The Heights Page 6

  I’M LEANING AGAINST the crime scene van, jotting down my guess at a timeline, when Tisch comes over and talks to me.

  “Here’s what I got,” she says. A piece of her dark hair has come loose from her bun, and she shoves it behind her ear. She doesn’t tell me anything new, except for the fact that Bobbie Butler is Paul Greenwade’s sister. And yes, Greenwade has Asperger’s.

  “What about the employees?” I ask.

  “Got a list, but no one was here today except Butler and Greenwade. No burials, nothing.”

  “Visitors?”

  “They don’t keep track. They’re supposed to—people are supposed to sign in, but nobody does. I got the numbers for the three potential wits, O’Toole, Mannion, Andersen. Butler didn’t want to give me their info, but I convinced her it was a good idea. You want the really bad news?”

  “No, not really,” I say with a sigh.

  “No video anywhere but inside the memorial and the mausoleum. Something about not wanting to violate people’s privacy.”

  “Fuck it all,” I reply, removing my gloves and running my hands through my hair. “Okay.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Thanks.”

  She nods and steps back.

  Right as it starts to rain, I see Goran break into a run, heading this way from the wooded area. “I found her purse,” he says when he reaches me. “Unis on the canvass?”

  “Yup. Let’s see the purse. You got photos, right, in situ?”

  He makes a face at me.

  “Sorry, just checking,” I say as he starts to walk away.

  “Under the tent,” he says. “Get Jo.”

  The purse, a Kate Spade, contains Heather Martin’s wallet, with all of her credit cards, driver’s license, and about three hundred in cash, a bag of expensive makeup, a small notebook, and her new-looking phone, which has a dead battery.

  We can charge the battery.

  We have a preliminary ID.

  WE GET BACK TO THE squad room a little after four thirty a.m. I’m wired as all hell, so I forgo the idea of following Tom to the Z—that’s what we call the dingy little room with lumpy bunk beds and an old recliner—for a nap. Instead, I put on a pot of coffee before I return to my desk and call the patrol sergeant. “Hey,” I say. “Do me a favor and put a call out for Martin’s car. It’s an Acura something or other. Run the check, yeah? Start at her house. First things first.”

  “Ten-four, Detective.”

  I thank her and turn to start the crime board.

  I fill in the left side of the whiteboard with what we know so far:

  WHO: Heather Martin, defense attorney - verify ID and find car

  WHAT: Homicide. Martin tied to chair in shed, beaten (maybe with chair leg), bled out before kicking through door, prob. blunt force trauma to head. Crawled down embankment and died @ ~ 4:30 a.m., 10/27.

  WHERE: Lake View Cemetery, in back near service area and reservoir. Purse found in wooded area about 200 yards from shed where she was found. (Find out when/where last seen alive.)

  WHEN: Discovered by P. Greenwade, 3:14 p.m., 10/27. EMS notified 3:17 p.m.

  WHY: ?????

  HOW: Blunt force trauma? Exsanguination? Blood droplets next to tire tracks.

  SUSPECTS: ????? (Get list of enemies)

  OTHERS: Paul Greenwade (disc. body, lives at cemetery, grounds) - found fingernail and platinum (?) pendant, E.M. and Jupiter symbol

  Bobbie Butler (manager of cemetery) - confirms no other employees were on-site

  Mannion, O’Toole, Andersen – possible witnesses

  FORENSIC: tire tracks, footprints (large men’s boot, smaller boot), red bondage tape, rope with weird knots, broken vodka bottle, broken chair leg, fingernail, pendant, old lock.

  There’s not much more to write until we get autopsy results and a handle on the last twenty-four hours of Martin’s life, so I print a satellite map of the cemetery, mark key locations, and stick it to the board next to the map Greenwade gave me, a blown-up BMV photograph of Heather Martin that I pulled from the database, and a copy of my scene sketch. I wonder what Fishner has gotten from Eric Martin.

