What Doesn’t Kill Her

by Max Allan Collins

  The truth of that hit Slowhand hard enough to make him cringe; but he said nothing.

  Prowling again, Pence added, “And fencing for two burglary crews at the same time? Two competing crews, workin’ the same basic area, who probably like each other the way a couple of street gangs would? Bold, imaginative thinking, Robert… or maybe the kind of greedy shit that could get you fucked up if one crew thought they were getting the short end of the stick.”

  His fingertips making small circles, Slowhand massaged his forehead. If this was a nervous habit, maybe it explained his baldness: he’d simply rubbed his hair off.

  Pence’s comment had struck a jarring chord not only with the pawnbroker, but with Mark, too. Slowhand was just one of many fences for high-end goods in a city the size of Cleveland. Dealing with two competing crews put him seriously in harm’s way, not wise for a man not as fast on his feet—or with a gun—as he once was.

  Why would an experienced crook like Slowhand risk courting this kind of trouble?

  Unless…

  “You weren’t just fencing for them,” Mark blurted. “You were running both crews.”

  Slowhand’s cool evaporated, and he sat there gaping at the young cop. Pence gaped at Mark, too.

  “That’s why you could risk working with two crews, working the same territory,” Mark said, running with his theory. “They were working for you.”

  Slowhand shook his head, no, no, no, and his trembling hand seemed about to rub away the flesh above his eyebrow.

  “We have two suspects in custody,” Mark said. “One of them is going to get a heck of a deal tonight. The other isn’t. But this is your lucky night, Slowhand, because we talked to you first. You get first shot.”

  Pence, keeping up, smiling to himself, no longer pacing, said, “Your lucky fuckin’ night, Robert. What say? Or should we go talk to the mope next door?”

  Slowhand sat there twitching like a dog with fleas, but he did not respond, did not look at either detective.

  “Looks like it’s somebody else’s lucky night,” Mark said, and started out, Pence falling in behind. The second Mark’s hand touched the doorknob, Slowhand said, his voice firm and loud: “All right! All right.”

  Pence turned and said casually, “All right what, Robert?”

  “… All right, I’ll talk.”

  The two detectives returned to the table. Mark took his chair opposite Slowhand, and now Pence sat as well, next to the pawnbroker.

  Slowhand said nothing for a while.

  Mark said, “We’re listening.”

  Finally Slowhand said, “It was about… retirement.”

  Pence frowned in confusion. “Retirement?”

  Frowning back but in irritation, Slowhand said, “I’m seventy-eight years old, you dumb cluck—y’think I wanna work forever? I meet these kids, they’re already into the burglary thing, but they’re strictly smalltime.” He used his thumb to tap himself in the chest. “I taught ’em how to make some real dough. How to choose where they hit, and what kind of swag to score.”

  “Fagin,” Mark said.

  “Hey, fuck you, I’m straight!” Slowhand yelped. “Watch your mouth, kid.”

  Mark started to explain but Pence waved him to quiet. Slowhand seemed about to continue.

  “Me, I figured to bank some dough,” Slowhand said. “Take my ass down to Florida to live out my golden years. Learn to play fuckin’ shuffleboard, maybe.”

  Pence said, “I’d pay to see that, Robert.”

  Shaking his head slowly, painting a picture in the air with two hands, Slowhand said, “I had this place all picked out. Little town on the gulf side, where the water’s warm… not like the Atlantic, where you freeze your nuts off even in August.”

  Pence couldn’t resist. “Where is this little piece of heaven, Robert?”

  “Place called Yankeetown.”

  Mark said, “You almost made it.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ll be going to Youngstown.”

  Home of Ohio State Penitentiary, where Robert Slowenski would really spend his golden years.…

  Between Slowhand and the van driver—from whom words spilled like a rapper who didn’t know how to rhyme, once he knew ratting out his pals might pay off—Mark and Pence got the names of the members of both burglary rings. The day shift would stay busy, rounding ’em all up, but Pence and Mark were through for the night. They got pats on the back from Captain Kelley, which were harder to earn than Medals of Valor, then went their separate ways. Pence would head for some all-night fast food joint, no doubt. Mark had a date with some cool, clean sheets.

