“I overheard you say a while back that you’ve been reading Joe Mattioli’s book,” she says, rounding her desk to her regular chair as if none of what just happened actually occurred.
“Yeah, on and off. It’s not very good.”
“If what Maxwell said to you in the car is true, we should take a look at him. But we have to be very careful. Don’t roll your eyes.”
“I wasn’t.”
She picks up a pen and balances it between her thumb and forefinger. “If we go down this road, there will be no turning back.”
“Will you quit talking in riddles and just tell me what I am or am not allowed to do?”
She looks very sad and very tired. “Way back when, Mattioli was involved in a group of men who committed acts of violence against women. Heather Martin was one of those women.” She gulps and sets the pen down. “If Maxwell stayed in that house for any length of time, this doesn’t surprise me. None of what’s happening surprises me. I wish it did.”
“Then, what, the fact that Martin and Maxwell are both members of the Rec Room and BodMachine is just coincidence?”
She narrows her eyes. “Probably. It’s a big city, but it’s also a small town. Let me hear the recording.”
I play all twelve minutes of it for her, and she winces twice.
“Seems likely that he met her at one of the two places, developed a relationship with her, realized who she was, and put two and two together.”
“So he genuinely believes that killing her was an ethical act? If Mattioli was like a dad to him, I guess it makes sense. It’s just totally convoluted.”
She nods. “I want you to let Goran and Roberts question him. I will watch. I’ll put Sims on triangulating Maxwell’s location data, and we’ll see if it matches.”
“It will.”
“Well, we have seventy-two hours after we arrest him formally to find out.”
I nod.
“After the questioning, we’ll book him on whatever we can cobble together. I’ll call Becker. I’ll get someone out to search his apartment. Maybe some kind of physical evidence will turn up there.”
“If it does, it’s open-and-shut. Especially if we can get him to confess on the record.” I stand, feeling invigorated enough to work all night and liking her plan. “What do you want me to do about Mattioli?”
“What I don’t know won’t hurt me. Stay under the radar.” She picks up the phone receiver. “I’ve got to call Becker. Go get some fresh air, and I’ll meet you in the observation room.”
I nod.
I just went off on my boss.
The only way to change the culture is from inside it.
CHAPTER 24
I do as I’m told and go outside for some air. The rain has stopped, replaced with bright sun, puffy clouds, and blue sky. I stand in the sun and wish, not for the first time, that I smoked. It would get me outside more.
Wondering what’s happening with the demonstration, I decide to walk over to Public Square for a minute. They’re still working on major renovations over here, but it’s always been one of my favorite parts of the city.
I perch on the edge of the outdoor amphitheater and watch a small gaggle of remaining protesters head down Ontario. I glance at my watch. It’s already six thirty, so there’s no way that Goran and Sims are going to be able to take their kids trick-or-treating. It sucks. Then again, it’s an occupational hazard. It occurs to me, also not for the first time, that in some ways, I’m an ideal cop. I don’t have a family. I don’t have a relationship anymore. I’m closer to my partner and boss than I am to almost anybody else. It’s too bad I didn’t perjure myself on the stand. It would have meant I could stay an ideal cop.
A group of high schoolers make their way through the square in their Halloween costumes. When they reach the amphitheater, they line up, and someone takes their picture.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to remember my last Halloween costume. I squint at the yellow leaves on the trees and recall my dad dressing us as the Three Stooges—it must have been the year before my sister died. I chuckle when I imagine Christopher dressed as Curly, my little sister as Moe, and me as Larry.
To stop myself from getting lost in reverie, I push off the concrete ledge. My phone buzzes in my pocket. We’re ready, Fishner says. She actually sent me a text message.
As I walk to the Justice Center, I try to get my head around the meaning of “What I don’t know won’t hurt me.” It’s not like her—she’s usually a micromanager, and she’s never told me to violate policy and procedure before.
Then again, that’s not exactly what she meant. She said to “stay under the radar.” I wonder whether that means I’m to fly solo on my off-the-books investigation of Joe Mattioli. I guess the first thing I should do is finish his book—it might lead me toward asking the right questions. As it stands, the only things I have to go on are Fishner’s allegations, which are off the record, a suspect’s illegally recorded rant, which is off the record, and an alleged connection between that suspect and the retired detective.
I won’t be able to talk to Mattioli directly, at least not at first. I’m too much of a liability to be tasked with questioning a misogynist like him. But I also can’t ask any of the guys in my squad to do it, not if I’m staying under the radar. Fishner must not think he’s involved in the homicide. The alternative makes no sense.
A kid on a motorized scooter almost knocks me over as I stride down Ontario. At least he apologizes.
I push through the side door of the Justice Center then end up on the elevator with a couple of uniforms who look at me but don’t say anything. It’s unclear whether they’re deliberately giving me the cold shoulder. They get off on the floor below mine.
When I step off the elevator, the first thing I see is Fishner, who stands near my desk with Captain Carrothers and Julia Becker. Oh, so it’s gonna be that kind of party. I sigh and head down the hallway to the vending machine, where I buy a can of sparkling water.
