Jon Talton - Powers of Arrest

He and Cindy hadn’t been the best parents, but had they raised a killer? The thought crowded out all his body’s other complaints. John had never killed an animal-that Will knew of. He had a Siamese cat for fifteen years while he was growing up, and was nothing but affectionate toward it. Would he write that kind of letter? The language sounded more mature. John didn’t even know Will had been the lead detective on the Gruber case. But he could also hear Dodds’ voice in his head: “Who the hell knows why or when somebody becomes a monster.” Killing at his stepfather’s alma mater, killing his famous and attractive colleague, addressing a note specifically to Will. If he stepped back, all of this would make him one thing: suspicious as hell.

The sound of a car’s tires squealing on the concrete made him jump. Here he had a killer at loose, taunting him with a note pinned through a dead man’s skin, and he’s in a reverie in a deserted parking garage.

“Smart, Borders,” he said, and started the car.

Before he drove out, he checked the Enquirer’s Web site. What he wrote was already there, as a brief, with his headline. The only editing was to attribute the information to him, rather than giving him the byline. He thanked God that the tough old police reporters who dug and worked closely with the cops had all retired, and now the people down at the paper pretty much only took dictation.

Heather Bridges lived in an apartment in a turreted three-story brick building off Hamilton Avenue in Northside. It was a neighborhood above the split between Interstates 74 and 75, and sandwiched between Spring Grove Cemetery and Mount Airy Forest, and Will was amazed how quickly it had gone from down-on-its-luck Rust Belt to Bohemian trendy. Cincinnati had plenty of such districts, but only a limited number of Bohemians, especially with money.

He had gotten rid of his police tail with some difficulty, telling Dodds that he had to run an errand for his ex. Now he was telling lies for John. They called that “accomplice” in his business. But he didn’t need Dodds or some other detective following him up here. He was bait now. The letter on Noah Smith was addressed to him. With luck, good or bad, the killer might come after him. He successfully argued against wearing a constant wire. But he had a hand-held radio with him at all times. Now he carried it in his left hand as he used the right, as always, for the cane.

A girl’s voice answered the intercom after a long wait. “Cincinnati Police” was enough to get him buzzed in. Oh, for a day without a long stair climb. He made it. She was waiting on the second floor, with the door cracked and the chain on. He showed her his badge, now draped in black, and identification.

“You’re John’s dad.”

“May I come in?”

The chain slid off and he stepped inside a high-ceilinged living room. It held a few pieces of expensive new furniture and art posters on the wall. He didn’t take time to read the details of galleries and dates, although one prominently featured the avant-garde Contemporary Arts Center downtown.

“I’m only living here through the summer. Until I go to college. But I didn’t want to be stuck out at the parents’ house, if you know what I mean, nothing wrong with parents, mine are cool, but I love this area…”

The chirping young woman was tall, with reddish-brown hair falling in tendrils over her shoulders, high cheekbones, and shapely legs shown to advantage in shorts. He could see why John was attracted to her. Still, she was mussed and out of breath.

“Let’s sit down,” he interrupted. She sat quickly and nervously. He turned down the radio and set it on the cushion beside him.

“We need to talk, Heather.”

“About what, Will?” A smile to light up a city. The sense of entitlement he had expected from her parents’ bankbook.

“Let’s get off on the right foot,” Will said. “I’ll call you Heather. You call me Detective Borders.”

“Okay.” A pout descended over her lovely face.

“I know you and John were on the river Saturday night and early Sunday morning…”

The pout was turning to unconcealed alarm when a closed door fifteen feet down a hallway was thrown open and a man angrily strode toward them. He was only wearing boxer shorts.

“What’s going on, Heather? This dude bothering you?”

Will made no effort to react. If the guy got in his face, the steel shaft of the cane would make an excellent impression on his nose. As he came into the light, Will saw how young he was. He was John’s age, maybe a year or two younger, and his stride was all confidence. He was lean and fit in an untested way, with stubble on his pretty-boy face, stubble on his head, and no hair on his chest. Beyond his belligerent posture, he wore a sleepy expression. When the fly of his boxers came open as he walked, Will could see the piercing. Lord, he didn’t understand this. But that was a reflection deep inside. His face was all cop.

“Who the fuck are you, kid?”

“I don’t have to…”

“Actually you do, asshole,” Will said, flashing his badge. The young man was momentarily deflated. Long enough for Heather to say, “This is my friend, Zack.”

“Go put on some clothes, friend Zack.”

The young man stared defiantly, then padded back to the bedroom, cursing under his breath.

“What’s Zack’s full name?”

She meekly complied. “Zachary Paul Miller.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “We hook up. Friends with benefits, you know. Or maybe you don’t…” She glanced at the cane, and for a nanosecond he wanted to beat her to death with it. The urge passed quickly.

“So is John an F.W.B.?”

Heather smirked. “Oh, my god, no.”

“But you went to meet him on Saturday, for a date?”

“Not a date.” She fluffed out her hair and smoothed it down. “He’s sweet. But…”

Zachary Paul Miller stomped back and sat next to Heather. His jeans were so low on his hips that Will didn’t know how they didn’t fall to the floor.

“Stop talking.” He looked like he was going to slap her. To Will: “We don’t have to tell you anything, Borders. I’ve got the family lawyer on speed dial.” He dangled his iPhone. “Kenneth Buchanan. Ever hear of him, cop?” He laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound.

Will lifted himself up and walked two paces. He shifted the cane to his left hand. Then he delivered a hard jab to the young man’s abdomen, where it would hurt the most and leave no trace.

He was a tough-guy, at least in his own mind, but he let out a sound between a belch and a pig squeal. Tears came to his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I fell against you, sir,” Will said. “It’s this whole cane thing. I get unstable. Damned cripples, and we get all the best parking places.”

Will returned and sat down again. “Now listen to me. You may be the king stud of Summit Country Day School, but if I make one call you’re going to be nothing but another jailhouse chicken who’ll get sodomized all night by very muscular men below your social class. They’d love to get hold of your virgin ass and your Prince Albert piercing. Only one night in lockup, you know, before the lawyers can sort things out. Jeez, I’ve seen it happen so many times to the East Side kids.” Will shook his head in mock sympathy. Zack’s eyes widened with terror.

Will continued. “I’ve already talked to Mr. Buchanan.” Technically true. “I’m hoping we can settle this without trouble: the kind that would keep you from your Ivy League future. This is a homicide investigation.” He paused and watched the color return to Zack’s face and quickly flee again. “I know you want to cooperate, Mr. Miller.”