He nods. “You have a point.”
An African-American woman enters behind us. She sees the badge on my hip, makes a face, and visibly avoids us. She scans her card, mutters something, and continues down the hallway. She disappears through a brushed-nickel door that I assume is the locker room.
Adam returns with a fortysomething man who is also clad in black and gray. “This is Jon. He’s the manager.”
“What’s this about?” Jon asks Goran.
I take a step back, since it’s clear that Jon regards me as the sidekick.
“We’re looking for Eli,” my partner replies. “We just have a couple of questions for him. It’s totally routine.”
Not so much, especially given that they’re connected both here and at the Rec Room, but good lie, partner. We lie to stop people from freaking out.
Jon crosses his arms across his sizable pecs. “Eli isn’t here today.”
“Yeah, Adam said he called off. Any idea why?”
Jon frowns, and his posture goes rigid. “It’s none of my business. I don’t ask what Eli does when he isn’t here.”
Goran leans forward onto the counter, trying to cultivate a buddy-buddy feel. “Hey, man, I promise this is routine and has nothing to do with this place. When was Eli here last?”
Jon’s jaw flexes, and he looks at me then back at Goran. I manage a smile when we make eye contact. “He hasn’t been here all week. Something about having to go out of town, his sister is sick. You know the drill. It’s probably bullshit.”
Adam’s phone whistles again, and he snatches it up from the counter. He laughs then goes into the fitness room with it. The African-American woman emerges from the locker room and meets him near a squat rack. He slides his phone into his pocket and high-fives her.
“Where’s his sister live?” Goran asks.
“Columbus, I think. But like I said. It’s probably bullshit. The guy’s a good trainer, but he’s on the bubble. In fact, I just decided that he’s fired.”
I arch an eyebrow.
Goran stops leaning, reaches into his pocket, then palms a business card. “You have a home address for him?”
“Probably. But can’t you get that from public records? I really don’t have time for this.” He uncrosses and recrosses his arms, and I start to wonder what his deal is.
“Sure, we can. But why not make it easy for us?”
“I’m not in the business of making things easy for people. If you have a warrant or a membership, you can come in. Other than that? Have a good day.”
Run-of-the-mill asshole. I turn to leave.
“Here’s my card,” Goran says as I push through the door and enter the lobby. I make it to the front doors by the time he’s out of the club.
We walk through the cold rain and to the car together in silence.
Once in and belted, I type Elias Maxwell’s home address into my phone. “Looks like we’re going to Ohio City.” I sip my coffee, which is cold.
“If he’s been calling off all week, then—”
“Then we need to find him and question his ass.”
It starts to rain harder, so Goran turns the wipers and headlights on before pulling away from the curb.
ELIAS MAXWELL’S ADDRESS turns out to be a tattoo shop nestled among restaurants and boutiques with what looks to be a small apartment above it. We park then exit the vehicle. “Damn, this is the kind of rain that hurts,” I mutter.
Goran pops a toothpick into his mouth. “How do you think we get up there?”
“Maybe around back?” We walk down an alley and behind the building.
“Bingo.” I point at an orange Camaro that’s parked next to a plain brown back door in a small alcove. “And there’s a mailbox.”
“Think there’s another way in and out?”
“Probably, if it’s a rental.”
“How ’bout I block him in with the car and we go from there?”
“Works for me. I’ll go talk to the tattoo people once you’re back here. We can ambush him.”
He nods and trudges to the car.
I walk to the door in hopes that the alcove will block the rain. I wonder if Cora has gotten tattooed here. I stop myself again and survey the area. The gravel parking lot is occupied by Maxwell’s car, a dumpster, and what appears to be a smoking area for the tattoo shop.
Goran rumbles to a stop, wedging the Camaro into its spot. I give him a little wave then walk around the building to the front door. A big gust of wind blows rain against my back, and I wonder why the hell I didn’t wear a raincoat today.
