“He might not confess on the record.” And it isn’t a game, but I know what you mean.
He nods. “I know.” He takes a breath as if to speak, but his phone rings. “Sims. Uh-huh? That’s great, Ms. Keaton. Can you send it to me? Yes, that’s my email. I’ll wait.” About thirty seconds later, his computer dings. “Okay, just let me check it—thanks for sending a zip file.” He clicks around then grins. “Okay, this is perfect,” he says. “I’ll be by later to get the server itself, but this will work in the meantime. Thanks.”
I stretch my shoulders. “Anything good?”
He grins. “We’ll see. Looks like I’m lookin’ at this all night.”
I stand. “Don’t forget about the other phone triangulations. I have to run out to see a witness. I’ll be back”—I glance at my watch—“in about an hour. Will you tell Goran and Boss Lady I’ll be back no later than eight?”
“Sure thing,” he replies, focusing on the screen.
I leave the conference room, walk to my desk, grab my coat and bag, and head down the stairs to the car. If we can connect Maxwell to the bomb in Martin’s SUV, he’ll go away for a very long time.
I have to bypass Public Square because of the Halloween celebration there—it’s nice that the rain seems to be holding off, and I suppose it’s good that the protest appears to have ended. It takes me about eight minutes to get to Fairfax Park, using my lights to fly through red lights.
I pull up in front of Martha Rodgers’s house and kill the lights. The neighborhood is deserted. I shove the door open, and a strong gust of cold wind blows down off the lake.
Her porch light is on, as are several lights inside, but no one answers the door when I knock. BooBoo, her dog, barks behind it, and I move to the left to look in the window. It looks like a nice, well-kept house, but there’s no Martha Rodgers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a zone car creeping around the corner, probably just doing a regular patrol. It slows to a stop behind the Charger and idles—it looks as though the guy behind the wheel is running a check on his computer, which is odd as hell, given that the Charger is a police vehicle.
Something in my gut tells me to stay exactly where I am instead of approaching the car, and I don’t like it. Becker’s words echo in my head, telling me to be careful. I shouldn’t be here alone. I should have gone on the record about the threatening phone calls. I’m no superhero.
Two male officers exit the vehicle. My hand automatically moves to my Glock, but I put on a big grin and wave them over, wishing that Goran was here with me.
“Evening, Detective,” the older and bigger one says. I recognize him from somewhere and watch him shut off his body camera. “Looking for someone?”
I squint at his name badge: Householder. “Just trying to get a last-minute witness statement.” My voice shakes, and I hope they didn’t hear it.
“Yeah? From who, the person who lives here?”
I nod. As he approaches, the dog goes bonkers behind the door. His partner stays back, which I find odd. Householder climbs the stairs, and I instinctively turn so that I have room to run if I need to.
He gets a little too close to my face, but I refuse to step backward even though he has six inches and about eighty pounds on me. “And who might that be?” he asks with a sneer.
“Look, Householder, I really don’t have time for—”
He jams a finger into my sternum, and it hurts. “You have time for what I say you have time for, rat.”
“Seriously? You’re doing this on a witness’s porch?” I fumble in my pocket for my phone.
“Don’t bother calling anyone,” he says.
He leers at me, and I place his face. He was at the Grimes trial. Shit. I resist the urge to run—his partner appears to be waiting for me to do just that. He stands about fifteen feet from the porch with his hand on his weapon.
He reaches to grab my shoulder, and the door opens. BooBoo runs out, barking and growling at Householder but ignoring me. The big man takes a step away from the dog but keeps his eyes on me.
“Now, BooBoo,” Martha Rodgers says, “be nice to the man.” She eyes him with suspicion. “Detective, how are you?”
“I’m fine.” I thank everything holy that I’m telling the truth. “I just have a couple of follow-up questions for you. Do you have a few minutes?”
She watches BooBoo do his business in the yard then whistles for him. He comes running up the stairs and growls when Householder moves away from me.
