I only said “I told you not to go out there” once. Possibly twice. And kissed him again.
“Tom, where were you when—?”
“Oh—close. But not—” He gave up. “Yeah, Allie. Much too close. It was weird, though. We stopped when we came around the corner of the building to argue about—discuss—whether the sleety mess would be worse if we came in this direction. Or around on the other side. We almost bagged it then. But the wind backed off so—”
“I need to hear this too, Dr. Bennington.”
I’d been focusing on Tom and choking back my reaction to “much too close,” so I’d failed to notice Tony, Otis, and a woman I’d never seen before, approaching our freezing wall. I hoped Tony wasn’t here to ask for his coat back.
Tom stood up, offered his hand, and said, “Hi. I’m Tom Bennington.”
She shook his hand. “Lieutenant Olivia Wood, Homicide,” and produced a badge which she flashed at me and pressed into Tom’s palm. “My badge. Does this work for you?’
He slipped off his glove and ran his fingers over the shiny metal. “Works great, Lieutenant Wood. Nice badge.” He grinned, “Nice move too. Nobody ever handed me a badge before. What would you like me to tell you?”
“Sit down, Tom. I sure am ready to.”
He sat and she squeezed in with us. Otis and Tony stayed standing where they were. Cop-like.
“Tell me what you heard,” she began. “Or sensed. In any way. Anything that stood out for you. As far as I can tell, you and Otis were the only eyewitnesses—witnesses—to this shooting. I need to know what he saw, but you have insights—” She smiled. “There are a lot of those tricky sight words, I’m noticing. But you know what I mean.”
I’d met all kinds of cops in the post-MondoMegaJackpot Era. Understatement. My first homicide detective showed up a year and a half ago and flashed his badge at our hotel room peephole. This one was different. For one thing, this one was a woman of about my age.
Go us.
A young female detective with brown skin.
Go Cleveland PD.
I gave Lieutenant Wood the once-over on behalf of the sisterhood. She was my height. Had my basic unruly hair. Hers was under tighter control than mine, pulled back into one of those chic, trendy little buns with a few darling wisps escaping here and there. Her keen, intimidating gaze communicated “No. Nonsense.”
Dressed for police business too. Khakis. More sensible boots than mine, which I assumed were cowering in tonight’s weather. Smartly cinched trench coat. Although there was no way to tell for certain at the moment, I didn’t figure her for any of that breathtaking Lady CSI cleavage. She passed the Allie Harper inspection.
Tom was smiling back at the woman he was hearing her to be.
“Yeah, it’s tricky for sighted people. But not for me. Don’t fear the sight words. I have a friend who, first time I met her, said, ‘Let’s just agree to bulldoze over that one.’ It’s fine. What would you like to know? Where should I start?”
“As we walked up here, I heard you say the wind had died down, so you came this way.”
“Yes.”
“That sort of thing.” She frowned. “This is not for the public, and not for sure yet in any case, but it’s pretty clear to us that this was a sniper. To that person, a drop in wind speed might signal the optimum time to fire.”
A sniper?
She gestured to the steep slope behind us. With its abundant ground cover and artfully placed trees, it sheltered us from the street, while providing a glimpse of the celebrated concert hall. Guys were stringing crime-scene tape around there, too, draping the stately balustrade in yellow plastic.
“He would have planned to shoot down here from inside a low wall, up there at Severance Hall. Not a tough shot for a pro.”
“Severance Hall?” Outrage saturated every syllable. “Jesus.”
Tom’s delight in the Cleveland Orchestra was untouched by his blindness. “Everybody hears better in the dark,” he said. I’d close my eyes to listen too.
All through the winter, Tom, Otis, and I sat in that splendid space—savoring the music and the freedom to hear it there. For Tom, a shooter taking aim at Kip Wade from there was a desecration. In the lights illuminating the scene he’d gone pale. “When we get this son of a bitch, Lieutenant,” he said, “I want to be there.”
She nodded. “We’ll see what we can do about that. We plan to get your son of a bitch, Tom. Tell me more about what you noticed as you came down here.”
