The Heights Page 9

  “Huh?”

  “Apple’s encryption software,” I reply. “Unless we can hack her cloud account, and if she stored her password there—big if—not even the NSA can get into here. Let’s hope Sims gets something on the phone.”

  “How do you know this stuff?” He takes a photo of the laptop and charger.

  I close the laptop and slide it into an evidence bag. The charger goes into a separate bag. “Call it on-the-job training.” I have it on my new computer too—it means that no one can get to anything without my password, which I definitely don’t store in the cloud. “There’s a lot of tech so far.”

  He waves the iPad around. “This thing takes great photos.”

  I glance up at him as I kneel to scan the underside of her desk. “What do you think of that transponder? It’s weird.”

  “Probably opens some kind of door or something. Beats me. Micalec’ll figure it out.”

  We make our way through the search. As usual, and to my relief given his paranoia today, Goran takes his time with his photographs. The only interesting things we find, other than the computer, are a burner cell phone and a shiny black business card with a phone number embossed in silver. There’s no name or address. And what’s more suspicious is that Martin—or someone—tucked the card behind the photograph of her husband, between it and the leather-covered-cardboard backing of the brushed-nickel frame. What’s even more suspicious is that the phone contains only one contact number, the same one that’s on the business card.

  I write the number in my notebook before setting the phone and the card on the desk. Goran photographs them then slides them into separate evidence bags.

  “Let’s call Sims and have him run a tower dump on the cell towers near here and by her house, while we’re at it,” I say.

  “You do it. I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

  “Dude, are you going to grumble and grunt all day? What is this, opposite day? I’m supposed to be the agitated one, remember?”

  That gets a little chuckle. “You call Sims, and I’ll call Robert Sellers’s wife. Deal?”

  Sims ended up in our squad in large part because he’s a tech wizard. At one point, he was recruited by the feds but turned them down. He says he’s already combing through Martin’s text messages. “I haven’t found anything out of the ordinary. Mostly her daughter. Typical stuff,” he says.

  “Of course it is.” A case like this never gives easy breaks. “Can you do a dump and get location data?”

  “Tomorrow morning at the latest. I’m on it.”

  “There’s a burner too.” I give him the number.

  “Get it over to me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Last thing—a MacBook with FileVault.”

  He chuckles. “I’m good but not that good. Let’s hope we find a password somewhere.”

  I mentally cross my fingers, thank him, and hang up.

  Goran calls Monica Sellers on speakerphone and verifies that she was home with her husband on Saturday night and that she remembers waking up to ask him to turn off the TV at some point. She knows he didn’t go anywhere because she struggles with insomnia and didn’t fall asleep again until after six, when he got up to go play squash. She sounds believable enough, but it’s hard to tell without seeing her face.

  I make sure the door is locked behind us when we leave, evidence in tow.

  Goran writes the firm a receipt for what we’re taking. We both sign it, and he hands it to me. “I’m gonna go ask Sellers about that security log,” he says.

  “Do you believe the wife?”

  “I think so.”

  “Sheila, thanks for letting us talk to your boss,” I say to the young woman in my fake-grateful-and-contrite voice. I hand her the receipt then write my cell phone number on the back of my business card. “I’m sorry for being short with you earlier. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, will you let me know?”

  “Come with me,” she says without moving her mouth. She leads me past my partner, who just watches, down the hallway, and into the women’s room. She shoves the door open then pushes the two stall doors wide, clearly to make sure no one else is in there. It smells like grape air freshener, and the streaks on the mirror surprise me, as does the harsh yellow fluorescent lighting. It doesn’t match the rest of the décor, and I can’t help wondering if they have another bathroom somewhere for the fancy clients.

  “I’m sorry I acted that way,” she says, her blond hair greenish under the lights. “I’m just an intern. I could get fired at any time for anything. Let’s hope today isn’t the day. I swear to God I had nothing to do with what happened to Ms. Martin.”

  “I understand,” I reply. “Just to eliminate you, can anyone verify your whereabouts on Saturday night, into Sunday morning?”

  She stares at me. I’m not being cruel. It’s just better to get this out of the way.

  “Yeah, I was with my boyfriend at his apartment in Shaker,” she replies. “I’m sorry I lied before. That was stupid.”

  I don’t say that lying to the police is a bad start to her illustrious legal career. I ask her for her boyfriend’s name and number and write it down. I thank her and tell her it’s just a formality, then I repeat the same questions I asked Sellers. “Has anything strange happened lately?”

  Unlike her boss, Sheila has answers. “Sort of? A guy named Anders Andersen,” she says. “With an e. He’s been calling a lot. O’Connor is his attorney, but he was calling and asking for Ms. Martin. He sent her a letter or something too. It came the other day.”

  “How do you know it was from him?” A little jolt of adrenaline hits me. Anders Andersen was on the potential witness list. His name came up at the crime scene.

  “It had his name and return address on it,” she replies. “It felt like maybe photos in the envelope.”

  “Do you remember anything about that address?”

  She shakes her head. “It said ‘Anders Andersen, Andersen Restoration,’” she says. “I only remember because his name is kind of hard to forget and because I’ve always thought it was weird that O’Connor took his civil case.”