“Come on in,” she says, holding the door ajar.
“Thanks, Householder. I’ll see you around,” I say to the man.
He gives me a menacing grin. “Yeah. You will. Until then, Boyle.” He smiles at Martha. “Ma’am.”
I follow the older woman into her home. As she stands at the door and watches them leave, BooBoo takes a flying leap at a recliner in the corner then curls into a ball. “Sorry it took me so long.” She faces me. “I was in the bath. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Why are you being nice to me? “I’m fine, but thanks. Do you mind if I sit down?” My heart is beating too fast, and I don’t feel very well.
“Of course.” She extends a hand, indicating for me to sit on the couch. “Do you mind if I ask what was going on out there just now? You sure you don’t want some water? You look a little pale.”
Why was my instinct to run from him instead of fight him? “A glass of water would be great. Thank you.”
She nods, clearly concerned about me. While she’s in the kitchen, I put my head between my legs and take several deep breaths, hoping the color returns to my face. You’ve never been scared like this before, Boyle. Get it together. Get it together.
“It looked to me like he was bothering you,” she says as she hands me the glass of water.
I take several sips then set the glass on a nearby coaster. She sits in another chair across from me.
This is so amazingly unprofessional that I don’t even know what to say. “He was bothering me. Thank you for opening the door when you did.”
“Yup. I knew it. I can recognize an angry white man from ten miles away.” She nods slowly.
I clear my throat and attempt a smile. “We’re making an arrest, and I wonder whether you would be willing to look at some photos. Maybe you would recognize the man who set up the bomb?”
She nods. I pull my iPad from my bag, set Maxwell’s photograph into a six-pack with five other men’s BMV shots, and hold it up for her. She takes a pair of reading glasses out of her robe pocket and perches them on her nose before taking the device from me. She looks at each face in succession before her eyes move back to the upper right—Maxwell. “That’s him,” she says. “I mean, I think that’s him.” She hands the iPad to me.
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be. I only caught a glimpse of his face, but single ladies like me need to pay attention.” She removes her glasses. “You know what I mean?”
I nod and create another six-pack that includes Mattioli’s photo. “Recognize anyone here?”
She points at the retired detective. “Him, but only from TV, up on talk shows talkin’ about how his shit don’t stink.”
I chuckle. “Just to be sure, can you confirm the number of men you saw outside the other night?”
“Just the one.”
Shit, it won’t be easy. “Would you be willing to give an official statement? Not tonight but in the next couple of days?”
“Of course. Girl, you still don’t look right. Is it about that policeman who got away with beating up the black man? Oh, wait. You was the cop who testified against him.” She smiles.
She must watch Channel Three. “Something like that.”
She nods wisely. “I thought so. That motherfucker should have gone down. Whole city is gearing up for demonstrations. Good for you, girl. Good for you.”
I’m a little surprised by her use of the f-bomb, but I let it go. I give her a wan smile. “Yeah, he should have.” I s
tand. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Rodgers. And for the water.”
“You tell me where to go and when, and I’ll give you that statement.” She follows me to the door. BooBoo looks up but doesn’t move from the recliner.
I take out my wallet and remove a business card.
“I already got your card,” she says. “Justice Center. What floor? And when?”
“Tomorrow at twelve thirty work for you?”
She nods. “I’ll see you then. And I’ll wait for you to get in your car and pull away before closing this door.”
This is a brave woman. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I step onto the porch and make sure Householder is gone then pull my phone from my pocket and call Fishner. She doesn’t answer, but I pretend as though I’m talking to her as I walk to the car, just in case. Once I’m in and unscathed, I lock the doors, start the engine, and pull away from the curb. I should tell Goran what happened. I should tell Fishner. I should tell someone, but I can’t—I’m not a snitch.
As I’m driving, I can’t help it—I start to cry. It’s not bathroom-meltdown level, but there are definitely tears. I think about the “tools I can use,” as Dr. Shue would put it, and try to place the emotion. She would be so proud.