“Sorry, I—” He rubbed at his jaw, collecting himself, recreating the moment. “Otis and I were walking together at that point. I was hearing our footsteps. Not actually thinking about it. But I can hear them now. And my cane makes a specific sound on that kind of sidewalk. I was listening for sounds of cars, up on the boulevard. That’s automatic. An orientation thing. Spatial. There weren’t many cars. Out on Euclid Avenue, yeah. A steady hum. A handful of people besides Otis and me, as far as I could hear. Far away. The sleet was stinging my face. Rain mixed in too.
“Kip couldn’t have been very far in front of us, but I didn’t hear him. Maybe he stopped for a minute. Or maybe the rain covered his footsteps—I heard the shot. I guess. But—you know. You’d notice, but not be—interested, unless you knew—It was muffled and from a little distance. I would never have imagined—But Otis put his hand on my shoulder. Stopped me.”
“So a single, surgical shot. And then?”
“We stood there for, maybe, twenty seconds before all hell broke loose.”
All hell?
“All hell.” Lieutenant Wood. Unsurprised.
“Yeah. The response was fast. Crazy fast. A squad car. Then a bunch—two and three at a time.” He was concentrating hard. Reliving. “One. And then before that one was completely stopped, another one. And right after that, more. Canine unit? I know it’s funny, but I believe I heard a dog after a bit. Big. Maybe just a regular dog—An ambulance. Same thing. Another right behind, I think. A firetruck. Another firetruck. Doors slamming. A lot of running. Yelling.
“Otis took us both onto the ground.” Tom was back in that scene, facedown on freezing stone. “But the sirens. All—They—” He stopped. Collecting himself. “Lieutenant Wood, sound like that. Noise. It takes away my hearing. And I can’t—”
I leaned into him, wrestling with my memory of a different night of pure terror. On a scale of one to ten, that night and this night were both beyond tens. A person can survive and still be lost forever. Tom deaf would be Tom lost for a very long time.
Otis and Tony stepped in closer, filling the gap Tom and I made when we disappeared into our shared nightmare. Olivia Wood saw it too. Nodded to Otis.
“Otis? Your take?”
“Response time was crazy. A shooting like that one? Accurate and quick? A single shot, as far as anybody can tell. A hidden gunman, at a short distance, so probably suppressed. Certainly sounded suppressed to me.
“Like Tom said. Could have been anything to a civilian bystander—if there’d been bystanders. No fuss. Not much muss. One victim on the ground, shielded from the street by shrubs and trees. A damn dark, secluded place on a crappy night? Cleveland cops are fast when they need to be, but they’re not psychic-fast—Were there a ton of 911 calls? All at once? There must have been. And timed. Somehow. Because—”
“Fifteen calls. ‘Shots fired.’ ‘Fire at Severance Hall.’ Timed to hit after the shooting. One call right after another. Except for the ones that were concurrent. Threw everybody off. Scrambled the troops.”
Valerio caught my eye, “What I meant when I said causing people to wonder if something is a terrorist attack is a form of terrorism, Allie.”
“Yes. And then you said, ‘Head game.’ But what kind of head game? How does it all—?”
I lost my place in my own question. A tussle was breaking out at the bottom of a stairway that
led down to us from the street.
“Oh, stop it. You have to let me through. I’m a mile from your scene. Let me in. My friends are right over there. C’mon.
“Allie! Tom!”
Lisa Cole, Ace Reporter. Uniquely herself. Cute, blond, chasing her story. The officer backed up a step and she advanced six. Around him. Taking a couple more. Waving her arms. The cop made an end-run and stole back his step advantage. She kept waving at me over his shoulder. Backing him up again. Invading his official and personal space.
“Look. Officer. Look, dammit.” She turned her pockets out. “Nothing in my hands either. See? No microphone. I’m completely harmless. Clearly no gun. Look in my teeny purse.” She popped it open with a snap of her fingers. Held it under the cop’s nose where he could have confirmed the absence of a gun. If he hadn’t backed up another foot.
“All I got is lipstick and my goddam press pass. Look. My camera dude is not in there, either. I’m off the clock. Please. Be nice. Those are my goddam friends over there. Let me go sit on that perfectly innocuous bench. And see if they’re all right. What. What’s with the face? You never heard a woman swear before? Or say ‘innocuous’? Dammit. Get a life.”
