Wittenour makes a beeline for the doughnuts. “You want one?” he asks Sims.
“Nah, man, you know I don’t eat crap like that.” Sims follows me to the briefing room. “He’s gonna end up with diabetes one of these days.”
Wittenour returns, cramming a doughnut into his mouth. “Hey, Boyle, how’s it going?” he asks.
“Not terrible. How are you?” I smile without looking away from the case board. I tend to get possessive of my cases. It’s not an especially endearing trait of mine. To put it in Shue’s positive terms, maybe I should be more willing to let others help with investigations.
“You know,” he replies. “Same as I ever was.”
“Right.” I have to behave myself today, so I decide to engage a bit more. “I see they brought in the big guns for this one.”
That earns a chuckle from the guys.
Wittenour finishes his doughnut. “Man, that was one stale-ass doughnut. So the Whittle murder, huh? Yeah. We’ve been hearing about that one.” He licks his fingers then wipes them on his pants.
I do my best not to make a face. Goran shows up with the coffee, and Roberts and Domislaw trudge in behind him. Rather than letting five hulking dudes make me feel claustrophobic, I stand up and lean against the windowsill. The guys start talking about the virtues of the new indoor driving range. I roll my eyes. I’d rather talk about the shooting range or something like that.
Fishner emerges from her office. “All right, let’s go over these details.” Her whole spiel takes about forty-five minutes, then the new guys have questions. She and Goran and I take turns answering them. She doles out assignments to the guys then points at me. “I’m still with you. You drive. We’ll go back to that bar to get more on Allie Cox.”
I nod. “Also, I think we should check with Anthony Dwayne Smith and show him her picture.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Goran smirks at me. I give him my “at least I’m not on the desk” shrug and head for the elevator.
This time, Fishner makes small talk while I drive. We discuss the crime board and the new guys. Well, “discuss” might be overstating it. She talks, and I make the right noises at appropriate times and focus on not driving too fast.
While we’re idling at a stoplight not far from the Flats, I spot a Starbucks. “Do you want coffee?” I ask.
“You and Goran both drink too much coffee.” She looks at her phone.
I take that to mean she doesn’t want any coffee. I guess that means I don’t want any coffee, either. I console myself with the fact that I probably won’t get in trouble if my boss is my partner today. I can continue to practice behaving like a model detective and an upstanding citizen.
Winky’s is even more depressing than I remember. Marco, the manager, is tending bar. The same sad guy with the pitcher of beer sits in the same sad spot. I take a stool a few down from that guy. When Marco comes over, I introduce Fishner, who remains standing behind me, then ask for a glass of water.
Marco brings the water, and I’m relieved to see that the glass is clean. He looks as if he belongs in a bad reality TV show but seems like a nice enough guy. “Yeah, what happened to that kid is terrible.” He shakes his head. “Just terrible.”
“What can you tell me about that night?” I ask. “Thursday night. Anything you remember?”
“Typical Thursday. Basketball was on, so we were actually kind of busy. Well, not busy, but steady. You know.”
I nod and sip my water.
“We’re closing soon,” he says. “For good. We’re all gonna have to find different jobs.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry to hear that. Not many jobs out there these days.” Idle chatter is not something I want to be engaging in right now, but I want him to relax. “How long have you worked here?”
“About four years. My wife got transferred here for her job, and I had restaurant experience, so there you go. It’s not the best place in the world, but it pays the bills.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest.
“What can you tell me about Allie Cox?”
He leans back against the counter below the liquor shelves. “Allie? She’s great. Everyone likes Allie.”
“Was she here last Friday?”
He shakes his head. “No, she called off. Said she had a family emergency. She was supposed to work four to midnight, her regular shift.”
“She had another job, right? As a nanny?”
“Yeah. Man, she loved that kid, too. Like he was her own. She brought him in here a couple times when she picked up her paycheck.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about how they interacted?”
“Nah.” He shrugged. “He seemed like a normal kid, and she’s a nice gal.”
“Has Allie ever behaved oddly, that you’ve noticed?”
He makes a thinking face. “Well, she’s been calling off all week. Something about her—wait a minute. Tell me it wasn’t that kid. The one that got killed, it wasn’t him, was it? Shit, that would…”
I take a sip of my water to avoid responding.
“That would really suck for her,” he finishes.
I nod and try to look sympathetic. “Does she hang out with a guy named Sean Miller, one of your regulars?”
“I don’t think so. But then, I don’t really pay attention to her, like, personal stuff.”
I show him the mug shot of Miller on my phone. “Do you recognize this man?”
He squints at the screen. “Yeah, I’ve seen him in here. Never seen him with Allie, though.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about Allie? Anything at all?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I’ve only seen her get mad one time, which is pretty rare in this business. They’re always mad about something. Allie was different. It was fucking scary. She’s usually so calm.” He rubs the back of his neck and frowns. “Sarah, one of my other servers, did something to piss her off. They’re friends. They used to be roommates, but they still hang out together. Anyway, Allie got pissed off and bounced a beer mug off that wall over there”—he gestures at a divot in the wall above the TV—“like she was a baseball pitcher.” He laughs. “It was pretty crazy. It flew back and almost hit me in the face. Surprised it didn’t break.”
