“I’m your ride. Detective Boyle, Cleveland Special Homicide.”
“Shit, is this about that kid?” He blinks and looks around.
I grab his elbow and lead him to the car. “Yeah, it’s about the kid.” I open the back door. “Get in. Don’t hit your head.”
Once he’s in the car, I slide behind the wheel then angle the rearview mirror so I can watch him through the safety cage. “Remind me what happened down there the other night.”
He avoids my eyes in the mirror. “I already told you.”
“No, you told my partner. Now you’re gonna tell me.” I pull out onto the road.
He repeats the same story he gave to Goran at the scene, which matches what Anthony told me. The whole time, though, he seems nervous. He keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror but looks away when I try to make eye contact.
“Why’d you come down here?” I ask. “Seems weird to me. You know, just after you find a little kid’s body, you leave the city… When we’ve arranged to see you downtown later that afternoon. Blowing off a meeting with detectives isn’t a good move, Sean. We need to talk to you about what happened.”
“I have family in the Falls. I freaked out. I needed to get out of Cleveland.”
I let silence envelop us for the six minutes it takes to get out of town and onto the interstate. The sun has come out and is bright enough that I don my sunglasses. “Tell me about the guy you were talking to the night you found the little boy.”
He gnaws on a thumbnail and stares at the seat next to him. “What guy? I don’t know that guy.”
“Which guy don’t you know?”
“Whatever guy you’re talking about. I don’t know him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I just don’t know any guys, okay?”
“The guy who sat near you at Winky’s, Sean. The guy who was standing next to you after you found the body. That guy. I hear that you were friendly with him, that you talked about the basketball game that night.”
“I don’t know who that guy is. I mean, I’ve seen him around, like at Winky’s. But I’m not friends with him or anything. You should ask them about him, not me.”
“How long were you at Winky’s that night?”
“I don’t remember. I just went there to eat dinner and watch the game.”
“You don’t remember what time you got there?”
He shrugs and picks at something stuck to the front of his shirt. “I don’t know, maybe around nine. I really don’t remember.”
“You go there a lot? You know someone who works there, right?”
“I know a few people who work there.”
“Your girlfriend, maybe?” Woman in a baseball cap?
He shakes his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend right now.”
“Did you see anything suspicious when you were in there that night?”
He glares at me. “Look, I told you. I didn’t see or hear anything. I hang out there sometimes. I know some of the bartenders. That’s it. Okay?”
He’s not under arrest anymore, and I can’t legally hold him. He gazes out the window, shifting his eyes to the mirror every couple of minutes. At one point, he squeezes the bridge of his nose, then when he catches me watching him, he stops.
I pull up in front of his house on the East Side. “You know, Sean, your alibi for that night is pretty soft, and it makes me wonder what you’re hiding. Do you know a guy by the name of Brian Little?”
He shakes his head.
I turn around, and he looks as though I’ve slapped him. “Tall guy, weird, shiny suit?”
“I said I don’t know any guys.”
I point at a white Chevy pickup in the driveway. “Is that your truck?”
He nods.
“How’d you get all the way to the Falls without your truck?”
“I got a ride. Friend picked me up.” He reaches for the door handle.
“A friend with what color car? Who’s the friend?”
“Uh… blue. A blue one. And it’s a Jeep, not a car.” He blinks fast three times. “And it’s just a guy I know from work.”
No black sedan. Anthony was certain he saw a black sedan. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Listen, I told you I don’t know anything.” He jiggles the door handle and scowls. “Let me out. You’re harassing me, and I didn’t do anything.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Jim. I don’t know his last name. We aren’t that close. I needed a ride, and he gave it to me.”
I thought you didn’t know any guys. I get out and open his door. “Sean, don’t leave Cleveland again until I give you the green light. I mean it. You don’t want us thinking you’re involved with this. So if you think of anything you might want to tell me, something to add to the statement you gave at the scene, here’s my card.”
“Sure, okay.” He takes the card. “But I don’t know anything else.”
I stay long enough to watch him amble up the front walk. He doesn’t look back at me before closing the front door behind him.
I swing by the pet store on Mayfield, but they’re out of Ivan’s grain-free, super-duper-nutrition-for-indoor-cats brand. I hate feeding him other crap, but he’s hungry, I need to get back to work, and something is better than nothing. The kid at the register can’t be more than sixteen.
“Hi there, ma’am. Will this be all?” His name tag is one of those hastily made jobbies, created with a cheap label maker.
“Actually, hold on.” I grab a bottle of orange juice from the cooler and a catnip mouse from a bin on the counter. “This, too.”
He catches a glimpse of my gold shield. “You a police officer?”
I smile. Something about him makes me want to take him home and give him a bowl of soup. “Indeed I am.” I hand him thirty bucks.
“My dad was a cop,” he says. Was a cop. Dead or retired? Anyone’s guess. He gives me my change. “You need a bag?”
“No, thanks.” I can’t figure out how to convey how endearing I find him, so I just continue to smile. “Thanks, Sammy. Have a good one.”
