by Lisa Black
The mad dash to intercept/restrain/interview Todd Grisham came to an abrupt end on East Ninth Street.
Frank and Angela had made it over the chain-link fence with only minor scrapes and closed the gap to half a block when Todd veered through the stately stone doorways of the Cleveland City Hall. Frank almost stopped dead.
‘If he made me run for nothing—’ he panted to Angela as they plunged through the glass doors. But he couldn’t think of anything bad enough to do to the little twerp before catching sight of him gesticulating wildly to a security guard near the elevator bank. ‘Hey!’
They approached, pulling out their shields for the benefit of the guard. As it turned out he couldn’t care less. But then a beefy guy with sandy blond hair appeared at Todd’s elbow, and he didn’t care much either from the way his hand went to his shoulder holster. ‘Hold it.’
Frank was still waving his badge. ‘We’re CPD.’
‘Gee, that’s impressive. What do you want with my guy?’
Todd’s face seemed red and twisted from more than the foot race. ‘How do I know you’re not working for—’
‘Your guy?’
Angela spoke. ‘We have some questions to ask him about the death of his co-worker at the county jail project.’
Sandy Hair let go of his holster, taking her in like a dog eyes a piece of bacon. ‘Do me a favor and consider switching agencies. We could use a girl of your – attributes.’
Frank asked, ‘Are you trying to lose your left nut?’
‘And who’s going to take it from me?’
‘She will,’ Frank said, because that was the funny answer, but in truth he’d have happily twisted the guy’s flesh off with his own bare hand which now clenched into a ball with the nails poking into his palm—
Angela dealt with the sexism as she always did, by distracting the Neanderthals with a shiny object. ‘Kyle Cielac was found murdered this morning.’
And Sandy Hair said ‘Shit!’
He thought the flowers were a masterful touch.
They’d cost $4.50 at the local grocery, but were well worth it. The old lady opened the door without hesitation.
‘I’m so sorry about Sam,’ he said, with the most sincere expression he could muster. ‘I was a friend of hers, and I just wanted to come by and express my condolences.’
He waited for her to invite him in, to float by her on the wave of his destiny, but that didn’t happen as immediately as he’d expected. It looked like the woman had been listening to condolences all day long and had about heard enough. She’d opened the door, thanked him for the gift, but then left her wheelchair blocking the space. He tried smiling. It didn’t seem to charm her. So he waved the flowers and said, ‘I should probably go before it starts to rain. But should I put these in water for you?’
She sighed, and he hoped that fate would kick in and she’d feel that finding one more vase would be more effort than chatting with a stranger for a few moments. With an expert flick of both wrists, she backed the chair into the kitchen and let him pass. He sidled around her. He didn’t want to take the chance that she might recognize the lump underneath his open flannel shirt where he had stuck his thirty-eight into his waistband at the small of his back.
He started opening drawers, scanning the table and cabinets as he did so – much easier with the lights on. But he didn’t see it.
‘Vases are under the sink,’ the old lady said. ‘How did you know my daughter?’
He opened another drawer. Didn’t these people put tools in drawers? He always did. But this kitchen held only dish towels and silverware. He needed a look at the rest of the place. And the basement – tools were in the basement.
‘Under the sink,’ the woman repeated.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Stupid! He was thinking like an adult. It was the kid who had the screwdriver. She’d put it in a kid place. Maybe by the TV. He handed the vase to the old lady. She gave him a funny look, but then wheeled to the sink, set the flowers on the counter, and began to fill the vase with water.
He took this opportunity to dart into the living room.
The curtains to the old lady’s sleeping area were open now, and a lamp next to her bed illuminated the tidy area. The living room lights also blazed – good for his eyesight but making him plainly visible to the street outside since the blinds had not been lowered. He scanned the area, looked down at where he had found the backpack the night before. The same coffee cups and magazines on the table – and a screwdriver with a black and red handle, the initials SZ carved into the plastic.
Success!
‘What are you doing?’