“Did she stay mad long?”
“Nah. It was like a flash, you know, a temper thing. Then it was gone, and we all got back to opening for the day.”
“When was this?” Fishner asks.
He raises his shoulders. “Maybe two weeks or so ago.”
“Any idea what pissed her off?” she asks. Temper flares are interesting things, especially in the context of a murder investigation.
“No clue. Probably some guy or something.” He chuckles.
“Have you heard from Allie in the past few days?” I ask.
“Nah, she’s off the schedule for a while. Said she needed some time. Jen picked up most of her shifts, and I hired a new girl.”
We talk about Jen Kline for a while. Marco has nothing of interest to tell me.
I slide him a card and ask him to call if he thinks of anything. He nods then steps away. Fishner and I head outside.
“All right, so Cox has a temper,” I say as we settle into the car.
Fishner nods. “Keep an eye on her.”
I point the car north and hit the gas. “She’s sort of out of our jurisdiction.” Cleveland Heights tends to get touchy when we invade their territory.
She gazes at me. “I don’t mean to start a territory war. I mean keep an eye on her.” She slides her phone into her pocket and studies my face for a beat too long before looking away.
I drive across the river to Anthony’s spot. He’s by his dumpster outside the warehouse, and he smiles and waves when I pull over to the curb. When he tries to get up, he’s shaky on his feet.
“Hey, Shaft,” he calls as
I get out of the car. “I can’t really walk. Heh heh. What you up to?”
I push the car door closed. “Hi, Anthony. You just sit. I’ll come over there.” Fishner stays in the car while I trot over to him.
“You got a smoke for me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.” He looks dejected, and I make a mental note to get more witness smokes. “This will only take a second.” I pull up the picture of Allie Cox on my phone. “Will you look at this and tell me if you recognize her?” Bending over, I hold it close to his face.
“Heh heh. Okay.” He squints at the screen. “I got kinda drunk. I found ten bucks earlier.” He shakes his head. “Nah, she don’t look familiar to me,” he slurs. “I’m sorry.”
“Remember that woman you told me about? The one coming out the back of Winky’s, wearing a baseball cap?”
He scrunches up his face then nods.
“Think this looks like her?”
“It’s possible. Maybe.”
That’s not going to cut it, especially since she has an alibi. “Anthony, about how tall was she?”
“Baseball cap? I don’t know.” He peers up at me. “’Bout your height, maybe a little shorter.”
According to Allie Cox’s driver’s license, she’s only five two. I pat his shoulder and tell him to take care, and I mean it.
He waves. “Bye, Shaft. Stay safe out there.”
Back in the car, I fill Fishner in, not that I have much to tell her. Our next stop is Malibu Jack’s. The delivery driver, Ben, is there this time, and he remembers a “sort of out-of-it” young woman who matches Allie’s description answering the door. When I show him the photo, he confirms it was Allie.
When Fishner and I get back to the squad room, Goran is at his desk. Fishner goes into her office and closes the door. I plop down in my chair, feeling a bad mood coming on.
“What’d you get?” Goran asks.
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Are you having fun with Fishner?”
“Fuck you.”
My phone buzzes with a text message from Christopher. I’m fine, it says. Thanks for trying to save my ass.
I love you. Call me when you can, especially if we’re actually having dinner with Mom next week, I reply.
“They’ll charge Miller,” Goran says.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t add up.”
“What murder has ever made sense?”
I shift my eyes to him and slow-blink a couple of times. “I’m going home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Bye, Boyle. Behave.”
“Nice alliteration, Goran.” I switch off my lamp and wave at him on my way out.
Driven mostly by curiosity, I creep past Allie’s apartment building on my drive home. Lights are on, and her car is still there. She crosses in front of a window, and I drive away.
Chapter Eighteen
I wake up at 4:23 on Wednesday morning. I’m not one of those people who can just go back to sleep, so I sit up for a minute, hugging my legs and contemplating a pleasant surprise. I slept in my bed for six hours in a row.
I get dressed then head into the kitchen to feed a meowing Ivan. After he eats, I take a few minutes to pet him while he purrs. I’m sure he’s been feeling neglected, but I tell him I’ll make it up to him once this case is over. “You’re still molting,” I tell him as I sweep the collection of cat hair into the trash can.
Even after a trip to the gym, I’m the first in at work. One of the night shift detectives saunters into the break room as I’m making coffee. “Hey, Boyle.” He looks spent.
I smile at him. “What’s up, Martinez?” I fill the filter with Folgers, glad it’s not that battery acid crap in the white can again.
“Caught one tonight. Prostitute dead over off Lorain.” The red-light district. Vice has been under a lot of pressure to clean up that area, but whatever they’re doing isn’t working.
I fill the coffeepot with water and switch on the machine. I hope this dead hooker isn’t the start of some serial thing. “Any leads?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not yet. Her teenage daughter found her.” He sighs. “I’m going home. Have a good one.”
