I get a text from Goran: I’m still sitting at MetroHealth waiting for Miller to wake up.
Yeah, Fishner told me, I reply.
At the counter at the Black Cat Café, a lunchtime favorite among law-and-order types since it’s right around the block from the Justice Center, I order a coffee and a turkey club. Julia gets a tuna salad wrap with extra pickles and a Diet Coke. The kid at the counter gives us two plastic number tents, which we take to a table in the back by the bathrooms. It’s the only table available, so we take it even though it’s the worst one in the joint.
“I know you’re stuck on motive,” she says. She removes her inadequate coat.
I glance down and think that she’s unbuttoned her blouse one button too far. There’s no way she’s flirting with me. “Of course I’m stuck on motive.” I hear a little edge to my tone, so I concentrate on being civil.
“Think beyond motive. Follow the evidence. Get me something I can use for an indictment.” Becker waves at someone. I turn to look and recognize the guy as a pretty powerful defense attorney and a huge asshole.
“You’re friends with him?” I ask nonchalantly. It’s hard for me to ignore her cleavage, but I do my best.
She arches one eyebrow. “Always keep your worst enemies closest to you,” she whispers.
“Is that what we’re doing here?”
The kid brings over the red plastic baskets that contain our sandwiches. “Thanks,” I tell him.
She doesn’t look away. “No, Liz, I’m pretty sure that’s not what we’re doing here.”
I’m confused, but I don’t say as much, especially given that confusion feels better than irritation, at least at this point. Becker sucks Diet Coke through her straw as I plow into my club. I wonder whether the blouse is just a wardrobe malfunction or if Julia Becker is actually flirting with me. She used to hate me—at least it seemed that way—and the keep-your-enemies-close stuff kind of makes sense. Maybe that’s what’s going on.
“What’s happening with the rest of the case?” she asks.
“The most interesting thing I can think of is that I found an old partner’s business card in the grandparents’ yard, under the porch.” I pull out my phone to look at the picture of the card. “It had a weird message on the back, and I keep thinking it means something. ‘Nothing beautiful without struggle.’”
She swallows her bite of sandwich. “That’s kind of true, though, isn’t it?”
“That’s not very lawyerlike.”
She chuckles. “So, what do you do when you’re not working?”
I use the fact that my mouth is full to take some time to consider her question. She’s just being nice. Answer the question. I swallow. “I’m always at work.”
“You can’t possibly always be at work. Do you live at the Justice Center?” Her eyes twinkle.
I struggle to keep my face neutral. “No, I live in Cleveland Heights.” She has no reason to know anything about me, so this is probably just a normal conversation. “You?”
“Shaker.”
“I figured as much. Either that or University Heights. Big, old, nice, expensive houses.”
She laughs. “Such assumptions!”
“It fits.”
She knits her eyebrows and searches my face. “First of all, my house is not big, nor was it especially expensive. And if we’re assuming things, Cleveland Heights fits for you, too. I can see it. Artsy movie theater, good food, rock-and-roll clubs.”
“It was better twenty years ago, back when it was still grungy as shit. Now it’s all brick sidewalks and fancy streetlights. If I wasn’t always at work, I might think of moving.” Now I’m flirting. This is getting weird.
We make more small talk while we finish our food. Afterward, we walk back to work together and say our goodbyes in the lobby.
My slightly elevated mood erodes quickly once I get back to my desk because few things irritate me more than boredom. I set down yet another cup of coffee on my desk. Maybe I do drink too much java. I’ve been typing my report about the search of Miller’s house and answering the phone for the better part of two hours, watching the shifting sunlight mark the relentless passage of time outside. It’s too quiet in here. I know Goran is still at MetroHealth with Miller, but I have no idea where everyone else is.
The landline on my desk rings, and I grab the handset. “Special Homicide. This is Detective Boyle.”
