We end up in a very metal-and-white space. A small Hispanic man greets us and leads us over to where Sims and Roberts stand next to a pile of laundry. “Laundry done every day,” the man says. “Laundry no good to you. Trash another story.”
I shake my head. “You guys, we need to get Patrol out here.”
Roberts tosses me a pair of gloves. “Or we could do it ourselves and save the time and bullshit.”
Sims tips his head at his partner and attempts a smile.
I make a face. “Or we could follow procedure and get Patrol to do it.” I tap my phone and call for four patrol officers.
About two hours later, after we’ve watched four disgruntled uniforms comb through reams of disgusting detritus and find nothing of interest, my phone rings with an unknown number. I hesitate before answering but only just. “Detective Boyle.” I glance at the clock—it’s after five already.
“Hi, Detective. This is Lee from the tattoo shop? You were here earlier. I just wanted to let you know that I heard noises upstairs. I think our douchebag is home. Sounds like he’s moving furniture around.”
Jesus, enough time has passed that he’s home? “Thanks. Someone will be by soon.”
“Boyle!” Goran calls. “Patrol got a hit! Maxwell is home. We gotta go get him. See? I told you I should have stayed in the lobby.”
I look sympathetically at Sims and Roberts.
“What’s this?” a uniform asks, pulling something from the trash.
“That looks like the tape Micalec found at the scene,” Roberts replies from across the room.
I slip my gloves off, and Goran does the same. “Bag it. Bag the whole section. We’re going to pick him up,” I say, “but keep going here. Get everything you can.”
They both nod at me, and Goran and I take off for the car. “It’s all circumstantial,” I say. “And I’m driving. Keys. You call Fishner.”
“Yeah, until Jo gets us a DNA hit. Have faith, Boyle.” He tosses me the keys, and I catch them. He fumbles with his phone but eventually holds it up to his ear.
We sprint to the car and get in, and I pull away as fast as I can.
“We’ve got a hit on Maxwell,” he says into his phone as I drive. “Right. I know it’s circumstantial, but both Patrol and the witness put him back at his apartment.”
I gun it through a yellow light.
“He was at the Renaissance. We witnessed him get onto an elevator with Joe Mattioli, a younger man, and two women.” Another pause. “We have enough,” he says. “We’re bringing him in for questioning.”
I make the ten-minute drive in half that and slam the Charger into Park behind the orange Camaro. Operating purely on instinct, I get out of the car, make sure Goran is behind me, and move toward the door with my hand on my weapon.
Goran rings the bell then pounds on the door. Behind it, there’s the sound of someone coming down the stairs, then it opens.
Elias Maxwell greets us with a grin. “Oh, hi. Come on in.”
I keep my hand on my Glock and follow him up the narrow stairs, half expecting an ambush.
“Let’s not mess around,” Goran says from behind me. “Are you Elias Maxwell?”
He faces us once he reaches the landing. “Indeed I am.” He holds his arms out and flexes, just like the silhouette on the BodMachine logo. “And I’ll save you a whole bunch of time. I killed Heather Martin. She deserved it. What’s next?”
CHAPTER 23
I’m trying to figure out if Elias Maxwell is on something or otherwise compromised. Most people don’t confess to murder as soon as they see a pair of detectives.
Goran approaches from behind me with his handcuffs in his hand. “Yeah? You killed her? What happened?”
Maxwell faces the wall as if he does this every day. “She just couldn’t shut the fuck up. All she had to do was shut the fuck up, but she couldn’t.”
Goran cuffs him then pats him down. “Were you dating or something?”
Maxwell laughs in a cheerless way that freaks me out. “Not at all. I was her trainer at the gym, and I maybe knew her from somewhere else too.”
Goran flips him around. “Sit.” He points at the top step. “Don’t try to run. You’ll just fall down the stairs.”
We take a quick look around, knowing full well that we don’t have a search warrant, though the confession is probable cause.
