“I talked to Olsen from Missing Persons. He said they did the regular search of their house, followed protocol. Long story short, they didn’t get anything at the scene. But at least Watson got the short and curly, right?” He grins.
“Six days,” I mutter. “He was missing six days.”
“Yeah, and no Amber Alert, because Missing Persons couldn’t confirm whether it was an abduction.”
I don’t have a response. An Amber Alert could have helped, but not necessarily, and what’s done is done. At least we have some evidence, even if all of our witnesses are missing. And I take a little comfort in knowing that the kid might not have felt too much pain. Fear, yes, but maybe not pain.
Back in the squad room, we divvy up the paperwork and start on our reports. I check the news online and am unsurprised to learn that the “gruesome murder of a local boy” is splattered across all of the major local websites. When Jack Domislaw and Mike Roberts approach my desk, I look up.
“We got a line on Miller,” Roberts says. “We got lucky in the database search. He’s down in Summit County, possible drunk and disorderly early this morning.” He flips open his notebook. “Second collar for public intox. Couldn’t make bail today, so he’s in for the night. We’re gonna try to get him in here. We’ve got to follow up on a few things from last week’s case—the LT is on the warpath today—but we thought you should know we aren’t asleep at the wheel on this one.”
I add the information to my notes. “Where’d he get picked up?”
“Cuyahoga Falls. He claimed he was walking home… to Cleveland. Standard-issue dumbass. That’s, what, forty-five miles? It’d take him ten hours to walk that.”
“All right. Thanks for the info, guys.”
As the pair walk away, Goran says, “We gotta talk to him about Little or whoever-the-hell. They were at Winky’s together, or at least at the same time, so maybe Miller knows him.”
I nod. “Yeah, at the very least, they’ve talked, and he could know the guy’s real name. And that explains why he didn’t show up today. Do we have time to head down to Summit County and grill him now?”
Goran shakes his head. “First thing tomorrow, Liz. Let him sober up and get his act together. If Fishner wants in on this, we need him making sense.”
My phone vibrates, and I pick it up. The text message from Colby gives me a little surge of adrenaline: I’ve got a line on Anthony Smith. May have found out where he sleeps. Will call if I get info.
Ten-four, I type. My stomach growls. Shue would ask me if I know how important food is for “normal metabolic and neurological functioning.” The only thing I’ve eaten in the past eighteen hours is that bagel in the car this morning, an apple, and a granola bar. Not nearly enough protein.
As I’m contemplating the assortment of takeout menus from my desk drawer, Goran announces that his wife is going to bring us dinner. Perking up a little, I toss the menus back in and slam the drawer. Vera’s meals are hearty Eastern European fare.
“She bringing the girls?” I ask. They’re adorable, and I could use a dose of cute right now.
“Nah, they’re with my folks. Vera needed a couple of hours off from Hannah and her coughing.” His eyes flick to the photograph he keeps on his desk, and there’s a twitch of a smile.
Vera is a terrific lady. She’d have to be to live with Goran. If I hadn’t spent enough time with them at their house over in Old Brooklyn, I’d have trouble envisioning him with a wife and kids. He’s always seemed like more of a loner, the flirt-with-the-bartender-then-go-home-alone type. I’m probably projecting.
She shows up a few minutes later, bearing lamb skewers, potatoes fried with onions, and a heavy walnut roll. We scarf down the food as if we’re homeless dogs.
She glances around the squad room. “You coming home soon?” she asks her husband.
He smiles and puts his arm around her. “Eventually,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
We all do it. We all apologize to people who think they understand but never will and never can.
Her dark eyes flash. She appreciates what Goran and I do, but she also needs him at home from time to time. Raising two little girls can’t be easy, even with his parents around to help. She pulls out of his embrace. “Tomislav, please. Your girls need to see you. Hannah has asked for you twelve times since you left this afternoon.”
I grab my empty coffee cup and stand. “I’ll be right back.”
