“We’ve been down this road before.” She crosses her arms. “The drinking.”
Whatever. You were drunk last week too, I don’t say. I sip my beer again, and the irony isn’t lost on me. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t drunk for the fourth night that week.
“We need a break.” Cora closes her eyes. “I need to sort this out for myself. I’m feeling things that scare me when it comes to you.”
I broke her heart once. That’s what she means. I can imagine her, leaning there against that counter where we made Thanksgiving dinner for her dad and best friend and her husband and their little kid and my brother almost three years ago. It’d felt almost like having a family.
I guess it is sort of weird that we’re still doing whatever this is. Most people just break up then move on. Sometimes, if they’re lucky, they stay friends. They don’t usually stop seeing other people and start sleeping together again, though, especially not after all the time that’s passed. I guess I’ve never really done relationships in the way most people do. Neither has she.
She keeps going. “I don’t want you to think I’m holding a grudge about anything from before. It’s not a grudge. That’s not me. And I’m sorry. I just wonder if we need to be done with all of this, or if what we have going is working, or what. You know? I need a minute to let myself feel it before I can say much more. This is harder than it should be for me.”
I hold my beer a little tighter. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”
“I can’t lead you on. I also can’t commit to you again, not right now. Not while you’re like this, so immersed in work and incommunicado. And I’m not okay with being so, I don’t know, nonchalant about everything. It’s not like me. I need to know where I stand. I need to be a priority.”
“A couple of missed phone calls led to this?” I still can’t look at her. It’s too much. Something hot uncoils in my chest and moves into my stomach.
She sighs. “It’s not just that. It’s the past three years. It’s all of it. I’m forty years old. I can’t do this anymore. I need stability. I want to know whoever I’m with is there all the time. I want to live with my partner and make a life together. I want a lot of things that I’m just not sure you can give me. And I don’t mean this in some kind of fucked-up, needy way either. I’m just being honest with you.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.” I take a big gulp of beer.
“Liz, I love you, and I always will. I just don’t know if I can be with you. I need space and time.” She takes a deep breath.
I blink back hot tears. “You can have space. I’m sorry.” I finish the beer and slide it to the edge of the island.
“For God’s sake, stop apologizing for who you are. You have to stop doing that.”
“Okay. I’m not sorry, then. But you can have space, and I will always love you too.”
She sniffs like maybe she’s going to cry, and it pushes harder against the inside of my chest too. “Take time away from me. Go on dates,” she says. “See other people. Hang out with Josh. Work twenty-four hours a day. Do whatever you do when you’re not with me, whatever you did before me.”
My eyes won’t stop burning, so I squeeze them closed and shift around in my seat. “That’s it, then?” It doesn’t make sense, but it also does, and maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not working. People love each other but can’t be together all of the time.
“I don’t know.” She’s definitely crying but trying to hide it. She glances at my beer. “One more?”
I nod. I need to cut back.
At some point, I end up in the bathroom again. It’s where I always go when I’m about to lose my grip. Shue made me talk about it once. Her take on it was that I need to feel safe, that kind of thing.
Whatever. I can punch tile walls without damaging property. That’s kind of how I look at it. Only now, I can also name my feelings.
So I run the water, splash it on my face, and name them. I surprise myself when “relief” appears on the list. Cora is, and always will be, out of my league. Cora deserves someone who works regular hours and doesn’t immerse herself in shitty murder cases. Cora deserves a normal person, not some traumatized and emotionally numb shell of a woman.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I think about the photos on my iPad. I’m surrounded by devices instead of people.
Is this where we live now, in some kind of digital space, mediated by phones and iPads and computers?
I sound like an old person. I sound like Tom.
Cora is right. I already know all of it. I watched my mom disintegrate for twentysomething years from alcohol and pills and whatever drove her to those things. Numbing agents, I guess. She just couldn’t do it without them. She couldn’t numb the pain—she couldn’t face the pain in the first place. And she destroyed a lot. She damn near broke me, and she made my brother into a sniveling little boy of a man.
I think back to Christopher at the football stadium the other day. Maybe he’ll be okay. I hope he’s okay because of more than her sobriety. He’s always taken it personally, I think, when she gets sober and then falls off the wagon again. He holds on to hope. I should call him.
My phone buzzes again, and I silence it.
I learned a long time ago not to take it—my mom—too seriously. She could come undone, go off the rails at any time. Could call me while slobbering all over herself at some police station after she gets busted for DUI, asking me to help her get out of this little jam. Or maybe someone could call me, tell me I need to get to the hospital because she’s on life support after wrapping her car around a tree or taking three too many pills.
At this point, that Vicodin-and-vodka combo of hers could kill her.
I should probably feel guilty that it might be a relief if it did. That if she just disappeared, I would be okay. We would bury her. We would say some kind of prayer. We would be sad for a minute. We would reminisce as much as children of addicts can. And then we would move on.
I’m such an asshole for thinking about any of this right now. I stare myself down in the mirror and prepare to reenter the kitchen, where I will face the loss of one of a handful of people I’ve ever loved.