An electronic bell goes off when I enter. A hand-painted sign is mounted in the middle of the wall between the flash art. Artistic Renderings, it says in old-school script. The buzzing sound of a tattoo machine echoes down the hallway even over the black metal that plays on the stereo.
“Be right there!” a guy calls from behind a partition.
I step over to a podium that holds a phone and an appointment book.
The buzzing sound stops. He peeks out from behind the partition. “You want to make an appointment?”
“I’m actually looking for the guy who lives upstairs. You seen him lately?”
The man steps into the hallway, removes a pair of disposable gloves from his hands, throws them into a trash can, and comes my way. He’s tall, skinny, bearded, and covered in tattoos. “Yeah, I think he’s here. His car’s out back. He doesn’t really talk to us.”
I extend a hand. “I’m Detective Boyle. CPD.”
He shakes my hand. “I’m Lee.”
“Are you here every day?”
“Yup. This is my shop.” He gives me a proud smile. “That guy do something?”
“We just have a couple of questions for him. Are there other artists here?”
He nods. “Yeah, but they won’t be in till later. I usually work solo until two or so.”
“Is there another way into his place, other than that door out back?”
“Just a fire escape, but the ladder’s broken. The guy who owns this building sort of sucks.”
“What do you know about the guy who lives upstairs?”
“Who, Maxwell? He’s a complete douche. He drives a Camaro with an automatic transmission. I was out smoking about a week ago, and he was standing back there with some woman, telling her all about how he got a system installed just so he can roll through residential neighborhoods and blast the bass late at night.” He chuckles. “So he’s that kind of idiot.”
“Anything you remember about the woman?”
“Older than him. She looked fit, like, gym-fit. Longish blond hair, nice clothes. I only saw her for a minute or so before I left.”
“Were they arguing?”
He shakes his head. “They looked pretty buddy-buddy to me. I figured they were dating or something.”
“Any idea what day that was?”
He squints at the ceiling. “Friday, maybe? No. Hold on.” He flips a page in the appointment book then nods. “Saturday.”
“You’re sure it was Saturday?”
He nods more vigorously. “Absolutely. I had a regular client right before I saw him out there, and I remember the tattoo.”
“What time was this?”
“Just before it got dark. Six thirty, maybe?”
I slide my phone out of my pocket and bring up the picture of Heather Martin.
“Yeah, that’s definitely her. She was wearing that same necklace,” he says, pointing at the phone. “I only remember because she was wearing all black clothes, so the necklace stood out. And my girlfriend loves jewelry, so I’m always scoping it on other people.”
This guy has a hell of an eye for detail. I guess that’s what you want in a tattoo artist.
“Did you catch what they were talking about or whether she had a vehicle? Anything at all?”
“Nah. I try to avoid that guy. They were just smiling and laughing next to his stupid Camaro. I don’t remember seeing another car.”
“Can you giv
e me the landlord’s info?”
He laughs. “Actually, no. He sends someone by on the first and collects the rent in cash.” He looks sheepish. “It’s not real aboveboard.”
I nod. “Thanks so much for your time, Lee. I really appreciate it.” I remove a business card from my wallet. “If you hear anything weird upstairs, will you give me a call?”
“Absolutely.” He takes the card and puts it in his pocket before gesturing at the partition. “I gotta get back to this client, unless there’s anything else?” He raises his eyebrows to show that he wants to be helpful. And he already has been.
“Would you be willing to head downtown whenever you have a few minutes to give a formal statement?”
“Sure. I’m off tomorrow. Will that work?”
“Perfect. Thanks again.”
He smiles. “Have a good day, Detective. Stay dry out there.”
I return the smile then exit the shop. The rain is turning to sleet, and I pull my blazer around me, cursing myself again for not wearing a heavier jacket or bringing an umbrella.
I take the other way around the building to the alley so that I can scope out the fire escape. Sure enough, the ladder, which should be attached, is lying on the ground next to several paint cans.