She catches my gaze and holds it, imploring me to make him go home. I haven’t seen her in a while, and she looks different. Her hair is shorter, and she’s maybe lost a few pounds since the holidays when they had me over to exchange Christmas presents because they felt bad about me being alone.
Everyone close to me knows I screwed up my last relationship, the one that made me feel like a human being for the first time since I was a kid. I screwed it up in ways that embarrass me. I hate the pity, and I despise the fact that there’s nothing I can do about it now.
“Thanks for dinner, Vera,” I say, patting my stomach.
“My pleasure, Liz.” Her Croatian accent is still thick, even though she’s lived here for over ten years now. “Always good to see you.” She smiles with genuine warmth.
Our interactions haven’t always been so great. There were a few weeks right after I was assigned to be Goran’s partner when she was jealous. We’d been on nights back then, and I’d heard her yelling at him over the phone about his new “pretty woman cop” partner and didn’t he know how much she loved him. One night about two months after we were partnered, he asked me if he could tell her that she didn’t have anything to worry about. It was endearing, the way he danced around just asking me if I’m gay. She chilled out after that, and once we hung out a few times and she got to know me better, she loosened up even more.
I return the smile and turn to my partner. “Go home. I got this.”
Goran sets his jaw. “Liz, I—”
Vera scowls at him. We’re ganging up on him, and all three of us know that he doesn’t have a choice. “Come home, Tomislav. It’s already getting dark. Your girls miss you. I miss you.”
I nod. “As you always like to point out, and I quote, ‘Case’ll still be here tomorrow, partner.’”
He points at me with the stick of gum he’s just unwrapped. “You have to sleep at some point. I’m serious. ’Cause we both know you didn’t this afternoon. Then you can finish those reports.”
The suggestion of sleep trips a switch in my brain, and I yawn and stretch in a most unladylike way. I feel sleep beckoning. The substantial meal has hastened it. “Yeah, I’ll grab a quick nap, but screw the reports. I’m gonna go out and look for Anthony, since he’s the only real lead we have right now.”
He winks at me. “Don’t do anything crazy. Mind your p’s and q’s.”
I give Vera a hug and thank her again for dinner. “I’ll see you bright and early, Goran,” I call as I head over to my locker to secure my weapon.
We have a room down the hall—I think it used to be a broom closet—with a set of bunk beds for these occasions. We call it the Z-room, or the Z for short. I hit the restroom then the bottom bunk. I’m out before I know it.
Chapter Seven
The ringing phone pulls me out from under the heavy weight of dreamless sleep. I pick up the phone—how the hell did it get all the way over there?— and Colby’s number flashes on the screen. “Boyle.”
“I think he’s down by Settlers’ Landing,” Colby says. “Word is he sleeps in the park. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I know where she means—it’s part of the Flats beat. “What, by the dog park? I’m on my way. If you find him, pick him up and bring him here.” I hold the phone with my right hand and use my left to rub my sore jaw, which I must have been clenching again.
“Ten-four, Detective.”
Maybe she’ll make a decent cop afte
r all. I look at my watch—3:22 a.m. Wow, that was more rest than I’ve gotten in one stretch in a long, long time. I’m sure Ivan is asleep on my bed, with or without me. I’m glad I don’t have a dog that needs to be walked in the mornings. Ivan is pretty self-sufficient.
I stand up, shove the phone in my pocket, and go back to the squad room. At my desk, I grab my witness smokes, a portable radio, and my leather jacket.
In the parking lot, I spot Roberts and Domislaw getting out of their car. Dom immediately lights up because Roberts won’t let him smoke in the car, so it’s probably been a couple of hours since he got his last nicotine fix.
“Hey, Boyle,” he drawls between labored breaths. Dom is a big dude, about six three and three hundred pounds. He had trouble passing last year’s physical. His doctor told him to lay off the cheeseburgers and quit smoking, but I always see him consuming something, threatening to retire between bites and puffs and grunts.
“Goran go home?” Roberts asks. Mike Roberts’s five-foot-six frame looks small next to his partner. But Roberts is in far better shape. He works out like a fiend and has a bodybuilder’s muscle-bound shoulders.
