by Lisa Black
His scowl deepened until it left deep creases in his face. ‘You leave my family out of this.’
‘However, also on paper, you have three employees named Stan Johnson, Tyler Rodriguez, and Slyman Stears. One is an ironworker, one a pipefitter, one an electrician.’
The scowl flattened out. ‘Yeah?’
‘The thing is, they seem to exist only on paper. None of the workers at your site have ever met them. Their addresses are fake, their phone numbers are fake, their socials belong to a professional golfer in Phoenix, a schoolteacher in Moline and I forget who else. Almost as if someone made them up.’
Novosek’s expression got even blanker.
‘But they make good money, probably better than the teacher. I don’t know about the golfer. Nice salaries that are paid to these men out of the general operating fund, which exists from draws made from the county coffers earmarked for this project. Yes, the men don’t seem to exist, but their salaries are real enough. Real checks cashed at real banks. What do you think we’re going to see when we check the real security footage of these real banks? I’m guessing we’re going to see a real person, because tellers generally don’t wait on phantoms.’
Novosek said nothing.
‘We’ve got cops at all three banks pulling the video now,’ Angela said. ‘Like I said, it’s not surprising. Large projects just make it so damn easy to steal. It’s the nature of the beast—’
‘I didn’t steal nothing!’ Novosek leaned forward and slapped his hands on the table, sending a small flurry of dust motes into the air – the renovations left every surface on the floor covered in drywall powder. Then he stopped, looking as if he were literally biting his tongue. Angela let the silence drag on.
Finally Novosek said, ‘Have you seen my contract with the county on this project?’
Neither detective answered.
He sighed. ‘The market crashed. The economy tanked. Real estate, I’m sure I’m not telling you nothin’ you don’t already know, was the hardest hit. No one had money to build, they didn’t have money to renovate, they didn’t even have money to continue building what they’d already started. I had to lay off. Then I had to lay off more. I had only been in business for myself for seven years and already I thought I’d have to take my kid out of private school—’
‘Things are tough all over,’ Angela said in a firm tone Frank hoped she would never have to use on him. ‘Is that when you decided to rob your next project?’
‘That was when I got desperate enough to make a deal with the devil.’ Novosek abandoned the tough-guy slouch to rub both his temples. ‘I don’t know who the new county exec hired to oversee building contracts, but he got his money’s worth because the guy made the most of a buyer’s market. The job doesn’t come in on time, I pay a penalty – which essentially means I knock something off the price. I don’t use enough minority owned businesses, I pay a penalty. I don’t use suppliers within the county as long as their prices are within five percent of any out-of-county competitors, I pay a penalty. The price of raw materials goes up less than ten percent, I eat it, or I pay a penalty. I go over budget, I pay a penalty. They could nickel-and-dime me into getting the damn building for free if they really try, and they’ll really try. But what the hell was I going to do? I could take the job or I could close up shop.’
‘Sounds pretty stressful,’ Angela said, without the slightest shred of sympathy in her voice. ‘So you suppose that justifies pocketing the salaries of three fake employees?’
‘Yes. Because I didn’t pocket that money. The job did.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘That money makes up the shortfalls. Because sometimes the cost of raw materials does go up. Sometimes rain or a holiday or a water-main break does delay the work. Because sometimes I do have to pay five percent more than I should have to in order to use an in-county supplier. Sometimes the guys screw something up and it costs time and materials to fix it. Sometimes things go wrong. That’s called life.’
‘So you’re somehow conning money out of the county for the ultimate good of the county?’
‘For the good of me and my guys, who are just trying to make an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work without getting strangled by some bullshit fine print.’
Angela did not look convinced, though Frank knew she actually liked the guy. She was a sucker for a working-class hero, which only made what he had to do next more uncomfortable. ‘A real Robin Hood, that’s you. But whether it’s stealing or simply good money management, that’s between you and your God and your county auditors. Because my partner and I aren’t here to talk about embezzlement. We’re here to talk about murder.’