He nearly dropped it. The mother had noted the vacated kitchen and wheeled through the small doorway. Her face, which had been simply weary, now seemed seriously suspicious.
‘Um – Sam had borrowed this from me. I’ll take it back now, so you don’t have to trouble yourself returning it later.’ He stuffed it into his back pocket, the sharp end pointing up. The gun shifted as he put pressure on the denim.
‘You don’t take anything out of this house!’ The old lady had a pretty formidable tone when she had a mind to. Fortunately for him, he didn’t care. What was she going to do, run him over? ‘Let me see that.’
He pulled it out, held it up, put it back in his pocket. ‘Just a screwdriver. It’s mine. Look, I know you must be exhausted so I’ll go. I just wanted to tell you how really sorry I am about Sam.’
Her mouth worked a bit, like a fish out of water, but she must have decided that a screwdriver wasn’t worth arguing over and said, ‘Fine. Goodbye.’
He took one step. ‘I’d just like to say hello to Ghost, if that’s all right.’ Though it didn’t matter if it was or wasn’t. He didn’t intend to leave the house without the kid this time. ‘Express my condolences.’
She immediately wheeled herself – being pretty fast with that thing – in front of the steps. ‘She is eleven years old. You don’t need to be talking to her.’
‘Yes, I do. I want to tell her what her mother meant to me.’
He thought he sounded reasonable, sweet, even, but old ladies have that sixth sense, gathered from a lifetime of observing other people. ‘No. Leave now.’ She spoke through gritted teeth.
He moved toward the front door, but only to pick up the bat.
After another moment, he called: ‘Ghost? I’m coming up.’
He repositioned the gun – how did people carry these things all the time, without a holster? The clunky piece of metal constantly slid around and he felt sure he would soon shoot off the end of his spine. So he walked up the steps slowly, keeping his arms wrapped around himself to look as unthreatening as possible. He slowed even more as he reached the top, but saw the girl instantly.
The angel/demon child sat on the floor in her mother’s bedroom, eyes huge, little mouth hanging open, two pairs of cheap beads around her neck. She watched him, scared, almost terrified and yet not screaming. Announcing his presence had given him legitimacy. She remained calm enough, waiting for him to explain himself.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad to meet you. I’ve waited a long time.’
A perplexed frown, but no screams, no gasps. ‘Wh–hy?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m your father.’
THIRTY-ONE
Sandy Hair turned out to be John Finney, State of Ohio’s Congressional Task Force on Public Corruption, working in conjunction with and out of the offices of the Cleveland City Hall. He managed to pronounce every capital as he ushered them into a conference room that doubled as a storage closet, with half of the table given over to cardboard file boxes. The view of the lake, however, stunned, especially now with deep blue waves churning angrily under a gray sky, the clouds pulsing and growing darker by the minute.
‘He killed him, man!’ Todd said for the third time. ‘He knows we’re on to him and he killed Kyle!’
‘Sit down, Todd.’ Finney looked at Frank and Angela. ‘What do you have, and why were you chasing
our CI?’
Frank tried not to chuckle at the straight-from-TV tone and lingo and plucked off the blue and white ‘Visitor’ sticker the jerk had made him wear. ‘We wanted to ask him about his good, dead buddy. How long has he been your informant, and what is he informing about?’
The agent brought the cops up to speed, in a way to give them as few specifics as possible, while Todd panted and sweated and bemoaned his friend. A glass of water did not calm him. A whiskey sour probably wouldn’t have calmed him.
‘And you think Novosek killed Kyle?’ Frank asked the young man.
‘Duh!’
‘How did he get Kyle there, by himself, at night?’
That stopped the kid. ‘I . . . don’t know.’
Frank took a closer look at the reddened eyes, glazed with perhaps more than grief. ‘Are you high, Todd? Did you smoke some—’
‘Of course I did! My friend is dead, and who do you think is going to be next? Who?’
‘We can protect you,’ Finney said automatically.
‘You said that, and now where is Kyle? Speared, that’s where!’