I open a drawer in his dresser and find a coil of rope that looks a whole lot like what we found at the murder scene. “Goran!” I call. I take a photo of the evidence in situ.
“We’ve gotta get him to Justice,” my partner says. “We’ll come back with a search warrant and the whole crew. We’ve got the dirtbag.”
We get him into the car with little fanfare, other than the fact that he doesn’t shut up. They usually go silent or speak purely in obscenities, but this guy is off his leash, going on and on about whatever pops into his head. He’s either on drugs or insane.
At some point, he kicks the metal grate behind my head. “I recognize you, Lady Cop.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s great,” I mutter as I hit the turn signal.
“Yeah. I was at my friend’s trial. He got off. I’m kind of surprised you’re still out and about, given all that uncomfortable stuff that happened.”
My blood runs cold.
“Shut up, asshole,” Goran says, “unless you want to tell us more about what you did to Heather Martin.”
I glance at Maxwell in the mirror. He’s grinning. “I beat the shit out of her. She deserved it. She was bad news going back, like, twenty years. And she just couldn’t shut up—the whole time I trained her, she kept saying shit like, ‘I’m punching this heavy bag and imagining Joe Mattioli’s face. I’m doing this dead lift and thinking about kicking the shit out of Jeff O’Connor.’ She couldn’t help herself. She needed to be taken out. Those guys are like family to me.”
I blink fast and grip the steering wheel hard. I feel Goran looking at me. I slide my phone out of my pocket and start recording what this guy is saying.
“You probably deserve it, too, Lady Cop. I mean, you broke the rules, you know? That wasn’t cool.”
I focus on how my hands feel on the wheel.
“That other lady cop too. What was her name? Black chick.”
Neither Goran nor I respond.
“Hey. I’m talking to you. What was her name? Oh, I remember. DuBois. She’d better watch her back. Both of you. You’re too angry. All of you. Best to step out of the way and let men do a man’s work.”
I make a mental note to warn DuBois.
“How do you know Joe Mattioli?” Goran asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Maxwell chuckles.
I glance at him in the mirror again, and he seems to be having a grand old time, a much better one than I would be having if I was going to be arrested for capital murder.
“Yeah, we would,” my partner replies.
“Well, off the record, I was best friends with Giacomo. I’m sure you know that’s Joe’s son, right? Now he’s a cop in Chicago. But whatever. I practically grew up in that house.”
“So you were around when Anna Mattioli was killed?” I ask.
He laughs, and it’s so sinister that I get a chill. “Maybe I was, and maybe I wasn’t. Hey, bucko,” he says to Goran. “What’s it like working with a chick like this? You must get it somewhere else. I don’t really see the two of you doing the nasty.”
“Why’d you do it, man?” Goran asks, and I hear the tension in his voice. “And why make it so easy for us to find you?”
“I’d do anything for my family. Anything. And that bitch had it coming. Like I said. She kept talking shit about Joe, and I couldn’t have that. Joe is like a dad to me. She was gonna go public with a bunch of shit she claims happened back in the day—we all knew it—and I couldn’t let that happen. I figure life in prison is a small price to pay for doing the right thing.”
I raise my eyebrows and blow out a breath. A small price to pay, indeed.
“But while we’re on the subject, I’m not saying anything on the record without my attorney present. You know, I might just get away with it, especially with that bimbo prosecutor of yours.”
“Fat chance,” Goran mutters.
“I can’t believe you got in that elevator, Lady Cop. Did you really think we wouldn’t make you? I guess you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
Hardly anyone is.
WHEN WE REACH THE JUSTICE Center, we all see that a crowd has gathered. “Oh, what’s that?” Maxwell asks from the back seat. “Looks like you guys fucked up again.” He laughs. “Joe’s right. This city is on its way down. It all started with electing a black guy as mayor. What a bunch of bullshit. And that kid deserved it. They all deserve it. We need to clean this city up.”
