The Heights

by Kate Birdsall

  “Yeah, but you’ll be bored.” He knows I won’t catch a new one without him, and he’s right to worry about what happens when I’m bored.

  “I’ve got odds and ends to do. I’m sure Fishner will put me back on that floater and maybe assign a case from the shelf. It’s all good. Go to the zoo. Send me pictures.” I hope the boss doesn’t do any of that. I need time to burn Mattioli’s empire to the ground first.

  “Will do. Thanks, Liz.”

  “No problem.” I stand and stretch before taking the last of the reports to Fishner’s mailbox. When I get back, Goran is gone.

  LEE FROM THE TATTOO parlor calls at about eleven thirty to confirm a time. I tell him to come in anytime, and he’s here within fifteen minutes. He’s still a nice, helpful guy, and his statement hasn’t changed.

  Neither has Mistress Natalia’s, although she puts on a big show for me in the interview room. At one point, and only because she’s on my turf, I get slightly irritated, but she still gives me a statement and signs it.

  Same with Martha Rodgers.

  The case against Elias Maxwell is basically a lock. It feels too easy, and I wonder what the hell we’ve missed.

  BECKER CALLS A LITTLE after four to tell me that Maxwell has been indicted on one count of capital murder, one count of kidnapping, one count of felony explosives, and four counts of attempted assault. I grunt and nod and say all the things I’m supposed to say, but it feels forced. I’ve been waiting for the indictment to proceed—even I’m not so stupid as to go out into the city alone until the main bad guy is in lockup—by deep cleaning my apartment all afternoon, and I’m slightly annoyed that I have to stop.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “For the most part, yeah. This all just seems like too much of a lock. Is he gonna take a plea?”

  “It looks that way. My boss is willing to let him plead to murder two, felony explosives, and one count of attempted assault, which will put him away for thirty years.”

  That isn’t enough time, but he’ll never go to trial for any of this. “Parole?”

  “Not a chance in hell. I’m meeting with O’Connor and the judge later today. I’ll make that absolutely clear.”

  “Well, at least another dirtbag will be off the street.”

  “Have you watched the news at all? There’s a huge demonstration on Public Square this afternoon. Are you still downtown?”

  I shake my head then realize she can’t see me. “No, I left hours ago. Have you heard from Fishner today?”

  “No. I gotta run. Keep me in the loop, okay?”

  I chuckle. “Sure.” She’s replaced the flirting with her usual curt tone, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  In spite of the morning’s bright-blue sky, it starts to rain as I’m taking out the trash, and it shows no signs of stopping. It’s just a typical November day in Cleveland. I hear Dr. Shue’s voice in my head, rambling about self-care or some shit, and decide I need to recharge the old batteries before hitting the pavement again. I spend the rest of the day inside my pristine apartment with my cat and my guitar.

  SUNDAY MORNING, I WAKE up early and without my alarm then trudge downstairs for the Plain Dealer. I put on a pot of coffee, feed Ivan, and look out at the rain, which has pulled down most of the golden leaves on the trees behind my building.

  I run to the gym for a quick workout. Once home, I flip on the Channel Three morning news program, but it’s filled with a bunch of garbage about needles in Halloween candy—hint: that never happened—so I shut it off. I turn to the newspaper instead. There’s the usual crap about the president and Congress doing this, that, and the other thing, so I toss the front page to the side instead of allowing myself to be consumed with rage. The local section is all about the local election coming up on Tuesday, and I make a mental note to vote.

  Too much sitting and not enough moving always gets me. The grim weight of the world threatens to hold me down, so I call Josh to see what he’s up to. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a voicemail.

  I haven’t talked to my brother in over a week, so I call him too. No answer. He’s probably still pissed about the football game last week.

  That’s about the extent of my list.

  I run out to grab some beer and snacks for this week’s game and return just in time for kickoff. I grab the Arts & Leisure section of the paper and take it to the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a beer.