The passion Novosek had shown while explaining his management style faded abruptly. The dust motes settled down. ‘What about it?’
‘We know about the concrete. We know Kyle knew too. Is that why you killed him?’
Novosek’s jaw actually loosened and hung open for a moment or two. ‘You . . . What . . .? You got to be kidding me. You think I killed Kyle Cielac over the minority-owned-business clause? What the hell would he have to do with that? What—’
Angela recovered faster than Frank. ‘No, Mr Novosek, we’re not here about business clauses. We’re here because we think you killed Kyle Cielac to keep him from telling state investigators how you, your concrete supplier Decker and Stroud, and Inspector Kobelski conspired to replace the required concrete with a substandard mix and pocket the difference in the cost. That’s what we think.’
Chris Novosek continued to gape at them.
Then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
THIRTY-FIVE
Damon and Boonie gave Jack a friendly nod as they left the site. Best to have someone to remember that they had left along with everyone else, nothing suspicious, everyone hustling to get gone before the clouds really opened up, but they couldn’t be sure the ironworker would even recall them. Every guy on the site seemed frustrated, frazzled and worried. Two deaths in two days. Come to work, get sent home, come back to work, sent home again. They’d no sooner start a section before some cop came and chased them out and were no longer in the mindset to use the time off as a mini-vacation; the time off represented lost wages and a backlog of tasks that would make the next day even more hectic. Not to mention someone seemed to be out to get them: home-grown terrorists, fanatical civil rights activists, or just some particularly pissed-off ghost. Or worse, maybe one of them. Each man on the job no longer wished to turn his back on the same guys he’d been hauling I-beams, eating lunch or laying pipe with for the past few months.
For Damon and Boonie, however, things seemed to get better every minute. A white guy now sat in a holding cell instead of them. They appeared to be two honest laborers, victims of a string of bad luck. And the fears of their co-workers would keep each of them far away from the site once the sun went down, leaving them all the time and freedom necessary to relieve their beleaguered boss of his pile of expensive copper pipe. It hadn’t been their purpose in this undercover assignment, but, as the boss explained, a smart man always has one eye out for opportunity. And the boss was a smart man.
They walked away from the site without looking back, heading for Tower City where they could get a bite to eat, rest a while, and wait for the sun to go down.
‘Get off my hood.’
Scott Crain twisted his face up to illustrate what he thought of her desire to preserve a ’95 Ford Tempo as if it were an Italian sports car, but he slid off the fender obediently enough. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is my bodyguard,’ she said of her co-worker Don, who stood at her shoulder. ‘What, some guy I don’t know with a documented history of violence tells me to meet him in the parking lot, you think I’m going to come alone?’
Truth be told, Don was a bit slender for protection work, but then so was Scott Crain. And Don had three inches on him, easy.
‘Hurry up,’ she added, glancing at the third-floor windows. She
had given the secretary desperate and pleading instructions that if Ghost called back, she was to open the pane and shriek. ‘I’m expecting a phone call.’
Crain continued to glare at Don, who, despite his generally peaceable attitude, hovered just in front of her in a convincingly intimidating manner. He even went so far as to say, ‘She’s not going anywhere without me,’ which she thought was taking the role a bit far but she liked it. So she added to Crain: ‘Don is our DNA analyst.’
Receiving another scientist to preach to didn’t placate the man as much as she expected, but finally he shrugged and consented to speak his piece. ‘Those Nazis didn’t believe that I had actually spoken to Sam, the woman who died. But I did, and she did agree with us that the jail design is barbaric. She needed the money – she’s supporting her mom – so she couldn’t afford to quit on principle. But she was going to get us a copy of the blueprints. We should be able to get a set through a public records request but the planning department won’t give them up. “Security reasons,” they tell us. The prints are kept in the manager’s office but often they get sloppy and leave copies at the various stations. It depends on what stage the work is at.’
