THREE TIMES A LADY (15 page)

Twenty minutes later – their tea finally drunk, pleasantries exchanged and a thorough update on Mr Carter’s colitis condition delivered in graphic detail – Maggie Carter retrieved Oreo from his bedroom and placed the cat down on the floor in the dining room. 

Oreo glanced up briefly at Dana to let her know he didn’t especially care for being abandoned for this long before he finally sauntered over to her and rubbed his portly body against her ankles.  After a moment or two, he began to purr.  Unlike dogs, Dana had learned, cat’s made you
earn
their affection.  Not that it took all that much.  Keep them fat and safe and warm and you had yourself a friend for life.

‘I missed you too, buddy,’ Dana said, leaning down to scratch Oreo behind his pointy ears for a few seconds before scooping him up into her arms.  ‘Let’s get you home.’

Thanking Maggie Carter again, Dana exited the old woman’s apartment and headed for the elevator.  Punching the button for the fourth floor, she held Oreo close, knowing she’d need him as a security blanket to get through this next part.

When the elevator reached the fourth floor with a high-pitched
ding!
a moment later, Dana exited the car and made her way down the hall to apartment D12 on shaking legs, purposely shifting her gaze away from the apartment located directly across the hall. 

D13 had been Eric Carlton’s apartment and Dana still had his spare key stashed underneath the welcome mat in front of her own door to remind her of that fact.  Even if
moving on
wasn’t high on her list of priorities right now,
moving
definitely was.  Dana knew that there was no way in hell she’d be able to continue living here with reminders of Eric constantly staring her in the face just five short feet across the hall.  But much like the forgotten gift for Maggie Carter as thanks for watching Oreo, that was something she’d need to worry about later.  Right now, she desperately needed a shower.  Everything else in the world could wait.

Slipping her key into the lock, Dana pushed open the front door to her apartment and stepped inside.  Stale, unmoving air filled her nostrils.  Complete silence filled her ears.  No big surprise there, though.  The place had been locked up tight
months
now. 

Dana made her way farther into the apartment and placed Oreo down on the floor at her feet before taking a moment or two to re-acclimate herself with her surroundings.  In the living room, a pair of plaid armchairs flanked a matching plaid couch – a bit more up-to-date than those belonging to the Carters since the furnishings had been purchased at Pier One five or six yeas ago as opposed to JC Penney’s sometime back in the late-1960s.  A coffee table featuring a thick, cut-glass top served as the centrepiece to the room.  An old-fashioned coat rack stood watch over the place in the corner next to the front door, a floppy beach hat hanging from one of the hooks.  Above the flat-screen television mounted to the north wall of the living room, an old Sears portrait showcased a four-year-old Dana book-ended by her parents, Sara and James Whitestone.  A beautiful moment suspended for ever in time. 

Dana sighed heavily.  Even though her mom and dad had been gone for more than thirty years now, she still missed them every single day.  Missed them more now than ever now that everyone she’d loved since the day they’d died had left her, too.

Dana was two-thirds of the way home to feeling sorry for herself when the harsh jangling of the phone on her kitchen wall suddenly interrupted her pity-party.  The shrill, unexpected noise shot a sharp jolt of panic bolting through her heart. 

Dana shook her head mournfully. 
Jesus fucking Christ.

Still shaking her head, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone before closing her eyes and placing the receiver to her ear.  She half-expected God to be calling to tell her to quit her crying already and just get on with her life, but Sergeant Gary Templeton’s filled her ear instead. 

Dana fought back a wave of surprise inside her chest.  The last time she’d spoken with the Cleveland cop had been when she’d been screaming up into his face about how the Cleveland Slasher never left a shred of evidence behind at any one of his many crime scenes.  Still, the truth of the matter was that it should have been
Templeton
screaming at
Dana
that day – considering the fact that she’d just thrown up her lunch all over a freshly discovered murder scene.