  The first thing that catches me is the photograph of a thirtysomething woman in front of a backdrop of books. I read closer: Meet Gillian Swift, Case Western’s literary superstar. That kind of thing isn’t really my bag, but something in the look in her eye makes me keep reading.

  And it turns out that she’s studying police memoirs and documentaries. The article tells me that she hasn’t been in Cleveland long but that she’s published a book about authenticity in memoir and autobiography. At some point, the reporter describes her interest in Joe Mattioli’s book—and conveniently plugs his reading tonight at Blue Owl Books.

  I glance at the TV. The Ravens have already scored a touchdown on the Browns, and there are still thirteen minutes left in the first quarter, so I dig my laptop out of my bag and run a search on Gillian Swift.

  I end up with a number for her office at Case Western Reserve University. I call and leave a message.

  I MUST HAVE DRIFTED off at some point, because I wake up with the weird feeling I always have after naps, as if I’ve lost time and ended up with a jigsaw puzzle that’s missing pieces. I push myself off the couch and notice that it’s dark. Jesus, six hours is a long nap. I make my way into the bathroom, where it occurs to me that now would be as good a time as any to get my head back in the game and go talk to Ray Gibson.

  Back on the couch, I run a quick search. Turns out Mattioli’s old partner lives about an hour from here, so I decide to take the trip out to Lake County to put a face with a name and get the rundown on what really happened back in the day. If it goes well, I might ask him about the possible connection to Heather Martin, but that could get hinky. I’ll play it by ear.

  I shower, brush my teeth, change into my cop clothes, and get ready to go, but then it strikes me that I need to be careful. I’m not so stupid that I think I should go alone. I run through the list of possible people. I need someone who will stay in the car just in case I need help, not someone who will want to be involved with the questioning. I need someone who isn’t part of my squad, because I’m not supposed to be doing any of this, at least not visibly. I also need someone who knows how to handle herself in a potentially dangerous situation and who will have my back if I need her to.

  The list is pretty short, and with Goran on vacation, all roads lead to Cora Bosch.

  I can hear Becker in my head, telling me to be careful, but that doesn’t stop me. I grab my phone from the coffee table and call my ex to ask for one last favor. I’m such an asshole, I think as the phone rings. I should hang up.

  “What’s up?” she asks on the fourth ring.

  “Hey. You busy?”

  She doesn’t speak right away.

  “This is a work thing, not a relationship thing. And I hate myself for even calling you, but I can’t think of anyone else to ask.”

  “Okay...”

  I briefly fill her in.

  She sighs. “Seriously?”

  “I’m sorry. And thank you for even considering it.”

  “What will Fishner say?”

  “I’m not worried about that right now.”

  “Jesus Christ, Liz. Seriously?”

  I wince, regretting calling her. I’ll just go alone. It’ll be fine.

  “Fine. I’ll help you.”

  “Thanks, anywa—what?”

  “Pick me up at work. Text me when you get here.”

  Why is she working on a Sunday night? I don’t ask. Instead, I head to the Justice Center to grab the Charger. Mattioli did something. The question is what—and whether he put Elias Maxwell up to the homicide.<
br />
  My focus sharpens on my way to pick up Cora—whom I’m thinking of as Detective Bosch in this particular moment—and I consider my options. I could have her come in with me, but he’ll know right away, given that our badges are different, that something is off. I could ask her to stay in the car. Yeah, I’ll do that.

  About twenty minutes later, I pull up in front of the Cleveland Heights Police Department in Severance Circle. I shoot Cora a quick text, and she’s outside within three minutes. She opens the door and climbs in silently. She puts her seat belt on.

  I don’t say anything. I just put the car into Drive and pull away. We’re through Cleveland Heights and into Euclid before one of us speaks.

  “Thank you for doing this. I appreciate it.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice.” She keeps her gaze focused outside her window.

  “Well, I still appreciate it.”

  “If it’s between participating in your crazy stunts and having you get killed, I choose participation.” She turns to face me. “But I’m not very happy about it.”

  I glance at her. She looks both irritated and resigned. “I don’t really need you to do much. Maybe just stay in the car.”