“Detective, this is Alexis Edwards from the Plain Dealer. Can you corroborate a tip that you’ve identified someone other than Sean Miller as a potential suspect in the child murder?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I slam the phone down.
It rings again a few minutes later. I resist the urge to answer it with a stream of obscenities. “Special Homicide, Detective Boyle.”
“Elizabeth?” a woman asks.
Her voice is so soft that I press the phone against my ear in an attempt to hear her better. “Yes. Can I help you?”
She starts to cry.
“Ma’am, are you calling to report a crime?” If so, I’m supposed to tell her to hang up and call 9-1-1.
“It-It’s m-me. T-Teresa.”
“Dr. Whittle, are you okay?”
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth,” she snaps. “Call me Teresa.”
This indignant woman is the person I used to know, so I relax a little. “Teresa, are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Find the asshole who killed my little boy.”
“We’re working on it.” I’m met with silence on the other end, but I can hear her breathing, and I’m glad she’s not crying anymore. With what I hope is a confident tone, I add, “We’ve got a couple of leads.” It’s not exactly true, but it’ll have to suffice.
“Yeah, I saw that on the fucking news.”
“What? You saw what on the news?”
“On the news, it said the man you arrested might not have done it and that now he’s in a coma, anyway. Why didn’t you tell me?” She sniffs, and I fear more tears are on the way.
“Teresa, please believe me. If I had known that any of this was gonna be on the news, I would have. I’m so sorry.” I can’t figure out who would have told the media anything, especially since the brass wants us to build a case against Miller.
“Why in the hell are you sitting there at the fucking police station instead of finding who killed my little boy?”
Good. She’s angry. I can deal with that. I also know that sometimes rage helps with grief.
“Teresa, we’re all working this case as hard as we can. Half the cops in the city are on it.”
“Why the hell aren’t you on it? You promised that you were going to catch him! Why the fuck aren’t you out there?”
“Look, we’re all doing our best. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.” I want to promise her that I’ll find her son’s killer, but I can’t make promises I don’t know I can keep. I do know I’ll do my best, but that’s not much comfort to a grieving mother.
“Please. Please just use your fucking brain.” She hangs up the phone, leaving me with a weird greasy, twisty feeling in my gut.
I slam the receiver into the base of the phone until I start to worry that it might break. I would just as soon not have to explain that to Fishner. I go to the bathroom, lock myself in the far stall, and lean against the cold tile wall. I think I might puke, but instead, I feel that pressure building behind my eyes, in my neck, and at the top of my chest. I let loose and allow the tears to come.
After my little cry, I feel better. I splash cold water over my face a few times then dry off with paper towels.
When I get back to my desk, I have a text message from an unknown number: The heaviest penalty for declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself.
What th
e hell? I text back: Wrong number, this is Elizabeth Boyle’s phone. The person doesn’t reply. I shrug it off. On the scale of weirdness, I’ve seen worse.
The wallpaper on my phone is an old picture of Josh and me. I feel bad, remembering how I blew him off last time. I’ve been blowing everyone off for too long now. Shue is right. I need to start making some changes and get my act together.
I call Josh and ask him to have dinner with me tonight.
Just after seven o’clock, Goran and I are dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s in the last of our reports. Dead ends meet the setting sun, and through the window, I watch a parking lot light turn on and off in an erratic rhythm.
Goran takes a call, and when he hangs up, he says, “Miller is still in a coma, but the doctors say the signs are pretty good. They’re hopeful he’ll wake up without brain damage.”
“Waking up without brain damage is kind of my goal every day.” Joking aside, I’m worried. If Miller doesn’t wake up, we may never find out who killed Kevin. I tell Goran about my weird text message. “Check it out,” I say, showing him my phone. “There’s some kind of Nostradamus texting me.”
He reads the text. “That’s creepy. A penalty for declining to rule? Did someone offer to make you queen or something?”
“Yeah, and I turned it down.” I realize he’s not joining in my humor. “Hey, come with Josh and me to dinner.”
