“Sir?”
“Wait,” he finally says. “Look, I really do want you to find her killer, so I’ll say this. Sellers will kill me, but I’ll say it, anyway. She was more distant even than usual. It started about a year ago. She was always distant—I never knew where I stood with her—but it really ramped up. She was barely ever home. She worked constantly, or that’s what she told me. I was convinced she was hiding things from me—she even installed FireVault on her laptop—so I did what any man would do.”
“You mean you began having an affair?”
He scrubs a hand across his face. “I had more than one affair. I mean that I began a real relationship with Abby.”
“Abby Kasinowitz?” She’s his alibi, at least according to Fishner.
He nods. “I thought Heather was having her secretary lie to me. She can’t possibly have been working twenty hours a day.”
“Is there anything else you can think of that might help the investigation?”
He shakes his head. “I’m just sorry,” he says.
“Sir, have you looked around in her home office?” I’m softening but only because I want him to give me information.
He nods then squeezes the bridge of his nose.
“Did you find anything unusual?”
“Like what? What would I have found? She kept everything locked up at work, in her laptop, that kind of thing. She didn’t share much with me. She never really did, but over the past couple of years... You could drive a truck through the gap between us. I don’t remember the last time we had a real conversation, let alone made love.”
“Any photographs, that sort of thing?”
He shakes his head, and I glance at Goran, hoping that Good Cop will ask if we can look in her office ourselves.
“Thanks again for your time,” my partner says.
I hand Martin a business card. “Please call if you think of anything.”
He takes the card and nods.
Goran pushes through the door, and I follow, leaving the almost-bereaved husband standing in the middle of his office and likely wondering what just happened.
We thank the two at the front on our way out.
“What the hell was that all about?” Goran asks as we head to the elevator.
“I’m not sure, but I know what that stupid transponder is for.”
He hits the button and gives me a questioning look.
“If memory serves, it allows the Rec Room—an S and M club on the West Side that I investigated when I was in Sex Crimes—to track who enters and exits the dungeon.”
The elevator opens, and we step on. “The dungeon?”
I roll my eyes. “Goran, you act like you don’t know anything about kink.”
“I don’t.” He hits the ground floor button.
“In that case, the dungeon is where folks can indulge their wildest bondage fantasies. They’re common in those kinds of clubs. And since Sims and Roberts got nothing from Leather & Lace—they probably don’t have that kind of tracking system, anyway—my guess is that the Rec Room is a safe bet for our next set of questions.”
He knits his eyebrows together. “Do you have any idea how much shit we’re gonna get from the L-T for being here like this today?”
“Not if it leads somewhere. Seriously. Trust me.”
“I was wondering when you were gonna go rogue,” he mutters as the elevator doors open. “I had a feeling it would correspond with the verdict, and here we are.”
We exit the elevator, and I stop in the lobby. “I am not ‘going rogue,’ and this has absolutely nothing to do with the verdict.”
“Uh-huh, okay. Let’s get back and explain ourselves before he has too much time to talk to her.”
“You think he’s calling her?”
“Of course. You saw the guy. We just ruined his whole day.”
“You’d think his day would already be pretty shitty, given that his wife was brutally murdered in a cemetery.”
“Yeah, you’d think.”
WE HAVE TO PUSH THROUGH a gaggle of reporters to get inside. “Detective Boyle,” Alexis Edwards from the Plain Dealer calls over the din, “do you have any comment about today’s verdict?”
I resist the urge to flick them off. Goran holds out an arm and leads me to the steps.
“Fuck this,” I mutter in the elevator.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Goran replies, staring straight ahead.
Once we’re back in the squad, Fishner summons us immediately. When we enter her office, she looks less red-faced than I’d expected.
“Sit down,” she says. “Update me on this case. How does it stand with Eric Martin, whom I told you not to interview without me?”
I stop myself from wincing. “Look, we had to. It would have been egregious not to.”
She balances her pen between her thumb and index finger, and Goran and I exchange the glance that means we’re not quite sure what’s coming.
“We did get out of him that Martin had been more distant than usual, starting just over a year ago. He said she’s always been private—to the point where he said it seemed secretive, like she was hiding something. But he said she really pulled away last year. Claims that’s when he started having the affair, though their son says he’s been a philanderer for a long time.”
“‘Pulled away’ in what way?”
I fill her in.
She sighs and gives me the tell-me-more look. Goran shifts next to me.
“We’ve got a lead to run down. There’s a club over on the West Side. I think she was a member. I need to look into it. It’s touchy and something we probably don’t want the media to get wind of.”
“Touchy how?” she asks.
I don’t want to get into this right now. I hate explaining my instincts to her because then they stop making sense to me. “Look, it’s probably nothing. I’m just checking it out as a formality. I’ll keep you posted. But Eric Martin is cleared, at least in my mind. His security system backs him up, Kasinowitz backs him up, and his behavior today, although weird, seems consistent with who he is.”
“Are you still operating under the premise that he might have had her killed?”
