The Heights Page 8

  I clear my throat.

  “I’d really be more comfortable with the door closed, Jane, if you don’t mind,” Martin says. He stands and heads my way. I don’t look at him when he closes the door.

  Really, Jane?

  “Boyle, look at this.” Goran gestures at the open binder on Sims’s desk. “What’s he doing with this?”

  I lean forward. It’s the first of three books for Martina Lowell, one of the first cases Goran and I ever worked together.

  “He left it on his desk. It’s not as if he’s hiding it,” I say. “And it’s not as if it isn’t in the database, anyway.” Because there is no statute of limitations on homicide, some rookie and a close-to-retirement guy spent about three years scanning everything into a server. It makes research a lot easier, all told, even though I kind of miss the old way, the smell of the creepy old file room in the moldering basement, the handwritten notes, the photographs on photo paper instead of on tablet screens.

  “Yeah, so why the hell is he looking at the book? And where are the other two? He’s been trying to get into this unit for a long time, and—”

  “Chill out, Tom. He’s not a bad guy.” I gaze at the picture on Sims’s desk of him with his wife and daughter. “It’s just a murder book.”

  “You know that’s not true,” he grumbles as he turns the pages, reading his own handwriting and mine, looking at the old crime scene photos, the pictures of the eleven-year-old’s parents. Goran and I were sure that Lowell’s father had molested her for years before strangling her, but then he’d gone to trial and walked on an alibi that we think he faked, and we couldn’t prove otherwise because the prosecutor’s office couldn’t ask his wife to testify against him—this was before Becker was our prosecutor, and the old guy couldn’t find a workaround.

  About two years later, Lowell ended up shooting his wife and then himself in some kind of drunken, depressed rage. We tried to act like that was somehow proof that he’d murdered his kid. We tried to act like that was justice, but we both knew we weren’t sure he’d done it, that we were second-guessing ourselves and that, either way, that’s not what justice looks like.

  Martina Lowell is the one who keeps Goran up at night, the one he can’t put out of his head in those dusky sleepless hours.

  We all have them. Every single one of us has at least one.

  Watson calls a little while later and tells me he’s scheduled the autopsy for tomorrow at seven.

  CHAPTER 9

  A couple of reporters wait outside the exit for us as we head out to talk to Heather Martin’s law partners.

  “Detectives Boyle and Goran!” the older of the two says.

  How the hell they know we are working this case—as opposed to any other competent team of detectives—is beyond me.

  “It’s your turn,” Goran says.

  “Damn it, fine.” I sling my messenger bag, which contains gloves, evidence bags, and the new iPad that I’m trying to force myself to use, over my shoulder.

  “Detectives, what can you tell us about the brutal, bloody body at Lake View Cemetery?” the young one asks. I haven’t seen him before. “Has it been ruled a homicide?”

  “Nice alliteration,” I reply. “No comment.” I don’t mention the fact that he’s a journalist and should know better than to modify “body” with “brutal” either.

  The guy looks surprised that I know what alliteration is. They both follow us to our car as if they’re little kids.

  “Can you confirm that the victim is Heather Martin, the well-known attorney?” the other one, a guy who’s worked the Cleveland crime beat for twenty years, asks.

  “No, not at this time.” I unlock the car and get in. Goran dramatically slams his door, and I silently curse him for making me talk to these parasites.

  “Wait. Where are you going now?” the young one asks. “Here’s my card. Would you be willing to talk later?”

  I don’t take the card. “No, but have a great day, anyway.” I close the car door while Tom laughs. A year ago, I would have broken the guy in to his new beat by telling him to eff off. But we have to be kinder, gentler cops these days. Maybe it’s for the best.

  SELLERS, MARTIN & FAIRBANKS takes up half of the thirty-eighth floor of Terminal Tower, a fifty-two-story building right on Public Square, which is one of the things people feel like they have to look at if they’re visiting Cleveland. It’s not as if there’s a long list. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is worth seeing once. The art museum is ranked one of the best in the world. The West Side Market is great. Great Lakes Brewery is worth it for beer people—I’m one of those people. Public Square and Terminal Tower are Cleveland icons. Check, check, done, and on to the next Rust Belt city.

