That Darkness Read online

  The woman said, “Your Mummy Man has double-loop whorls in both his thumbs. But Barry Nickel? All loops.”

  “On his thumbs?”

  “On all his fingers. All loops.”

  Patty blinked, and for once saw the need to state the obvious. “Our dead guy is not Barry Nickel.”

  “Seriously?” Rick Gardiner asked.

  I could have told you that, Jack thought. Instead he worked on looking surprised.

  “Nope,” Maggie said.

  “So who is he?”

  Maggie held up the third card. “Ronald Masiero. Arrested in 2001 for possession of kiddie porn, sentenced to five years.”

  Patty’s head slumped to rest on her forearm, resting on the pile of handcuffs. Maggie glanced at Jack, who felt he ought to say something so he muttered a quick lie: “Never heard of him.” Riley finished his phone call and sat listening.

  “So who the hell is Ronald Masiero?” Patty wondered aloud, her voice muffled by shirtsleeves and Formica.

  Someone who really, really needed to be removed from this earth, Jack thought.

  He had found Masiero while monitoring Vice’s investigation of Nickel. And no, Maggie hadn’t found any asbestos or Greta’s cat hair—speaking of which, Greta had insisted on leaving the house after their conversation and hadn’t come back by the time he got in his car that morning, damn the animal—on Masiero because Jack had realized that the pornographer already had an isolated, secret location they could use. All Jack had to do was knock on the door.

  He had pretended to be a customer—his most difficult impersonation, but he only had to keep it up long enough for Masiero to turn his back to pick up some CDs. He hadn’t given the man a last meal or a last drink, hadn’t given him an audience as he tried to explain and excuse his proclivities, but logistics didn’t always allow for a full program and besides, of all Jack’s clients he felt Masiero truly did not deserve such perks. Jack had simply pulled out the .22 at the first opportunity and taken care of business.

  He could, as so many times in the past, have let officers arrest the man. Vice would have found him with a roomful of evidence. But Masiero had shown in the past that he could be very convincing and in this case he even had something of an alibi, in the form of Barry Nickel. He would make a plea deal with the attorneys, exchange his testimony against Nickel for a reduced sentence, say the office and equipment and business were all Nickel’s and himself, just a poor, sick customer. It had all been bought with cash, under assumed names. There would be no way to prove exactly who had been the boss and who had been the employee.

  So Masiero had been shown the door into the next world. Odd, when Jack thought about it—the one time he had not cared whether anyone found the body or not, it stayed hidden for nearly six months. No one knew about the office apartment, Nickel had done his disappearing act, and eventually Vice stopped looking. Jack had nearly forgotten that Masiero ever existed.

  Rick Gardiner cleared his throat, which made Jack realize he’d been staring at Maggie Gardiner while his brain did a quick recap of past events. But that would be normal, since she had been speaking. Right?

  From the cool expression on his face, Rick Gardiner didn’t think so. Maggie ignored them both and focused on Patty.

  “He’s a customer of Nickel’s,” Riley suggested, building a little house out of bricks of blank forms. “He gets uptight because Nickel’s going to be indicted. Nickel figures he might as well tie up loose ends before he blows out of town, kills him.”

  The quivering of Patty’s locks meant she was shaking her head; then she lifted it, rested her chin on her hands so her words became at least audible. “Or Nickel was a customer of his. That would explain why we can’t connect Nickel to that office. There’s no indication that he paid for it. He had a day job and his wife insists he came home every night. So when did he have time to be Cecil B. DeMille?”

  “Then where’s Barry Nickel?” Riley asked of the room.

  Jack felt as if he should participate, so he said, “I have no idea.” With a bit more enthusiasm than usual, since it was the truth. It seemed that saying true things had become a rare occurrence with him. He wondered if he should worry about that.

  Nah.

  It was Maggie Gardiner he needed to worry about.

  The woman still kept her face turned to Patty, who said, “Just as we always thought, Nickel skipped town—but not just because we were about to indict him. He skipped because he killed his boss. Or employee.”