Frank considered how much stock he felt willing to put in this abject grief and how much to put in this complicated tale of public corruption. ‘Why would Kyle have met Novosek, the guy you think is dirty, at the site, alone, late at night?’
Todd said nothing, his knees drawn up to his chest in the worn swivel chair.
‘But he’d have met you.’
‘Me! You think I killed Kyle?’ His voice squeaked on the last syllable.
‘I got two unattached, red-blooded American guys working with a very red-blooded, smokin’ hot American girl.’
‘Sam?’ As if he couldn’t be sure who Frank might be talking about.
‘Maybe you pushed her off that floor because she turned you down. Maybe Kyle did, for the same reason. Maybe one of you figured that out about the other and you—’
‘Sam? I wouldn’t have wasted a minute on that little slut. I like girls with some class.’
‘And big boobs,’ Frank couldn’t help saying, and for the first time in their three years of partnership, Angela kicked him under the table.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Todd. ‘Sorry, dude, I know you’ve had a rough week. But I have to explore all possibilities and right now it seems a lot more likely that Sam and Kyle’s murders are connected than Chris Novosek suddenly taking out all his whistle-blowers. And since you say Sam wasn’t part of this sting, I have to look at other motivations.’
Todd took a deep breath, lowered his feet, drank his water and visibly calmed. ‘I’m not going back there, that’s all I’m saying. No way you’re going to get me to go within ten blocks of that building.’
‘Then Novosek will know we’re on to him,’ Finney exploded. ‘You know how many years I’ve worked on this—’
Angela said, ‘He can at least take a few days off. He’s upset about his friend, so no one will read too much into that. If we can get the murders wrapped up, maybe it won’t completely derail your investigation.’
‘Unless Novosek really did kill Cielac. Then you’ve got him on murder, but what the hell have I got?’
‘My heart bleeds,’ Frank said. ‘Todd, why do you think Kyle would have gone to the site after dark to meet Novosek?’
‘He didn’t,’ Todd said. ‘He went there to meet me.’
He couldn’t believe how easy it was. The kid hadn’t moved from her spot on the floor, simply stared up at him with a slack jaw. He sat on the bed and made himself speak slowly and quietly. Now and then she’d ask a question and listen raptly to the answer. Which, of course, he had to make up on the spot, but so far he hadn’t stumbled. The words flowed out of him as if the crazier and more disconnected he felt, the saner he sounded.
How had he known where to find her? Why, Samantha had told him. She’d run into him at work and decided that Ghost was old enough to meet him. At this the kid straightened her shoulders, as if to show him how mature she had become. Why had Sam told her that Nathan was her father and he got blowed up? Because she knew Nathan would never come back, and she didn’t want Ghost to waste her life waiting. Besides, her grandmother hadn’t liked him and had insisted Sam stop seeing him. That was what really broke them up. The kid had nodded sagely at this, as if she could easily imagine the old lady downstairs doing exactly that. She must have been a real dragon, that one. No wonder it had taken two blows with the bat to shut her up.
Nana would never let him come to the house, he told the kid, and then he had lost Sam’s address. So he was right there in the same city the whole time and couldn’t find her, though he’d loved her very much. But he still didn’t think he should just pop back into her life, until a man working in a diner told him that a little girl had been looking for her daddy. Then he realized that Ghost wanted to meet him too, and that gave him the courage to try again after all these years.
She swallowed this hook, line and red-and-white bobbin. Why not? It was what she had been waiting to hear all her life. He figured that out halfway through his description of his own place where she – and Nana, he added at her insistence; apparently loyalty trumped prior bad acts – could come and live now. It had a big back yard with a swing set and a dog. Well, a puppy, really. He had just bought the dog a few weeks before, a tiny bundle of fur.
He’d better quit before he added a pony and a bounce house. But it was easy, once he started. Somehow he had instinctively tapped into all the things he had wanted when he was a kid. For several years he had convinced himself that he’d been adopted, and that any day now his real father would pull up and take him away from his worthless foster parents and the two pieces of shit they called his brothers. What he would have wanted this fictional father to say, he now said to the kid. And it worked. She had this dreamy look in her eyes and actually clapped her hands at the thought of the dog.
