“Do you know a guy by the name of Sean Miller?” I ask.
McPherson rolls his eyes. “What does this have to do with why Mr. Harris is here? You arrested him for an illegal firearm, correct? He already answered those questions. I’d like to speak with the prosecutor.”
“This is a homicide investigation,” Goran says, turning to Ricky. “Do you know Sean Miller?”
“Fuck if I know. Get me some water.”
“You know this isn’t just going to go away,” Goran says. He turns to me. “I’ll be right back.”
Harris leans back in his chair, his leg still jiggling. “I have an alibi. I told you I was at the club. Thirty people can put me there.”
I slide a legal pad across the table then stand. “Give me a list of names. Then you’re going to tell me all about how you killed that little boy and left him in that alley. We’ll get evidence from the van. It’s best for you to cooperate.”
“Detective, unless you are going to arrest my client for this homicide, we both know that he doesn’t have to provide that information.”
“Yes, he does,” I growl.
Ricky laughs. “Oh, aren’t you cute when you’re angry?”
I want to punch him in the face. “Names. Start writing. Now.”
“What do you think, Marty?” Ricky asks his attorney. “Think I should give her the names?”
McPherson juts out his chin and stares at me. Finally, he says, “If you have an alibi, Ricky, you should go ahead and offer proof.”
Ricky picks up the pen. “Fuck it. I’m sick of this. Here are your stupid names.” He scrawls eight names on the pad then pushes it my way. “You took my phone. Find their numbers yourself.”
“That’s not thirty. Tell me what happened, Ricky.”
He fakes a yawn and looks around. “When?”
I clench my jaw and make a fist.
“What, you’re gonna hit me? Violate my rights in a whole new way? I mean, I hear about police violence all the time, but this is ballsy. Are you getting all of this, McPherson?”
The attorney folds his arms across his chest and tries to look menacing. I kick the chair back into the wall and take a step toward Ricky.
Becker opens the door. “Detective Boyle? A moment, please?”
The burning feeling is back in my neck. What the fuck is she doing here? Fishner probably called her, which means that Fishner is out there, too.
“Oh, good,” McPherson says. “I’d like to talk to her about how poorly you’ve treated my client.”
“Who’s that hottie, Detective Boyle?” Ricky asks.
I resist the urge to throw him up against the wall and turn to leave instead.
“Bye,” he calls to my back. He leans in and says something inaudible to McPherson.
I go into the observation room, where Fishner and Becker are waiting. Becker stares at me, her mouth slightly open. She’s worried that I’m going to lose my temper. I’m not. It’s under control.
“Boyle,” Fishner says, “you need to calm down. Now.”
“I need to check his alibi and talk to Roberts about the van.”
“Go get some air. We’ll check it.” Fishner checks her watch. “We only have nine hours before we have to cut him loose, Liz, and I want you at the burial. Then you need to go home and sleep. You’re way too punchy. Look at yourself. You’re making a fist. You just threatened that man in front of his attorney. I mean it.”
“What do you mean, cut him loose? That alibi is bullshit. And we can hold him for—”
She leans toward me. “I said go.” Her voice is low, and her mouth is too near my ear for comfort. “We’ll take care of Harris. He looks good for this. I’ll spend some time with him and see if he’ll break. Go to the burial. You need to be there. Please don’t make me do paperwork.” By “do paperwork,” she means put me on the desk and off the case. She might actually do it this time, since I’m not giving her much confidence in my ability to maintain my cool.
I take a deep breath and nod.
She straightens. “The burial is at noon.” She stares at me without blinking. “It’s eight thirty now. Go get some air, get cleaned up, and go. I mean it. We’ll take care of the rest of this.”
I don’t respond.
“Your other option is some more time off. Maybe you came back too soon, Boyle.”
I level my blank cop-face at her. “Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll go to the burial.” I had no idea that much time had passed, and it kind of freaks me out a little bit. I blink hard and scrub my face with a hand.
