“You gave her an expensive ring.”
Ashworth smiled, a smirk he probably intended to be dashing but came off as slimy. “One has to pay the piper if one wishes to dance, Detective. I can afford it.”
“So a cheap fling is yesterday’s news.”
“I didn’t say that. The ring was easily bought. Lia wasn’t. I’m saying I cared at the time, but time passes.”
“Then why did your man Marcus here terrorize Jimmy Neal this morning?”
“Excuse me?”
David flipped out his notebook and consulted a page. “Do you, Mr. Ashworth, own a black Lincoln Continental, license plate BYT 459?”
“Yes.”
“And did you, Mr. Marcus, drive it earlier today?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
David didn’t expect Marcus to tell him anything useful—he wouldn’t have expected Marcus to talk unless prodded with hot irons—but he had to make the effort to sort out the jumble of thoughts in his mind. Neal had a connection to Christine Sabian through his cousin Max. But Marcus had terrorized Neal—maybe over Lia Ripetti? If Darryl Pierson had not had Neal killed, Evelyn would be off the hook. The loose ends in this case had turned out to be vital mysteries in their own right. “That’s odd, because I could have sworn you drove away in it after I chased you out of Jimmy Neal’s house this morning.”
“And who is Jimmy Neal?”
“It’s kind of a compliment, really. Neal said he’d never met a scarier person. And I thought, who do I know who matches that description?”
“I don’t take that as a compliment,” Marcus rumbled.
“And I’ve just received a message from the DMV that the license plate I saw driving away from me this morning—which is, coincidentally, BYT 459—is registered to this household.”
Nothing from Marcus.
“You move remarkably fast for a man of your stature,” David went on, reasoning that stature sounded better than bulk.
Marcus did take that as a compliment. His upper lip twitched just a bit, barely discernible. But even he couldn’t resist a brag that stopped short of an admission: “I played tight end at Brown.”
“I’m not surprised. Not a bit surprised. Jimmy swore he didn’t tell you anything. Didn’t get the chance before we showed up.”
The twitch disappeared. “I didn’t speak with Mr. Neal.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Nor did I kill him.”
“You may find this hard to believe, Mr.—I’m sorry, Marcus—but I really want to believe you.” And he did. Jimmy Neal had been understandably terrified of this imposing giant of a man. And Neal had been on the run, watching every shadow, perhaps sheltered by his relatives. How would Marcus get close enough to kill him? If he appeared on the horizon, Neal would have run for his life. Naturally, an experienced man like Marcus could have worked around that, but the whole idea made David more eager to talk to Cousin Max—someone Neal wouldn’t have run from. He switched his gaze to Ashworth. “But I’m still left with the question of why you would send your top goon to take out Neal if you weren’t upset about Lia’s death.”
More silence. If anything, Ashworth seemed more relaxed. Marcus, who had stood unmoving through their conversation, seemed to lower his shoulders, and his reptilian gaze faltered. And David knew he had gone wrong somewhere.
Marcus had been at Neal’s that morning. But it wasn’t because of Lia Ripetti.
Chapter 31
KOPECKI CATERING COULD BE considered on her way home only if she took the scenic route down I-77. She discovered too late that I-77 traffic had no advantage over I-71 traffic, but eventually she found the right exit and crept along the crowded side streets until she found Papel Road and turned left. She could have called Kopecki’s instead of going there, but she felt a need for physical activity and she wasn’t even sure what she was going to ask. Do you know a James Neal? Do you have green tablecloths? Is anyone here a serial killer?
Small industries lined the road, their tree-lined parking lots mostly empty as employees headed home to holiday preparations. In three days it would be time to eat turkey and she still had no idea what to do about it. The way things were going, Angel would probably eat at Melissa’s rather than endure either of her parents. At least Rick had a logical reason for keeping his secret from Angel. Evelyn did not, except for altruism, a concept entirely incomprehensible to a teenager.