I nod. “Yeah, hours ago. He needed to see his kids.”
“You done for the day?” Roberts asks. “Gonna go shred it up?” He grins and plays air guitar. They all think it’s funny that I’m a musician.
I chuckle and open my car door. “Nah, I’m back on.” I wave. “’Night, guys.”
I fire up the V8 and let it warm up for a minute. Domislaw drops his cigarette and crushes it with a large shoe before they go inside. I head southeast on Superior and let my brain go blank for a few minutes. See, Shue? Taking a brain break.
In the late ’90s, CDP raided and closed six clubs for health and fire code violations here on the crummy side of the river. A developer picked up most of the properties pretty cheap. He wants to turn it into a residential area with retail space below fancy luxury apartments. It looks as though he’s getting ready to begin demolition. Lining the street are some chained-off areas, construction equipment, and quite a few dumpsters.
The Flats had its heyday, but especially over here on the downtown side, it was relatively short-lived. Three drowning deaths in the river in 2000, combined with an uptick in the homeless population and a brief surge in person-on-person crime, kind of scared people away. This side of the river is nothing like it was when I was a teenager. It used to be all hustle and bustle, sex and drugs and rock and roll, but now it’s deserted, save for the strip clubs and the shooting galleries inside the abandoned warehouses.
I ease the car down Lockwood Street, and I’m hit with a spooky feeling. I shouldn’t be down here alone, because even Boyle needs backup, and I’m usually not stupid or careless enough to think otherwise. I glide past the old warehouse where the girl had been tossed and coast the car to a stop in front of what used to be my favorite punk club. It’s boarded up now, abandoned. Down the road is the park, which the city seems to be trying to class up a bit, but behind me is a stretch of “gentleman’s clubs.” I’m convinced that phrase is one of the worst euphemisms in the English language.
Not far from here is the Cuyahoga Casket Company, and across the street from that is a tow truck place. It’s all old industrial, death, and vice. I’m across the river, about two miles from where we found Kevin Whittle’s body, but it’s still the Flats. I hope Colby did her homework and knows what she’s talking about. I radio her zone car to ask where she is.
“That way soon. ETA six minutes.”
I get back in the car and sit tight. I’m not going into the park alone.
In the side mirror, I spot a couple of suits staggering out of the Hustler Club. As they approach the Charger, I wonder if they’re heading for the big BMW parked in front of me. They stop when they reach my rear bumper. I put my right hand on my Glock as I open the door with my left. As soon as my boots hit the pavement, I hear laughter.
“Put yer dick away, bro,” one of them says.
“Heeey!” The taller one fumbles at his fly, trying to zip his pants. Apparently, he was planning on pissing on my car. “Hoooooo-ie!”
“Nice try, guys,” I say, my hand still on my gun.
Pants Zipper elbows his buddy in the side. “Take a look at this one,” he slurs. “Wassup?”
“All right, guys, I’m CDP.” I open the left side of my leather jacket so they can see the badge clipped to my belt. “Now knock it off. Call a cab, and get out of here.”
“My car’s right there!” the shorter one says. “We’re jus’ gonna—”
“You’re just gonna take out your phone and call a cab, or I’m just going to have patrol come down here and bust you for DUI.”
“Aw, maaaaaaan.”
His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s having trouble standing. I would be surprised if he could even get the key into the ignition. “Now,” I order in a stern tone.
“What a fuckin’ bitch,” the tall one says.
A bitch who doesn’t want you to get killed. “Sit down over there”—I gesture with my left hand—“on that bench.”
The short one opens his mouth then leans forward. I jump back just in time and manage to avoid the backsplash. He doesn’t, and the vomit splatters his pants.
“Real nice, bro. Good job,” the tall one says then giggles. “Didja puke on her shoes?” He starts laughing so hard that tears roll down his cheeks.
“Sorry, ossifer,” the short one says. “Oopsie-daisies.”