  “I shouldn’t be doing this at all. This is exactly something you would do. This”—she gestures around the car—“is so completely you that I don’t even know what to say.”

  I guide the car onto Lakeland Freeway.

  “Is there anything else I need to know beyond what you said on the phone?”

  “Not really. I’m just looking into Mattioli—which you suggested I do—and it’s led me to this guy.” I give her a few more details about Gibson, based on what I read in the book.

  She nods. We’re quiet for the rest of the way there.

  Gibson’s house is in the middle of nowhere. At one point as the rain starts again, the GPS freaks out and leads us along a weird dirt road that runs parallel to some railroad tracks. An old deciduous forest is on my left—a park, maybe? No, we’re too far out for a park. Then I see a house, with a light in a single window, just ahead, across the tracks.

  “This is fucking creepy, Liz,” Cora mutters.

  “The plan is for you to stay in the car. If I’m not out in forty-five minutes, come in with your weapon drawn.”

  She sighs. “Fine.”

  I guide the Charger across the tracks, maneuver around a couple of strut-shattering potholes, and park behind an old windowless van. When I step out of the car, a bright outside flood lamp, like something from a grocery store parking lot, flips on and blinds me, and my right hand moves to the Glock out of instinct. A figure moves behind the curtains, backlit by the yellow light of a lamp, then the front door creaks open. A big dog barks from somewhere behind the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Cora surveying the scene.

  “Who’s there?” I hear the voice before I can make out the face.

  “Ray Gibson?” I call as I squint into the rain.

  “Who wants to know?” he asks.

  The dog keeps barking. “Hazel, shut the fuck up!” he bellows, and the dog stops.

  I don’t like making decisions when I’m blinking into a bright light in the rain and can’t read the person I’m talking to, but I have no choice. My eyes adjust. A good-sized man stands in the doorway, peering my way. I decide not to get back into the car and drive away.

  “My name’s Boyle. I’m Cleveland Police. I just have a couple of questions,” I respond, still next to the car, feeling the rain change to mist and back again that quickly as the wind whips through the trees behind me.

  “Well, come in, then,” he replies after a short pause. His voice is hoarse. I watch him flick a lit cigarette to the side of his concrete steps.

  I move forward. There’s a small porch on the right side of the house, but it looks as though it would crumble under the weight of an adult. I can’t see the dog, but she’s panting under the rhythm of the rain, and I hear her chain rubbing against concrete. There she is, on the side of the house, bolted to a ramshackle garage. Behind her is a big old Chevy truck that looks like it’s from the seventies. Two of the tires are flat, so my gaze moves to the van in front of my car, which must be his daily driver. The dog looks to be a German shepherd, straining against her chain. I can’t tell if she wants to say hi or if she wants to rip my throat open. Either way, I’ll leave her alone.

  Next to her is another concrete staircase leading down to the outside door of a basement that I imagine to be very, very wet and musty.

  I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the light. “Gibson?” I ask as I approach the man.

  “Yeah, you found me,” he replies.

  As I get closer, I make out the blue glow of a television through the front window—it looks like the local news is on, spouting info about our arrest of Elias Maxwell and the indictment yesterday.

  “It’s late,” he says right after I catch a glimpse of Jeff O’Connor walking alongside his client on the TV screen. “What do you want?” He scratches the three-day stubble on his chin and looks down at his ratty white T-shirt, embarrassed. “Lemme get a shirt on. I didn’t expect visitors, especially not a woman detective.” He chuckles and gestures for me to come inside.

  I shouldn’t be in here alone. I shouldn’t have brought Cora here. I should be here with CDP backup. In an ideal world, Goran would be here with me.

  “You’re a detective, right?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Wait there.”

  I do as I’m told. He moves down his wood-paneled hallway and up the staircase at the end of it, leaving me with a collection of old, muddy shoes and a coatrack that looks like it’s seen better days. A dirty old Carhartt and a Browns hoodie that looks like it needs to be laundered hang from it.