  “Whatever,” Riley said. “When we find him, we can ask him which it is. Maybe we’ll have better luck now, with a BOLO that says ‘suspicion of murder’ instead of porn.”

  “True,” Patty said.

  So everybody’s happy, Jack thought. Win-win. Except for Ronald Masiero.

  But he didn’t feel happy, and he didn’t feel like he was winning. He felt as if the boundaries of his carefully anonymous world had begun to crumble, and all because of Maggie Gardiner and her damn fibers.

  “Thanks,” Patty told Maggie, a bit absently, still rearranging the Nickel-Masiero puzzle pieces in her brain. “Good work.”

  “You’re welcome. Also, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to Denny today—he’s a little busy, baby number three is about to grant her first audience—but I spoke to Planning and Zoning and got a list of possible kill sites.”

  “Planning?” Patty asked, obviously still lost in the world of murderous child pornographers. “Zoning?”

  Maggie Gardiner set down the fingerprint cards and pulled a piece of paper out of her back pocket. Jack listened to her explanation for narrowing down every building in the city to a list that fit on one piece of paper. Narrowing down to his place, maybe. And all because of Brian Johnson’s shoes.

  “Huh,” Patty said when she finished, straightening up. She reached out for the list, but instead of handing it to her Maggie Gardiner drew in a sharp breath and grasped Patty’s wrist. She pulled it gently to one side to expose the pale underside of her forearm, where the handcuffs had left temporary red impressions.

  “What the hell?” Patty said.

  “You’ve got a mark on your skin.”

  “Yeeeeaauh,” Patty drawled.

  Maggie let go. “Sorry—I—sorry. It just reminded me of something, that’s all. Sorry.”

  Patty snagged the list, saying “No biggie,” while clearly thinking that she hadn’t been the only one working too hard lately.

  Jack tried to put this into some framework that made sense to him and couldn’t. Maybe the girl had been abused as a child or something. Maybe she had a fear of handcuffs—maybe Rick—no, she hadn’t paid any attention to them before. At any rate he had more immediate concerns, such as keeping her away from Johnson Court.

  He could see the wheels turning in Patty’s head as she studied the addresses. She didn’t have time, none of them had time to escort Maggie Gardiner around Cleveland collecting samples, but on the other hand knowing where the murders had occurred could open up worlds of new leads. She could grab someone off patrol to do it, but shift sergeants were notoriously prickly about detectives using uniforms as their personal errand boys. They would say the feet on the street needed to be on the street, not doing the plainclothes’ job for them.

  “Jack—” Patty began.

  “No.” Both women looked at him and he backpedaled, gesturing at Riley. “I mean, we have Corrections guys to talk to—right?—and half a dozen of Johnson’s soldiers to pull in. We won’t have a spare hour for days.”

  He looked at his partner, who nodded.

  “But it’s your case,” Patty pointed out. “And you still don’t know where the murder actually occurred.”

  “Yes, but—” His eyes fell on the letter-sized sheet Maggie had unfolded. The Johnson Court address was sixth on the list. “But, okay. You’re right.”

  “I can go anytime, it doesn’t matter if it’s after hours,” Maggie said. “And I know there’s no guarantee the place is on this list. It could be unlicensed
work. It could be something that was completed but not cleaned up. It could be a place that’s so dilapidated that the asbestos and drywall are crumbling on their own. It is a long shot.”

  “But worth it,” he said, picturing himself touring vacant buildings with Maggie Gardiner. He knew what he needed to do. “We’ll find the time.”

  Maggie said, “One thing. If we go to visit these buildings, how do we get in?”

  Patty said, “You got all the owners’ names and numbers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call and get contact information for the key holders. I’m sure they’ll be happy to cooperate with the police.”

  “Isn’t everyone?” Jack said.

  * * *

  Friday, 10:21 a.m.