These guys are real clichés. Ossifer? Oopsie-daisies? Really? “Detective.” I can’t help myself. I can be so petty.
“Sorry, Detective.” They both break into another laughing fit.
A patrol car rounds the corner by the park and heads this way. Colby’s blond hair is visible against the driver’s headrest. I almost chuckle. The old hands always make the rookies drive. They say you get a better feel for the city that way. I wonder who her partner is.
They pull over to where I’m standing, and Marcus Morrison says, “Hey, Boyle.”
I smile. “Morrison, how are you?” He’s a decent cop. We went through the academy together, and it surprises me that he’s still in a radio car, even though he always said he had no desire to be a detective. Just wants to do his twenty-five-and-out, I suppose. I’ve heard he’s gotten into golf and bought a boat. Morrison and I hung out a couple of times, back in the day, and he’d asked me out, like on a date, as recently as a year or so ago. He’s a tall, good-looking man, and I was flattered. I turned him down gently, saying I was just coming out of a bad relationship.
He steps out of the car. “What do we got here?” he asks, looking pointedly at the two drunks.
The guys immediately plop onto the bench. Morrison winks at me as Colby sidles up beside him.
“Coupla drunks,” I say. “I told them to call a cab instead of trying to drive that Beamer.”
He eyes the pair. “You call that cab yet? Don’t make me put you in this car.”
They laugh and point at each other. “Didja call?” one asks. “No, didjoo call?” the other replies.
Morrison shakes his head and turns back to me. “What brings you down to this neck of the woods?”
“Working the kid vic from last night. Looking for a guy who might’ve seen something.” I don’t mention his partner’s role in the Anthony debacle.
He looks at Colby. “What, that homeless guy you were talking about?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark figure running into the park. “Over there,” I whisper. “Go,” I tell her. “Morrison, keep an eye on these guys. Make them call their cab.”
Colby must have seen the figure, too, because she takes off before I finish talking. I follow her, leaving Morrison with the drunks.
“Ruuuuuuuuun!” the short one yells after me.
“Shut the hell up!” Morrison bellows.
It’s times like this that I’m glad I keep myself in good shape. I wonder how Anthony can run so fast. Assuming Anthony is the person we’re chasing, that is. He’s the right height and build.
The park is darker than I anticipated. With all of its emphasis on crime reduction these days, I’m surprised the city hasn’t installed a few more of the fancy retro lights back in here so that the suits moving into the town houses can walk their purebred dogs after dark. Once we’ve run for about half a mile, Colby slows to a jog, panting a little.
I pass her with a wave and close in on the man. “Anthony? Hey, Anthony, stop! It’s me, Liz!”
Too late, I remember that I never told him my first name. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe wondering who Liz is will slow him down a little bit. He runs behind some bushes against the picnic shelter next to the river. A soft cough is barely audible over a train horn in the distance.
I slow to a fast walk. “Anthony? Is that you?”
“Who the fuck are you? What do you want?”
I stride over to the bushes and part them. Anthony is sitting against the brick wall of the picnic shelter, gasping for air.
Recognition flickers across his face. “Oh, it’s you.”
In the beam of the one working light back here, I notice for the first time that he’s handsome under all that hair. He has a strong jawline, full lips, a straight nose, and high cheekbones. He seems more with-it today. Maybe he hasn’t had his pint yet. “Anthony, I’ve been looking for you.” I search his dark eyes. “Will you come out of the bushes?”
He tries to get up but falls back. “Can’t. I’m stuck.” He chortles. Maybe he had that pint after all.
I hold out my hand, and he grasps it. His grip is much stronger than I expect. Colby walks up on my right, but I ignore her and focus on Anthony.
When he manages to get to his feet, I lead him into the picnic shelter. “Have a seat, Anthony.”
He eases his weight down onto one of the benches. I take a quick look around. Graffiti covers the walls and some of the tables. Empty beer cans litter the floor. On the back wall, a padlocked door leads to a unisex bathroom. Beside that is a water fountain that you couldn’t pay me enough to drink out of.
The Flats Page 7