‘And did she? Get you the plans?’
‘No, but I thought maybe that’s what she was doing when she died. She was looking for a copy of the blueprints, and somebody caught her. Maybe the project manager. I can’t imagine one of those no-neck construction types giving a crap if she had the plans or not.’
Theresa considered this. It was as likely as any other explanation – provided Crain could be believed – but many more facts would be required first. Where in the building were the blueprints kept? Any on the twenty-third floor? And where did Kyle fit in? ‘Thank you. I’ll let my jackbooted Nazi cousin know about this and we’ll check it out.’
‘That’s it?’
‘What else would you like me to do?’
‘Have dinner with me.’ A crack of distant thunder emphasized the point, as if the man had a supernatural ability to his flair for the dramatic.
‘No. Thank you. I appreciate it, but—’
‘No,’ Don said, and put an arm around her shoulders as they walked away.
‘You’re good at this,’ she told him.
He glanced back as their unusual interviewee. ‘Guarding your body is something I take very seriously, girl, and don’t you forget it. When you leave for the day you have a deskman walk you out and you check your car first. That man has a look in his eyes that makes my arm hair get stiff.’
The work day had ended for most people, and for the shadow man as well. Without anything else to distract him he went back to the problem of the kid. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten past the dragon grandma, soft-sold the kid into coming along, then even though that went to hell and he had to drag her he’d still almost had her in the car . . . and then those gang-bangers next door had to interfere. They shot at him. Who the hell had invited them to the party? That’s what he got for hanging out in such a crappy neighborhood.
He’d shot back, thought for sure he’d hit one of them but the guy just stood there as if he was the one protected by destiny. Even as he jumped in his car and took off, the guy hadn’t budged, gun still extended.
A bit embarrassing, but otherwise he didn’t worry about it. They were unlikely to call the cops. People in their line of work didn’t call cops.
Then he’d sped up the street to where he lost sight of Ghost, but she’d darted into a maze of back yards mined with trees and bushes and old appliances and he didn’t dare leave his own vehicle, with the engine running and the doors open, long enough to go look for her. He’d circled and circled the streets to no avail. The angel/demon was now a drone somewhere in the hive of the city. She had nowhere to go, no grandma, and the afternoon had probably soured her on the daddy fantasy. The only person she knew, that he knew she knew, was that forensic bitch. But how would the kid find her?
A drone in the hive of the city. And the only thing that would draw her out was a really pretty flower.
And to draw out the forensic bitch?
A really pretty dead body.
He walked to his car, hoping the rain would hold off.
THIRTY-SIX
Frank and Angela took turns laying out Novosek’s system for cheating the taxpayers of Cuyahoga County out of approximately one point six million dollars. The money is budgeted for a certain quality of concrete and paid to the supplier. The supplier supplies a lesser mix with cheaper materials. The inspector pretends that the cheaper mix is the more expensive mix, and the supplier kicks back their shares of the one point six million. Very nice, until six or ten years from now when the building falls in on itself. A lot of people then will have a lot of questions, but each of the three parties can point his finger at the other two, and nothing will be proven. ‘Just like the Big Dig,’ Frank finished up. ‘No one will go to jail. You’ll all just keep working. A few people might die, but it will be some scumbag criminal instead of an innocent mom on her way to the airport.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Novosek said, but the indignation seemed to sit on the surface with a whole lot of fast thinking going on behind it. ‘If you think I would ever put up something I thought might fall down, you’re crazy. I put two or three years of my life in to a project like this. You think I’d let that all be for nothing?’
‘You want something to drink? Maybe Gatorade?’
As Frank had hoped it would, this threw Novosek off so badly he couldn’t even keep up the indignation. ‘What?’
‘You like Gatorade, right? The powdered kind, maybe, that you can pour into a bottle of water, mix it up yourself. Handy.’