As I’m walking to the car, I’m hit with the image of George Arsalan on the fire escape. I fire three shots, and he’s down.
I shake my head, yank open the car door, and drop in next to Goran. “It’s him. Excellent witness—the guy who owns the shop. Says he was here on Saturday evening with Heather Martin.”
“No way.”
“Way. Let’s see if he’s home. Fire escape on the side is disabled.” I lean forward and shake some of the water out of my hair.
We open our doors at the same time, and I round the back of the car to meet Goran near Maxwell’s back door. We huddle under the awning, and my partner rings the bell. “This door probably just leads to a stairway,” I muse.
He begins pounding on the door, but no one answers.
I open the mailbox to find a lot of mail. “He isn’t home. Tons of mail.”
“But his car’s here.”
“If he thinks we’re looking for him, not driving an orange Camaro is probably smart.”
He nods and pulls out his phone. “I’ll get an unmarked to sit on this place.” He requests an unmarked car to this location for surveillance and for all units to be on the lookout for Maxwell.
I tap his shoulder and mouth “Rec Room.”
He requests that another car sit on the club.
“Let’s go talk to the Renaissance people,” I say once he ends the call.
“I thought Roberts and Sims were on that.”
“Yeah, and all of this is taking too long. It can’t hurt. I’ll tell Roberts what we’re doing.” I tap out a quick text message, and he replies almost instantly: We got the warrant for surveillance footage and the room charged to Martin’s card. Sims and I are heading there now. Meet us there?
I hold out the phone, and Goran squints at it.
“Let’s go,” he says.
Thunder rumbles overhead as I type a reply: Be there in fifteen minutes. Meet you out front.
CHAPTER 22
The rain intensifies as we drive, and at one point, Goran has to brake hard behind a pizza-delivery driver. I avoid making a smart-ass comment and instead focus on what we know so far.
It feels too easy. There has to be a layer we’re missing. Even if Maxwell is our guy—and it looks as though chances are good that he is, given the Rec Room and BodMachine connections and the witness’s statement about seeing him with Martin on the night of her murder—we have to find him, question him, and either collect more physical evidence or link him to what we already have. A preliminary search says he doesn’t even have a sister, so he lied to his boss.
I check my watch, see that it’s two forty-five, then text Fishner that all four of us are going to miss the three o’clock briefing.
As usual, she calls instead of replying. “Get surveillance if you can. Do you have any updates?”
Sometimes, I wonder if she calls me just because she loves the melodious sound of my voice. I give her the download on Elias Maxwell.
“Interesting. Okay. I’m off to my lieutenants’ meeting. Keep me informed.”
I continue to silently speculate about what the hell is going on with her. “Ten-four.”
Suddenly, the rain stops, and the sun peeks out from behind dark clouds. Goran chomps his gum with gusto.
“Maybe the girls are in luck for tonight.”
“Yeah, but it sure as hell doesn’t look like I’ll be joining them.” He flexes his jaw.
“We can do our best.”
We pull up in front of the Renaissance, and Goran parks the car behind Roberts and Sims. The four of us open our doors almost simultaneously, get out, then meet to the left of the front door.
The man behind the valet desk comes running over. “You can’t really park here,” he says. “This is for valet guests only.”
Roberts badges him. “This is police business.”
The man looks affronted but returns to his podium when Roberts puffs out his enormous chest.
Goran makes a big show of saying hello to Sims, and Sims rolls with it. “I’m hoping to get done in time to take my son trick-or-treating,” the younger man says. “You got Halloween plans?”
“Yeah, if we can get this guy. I figure we can let him sit on his hands till tomorrow.”
At least they’re playing nice today. I give them the brief version of the day’s events.
Sims nods then turns to Roberts. “Warrant?”
