Shaking his head slowly, painting a picture in the air with two hands, Slowhand said, “I had this place all picked out. Little town on the gulf side, where the water’s warm... not like the Atlantic, where you freeze your nuts off even in August.”
Pence couldn’t resist. “Where is this little piece of heaven, Robert?”
“Place called Yankeetown.”
Mark said, “You almost made it.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll be going to Youngstown.”
Home of Ohio State Penitentiary, where Robert Slowenski would really spend his golden years...
Between Slowhand and the van driver — from whom words spilled like a rapper who didn’t know how to rhyme, once he knew ratting out his pals might pay off — Mark and Pence got the names of the members of both burglary rings. The day shift would stay busy, rounding ’em all up, but Pence and Mark were through for the night. They got pats on the back from Captain Kelley, which were harder to earn than Medals of Valor, then went their separate ways. Pence would head for some all-night fast food joint, no doubt. Mark had a date with some cool, clean sheets.
When Mark walked out to his Equinox, a middle-aged African-American male was leaning against the vehicle. This was no robbery suspect, not hardly.
This well-dressed goateed detective was Sergeant Morris Grant, “Mo” to his friends, which Mark was not. The big-time homicide specialist hadn’t deigned to pronounce ten words in Mark’s presence since the younger man had earned his gold shield.
As Mark neared, Grant said in his resonant baritone, “I hear you did some nice work tonight, Pryor. Did some real good out there tonight.”
“Thank you,” Mark said, leaning against the fender next to Grant. “I appreciate that. Really thoughtful of you to hang around to tell me that at three thirty in the morning.”
Grant smiled, his teeth very white under the nearby streetlight, glowing, feral. “I heard that about you from people.”
“What?”
“That you weren’t dumb.”
Looking around, Mark said, “Which people? Point ’em out, and I’ll set ’em right.”
Grant’s chuckle was almost a growl. “I like you, Pryor. People also say you’re a good detective, who’s going to be working homicide one day. That where you think you’re heading? Office next to mine?”
“Why not?” Mark said, maybe a little too eagerly.
The homicide cop was sizing him up, testing him; but for what, Mark had no idea.
“What would you rather do, Detective Pryor? Catch bad guys all your life for no credit, or become police commissioner?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, I don’t want to ride a desk, no matter how big or important it is. I want to be a cop.”
“Like a kid wants to be a fireman?”
“Like a man who wants to take bad guys off the street.”
The homicide detective’s gaze remained appraising. He laughed softly, then said, “All right, here’s the deal. My partner and I are looking at a cold case that has some vague similarities to another case we’re working on.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a witness in that cold case that we need to talk to. She’s not cooperating.”
What was this about?
Grant was saying, “We need you to talk to her and pave our way, or even just talk to her for us.”
“Well, of course,” Mark said. “Captain Kelley’s still inside — he’s been working these hellacious hours, too. We can clear it with him now.” He stepped away from his Equinox, but Grant’s arm stopped him.
“If we go to the cap,” Grant said, “it’s a damn near certainty he won’t let you in.”
Mark frowned. “Why?”
“He’ll say you’re too close,” Grant said.
As if Grant had dialed the last number of the combination of a safe, the tumblers falling in line, the door swung open for Mark.
Mark said, “You mean Jordan Rivera.”
Grant gave a curt nod. “I mean Jordan Rivera.”
Somewhere a siren screamed. A long ways off, but distinct.
“I knew her in high school,” Mark said. “Ten years ago. I doubt she remembers me. Anyway, she’s been in St. Dimpna’s for ten years and she’s not talking to anyone about anything. She’s some kind of catatonic or something. Detective Grant, I wouldn’t do any better than you would.”
“Call me Mo.” He smiled again and it was awful. “She’s out. And she’s talking. Just not to us.”
The words slapped Mark. “What? What?”
“Been out for a while now. Month or so. She’s got an apartment not far from that mental hospital.”
Somehow he always thought he would know when she got out, or be informed about it or something. But that was a ridiculous notion. Why would anyone do that?
He said, “You’ve tried to interview her?”
“And failed,” Grant said. “Lynch and me, outside her apartment. She wouldn’t talk to us, said it was ‘too painful.’ Pretty much told us to fuck off.”
“I see.”
“We thought... I thought... maybe you, having known her, could reach out to her. Get her to sit down for an interview with us. If not us, then maybe she’d talk to you. Old school friend kind of deal.”
Emotions roiled within the young detective. “You’re asking me to do this behind Kelley’s back?”
Grant said nothing, which spoke volumes.
Of course, the homicide man had no way of knowing that Mark was already looking into the Rivera murders on a sub-rosa basis with the captain’s blessing. And he wasn’t about to reveal it.
What would seeing her again be like, after all these years, and so much pain?
Suppose she did consent to talk to him, and had some small sense of who he was, who he’d been, back in high school days. After she found out what he really wanted to talk about... well... then what? Would she still talk to him? Or would she tell him to ef off, too? And, if she did, could he stand it?
He sighed. Only one way to find out. He looked at the other detective with a steady, unintimidated gaze. “Captain Kelley finds out, you step up, understand? You don’t leave me with my tail hanging out with my boss.”
Grant’s nod was solemn.
Then he offered a hand and Mark shook it.
The older detective and his partner were drifting off and Mark had his car door open when Grant turned and called, “Oh. One other thing...”
The pecking order meant Mark would have to close his car door and walk over to Grant. He did.
“We caught a homicide,” Grant said, reaching in his inside suit coat pocket, “a brutal thing in the Rivera girl’s neighborhood. Waitress. She got around, did some hooking.”
Grant handed Mark the photo, a morgue shot. She’d been a nice-looking woman, a little hard maybe, dark hair.
Mark asked, “How was she killed?”
“Multiple stab wounds. We’re looking at a married guy she was seeing. She had an abortion not long ago. Maybe it was his, or maybe it was one of half a dozen other guys’.”
“And?”
“You think our dead waitress looks familiar?”
Mark studied the photo. “Maybe... vaguely like Jordan. It’s not striking.”
“Her part of town. Could there be a connection?”
Not his man’s style. Not even vaguely the MO.
“No,” Mark said, handed it back, and went on his way.
Chapter Nine
Though a skimpy eater, Jordan found herself making frequent trips to the neighborhood grocery store. She could only manage so many bags on the Vespa, so every couple of days she went to Alvaro’s Market.
She was in the produce aisle, trying to find the perfect shallot, when he just seemed to appear out of nowhere, like he’d popped out of her memory — Mark Pryor. Same perfect blond hair, a little shorter, clear complexion but with the shadow of shaving, a few lines starting around the blue eyes, the sensitive mouth maybe just a touch fuller, but still, there he was — the boy she had dreamed about in high school. And there was that wide, white smile of his! Flashing at her as he approached.