  I stare at her face, wonder what she was hiding, and contemplate my ongoing insistence that everyone, at the core, is doing just that, even if we’re hiding it from ourselves. At some point, the inevitable exhaustion pulls my head down to my desk, and I fall into a dreamless sleep. I wake up in a puddle of my own drool at about seven then head home to shower, change, and feed Ivan the cat, who I’m sure has eaten my aloe plant and vomited it onto my bed by now.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning, my phone rings while I’m in line at Bialy’s for the best bagels in town. It’s Mike Roberts, who has been on our squad for a little over three years. He’s a good guy, even though he makes too many dick jokes and brags about all the women he bags. He’s come through for me in the past, though, and doesn’t seem to be judging me about the Grimes thing. “Boyle,” I say.

  “Hey, two things. One, the Mannion and O’Toole families claim they saw nothing. They were there at completely separate times, and their loved ones are buried far away from where our vic was found.”

  “I really hope number two is better.”

  “Oh, yeah. Patrol found Heather Martin’s SUV,” he says. “Not at her house. Want the address?”

  I write down the address in my notebook. “Get more on the people from the cemetery,” I say. I flip through my notebook. “Get addresses and prelim backgrounds on Mannion, O’Toole, Andersen for the murder book, just to keep everything aboveboard in case this goes sideways.” I remember the knots. “In your follow-up, ask if any of them have a boat, any connection to the navy, anything like that.”

  Then I call Goran. “Meet me down by Fairfax Park. What bagel do you want?”

  “The usual, and what’s at Fairfax Park, other than graffiti and needles?”

  “Our vic’s vehicle. Watson schedule the post yet?” I ask. “Hold on.” I order our bagels from Judith, the little old lady who has worked here for fifty years. “The post?”

  “Not yet. We need the ID first.”

  “It’s her. We know that already,” I say as I pay for breakfast. I smile and mouth a thank-you at Judith as she slides two coffees across the counter then tosses a container of cream cheese into the bag with the bagels. “Did you look at the knots? What are those?” Goran was in the navy for two tours in the first Gulf War—he knows his knots.

  “Definitely nautical knots. Weird ones. Hard ones. Fishner know about the car? She’s bringing in the husband, ‘just to talk.’ Let’s hope that means ‘ID the body.’ Roberts and Sims didn’t get anything from him other than yes to the tattoo and what they thought was a big sad act. Still no concrete alibi, but maybe the L-T will get one.”

  “Good question about the car,” I say as I push through the front door. “The whole thing about the ring bothers me. Don’t you think it’s totally weird that Fishner recognized the ring?”

  “Yeah, they were probably friends back in the day or something. Martin was in the prosecutor’s office when Fishner was promoted to detective.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I was on patrol with Boss Lady. Sad to say, Fishner and I go way back.”

  I laugh. “I always forget you’re old guard. You seem so young and chipper.”

  He clears his throat. “You’re not that far behind me, partner. Don’t forget it. What I think is weird is that Eric Martin didn’t notice she wasn’t home.”

  “Maybe he did it, and she probably works late a lot. I mean, she’s won how many cases in the past ten years? You don’t do that without working your ass off.”

  “Yeah, you’d know,” he says. “Talk to Cora lately?”

  “Meet me at the park in fifteen minutes.” I roll my eyes. “We need to start building a list of Heather Martin’s enemies when we’re done checking out this vehicle.”

  “It’s gonna be a long list,” he says. “She pissed a lot of people off.”

  “See y
ou soon.” I hang up and scarf my bagel in the car. Before I head to the park and since I’m in my own car, the Passat that needs new struts in addition to the clutch I put in it last year, I scroll through my phone until I find exactly the right music: a newish track by a noise-techno-rock outfit from South Dakota, all about the world being divided by concrete and iron, by gender, by people’s unrealistic expectations. It sounds grim, but it isn’t. It’s honest and loud, and it matches my mood this morning.

  I arrive at Fairfax, a park in a poverty-stricken, predominantly black section of the near-East Side, about ten minutes later. Two zone cars are parked near a new-looking metallic-blue Acura MDX, and several people are watching from their porches.

  Tom’s steady footsteps behind me register in my brain.