For a large man, Novosek could sit very still.
‘Know why it’s called that?’ Angela put in. ‘A Florida Gators coach asked a professor there at the university what to do about players getting so dehydrated during games.’
‘’Cause it’s so freakin’ hot down there,’ Frank explained.
‘So he invented this drink to replace the glucose and electrolytes the boys would lose while playing. Can’t stand the stuff myself. Except for fruit punch.’
‘Fruit punch is too girly,’ Frank said. ‘Chris here goes for the original lemon lime. You know how I know that – I mean, other than I saw you drinking it? Because you left a smear of powdered citric acid and potassium citrate on the back of Kyle Cielac’s shirt when you shoved him down that elevator shaft. Did you remember the rebar sticking up at the bottom? Or did you just think he’d make the same sickening every-bone-in-the-body-broken crunch like Sam Zebrowski?’
Novosek began to look as green as his favorite drink. But all he said was, ‘Lots of people drink Gatorade.’
‘They do,’ Angela said, nodding. ‘They do. But not everyone’s ID tag is found next to the victim—’
‘I told you, I lost that.’
‘—with the victim’s fingerprint on it.’
Now their suspect looked flat-out ready to puke.
He made one last attempt: ‘I told you, I lost it earlier in the day. Maybe Kyle found it—’
‘Lanyards,’ Frank interrupted.
‘Huh?’
‘They’re so popular now. I’m not crazy about them myself; I have the little retractable thingy that clips to my belt, see? Angela wears hers –’ his partner held up her ID tag, suspended around her neck by a dark blue strap labeled ‘Cleveland Police Department’ – ‘but she’s a girl so it looks OK on her. I noticed you and most of your employees wear them. County regulations, right?’
Novosek said nothing, but his gaze never left Frank’s face. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.
‘But they’re a safety hazard, really. The FOP protested when they were first proposed, but who the hell listens to unions any more, am I right? We work with guys all day long who don’t really like us, so what’s to keep them from using these handy little ID badge holders to choke the living shit out of us? So the manufacturer put in a breakaway. So if I do this –’ he re
ached out and jerked Angela’s lanyard from around her neck, eliciting an annoyed bleat from his partner – ‘the plastic ends come apart and her lovely neck is saved. It’s the same for your guys – way too many tools and cables and beams around that could catch that lanyard and do some serious harm. The lanyard we found in the pit – your lanyard – hadn’t dropped out of your pocket or worn through the strap. The breakaway had pulled apart, and I’m betting that happened when you pushed Kyle Cielac to his death. He scrabbled for something to hang on to, for something to save him from that abyss, and all he got was your ID badge. He grabbed for you, and you let him fall.’
Novosek’s eyes grew moist, but he scrabbled for a hold as well. ‘You can’t prove that.’
‘Pretty much, yeah. Because if you had lost that ID badge any other way, catching it on a tool or a box, you would have felt the jerk to your neck. It wouldn’t have been lost because you would have immediately realized that it had broken. And there wouldn’t be a pristine imprint of Kyle Cielac’s fingerprints on it.’
The moist eyes widened.
‘Kind of interesting, the interaction of fingerprints and blood. A fingerprint is a little raised impression of oil and sweat. That ID badge landed in the pit, and then Kyle Cielac landed on top of those rebar spikes and began to bleed.’
Chris Novosek blanched, apparently picturing this.
‘The blood flowed over this print, flooding the little valleys between these mountains of oil and sweat. And then, since it had an unrestrained area to spread out in, the blood kept going. The flood of red cells receded and the mountain ridges stuck out again, like Mount Ararat. You get sort of a reverse image of a bloody fingerprint, but still unique to Kyle Cielac’s thumb. Kind of cool, in its microscopic way. I only know all that, of course, because my cousin just explained it to me over the phone.’
Novosek shrugged himself back to life. ‘Cousin? That girl’s your cousin?’