  I park the Charger in a tow zone, and we get out and head inside after making sure that the media guys didn’t follow us.

  “You dotted your i’s and crossed your t’s on those warrants, right?”

  He makes a face. “How long have we worked together?”

  “Think we’ll get anything from these lawyers?”

  “I just can’t figure out why Sims is looking into Lowell,” Goran says. He pokes his gum with a toothpick.

  “What the hell? You’re still on that?” I squeeze the back of my neck. I didn’t even realize I was tense. “It seems like a much better use of your time to wonder why the hell Fishner is interviewing the dead woman’s husband with the captain.”

  He grumbles something that I can’t understand.

  I hit the elevator button. “Are you gonna obsess about this or just ask him? Think about it. What happened to Martina Lowell kind of matches the MO on the case he’s doing court prep for. Maybe he’s trying to—”

  “I don’t like any of this. The whole Sims thing is weird. And what’s going on with Fishner?”

  “You got me on that last one.” She’s been weirder than usual. She never gets this involved. Is she protecting someone? No, she wouldn’t do that. She’s too by-the-book.

  The elevator door opens, and he motions for me to get on ahead of him. He’s such a gentleman.

  “At least set a time limit for how long you’re going to obsess.”

  “This whole thing is off, Liz, and you know I’m right. Just cause you seem like you’re in a good mood these days—even though I can’t figure out why, since you just had to do all that with that racist asshole—doesn’t mean shit doesn’t smell like shit. When was the last time you even saw Carrothers on our floor, much less in the L-T’s office with a potential murder suspect?” He jabs at the elevator wall with his thumb, as if Fishner’s office is right down the hall.

  “See? That’s more like it. But do you need to interrupt me and be a jerk? Maybe pick just one.” I grin at him, trying to get him to smile. “And such foul language. That’s not like you, Tom. You kiss your kids with that mouth?” When that doesn’t work, I clap the side of his shoulder. “Maybe you need a vacation. You could go somewhere warm and drink margaritas on the beach. Or maybe a cruise. I could see you on a cruise. You could start wearing Hawaiian shirts.” I don’t tell him that every time I’ve slept since I gave that testimony, I’ve dreamed of being kicked off the force for treason, and I still haven’t told him about the prescription that keeps me feeling all right most of the time and helps me sleep at night.

  “You’re projecting,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead on a cruise.”

  “Take your sunscreen to the beach, then.” He makes hard eye contact with me. “Seriously, though, don’t you think this whole thing is off?”

  “Yeah, I do. But it’s still a case, and we’ve still gotta to try to figure out who killed her, and given the way our brothers in blue have been acting, we should do it fast. Make everyone look good.”

  He leans back against the wall of the elevator. “Are you really in a good mood, or is it an act?”

  “Both,” I reply. “There’s no point in freaking out, not about this one.” I don’t tell him how real it feels in the dreams when a hood
ed executioner leads me to a set of gallows. I don’t tell him that I’m aware of how callous I sound, and I don’t tell him how much it scares me that I don’t really feel anything at all.

  “What’s your game plan in there?” he asks as the elevator door glides open. He defers to me because I can be very, very good at getting people to talk to me.

  “Ask these people what they know and try to gauge what they’re hiding. Then use that warrant to search her office.” We never know what we’ll find when we dig through people’s belongings. The question in homicide investigations is whether whatever the person was hiding led to murder.

  “You gonna talk to O’Connor, or you want me to do it?”

  I fucking hate that guy and would rather never see him again. “We do it together... unless Fishner decides to have Carrothers interview him with her. Then we don’t have much of a choice.”

  That actually gets a smile.

  “What do you think she was hiding?” I ask as we approach the frosted-glass door of the law firm.