  “Hey,” he says. “Where’s my bagel?”

  I gesture at the vehicle. “I’m gonna go check this out.”

  He opens my car door and grabs his bagel off the passenger seat. “There in a jiffy,” he replies, but I’m already fifty feet from him. Patrol Officer Andrea Colby sidles my way when she sees me.

  “What’s happening?” I ask. “How’ve you been?” I scared her once, back when she was a rookie. I almost feel bad about it.

  She squares herself into the cop stance that a lot of petite women adopt. “We got word last night to look for the vehicle. Found it here on a regular patrol about an hour and a half ago.” She doesn’t remove her mirrored sunglasses, and I don’t remove mine. “I’m doing all right.” She grins and turns her head, and I wonder how on earth she gets her hair into a bun that tight. “Off probation, on days now, new partner.”

  “It’s good to see you, Colby,” I say.

  She pushes her sunglasses up onto her blond hair. “You, too, Boyle. It’s been a while.”

  “How’s it working the third?” I mirror her with my own sunglasses.

  “It’s rough,” she says. “Nothing like the second. It’s crazy how different it is over here.”

  I nod. The things you see on patrol.

  “Listen, Boyle. I’m glad I ran into you.” I half expect her to cross her arms over her chest, but she doesn’t. “That testimony you gave. That can’t have been easy.”

  I watch her face, watch the eyebrows come together for a split second, the twitch of her bottom lip.

  “And... uh... DuBois and I are close. And she really appreciates what you did. So I guess I appreciate it too.”

  I smile. “Just doing what I had to.” I don’t tell her that, if left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have.

  Colby continues, “Grimes is a terrible person and a worse cop. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you the half of what I know. And he threatened Devon too—I’m just hoping he goes away for a long time.”

  I rub the back of my neck then run my hand through my hair, worrying about DuBois. “Yeah, actually I would believe it. I’ve seen guys like him before.”

  “You’re probably taking shit from everywhere, so I just wanted to tell you that hardly anyone thinks you’re a traitor. As weird as it is, you know, with the blue wall of silence and everything... Well, a bunch of us are glad you did it. It took courage.”

  I attempt to hide my surprise. “It took a lot more courage for DuBois, but thanks,” I reply. “I mean it.”

  “You still run into Anthony?” He was a homeless witness we had in common.

  “Now and again. I kick him a meal when I see him.”

  Goran slides in next to me and jams the last of his bagel into his mouth.

  “Anyway, no sign of anyone in or near the vehicle. It’s locked, but we waited for you to open it,” Colby says.

  “Show me.”

  We make our way past a couple of other cops and over to the Acura. Colby reaches for the door handle, but I stop her. I narrow my eyes and point through the window. “See that?” I gesture at a thin copper wire that someone has stretched across the front seats, from one door handle to the other.

  “Yeah, that looks hinky,” Goran says. “Bomb squad.”

  Colby blanches and hits her radio.

  The three of us jog backward from the vehicle. “We need to clear this area!” I yell at the patrol officers nearby. “Move your cars and establish a wide perimeter. Now!” I turn to Colby. “Anybody on the canvass? We need to find out if anyone saw anything.”

  “Yeah, a woman over there”—she points at the most well-kept house in the neighborhood—“said she saw a man in a hoodie just after six a.m. on Sunday morning.”

  We’ll need to follow up with her. Heather Martin likely was killed just before then.

  A voice crackles through Colby’s radio, notifying us that the bomb squad has been dispatched and is about eight minutes out. A CDP SUV screeches around the corner, lights and siren on, and pulls to a stop right in front of us. The decal on the side says it’s a K-9 unit. The driver, whom I don’t recognize, rolls down his window. “The Acura?” he asks Goran.

  My partner nods, and the officer jams the SUV into Park then shoves his door open. He crosses to the other side and lets his German shepherd out of the back.

  Colby shakes her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that wire.”

  I nod. “You didn’t know to look for it. Now you do.”

  She takes a breath. “Martha Rodgers,” Colby says, reading from her notebook. “With a d in Rodgers. I told her someone would be by to talk to her in a bit.”