She went past the address and had to turn around. A chain-link fence surrounded the lot but lacked a gate. Apparently the management did not fear attack by gun-wielding criminals demanding the recipe for crab dip. She hid her heavy purse behind the front seat, locked the car, and approached the building. The smell of food, some stale and some fresh, greeted her.
The unlocked front door led to a lobby, only half lit and decorated with posters of food that did nothing to alleviate her hunger pangs. A rounded area for the receptionist stood vacant. It was past quitting time.
“Hello?” Evelyn called.
No response.
She peeked down hallways extending from both sides of the lobby. Lights glowed farther on down the hallway to her left. She didn’t want to startle any employees still on the premises—people got shot that way—but the door had been open and her stomach convinced her that employees who worked with food all day were probably good-tempered.
She continued down the lit hallway and scattered occasional hellos through the air. The few doors that were open showed small offices and desks that could have belonged to lawyers or advertisers or accountants. She wondered where they made the food, decided to follow her nose, and bumped into a small, wiry woman.
“Shit!” she cried, loud enough to shatter glass. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn began. “I’m from the ME’s office, and I have a rather odd question—”
The woman couldn’t have cared less if Evelyn had dropped in from outer space. “Back there.” She waved her hand behind her, as if motioning a plane into the jetway. She brushed past Evelyn and left. Quitting time was quitting time.
Evelyn crept cautiously forward. The hallway ended in a larger room, evidently used for supplies, and from a door at the other end she heard murmured voices and clinking, metallic sounds. A mixture of aromas filled the air, from chili powder to baking bread, and her stomach growled again. They must be preparing for some evening party.
On her way around the shelves, she noticed that the boxes were filled with napkins, porcelain cups, and menu folders. She slowed down to look for tablecloths.
They were stacked against the north wall. Each set of shelves held a different color—dusty rose, burgundy, hunter green, and navy. She reached for a green one.
“Can I help you?”
She whirled, her car keys slipping from her startled hand. A young man stood by the door, shadowed by the sporadic lighting in the room. He slouched to one side, as if he were more uncertain of his authority than she was.
“Yes! I’m sorry, I think I passed your secretary in the hall and she pointed me in this direction. I’m from the ME’s office, and I have an odd question about your tablecloths.”
He stepped into the light. Melting brown eyes hovered over an indistinct nose. His body seemed too tall for itself and his shoulders drooped to compensate. He looked as timid and sweet as a new puppy.
And familiar. They had met at Destiny’s funeral, been introduced by Jimmy Neal.
Chapter 32
DAVID PULLED OUT OF Ashworth’s driveway, trying to pair up the questions and answers so that they made sense. Marcus had to have killed Neal. Marcus, as Ashworth’s right-hand man, had made a career of getting close enough to kill guys who should have known better. How he found Neal, David couldn’t guess, but Marcus had his ways and plenty of money backing him up.
The problem was why. Ashworth made it clear he considered Lia a throwaway ex-girlfriend, so why kill Neal for killing Lia? Unless he wanted to ma
ke a political point—people who mess with Ashworth, even Ashworth’s half-forgotten ex-girlfriend, would pay the price.
Or maybe she wasn’t a throwaway to Marcus.
It still didn’t feel right. He would bet his paycheck that Ashworth couldn’t care less about Lia Ripetti and Marcus had just been doing his job. Only Darryl Pierson had a motive to kill Neal, but he had to have better sense than to hire Cleveland’s most mobbed-up criminal to do it.
Didn’t he?
Grief made for bad decisions, and Darryl Pierson was consumed with grief. But still David couldn’t see the logical connections. Ashworth wasn’t for hire and what could Pierson have that he could want?
Aside from the city council decision on the new ME’s office.