He slumps in his chair. “I can’t. Sorry.”
“What’s your deal, Goran? Why the grumpy face?”
“Vera is royally pissed at me. Today’s our anniversary. I was supposed to be home an hour ago.” He leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head.
“Go home. I’ll finish the reports.”
“Really? Did you just volunteer to do paperwork?”
“Yeah, and you better leave before I change my mind. Get Vera some flowers on the way home. And take her out to dinner this weekend.”
“Thanks, Liz,” he replies, and his smile is genuine. “Try to keep your shit together, okay?” He stands and squeezes my shoulder. “Stay out of the deep end.”
He grabs his stuff and heads for the elevator. I hear him have a conversation with Becker in the hallway, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
Several minutes later, Becker comes over and sets her briefcase down on his desk. “Goran just told me you got a creepy text message.”
“It’s nothing. Wrong number.” But two makes a pattern, and the business card was creepy, too.
She takes off her coat. With a combination of relief and mild disappointment, I notice that her blouse is buttoned properly again.
She gestures at Goran’s desk. “You mind if I sit here and send a couple of emails?”
“I guess. I mean, if you really want to.” I turn back to my computer. What the hell is this? Does Fishner have Becker involved in the babysit-Boyle service? Twice in one day is odd, even for Julia.
I make quick work of the reports. After I print and sign them, I take them to Fishner, who tries to give me a hard time about the fact that she told Goran to do them.
“It’s his wedding anniversary,” I say. “And it’s not like we have any traction, anyway.”
She nods. Miller’s suicide attempt has everyone depressed. “Go home, Boyle. Good night. Close the door on your way out.”
When I walk out, Julia is still at Goran’s desk. She looks up at me and smiles.
“Do you have dinner plans? Do you want to come to dinner with my friend and me?” It’s out of my mouth before I know it, but the universe might reward me for taking risks on its behalf.
“My big plan was to make a salad at home. Nothing exciting whatsoever. Where are you and your friend thinking?” She looks happy, and I vaguely wonder when I last looked happy.
“We haven’t picked a place yet. Any ideas?”
“Gomez. It’s a great Mexican place in the Heights.”
I smile. “Yeah, I live, like, next door, so that sounds great. I could use a margarita or six.”
“It’s decided then. I’d be happy to go.”
I call Josh, but he doesn’t answer. He’s probably finishing his rounds at the hospital. I leave a voicemail, telling him to meet us at Gomez at eight thirty.
When I hang up, Julia says, “Since you live close by, I imagine we’ll drive separately?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s a good plan.”
We pack up our belongings and take the stairs down together. Watching her, I wonder if it’s hard to do all these flights of stairs in those heels. We part in the lobby, and I go out to my car.
Just as I get behind the wheel, Josh sends me a text, asking who “us” is.
I type: Julia Becker. Assistant Prosecutor.
You want me to evaluate her for you?
I stare down at my phone and tap out a reply: What does that mean?
You know exactly what that means. It’s been almost a year.
No way. I work with her. I’m not even sure I like her. Plus, I think she’s straight. I shake my head. I’m about as far from relationship material as a person can get.
We’ll see. I’m going to scope her for you, anyway, he replies.
I toss the phone on the passenger seat and start the car. While I’m sitting at a red light, my phone rings. “Boyle here.”
“Hi, Detective Boyle. This is Allie Cox. I found the receipt. And, um… there are a couple other things I want to tell you. Can we meet tomorrow morning? I, uh, I think you might be able to help me.”
I hear music in the background. “Is this about Kevin? I can be there in ten minutes. There’s no need to wait till morning.”
“I’m not at home.”
“I’ll meet you wherever you are. I can be anywhere in the city in less than twenty minutes. If you have info for me, let’s talk now.” The light turns green, and I press on the accelerator.
“No, that’s okay. Never mind,” she says.
