For perhaps thirty seconds, the only sound was the squeak of Kelley rocking in his chair as he thought. And of Mark’s heartbeat in his ears.
Finally, Kelley said, “Okay, kid. I’ll try to get the bullets sent here for ballistics examination.”
At last, at last, someone was taking him seriously on this thing.
Kelley jerked forward, sat with his elbows on the desk. “Keep looking at this Havoc character, but tread the hell lightly, okay? Low profile, you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If this turns out to be nothing, I don’t want this blowing up into a lawsuit against the city, follow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kelley made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, as if shooing away a stray dog. “Meantime, on your own time only, for now. And till I say otherwise, this stays strictly between you and me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, get the fuck out of my office.”
Mark did.
In his car, hours later, Mark was still riding the high from his sit-down with Captain Kelley. They had spoken almost as equals... well, as members of the same species, anyway. After the meeting, he and Pence had closed down three twerps who had been stealing equipment from a local recording studio. Those three were now sitting in the slam and the studio owner was happy that his equipment would eventually be returned. All in all, a pretty good day.
Now, with darkness creeping up on the city, Mark sat in a credit union parking lot on Emerald Parkway, just north of Interstate 480 — next to Basil Havoc’s generically titled American Gymnastics Center.
Mark had the window down on his Chevy Equinox, letting the warm spring air drift over him. The breeze brought soothing sounds of birds and insects, and the gentle rustle of tree leaves, if occasionally disrupted by the roar of jets — he was not far from Cleveland Hopkins International Airport.
Soon kids were piling out of the gymnastic school into waiting parental minivans and SUVs. The next wave out, maybe ten minutes later, was instructors. Evening settled in and muted traffic noise banished the nature sounds, the jets seeming distant now, and a little forlorn as day surrendered to night.
Finally, half an hour later, Basil Havoc exited the school, locked the door behind him, then strode to his Escalade. Lit only vaguely by a streetlight at the lot’s far end, the gymnastics instructor — tall, fit, fortyish — was easily recognizable, from his jungle-cat gait if nothing else.
Mark had neglected to tell Captain Kelley that he’d been staking Havoc out for weeks. Why risk his boss’s wrath? And anyway, there was nothing to report as yet. The gymnast seldom varied from a few set routes — after leaving his school, he would go home or to the bank depository; if the latter, he would either go directly home or first stop at one of two nearby restaurants (one Chinese, one Italian). He varied this on two occasions, when he went to two other Chinese and Italian restaurants.
As usual, Havoc’s Escalade went south on Grayton Road before turning onto I-480 east. And as usual, Mark’s Equinox entered the highway two cars back.
They merged onto I-71 south, separated now by a semi. Mark cruised behind the big rig, swinging toward the shoulder to get occasional glimpses of Havoc’s vehicle. He settled in for the long drive down to Medina, the suburb where Havoc shared a nice home with a Great Dane and an absentee daughter, mostly away at boarding school.
The Internet made it easy to learn all kinds of things about people who had gained any amount of celebrity, and Basil Havoc — a frequent subject on gymnastics blogs and in articles posted from sports magazines — certainly qualified. Apparently Havoc was a stern taskmaster with a temper, which made him a good candidate for violent behavior. Which helped make him a good suspect.
Havoc’s Escalade veered right onto the ramp for Royalton Road, a change from pattern, and the same exit Mark had taken the night before, when he stopped by the Sully home in Strongsville. A spike of excitement accompanied the young detective up the ramp.
On Royalton, Havoc soon turned left onto Howe Road, just past the Samurai Sushi Steakhouse. Mark hung back, breathing hard. No cars between them now — Havoc seemed to be mimicking Mark’s route from last night.
Would he turn right onto Cypress Avenue, the block where the Sully home sat, now silent and vacant?
They skirted the east boundary of the SouthPark Mall, crossing Polo Club Drive. Havoc continued south — if the man stopped at the Sully home, would that constitute probable cause? How Mark would love to have an excuse to haul this creep in. They passed Pomeroy Boulevard on the west, then Tracy Lane on the east, the Escalade obeying the speed limit, Mark doing his best to hang back and not be spotted. They passed Shurmer Road on the west and, despite the row of houses on the east side of Howe Road, Mark could hear the faint echo of traffic back on I-71.
The Escalade continued south, passing Canterbury Drive. Just two blocks to go — Mark was practically holding his breath now, wondering if (almost praying that) Havoc would make the turn.
Glendale Avenue streaked by and — as they passed the houses, most with their lights on, families enjoying an evening together (something the Sullys would never do again) — Mark’s excitement was replaced by a cold, anger-tinged resolve.
When Havoc’s turn signal came on, Mark felt almost that he had willed it, that he now controlled the Escalade, that he was making it go to the house where that family had been so savagely murdered...
As they eased west on Cypress Avenue, Mark closed the gap some. Would Havoc stop, or slow, or even just look over at the Sully house as they passed? In the darkness, it was impossible to tell the latter.
Then at the corner, Havoc turned left onto Park Lane Drive, heading south. Was Havoc just screwing with him? Had the gymnastics coach made him somehow? He wasn’t driving a department car, and his tailing technique had been by-the-book — how could the g.d. guy have gotten onto him?
Havoc turned right onto Drake Road, going west again. No way Havoc could know he was a cop! Much less realize that Mark had been investigating him.
Another left, and they were heading south again, this time on Pearl Road, Havoc leading, just under the speed limit — where the heck they were going? They passed through the major intersection with Boston Road.
Flummoxed, Mark was not exactly riding Havoc’s tail, but with limited traffic — they’d been the only two cars on Cypress Avenue — the guy surely would make him soon, if he hadn’t already. Mark could always pull off onto one of the side streets, which led to nothing more than a forest of cul-de-sacs...
But if Havoc stayed on Pearl, as far south as Center Road, in Brunswick, Mark could simply peel off, get back on the interstate, and head home. No harm, no foul.
At the inappropriately named Beverly Hills Drive, Havoc turned east, then again, into the parking lot of a strip mall. Mark followed. He’d come this far.
The single-story mall had five outlets, one out of business, three closed for the night, with Apollonia’s Italian Restaurant, at the far end, blinking its red OPEN sign.
Havoc parked.
So did Mark, half a dozen spaces over — when Havoc went inside, Mark would just pull out. His excitement, his anger, had fizzled into frustration and embarrassment. Still, a part of him wanted to just march over to Havoc’s car and confront the creep.
Then, watching the Escalade out his open window, he realized that just the opposite was happening — Havoc had climbed out of his Escalade and was approaching Mark’s Equinox with that easy gait of a jungle beast. My lord, the man moved quickly! And with seemingly no effort.