As I’m stepping out of the room, Goran shows up carrying a cup of coffee and a bottle of water. He gives me a questioning look. I nod and keep moving.
Before I get to my desk, I hear Becker say that they need to book Ricky on the weapons and ID theft or cut him loose. “We don’t have any evidence at all to charge him with murder,” she adds.
Chapter Eleven
I take the stairs and head for the back way. I slam the metal door open hard, but the sound it makes isn’t satisfying enough, so I slam it again. It bounces back at me, and I kick it closed.
The sun is deceptive. It’s one of those days that looks like spring but feels more like winter. It can’t be more than forty-five degrees, but I lean for a few minutes on the concrete ledge across from the station. After a few deep breaths, I push off the ledge and go to the Charger.
I wouldn’t have hit Ricky Harris. They misread me back there. I was just being bad cop, just playing a role. At least, I think that’s what I was doing. Maybe I did come back too soon. Maybe I’m getting too emotionally involved, and it’s clouding my judgment. There’s never been a time, at least in my professional life, when I’ve been overly subjective about a case. Getting too emotionally involved is murky territory. It’s dangerous.
Kevin.
Kevin Whittle, aged five. Didn’t talk much but drew lots of pictures.
They were going to have a party. His birthday is today.
Nothing like burying your kid on his birthday. Jesus, those poor people.
He liked toy trains and animals. His parents read to him every night. He had a caring grandmother who doted on him.
There are only a few motives for murder: revenge, money, hate, some sort of personal vendetta, or to keep a secret. Maybe Kevin saw somebody do something that somebody didn’t want anyone to know about. With a child victim, the list of possible motives is even shorter than with adults. It’s unlikely that a quiet little boy provoked all-out rage. So it looks like money, secret, or personal vendetta. But since he was held for six days before he was killed, someone was waiting for something.
Riverside Cemetery is way over on the West Side, and the drive gives me too much time to think about Ricky Harris and Kevin Whittle and what it all means, about how small the coffin will be. For some reason, they decided not to have a service at a funeral home, just the graveside thing, so this is it… goodbye to Kevin.
I arrive about ten minutes late because of traffic on 480. I don’t want to interrupt the service, and I’m only here to watch for suspicious people, lurkers, outbursts, and that sort of thing, so I pull off the narrow cemetery road on the right, away from the gathering.
The grouping of people standing around the open grave is small, just Teresa, Peter, Graham and Elaine, a few middle-aged couples, a handful of elderly people, and a couple of little kids who obviously have no clue why they’re there. My eyes are drawn to the small white casket, and I can’t look away from the thing. He’s in there, the little boy. Today is his birthday. Deep breaths.
I can smell the imminent rain, and I curse myself for not bringing an umbrella. Sitting in the car and observing from afar won’t get the job done. I climb out, shut the car door as quietly as possible, and stand among a small grouping of trees. I spot only one news station van over by the road. I guess the murder of Kevin Whitt
le is already old news. Movement to my left catches my eye, but when I turn to look, all I see is a groundskeeper on a golf cart.
A woman is officiating the service. She isn’t dressed in religious garb, so I guess this is more a closure thing than a God thing. At some point, Peter Whittle says a few words, and everyone cries.
After they lower the casket into the ground, Teresa loses her mind, way beyond typical graveside grief. She turns to Graham Whittle, raises her fists, and starts screaming at him. “You fucking asshole! This is all your fault!” Her face turns purple, then she punches him in the jaw.
Graham steps back, hands in front of him as if to ward her off.
Peter jumps between them. “Teresa, please—”
She shoves him away. “I will not! You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
The official-looking woman puts her hand on Teresa’s shoulder and whispers something to the distraught mother. Teresa allows the woman to take her by the arm and lead her back to the grave. The woman says something I can’t hear and gestures at the hole in the ground. Teresa collapses, sobbing beside her son’s grave.