  “Not keeping you up, am I?” Riley asked after Jack had yawned for the third time. They were alone in an elevator descending to the lobby, the morning court/office Justice Center rush calmed down until the lunch break. The elevators were always a zoo until midmorning.

  Jack didn’t respond, just sipped coffee out of a Styrofoam cup, trying to picture exactly how he could head off this Johnson Court thing. He would need some time to himself.

  “Late night?” Riley persisted.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Guilty conscience?”

  This didn’t give him any sort of start, because he didn’t have a guilty conscience. He did, however, have some things to take care of. But guilt? No.

  His partner went on. “Just seems like something’s been on your mind.”

  Okay, a little guilt about routinely lying to Riley. And concern. The man was a good cop, knew when someone had a side story going.

  Riley asked: “So who is she?”

  Jack just smiled and shook his head. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  He may as well not have spoken. “Is she married? Is that why it’s hush-hush?”

  “No.”

  Riley continued to peer at him, ignoring the floor indicator lights rotating through the numbers, 9, 8, 7. “Is she married to anyone we know?” Meaning, was Jack sleeping with another cop’s wife—the only real reason to keep an affair quiet.

  “No. No woman, no date, and I’m not screwing anyone’s wife.”

  Riley watched him until the car came to a stop. “Okaaaaaaaaaay.”

  “Family issues, okay?” Jack said. “I just got some things I need to take care of.”

  “Oh,” his partner said, in a completely different tone. All cops had families. And every one had a problem son, stepson, sister-in-law who managed to make the other members’ lives hell. Cops understood family issues, and understood not wanting to discuss them.

  Jack took an easier breath, a moment’s respite until the elevator doors opened and they exited, nearly colliding with Clyde.

  The man’s face creased into something vaguely resembling a smile as he exclaimed, “Bill!”

  “Sorry, dude.” Riley hustled past the man and the separate entity of his odor. “No Bills here.”

  “He is,” Clyde called after them. Jack felt the words bounce off his back like a physical blow.

  “Once the weather gets rainy,” Riley mumbled as they headed up the hall to the corrections department, “this building becomes Homeless Central. It’s that softhearted chick at the coffee kiosk. I swear she feeds them. That’s why they keep coming around.”

  Jack tried to get his heartbeat under control. He plunged his hands in his pockets to keep them still, only to find Viktor’s key to the girls’ apartment still in his pocket.

  Shit.

  What the hell was the matter with him? He should have dropped that into the river with Viktor’s body—or at least as he tried to drop Viktor’s body. Better yet, he should have just left it in Viktor’s pocket, where it wouldn’t have hurt anything. Was he turning into some kind of psycho, collecting trophies?

  Suck the air in, let it out. Focus.

  He didn’t want a trophy. He’d throw the key away later. He would master every detail. The plan remained on course.

  Focus.

  Ten minutes later they were standing in a white, unadorned airlock with three-inch-thick doors and a Hispanic guy large enough to subdue no less than three career felons single-handed and without even breathing heavy. But his most intimidating feature seemed to be the calm, unwavering gaze of his large brown eyes. “Captain said you wanted to talk to me?” The voice rolled out like a pull of warm taffy.

  Riley spoke. “Detainee Brian Johnson, held for twenty-four last Monday?”

  “Yes?” Unsurprised. His captain would have given him a heads-up.

  “What do you remember about him?” Sometimes Riley favored the open-ended question.

  “Possession charge. Think they were looking for dealing but didn’t find enough ounces on him. Made bail.”

  “Who bailed him out?”

  “I don’t know. I just escorted him to Discharge.”

  Riley had already learned that the bondsman on Johnson’s payroll had brought the cash, but had left immediately after posting it. He was the bondsman, not the chauffeur, as he had explained to the officers. From there he had gone straight to night court for a hearing, which had been confirmed by the bailiff. As far as anyone knew, Brian Johnson had then signed the forms, walked out the door, and disappeared. Of course Jack knew better, but that didn’t count.

  He also hadn’t spoken to Brian Johnson on the phone, so he did not feel too concerned about the man’s phone calls.

