Powers of Arrest

by Jon Talton

  She wished she had brought the wine bottle upstairs.

  When the phone rang, she was glad she had it by the tub. She dried off a hand and answered. It was Will, asking if he was calling too late.

  “I’m a night owl,” she said. “Too many years spent checking on patients around midnight when the pain got bad. I saw you on television. A two-hundred-pound snake?”

  “He was the most pleasant creature I dealt with today. Anyway, lots of face time for Detective Will Borders. Now the question is whether the killer is watching.” He told her about the minimal press release they had put out regarding Noah. “This guy has delusions of grandeur. He addressed the note directly to me. So the hope is if he doesn’t get the publicity he’s seeking, he might come after me.” He sighed. “Or, he’ll stop and we’ll never find him, and in a few years he’ll start again somewhere else.”

  “What kind of a person would do these things, Will?”

  “There’s a type,” he said. “The scary thing is that sometimes they can fit right into society. They’re not out in the country living alone in a doublewide. Or, like a lot of white folks in this town think, a scary black man asking for change on the sidewalk.”

  “Do you think you know who did it? Or shouldn’t I ask that?”

  “I met a man who I think is very capable of it,” Will said. “He was one of Kristen’s lovers. But he’s very connected, and we’ll need major probable cause to take it further. I’m not even sure the other detectives would agree with me. This guy’s got an alibi, or he say he does. I’d love to poke a few holes in it and know where he was Saturday night.”

  “I hope you’re being careful.”

  “Door’s locked, and I’m upstairs with my Smith & Wesson and shotgun.”

  “You’re getting me hot.” She smiled.

  “And, I have detectives watching from a car out on the street. It could be worse. They wanted me to wear a wire 24/7, so they could even listen in on our conversation. Dodds would especially like that.”

  “He’s such a character.” She looked at herself in the tub and thought, Ask me what I’m wearing…

  “He is that.” Will paused. “I’m wondering if we should go to the symphony tomorrow night.”

  “Are you kicking me to the curb, Borders?”

  “No! I’m worried. I have skin in this game. You don’t. I already nearly got you killed when I was in the hospital. I’m afraid of putting you at risk, at even greater risk, because we can’t be sure the killer doesn’t already know about you.”

  “As I recall, Detective, I nearly got you killed. The murderer was after me, and your buddies at CPD thought I was a murderer.”

  “You know what I mean…”

  “And I have skin in the game, too, as you put it. My students are dead.”

  Another pause. “Fair enough. But I don’t have the best history this way.”

  “Will, why does Dodds call you Mister President?”

  He seemed grateful to laugh. “That bastard. Okay, if we’re going to bare our souls, it’s because my full name is William Howard Taft Borders. Named after Cincinnati’s only president, and a failed one at that. My mom was a local history buff. He calls me that it to get under my skin.”

  Cheryl Beth smiled and finished the wine. “I like it. Look, Will, I know you feel guilty about what happened with Theresa Chambers. But that wasn’t your fault. It’s in the past and you can’t live your life in fear. Unless…” Her smile faded. “Unless you don’t like me, and if that’s the case, all you have to do is tell me, before I get skin in that game, too.”

  “No, Cheryl Beth. I like you a lot. I have ever since I met you. No game.”

  “You’re mighty forward.” She exaggerated her accent.

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Relax, Will. I’m kidding you.”

  “Right.” His voice relaxed.

  “Maybe you don’t even like the symphony. You probably use that line to get girls because you know we usually have to drag men to concerts.”

  “Yep, that’s me. Be ready tomorrow night and you’ll find out.” His cadence changed. “Tomorrow’s going to be hell day, I’m afraid. I don’t think I told you that my ex-wife has remarried and finally has her big house in Hyde Park. I went over there tonight to talk to my stepson. He’s in trouble. He was on the river Saturday night with some other kids and they found Kristen Gruber’s boat. He went aboard and saw her body. Lord, I wish he would have called the police then.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I told him he’s got to go tomorrow and tell what he knows.” The phone line made a lonely buzz, then, “Even though he’s not my biological son and things the past few years have put more distance between us, I feel for him like he’s really my son.”

  She managed, “I know you must.”

  “Money’s not a problem in his life. Far from it. So different from when I was growing up. But somehow the money is making things worse for him. So I’m not so much worried about the blowback on me tomorrow, and there will be. I’m worried about him. He’s so isolated and…I don’t know. You try your best to raise a child, but you finally realize that you can’t live their life for them, that they aren’t you. They can’t be saved from all the mistakes you had to make. Inside, there’s this individual soul that’s going its own way, for better or worse. I’m rambling, sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Try to be good to you. I worry about you.”

  “I’ll try. When do I get to learn some of your secrets, Cheryl Beth Wilson?”

  She forced herself to speak. “Maybe I don’t have any. Maybe I’m only a simple, small-town girl from Corbin, Kentucky.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Then stick around. Sleep tight.”

  “You, too.”

  After he hung up, she sank into the water and smiled and sobbed.