  He shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He opens the door for me. He stops on the way to the reception area and squints at the directory. “Whoa, Liz, hold up.” He points at the directory. “Mark Reese.”

  “So what?”

  “Mark Reese was the prosecutor on the Lowell case. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember. It’s just coincidence, partner. Relax. Let’s keep moving.” Cleveland is both a big city and a small town, and sometimes it seems as though all the lawyers are connected. In spite of my disbelief in coincidence most of the time, that seems the likely case with Reese.

  Goran knits his eyebrows together but follows me through the lobby.

  At the reception counter, we ask for either Sellers or Fairbanks, Heather Martin’s two named law partners. The youngish woman at the front desk tries to give us a bunch of rigmarole about how we need an appointment. Goran reminds her that we’re investigating her boss’s brutal homicide, and she goes quiet for a couple of beats.

  She still doesn’t budge. She purses her lipsticked lips and gazes back and forth between the two of us. She looks as though she likes to go sit on restaurant patios and drink gin and tonics after her mani-pedi. She probably has a tiny dog that she carries around with her in a satchel.

  I don’t say anything about the warrant. It’s better to let people think they’re helping before you barge in and ransack the place. The warrant only covers Martin’s office, anyway, not the whole firm or any of her files. Attorney-client privilege can be a bitch.

  From my position behind my partner, I look down at the nameplate on her desk. “Sheila, where were you on Saturday night, into Sunday morning?” I ask. Oops.

  Her eyes go wide. “I-I-I was at home.”

  “Yeah? Anyone with you at home? Can anyone verify that you were there?”

  “Are you suggesting that I—” She stops herself from finishing.

  “Just asking routine questions,” I reply. “We could continue this here, or you could come with us over to the station, or you could let your boss know that we’re here to speak with him.”

  “I’ll let Mr. Sellers know you’re here.”

  I don’t tell her that she has lipstick on her teeth.

  “We’ll follow you,” Goran says. He doesn’t want Sellers getting a jump on anything. Better to surprise him in the act, regardless of what he’s doing.

  Turns out he’s not doing much of anything.

  Sellers has a big corner office, one of those that boasts a great view but is actually on the wrong side of the building to see anything other than railroad tracks, gravel mounds, belching smokestacks, and a slice of the Cuyahoga River.

  “Detectives,” Robert Sellers says from behind his glass-topped desk. He pastes a big courtroom grin on his face and closes his laptop.

  Sheila turns to leave.

  “Sheila, some coffee, please?” he asks.

  She nods and shoots me an evil look.

  “She’s just an intern,” Sellers says, “so I don’t feel bad asking her to fetch the coffee.” He laughs too loudly, opening his mouth to reveal a set of tiny, catlike teeth. “Have a seat.” He gestures to an expensive-looking leather sofa across a glass table from two matching but taller chairs. He stands behind his desk and moves over to that side of the room.

  Before he can reach one of the chairs, Tom and I plant our asses in them, leaving Sellers to sit on the low-riding couch.

  “Without a warrant, it’s hard for me to answer any questions you might have.” He sinks into the couch and stretches an arm across the back of it. “And I’m sure you know that none of us can share anything about Heather’s clients.”

  This is not the behavior of a man who is especially broken up over the—what’d the reporter kid call it?—brutal, bloody body, who happens to be his now-former law partner.

  “We have one,” Goran says. He pulls it out of his inside pocket and holds it out to Sellers, who doesn’t take it right away. It’s a misguided show of power that seems to be an epidemic these days, especially among well-to-do men.

  He finally reaches out and takes it and makes a big show of how he can move in slow motion. “This is only for her office,” he says after he reads it over. “Her files aren’t in there, anyway. Good.” He tosses it on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Can you give us a read on Heather Martin over, say, the past month?” I ask.

  “Heather was just Heather,” he replies. “Hell of a good attorney.”

  “Anything strange or out of the ordinary?”

  “Not that I recall.” He stifles a yawn, which almost looks like a real yawn.