Heather Martin’s mangled body. The blood in the shed. The chair leg. The police baton that we still haven’t found. Anders Andersen, Winona Conway. This possible new lead with some unknown person with the initials E. M. The corruption. The misogyny.
The only thing I’m good at is solving murders.
I threw it all into the fire, way back when, when Cora asked me to move in with her. I’d been working a case involving a prostitute and her toddler daughter, and it pushed me over the edge. I shut myself down. I just couldn’t feel anything at all.
What a pathetic excuse. I chose this as my job. I mean, sure, it called to me. But no one made me do it. No one but me made me an emotional cripple. I could have gotten therapy a long time ago, and I didn’t until the department forced me to.
I don’t want to be a statistic, the lone wolf cop, nursing her pain with a bottle and a case. At one point, I might have been okay with it. Not anymore.
I push open the bathroom door.
At some point, as I’m sharing my damn feelings in the kitchen where we’ve had so many conversations, I’m gripped by the need to touch her, to hold her. I say as much, and she asks whether I’m drunk.
“No. Not drunk. I had two drinks, plus the two here.”
“You gotta watch it, Liz.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “Four is supposed to be my limit.”
Then she asks what I’m waiting for. So I take her in my arms and let it all go, crying and sputtering and slobbering into her hair, the whole deal.
She responds by pulling me closer. Meowmix rubs on our ankles. It goes on for at least fifteen minutes.
I’ve never come unglued in front of anyone before. I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life. I tell her as much.
“That you’re here instead of crying in your bathroom at home means something.”
&n
bsp; I try to smile, but I’m too exhausted. I’m not used to this. I have to ask, though. “Look, I know. I know all of it. I hear you.”
“What tea do you want?” She starts the kettle.
I want a big glass of bourbon. “Something relaxing.”
She makes our tea then slides my cup across her kitchen island.
I blow on my mug and tell her that I don’t want to see other people.
She nods and levels her gaze at me. “It’s what I need right now.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.” I can’t tell if she wants me to fight for her, but part of me knows that it’s over regardless of what I do. “I respect it. You. I respect you.”
She nods and blinks the tears out of her eyes. “Tell me about this case you’re working, then.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I’m a detective, too, you know. Maybe smarter than your average bear.”
I shove my feelings into a box then give her the download. I tell her all about everything that’s happened, the dead ends, the leather club, and my weird, nagging, and probably unfounded suspicion about Mattioli.
I’ve never talked to her about work before. I always thought I was protecting her by leaving it out. But maybe that was stupid. Maybe I didn’t trust her. She’s the smartest person I know, and I mean that in every possible way—she should have my job, and I should have hers. But whatever, that’s not how the math worked out.
“Look deeper into Mattioli,” she says. She yawns. “He probably didn’t kill your vic, but I bet he did something.”
“Yeah, he probably did. Let’s go to bed.” I pause as I gauge her reaction.
Her shoulders tense.
“I don’t mean it like that. I mean sleep. Tomorrow, we move on and see other people or whatever. I hope we can be friends. Real ones.”
She smiles. “Let’s.”
I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A morning person, and I awake before dawn. I make Cora a fresh pot of coffee and write a note that reiterates everything I said last night: I understand, I respect you, do what you need to do, call me if you want to, and don’t if you don’t.
I draw a picture of a pumpkin and a ghost at the bottom and write “Happy Halloween” next to them—I’m kind of a sucker for Halloween. Then I pull on my boots and leave.
CHAPTER 20
Once home, I feed Ivan then put on a newish doom-metal album that I’ve been obsessing about. I take my time getting ready then head to work to keep my appointment with DOJ Investigator Chris Briscoe. It seems like more of a pain in the ass than anything, but I’m still nervous enough to need deep breaths.
I’m supposed to meet with my attorney thirty minutes before we talk to Briscoe together. All of my communication with him has been via text message and voicemail, so I half expect that he won’t show at all, but when I get to work, he’s sitting in my visitors’ chair.
Goran arches an eyebrow, and I shrug.
The lawyer, who looks like a lawyer, stands and extends a hand. “Jason Marutiak.”
I shake his hand. “Elizabeth Boyle. Let’s head down this way to talk in private.” I shed my jacket, toss my bag on my desk, make a face at Goran, then lead my attorney down the hall.
Marutiak is everything I envisioned: average height and average build, with the right amount of stubble, a good haircut, a loud shirt, and a bow tie. Damn, I’m good. We stop by the vending machines.
“Thanks for coming,” I say somewhat stupidly.
“I don’t think you have much to worry about,” he replies. “The DOJ isn’t going after cops anymore—it’s not like it was during the last administration. I’ve reviewed your case. Just tell the truth, and you’ll be fine.”
I nod.
Behind him, Roberts comes down the hall in vampire teeth. “Happy Halloween,” he says in a Dracula voice. He goes into the men’s room.
Briscoe enters the room, and he doesn’t live up to the hype. He’s probably a couple of years older than I am, and although I’d pictured one of those super-ripped government types with a high-and-tight haircut and a blue suit, he’s wearing gray pants, a boring gray-patterned tie, and a white shirt. His build is average, and he has a decent haircut.
“Detective Boyle.” He holds out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” He ignores Marutiak.