The crowd, which is made up mostly of brown people, appears to be nonviolent. Several people hold up Black Lives Matter signs, and a woman with a megaphone leads them in prayer.
“Ha—prayer isn’t gonna help you now, sweetheart,” Maxwell says.
I guide the car into the underground parking area, find a spot, and slam it into Park. “Dude, has it ever occurred to you to shut the fuck up?” I can’t help myself.
Maxwell just grins like an idiot.
Goran opens his door, and I follow suit. We exchange a glance before he lets Maxwell out of the car.
“See? That’s what I mean.” He looks at Goran as though he’s holding the Holy Grail. “I’m saying, man, I don’t know how you deal with such a mouthy bitch.”
Goran yanks Maxwell’s arms up behind him to a point that looks uncomfortable.
“You’re on the wrong side of it,” Maxwell says, wincing. “You’re protecting her, but really you should be demanding that she be fired. After all that shit with my boy Grimes, I’d think you’d know. I guess I should tell Joe about you too.”
“What does that mean?” Goran growls. He shoves Maxwell forward, and we all walk to the elevator.
“It means that, now we’re here, I think you should call my lawyer. Jeff O’Connor. I’m sure you know him.” He leers at me.
“What about the bomb? Why do that?”
He laughs again. “My plan was to take all of you the fuck out, along with whatever shithead thug was walking by. Bad neighborhood. Needs to be cleaned up.”
I resist the urge to trip him and watch him fall onto his face, and I can’t help wondering about the Mattioli connection. Surely, this prick didn’t act alone.
WE GET HIM INTO THE interview room, where he takes a couple more cheap shots at me then demands his attorney a few more times. Goran shoves him into a chair and cuffs him to the table. “You piece of shit.”
I stand in the corner, silently seething.
“Jeff O’Connor. Call him. And anything I said back there? Good luck proving it.”
I recorded it, you stupid motherfucker. It feels as if all the blood in my body just caught on fire.
“Call him now, please.” Maxwell winks at me.
Goran watches me carefully, knowing that the recording will never be admissible in court and that I can be volatile.
But not here. Not with this guy, who is just waiting for me to make a wrong step. I blink twice at Maxwell then leave the room with Goran right behind me.
Feeling as though I might puke, I head directly to the bathroom, ignoring my partner. I lock myself in the corner stall and lean against the wall. You know how to do this. Breathe. Just breathe. I obey my own commands for a couple of minutes, but when I’m done, I’m just closer to tears. I leave the stall, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face. After drying with a paper towel, I exit the bathroom.
Fishner is waiting for me next to the vending machines. “My office.”
“I have to call his attorney.”
“No. Goran is handling that. First, you and I are going to have a conversation in my office.” She has her scary-calm voice.
“What the hell did I do now?”
She doesn’t answer. She walks past me and down the hallway, clearly expecting me to follow, which I do.
“Of fucking course Jeff O’Connor is his attorney,” I mutter as we enter her office. “It just figures. He fucking says he did it, and now that’s all we have. That and a necklace with his initials on it and a stupid piece of tape.”
“Boyle, don’t take it personally.” Fishner closes her office door and shuts the blinds on the windows facing the squad room. “You didn’t do anything. But you also can’t be involved in an interrogation with O’Connor present. Not yet. Not given what’s happening outside.”
I walk to the window and look at the street below. More people are arriving at the demonstration, and I hope to everything holy that the cops behave and it stays nonviolent. “He set a trap for us. He tried to kill us with that stupid bomb. And now we can’t do anything about it, and I’m sure as I’m alive that someone put him up to this.” I want to nail him to the wall, and now I can’t. “He confessed. I have the whole thing recorded on my phone. He thinks he did the right thing. He’s proud of it.”
“You have to trust your partner.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling my heart rate drop a tiny bit. I roll my shoulders back and down then face her. “I do trust my partner.”
