What Doesn’t Kill Her (27 page)

He used hands-free dialing to get Jordan on her cell.

“Morning,” she said.

“You home?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I need you to stay there until you hear from me again. Don’t let anybody in but me, and find something to defend yourself with.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“… Levi’s been murdered.”

“What?”

“I don’t know the details. I’m on my way to the crime scene. When I know more, you’ll know more.”

“Pick me up. Take me with you.”

“No. Call David, Phillip, and Kay and tell them to stay inside and not let anybody in. Please don’t tell them about Levi yet. I’ll tell them myself, when I have more to share. Got that?”

“Take me with you!”

“No.”

He ended the call.

He made it quickly across town to the Shaker Square RTA station. Traffic in the westbound lanes was being swept over to the curb lane while patrol cars, Grant’s Crown Vic, a crime scene van, and an ambulance were all parked in the lane closest to the station, which sat on an island between the east and westbound lanes of Shaker Boulevard.

Pulling in behind the others, Mark threw it into park, turned on the Equinox’s flashers, and got out. The sun was high and a faint breeze announced the irony of a beautiful spring day.

A crowd of onlookers strained at the crime scene tape with patrolmen just beyond. Mark stretched to see over the small crowd—although the yellow tape line had been positioned near the station, the cops were grouped near a grove of trees a good twenty-five yards west, near the sidewalk.

With some effort, Mark edged through the crowd—he understood the mob mentality, but what did they hope to see at a murder scene, exactly? He showed his badge to the nearest patrolman, who raised the tape for him to crawl under.

Grant saw him coming and broke away from the rest of the cops to meet him halfway.

“Captain Kelley said you’d be joining us,” the tall African-American cop said in that deep, commanding voice.

“You’re okay with this?” Mark asked. He was well aware that homicide detectives, the rock stars of the force, did not like being encroached upon.

“I’ll take all the damn help I can get. Cap says you knew this kid, and that he was working with you and some other civilians about the possibility these family homicides are related.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to want you to fill me in about all of that, in detail. But for now? The Mills kid is over there.”

The big detective pointed to a shady cluster of six trees, maybe ten or so yards west.

As they walked, Grant said, “Ask your questions, son.”

“Anybody see anything?”

“No.”

“Time of death?”

“No coroner yet, but from my experience and the amount of blood that’s already dried? He got it sometime last night.”

“Who found the body?”

“Old boy named Otto Stein. Dog walker. ID’d the kid, said they lived in the same building.” Grant pointed to a seven-story brick apartment house a block west or so from their position.

“Mr. Stein say anything else?”

Grant said, “Mr. Stein got spooked pretty good. He never saw anything like this. Said that with the shadows, he might not even have noticed the body, but his schnauzer was licking at something. Turned out to be a pool of blood. That sent Mr. Stein running faster than I’d guess he has in some damn time. He went over to the train station and used his cell to call 911. That’s where he waited for us.”

“Where is he now?”

“A couple officers accompanied him home. Thought about impounding the mutt.”

“Why’s that?”

“Blood on its face. But, as you’ll see, we got no shortage of that.”

With the crime scene just up ahead, Mark took in the surroundings. At night this would be a quiet neighborhood—maybe the occasional walker, like Mr. Stein, or if it wasn’t too late, workers from the strip mall and cinemas in the square, catching the train home. The Shaker Boulevard traffic would lighten and that dark patch of trees would be the perfect place for a mugger to lie in wait for a potential victim.

Reaching the shady grove, Mark and Grant put on plastic booties over their shoes. As he was snugging his on, Mark finally saw Levi. The young man was facedown, deep in the shadows, his battered Chuck Taylors pointed toward the detectives. His right leg and right arm were straight out from his torso, the left leg bent slightly, his left arm near his body.

Standing over the body now, the coppery aroma of blood in the air, Mark said to Grant, “He always carried his backpack, laptop in it.”

“If he was just out for a walk, maybe not.”

“If the bag’s not in his apartment, then he had it with him, and somebody stole it.” Mark shook his head. “This might just be a mugging gone wrong.”

Grant shook his head. “No. Too many coincidences. A kid who was looking into his parents’ murders, and a bunch of other homicides that might be related? This is who happens to be the rare mugging victim who buys it? I don’t think so.”

Away from direct sunshine, Mark waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the much dimmer light. The crime scene team was already taking casts of the prints, and there were a lot of them in the soft earth—Levi’s Chuck Taylors, another, heavier set about the same size… boots, maybe even combat boots. Nearer the sidewalk, Mark also noticed the paw prints of the schnauzer. Nobody was casting those.

“How did he die?” Mark asked, his gaze averting the huge area of black-caked blood that made him realize that he didn’t really want to see Levi turned over. Right now, the kid was just Levi. Dead, but Levi.

“I need a look at the A side,” Grant said to a crime scene guy, and the analyst gave him a nod. The African-American detective bent and gingerly eased Levi over onto his back, as if not wanting to hurt him.

Levi was way past hurting—the young man’s throat had been cut, ear to ear, probably from behind, and then he’d been gutted like an animal, his shirt ripped to shreds, his insides spilled out like an overturned nest of snakes. That was vicious enough. But what had been done to his face managed to trump it.

His right eye had been carved out, none too carefully.

“The kid crossed Shaker Boulevard,” Grant said, “hit the sidewalk, and somebody was waiting in the trees. Grabbed him from behind, yanked him back here, did his thing. We haven’t found it, by the way.”

“What?”

“The eyeball. So be careful where you step.”

Mark was glad he hadn’t taken time for breakfast before he left; right now, acid was burning his throat.

“Not a mugging,” Grant said.

“Butchery,” Mark said.

