Morrison’s voice crackles on her radio. “Ten-four,” Colby replies. “Subject located.”
“What you mean suspect located? I didn’t do nothin’!” Anthony jumps up and looks as if he’s about to run.
I grab his arm and pull him back down. “Anthony, she said subject. It’s cop talk. It just means you’re someone I want to talk to. Relax.” A lot of people respond to force. Some become completely submissive and practically fall all over themselves as soon as they see a badge. But Anthony isn’t one of those people, and he’s made that clear with his body language, the running, and the flash of anger at Colby.
“Oh.” He looks at me. “Can I get another cheeseburger? Or maybe some tacos?”
I maintain eye contact and nod. “Yeah, but you have to promise not to bolt this time.”
“A’ight.” He flashes me a sheepish grin and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
We head back to the cars. I let Colby lead, with Anthony between us. I notice a taxi rounding the bend to pick up the drunks.
Once the taxi is back on the road and Anthony is safely in the back of the zone car, I tell Colby and Morrison, “I’ll follow you to Taco Bell.”
I park in the lot adjacent to the restaurant and watch the patrol car move through the drive-through line. Colby places the order, and she and Morrison talk while they wait for the food. She cracks a smile at one point in response to something Anthony says from the backseat.
As I follow them back onto the street, I wonder what Colby’s story is, why she wanted to be a cop. She’s probably still on probation. Losing Anthony last night could have cost her the job. I was like her once: fresh out of the academy, shiny name badge, polished boots, belt and holster still stiff and new. Young, strong, I thought I knew a lot more than I did, that textbooks and the firing range had taught me a thing or two, that I was pretty smart. I acted the badass, and it took me screwing up with a material witness in a homicide investigation my third year on the job to learn that I wasn’t quite as good as I imagined. Maybe it’s best Colby learns that lesson early.
I wanted to be a cop because I always knew that law and justice aren’t the same thing, and I hoped that maybe I could bring justice to the law. I’ve come close a few times—at least I like to think so—with some cases I’ve closed that silenced the demons for a day or so. But other cases have done the opposite.
Back at the station, Morrison lets Anthony out of the car and tosses me the bag of food. “We’ve got another call,” he says. “Gotta go.”
Colby waves as they pull out of the parking lot.
Anthony bounces beside me like a hyperactive four-year-old. “Hey, Liz, can I get another smoke?”
“You want to eat first?” I don’t think he’s going to try to run, but I’d rather have him in the interview room instead of out here.
“Nah, I’ll smoke, eat, then smoke again.” He smiles. “If you got more smokes, that is.”
I hand him a cigarette and light it for him. He pulls a drag deep into his lungs. The cigarette shakes in his hand.
“You all right?” I ask.
He moves a loose rock around with the toe of one of his worn-out running shoes. “Yeah, just didn’t get my pint today. I be a’ight. I just don’t wanna be involved in any of this shit. Muthafucka better off if he stay silent, you know? Talkin’ to cops is a good way to get fucked up.”
“Right, but we’re talking about a little boy here.”
“I know it. I know. Why you think I’m standin’ here?” He takes another puff.
“I could try to get you into a shelter.”
“Nah. I’m a’ight.”
He finishes his cigarette and carefully puts it out on the side of the trash can before tossing the butt inside. How did he end up on the street?
He looks me up and down and grins. “Girl, that jacket look just like Shaft’s.”
“How do you know it isn’t?” I grin. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
Once we’re in the interview room, I get out my notebook and prompt Anthony to go over his description of “the dude” he saw in the middle of the night, the one who might have been “carryin’ somethin’.”
“White dude. I dunno. It was dark.”
“Was he tall? Short?”
He shrugs.
I slide the photo of not-Brian-Little across the table. “Is this him?”
He squints at it. “That’s a shitty photo. I seen that dude, though.”
“When was this?”
“You think I got a watch? I don’t know. It was dark. I fell asleep. Next thing I know, there’s cars and shit, and you comin’ at me askin’ me about a body.” He frowns. “Dude had some kinda bag or somethin’.”
I point at the picture. “This guy?”
“I dunno. Coulda been.”
“Could you tell if there was anything in the bag?”
“Yeah, looked like it. It was a big bag.” He holds his hands about four feet apart.
“What kind of bag? Like a duffel bag? A gym bag?”
“Nah, it looked like one of those… shit, I don’t know. Like a laundry bag, maybe.”
We looked through the dumpsters at the scene and didn’t find a bag. “Anthony, did you see what he did with the bag?”
“Nah.”
I lean back in my chair. “Anything else?” I’m not expecting more, but it never hurts to ask.
His forehead gets all creased up. “Yeah, there was a chick out there, too.”
I sit up. “A woman?”
He nods. “Yeah. She came out the back of Winky’s, but she wasn’t dressed like no waitress there.”
“Do you remember anything else about her? Height, weight, what she was wearing?”
“She had on a baseball hat. Jeans, maybe. That’s what I remember. The waitresses there usually ain’t got much on. Dark hair, I think.”
“Did you see her around the same time as the dude with the bag?”
