The Heights

by Kate Birdsall

  She laughs. “No, I was exaggerating. But I know what used to go on here, and I made it my mission to change it. The BDSM community isn’t what everyone thinks it is. People’s proclivities. That’s all they are. Proclivities. It’s all just play.”

  I blink at her, hoping that she’s not going to give me some kind of preachy lecture.

  She doesn’t.

  I pull out my phone, and she makes a face. “I just want to show you a picture. A few, actually.” I pull up the picture of Heather Martin. “Have you seen this woman in here before?”

  She blinks. Recognition flashes in her eyes but only for a split second. She looks at me, and her eyes grow darker. “We have a very strict privacy policy,” she replies.

  “This is a homicide investigation. You can tell me now, or I can subpoena you.” I’m lying, but she might not know that.

  “You’ll need the subpoena,” she replies.

  “Any of these guys?” I show her photos of Eric Martin, Anders Andersen, and Derek Struthers.

  “I said we have a confidentiality policy.”

  “Okay, then, how about this?” I swipe through the photos until I get to the transponder.

  Her eyes open wide before she can stop herself, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “Listen, I’ll say again that I’m not here to make trouble for you. I’m trying to find out what happened to a woman who was very badly beaten.”

  She nods and pushes a strand of wig hair off her face. “It opens the dungeon door,” she replies. “Only our dungeon masters have them.”

  “Names?”

  “Are you kidding me?” She chuckles. “Absolutely not, not without a warrant. Confidentiality is an issue here, as I’m sure you can imagine.” She folds her hands on the desk.

  It’s time to take a different approach. “Mistress Natalia, I really appreciate your time. I’d be grateful for a couple more minutes of it, and for any cooperation you can give me now, without getting the court system involved.”

  She smiles at my use of her professional name and sits back in her chair.

  “Do you have any surveillance cameras, anything like that?”

  She laughs. “Not a chance. It’s in the membership contract that we don’t—and won’t.”

  “Is there a way to tell when a transponder was used to unlock the door?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s a simple system.”

  “Were you here on Saturday night?”

  “I’m here every night.”

  “Anything strange about that night that you can recall?”

  “Not a thing,” she replies. “Regular Saturday night.”

  “Any way of keeping track of who’s here at any given time?”

  She raises an eyebrow and looks back and forth between my eyes. “No.” She settles on my left eye and blinks. She’s a good liar.

  “Can I look at your member list?” Might as well just go for it.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I won’t share the details with anyone,” I reply, my voice even. “I am simply investigating a homicide.”

  Her eyes get bigger for a moment. Her face returns to normal, then I watch her slide all the way back into character. “Tell me more, then.”

  I cock my head to the side.

  “About you not sharing details.” She stands.

  I have about six seconds to weigh my options. Play the game, get the information. Don’t play, maybe get it with a warrant. But then I hear Julia Becker in my head, telling me that we don’t even know if Heather Martin was a member of this club, so there’s not enough evidence for a warrant. And she would be correct. “I will not share the details of the member list unless and until I have to,” I reply. “And I would be grateful to know who was here on Saturday night and whether you recognize the woman from the picture.”

  “‘Mistress Natalia.’” She runs a fingernail across her desk, her eyes narrowed in my direction.

  “Mistress Natalia,” I repeat.

  She stares me down, her eyes dark. Yeah, that doesn’t really do it for me, but I need this information, like, right now.

  “‘And, Mistress Natalia, I will be forever in your debt for whatever information you have to give, and I will not harass any of your members,’” she says.

  I repeat her without rolling my eyes.

  After about ten more minutes of this kind of crap, which I admit gets stranger by the second, she confirms that Heather Martin was here on Saturday night and that both she and Eric are dungeon masters. She also gives me two lists, one of all two hundred eighty-four members and one of the sixty-two members—several with a nameless plus-one—who were here the night Martin died. Just in case I change my mind, she also gives me a copy of the rules and the membership application. She pats my cheek as I leave the office.

  I look around again for the mystery caller, but I don’t see anything suspicious. In the car, I contemplate that Heather Martin was here right before she—or someone—used her credit card to get a room at the Renaissance, and we have sixty-two potential witnesses. I type a text to Goran, then it occurs to me that he’ll be pissed that I flew solo to the Rec Room, so I erase it.

  I hope Sims and Roberts got something from the hotel. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe the killer was there and got caught on video carrying bondage equipment and bomb-making supplies.

  Roberts answers on the fourth ring, just as I’m about to hang up. “Boyle, what’s up?”

  “Anything from the hotel?”

  “Yeah, we’re talking to one of the managers, a Veronica Keaton, right now. We’re trying to get surveillance footage, but she’s giving us the song and dance. My next call is to Becker for a warrant. A credit card hit seems like solid evidence to me. Anything on your end?”

  “This and that. I have a line on a club where Martin was a member. I’ll have more details at the morning briefing.”

  “Ten-four. Hey, you doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’m getting another call.” I tap to take the other call—Goran—before Roberts says goodbye.

  “What, you’re gonna start sending me a message and then erase it?”

  “What the hell, Goran? Were you just sitting there looking at your phone and waiting for three dots telling you that I was typing a message?”