“It’s not my gut,” I reply. “I see no reason why he would do it, given that he’s the one who was having the affair and the kids are grown.”
“There’s something else,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows, more from the way the energy shifts in the room than anything she’s saying to me. It goes from all business to something that I can’t quite put my finger on.
Fishner sets her pen on her desk. “Heather Martin’s credit card data shows that her Visa was used to pay for a room at the Renaissance on the night of her homicide.”
“And?”
“I have Sims and Roberts investigating that lead.”
“And?”
“Detectives, I am concerned about the publicity our squad is receiving, especially given today’s verdict. You noticed the reporters outside, correct?” She doesn’t wait for us to answer. “I will remind you to tread very carefully, given everything that’s happening with this case, with Captain Carrothers, and with your Department of Justice inquiry. I hope that you will have your attorney present tomorrow for your questioning.”
Carrothers should just let us do our jobs. She’s talking like a politician again. I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare her down as the thin line of anger travels from my head to my chest. Breathe, Boyle. Don’t go back to your old ways. This is your boss. I blink at her until she gives in.
“The captain—all of the brass, really—are worried. This case may go to Homicide. Wrap it up quickly if you want to clear it.” She tosses the pen onto her desk.
“What? No—we’re closing this one. What the hell is happening with Carrothers?” I ask. Before she can answer, I turn to Goran. “Will you back me up here?”
He looks incredulous. “I’m worried, too, Boyle. Grimes is out on the streets, and he made those threats, and the repor—”
/> I swear my face is going to explode. “Since when do we ‘tread lightly’ just because some asshole makes threats or reporters want to talk to us?”
Fishner appears to be working to conceal a strange look on her face.
“Are you going to let us do our fucking job or not?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I regret it.
“The captain is concerned about this squad for reasons I’m sure I don’t have to review with you right now, and I know you have a lot invested here. I can’t imagine you in a regular homicide job, can you? So tell me what’s happening with Maliq Sims and the Martina Lowell case.”
I could be put on desk duty indefinitely, “for my own protection.” They could kick us all to the districts. They could decimate the squad just for optics. He’s been threatening it for a while now, ever since I pulled the trigger on that pedophile.
“What?” Goran asks tightly.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “I talked to him about it. He was looking into Lowell because he thought he saw a pattern with her case and a cold one he’s working as a favor to a friend.”
Her face is stone.
“He should have made me aware of the cold case. Which he did not. You and I both know that sometimes my detectives need to be reminded of what authority looks like. There are consequences.”
I stare at her for a beat. She’s unwavering, and it freaks me out.
“Look, it was all a misunderstanding,” Goran says. “I got upset, but then I realized he’s just investigating it as a favor to a friend. It’s water under the bridge. I’ll talk to him.”
She nods. “Don’t be late for your appointment with the DOJ,” she says to me. She puts her reading glasses on and picks up her pen. “Go home, Detectives.”
I’m pretty much over it with all of these people.
Back at our desks, Goran tries to talk to me as the landline trills away. “I can’t believe you narced on him, Tom. This is straight-up bullshit.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how does she know about the Lowell case?”
“I have no idea. Maybe she saw the murder book on his desk too.”
“Uh-huh.” I shut my lamp off and jam my iPad into my bag, resisting the urge to shove everything off my desk. “Well, if you get an idea, let me know. I’m leaving. See you tomorrow.”
“I guess I’ll do the report on the Martin interview.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I turn to leave.
“Boyle, please be careful.”
“I’m always careful, Goran. You know that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
IN THE PASSAT, I SWITCH my phone back on. I have eight voicemails, but I skip through the messages from Cora, Josh, my mom, Fishner, and Alexis Edwards. I listen to Becker’s message first, since she’s the one with the legal expertise. “Liz, it’s Julia. First off, please be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. And just be honest with Briscoe. Marutiak”—my lawyer—“will have your back. Just don’t say anything other than simple answers to his questions, and it’ll be all right.”
I tap on the next voicemail, which is from a number I don’t recognize. Turns out, it’s from Sheila, the intern at the law firm. She sounds scared. “D-D-Detective, I just want to let you know that I got a threatening text message. It said that if I talked to you again, what happened to Heather would happen to me too.”
I call her back right away. “Hi, Sheila.”
“Hold on,” she replies.
I hear her walk down a hallway. “Did you recognize the number?”
“No, it was private.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“No. It was a man’s voice. He sounded drunk or like something was wrong with him. Do you think it was a real threat?”
“You never know. Do you have someone you can stay with? Family?”
“I can stay with my boyfriend, I guess.”
“Do that. And let me know if you get any more threats.”
“Okay. Thanks. I have to go.”
Three beeps tell me that she’s ended the call.
“Fuck it all,” I mutter. Before I pull away, I text everyone else to tell them that I’m fine and not to worry. Then I call Jason Marutiak, my lawyer, to be sure that we’re still on for tomorrow. We are.