  When Mark walked out to his Equinox, a middle-aged African-American male was leaning against the vehicle. This was no robbery suspect, not hardly.

  This well-dressed goateed detective was Sergeant Morris Grant, “Mo” to his friends, which Mark was not. The big-time homicide specialist hadn’t deigned to pronounce ten words in Mark’s presence since the younger man had earned his gold shield.

  As Mark neared, Grant said in his resonant baritone, “I hear you did some nice work tonight, Pryor. Did some real good out there tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Mark said, leaning against the fender next to Grant. “I appreciate that. Really thoughtful of you to hang around to tell me that at three thirty in the morning.”

  Grant smiled, his teeth very white under the nearby streetlight, glowing, feral. “I heard that about you from people.”

  “What?”

  “That you weren’t dumb.”

  Looking around, Mark said, “Which people? Point ’em out, and I’ll set ’em right.”

  Grant’s chuckle was almost a growl. “I like you, Pryor. People also say you’re a good detective, who’s going to be working homicide one day. That where you think you’re heading? Office next to mine?”

  “Why not?” Mark said, maybe a little too eagerly.

  The homicide cop was sizing him up, testing him; but for what, Mark had no idea.

  “What would you rather do, Detective Pryor? Catch bad guys all your life for no credit, or become police commissioner?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Well, I don’t want to ride a desk, no matter how big or important it is. I want to be a cop.”

  “Like a kid wants to be a fireman?”

  “Like a man who wants to take bad guys off the street.”

  The homicide detective’s gaze remained appraising. He laughed softly, then said, “All right, here’s the deal. My partner and I are looking at a cold case that has some vague similarities to another case we’re working on.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a witness in that cold case that we need to talk to. She’s not cooperating.”

  What was this about?

  Grant was saying, “We need you to talk to her and pave our way, or even just talk to her for us.”

  “Well, of course,” Mark said. “Captain Kelley’s still inside—he’s been working these hellacious hours, too. We can clear it with him now.” He stepped away from his Equinox, but Grant’s arm stopped him.

  “If we go to the cap,” Grant said, “it’s a damn near certainty he won’t let you in.”

  Mark frowned. “Why?”

  “He’ll say you’re too close,” Grant said.

  As if Grant had dialed the last number of the combination of a safe, the tumblers falling in line, the door swung open for Mark.

  Mark said, “You mean Jordan Rivera.”

  Grant gave a curt nod. “I mean Jordan Rivera.”

  Somewhere a siren screamed. A long ways off, but distinct.

  “I knew her in high school,” Mark said. “Ten years ago. I doubt she remembers me. Anyway, she’s been in St. Dimpna’s for ten years and she’s not talking to anyone about anything. She’s some kind of catatonic or something. Detective Grant, I wouldn’t do any better than you would.”

  “Call me Mo.” He smiled again and it was awful. “She’s out.
And she’s talking. Just not to us.”

  The words slapped Mark. “What? What?”

  “Been out for a while now. Month or so. She’s got an apartment not far from that mental hospital.”

  Somehow he always thought he would know when she got out, or be informed about it or something. But that was a ridiculous notion. Why would anyone do that?

  He said, “You’ve tried to interview her?”

  “And failed,” Grant said. “Lynch and me, outside her apartment. She wouldn’t talk to us, said it was ‘too painful.’ Pretty much told us to fuck off.”

  “I see.”

  “We thought… I thought… maybe you, having known her, could reach out to her. Get her to sit down for an interview with us. If not us, then maybe she’d talk to you. Old school friend kind of deal.”

  Emotions roiled within the young detective. “You’re asking me to do this behind Kelley’s back?”

  Grant said nothing, which spoke volumes.