  Not too concerned.

  Much more concerned about Maggie Gardiner and her damn list. He looked around at the freshly painted surfaces enclosing them and wondered what sort of trace evidence she would find in their little airlock. Probably not much. A jail could be the tidiest, cleanest-looking place around, simply because there weren’t any possessions there to clutter it up. No distractions.

  He needed to distract Maggie Gardiner.

  “You see him here before?” Riley was asking.

  “No.”

  “You see him anywhere else before? Like, outside work?”

  As in, are you a customer of his? A pal? A contract worker?

  “No,” the guard said.

  “Then why did you loan him your cell phone? A call to his girlfriend, woman named Latasha Greene, came from your Motorola.”

  “Why not?” the man asked.

  This momentarily stumped Riley. “You always so helpful to the inmates?”

  “When they’re calm and reasonable, yes. It makes a big difference around here when people are calm, and reasonable.”

  That could not be denied, of course.

  “Who did he call?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you overhear anything?”

  “Didn’t listen. I could hear him, I was standing right here, but I wasn’t listening. So I don’t remember.”

  Somehow, Jack believed him. He figured Riley did too. But his partner had one more question.

  “How many calls did he make?”

  “Two.”

  The cops blinked in unison. “And you don’t have any idea who he called? What he said?”

  The guy tried, screwing up his face. “I figured one was a woman, ’cause he got that—chatty tone in his voice. The other sounded like all business. Tell so and so, go here, see you tomorrow. Something like that.”

  “He said he’d see someone the next day?”

  “I can’t be sure. I’m just guessing at the sort of thing he said.”

  He had told them everything he could, and finally Riley gave up. They made their way back through the white, unadorned hallway and past the white, unadorned Discharge booth, where the desk guard buzzed them out. There were cameras in the ceiling just as there were cameras in every hallway in the jail. But go out the door and turn toward the street, and there were none. No guards, no cameras, no witnesses.

  “Well that was pointless,” Riley grumbled.

  “Johnson doesn’t sound like a worried man,” Jack pointed out. “He had
time to think about his daughter’s birthday. Not afraid that someone might be gunning for him.”

  “These guys never think it’s going to come back on them.”

  “Let’s see if we can find out who did.”

  They spent the next two hours tracking down Johnson’s lieutenants, employees, and suppliers, pulling up to curbs and popping out before they could scatter. One scattered anyway, giving them a bit of morning exercise. As Jack pounded up a sidewalk, smelling full Dumpsters and his own sweat and wafts of marijuana coming off his quarry, all the time he calculated where he had to go, what he had to do, and how long it would take. He knew what to do in theory. But how it would work in real time, that he hadn’t quite figured out. While he grabbed the guy by the shoulder and shoved him up against the brick wall, his mind tried to recall the speed limit on St. Clair.

  Riley caught up and between the two of them they walked the guy back to the main street so they could talk and keep an eye on their car at the same time. In the end it made no difference. Any acquaintance of Johnson’s would be good at talking without ever saying anything. They did not speak to cops. They did not share with cops. They had a code.

  And, of course, they quite genuinely had no idea who had killed Brian Johnson.

  So Jack waited until Riley got tired and hungry, then suggested they break for lunch. The thought of food always cheered his partner, and Jack wanted to avoid the Justice Center, Clyde’s new hangout.

  “Great. Whatdya want to eat?”

  “I’ll catch up with you later, okay? I’ve got—”

  “Yeah. Family issues. You sure there’s nothing you want to talk about? Partner?”

  “Not a thing. Partner.”

  They separated at the station and Jack retrieved his car. He could get this done.

  Chapter 23

  Friday, 12:16 p.m.

  For his first stop Jack used his own set of addresses. Having eliminated Miss Ellie, he stopped at a subdivided rooming house in Ohio City, wondering why nine checks arrived there every month. No one answered the door, but it did have a yellowed index card taped to the inside glass that read KNOCK LOUD! He did. It didn’t help.