CHAPTER 18
About forty minutes later, I pull up next to a nondescript brick building and kill the VW engine but not the stereo. I brought my own car because I’ll probably follow orders and go home after this. I let the song finish then yank the key from the ignition.
The Rec Room is relatively deserted this early in the evening, at least upstairs. Back when I worked sex crimes, I ended up in the dungeon a couple of times for investigations, and I’m fairly certain that folks are down there at all hours of the day. Unless Martin was down there before she died, I don’t care what people do behind closed doors.
I take a seat at the bar, which functions as sort of a gatekeeping lobby, if I’m remembering correctly, and scan my surroundings. It’s dark but looks redecorated, maybe within the last couple of years. There’s a dance area in the back, with colored lights in the floor, and a DJ booth. Tables sit in front of the staircase leading down, and on the other side of the room is a staircase that goes up. Everything is red and black—it’s a stereotype, I guess—even the plush velvet sofas in the corner. It looks dark but otherwise normal to anyone who’s never been here before.
A woman approaches from behind a door in the far corner. She looks like she means business in a Morticia Addams kind of way, and I don’t recognize her from when I was here all those years ago. She’s a little taller than I am, with a strong build and wearing a black wig and a lot of makeup, which doesn’t really match her benign black jeans and blouse.
“You are police?” she asks in a voice that’s surprisingly high-pitched for her stature. She has some kind of Eastern European accent that sounds artificial and practiced.
I give her a close-lipped smile. “I’m not Vice.”
She squints at me. “We don’t do anything here that would interest Vice, anyway.” Something changes in her face and becomes more guarded.
I give her a real smile. “I know. I’m not trying to cause problems for you or for the club—”
She interrupts me with an arched eyebrow and a grin. “Oh, you want to join, then? Welcome.” Her mouth slides into a grin. “I am Mistress Natalia.”
A surge of adrenaline hits me.
“Let me get you an application. Dom or sub?” She’s more young Angelica Huston than Carolyn Jones, if we’re still on the Morticia Addams thing.
I chuckle. “No, no, neither. I’m here investigating a homicide.” I pull out my badge wallet and slide it to her, trying to avoid the gaze of the couple in the corner, the only other people here this early.
“I see,” she says, not looking at my ID. “Well, in that case, come with me.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“No phones here,” she says. “You will take that outside.”
I look at it, anyway—it’s a private caller. “I’m sorry,” I say to the dark woman. “I have to take this.” I slide off my barstool and make my way to the door as she sidles away.
“I’m watching you,” a man’s voice says. The call ends.
I resist the urge to bounce my phone off the sidewalk.
I stand there for a minute, gazing around to see if anyone is watching from nearby, before I face the front door of the Rec Room. I mentally map the three floors of space, all safely hidden behind the blacked-out windows of the former warehouse.
When I go back in, Mistress Natalia waits on the stool that I vacated. When she sees me, she stands and leads me to a small office in the corner, where she gestures for me to sit on a rickety wooden chair that’s shoved between a filing cabinet and a cash safe. When she closes the door, I see a black latex Catwoman suit hanging on the back of it. She leans on the edge of the desk. I would just as soon have reversed the seating arrangement so that I can tower over her, but t
here’s not much I can do about it now.
In regular light, she looks about forty, give or take five years. “Sorry about the phone policy,” she says. “We must be careful.” She flicks an eyebrow at me. “So tell me how to help you,” she says, batting her false eyelashes.
“Are you in charge here?”
She gives me a throaty laugh. “In many more ways than one.”
I don’t respond.
“Yes, I am the owner and the woman in charge.” Something underneath that fake accent says Chicago to me. She reaches over to the desk, grabs a shiny black business card, and hands it to me. Mistress Natalia, it says in silver cursive. Then it gives the address of the club and a phone number. The phone number doesn’t match the one on Martin’s card, but the aesthetic sure as hell does.
“Last name?” I remove my notebook from my pocket.
“My given name is Cathy Smith, which is far too boring for me.” She drops the act but not by much.
“How long have you owned the bar?” I don’t look away from her.
She goes behind the desk and sits in another creaky chair. “About two years,” she replies in her regular voice. “When my dad passed, I inherited some money. I bought this place.” She gestures around it with fingernails that are close to two inches long. When I don’t respond right away, she keeps going. “I know about the club’s reputation from a few years back,” she says, emphasizing “club” to correct me, “but I’ve done my best to clean it up, so to speak.”
“In what ways?”
She sighs, but her eyes gleam. “Made it absolutely exclusive in most regards. No sex is allowed anymore, at all. No electronic devices other than our issued key cards. No blood outside of the designated area. House safe words, dungeon masters. A list of rules that, if members violate them, will get them kicked out for good. I’m very serious about all of this. It needs to be safe.” She taps a finger against a palm and smiles. “Some members quit because of the new rules. We allow beginners now. We have a class once a month, a sort of bondage 101. I’ve tried to make it more of a community and less of a cult.”
“It was a cult before?” Images of what I saw those years ago in that dungeon flash in my brain. There was lots of black latex and ball gags.
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