“Nighty night,” I reply as he ambles away.
The coffeepot starts to gurgle, so I grab my black skull-and-crossbones mug out of the dish drainer and root through the refrigerator for the cream. Coffee in hand, I go to my desk and set the mug down before sitting in the chair.
I prop my feet up on the corner of the desk and stare at the crime board. I hate that I can feel this case slowing down. They’re going to have to charge Miller with the murder or release him, and he and his lawyer are sticking to their guns on the he-just-found-the-body line. My own gut feelings aside, I still don’t think we have enough to put him away. If Miller didn’t kill Kevin, and Harris couldn’t have killed Kevin, and Allie has an alibi, and Christopher obviously didn’t kill anyone, it comes down to the fact that at seven thirty on Thursday night, someone was in Sean Miller’s garage, and that person killed Kevin Whittle.
My mind circles back to motive. If whoever kidnapped Kevin did it for money, I need to take a look into the Whittles’ finances. I open my laptop.
The first thing I notice is that the grandparents made weekly five-hundred-dollar cash withdrawals. That confirms Allie Cox’s statement. Beyond that, they only have about two thousand in checking, a little over twenty grand in savings, and a money market account that looks as though it’s generating enough interest to keep paying their bills for ten or so years. A credit check confirms that they started the process of getting a second mortgage, probably to cover the ransom that no one ever demanded, and this jibes with my general sense that they’re stupid but not guilty. So if the killer wanted a huge ransom, he was barking up the wrong tree.
Goran wanders in and greets me, but all I can manage in response is a grunt.
“So it’s that kind of day, huh?” He tosses our Nerf football at me.
I bat it away. “Bad mood.”
“Oh, the Boyle bad mood. Beware.” He sits down at his desk.
“Yeah, you’re really on a roll. Keep it going, Goran.”
He opens his laptop and starts typing. I get more and more irritated with every minute that passes. Too much sitting and not enough moving.
“Chill out, Boyle,” Goran says, standing. “I have to go run copies of these pictures, but I’ll be back.”
“Knock yourself out.” I feel my neck and shoulders getting tense, so I do a couple of neck rolls. I start fiddling with my computer, trying to look busy. My phone rings, and I snatch it up. “Boyle.”
“Hey, Boyle,” Domislaw says. “I got more wit statements from the Emerald.”
“And?”
“One of the dancers, Cinnamon, had a fight with her boyfriend that night. She got left with a punch in the face and no ride home. But here’s the kicker—she was friendly with Jen Kline, your gal from Winky’s, and went to borrow money for a cab. Cinnamon was the gal in the baseball cap. She tossed it on to cover the beginning of the shiner her guy gave her, and she borrowed the jacket from Jen.”
“So much for that lead, then,” I mumble. “Thanks, Dom.”
“You got it,” he replies.
A few minutes later, Fishner comes over and plants her bony ass on the edge of Goran’s desk. “Sean Miller tried to off himself in his cell early this morning. He’s at Metro. Coma. I sent Goran and Roberts to check in on him and talk to the doctors.”
“Shit. What the hell?” I almost feel a twinge of sadness. Whether from guilt or from fear of being convicted as a murderer, that man tried to end his own life.
“It confirms that he’s good for it.”
“Not necessarily. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, but what if he was just scared?”
She levels an even gaze at me. “Boyle,
we had this conversation yesterday.” She goes back into her office.
Uh-huh. It’s all so easy, isn’t it? I go back to my busy work.
After our noon briefing, Fishner leaves for a meeting. I glance at my watch and am genuinely surprised by how quickly the hours have ticked by today, given that this whole stupid day has been a whole lot of sitting and not much moving—pacing around doesn’t count. I send Christopher another text message telling him to call me. He’s been keeping me at a distance, responding to my texts but not calling me. I’m not surprised.
About forty-five minutes later, I’m pacing back and forth in front of my desk when Julia Becker asks me if Fishner is around.
“No,” I reply, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“I’m heading over to the Black Cat for lunch. Do you want to go?”
I hide my surprise by glancing at my watch. “Sure, but I don’t have a lot of time. Just let me get my stuff.” I throw on my jacket then grab my gun from my locker.
“Do you need to be armed to eat a sandwich?”
“Yeah.”
In the elevator, Julia says, “We’re all feeling pressure here. We’re going to have to charge Miller today or tomorrow, whether he’s awake or not.”
I don’t respond until we’re crossing the lobby. “It wasn’t Miller, Julia. I mean, I get where you’re going, but—”
She holds up a finger. “Occam’s razor.”
“Right, whatever.” I laugh. I get that the simplest explanation is usually the right one, but the “usually” is what we have to take into consideration here. We can’t let an innocent—at least mostly innocent—man go away for capital murder, and the more I think about it, the less convinced I am that Miller did it. There’s just so little evidence and no motive.
The wind whips down from the lake and blows Becker’s hair across her face. She pushes it behind her ears and hunches her shoulders. It’s warmer today but still cool, and she’s wearing only a lightweight trench coat over her skirt suit.
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