  Friday

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Will looked very debonair—yes, that was exactly the right word—sitting across from her. His charcoal pinstripe suit looked new, and his crisp white shirt was set off with a purple tie that had a subtle pattern. She was feeling the shortness of the black dress she was wearing, her legs encased in sheer black stockings, but he definitely noticed and complimented her twice about how good she looked. “Smashing,” was one tribute; rather like “debonair.”

  It was wonderful to be out with him, and especially in one of her favorite places, the Palm Court at the Netherland Plaza Hotel downtown. She gloried in its long, spacious, art deco expanse. She always expected to see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers at another table. The rich, dark wood of the walls alternated with elaborate golden sconces and frescoes running up into the roof. The first time she ever saw the place, it looked like a combination of an ancient pagan temple and a glamorous setting from an old movie. The bar in the center of the room was right out of the 1930s and a pianist was playing jazz on a grand piano. They both appropriately ordered gin martinis.

  It seemed like the right nightcap to the classical evening. Cheryl Beth also adored Music Hall, even though she hadn’t been to the symphony in two years. To live in Cincinnati was to be immersed in music, from the symphony and chamber orchestra, to the Pops and the May Festival’s choral extravaganza, which was coming right up. And Will had not disappointed. He had great seats in the orchestra section with as perfect sound quality as she had heard there.

  As always, the stately old building seemed to levitate with an exciting glitter on a concert night. She didn’t really know much about classical music. She knew what she liked, what transported her. But from the day she had arrived in Cincinnati, the symphony had been part of her self-improvement program, to lift herself out of the small-town South.

  Will, surprisingly, did know classical music. Now he talked in that calm, sexy voice about the night’s program, about the history of Beethoven’s King Stephen Overture and the Second Piano Concerto. But he wore his knowledge easily. His face was relaxed and happy.

  “Beethoven tu
rned the piano into the monarch of romantic instruments,” he said.

  “You play, don’t you?”

  He gave a dismissive shrug. “I wouldn’t call it that, now. It’s hard to sit properly at the keyboard after my surgery and impossible to use the pedals… And I’m lazy and now I’m a little afraid of the thing. But I would much rather have been a pianist than a cop.”

  “Really?” This surprised her.

  He smiled. “Who knows?”

  “You wouldn’t have to carry that.” She indicated the small walkie-talkie radio sitting on the table next to his drink. “Maybe you’ll play for me sometime. I’ll sit next to you and stabilize you.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “I thought the tribute to the cellist was very moving,” Cheryl Beth said. “So much has happened this week that I had forgotten about that.” She shivered slightly, and not only from the cool air on her legs. So much violence had been visited in a few days.

  Tonight’s program had been modified to include a piece dedicated to the murdered musician, with the cello solo played by a tall, willowy blonde. Although the program’s listing of her accomplishments made it clear she was at least fifty, she looked much younger, with Nordic features and flawless fair skin.

  “That was Stephanie Foust,” Will said. “She was Jeremy Snowden’s teacher and mentor.”

  “She said he could have gone to Julliard, but chose to stay in Cincinnati and study at CCM. If he hadn’t stayed, he might not be dead. It’s so sad. She seemed really on the edge of losing it. But she did a beautiful job.”

  Will nodded. “Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise arranged for cello and orchestra. It’s such a hauntingly beautiful melody. She chose well.”

  “It almost made me cry,” Cheryl Beth said.

  “I think it did the same to her. Remember the final statement of the theme, which actually occurs in the orchestra. Stephanie was playing a counter-melody. It closes the work in the upper stratosphere.”

  “I remember. It was magical.”

  “But if you listened closely, she was so spent, so devastated, that she missed her entrance to the final repetition of the melody.”

  Cheryl Beth hadn’t noticed.

  He said, “She recovered in time… Most people wouldn’t even hear it. Sorry, I sound pompous.”

  “You don’t!” Cheryl Beth said. She was rapt listening to him. “I love to learn about this from you.”

  “I’ve heard the piece many times. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Well, thank goodness the police got the guy.”

  Will’s face was thoughtful. “They think they did.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” Will gave a smile short of sly. “Only a feeling I have.”

  She reached over and took his hand. The abrasions from his fall were healing, but she wasn’t examining him, only wanting the closeness.

  “There’s so much to you, Will Borders.”

  He gave a self-deprecating shrug.

  “The symphony president thought so. She specifically came up to you at intermission to thank you for your help. All those important people were watching her and wondering who we were. A cop and a nurse.”

  Will chuckled. “Notice how she avoided Dodds, even though he was no more than twenty feet away? He wasn’t deferential enough to the symphony, which is a high crime in Cincinnati, so I had to go over and smooth ruffled feathers.” His eyes brightened. “Here’s a secret.” He leaned in closer, still holding her hand.

  “Her husband was one of Kristen Gruber’s lovers.”

  Cheryl Beth felt her eyes widen.

  “Yep. He berths his boat right next to hers at the marina. And he’s a middle-aged bald man.”

  “Oh, my god…” She felt the big room closing in to envelope the two of them.