  “Any threats made to her or the office in the same amount of time?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Sheila knocks on the door then brings in a bamboo tray with a silver coffeepot, matching cream and sugar containers, and three matte-black ceramic mugs.

  “Thanks,” he calls to her.

  She shoots me a look again, which makes me think I need to talk to her once more before we leave.

  “Can you give us your whereabouts on Saturday night, into Sunday morning?” I ask.

  “Of course. I was at home with my wife and children. My wife can verify that, because she asked me to turn off the TV at about three a.m.”

  It’s a good lawyer answer, delivered exactly the right number of seconds after I ask. Goran asks for his wife’s phone number, and Sellers makes an ostentatious show of looking it up on his giant new smartphone, mumbling something about how quickly technology is changing then faking a laugh.

  The questioning goes on like this for over twenty minutes, until Goran and I realize this is a waste of time.

  “Listen, Bob,” Goran says in his good-cop voice. “I know you can’t tell us much. But is there anything you remember? Anything odd at all? Anything out of character?”

  “Not that I recall,” he says. “Heather was a very private person outside of work. And our relationship has been strictly professional for as long as we’ve worked together.”

  I watch Tom make a note in his notebook. Heather and Eric Martin were married for over twenty years. Infidelity doesn’t surprise either of us anymore, given that sometimes cheaters end up dead. We stand to leave.

  “It’s too bad Jeff isn’t here,” Sellers says to me on our way out, too close to the side of my face for comfort, especially given his halitosis. “I’m sure he’d love to see you again.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he would. Let him know that we’ll be by tomorrow to chat. In the meantime, will you show us Martin’s office, please?”

  “I’ll have Sheila let you in. We’ve kept it locked.”

  “Who else has access?” Goran asks.

  Sellers levels a steely gaze at my partner. “No one has been in there except the cleaners. I can check the security records to see when that was, if you want.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great,” he replies.

  Sellers summons Sheila with a phone call, and she
quickly returns and leads us down the hallway, leaving Sellers alone in his office.

  Heather Martin’s office is on the other side of the tower—the good side. From here, because it’s a clear blue sky today, I can see all the way to Lake Erie. I make a mental note that the second named partner has the cushy office and move “verify Sellers’s alibi” up on my mental agenda. Martin’s office decor is minimalistic and tasteful, with two light-blue walls and two brown ones, nature prints, and good furniture. It’s less try-hard than Sellers’s space but has the opposite effect. It’s a nice office.

  Sheila lurks for about thirty seconds too long, so I turn to her. “Thanks so much for your help, Sheila.” I walk her to the door, close it behind her, and turn the lock. I’ll talk to her again when we’re done in here—best to give her time to decide to tell me the truth.

  The office is devoid of anything interesting, at least on the surface. There’s no trash in the trash can and no paper in the recycle bin.

  “How’d she get the prime real estate?” I ask as I slip on a pair of latex gloves. I hand Goran my iPad. “You wanna get the photos?”

  He takes the device from me. It looks tiny in his big hands. “Beats me. Maybe she knew where the bodies are buried. Seriously—don’t you think it’s weird that Reese is here? How long has he been here? Why didn’t we know he was here?”

  “We did know he was here. It wouldn’t even matter if you hadn’t come across that murder book on Sims’s desk. Let it go. I’m serious—we need methodical Goran today, not neurotic Goran.” I hold his gaze until he nods.

  “You’re one to talk,” he mutters.

  I start with her desk, a big wooden thing that has no drawers. Her desk is more cluttered than Sellers’s, which makes me think she did work instead of just sitting and preening. In addition to a day planner, which doesn’t look used, there are pictures of her kids when they were good-looking teenagers, one of Martin and her husband wearing athletic gear and numbers, as though they’d been in some kind of race, and one of a Great Dane holding a giant rawhide bone in its mouth. Her laptop sits on her desk, its charger glowing green. “She didn’t take this with her,” I observe. “Think this links to their file server?” I flip it open. “Shit, FileVault,” I mumble.