  “No, I was sending you a message. Look, I don’t like what happened today. I need to know a couple of things. Do you have a few minutes? I’m still downtown. Maybe we could grab a drink.”

  This is thoroughly unlike him. He’s such a family man that he’s usually at home long before I leave for the day. I check my watch, and it’s only quarter after seven, so I don’t bother arguing. “I’m out in your neck of the woods. Want to meet near your house?”

  “I’ll see you at Shorty’s in twenty minutes. I won’t even ask why you’re on the West Side.”

  I hang up before he can say goodbye, and try to process what the hell is happening with the case, with my partner, with the verdict. Then I fire up the VW and pull away from the curb.

  Shorty’s is a dive bar that Goran and I have visited a couple of times. It’s far enough from downtown that few public servants frequent it, which is fine with me—I’d just as soon not talk to anyone right now. It takes me only three minutes to get there from the Rec Room.

  As the bartender slides me my bourbon and my beer, it hits me: Grimes was acquitted. Someone called and said he was watching me. I’m not stupid enough to think those things are unrelated—it could have been him or one of his cronies. I take my drinks to a corner booth and drop into a seat facing the door. I try to zone out on the basketball game on the big screen—LeBron is playing but not for Cleveland—but my mind keeps looping back to that moment in the courtroom when O’Connor called me a murderer.

  On a smaller screen in the opposite corner, Joe Mattioli is talking about his cop book on some news show. The captions are on, and I follow along as I wait for my partner. It just had to be wr
itten. The whole thing is all about my own experiences. Police work was a lot different then. It was more a gut-instinct thing. Nowadays, detectives have all kinds of technology at their disposal. I guess it’s become more a science and less an art.

  He has big lips and a bulbous nose, and that shirt is too tight to wear on television. I roll my eyes. The host, a blond woman who appears to be in her early twenties and who is trying much too hard, asks a question about his wife’s death.

  Yeah, that hit me hard, the caption says. Gibbie and me were both devastated. He was my partner, you know? And we were all close. Anna’s death is a big part of why I wrote the book. I wanted her story to be told. Last I checked, it was still an open homicide, and there is no statute of limitations on first-degree murder.

  The host asks how long Mattioli will be in Cleveland and what his plans are. Something that brutal had to be premeditated. The question is about whether there’s a connection between Anna Mattioli’s death and Heather Martin’s.

  I’m back in my old stomping grounds! I’m catching up with the boys from the old days but mostly just visiting family. I brought my son, Giacomo, with me, and I’m showing him around.

  The camera cuts back to the host. One last question, Detective. What do you think about recent events in Cleveland involving the police? I could cite the Department of Justice inquiry, the acquittal of Officer Grimes—it cuts to a photo of that smug asshole, smiling with a bunch of kids at some bike safety event—or the increasing pressure to eliminate the excessive use of force that some officers employ. Do you have any thoughts?

  He looks straight at the camera with his beady brown eyes. Force is sometimes needed. You can read about that in my book. As for the DOJ, well... I suppose it’s just smoke and mirrors. I can’t imagine this Justice Department doing much about whatever Grimes or anyone else was accused of. And as for Grimes, well, I think he was just doing his job. I’m not sexist, but all of the witnesses against him were lady cops, right? I think that says something. I think it was a setup. Guys can’t even compliment a woman anymore without getting accused of something, you know?

  I want to slap the shit out of him. The host thanks him for his time and plugs his book. Apparently he’s doing a reading at a local bookstore this weekend. Maybe I’ll go just to mess with him.

  I toss back the rest of my bourbon and move to the beer. Fuck. My phone buzzes against the wooden table.

  It’s Cora. “Hey. You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you happen to be watching television right now?”

  “Surprisingly, yeah. I saw it.”

  “And you’re okay.”

  “Yeah.”

  She sighs. “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t like where this is going.”

  She laughs. “It hasn’t even started. We just need to talk. Can you swing by?”

  “I’m about to have a burger with Goran, but I’ll come by when we’re done. I’ll text you.” I hang up and set my phone on the table then lift my beer. The bartender catches my eye, but I look away, knowing full well that I don’t need another bourbon. Could Mattioli be staying at the Renaissance? I shoot Roberts a text. He replies seconds later: First thing tomorrow. I just signed out.

  Goran arrives, orders a Budweiser, and slides into the booth, across from me. “Before you say anything,” he begins in a soft, firm voice, “I just want to set the record completely straight.” He calmly puts both hands on the table in front of him, but he doesn’t fool me. “I did not say anything to Fishner about Sims. I need you to believe that. I also need you to know that the whole Grimes case has really gotten to me.”

  “I—”

  “Let me finish.”

  I sip my beer.

  “Back in the day, I was around when some really bad shit went down, partner, and Grimes... Martin... All of it brings it all back. And I feel terrible about the things I said about her way back when. I feel terrible about playing softball with that guy. I feel terrible that you stuck your neck out like that, and I feel terrible that he got off. I feel terrible that I don’t know what to do—the blue wall of silence is real, but you’re my partner, and you did the right thing.” He scrubs a hand across his face.