Time to wrap up. ‘I think we should go there now, Ghost. After what happened to your mother, I want you to be safe. It’s a nice sturdy house and the dog will protect you. He’ll bite anyone who tries to hurt you.’
She couldn’t bounce up fast enough. ‘OK! Let’s tell Nana. She can come too; you can just fold up the wheelchair and then it fits in the trunk. We do it all the time. I can help—’
‘Let’s not tell Nana just yet. I think she still doesn’t like me. But if you come to my house and see how nice it is and then tell her you want to live there, then I think she’ll like me.’
‘Well—’ She seemed to puzzle over this.
‘Let’s just go out your window. We’ll be back before she even knows we’re gone.’
She stopped bouncing, stopped smiling, but still not scared: ‘How do you know about my window?’
He thought fast. ‘Because I’ve been watching your house at night, ever since your mom died. I didn’t want you to be here all alone with no one taking care of you, so I would park across the street and keep watch all night. I saw the window was open and the tree is right there—’
‘But it’s going to rain. The branches really move a lot when it’s windy.’
‘It’s not raining yet.’
A little uncertainty, but not enough to reject the idea of a new house and a puppy, not to mention the perfect, heroic dad suddenly sweeping back into her life. She gave him a smile again. ‘OK.’
‘Great.’ He stood up. Get her out of the house quietly, into his car. Then they’d head straight for the construction site, wait for everyone to leave for the day. He could already imagine her falling, the scrawny arms, the whipping hair, and he felt a tightening in his groin.
And then it all went horribly wrong.
THIRTY-TWO
Theresa ushered Ian into the Toxicology lab and past the rows of Nalgene jars full of blood, urine and gastric contents. The prosecutor’s nose wrinkled slightly and he seemed to keep his gaze averted from the counters.
Oliver, as always, stayed shut up in his lair of compressed gas tanks and the GC-Mass Spec, his thin ponytail traili
ng down his fleshy back like a dead snake. And, as always, he ignored their presence until Theresa spoke.
She introduced Ian, steeling herself for the reaction. Oliver had a brilliant reputation for his encyclopedic knowledge of chemicals and their compounds, forms and effects. He had an equally vibrant reputation for his utter lack of tact, manners or compassion.
Oliver peered at the prosecutor. Peered, squinted, frowned, opened his mouth and shut it again. But mercifully, all he said was, ‘Yes?’
‘Samantha Zebrowski’s toxicology results.’
‘Classified.’
‘Christine says she sent you an email permitting release of the info to me.’
‘Email is so impersonal. How do I know you didn’t hop on your little girlfriend’s computer and sent it yourself?’
‘Call her, then.’ Theresa told him wearily. Oliver subscribed to policy only when he wanted to jerk someone’s chain.
‘I’ll make a note in the file that I am taking your word for it.’ Oliver had a hundred and fifty pounds on the pathologist, but still feared her wrath as much as everyone else in the building. He just wouldn’t admit it. ‘She was drunk. I’d say drunk as a skunk, but that saying certainly evolved only because it rhymes. Or perhaps because they have such an ambling gait, skunks.’
‘Drunk?’
‘What I said. Blood alcohol level: one point two. Not passed-out falling down drunk, but definitely tipsy. Which might have tipped her right over the edge, hmm?
Theresa and Ian exchanged a glance. This would not help any prosecution, but might also explain why Samantha chose to climb to the top of an unfinished building in the pitch dark. It was a lark, a bit of fun. Until the mood changed and the beating began.
Theresa asked, ‘What about Kyle Cielac?’
‘Sober. Yes, I have him done already, only a few hours after the autopsy, because I am extraordinary and because your homey put a Post-it on his bottle saying: “Rush!” That woman is entirely too liberal with her Post-its. Oh, he’d probably had a beer earlier in the evening, maybe even two, a big strapping guy like him, but BAC was zero point four. I’d say sober as a judge, but I’ve known too many judges. The skunk simile is probably more accurate.’