“You too, Officer.” He grins. “Careful out there.”
As I’m pulling into my building’s parking lot, my phone beeps with a text from Goran: Fishner wants to know where you are.
Feeding the cat. Back soon.
Once fed and after a dramatic trip through the dining room with his catnip mouse, Ivan returns to his perpetual position on the couch. Lazy ass. I flip on a couple of lamps in the living room, just in case it’s another late night.
Roberts calls while I’m on the way to the station. “Alarm wasn’t set, but the Whittles’ neighbors are able to put their car in front of their house on the night Kevin was killed. One said Graham Whittle pulled it into the garage at about ten. She remembers because she was outside with her dog, and when she went back in, the ten o’clock news had just started.”
I thank him then hang up and call Goran.
“Where have you been? How long does it take to feed that cat of yours?”
“Talking to Sean Miller then feeding Ivan, in that order.”
“You get anything on Miller? I got your voicemail. Miller’s sister posted his bail. She lives in Cuyahoga Falls.”
“Something isn’t right, but I had nothing to hold him on. His story hasn’t changed, and he swears he doesn’t know Gray Suit or anyone named Brian Little. Any news on your end?”
“Well, Louis Randolph has been out of town, in San Francisco for a real estate conference since last Wednesday. His secretary confirmed that he called her from a four-one-five area code on Thursday evening. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Do tell.”
“Surveillance camera from the ATM down near the scene cross-checked with a club who actually gave us video,” Goran s
ays. “Time stamp around midnight, Brian Little comes out of the Emerald Club, carrying a large canvas bag. So now we just have to find out who he really is.”
The Emerald Club is across the street from where Sean Miller found the body, up the road a bit, on the corner. It’s another “gentleman’s club,” only the owners don’t throw the euphemism around very much. They’re trashy, and they know it. Actually, the last time I was there, it seemed as though they embrace it.
“Since when does the Emerald have cameras that work?” I ask. I worked a couple of sex crimes cases stemming from there a few years back. Videos could have been useful.
“Since those unsolved rapes. They got sick of having vice around all the time, I guess, so they fixed ’em.”
“Or they’re doing something else and want to monitor who comes in and out.” I hear him tapping on a keyboard and Fishner’s voice in the background.
“Uh-huh. It looks like maybe he works there. He has that look about him, if you know what I mean.” He chomps his gum. “We’re working on getting footage from a couple other places, too. There’s another ATM down the road. If we can get him dropping the body… Hold on.” His voice sounds farther away as he talks to someone else. “Boyle talked to him this afternoon, boss.” Someone says something in the background, and he responds, “Yeah, she says she’ll have the report to you by tomorrow morning.”
“ASAP,” Fishner replies. “It’s already six thirty. What’s taking her so long?”
I don’t ask how they got information from a club that’s notorious for being uncooperative with the police. They’re probably trying to conceal more sinister activities and figure that throwing us a little something will keep us from digging too deep.
“You heard that, right?” Goran asks me. “She wants that report, stat.”
“You sure it’s him?” I ask.
“It’s definitely him.”
“Good,” I say. “Fucking-great-good. I’ll meet you in the Flats. It’s best if a woman goes in to talk to the dancers—you know, camaraderie—so why don’t you guys wait for me there?”
“You got it. See you there.”
Chapter Ten
After a quick stop for some sandwiches and about a gallon of coffee, I drive to the Flats. The area looks much different without the swirling red-and-blue lights and flurry of uniforms. It’s quiet for a Saturday evening. I notice a few teenagers heading into Jack’s Concert Club, but I don’t recognize the band names on the billboard. The kids look too young to be out in this part of town without their parents, but I probably did too, once.
I go all the way to the end of Riverbed Street. Crime scene tape blows in the breeze that comes down off the lake. No wind could break that stuff. Someone yanked on it until it snapped. As I pass the alcove, my gaze flicks to the dumpsters and Anthony’s spot, then to the café down the road that didn’t throw food out that night. I maneuver the car around and stop for a minute before heading back the other way.
Same Flats. The city can try to class it up, but it’s still the same grungy mess it’s always been. I roll down the windows and let the breeze blow through. The smell hits me less hard today than it did on the night Kevin Whittle died, but it’s still there, still Cleveland. I roll up the passenger window and try not to think about depressing stuff.
Easing down the street, I look for Goran and Roberts. I know they’ll be parked near, but not directly across from, the Emerald Club. I can see its sign, a green sort of vaguely gemstone-shaped neon thing, but no junky old Taurus. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I answer without checking the caller ID.
“What’d you think, you were gonna sneak up on us?” Goran asks. “I hope you brought food.”
“Where are you?”
“Corner of Superior and Elm,” he says.
I hang up and make a right turn. Roberts has wedged the car in a space with the front bumper almost touching the back of a good-sized windowless van and the rear bumper close to a rusted-out Honda. I pull up parallel to them.