  The bartender returns with Goran’s beer. “Thanks,” he says to the other man. We order a couple of burgers.

  “So you feel terrible?” My attempt at humor falls flat.

  He nods.

  “Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you that Joe Mattioli was just on television, denouncing ‘lady cops’ who testify against model citizens and upholders of the law whose names are Grimes?”

  “No, you shouldn’t tell me that.”

  I shift in my seat. “Goran, look. I believe you when you say that you didn’t say anything about Sims, but then the question becomes how Fishner knows about it, since I’m sure as I’m alive that Sims didn’t tell her himself, and Roberts probably has no clue. I believe all of what you just said. I’m sorry you feel terrible. I pretty much feel terrible too. Thing is, we don’t have time for that. We have a case to work. You heard Fishner. If we don’t close it soon, Carrothers is kicking it to Homicide, and we know it’ll go on the shelf if it ends up there. They just don’t care.”

  He clenches his jaw. “Yeah, that guy was part of the bad old days too. I’m just saying, Liz...” He sips his beer. “It all stinks. All of it.”

  “This might be a good time to tell you that I think I broke the case wide open.” I give him the download about the Rec Room.

  “That’s freakin’ weird.” He laughs. “She thought you wanted to join the club?”

  “Stop being such a prude. What matters is that I have a list of names. Remember that necklace we found at the scene?”

  “Vaguely, yeah.”

  “It had the initials E.M. on it. We’ve basically cleared Eric Martin. So I figure we go through that list first thing tomorrow, find anyone with those initials, and start there.”

  He holds his beer up, and we clink glasses.

  I fill him in about what Roberts and Sims are up to.

  “Mattioli is a creep, but I’d be real surprised if he had anything to do with this. Why wreck his fame and fortune to kill a woman he knew thirty years ago?”

  I’m not convinced. If Mattioli was part of the bad old days... Well, given how his wife died, it makes me wonder. I mean, beatings like that aren’t exactly common. I fully plan on running my own investigation, whether it’s on or off the books, on that guy.

  “Let’s hope we can get surveillance,” he mutters. “You cool with the DOJ tomorrow?”

  I nod. “I have an attorney. He’s supposed to be there. I’ve never met him before, but Becker recommended him.”

  “Think we’re ever gonna live it down? That night in the alley?”

  I shake my head. “Your guess is as good as mine, partner.”

  Our burgers arrive, and we talk about LeBron James while we eat. Goran pays the tab, and we walk out together. I don’t tell him about the threatening phone call—I don’t want him to get his undies in a bunch and insist that I stay with him or something. “Thanks for dinner, partner,” I say as I unlock the Passat. “See you in the morning.”

  He gives me a little salute then gets into his new car.

  CHAPTER 19

  On my way to Cora’s, it starts to rain again. “We need to talk” is never a good thing. We used to joke that it’s the worst sentence one can say to someone they love. She didn’t sound like she was kidding. On the phone, she had the deep, serious voice that she uses when she’s talking philosophy or books or art or murder or “we need to talk.”

  I should have called her back right away. All four times.

  I pull up in front of her house, which is pretty close to my apartment, at 9:02. Her cat, Meowmix, sits in the window, and the blue glow of her TV shines through the blinds. Shit, I forgot to text her. I pull out my phone. Here.

  I see the TV shut off and a lamp come on, followed by the porch light. She opens the door as I’
m getting out of the car.

  “Hey,” she says. She’s wearing joggers and a sleeveless T-shirt, and she looks amazing.

  “Hi,” I reply. Once inside, I remove my gross cop boots and Garrison belt, which I leave on the floor next to the boots, complete with my Glock.

  “Beer?” she asks. She’s oddly calm.

  “Sure.” I follow her into the kitchen and take a seat at the island. I find myself tracing her tattoos with my eyes. The botanical designs go across her back, down both arms, and back again.

  She slides me a beer and arches an eyebrow.

  I take a sip and arch the other eyebrow.

  “What happened the other night. What’s been happening for months.”

  “You mean trying to get back together, so to speak?” I wince as I say it. It sounds so corny and inadequate. That’s not it at all. Not to mention that saying it makes me feel stark naked and totally exposed, which is becoming a real theme these days. I sip my beer again.

  She smiles in a sort-of-sad way.

  Neither Cora nor I is really a friends-with-benefits person, but we’ve been doing this since last Christmas. Until the Grimes thing and then the city coming apart and Heather Martin dying the next day, we’d been spending a lot of time together. Enjoying each other. Falling into a rhythm.

  “You’ve been really involved in this case.” She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “And I know it’s a big deal for you to try to right the world’s wrongs. But it brings shit back, Liz. In a big way. As if you didn’t have five minutes to call me back. What if it was important? What if I needed something? Needed you? What if I’ve been worried about you? What then?”

  I know where this is going, and something tightens behind my sternum, but I simultaneously relax my shoulders. “It’s not like it was before,” I almost whisper.

  “And the whole thing with the Grimes testimony. Why not just talk about it? I—we, as in, the people in your life—shouldn’t have to read about this crap in the newspaper.”

  I don’t say anything.