  Of course, the homicide man had no way of knowing that Mark was already looking into the Rivera murders on a sub-rosa basis with the captain’s blessing. And he wasn’t about to reveal it.

  What would seeing her again be like, after all these years, and so much pain?

  Suppose she did consent to talk to him, and had some small sense of who he was, who he’d been, back in high school days. After she found out what he really wanted to talk about… well… then what? Would she still talk to him? Or would she tell him to ef off, too? And, if she did, could he stand it?

  He sighed. Only one way to find out. He looked at the other detective with a steady, unintimidated gaze. “Captain Kelley finds out, you step up, understand? You don’t leave me with my tail hanging out with my boss.”

  Grant’s nod was solemn.

  Then he offered a hand and Mark shook it.

  The older detective and his partner were drifting off and Mark had his car door open when Grant turned and called, “Oh. One other thing.…”

  The pecking order meant Mark would have to close his car door and walk over to Grant. He did.

  “We caught a homicide,” Grant said, reaching in his inside suit coat pocket, “a brutal thing in the Rivera girl’s neighborhood. Waitress. She got around, did some hooking.”

  Grant handed Mark the photo, a morgue shot. She’d been a nice-looking woman, a little hard maybe, dark hair.

  Mark asked, “How was she killed?”

  “Multiple stab wounds. We’re looking at a married guy she was seeing. She had an abortion not long ago. Maybe it was his, or maybe it was one of half a dozen other guys’.”

  “And?”

  “You think our dead waitress looks familiar?”

  Mark studied the photo. “Maybe… vaguely like Jordan. It’s not striking.”

  “Her part of town. Could there be a connection?”

  Not his man’s style. Not even vaguely the MO.

  “No,” Mark said, handed it back, and went on his way.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Though a skimpy eater, Jordan found herself making frequent trips to the neighborhood grocery store. She could only manage so many bags on the Vespa, so every couple of days she went to Alvaro’s Market.

  She was in the produce aisle, trying to find the perfect shallot, when he just seemed to appear out of nowhere, like he’d popped out of her memory—Mark Pryor. Same perfect blond hair, a little shorter, clear complexion but with the shadow of shaving, a few lines starting around the blue eyes, the sensitive mouth maybe just a touch fuller, but still, there he was—the boy she had dreamed about in high school. And there was that wide, white smile of his! Flashing at her as he approached.

  Like they were in the high school hallway and he’d spotted her and now was smiling at her, coming over to say hello, with the promise of a relationship that had never had a chance to even get off the ground.

  Only they were both in a grocery lane pushing carts, his with just a few more items than hers—was he a light eater, too? As Mark neared, Jordan regretted having piled her long black hair in a loose bun under an Indians baseball cap. For the first time in ten years, wearing no makeup made her feel self-conscious. And couldn’t she have thrown on something better than loose sweatpants and a Maroon 5 T-shirt?

  Annoyed with herself for such girly thoughts, she felt her smile fade as Mark pulled almost even with her cart, coming the opposite direction. He was casually dressed, too—white sneakers, jeans, and a navy blue T-shirt with the letters CPD stenciled in gold across the chest, defined below as CLEVELAND POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  Suddenly this didn’t feel like a happy accident.

  “Jordan,” he said. “Hello.”

  “Mark, isn’t it? Pryor?”

  “Yes. High school. You haven’t changed.”

  He had that much wrong.

  “Nice to see you,” she said coolly, and began rolling off, but he reached out and stopped her cart. She frowned at him.

  “Sorry,” he said, but his grip on the steel grillwork of the cart remained. “Couldn’t we talk for a minute? It’s been a long time. Ten years.”

  “We’re blocking the aisle.”

  He gestured. “Let’s go over to the coffee shop area, by the deli counter. And catch up.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please,” he said, still holding on to her cart.

  There something urgent and needy in that, his eyes begging her.

  She swallowed. Nodded.

  She allowed him to buy her some apple juice and he had a soft drink, and they found a booth near the front window.

  “I heard you were… back,” he said.