He scratches his head. “I think so. Somethin’ woke me up. I was awake for a minute. But I was kinda out of it, you know. Hard for me to remember what I seen when.”
“And the car? You saw or heard a car drive away?”
“Yeah. Heard it.”
“Did you see who got into the car?”
He shakes his head.
“The woman with the baseball cap? The dude with the bag? Either of them?”
He shakes his head again. “Man, I was just tryin’ to get some rest. I just heard it drive by. It went by real fast, real loud. That’s the only reason I remember.”
“You didn’t see it drive away?”
“I saw just the back of it. It was black. A regular black car.”
“Sedan? Hatchback? Four-door or two?”
He shakes his head. “Just a regular car. Not a hatchback. I think it was a four-door.” He yawns. “Hey, I’m getting real tired. Mind if I take a little nap? I might remember more if I wasn’t so damn tired.”
Knowing I’m not going to get any more from him right now, I get to my feet. “That’s fine. Sure.” I head for the door.
“Would you shut the light out?” he asks as he uses his arms to make a pillow for his head.
I flip the light switch and step out of the room. In the hallway, I gently turn the lock on the door, hoping he won’t hear it and freak out at being locked in. After a few beats of silence from inside the room, I go back to the squad room and add the information from Anthony’s statement to the crime board.
I text Goran: Found Anthony Smith. Gray Suit is all yours. Then I settle in, thinking that I’ll catch up on some paperwork before I doze off. I start a to-do list in my notebook:
Talk to Sean Miller about Gray Suit.
Talk to grandparents.
I decide I need some coffee if I’m going to stay awake, so I get up and trudge down the hall
to the break room.
Chapter Eight
I awake in a pool of my own drool. Once my brain starts to work, I say a little thank-you that no one saw me sleeping at my desk. At first, I wonder why no one else is here. Right, it’s Saturday. I look at my watch. Roberts and Dom worked all night. Fishner should be here any minute now. I hear movement down the hall—probably the rest of Homicide, working their not-kid cases—and decide against calling Goran, figuring he needs his beauty sleep and he’ll be here by nine.
I grab my mug and walk down the hall for a fill-up. I’m pouring the coffee when I remember that Anthony is asleep in my interview room. I take a couple of gulps of coffee before going to wake him.
I open the interview room door and flip the light on. “Hey, Anthony.”
He raises his head. “Damn, it sure makes a difference to sleep where it’s warm.”
“You want a cup of coffee?” I ask.
“Nah, but maybe some water.” He stretches his shoulders.
“You got it.” When I turn to leave, I almost run into Lieutenant Fishner. She’s at least six inches shorter than I am, which means that I’m looking down at her. I sometimes feel this strange urge to bend my knees when I have to stand next to her.
“Detective,” she says, “a moment?”
I follow her into the observation room to the left. Shit, I was supposed to call her when I found him.
“Who is that?” she asks. “A suspect?”
“The wit. Anthony Smith.”
She looks relieved. “Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah, last night. The notes are on the board.” I give her the rundown.
“Okay, good.” She gives me a tight nod. “How long has he been here?”
I watch Anthony through the mirror that separates the interview room from the observation room. He’s fidgeting. He probably needs a cigarette, and he definitely needs a drink. “I located him last night, thanks to a tip from patrol.”
She crosses her arms but doesn’t say anything about the fact that I didn’t call her right away. “We need to clean up the rest of this mess. I just talked to the grandparents. They’re expecting you this afternoon.” She takes in a deep breath. “And I said that I’d like for you to keep me in the loop, but you talked to him without me. Why is that?”
“I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”
“Boyle, I expect information. A slow drip of it.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I just want to run down to Summit County and talk to Sean Miller before I go to the grandparents’ house. I’ll be back by one o’clock. Let me get the wit some water, then—”
“Where’s your partner?” she asks, glancing at her watch.
“His kid is sick. She has that flu that’s going around. I’m sure he’ll be here by nine, though.”
After a light knock on the door, First Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Julia Becker enters the room. She’s dressed down. I don’t remember ever seeing her in jeans, even designer ones. She stops next to Fishner and gestures at the two-way mirror. “What’s going on here?” she asks. Her voice is deep for a woman, almost husky, and she always enunciates perfectly.
I fill her in, in less detail than what I gave to Fishner.
“This man’s statement will hardly stand up in court.”
“We can make it work,” I mutter, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.
“I think we’re done here,” Fishner says.
I walk back out into the hallway and push open the door to the interview room. “All right, Anthony, let’s go.”
Looking relieved, he grabs his grimy coat off the back of the chair. We stop at the vending machine for a bottle of water then head back to the Flats.
He points at a covered bus stop ahead. “You can drop me off there.”
After pulling over, I write my cell phone number on the back of a business card and hand it to him, along with the rest of my witness smokes, the lighter, and ten dollars. “Get yourself some breakfast.”
“Thanks, Shaft,” he says, shoving my gifts into his shirt pocket.
I know he’s going to drink the money, but I don’t care. “Look, I need you to stick around this area.”