It’s fear, sure. But mostly, I’m crying out of relief that they didn’t hurt me, and gratitude for Martha Rodgers, who probably never in a million years expected to be helping a Cleveland Special Homicide detective hold her shit together.
My phone buzzes as I’m pulling onto Ontario. It’s Goran. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Hello to you too. We got him. Becker got the warrant, and we’re sending him to booking. She’s gonna go for the indictment tomorrow.”
“On a Saturday?”
He chomps his gum. “High-profile case. What’s happening on your end? Where are you?”
“Just got a positive ID from the Fairfax Park witness. She can place him at the bomb scene.”
“Yes! Hell yes, Boyle!”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Where are you now?”
“Pulling into the parking garage.”
“We’re all going for drinks. Meet you downstairs?”
“What about reports?” I ease the Charger down the ramp and into its spot.
“We can do those in the morning. C’mon, Boyle. Why aren’t you happy about this? Fishner’s gonna buy rounds. Becker’s even coming. It’s a good night.”
“I am happy about this. Sure. Meet me down here.” I’m not really in the mood to celebrate, but it’s tradition, and I would just as soon not go home alone.
I have a brief back-and-forth in my head about whether or not to tell him what happened, ultimately deciding on not. He’ll just worry. “See you in two minutes.”
I end the call and trudge to the Passat, unlock it, get inside, and start the engine. I let my head fall back against the headrest. Goran’s new Chrysler is parked on my left, and I gaze at its shiny splendor as I wait for him.
He knocks on my window, and I force a big grin. I roll the window down and give him a half-assed high five.
“Good work, partner,” he says.
I mumble the same.
“Meet you at Smitty’s. The guys are following. I think Carrothers is even coming.”
Oh, great. “Sure. Meet you there. I’ll follow you.” If I follow him, he’ll get out first and wait for me. It makes me sick that I feel like I need him—or someone—to protect me. I shake my head. Once he pulls away, I do the same.
It takes only a couple of minutes to get to Smitty’s, where we’re obviously going to crash a Halloween party. It’s a cop-and-firefighter bar, and I try to shove paranoid thoughts out of my head. What if Householder is here? I stare at myself in the rearview mirror. No. Don’t do that. That’s what they want. Go inside and have a good time.
I kill the engine. Goran waits for me behind my car, looking positively giddy. “So you’re back to your regular jovial self?” I ask as I approach him.
“Hey, I was worried. Arresting this scumbag is the best thing I’ve done all week.” We start walking to the door. “It sucks I missed trick-or-treat, but Vera sent me pictures. Look.” He shoves his phone in front of my face, looking like the proud papa that he is. “Wait. Look.” He zooms in on his daughter Lily’s face. “Isn’t she adorable? We’re taking them to Boo at the Zoo tomorrow afternoon.”
I chuckle in spite of myself. “Why is Boo at the Zoo on November first?”
He slides his phone back into his pocket and holds the heavy wooden door open for me. “Tomorrow’s the last day. I figure we’ll actually get time off after we knock out those reports.”
“Famous last words,” I mutter.
“I’m taking vacation after tomorrow. I put in for it earlier. I need a few days to catch my breath. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
The bar is filled with people in Halloween costumes—clowns, princesses, furry animals, sexy handmaids, sexy cops, and the like. A few are out of costume, but they’ll probably say they’re dressed as law enforcement. I guess it sort of is a costume.
“Hell, where are we gonna sit?” Goran gestures at the bartender and grins.
“There’s a table in the corner. I’ll meet you over there.” I push past the people in costume, hoping that none of them want to assault or kill me, and make my way to the corner, where I position myself with my back against the wall, facing the door. Householder and his partner are probably on until midnight, which gives me a couple of hours to pretend to enjoy myself.