Lisa Cole. Never at a loss for a bad word.
I was impressed. The officer was not. He hustled Lisa back up the steps. She made the “call me” sign in my direction and huffed out of sight.
Even if you’re a homicide detective, spunky little Lisa Cole, born Lisa Čebulj in my former Collinwood neighborhood—irreverent, ambitious, and generally unstoppable—could pry a wee chuckle out of you. Lieutenant Wood shook her head. “That Cole. Pain in the collective butt of the CPD. But she’s a good, honest reporter, even working at 16. How do you know her?”
Tonight was not opportune for the long-version Hummer explanation.
“She introduced me to Tom.”
Time for “We’re done here.” For one thing, the rain which had piddled away to scattered sleet as we talked was morphing back to 100 percent rain. More appalling than the 50/50 drizzle/sleet duo. For another, the Medical Examiner’s van was on the street above us, beeping in to park.
“Lieutenant Wood? Can we wrap this up? Officer Valerio, I need to give you your coat and your vest back.”
“I’ll pick them up later, Allie. I’m fine tonight. I feel better knowing you have a vest.”
Lieutenant Wood, who I was already secretly calling “Olivia” in my mind, smiled. “That’s not necessarily standard operating procedure, but it’s kind of sweet.”
“Take my word for it, ma-am. It’s a cleverly disguised insult. But I forgive him.”
She focused back on Tom, the smile still warming her tone. “Tom, thank you. You helped me clarify what happened here. You bring a different dimension to a scene. Anything else your senses are telling you? Before you go?”
He took off his dark glasses and put his head back to let the rain fall onto his closed eyes, listened to the idling engines and radio chatter. Footsteps and low voices. Exhaled the tension of an evening none of us could have imagined when we arrived at the museum’s door. I shivered and checked my watch. It still wasn’t March.
They were going remove a body bag soon. I did not want to see that.
Tom inhaled. Long and deep. A catch in the breath. The anger was back.
“Yes, Lieutenant Wood. From here. Close by. I smell Kip’s blood.”
“So do I, Tom.” She wasn’t smiling anymore either. “I’m very sorry. So do I.”
Chapter Seven
Thursday, March 1
The lakeside cottage of your dreams. “Oh, my! What a cottage!”
This Tudor Revival cottage, with its extraordinary cedar-shingle roof is the jewel of a prestigious gated community! Magnificent windows provide remarkable vistas. Expansive scenes of Lake Erie. Here to be enjoyed from patios, decks, and pool. Lovely meandering woods and gardens enhance the expansive grounds. High ceilings capture light. Everywhere, you’ll find handcrafted moldings, hardwood floors, handmade tile, quarried stone, and graceful ironwork. Artisan-carved mantels embellish the five fireplaces. Stunning, below-window cabinets open the kitchen to the lake view. Wolf®, and SubZero® appliances—a chef’s dream. A charming butler’s pantry supports gracious dining and entertaining for your family and friends. Master suite features his and hers dressing rooms, sybaritic spa bath, and library/study. Each of four guest rooms on the second floor has its own bath. Balconies open to the lake view through French doors from both living room and bedrooms. The full lower level provides additional living space, complete with bedroom, bath, and kitchen, plus gym, billiards room, and wine cellar. For longer-term guests or visiting in-laws, a fully-finished, fully-equipped suite over the four-car garage. The ultimate amenity? Your own private beach.
Our new lakeside residence was a little bit Tudor revival. A whole lot Hobbit Hole. Nestled under its overhanging roof of steam-bent cedar shingles, it even had one of those cute round windows over its massive, yet friendly, front door. Chimney pots right out of Mary Poppins. You could look at it and say, “That is one sweet little house.”
Except for the seven thousand square feet.
At midnight-and-change a.m. on the first nasty cold day of a brand new month, Otis drove the family Escalade down and around the long, curving driveway, past small glades of snow-encrusted pines, to our new lakeside mansion. I approved of this house. Right off the bat, it didn’t loom. It nestled. Was it big? Oh, you bet, but unlike our nine-thousand-plus-square-foot hacker-death-trap former mansion, this one said, “Cottage.” Not, “Versailles.”