  I nod just as the dog begins to bark.

  “We need to get this neighborhood evacuated before the bomb guys go in,” Goran says.

  K-9 Dude walks our way, and I squint at his name tag. “Something in the rear of the vehicle. Bomb guys are gonna see if we can tow it or if we have to check it out here. They’re en route.”

  “Ten-four, Gomez. Anything on the outside?” I walk toward the SUV, staying a good two feet away from it. A small patch of paint is missing from the front bumper, and even from here, I can see dirt coating the undercarriage. I mentally place the car at the first crime scene, and it makes sense. “We need to photograph and print the whole exterior. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “I’ll get the pictures and the kit,” Goran says. “Wait for the bomb guys, Boyle. I’m not going near this thing.” He heads to the Charger, our unmarked duty car, for the camera and our scene kit.

  A voice crackles through Colby’s radio, and she responds that Special Homicide Detectives Boyle and Goran are on the scene, that the Acura belongs to a vic, and that we need the bomb squad to collect some evidence from the outside of the vehicle before attempting to disarm it. I drop my sunglasses down onto my face and head over to talk to our witness, who is still watching from her porch.

  Martha Rodgers, who appears to be in her early fifties, says she rose early to let her dog out. She’s got a little enclosed area in her front yard that she gestures to from the porch, where we stand next to a swing and a couple of outdoor chairs, which are chained to the railing.

  When the dog starts barking, she tells it to be quiet. She appears to notice the Acura first. “Cars like that don’t be coming through here”—she shakes her head—“unless somebody lost or somebody else stole it. If you lost, you ain’t gonna park there. You gonna keep driving on out.”

  “See anyone get in or out?”

  “Yeah, after a time. And here’s the strange thing. Guy got out the back door.”

  “The back door on which side?” I ask.

  “Passenger. I could see through the glass.”

  “You saw through the glass even though it’s tinted?” I ask.

  “Yup. Good eyesight.” She points at her face.

  “Did you see what the man looked like?”

  “White dude, I think. He was all in black. Looked like maybe a motorcycle jacket, but he had a hoodie on, and his face was covered with something.”

  “Height? Weight?”

  “Tall. Over six foot. I don’t know weight, though. Big dude, but he coulda just been wearing a lot of clothes.”

  I consider the la
rge boot print at the scene. “Anything you remember about his clothes? A hat? Anything unusual?”

  “Just all black. It was dark. I didn’t see him up close.”

  “Did you hear him speak at all?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Where did he go after he exited the vehicle?” I ask.

  “Well, now, that’s a good question. I saw him throw something down that storm drain there behind that police car”—she points across the street—“and then go into the park.”

  I nod. “Did you look to see what he threw into the drain?”

  “Nuh-uh. It looked little.”

  “How much time would you say passed before the car pulled up and when he went into the park?”

  “Maybe about ten minutes. I let BooBoo back inside but stood and watched from the front window. Somebody got to keep an eye on things around here. And look, that van say bomb squad. There a bomb in there?”

  “We aren’t sure yet. Someone will likely be by in a little bit to ask you to evacuate, just to be safe.”

  She nods, but I can tell from the set of her jaw that she isn’t going anywhere.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask.

  “’Bout ten years. It’s gone to shit, in case you can’t tell.”

  I look around, taking note of the boarded windows on the house next door. “This neighborhood’s always been rough.”

  She nods and pulls her jacket around her a bit tighter. “Better than where I was at before.”

  I let that one go. “Thanks for the info, Ms. Rodgers.” I hand her my card. “Let me know if you think of anything else, okay?”

  She nods.

  After grabbing my flashlight from my car, I head to the edge of the yellow tape. “I’ve got to look in that drain,” I tell Goran.

  “At least wait until they give us the all clear,” he mutters. “C’mon, Boyle. Just follow procedure for once.”

  I elbow him in the side. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

  His jaw twitches. “I’m just not interested in going out like this.”

  “What, you don’t want to be blown to smithereens? It’d be a blaze of glory, Goran. We could be legends.” I grin at him.