I play with my phone. I just want to tell someone what happened, but I don’t want to be a buzzkill at this party. Goran returns minutes later with two pitchers, Fishner, Roberts, Sims, and Becker. They all file in around the table, and Goran pours a beer for each of us.
“What is this pissy light beer?” I ask in a poor attempt at humor.
“It’s better for you than that sludge you drink.” He winks at me.
Fishner stands and holds up her glass. “To the amazing detectives in this squad. You worked well as a team, and I’m proud of all of you.” She catches my eye. “Good work. Cheers.”
We clink glasses and drink our swill. “Did he confess?” I ask Goran at some point a couple of rounds in.
“As good as. O’Connor is worried—this is a losing case, for sure. They’re gonna have to take a plea. With all of what you and Sims got? He’s cooked. What an idiot. Patrol is searching his house now, and I guarantee they come up with tons of evidence. That rope. What an idiot.”
“Most criminals are, lest we forget.”
“True that.” He turns and talks to Sims, and I’m relieved that they appear to be getting along. I still can’t figure out who reported the new guy looking into the old case to the boss.
Becker slides her chair over my way. “Do you have a few minutes after this?” she asks. She seems less nervous than she was earlier, but she’s a hell of a good actress.
I nod, drain my third beer, pour another half, and toss it back. Fishner apparently notices the empty pitcher and gets up to have it refilled. “How about now?” I ask.
“Now could work, but this isn’t the place.”
I glance around at the partygoers, who seem less like they’re staring at me the more I have to drink. I check my watch—it’s only eight thirty. “Want to go get some food?” I ask.
She nods, and we both stand. I lean down to Goran. “I’m starving. Julia and I are going to grab a bite. Call me in the morning?”
He wiggles his eyebrows, and I smack his shoulder. “It’s not like that. You know this.”
Thankfully, she is focused on a conversation she’s having with Fishner.
I don’t give a shit anymore what they think. Let them say I’m sleeping with her. I just don’t care. I’m too tired to care. I say good night to the guys, but Fishner stops me as Julia walks to the door. “Good work, Boyle. Remember what I said. Please be careful.”
I nod. “Good night, boss.” Then I follow Becke
r to the exit.
The cool, almost cold, autumn air is a relief when it hits my face, even if the rain has started again. “Where to?” I ask.
She pulls her coat more tightly around her. “I’m fine with whatever, as long as it’s on our side of town.” She means the East Side. I live in Cleveland Heights, and she has a condo in neighboring Shaker Heights.
“How about The Pub? It just opened not long ago. I’ve been there once. It’s decent.”
A man in a Jason mask exits the bar and looks at us. I look from him back to Julia, but she seems unconcerned. He turns away from us, pushes up his mask, and lights a cigarette.
She nods. “I’ll meet you there.”
ONCE WE’RE SEATED IN a cozy booth at the pub, I order a real beer. Julia orders a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. “Are we really having food or just a conversation?” I ask.
She takes a sip of water. “I’m just going to come out with it, and then we can decide. I strongly suspect jury tampering in the Grimes case, and I’m concerned that the same thing will happen with O’Connor as Elias Maxwell’s attorney.”
The server returns with our drinks. I take three large swigs of my beer. “No shit? Who’s O’Connor working with? The bailiff?”
“That’s my guess. I just have to prove it.”
“And what then?”
“Well, we would go to trial ag—”
“No. I won’t do that again.”
“Liz, just listen. We would go to trial again, and he would likely be convicted. If we can prove jury tampering, O’Connor will be disbarred.”
“I won’t do it again.”
“Even though you did the right thing?”
I bark out a bitter laugh. “I may have done the right thing, but now Fishner is asking me to work off the books, and that’s not even to mention a uniform threatening me in front of a witness tonight or the threatening phone call I got yesterday. I’m not doing it again. It will get me killed. These people are for real, Julia.” Yes, you will do it again. You can only change it from inside, and Grimes deserves prison.
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