Margo Gallucci, my former landlady and best friend forever, liked to refer to our former residence as “your real mansion” or more informally as “that fucking mansion-y mansion.” All of us had been in awe of it. Afraid of it too. Beautiful and gracious as it was, I never felt safe during those days and nights. For good reason: It was a carefully devised trap.
Our new house had a much less threatening vibe. On a night like this, I felt welcomed. As opposed to dismissed with a disapproving sniff. The only thing historic about it was the trust fund that paid to get it built in 2013, but whatever it lacked in snobby landmark status, it made up for with a serious reduction in menace. The former owners were poised to move up to a bigger, juicier-pedigreed mansion at the exact moment we were poised to flee to a smaller, less scary one. Fresh starts come in all sizes.
Our new place was ridiculously too big, but even at seven thousand-plus square feet it was more home than museum. To be perfectly candid, it did not trigger my well-established “check shoe for dog doo before entering” reflex.
Here’s the deal: If you’re wearing a sign on your back that says, 550-million- dollar-jackpot-winner. Rob me. Kill me. Whatever comes to mind, a house that throws open its unceremonious mudroom door and says “Get in here, you. You’re cold, damp, and scared to death” is the answer to an accidental lottery winner’s prayers.
Why, thank you, house. How very kind.
Otis pulled into Stall Number Two of the used-to-be four-stall garage and waved to the security guy who came out of the new security room which now occupied Stall Number One. We disembarked. Guard guy nodded, said, “Hi and goodnight.” Went back in and closed the door. Efficient. Sensible. Awake. I like that in a security guard. We had a couple of them in the garage room twenty-four/seven, three shifts. Two guns per shift.
The garage door slipped quietly into place.
Good night.
My wonderful moment of “That was quite the day, but all will be well as soon as I’m fast asleep and things get back to normal” lasted the four and a half minutes before I saw headlights slide across the ceiling.
Incoming.
A car door slammed. I peeked out a “magnificent window” at the “vista” of our ice-covered driveway—Oh, hell…o.
A City of Cleveland squad car. And who disembarked from this c
ar and came crunching up to our friendly front door? Officer Anthony Valerio of the CPD. Back for his vest, I presumed.
I cracked the door—four-and-a-half-inches-but-who’s-counting—and stuck my nose out. An icy wind tossed in a couple handfuls of sleet. I gave up and yanked the door the rest of the way open.
“Didn’t we already say goodbye? Not nearly long enough ago?”
“Yeah, I don’t want me to be here right now, either. Can I come in?”
* * *
Another twenty minutes and all four of us were stationed around the island in the stone and granite, lavishly applianced, Tuscan-ambianced kitchen, enjoying Otis’s special, high-test hot chocolaty beverage of a recipe nobody ever gave my brother Justin and me to warm us up after our snowball fights.
I skootched as close to Tom as two separate barstools would permit. He slipped an arm around me. I leaned closer, right up to the point of teetering, put my head on his excellent shoulder, breathed in his manly Thomas Bennington goodness, and had another sip of my bourbon-spiked drink. Then another.
Steaming hot. The beverage and the man.
“Otis,” I chirped. “No marshmallows?”
“Allie.” He shook his head. “You know marshmallows and bourbon don’t mix. Especially an excellent bourbon like this one. Keep sittin’ there and get quiet for a minute. You’re jigglin’.”
Otis grew up in Cleveland with a big extended family of expatriate, racially endangered Southerners. I grew up in a tiny West Virginia town, barely enough south of the Mason-Dixon to soften our vowels. Otis and I now had about the same dollop of The South in our speech. Mine drifted back in when I talked to my mother on the phone. Tom, who hailed from Atlanta, was steeped in it. Hard to shake that sweet music.
I sat there. As soon as the jigglin’ started dyin’ down, the yawnin’ stepped up. We all shared a yawn and polished off our hot chocolate. It was almost one a.m. by the time Tony got down to officially talking.
The Devil's Own Game Page 3