I wonder if she just needs someone to blame. I glance over at Graham Whittle. He has his face in his hands as he turns to walk away.
As the rest of the group begins to disperse, I take one more look around to see their reactions to Teresa’s fit. No one appears to be acting oddly, and I don’t see anyone who obviously doesn’t belong. I walk back to my car and get in. I feel the tears pushing hard on the backs of my eyes, but I ignore them.
Do not think about your dead sister.
Don’t think about her or your dad.
That shit is over and done with and has been for twenty-five years.
Just as I start the car, my cell phone rings. The caller ID shows my brother’s name. I’m feeling so guilty, thinking about all those years ago, that I can’t stop myself from answering. I’m dreading what problem it’s going to be this time, but to my surprise, Christopher sounds pretty good. He starts telling me about this new girl he’s seeing. He met her at the tattoo parlor, and she loves David Lynch movies as much as he does.
Christopher has a hard time keeping a girlfriend. I guess we have that in common. He wants to be reliable. I know he does, because I’m similar. But the problem is that he routinely forgets important details, like that he’s arranged to meet a woman somewhere for dinner. Then he feels terrible, tries to apologize, and professes his undying affection. He’s sincere, but they don’t buy it. I can’t imagine why they would.
For me, it’s easier to be alone, even though it really isn’t. If I were with someone, I wouldn’t be myself anymore. I would be someone else. And I don’t know how that someone else would behave.
“She’s cool as hell,” my brother says. “She’s had kind of a fucked-up life. Her mom used to beat the crap out of her for being left-handed. Can you believe that? I mean, who does that? So her aunt got her into foster care or something. But she still went to college and stuff. I showed her that newspaper article about you. She was really interested and wants to meet you. Mom, too. And seriously, Liz, Eraserhead is, like, her second-favorite movie. We’re gonna go to that thing they’re putting on, the big Lynch festival, this weekend. I can’t wait.”
I don’t say anything about how my brother is a complete weirdo for loving creepy David Lynch movies. The whole woman-in-the-radiator thing gives me the shivers. It’s like watching a nightmare unfold on a movie screen.
I worry about Christopher going for damaged women, like those who had fucked-up childhoods, just because he’s damaged, too. But I guess for people like us that’s how it goes, and this new woman sounds pretty okay. If there’s hope for Christopher, I guess maybe there’s some for me.
“What were you texting about the other day?” I ask. “You seemed kind of anxious. You sent a lot of messages.”
He goes quiet.
“Christopher?”
“Sorry, Liz. I was just… well, I was kind of fucked up, I guess.”
Dammit, I was hoping he really was clean now.
“I think someone spiked my drink or something. Honestly, Liz. It was all pretty… well, I just freaked out, I guess. But it’s fine now,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Christopher, I’m not back on ’til later. Want to get lunch? I’ll be home in a bit, and we can catch up.” I have until four o’clock, I figure. And the way Fishner looked at me, even that might be too soon.
Rain clouds continue to darken the sky to the west as I pull into the parking lot behind my apartment building. It’s Sunday, which means Kevin Whittle has been dead for three days, and if Ricky Harris’s alibi checks, we’ve made no progress whatsoever.
I pull open the front door and stop at my mailbox, which I haven’t checked in three days. It’s stuffed with a couple of bills, the new Rolling Stone, and one of those packets filled with useless coupons. The last item is a thick envelope postmarked in Cincinnati that looks as though it might hold a wedding invitation. I squint at the handwriting then shove it inside the magazine. I’m not real big on weddings.
Upstairs, I toss the mail onto the table then take care of the litter box and feed Ivan while he meows and figure-eights around my legs. After starting a pot of coffee, I grab the dust mop and run it across the hardwood.
“Geez, Ivan,” I yell, “you’re molting.”
He’s sitting in the bay window now, making weird clicking sounds at a crow outside. It would be nice if spring arrived on time this year. I laugh at myself. Not a chance. This is Cleveland. It can snow in June.