Fishner catches my eye as I approach my desk. She gives me the look that means “I hope you’re going to behave yourself in front of the captain.” Becker gives me a wan smile and a little wave.
Carrothers just glares at me. “Detective Boyle, nice of you to join us.” He obviously stifles a sneer.
What the hell did I do to deserve this? There’s no point in wondering. The proof is in the pudding. In the interest of professional decorum, I give him a little salute then turn to Fishner. “Where’s Goran?”
“In the conference room with Roberts and Sims, filling Roberts in on the information you gleaned in the car while Sims gets location data.”
“Are we getting an arrest warrant?” I ask Becker.
She nods. “But we’re going to need more than the evidence collected so far to indict him.”
“Maybe he’ll confess again.”
Carrothers crosses his arms. “What, exactly, did he say in the car?”
At this point, I have nothing to lose. I pull my phone out of my pocket, open the voice-recording app, and play the recording for him.
About six minutes in, right as Maxwell starts to talk about Joe Mattioli, Carrothers waves a hand. “That’s all I need to hear.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose then shakes his head.
I feel you, buddy. “Is O’Connor here?”
Becker nods. “He’s meeting with his client now.”
I sip my water and wait for someone to announce what’s happening next.
Carrothers glares at me again. “It’s damned unfortunate that you have such a problem with Jeff O’Connor, given that you’re exactly the right person to interrogate this suspect.”
I shrug. “No disrespect, sir, but it’s not entirely my fault that I have a problem with Jeff O’Connor.”
Fishner changes her face into the “Don’t fuck this up” look.
He nods. “Well, it’s unfortunate. That’s all I’m saying.” He faces Fishner. “I’m sticking around for this. We need to vindicate Mat
tioli before the press gets wind of their connection.”
I stop myself from wincing. The observation room is small, and one of the last people I want to be in there with is Carrothers, who is not setting a good example of how to run an investigation. We can never set out to vindicate this person or that person—we have to follow the evidence. Full stop.
Sims comes barreling out of the conference room, looking as though he has news. “Location data matches.”
“That was fast,” I reply.
“I have my ways. He was at home when the tattoo witness saw him, at the Rec Room that evening, and at the Renaissance until—”
“That dumb fuck. Did he want to get caught?”
“If he thinks he’s avenging the men of the world, yes,” Becker says.
Carrothers raises an eyebrow and makes a strange sound.
“More specifically, he thinks he’s avenging Joe Mattioli,” Fishner says.
“I do not want Mattioli involved in any of this,” Carrothers says firmly. “This is not an investigation of him or his family.” He points down the hall, where Maxwell and O’Connor sit in a room. “Your job is to put that guy where he belongs.” He turns to Becker. “And your job is to keep Mattioli’s name out of the record.”
She looks affronted. “With all due respect, Captain, I do not work for the Division of Police, which means that you do not hold rank over me. I work for the prosecutor, and I have an ethical and legal obligation to include on the record anything that might be necessary to this case.”
I want to hug her.
The look on his face says it all. He puffs out his chest and turns to Fishner. “As I said. Put Maxwell where he belongs, and keep Mattioli out of it. I’ll call the prosecutor’s office and see if we can work out a deal.” He walks down the hall.
“Yes, sir,” she replies softly. She and I exchange a glance, and I give her a tight nod.
“Like hell you’ll work out a deal,” Becker mutters under her breath. She’s red-faced and tense—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her so angry.
“Uh, guys? Do you want to know more about the location data before we question the guy?”
Carrothers turns around. “Yes, Detective.”
Sims steps over to us with a map printout and two highlighters, and I gesture for him to use my desk. We circle around. “He was at home at seven o’clock.” He puts a green dot on the map. “Heather Martin’s phone was there too.” He puts a yellow dot on the map. “He was at the Rec Room at least between eight thirty and eleven—he received several text messages during that time.” He puts a green dot on the map. “Heather Martin’s phone was also there during that time.” Yellow dot.
“Where it gets interesting is when he gets to the hotel.” Green dot. “She was also there, but her phone goes dead at midnight.” Yellow dot. “His does not. At approximately two twenty a.m., he gets a text message triangulated to a tower at East 105th and Superior.” He puts a green dot there. “He must have shut his phone off after that. It goes quiet until late the next day, when he’s back at home.”
“Look at where Lake View Cemetery is,” I whisper, pointing at a spot close to East 105th and Superior. “That’s exactly the route I would take to go from the hotel to that cemetery.”
Becker nods. “It’s still circumstantial, but it adds a lot. I can go to a judge with this.”
“That’s not all,” Sims says, looking giddy. “On Sunday, the day we found her car? Location data puts him in that area too.” He puts a green dot on the map next to Fairfax Park. “Then it goes quiet again until Monday, when he’s back at home.”
“Let’s keep adding charges,” Becker says. “Nice work, Detective.”
Sims grins. “Thanks.”
“Have you found any other numbers repeating the same pattern?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “Not yet, but I’ll get on it. It could take a while. It’s a lot of data.”
“It’s time to question him,” Fishner says. “Sims, will you please get Goran and Roberts? Tell them we’ll be in the observation room, ready when they are. You work on getting all of this into a report.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. He goes back into the conference room.