Did Pierson grieve enough to take a hell of a risk, to put his daughter before his career? The theory had holes, but David could live with that. What he might not want to live with was proving it. If he even tried, he’d find himself mysteriously transferred to the Parking Division. It would also seal Evelyn’s coffin. On the other hand, if he hinted his theories to the mayor he might wind up chief of Homicide one day, and finally know that talent and hard work meant nothing. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
And where did Neal’s cousin and the catering company fit in?
His right foot depressed the gas pedal, urging the car forward as he dialed his cell phone in complete violation of motor vehicle safety recommendations. Five o’clock. Too early to call his father—that would not be the routine—but he did anyway. Perhaps the distraction would keep him from speeding up until he wrapped the Grand Marquis around a phone pole.
“Dad?”
“Hi, son. What are you up to?”
“Still working on that case.”
“The one with all your missing girls?”
“It’s strange, Dad. Some of these women, I don’t know if this guy killed them or they just ran away. Their families don’t know if they’re gone forever or if they’ll walk in the door someday, just out of the blue.”
His father chuckled. “That’s how your mother and I felt when you joined the Marines.”
David was silent for a moment. “Dad? Did Mom think I was a screwup?”
“Your mother? No, of course not. Hell, she thought you’d be president, but then all mothers do. Why do you ask that?”
“Well, not going to college, joining the service . . . not getting married . . . being a cop and getting shifted from department to department . . . you know.”
“Son.” His father spoke so firmly that David shut out the image of the thin man in the wheelchair and bathed himself in that strong, flowing voice of a man who knew nearly everything and didn’t lie. “You’re a good man. You have morals that don’t shift with the wind—we taught you that. You work hard, you try to help people, and you taught yourself that. Your mother was proud of you. We were both proud of you every minute of your life.” Another low chuckle. “But you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Yes,” David said. “Yes, I did. Thanks. I’ve got to go now, Dad, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He hung up and wiped his eyes. Then he drove for a while, taking deep breaths.
He tried Evelyn’s home without knowing what he’d say to her, and got her answering machine. He tried again and got the ME’s switchboard, which transferred him to Trace Evidence.
“Yo.”
“Jason?” The toady.
“Yeah?”
“Evelyn around?”
“No.”
“Did she go home?”
“I guess.”
Thanks a lot, kid. “Has she found anything new on this Pierson murder? Did she mention any new leads?”
Too long a pause. “I have no idea.”
David rang off, trying to ignore the quiver of worry that ran up the back of his neck, and went on to Part Two as he took the I-77 ramp from 480 West. Did Neal kill Lia and Destiny or did he not? Circumstantial evidence pointed to him, but nothing direct and no chance for a confession. If he could at least wrap up the two women with a bow, prove without a doubt that Neal killed them, maybe the brass would see it was in their best interests to let Neal’s murder slip their collective mind. It would save Evelyn. It would also let Pierson get away with murder. The idea made him feel dirty.
He hoped Cousin Max could answer some questions. There was no reason to protect a dead man. Where else would Neal, fearing for his life, have gone but to his family, his cousin?
And then Neal wound up dead.
A terrible suspicion burrowed into David’s heart.
Perhaps Ashworth and Evelyn, even Pierson, were telling the truth. There were no chains or cement found at Neal’s house. Could Max be his partner? Jimmy picked them out and Max helped grab them? Or did Max do the picking? Christine Sabian had worked at Kopecki’s. And she had never been to Riverside Hospital so far as David knew.
He pulled into the unlit parking lot and pulled into a space next to a blue Ford Escort. Didn’t Evelyn drive an Escort when she wasn’t in the county station wagon? He glanced inside, but the neat interior gave no clue to the owner, and Escorts were ubiquitous.
The front of the building was dark, so he walked around to the back, where there were at least five cars in a side lot and wonderful smells wafting heavenward.
The first person he saw was a teenage boy at a stove, giving a kettle of boiling ravioli a desultory stir. He gave David a hopeful look, as if he welcomed any break in the monotony. Beyond him three women and two men, all dressed in soiled white and hairnets, cooked with more enthusiasm than the boy.