Goran looks disheveled. It’s becoming a thing with him. Maybe he wants to be that detective, the sloppy guy in the trench coat. I toss the bag of subs through the open window, and it lands in Roberts’s lap. I hand him the coffee and two cups.
“We can cover the alley”—Goran gestures with his toothpick—“and the front entrance. You gonna go talk to the dancers like you said?”
“Yeah. If Little happens to be in there, he might see me and run, so be on the lookout. C’mon. We’ll use the Charger.”
He nods and joins me in the car. I end up parking pretty close to the alleyway that runs behind the Emerald. As I get out, I notice a midsized black Lexus sedan parked illegally behind the club’s back door. “Check that plate,” I say through the open window.
When I open the heavy front door, the stench hits me like a fist. The club smells like stale beer and sweat and urinal cakes.
“You got a dude with you?” the bouncer, a very large man with a bad goatee and a ponytail and big silver jewelry, asks. “No bitches without dudes.”
I badge him. “I’m not here to give you a hard time. I’m looking for someone, and it’s not you.”
He squints at my ID. “Yeah, whatever. Wait here.”
When he walks away, I saunter over to the bar, where an attractive African-American woman is wiping out a glass.
“I didn’t see and don’t know shit,” she says before I can even speak. Her eyes gleam in the low light. She can’t be more than twenty-two.
“Okay.” I take a seat at the bar.
The two customers a few stools over glance at me then move to a table in front of the stage. Bouncer Bob reappears from down a narrow hallway to the left of the stage, which comes out about twenty feet into the center of the room, complete with a pole and two strippers on said pole. I scan the crowd. Just a bunch of sad sacks waving dollar bills at women who are probably trying to put themselves through college. They all look way too young. The women, I mean. The men look way too old.
“I told you to wait over there,” the bouncer says, pointing at the door.
“I don’t listen very well,” I reply. “And I said before that I’m not here to give you a hard time. So why don’t you go back over there and sit down?”
He tries to puff out his chest. “Johnny won’t like this,” he growls.
“Fine with me.”
He calls me a bitch under his breath as he turns and goes back to his post. There, he plops down on his stool and glares at me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a smile tug at the bartender’s face. “What’s your name?” I ask her.
“I said I didn’t see and don’t know shit.” She has a scar under one eye, the kind you get when somebody wearing a big ring punches you in the face. She’s tried to conceal it with makeup, and I vaguely wonder what else the makeup is hiding.
“Okay, then this’ll be easy,” I reply in a soft voice. I’m not trying to be a hard-ass with her. The bouncer wouldn’t have told me anything, even if he saw someone kill the kid and then drop the body. But this woman, she might. “Who’s Johnny?” I ask.
“Manager.” She picks up a glass. “You want something to drink or what?”
“I’m fine. Thanks. Were you here on Thursday night?”
She nods and wipes the glass with a white cloth. “You should get something to drink,” she says without moving her lips. “It’ll look less weird that way.”
“Club soda. How about Johnny? Was he here?”
“He’s always here.” She fills a highball glass with ice and club soda. After jamming a lime slice onto the rim, she passes me the drink. “Pretend it’s booze.”
I take a sip. “What does Johnny look like?” He wasn’t in charge the last time I was here.
“Short and fat. Hairy. Wears a lot of gold bling. Nasty as hell,” she says. “Hold on. I gotta help those guys over
there.”
I follow her gaze to three men who are right in front of the stage. One of them is waving a twenty and asking a tall blonde for a lap dance. The bartender grabs a round tray, puts three Bud Lights and three shots of Wild Turkey on it, and goes over to serve them.
I bring the picture of Brian Little up on my phone and slide it across the bar so that it’s waiting when she returns. She looks nervous, her eyes darting all around. Bouncer Bob isn’t staring anymore.
“Just nod if you’ve seen him before,” I whisper.
Her head bobs once.
“Do you know his name?” I ask.
She shakes her head, but I’m pretty sure she’s lying.
“Can you take a break? I’ll meet you wherever.”
She shakes her head then searches my eyes. Something has softened in hers, some sort of acknowledgment that maybe I’m not so bad, maybe I want to keep her safe. “I don’t get a break,” she says. “Only the dancers get breaks. I’m the new girl.” She forces a laugh and glances at the pole, where a different woman is upside down and backward.
“Why are you afraid?” I ask.
“Is that a real question?”
“Are you afraid of the man in the picture?”
“Yeah, him and all these other nasty-ass motherfuckers.” She forces a grin. She makes strong eye contact then whispers, “Ricky Harris.”
I keep my expression flat. “He work here?”
She shakes her head. “Not exactly.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She starts wiping down the spot next to me. “You can call me Cleopatra.”
“Thursday night, was he here?”
She nods, the movement almost imperceptible to anyone not sitting right next to her. I’m impressed.
“But he wasn’t here all night?”
She shakes her head slightly.
“Is he here now?” I ask.
After a slight hesitation, she shrugs.
I slide a business card under my cocktail napkin. “If you think of anything I might want to know,” I say as I stand. I toss a five-dollar bill on the bar.
The Flats Page 10