He taps his suit jacket over the inside pocket. “It’s for surveillance footage and the room charged to Martin’s credit card. I’ve been in touch with the security manager, Veronica Keaton, and she’s waiting for us. She says the room has been cleaned since Martin’s stay—assuming that she stayed here—but that it’s vacant right now.”
The four of us head toward the front door. “This is your party,” I say.
The three men shoot me their respective versions of a questioning look.
I nod, and we proceed. I smile in spite of myself as we take turns through the revolving door.
The Renaissance looks like it always does, all gold and marble and money. Goran and I stay back and lean against a pillar as Roberts and Sims approach the counter, ostensibly to ask for Veronica Keaton.
Goran elbows me in the side and gestures to a group of people in costume who are entering the bar.
“What? It’s Halloween.”
“When did Halloween turn into this? What happened to ghosts and goblins?”
I narrow my eyes. “If memory serves, at some point in the eighties.”
“But a sexy handmaid? That’s an insult to the show.”
“Not to mention the book.”
He pops a toothpick.
“You’ve read it, right? The show is great, but the book is a classic.”
“You and your degrees.”
“Don’t start that with me. I’m simply recommending a book based on a TV show that you obviously watch.”
He looks at the front door then faces the pillar. “Don’t look now, but that’s Joe Mattioli.”
I turn and pretend to be talking to Goran, but really, I’m watching Mattioli walk across the lobby. In the flesh, he looks less bloated than he did on TV. He’s about five ten, two forty, and most but not all of it is muscle. He’s traveling with a guy who looks like a younger version of himself, two attractive women, and—
“Goran, it’s Maxwell. He’s here. He’s with Mattioli.”
“Shit.”
“We don’t have an arrest warrant.”
“At least we know where he is.”
“Let’s go to the bar and talk about this.”
“We can’t let him leave our sight.”
“Too late. He’s by the elevator.”
Goran scans the elevator area. “You go. I can’t. Mat
tioli will recognize me.”
“Are you—”
“Just go!” he whisper-yells.
I jog to the elevator and get on with Mattioli’s entourage. I step on just as the doors are closing, slip my badge from its belt clip to my pocket, and pretend to be enchanted with my phone. I make sure to stand right by the door, facing forward so that none of them can see my face. Given what Mattioli had to say about female cops, it wouldn’t surprise me if he knows exactly who I am.
The elevator goes all the way to the top floor, so I have to pretend to be a dumbass. “Wait, what? I thought we were going down.” I put on my Candy Cooper voice, but I’m pretty sure no one buys it. What matters is that they all exit on the top floor. Mattioli leads with Maxwell and the women close behind, and I know they’re headed to the presidential suite. I worked a sexual assault case here years ago, and in spite of the remodeling, the floor plan has to be the same.
The good news is that not a single person pays attention to me. I ride the elevator to the ground floor, where Goran is waiting.
“Presidential suite,” I say. “Confirmed.”
“We have a problem,” he replies. “Robertsims—that name is never going to leave them—are up against a brick wall. Keaton says something happened with the Saturday footage and it got erased.”
“Shit. At least we have Maxwell here, right now. Think we can get a warrant?”
“Not until we do the dirty work,” he replies. “She says we can have a go at the trash. We gotta go talk to the housekeeping people.”
“I just found Maxwell, and I get to go through trash?” I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll wait down here and make sure they don’t leave.”
“We found Maxwell, and we get to go through trash. We can’t do anything more till we get the green light from Fishner. And something tells me we need more evidence for that.”
“Isn’t there some kind of backup for the surveillance?”
“Who knows? Your guy Sims is on it, though. Let’s go see what they’ve got.”
I make a face.
“They went that way.” He gestures through a door marked Employees Only.
I follow him down the hallway and through the door, hoping with everything I’ve got that I don’t have to dig through hotel trash. Used condoms, needles, booze bottles, bloody Kleenex, poopy diapers... Who the hell knows what’s in there?
The Heights Page 23