Carrothers heads down the hall, and Fishner faces me. “Boyle, you and Sims see if you can get any video evidence from the Renaissance’s backup server, and then talk to the witnesses and see if they have anything on Maxwell.” She looks at the crime board. “Martha Rodgers, Mistress Natalia. Anything you can.”
So she’s playing the Maxwell-is-guilty angle. But what about Mattioli? “Ten-four, boss.” I don’t really want to stand in a room with Carrothers, anyway.
She nods and follows the captain down the hallway. I flounce into my chair and pick up our Nerf football.
“Liz, do you have a minute?” Becker asks, barely above a whisper. “Just quickly.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you about a few things.” She looks worried.
“Is everything okay? Are you okay?” I set the football on my desk and sit up.
She smiles, but it’s forced. “I’m fine. I just need to talk to you about a couple of things. Are you free later?”
I run a hand through my hair. “It kind of depends on what happens here. I think so?” I force a laugh. “I mean, I don’t really have any social plans, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She looks back and forth. “It’s kind of important, but we can’t talk here, and I have to run to catch Judge Cole before he leaves for the day if we’re going to get this warrant.”
“Yeah, just let me know when and where.”
She nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fairly sure.” She picks her briefcase up from my visitors’ chair. “Gotta run. You’ll hear from me later.” She turns to leave.
“Okay.” This job gets weirder and weirder every day.
CHAPTER 25
Sims and I haven’t worked this closely together before, so it’s interesting to see how he operates. We sit at opposite ends of the table in the conference room. He’s busy digitizing his map—it’ll look better on the record that way—while I make a series of phone calls. From time to time, he squints at his screen and either smiles or grunts.
The first call is to Veronica Keaton at the Renaissance. Even though Jo Micalec is likely to get some physical evidence from the trash, it would be good to have surveillance footage, too, especially if Mattioli or one of his other cronies was involved. She doesn’t answer, and I don’t leave a message.
The second is to Mistress Natalia, who I guess has allowed my phone number through the voice-verification service. “Detective, how are things? Have you considered my offer?”
“I’m actually calling to ask you to come in at some point tonight or tomorrow. We need to get a statement from you on the record.”
“You have found the killer?”
I want to tell her to knock off the fake accent, but whatever. “We have a suspect in custody, and we need your statement as part of gathering evidence for the case.”
“I cannot do that.” I can almost hear her lean back in her chair. “It is too risky for my business.”
“Cathy”—I hope that using her daytime name will get her to cooperate with me—“this is a big deal. It’s a murder investigation, and the murder itself was one of the most brutal things I’ve seen in my career. How would your club’s members like it if they knew a dead woman was a dungeon master?” I would never alert the media, but she doesn’t know that.
“What if it goes to trial? Then I will have to testify, no?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “It isn’t likely to go to trial. Over eighty-eight percent of cases in Cuyahoga County end in plea deals.”
She’s silent for a minute. “I have a Halloween party to host tonight,” she says in her Cathy voice. “I can come in tomorrow. Will you be there?”
I hadn’t planned to be here tomorrow, but I guess I can talk to
you. “I can be. What time works for you?”
“One o’clock.”
I tell her where to park and what elevator to take then thank her for her time, half wondering if she’s really going to show. All we need from her is confirmation that Elias Maxwell and Heather Martin were involved in a BDSM relationship at the Rec Room—should the case go to trial, that will be enough for a jury. Most people make judgments. It’s just how the world works.
The third call is to Lee at Artistic Renderings. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message: “Lee, this is Detective Boyle. We spoke earlier. I’m calling to thank you again”—I mean, the guy identified the necklace and tipped us off when Maxwell got home earlier—“and ask that you give me a call back at your earliest convenience. I’d like to get your statement on the record. I know we made arrangements for tomorrow, and I’d like to confirm a time. Thanks.”
My fourth call is to Martha Rodgers, the primary witness from the bomb scene, but a disembodied voice tells me that her number is no longer in service. I’ll have to go see her.
Just as I toss my phone onto the table, Sims gives a little cheer and pumps his fist in the air. “Shit, Boyle, I just nailed this guy’s coffin shut.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he turns the laptop to face me.
“He posted a photo on Instagram of one of those creepy statues at Lake View—early on Sunday morning.”
“It’s as if he wanted us to catch him,” I mutter. Which probably means he’s covering for someone else. “Good work, Sims.” I eye him for a minute.
“I never thought it would be so easy. Man, when I got this assignment, I was sure it would be like the other cases y’all have had in the past. Y’know, convoluted shit.”
“It’s never that easy. It is never easy. Just because we have our guy... Think of it this way: if he didn’t want to be caught? We wouldn’t have caught him. A woman is dead.” And the entire city is crumbling. I tap my pen on the table until I realize it’s a Fishner mannerism. “If you want my opinion, it’s more convoluted this way. They never confess.”
“Yeah, I hear you. I didn’t mean it that way. I just got excited about the digital stuff. I mean, it’s my whole game, you know? And this dumbass—I mean, he posted on Instagram.”
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