  “Released from the nuthouse, yes.”

  “Are you… adjusting okay?”

  “You know, Mark, we really didn’t know each other all that well. We almost went out for a date. If you’re thinking about picking up where we left off, we missed homecoming.”

  He shook his head, averting her stare. “I’m sorry this is so awkward. I really don’t know what to say, Jordan. But I want to help.”

  “Really? You’re not going to pretend this is a coincidence?”

  “What?”

  “Running into me. Grocery shopping.” She raised her can of apple juice as if in toast, but was indicating the CPD on his chest. “You’re on the Cleveland PD.”

  “I am.”

  “The T-shirt’s a nice touch. Casual way to let me know and maybe help keep my guard down.”

  He shrugged, sipped his soft drink. “You don’t have to keep your guard down around me, Jordan. We’re old friends.”

  “No. Not really. I covered that. Weren’t you listening? That black cop—what’s his name… Grant? He sent you, didn’t he?”

  Mark lowered his gaze again, but this time his eyes still met hers. “Yeah.”

  “Figured as much. What makes you think I’ll tell you anything I wouldn’t tell him?”

  “Grant prompted this, but I would have come looking for you, anyway. He’s how I found out that you weren’t in St. Dimpna’s anymore.”

  “So he’s using us both, then. Send Pryor, why don’t we? He knew the fucked-up little ditz back in high school—maybe he can get her to talk.”

  “It’s not like that,” he said.

  “How is it then?”

  He frowned.

  She grunted something that was not quite a laugh, then sipped her juice. “High school was a lifetime ago, Mark. Let it go.”

  He touched her hand. Her spine stiffened, but she didn’t draw away. His was a light touch, gentle, warm, not grasping, just fingers on the back of her hand.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said, holding her eyes despite a shyness in his. “You must think I was horrible, not coming to see you, after what happened to your folks and your brother.”

  Now she withdrew her hand, but in a fashion as gentle as his touch had been.

  “But I was just a kid,” he said, with an embarrassed shrug. “I was afraid. You’re right—we didn’t really know each other that
well. But I knew there was… something between us, or that maybe there could be. When I tried to visit you at St. Dimpna’s, I got turned away, ’cause of my age.”

  “You got older.”

  “Yeah. I got older, and went to college, and…”

  “You got busy. Life went on. You moved on.”

  “There’s truth in that. I won’t deny it. But I never forgot you, Jordan, or what happened to you. How… helpless I felt, not being able to do anything for you. My parents found out about your… condition. You’re, uh… cured? You’re not catatonic anymore, obviously.”

  “I was never catatonic.”

  “You didn’t talk for ten years.”

  “I didn’t have anything to say.”

  Then, for several moments, neither did they.

  “I was weak,” he said quietly, “not coming to see you. Not dealing with you in the… state you were in. I let you down.”

  She had some more juice. “Mark, really. How many times do I have to say it? We weren’t a couple. We were two kids who nodded at each other in the hall.”

  He smiled, just a little. “I know. This is the longest conversation we ever had.”

  She smiled, just a little, too. For a moment.

  Mark sighed, seemed to be summoning courage, then said, “Yes, I came here to see you today, to see if you would talk about what happened. No, not what happened—but about the case.”

  “How did you know I shopped here?”

  “Grant gave me your schedule. They’ve been watching you.”

  “Are they still?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re not really investigating your case as much as they’re looking into a similar crime in Strongsville.”

  She didn’t say that she was very aware of that crime. Instead she asked, “Why aren’t the Strongsville police handling it? Grant’s a Cleveland cop, like you, right?”

  “Right. But Grant’s a big-time homicide detective, and Strongsville’s a bedroom community and they requested the help.”

  “What kind of cop are you?”

  He frowned, wondering if that was sarcastic or an insult, perhaps. “Pardon?”

  “A detective, like Grant, but newer to the force? Maybe you’re in uniform when you aren’t stalking old high school girlfriends in grocery aisles.”