  To my left is a closed door that doesn’t look original. If this is an old farmhouse—and it has to be, given its location and architecture—the door should be hardwood, not this light copy. The hallway is dark and bare of pictures or artwork, save for a still life of a fruit bowl about halfway down the hall. At the far end of the hall is another door, also on the left. Based on its location, it must lead to the basement. Another staircase leads up. On my immediate right is a big room that contains less furniture than it should: a recliner, a couch, a coffee table, a lamp, and the TV sit clustered together in the expansive space. This place was nice once, I think as I gaze at the high ceilings and crown molding.

  On the side table next to the recliner is a collection of remotes, a half-empty bottle of Canadian Mist bourbon, a red coffee mug, a pack of Merit cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, and an ashtray. The ceiling fan is on, swirling the blue smoke around the room. Its light fixture is missing two of the four bulbs, so it casts an eerie light across the room. A fireplace glows, and a stack of wood stands next to it. The only thing on the mantel is an old police badge case that, from here, looks like it contains a gold shield.

  He’d have kept it if he retired in good standing, so he must have.

  No artwork, no photographs.

  A large archway separates the living room from what must be the dining room and kitchen, but no lights are on, so I can’t make out what’s back there.

  He coughs as he descends the stairs. “Sorry about that,” he says as he moves toward me down the hallway. He has a blue shirt on, tucked into his jeans. Smells like he’s applied cologne. Mouthwash doesn’t cover the whiskey breath as much as he hopes it will.

  He looks a lot like his old police ID, even though he’s been retired for over fifteen years. He’s got cop written all over him. Maybe it’s the boozy doe eyes, maybe it’s the set of his shoulders. Maybe the haircut, which he probably gives himself every couple of weeks with a pair of clippers in his bathroom. Maybe it’s something else, but I could read him from a football field away even if I didn’t know he’d been CDP, which is oddly reassuring.

  I nod. “Do you have a few minutes?” I’m being nice—it’s obvious that he has a few minutes, or he wouldn’t have spruced himself up.

  “
Sure. Want a drink?” He gestures at the living room. “Come on in. I have a fire going. Chilly out there tonight, huh? Have a seat.” He watches me move into the living space. He watches me look into the dining room and chuckles. “You’re Homicide, aren’t you?”

  There’s no point in lying. “I am. Special Homicide.” A gust of wind rattles the front window, but I can’t see the car or my backup through the thick film of old smoke.

  He nods. “I know exactly who you are, Boyle,” he says as he eases down into the recliner and scans my face. He bites a cigarette out of the pack and reaches for the lighter. “Seen you on the news,” he says, the cigarette bobbing between his lips. He flicks the lighter open and lights it in one motion. “Have a seat,” he repeats.

  I choose the edge of the lopsided green couch, which sits next to a battered old dog bed, not sure how to interpret his tone.

  “Most of the time, detectives work in pairs. At least they did back in my day.” He exhales a cloud of smoke up into the ceiling fan and stifles a cough. “Drink?” he asks as he refills his coffee mug with Canadian Mist.

  “No, thanks,” I reply, even though bad bourbon would be a great accompaniment to this weird and probably misguided scene. The dog barks outside, and I stop myself from reacting.

  “Hazel barks at everything,” he says. “Don’t take it personal.”

  “Listen, Gibson—”

  “Call me Ray.”

  “Ray.” I lean back against the couch cushion.

  He hits his cigarette and appraises me. “I seen you on the news,” he repeats. “You finally looking into Mattioli? What’d you do, decide to go through our old murder books after you brought in Eli? I woulda told ’em. I would have. Shit, I tried to. I always knew that motherfucker was up to no good. He never was any good. Him and Eli are both bad seeds.”

  I’m silent, deliberately so, hoping that he’ll keep talking, wondering what caused the palpable animosity for his old partner and contemplating why he would make the logical leap to his old murder books. I cross an ankle over a knee, making a mental note to look into them, and wonder how drunk he is right now, on a scale of one to ten. My guess is five and a half.