Every fear Mark had tried to keep at bay roiled up. He prayed that Jordan had followed his advice, and that she had called the others and they were being similarly cautious. Somehow, Levi had stumbled onto something and the killer had discovered as much.

Lynch trundled up beside him. “Weird shit, huh, the eyeball deal, huh?”

“His right eye,” Mark said.

Grant said, “That’s significant?”

“It’s Biblical,” Mark said, his voice steady, cool. “Matthew 5:29. ‘And if thy right eye causeth thee to stumble, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.’ ”

Lynch wore a skeptical smirk. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’ve been right all along—a serial killer has been running loose for years, and the CPD has done jack squat about it.”

“I would tend to agree,” Grant said. “Is there any sign of this perp taking souvenirs before?”

“Maybe,” Mark said. But he didn’t go into detail. “In any case, I don’t think we have to worry about stepping on the thing. That it’s gone is a message.”

Grant asked, “How so?”

Mark ignored that, asking, “Was his cell on him?”

“No,” Grant said, shaking his head. “Wallet’s missing, too.”

“That’s funny,” Mark said.

Lynch said, “Funny ha-ha, or funny fucked-up?”

“He tries to make it look like a mugging, a robbery, and then does this crazy eyeball routine.”

“Maybe he was filling an order from an organ donor.”

Mark wasn’t sure if that was a dark joke or if Lynch was that dumb.

“It’s another stabbing,” Mark said to Grant. “That girl’s picture you showed me—gotten anywhere with that?”

“The married boyfriend is cleared, but she had a lot of boyfriends, and a few johns. You’re right that this has a few surface similarities, but that was a female victim.”

“The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run had male and female victims.”

“You know your history. But I don’t see how that hookin’-on-the-side waitress has anything to do with this poor kid.”

Unless that waitress’s resemblance to Jordan had been some kind of perverted callout.…

The young detective stepped out of the crime scene area and removed the booties.

“Where are you headed?” Grant asked. “We need to talk.”

“I have a class,” Mark said.

A gymnastics class.

He followed Shaker Boulevard, State Highway 87, west. Even as the street changed names, Mark stayed on 87, weaving through traffic to its intersection with I-271, which he took to I-480, the Outer Beltway. He continued westerly, headed for Havoc’s center. There, he planned to confront Carlyle and finally get some answers.

His tires squealed as he made the turn into Havoc’s parking lot. To Mark’s astonishment, Carlyle, blond hair bright in the sunshine, was strolling toward his car, probably headed for lunch.

Finally caught a break,
he thought.

When he slammed on the brakes just short of Carlyle’s car, the man turned, gave him a wide-eyed startled look, and ran.

Mark flew out of his own car, barely jamming the gearshift into park as he exited. “Cleveland PD, halt!”

That worked about as well as it usually did.

Flippin’ criminals, did they
always
have to run?

Carlyle took off around the north side of the structure, between it and the credit union.

Mark took pursuit. This guy had less of a head start than Perry the Perv had, but Carlyle was in way better shape. Another parking lot waited on the backside of the building, and Mark was barely keeping up as Carlyle turned back south, going behind Havoc’s business and heading for the woods at the far south end of the parking lot.

If the gymnastics coach made it into there, Mark would have a hard time keeping up, and might lose the guy in the shadowy landscape.

Kicking it up a notch, Mark sprinted after his prey. Slowly, the gap narrowed. Just as the first runner’s feet left the pavement and hit a patch of grass at the edge of the forest, Mark leapt.

He caught Carlyle by the waist and the two men rolled to the ground.
Even a place kicker knows how to tackle,
he thought. As he struggled to his feet, Mark knew he had ruined another suit.

Carlyle got to one knee, but Mark was ready, pistol out.

“Stay
down
,” Mark said.

Carlyle slipped back onto his stomach and, without being asked, spread-eagled.

“You’re under arrest,” Mark said.

“
Arrest?
What the fuck for?”

Cuffing the man’s hands behind him, Mark said, “Resisting, obstruction of a police officer in the performance of his—”

“You’re not workin’ for my
ex-wife
?” Carlyle asked, twisting his head around, watching as Mark frisked him.

“No, Carlyle. I’m not private. Your tax dollars pay my freight.”

He helped the suspect up.

Carlyle’s eyes were wide and he was spitting as he talked. “I’m under arrest because I
ran
? How the hell was I supposed to know you were a cop? You didn’t have a police car—how the fuck was I supposed to know you weren’t sent by that bitch to serve me papers or beat the crap out of me, or—”

“I
said
‘Cleveland PD.’ ”

“That doesn’t make you Cleveland PD.”

“This does,” Mark said, and read him his Miranda rights.

As Mark marched the suspect back around the building, Carlyle asked, “What’s this really about? Never mind me obstructing shit, what’s the
real
charge?”

“You’re gonna love it, Coach Carlyle,” Mark said, and couldn’t hold back the grin. “First-degree murder.”

Though she had buzzed Mark into the building just moments before, Jordan remained jumpy as she peered through the peephole, waiting to see him fill her vision. And when he had, she flung open the door, ready to rip him a new one. Hadn’t he essentially hung up on her, after hitting her with Levi’s murder? Without providing any goddamn details! What the fuck?

Then, when she saw him with his disheveled hair, grass-stained suit, and torn suit coat and pants, she blurted, “Jesus, are you all right?”

“Hard day at the office,” he said, and managed a small smile as he brushed by her into the apartment.

Jordan—in Indians T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, her hair trailing down her back—had in her right hand the switchblade she had commandeered from that mugger out back.

“Where did you get that?” he said, eyeing the knife, frowning back at her.

“Didn’t you know?” She clicked it shut, slipped it into her jeans pocket. “They issue these to all mental patients upon release.”