  “When did it come?”

  She screws up her nose as if she’s thinking. “I want to say Wednesday or Thursday of last week.”

  I write this in my notebook. “Do you know if Ms. Martin received the envelope?”

  “I saw her with it a day or so after it came. She was on her way out and had the envelope in her hand. I remember it because it was one of those manila envelopes, but it was darker orange than most of them. I saw her with the envelope on Friday morning—yeah, it was definitely Friday morning, because it was right after the partners’ meeting. He’d been calling leading up to that.”

  The day before she was killed. I make a note of it. “Did anything unusual happen in the partners’ meeting?”

  “I’m not sure. I basically just answer the phone.”

  “Do you know anything about Andersen’s case or how he was connected to Heather Martin?” Maybe he was trying to get in touch with her about the case, given that O’Connor has been tied up with the Grimes thing.

  “Even if I did, which I don’t because, like I said, I basically just answer the phone, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I’m sure you know that.”

  “Would anyone have Ms. Martin’s computer password? Maybe it’s written down somewhere?”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not.”

  “Do you recognize this phone number?” I read the burner’s number to her.

  She squints at the phone then shrugs.

  I flip through the photos on my phone and land on one of the transponder. “Any idea what this is?” I hand her the phone.

  She shakes her head. “No clue.”

  “When do you graduate? You a second-year? Third?”

  Her eyes widen, and she appraises me. “Third-year. I graduate in the spring.”

  “Why’d you lie about being at home the other night?” It’s a guess, but her reaction p
roves me right.

  Her eyes get even bigger. “No one knows about my boyfriend.” She blushes under her makeup. “I do a lot of flirting around here, if you know what I mean.”

  No, I don’t—that could mean any number of things—but I’m not trying to have a discussion about euphemisms with her. “Thanks for the name,” I reply. “Good luck with your internship. Stay in here for three minutes after I leave if you don’t want anyone to think you were talking to me. And get in touch if you think of anything else, okay? Use your own phone, not the landline here.”

  I meet Goran in the lobby, and we push through the door in silence.

  “Anders Andersen of Andersen Restoration,” I say as we make our way down the hallway to the elevator. I jab the button, feeling hopeful about the lead. “There was an Andersen at Lake View. Remember? Paul Greenwade said he’d been there that Sunday, visiting some dead relatives. I guess he sent her a weird envelope and was calling a whole bunch. Sheila said it felt like photos in the envelope. Maybe blackmail of some kind?”

  He purses his lips. “Could be.”

  “Apparently, Asshole O’Connor is Anders Andersen’s attorney. Sheila thought it was strange that he took the guy’s civil case. I didn’t press her on it because I feel weird asking questions about O’Connor.”

  “Oh, and I’m the one with hang-ups?” He squints, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head.

  “What’d you get?”

  The elevator dings. As the door closes, he squints at the printout Sellers gave him. “She was here until ten p.m. on Saturday,” he says. “Looks like she was the last one in. Cleaning crew got here at one a.m., left at three. No one else was here until Sunday, when an associate deactivated the alarm at eight.”

  “So the cleaning crew was in her office,” I reply. “That explains how pristine it was. And the no-trash thing.”

  “They shred everything, anyway,” he says. He tips his head at my messenger bag. “That computer might have something on it, though.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get it to Sims. I’ll have him and Roberts talk to the cleaners too.”

  He tries not to wince at Sims’s name. I don’t say anything. The elevator comes to a stop, and we get off, almost running into a woman in a power suit.

  “Excuse us,” I say.

  She glowers at both of us and gets on.

  “The Andersen thing sounds like a decent lead to me, maybe minus the O’Connor connection,” Goran replies. “You want to run him tonight or wait till morning?” He looks at his watch. Tom is a family man—he has a wife and two daughters at home, so he hates thirty-six-hour shifts a lot more than I do.

  “I’m on it. Go home.”

  He nods and pops a fresh piece of gum into his mouth before pushing into the revolving door.

  “What I can’t figure is why she’d tell me any of that in the bathroom instead of calling me later. She’s concerned enough to lie about her boyfriend but otherwise seems free of suspicion—caution, even,” I say once we’re out on the sidewalk. “I only let her talk to me in there because I didn’t want her to clam up if I asked her to call me later. It’s as if it didn’t even occur to her that that creep Sellers—not to mention O’Connor—is probably recording everything that happens in there. She’s totally naïve.”

  He chuckles. “Not everyone is paranoid like you and me, partner. She probably figured it was better to say something now, rather than wait and have us find out about this Andersen guy later. Then we have to come back, ask more questions. It’s just easier to be out with it.”

  “God, what an asshole Sellers is,” I say as we approach the car.

  “They all are,” Goran replies. “Every last one of them. Don’t think that Martin was innocent.”

  “That’s not at all like you, Tom. Seriously, where is happy-go-lucky Goran? I miss him.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. It’s a text message from Cora, who wants to know what I’m up to and if I want to get a bite to eat.