‘Dana,’ Templeton said, and for a moment Dana thought she detected a slight note of apprehension in his voice.  And why not?  Templeton was probably still pissed at her, and if he were, Dana wouldn’t have blamed him one little bit.  The way she’d behaved the last time she’d spoken with him had been bush league, at best.  At worst, she’d made
Amateur Hour at the Apollo
look like Barbra Streisand performing at the Grammys.

‘I’m so glad I reached you,’ Templeton went on after a brief exchange of ‘how are yous’.  ‘I heard you came out of your coma a few days ago.  How long have you been home?’

Dana glanced down at her watch, a silver Rolex that had once belonged to her mother – a first-anniversary gift from her father, who’d worn a matching gold one, saying that he and Sara Whitestone matched so perfectly as husband and wife that the least their jewellery could do was the same.  Dana
always
wore the watch, regardless of her outfit, even though each and every time the battery ran out only reminded her of the horrific bloodbath in which her parents had died.  ‘Well, let’s see here,’ she said.  ‘About two minutes now.  Give or take.’

‘Ouch,’ Templeton said.  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m happy as hell to hear you’re finally out of the hospital.  We were all really worried about you.’

Dana smiled.  ‘Thanks, Gary.  Listen – before you say anything else, I want to apologise to you for the way I spoke to you the last time we were together.  It was uncalled for and you didn’t deserve it.  You were just doing your job and protecting the crime scene.  It was completely my fault, no two ways about it.  I was way out of line and it won’t happen again.’

Templeton paused.  After a moment or two, he cleared his throat.  ‘Don’t worry about it, Dana,’ he said.  ‘The stress of the case was getting to all of us back then, including me.  It’s perfectly understandable.  Anyway, I’m sorry to catch you right when you got home.  You must need your rest.  I’ll give you a call later on tonight or tomorrow morning, OK?’

‘No, Gary, I’m fine.  What’s up?’

Templeton cleared his throat again.  ‘Ah, nothing.  I’ll handle it myself.’

Dana stretched her neck and fought back a sudden swell of irritation inside her chest.  She just couldn’t help herself.  She knew that Templeton was just trying to be polite, not wanting to bother her; especially since the last time they’d spoken their nerves had been frayed to the point of snapping.  Still, polite or not, his reluctance to tell her what he’d called about was a little bit aggravating too.  ‘If I ask you pretty please will you tell me?’ Dana asked.

Templeton laughed.  Obviously, bygones really
were
bygones when it came to this man, and thank God for that much.  When Gary Templeton buried a grudge, it
stayed
buried, bless his heart.  Much as she’d done with Maggie Carter, Dana found herself thinking that she could probably learn a thing or two from the veteran Cleveland cop, too.  Steal a page from Templeton’s playbook and cut people a little bit of slack from time to time.  And why not?  After all, to err was human but to forgive was divine, right?

Just so long as you weren’t asking forgiveness for murder. 

‘OK, Dana,’ Templeton finally relented.  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve got to say if you absolutely insist on hearing it, but I’m warning you right now that you’re not going to like this one little bit.’

‘I’m a big girl, Gary.  Try me out.’

‘I need your help again,’ Templeton said without further preamble, referencing the fact that it had been him who’d called Dana in on the Cleveland Slasher case.  ‘Christian Manhoff was found lying dead in the middle of Prospect Avenue while you were recovering in the hospital.’

Dana searched her memory until she remembered the name.  Even though another murder was the last thing in the world she felt like dealing with right now, her investigative mind nonetheless sprang into action processing the information, the mental equivalent of a whiplash reflex.  Much like cockroaches and the seemingly never-ending trend of tourists sporting fanny packs to go along with their white sneakers and black dress socks, it seemed, old habits died hard. 

Finally, Dana seized upon it. 

Christian Manhoff was something of a local celebrity around Cleveland –
a ‘super-fan’ of the Cleveland Browns, the erstwhile, blue-collar city’s professional football team.  That is, if you wanted to count a bumbling squad that seemed to drop the ball every bit as often as they caught it as ‘professional’.