I mutter something about how it’s nice to meet him, too, and extend my hand. His handshake isn’t nearly as clammy as I’d expected.
He smiles and gestures at the chair across from him at the table. “Have a seat, please, both of you.”
I almost laugh, given that I’ve said the same thing to countless suspects over the years. I vaguely wonder whether he always sits there, facing away from the mirror, and then I wonder who else is behind that mirror—Fishner? Carrothers? I take a seat.
“Detective, Counselor, as you know, this is just an informational interview. We’re not looking at you for anything criminal.” He takes the seat across from us. He taps his fingers on a manila folder that has my name written on the tab.
I try to look relaxed, but I catch a glance of myself in the mirror, and I look like a pissant. Marutiak looks bored. I try harder to soften my face and jaw.
“We’re just collecting information, Detective Boyle. May I call you Elizabeth?”
“Liz. You may call me Liz.” I make note of the pitcher of ice water and three cups on the table but resist pouring a glass and chugging it, lest I come off as nervous or guilty.
He grins. “Liz. I just have a few questions, and then I’ll get out of your hair. Do you have anything to say off the record before we begin video and audio recording?”
“No.”
“In that case”—he hits a button on a machine near him, and a red light on the camera to my upper left comes on—“interview of Detective Elizabeth Boyle, Cleveland Department of Police, Special Homicide, badge number one-seven-six-one. The date is October twenty-ninth, and the time is eight hundred hours. Present are Detective Boyle, her attorney, Jason Marutiak, and myself, Special Agent Chris Briscoe. We are here today to discuss the officer-involved shooting of one George Arsalan, whom Detective Boyle shot and killed on—”
My mind goes blank. Marutiak shuffles in his chair. I zone out but consciously remind myself to return to the present.
“Detective Boyle—”
All I hear is “How does it feel to be a murderer?” But that isn’t what he asked. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
Marutiak moves his pen from his notepad to the table.
Briscoe grins. “Sure. I asked how you’re doing today.”
“I’m doing great, thanks.” I clear my throat. “How are you?”
“I’m doing great too. Can you tell me about George Arsalan?”
“About the guy or about the case?”
“Both would be great.” His grin is getting annoying.
“My partner and I were assigned a homicide of a fourteen-year-old girl. We caught it on the late shift.” Unnecessary information, Boyle. “Our investigation led us to a man named William Coby, whom we—meaning our entire squad, which included several detectives focused on things such as IP addresses—found to be operating a large-scale child-pornography ring out of Muncie, Indiana. We traveled to Muncie, tracked down Coby, and brought him in.
“We questioned him for approximately nineteen hours, at which point he told us that the man we were looking for was right here.”
“Here meaning Cleveland?”
“Yes.” I gesture around. “Coby claimed that he had no idea what was on the servers, claiming to be ‘just the tech guy.’ We booked him, anyway, for the child pornography.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Briscoe asks.
“Well, the prosecutor, my partner, my lieutenant, and myself.”
“And what are their names?”
I watch myself flinch in the mirror, not wanting to implicate anyone. You’re not pointing fingers. Answer the question. “Detective Tomas Goran, Lieutenant Jane Fishner, and myself. Also present was Assistant Prosecutor Julia Becker.”
&nbs
p; “Continue.”
“At some point, right around the twenty-four-hour mark and under a bit of pressure, Coby gave us an address. We—”
“What kind of pressure?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Marutiak says.
“Is it? I mean, we’re discussing excessive use of force here.” He’s not grinning anymore.
“It’s fine,” I say. “The kind of pressure we put on people. We threw his finances at him, his priors. That kind of thing.”
Briscoe sits back in his chair, and my leg starts to jiggle beneath the table. I will it to stop.
“The address he gave was for an apartment on the West Side. My lieutenant told my partner and me to go get him. Our goal was to bring him in for questioning and nothing more. We had other members of our squad confirm that a man named George Arsalan did indeed reside at that address.” My mouth goes dry, but I avoid pouring any water. Julia’s advice echoes in my head. Just answer the questions.
“Would you like some water?” Briscoe asks.
“I’m fine, thanks. Goran, my partner, and I arrived near the address at approximately twenty-three hundred hours, accompanied by two zone cars—cruisers. We noticed that there was an alley in the back with a fire escape leading to what we assumed was his apartment.”
“What caused you to make such an assumption?”
“The address that Coby gave us included an apartment number, 4B, so our assumption was that he lived on the fourth floor, the top one.”
“Continue.”
“There appeared to be three entrances to the building. My first inclination was to have the zone cars cover the front and the side, leaving Goran and me on the fire escape.”
“What caused that inclination?”
“It would have been obvious for him to go out the front or the side. The fire escape would have been risky, but we’re trained to predict the unpredictable.”
He nods.
“So that’s what we did. While I parked the car, my partner went back into the alley to cover the fire escape, with the uniforms on the two main egresses.
“I got out of the car and started into the alley to meet my partner, at which time I witnessed a man fire three shots at my partner from the fire escape. Fortunately, Goran rolled behind several trash cans and wasn’t hit. Two bullets hit the trash cans, and one hit a brick wall behind him.”
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