“Hi,” David said. “Where’s Max?”
The kid jerked his head in answer. “Over there.”
“Over where?”
The boy glanced over the rest of the kitchen. “I don’t know. I saw him here a minute ago.”
One of the men caught sight of David. “The offices are closed, sir. If you want to place an order, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.” His tone was less polite than his words. He efficiently tore large leaves of lettuce into bite-size pieces.
“Can’t we just cut that?” a middle-aged woman asked wearily.
“No.”
“I’m looking for Max,” David said.
“He’s—” the man began, then looked around. “He was here a minute ago.”
“He went to get the dried parsley,” another woman put in.
“And where would that be?” David asked.
“Right through that door.” The man did not pause in his lettuce-tearing. “But you can’t come in here.”
David held up his badge. “Yes, I can.”
He moved quickly past the cooks, feeling the various degrees of heat from the stove, steamer, and oven, and pushed open the swinging door. No one moved to stop him; indeed, no one even seemed particularly concerned. They had their own deadline to meet and a cheese soufflé waited for no man.
The next room was dark. David drew his Glock 9-millimeter and patted the wall until he found the light switch. Rows of shelves sprang into view, silent and unmoving.
He moved through it slowly and checked every dim corner. Nothing. He went on, cautiously turning on the light in each office, looking for any sign of movement and listening for any sound other than the faint metallic clunks coming from the kitchen. He explored the dark lobby as well as the opposing hallway. Various rooms held made-up tables, obviously displays to show how Kopecki Catering could provide a unique place setting for any occasion from baptisms to the big 4-0 birthday parties.
He found no sign of Max or anyone else and retraced his steps, self-consciously holstering his weapon. Perhaps he had overreacted.
On his way through the supply room his foot kicked against something that clinked. He looked down at a key ring partially lodged under the lowest shelf; it held six keys and a heavy fob in the shape of an Egyptian mummy case.
Shit!
He burst into the kitchen, noted no more or less staff than had been there before, and marched up to
the lettuce man. “I need to know Max’s address and what kind of car he drives.”
Chapter 33
EVELYN AWOKE TO SEARING cold and waves of nausea. She wanted to throw up but her teeth were too busy chattering. Everything hurt and her hands were numb.
Then she opened her eyes.
Dark, but plenty of motion. Her sluggish brain concluded someone had dumped her in a car trunk—a decidedly unheated car trunk—and tied her hands behind her. A rough blanket or rug lay beneath her and the driver did not care about her well-being or he wouldn’t be taking the corners so sharply. She chose not to think about the fact that her confined space was most likely dirty, oily, and crawling with bugs.
She flexed her numb fingers and tried to rub her hands together. She did the same thing to her legs, only to discover that they were tied as well. And she still wanted to throw up.
How did she . . . Oh, yes. Jimmy Neal’s cousin. The one who attended Destiny’s funeral with him. The one who baked broccoli-caper muffins. He had recognized her first and knocked her to the ground before she could speak, much less call for help. She didn’t remember anything after she hit the floor.
No, she did—a vague, dreamlike memory of a rustling sound, a sharp pain in her head, and then a cold plastic cone placed over her nose and mouth, like a party hat out of place or a surgical mask.
A filter mask, she realized. That’s how he did it. A plastic form kept the cotton filter an inch off the skin so the chloroform didn’t burn. He didn’t even need to get them from Cousin Jimmy—a filter mask could be bought for a buck at the dollar store. She had a few herself for home projects.
She rubbed her face against the dirty fabric, dislodging the mask until it came to rest somewhere on her forehead, tangled in her hair. Not that it mattered—apparently the chemical had evaporated enough for her to regain consciousness. But how did he put it together so quickly? Did he drive around with a mask and a vial of chloroform in his trunk, just in case he happened to run into a likely victim?
Victim?
Was she now a victim?
Trace Evidence Page 23