  Working, I reply. Call you later. It isn’t easy with Cora. On one hand, I want to spend as much time with her as possible. On the other, I know it’ll never be the same. We love each other, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop on this friends-with-benefits thing.

  We pull into the Justice Center parking lot a little after five thirty. I park the car, and we both get out.

  “Meet me back here early. Six thirty,” I say.

  We walk to his new Chrysler.

  “Autopsy’s in the morning. Don’t be late. And it’s your turn to buy breakfast.”

  “You want happy-go-lucky, check this out.” He waves his hand under the door handle. The car beeps, and I hear the click of the locks opening. He grins.

  I roll my eyes. “Goran, all new cars do that.”

  “Call her back,” he says, pulling the door open. He’s been happy that she speaks to me again because apparently, I’m easier to be around when she does.

  “I will,” I reply. “But first, I want to get a jump on this Andersen thing and keep digging into Martin. You know, look into her kids.”

  “Tomorrow, then.” He closes the door and starts the car, making a show of pressing a button instead of using a key.

  I flash him a peace sign as he pulls away. Then I head inside and up to the squad room on the sixth floor.

  Fishner is alone in her office when I get there. I say hi to Roberts, swing my leather jacket over the back of my chair, and head her way, considering whether to ask my boss about her connection to Heather Martin.

  She waves me in. “Anything?”

  “We got her computer. Encrypted. Nothing other than that. You know how lawyers are. There’s one lead that I’ll run down tonight after I run back by Lake View. Guy named Anders Andersen.” I don’t tell her yet about the business card, the burner phone, or the O’Connor connection because I don’t want Carrothers knowing more than he has to, given how far up our asses he is right now. It’ll all go into the report, but another day won’t hurt anyone.

  She nods.

  “Autopsy’s in the morning.”

  She taps her pen on her desk blotter.

  “Anything from Eric Martin?” I’ve been around this block too many times not to suspect the husband first, followed by the kids and other relatives. People love to kill their relatives. It’s kind of messed up.

  “He has an alibi,” she replies. “It checks.”

  I raise my eyebrows and listen to the second hand ticking on my watch.

  “He was having an affair,” she says. She puts her pen down and steeples her fingers. “That’s why he didn’t report her missing right away—he was with the other woman. He only admitted it when Carrothers explained what this looks like.”

  “What does it look like?” I ask not because I don’t know but because I need to get a read on how she and the captain see things.

  “It looks like a rage killing followed by a bomb in an SUV that was designed to take out you, your partner, and anyone within ten feet of her vehicle.”

  We’re lucky it was on a switch and not a timer. “Any sign that Eric Martin harbored that kind of rage?”

  “No. I’d be very surprised if he had anything to do with this.”

  “Even from a distance? Maybe he hired someone. What about the kids?”

  She nods slowly. “Possible but unlikely. I’ll look more deeply into it tomorrow. He knows not to leave the city until we get this tied up. As for the kids, Elise lives in Columbus, and Julian is in Michigan, working for the state. You can check them out, but tread carefully.”

  God, I wish she would stop saying that. She has to know that it makes me want to do the opposite. “Who’s the other woman? Want me to talk to her?”

  She’s affectless, and it weirds me out. “Her name is Abby Kasinowitz. She’s a neurobiologist at the Clinic.”

  I take my notebook out and give her a spell-that-for-me face, and she does. I can ask my best friend, Josh, who also works at the Cleveland Clinic, if he knows her.


  “He claims he met her online through one of those sex apps.”

  “What, Tinder?” I try to reason through why a big-wig-insurance-guy-slash-city-councilman would use Tinder in the first place.

  “No, but something like that designed for the very wealthy. And no, I will talk to her. You focus on working to get info on Martin’s actions leading up to her death.”

  “Yeah? I could make a couple phone calls, talk to Abby tonight, verify his alibi so we can keep this moving.”

  “I promised Eric that I’d look into it myself,” she says with some finality. Again with the first name.

  “Are you going to talk to her tonight?”

  She sighs. “Yes, Boyle, I’ll talk to her tonight.”

  Okay, then. I nod and turn to leave.

  “That doesn’t mean that I won’t keep you posted,” she calls. “Look into this Andersen guy and give me a report on his whereabouts and his possible connection to her after the autopsy.”

  She has to know how weird she sounds.

  I let it go and head to my desk, where I text Josh about Kasinowitz then call the number from the business card. It leads me to some voice-verification service that says I should speak my name before it will connect me, so I hang up and turn to Roberts, who is doing something on his computer while eating peanut butter from the jar. “Did you get anything on Andersen?”

  He gives me height, weight, DOB, and an address in Old Brooklyn, on the opposite side of the city from the Martins.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been busy tracking down the office cleaners. You want me to keep looking into him?”

  “Nah, stay on the cleaners. Thanks. Where’s your partner?”

  “Still working on the phone, and then he was gonna head home. Girlfriend problems.”

  I nod and pull the burner phone out of my bag. “Will you get this to him and have him do a data dump?”

  “Sure thing.” He holds up his hands as if I’m going to toss it to him, and I do. He glances at it then starts making a phone call on his landline, and he arranges to meet with the cleaning people in an hour.