“Then—”
Suddenly, the rage I’ve been trying to control since that day on the witness stand—maybe for my entire career—comes up from behind my sternum, and I can’t stop myself. I square my stance, crossing my arms across my chest to stop my hands from shaking. “What I don’t trust is this entire culture of bullshit. Misogyny. Racism. Rampant stereotyping. Like, everyone thinks it’s”—I wave a hand toward the door—“because of the Rec Room—and please, unlike everyone else, believe me when I say I’m not a member of a club like that—but it isn’t.”
She starts to speak.
“No. I’m not done. At this point, I’ve got nothing to lose with you, Carrothers, Goran, this whole job... I’ve got nothing to lose. So I’ll say it. All of this is because of stupid little men and their rage at women in power. That guy hates women like me. He hates women like you, like Becker, like Heather Martin. And that fucker O’Connor just enables him and all of the assholes who are just like him.” My eyes feel hot, as if they’re about to pop out of my head, and I’m waving my arms around without really noticing.
“I don’t trust that anyone but me gives two shits about who brutalized Heather Martin like that, and I don’t trust that anything we do will make a difference, beyond placating the brass and keeping the media happy. Maybe we should call the reporters and have them watch the fucking sausagefest that’s about to occur in there. Oh, but wait. They’re too busy covering the demonstration outside, which is peaceful but is sure to include a bunch of cops in riot gear. It’s not a good look. All of this is bullshit.” A little shot of adrenaline hits me when I realize that I’m talking to my boss this way. Whatever. It’s too late now. I’ll be suspended. Maybe I’ll go on vacation.
She takes a breath as if to speak but stops, looking slightly surprised.
“I used to think justice and the law were at least related. If I hadn’t? I would never have testified against Grimes. You know it. You know me. I would have lied. I would have done anything to get out of taking the stand. I would have told Becker to fuck herself. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t genuinely thought he would go to jail for what he did to that guy.”
She eyes me carefully.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment then open them and blink a couple of times. Everything has that weird sharpness, just like it did that day on the witness stand. “And I don’t like it, but what can I say? It’s all bullshit. You know it—I know you know it, and that’s why you’ve been holding back, having secret meetings, tiptoeing around, trying to keep Carrothers happy. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is. Take a stand, Fishner. Quit playing politician and stand up for something for once.” I’m suddenly exhausted, so I drop into one of her visitors’ c
hairs and lean forward, my elbows on my knees. I will not cry in front of her.
But it’s too late. The tears come hot and fast, and I wipe them away with a hand.
She stands in front of me then leans against her desk. “I can’t argue with you.”
“See? I knew you—wait. What?”
“You’re right, and I can’t argue with you. What we need to do is make absolutely certain that all of the evidence aligns against this guy. If someone else was involved, we’ll figure it out. Then we move forward.”
I sit back in my chair. “What does that mean, ‘We move forward’?”
She sighs. “We get an indictment against Elias Maxwell. We try to put our squad back together. Maybe we bring in some kind of group coach or—”
I shake my head. “You aren’t getting it. I’m talking about a much larger problem than this case. I’m talking about what I saw Joe Mattioli say on TV last night. I’m talking about the threats Grimes made against me. I’m talking about threatening phone calls, which I’ve received since the verdict. I’m talking about—”
“Boyle, I get it.” She sits in the chair next to me, and it’s weird. She’s never done that before. She turns to me. “I get it all too well, for reasons I’m not prepared to explain to you right now.” She sighs. “I hear you. And I won’t ask why you didn’t say anything about the threatening phone calls.” She knows me too well.
I blink fast a few times and feel my blood pressure drop. I run a hand through my hair. “What do we do now?”
She gives me a sad smile. “We go watch Goran and Roberts interrogate this guy. We’ll take note of all of it. We’ll use the circumstantial evidence to get concrete evidence, and then we’ll call Becker. We’ll indict him. And then we’ll move on. The only way to change the culture is from inside it. So don’t throw it all away just yet.” She stands. “Okay?”
I stretch my neck.
The Heights Page 24