I try to take a nap, but of course, it doesn’t happen. With a sigh, I get up to answer the doorbell. “Hey.”
My brother smiles and steps inside. “How’s cop world?”
I can’t tell him stuff about blood and perverts and dead kids with missing hands. He’s way too sensitive for what I see every day. “Ah, you know. Same old, same old.”
“So tell me, detective-sister.” He’s on one knee, scratching the base of Ivan’s tail but looking up at me as I walk to the kitchen. Ivan likes Christopher more than anyone else. It used to bother me. “Do any of those, you know, those drinks you can drink? Do those work? I’m applying for this city job. And it’s not that great. Okay, I’d be a garbage man”—he laughs—“but it pays, like, twenty-four bucks an hour…” His voice trails off when I reappear from the kitchen.
I’m not hiding my irritation very well. I remember the last time I had to get him out of jail, when he was busted with heroin. He claims he never shot it, that he just smoked it. I choose to believe him because it’s easier that way, even though the detective in me wants to push up his shirtsleeves and look for tracks. He winces and stands up, leaving Ivan, then flops onto the couch. He puts his big work boots on my coffee table.
Damn it, Christopher, Christ only knows where those boots have been. “Let’s go get something to eat,” I say. “And no, that stuff doesn’t work. It just messes up your kidneys. Drink a shitload of water, take B vitamins before the test to make your piss yellow, and tell them you took a lot of ibuprofen in the last six hours. Put it off as long as you can, a month or more if you can swing it.”
He grins. “Smart detective-sister.”
He’s the smart one, probably smarter than I am, but he sure doesn’t act like it. You’d never know it by talking to him, either, unless you got him started on quantum physics or organic chemistry. How he knows about such things I will never understand. He’s a genius living the life of a loser.
“Where do you want to eat?” I ask.
“Guido’s?”
I nod. Guido’s is a Cleveland Heights staple, untouched by the gentrification that’s raised the facades and the rents in the rest of the neighborhood. It’s a quick trip there, just through a couple of parking lots from the back of my building.
Christopher asks me what kind of pizza I wa
nt, and I tell him to decide. I take a table by the window and wait, but even when he brings the slice and sits down, I can’t concentrate on the food or the conversation. I keep wondering if they’re still interviewing Ricky and if they’ve gotten anything else out of him. I can’t get my phone out fast enough when it rings. I gesture at my brother to keep eating and mouth that I’ll be right back as I get up. Once I’m outside, I answer, “Boyle.”
“All right, bad news,” Goran says. “Harris’s alibi checked out. Becker said she couldn’t get an arrest warrant, so Fishner cut him loose. We’re keeping a tail on him, though.”
“Shit.” The tension wraps itself around my neck and throat. I look up at the green-and-white awning overhead. It’s finally begun to rain, and a cold breeze gusts across the lake and into my face. A truck goes by, and the diesel fumes assault my nose. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.” He goes on about how Becker wasn’t happy that we didn’t have more evidence to book him before we brought him in, especially since McPherson is talking about harassment.
“What about the weapons? The ID theft?”
“Nah, she said those were a waste of time and we need to get him on charges that matter. I was kind of still hoping Watson would come back with something on that hair, but he called just after you left. He’s got nothing.”
He keeps talking, and I fiddle with a hinge on Guido’s front door while I listen with half an ear. A teenaged couple wants to get inside, and the boy gestures at me, asking with his eyes for me to move.
I try to return his smile as I slide to the side. “What about the bag and the van? And why did he leave Winky’s and come back?”
“The bag is in the lab, and the van is in impound, but he’s getting it out today. He says it’s a laundry bag that he had because he’d taken some of the club’s linens to the Laundromat. He says if he left Winky’s, it was just to go outside and smoke.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter. “Why leave the crime scene? And why do the club’s laundry if he’s ‘self-employed’?”
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