“Where’m I gonna go?” he asks with a little laugh.
“Hey, Anthony, thanks,” I call to him as he shuffles away. He throws up a hand and waves as I drive off.
I call Goran, and he answers by yawning.
“That’s a nice greeting.”
“Sorry. Hannah was up all night again, still coughing. I think she’s on the mend, but damned if she’s sleeping.”
“Tell her Aunt Liz says to get better soon. Listen, I need to get cat food and run home before Ivan destroys my apartment.”
He laughs. “Beware the angry cat. I’ll be in in about an hour, and I’m starting on the first floor, looking at surveillance. I’m hoping for a hit on Suit Guy. I’ll keep you posted.”
I’m emotionally exhausted, and I feel it pulling down on my shoulders as I guide the Charger onto Lorain Avenue. I’m so tired that it feels as if sheep are counting me. I think about an old appointment with Dr. Shue.
“Are you still having nightmares?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine. No more nightmares.” Nightmares only happen to people who sleep for more than four hours at a time on a regular basis.
“The drinking?”
“I’ve cut back,” I replied. Yeah, I know the statistics. So I ration myself now, for the most part. I didn’t always, and I don’t always. But it’s under control.
I sighed and looked her in the eye when she kept going with the questions. I was going crazy, but not from the shooting, or the loneliness or guilt or whatever she thought was wrong with me. I was losing it because I had to sit at a desk and do paperwork all day, and I had too much time to practice the time-honored art of self-evaluation, the very thing that most cops try to avoid. It gets us into trouble, especially when we don’t much care for what we see. Things definitely got better when I was released for duty.
As I’m turning in to the parking lot to switch vehicles, Fishner calls my cell. I answer quickly, trying to get back on her good side. “Detective Boyle.”
“Front desk says the victim’s grandparents are on their way up to talk to us. I need you here.”
“Right now?” I ask, imagining my poor, hungry cat probably shredding my couch as revenge for being left alone all night.
“They’re in the building. On their way upstairs. Now.”
I put my phone in my pocket, park, and enter the building. They came here instead of waiting for me to drive out to Larchmere later this afternoon. Either there’s something in particular they need to tell us, or they’re hiding something that they don’t want us to see at their house.
When I barrel out of the elevator, I see an elderly couple sitting on the bench in the hallway. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Whittle?” I ask.
The man stands up. “Yes. I’m Graham, and this is Elaine. We’re here to see Detectives Boyle and Goran.” He’s about seventy with white hair, glasses, and small hazel eyes. His thin face and narrow shoulders make him look like an older version of Peter Whittle. It’s kind of hard to imagine him as the Graham Whittle, the financial guy who allegedly stole from all those people and somehow escaped federal prison. His head shot on the news made him look bigger.
“I’m Detective Boyle. Detective Goran is my partner. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, water?”
“No. Thank you.”
Elaine is weeping quietly. She holds an embroidered handkerchief over the bottom half of her face. A big tear drops out of one eye and lands on her tan leather purse. She rubs at it with an arthritic thumb.
“Ma’am?” I kneel next to her. “Are you okay?” What a stupid question.
“No,” she whimpers. “We should have called. We should have called.”
&nbs
p; I put my hand on her shoulder and give it a light squeeze. Her bones feel too light, like a sparrow’s. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“No,” Graham Whittle replies. “No, we’re fine.” He doesn’t look at either of us, doesn’t acknowledge his wife’s tears.
“Well, Detective Goran isn’t here right now, but we don’t want to make you wait. Lieutenant Fishner and I just have a few questions,” I say.
“A lieutenant?” Graham starts to smile but then catches himself. “Okay.”
I lead the Whittles through the squad room to Fishner’s office. She’s sitting at the table for four to the right of the pair of leather visitors’ chairs. The tangle of file folders that usually graces the table is stacked on the floor in front of the filing cabinet behind her desk. She stands and shakes their hands, offering her condolences for their loss.
“Please, have a seat.” Fishner wears a kind expression that softens her features, making her appear younger than the late forties I’m sure she is. “Detective Boyle and I are going to ask you a few questions, okay? Can we get you anything? Something to drink? Coffee? Water?” Just a few questions. We can’t come out and say that we’re going to interrogate someone—people don’t like that at all.
“No, we’re fine,” Graham says as he settles into a chair.
“Detective?” Fishner says. She usually plays observer in situations like this, probably because she thinks faster than she speaks.
“Can I take your coats?” I ask.
“We should have called,” Elaine says as she struggles to remove her jacket without standing.
I go over and help her out of it. “Sir?”
“I’m fine with it here.” He wrenches his arms out of his suede coat then drapes it over the back of his chair. He shoots his wife a hard look.
I hang Elaine’s coat on Fishner’s rack then sit in the remaining chair. They don’t look rich. Their jackets are more than a couple of years old, and neither of them is flaunting anything name brand. His shirt isn’t starched, and his watch is plain. I don’t see any jewelry, other than their tasteful wedding bands. It’s possible they’re hiding millions in offshore bank accounts, I suppose. But they certainly don’t live up to the hype.
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