Shit, I’m pushing too hard. “Allie, if you want to talk, let’s talk,” I reply in my witness voice. I brake hard behind an old blue Corsica.
“I can’t talk now. In the morning. I have to go. Can you meet me at my apartment in the morning?”
“Yes, that’s fine. How are you doing?” I ask as I pass the Corsica on the right.
“I’m okay. I mean, I’ll be okay. Thanks for asking. Look, I have to go. I’ll see you in the morning. Bye, Detective Boyle.”
The line goes dead. “What the actual fuck?” I toss my phone on the passenger seat. When Henry Rollins comes on, ranting and raving about how badly cops behave, I turn up the stereo volume. I can’t help agreeing with him. I sing along as I pull into my apartment building’s parking lot. I’m going to walk to the restaurant, since it’s only two blocks away.
I get out, lock the door, and move onto the sidewalk. Taking some deep breaths, I try to get my head out from under the investigation. Things have slowed to the point that the next catch may go to Goran and me, and I don’t like it. The Christopher business was like a knife in my side, and I know I have a lot of work to do with him and my mom if I want to be able to say that I have any family at all. The fresh air helps. It’s one of those nights that’s almost warm, and I vaguely think about opening a window when I get home. I sleep better when the room is cold.
When I enter the restaurant, Julia waves from the bar. I go over and drape my jacket on the back of the barstool next to her.
The bartender steps up immediately. “What’ll you have?”
“Margarita on the rocks, no salt.”
“Nice choice,” Julia says, raising her glass, which is the same drink.
The chef comes out of the back and walks over to us. “Hi, Julia.”
Well, no wonder she recommended this place. Apparently, she’s a regular.
“Hey, David.” Julia waves at me. “This
is my friend Liz.”
Even though my badge is in my pocket and I’ve locked my gun in the trunk of my car, he says, “Evening, Detective.”
Julia smiles into her margarita. Joe sits down and chats with us for a while. It becomes clear that they know each other far better than as just chef and customer. I ask how they know each other.
Joe responds, “We went to high school together. And then I went to culinary while she got lost in the ivy.” They laugh.
I feel a little out of my league. I’m kind of rough around the edges, and sitting here with a polished, Ivy League-educated prosecutor on one side and a classically trained chef on the other feels strange. The margarita helps. I drink it quickly then order another.
Josh breezes in. Add a gifted pediatric oncologist to the mix. “Hey, ladies!” he coos. “What’s happening? What are we drinking?”
Who are these people, and why are they hanging out with me? They introduce themselves and slide into comfortable conversation while I take a sip of my margarita. An hour later, our table is ready. We order dinner, and I almost feel like a normal person, out to dinner with friends.
When Josh gets up to go to the bathroom, Julia asks me to show her the business card again. I pass my phone to her. After that, she wants to see the weird text, so I pull that up.
She frowns. “These both sound vaguely reminiscent of Plato’s Republic. I mean, I’m not certain, but maybe it’s worth checking, if you’re worried about it. Have you read it?”
I remember Plato. I think he might have been on to something with the whole allegory-of-the-cave thing and the forms in the shadows. “Yeah, about twelve years ago, which is about a hundred in cop years.”
She chuckles, and it occurs to me again that I’m having a nice time. I appreciate the sound of her laugh and wonder if, on some level, I am attracted to her. I push that away pretty fast, but given the wall we’ve hit with the case, it feels like some kind of breakthrough. Maybe Josh is right. Maybe I invited her out not just to melt the historic ice but for some other reason. But I don’t think so. The truth is I don’t think I’ll be over Cora for a very long time.
I take my phone back. “You’re right, though. The weird language and the tone are similar on both. But if they are linked…” The thought gives me shivers. If that’s the case, it’s as if I was—or someone was—meant to find the card. As if it wasn’t dropped but planted. I think I’m letting my imagination run away with me. This case is about Kevin Whittle, not about me.
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