, but I do have some questions. First, though, can you tell me where you were on Saturday night, into Sunday morning?” The questions I have would be much better asked in person. It’s hard to gauge someone’s reaction—whether he’s telling the truth or lying or some combination—over the phone. It also surprises me that he’s willing to talk to me, given
that he hasn’t seen my credentials.

  I hear him take one of those shuddering breaths that mean he’s trying not to cry. “I was with someone,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Can you hold on?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before I can tell that he’s walking somewhere, likely with his phone at his side.

  I sit back in my chair and glance around the squad room at my fellow detectives, who appear to be engrossed in work.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not out at work, so I came outside. I was with my boyfriend on Saturday night. We went to a club here—I live in Lansing, Michigan—and then back to his house.”

  I ask for the boyfriend’s name and phone number, and Julian gives it to me.

  “Are you going to call him?” he asks.

  “It’s a formality,” I say. Then I verify that he’s a civil engineer for the state of Michigan, that he’s lived in Michigan since he enrolled at the University of Michigan—his mother’s alma mater, and it’s not lost on me that Elise attends Ohio State and they’re huge rivals—six years ago. It’s best to ask people easy questions and get them feeling comfortable before moving into harder ones. “What can you tell me about your mom?” I ask. “Any hobbies, friends other than your parents’ mutual friends, places she liked to go, that sort of thing?”

  Goran stands and hands me a Post-it: Going down to the records office.

  I give him a two-fingered salute.

  “She was married to her job. She was just absolutely committed to it. That’s part of why this is so fucking hard for me—we didn’t talk enough. All I know about any of this is what my sister told me, which she heard from my dad, who I guess talked to some police captain or something.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and rake my free hand through my hair, feeling my frustration grow by the minute and wondering why I’m not angrier.

  “She’s always been a huge mystery to me,” he adds. “Even growing up. It was like this strange woman was there in my house. I mean, she’s my mom and I look like her and all that, but she never let anyone get close. It wasn’t like other people’s relationships with their moms. When I got older, we became friends, but she still kept everyone at a distance. Even Elise—they texted all the time, but Mom never shared anything with anyone. It was all one-sided.”