  “He’s a very high-powered lawyer. I met with him. He was belligerent. Of course, he doesn’t want his wife to know he was with Kristen. He said he had an alibi, that he was with his wife last Saturday night.”

  “Too bad,” she said.

  Will leaned in closer. “It may be too bad for him. Remember when Mrs. Buchanan spoke to the audience before the Rachmaninoff tribute to Jeremy Snowden? How she said that it was only last Saturday night when she had heard him play there, and then she had gone to a party with him and other musicians after the concert. Her husband said they were alone at home Saturday night.”

  “The bald man who stalked Lauren…”

  “If only I can sell it to the bosses.”

  ***

  Afterward, they walked across the street to Fountain Square. Will walked best when he could swing his left arm, but he took Cheryl Beth’s hand and moved even slower. She didn’t seem to mind. The most famous public space in the city was deserted except for the lights on the Tyler Davidson Fountain, illuminating the water falling out of the hands of the bronze woman who kept watch from her granite perch. Even many natives didn’t know the fountain was actually called the Genius of Water. They sat on the lip and felt the spray in the cool night.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes off Cheryl Beth: she had never looked more beautiful.

  “Are your friends watching us?” she asked.

  He nodded. “See that Ford that’s illegally parked?”

  “So I guess we can’t get naked in the fountain. Why are you doing this, Will? Making yourself a target.”

  Things had happened so quickly he didn’t have an easy answer. It seemed to come naturally with the job. And with Dodds taking over as lead, he felt more insecure about even keeping the PIO position.

  “Don’t try to be macho,” she said. “That’s not you.”

  “No. I don’t want this guy to get away, and this way is our best shot at luring him back. I’m careful. If you’re worried about the cane and all…”

  She touched his face. “I’m not worried about that. I want you to be safe. So I’m glad they’re watching.”

  She asked him about his day and he told her. It started with a call from Diane Henderson in Covington; she wanted to meet across the bridge. There she told him that his stepson had come to her and said he had boarded Kristen Gruber’s boat early Sunday morning. He acted surprised but told Cheryl Beth about forcing John to go to the police. Then he received a mega-ass-chewing from Fassbinder over the news, full of threats and menace. Fassbinder was a political commander and had forced better officers than Will out of the unit, even off the force. John hadn’t been taken into custody—that was good. But Henderson said she considered him a person of interest—that was bad. Of course there was the mandatory call from Cindy, in hysterics over the developments with John, which were somehow his fault.

  “He’s fortunate to have you,” Cheryl Beth said.

  “I’m not sure he sees it that way.”

  “Why didn’t you and Cindy ever have children of your own?”

  He sighed. It was a question he had asked himself many times, and the straightforward answer was that Cindy didn’t want more children. She became more and more invested in her career. He wanted to be supportive of that. And they had John, who for so many years seemed like his own son.

  “Now I’m afraid for him.” He watched the sparse traffic on Fifth Street and Vine.

  “Of course, you would be,” she said. After a pause, “Are you afraid of him?”

  “Maybe.” He paused. “Whoever wrote the note pinned to Noah Smith knew I was investigating the death of Kristen Gruber. Hardly anyone knew that, and almost nobody in the public. But I remember now that John stopped by my place a few days ago and I told him.”

  “Oh…”

  For a long time they listened to the mesmerizing voice of the intricate Victorian fountain. Around them were flavorless modern box skyscrapers, except for the 1930 masterpiece of the Carew Tower, with its setbacks and soaring tawny walls, Cincinnati’s own miniature Rockefeller Center. Will remembered Pogue’s Department Store had anchored the arcade that was part of the tower and the Netherland Plaza. It was long gone, as was the big
Shillito-Rikes over on Seventh. They had been so full of magic and big-city bustle, especially at Christmas. Now all that was left was the little Macy’s west of the square, a concession to Macy’s headquarters city and plenty of city subsidies. South of the Carew Tower, he could make out the lit whiteness of the 1913 PNC Tower, still the Central Trust Tower to natives, with its Greek temple at the top.

  “Will, I’ve lied to you.”

  She took her hand away from his and faced toward the glassy front of the Westin across Fifth.

  “You’re married?” He tried to make light, but the change in her voice made him uneasy.

  “Just hold me.”

  That was easy. He wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into him. He could barely hear her when she started talking.

  “When I said I didn’t have children, that was a lie. I’ve been telling that lie for so long that it comes naturally…”

  She clutched him back tightly.

  “I had a daughter. She died. She was born with a bad heart, and when she was three…I couldn’t stop it. Her name was Carla Beth and today is her birthday and she would have been eighteen years old…”

  All this came tumbling out at a speed to match the cascade of the fountain. He held on and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was very soft.

  “I can’t explain to you why I told this lie,” she said. “There’s no good reason. I loved that little girl so much. She was mine. And the grief was mine. Now I realize she didn’t belong to me. She belonged to God, and if she had lived she would have made her own decisions. But for so many years I couldn’t let go. I didn’t want to try to have another baby because I couldn’t stand another loss…couldn’t face it again…and I never found the right man. But I had my grief… It was easier to wear this disguise. I don’t want that with you.”