The cartoonish image of Christian Manhoff filled Dana’s mind.  An obese three-hundred-and-fifty-pound man, Manhoff had gained a certain measure of national celebrity by dressing up in an orange-and-white plastic hardhat and a ‘dawg’ mask while going shirtless and sporting nipple rings in the frigid winter air at the Browns games each Sunday afternoon.  With his seat situated near one end zone in Cleveland Browns Stadium – a section of the stadium known affectionately around the city as ‘The Dawg Pound’ – Manhoff often got an abundance of face-time, or at least
mask
-time, on ESPN during its post-game wrap-up shows.  But with a visage like that representing the city, Dana wasn’t at all surprised that the rest of the country still viewed Cleveland as a joke.  Situated on the shores of Lake Erie, Cleveland’s ‘Mistake By The Lake’ tag still hadn’t worn off yet – and probably never would at this rate.  And guys like Christian Manhoff did absolutely nothing to burnish the city’s hopelessly tarnished image.

Dana caught herself mid-snark, mentally berating herself for her pissy attitude.  When in the hell had she become so goddamn
heartless
?  So cold and uncaring?  She’d never liked to speak ill of the dead before – or even
think
ill of them, for that matter.  In most cases, anyway.  Especially not the
recently
dead.  Wrapping the telephone cord around her finger until it cut off her circulation, shame heated up her cheeks while Templeton filled her in on the rest of the story. 

As Templeton spoke, Dana gathered that Christian Manhoff had been found naked and lying dead in the middle of a downtown street with a large rawhide dog bone shoved halfway down his throat – a favourite prop of the Browns’ ‘super-fans’.  According to Templeton, the ME had concluded that Manhoff had choked to death on the bone, though Dana didn’t think that eight years of advanced schooling had necessarily been required to come up with
that
unsurprising diagnosis.

‘There is something else,’ Templeton said when he’d finally finished bringing Dana up to speed.

‘What’s that?’

Templeton hesitated.  Then he blew out a slow breath and went on.  ‘There was also a picture of your brother attached to one of Manhoff’s nipple rings.’

Dana’s stomach flipped over inside her gut.  For one terrifying moment there, she couldn’t even
breathe
.  Her world swam in and out of focus before clearing up again suddenly in a dizzying flash of colour.  Her knees buckled hard.  ‘
What?
’ she asked, hoarsely.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Templeton said.  ‘It’s fucking weird.  The photograph wasn’t there at the initial crime scene, but the ME said he discovered it when he went to do the autopsy.’

Dana glanced over at the digital clock on her stove, holding on tight to the edge of the kitchen counter for balance.  ‘Where are you now?’ she asked.

‘Down at the station house.’

‘Where’s Christian Manhoff’s body?’

‘At the coroner’s office.’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour to pick you up.’

Templeton let out a relieved breath.  ‘Thanks, Dana.  I really appreciate it.  I’m really sorry for dropping this shitstorm into your lap right after you got out of the hospital, but I really didn’t know who else to turn to.  I owe you one.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Dana said.  ‘I’ll see you in half an hour.’  Hanging up the phone, Dana felt a familiar thrill boil away deep in the pit of her stomach, completely chasing away the vertigo despite the overwhelming shock of having been thrust smack-dab into the middle of yet
another
homicide investigation featuring a very personal connection to her. 

The thrill of the chase. 

Dana took in several deep breaths through her nostrils and steeled herself for what would come next.  Hell, maybe she wasn’t crazy, after all.  Maybe she’d just been
born
for this kind of work.  Had been born to chase killers.  God knew that she loved it – all the horrible collateral damage usually involved notwithstanding.  And much like the rest of the country, anything concerning Nathan Stiedowe – even peripherally – fascinated the
hell
out of her.

Besides, Gary
, Dana thought as her gaze drifted upward and landed on the fresh bottle of Jim Beam sitting on top of her refrigerator next to a roll of paper towels. 
It’s
me
who owes everybody else.  Crawford, Eric, Jeremy… all the others…