What Doesn’t Kill Her (9 page)

Like she didn’t know.

She turned to the refreshment table, selected a chocolate chip cookie and a napkin, and went over and took the seat next to Levi. She gave him the World’s Record smallest smile and a nod that was smaller than that. And he grinned and nodded back.

David was next to her on the right. Across the way, Dr. Hurst was flanked by Phillip and an attractive but dowdily dressed middle-aged redhead—the woman who’d come in with David last week.

Glancing around the circle, Dr. Hurst asked, “Who would like to start this time?”

No one said a word.

Turning to the redhead, Dr. Hurst asked, “Kay?”

Before Kay could speak, Jordan heard herself say, “I’m Jordan Rivera, and I’d like to talk about what happened to my family.”

That Captain Kelley had scanned every page, if quickly, of Mark’s file was encouraging. That he had been frowning, his eyes so slitted behind the half-glasses riding the hawk nose, boded less well.

The sharply dressed senior detective took off the glasses, opened his eyes wide then tightened them again, closed the file, and flung the glasses on top of the inch-thick manila folder, sighing in the manner of a father whose wayward child had brought home a D-minus report card.

“That’s it?” he asked. “That’s all you got?”

“So far,” Mark said, feeling like he’d been kicked in the stomach. Years of work were in that folder.

“Not much to it, is there?”

“Captain, all due respect, there
is
something to this.”

Kelley stared at the young detective blankly. Then a small, sly smile revealed itself. “You know, there just might be. Not a bad job, son, for a side project.”

Relief flooded through Mark, but he didn’t allow himself to smile. He wanted to present a businesslike demeanor, not an eager-beaver one.

Kelley leaned back and rocked in his chair. “Nothing yet that I can take to the FBI, or even kick upstairs… but you’ve done a lot of digging, Pryor, and maybe, just maybe, you’re gonna hit somethin’.”

Now he couldn’t hold back the smile. “Thanks, Captain.”

No sooner had Mark’s smile emerged than Kelley’s disappeared. “You’re still on your own time. I can’t assign this to you, not yet—there’s too much
else on the docket around here. But if you want to keep at it, on your own? I’m down with it.”

“I’m happy for that much, sir. And I’ll keep you up to date on my progress.”

“Start now. Tell me about this suspect of yours.”

“Basil Havoc,” Mark said. “Of the several possible suspects I’ve considered, he’s number one.”

“Saw his name in your files—remind me.”

Mark shifted in his chair, sat forward. “When David Elkins didn’t talk to the media right away, after the murders of his family? Reporters started zeroing in on the people around him in his life. Somehow they found out Akina Elkins, not long before she was killed, had started studying gymnastics under this guy Havoc. Guy was quoted in one of those stories. ‘She’ll be missed, sweet girl…’ ”

“The typical twaddle. But how does that make him a suspect?”

“It doesn’t, but you see—I
knew
Jordan Rivera when we were kids, and I remembered that she used to study gymnastics. Turns out she studied with Havoc.”

“You
knew
her?”

“Yes. We were in high school together.”

Two hands came up in a stop-right-there gesture. “This thing better not be personal, Pryor. Was Rivera your steady or some shit?”

“No! No. She was just a classmate.” Not exactly a lie.

“So knowing her a little made it possible to talk to her?” Kelley asked. “And she told you about Havoc? What, at the nuthouse?”

“No, no sir. The last I heard she was still in St. Dimpna’s, and essentially catatonic.”

“Then how…?”

“I reached out to some mutual friends from those days, and they say she studied under Havoc. Just briefly. She quit the lessons, in fact, not long after starting them.”

“Why?”

“That I don’t know. Yet.”

“So what’s the gymnastic coach’s story?”

Mark sat back. Crossed an ankle over a knee. Suddenly he was feeling damn near at ease with the captain. “Havoc has a pretty darn impressive background.”

“How impressive?”

“How about ’92 Olympics impressive?”

“Olympic star, huh? From the USA?”

Mark shook his head. “United Olympic team.”

“What the hell is that?”

“After the Iron Curtain fell, the nations in the Russian bloc couldn’t get individual teams together fast enough, so they joined forces. Havoc is from Moldova, one of twelve countries that made up the United team. He got a silver medal, then came over here. It wasn’t long before he settled in Cleveland and started his gymnastics center.”

Kelley was nodding slowly, clearly interested. “Where’s Havoc now?”

“His school is still going here in Cleveland, but Havoc himself travels quite a bit.”

Kelley rocked awhile. His eyes were moving in thought. Mark said nothing. Waited for his boss to process the information.

Finally the captain said, “So, your suspect knew both families. I like that. Did he have any connection to the Sullys in Strongsville?”

“No, sir. Not that I’ve found so far.”

“You got anything else suggestive about him?”

Mark nodded, and gestured toward the file. “In 2008, the US Women’s Gymnastics Championships were in Boston. Around that time, a family was murdered in Providence, Rhode Island.”

“Boston’s in Massachusetts,” Kelley reminded him.

“Yes, but Providence is only about an hour’s drive from Boston.”

Kelley frowned. “Do you know for
sure
that Havoc was in Providence?”

“No,” Mark admitted. “I’ve seen footage from the championships, definitely putting him in Boston during the week the Rhode Island family was killed.”

“Have you talked to the Providence PD?”

Mark wanted to be careful here. He was about to admit contacting another jurisdiction for information that might pertain to at least two, now maybe three, local cases, none of which were his.

Finally, he said, “Yes, sir. I realize I may have overstepped, but yes.”

Kelley grunted. “We’ll skip me tearing you a new asshole and go straight to what you found out.”

“Okay. The detective there said they wrote it off as a home invasion gone south. The parents and a fifteen-year-old adopted son were shot with a nine mil.”

“Were they mutilated?”

“The Providence guy didn’t say so, and I didn’t ask.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I figured he would have mentioned it had they been. Or if that was the case, and they were holding it back, I didn’t want to send up any alarm bells.”

“That might ring back in Cleveland, you mean? And let your captain know you’re ‘overstepping’?”

Mark swallowed. Uncrossed his legs. “Something like that, sir.”

But Kelley had already moved on. “What kind of gun was used in the Elkins murders?”

“Nine millimeter.”

“Possible connection, then.”

“Possible connection, yes.”

“A lot of nine mils in the world.” The captain nodded toward the general world outside his office. “There’s a jungle full of fuckin’ Glocks out there, you know.”

“Oh, I know, sir.”

Kelley nodded toward the file before him. “I just skimmed this. Is there anything else that ties Havoc in?”

“Well, in 2010, when the US Women’s Gymnastics Championships were in Hartford? Havoc was there, too.”

“Why, was a Hartford family murdered?”

“No, but a family in the Bronx was.”

“Yeah, and getting from Hartford to the Bronx isn’t exactly from the earth to the moon. I get the drift. Go on.”

Mark did: “Family of six, all shot, the adults mutilated.”

“Slashed?”

Mark nodded. “Two hours from Hartford, an easy drive.”

“Nine mil?”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “The parents dealt in illegal substances, so it got attributed to them angering the wrong crowd.”

Kelley rocked some more. Gently. Eyes moving again. Then: “So none of these bullets has ever been compared with another?”

“No, sir. No one’s connected these crimes.”

“You would think the FBI computers would have done the job.”

“You would think. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

Kelley chuckled dryly. “And that’s why you keep pesterin’ my ass? Because you have connected these crimes.”

“Right, sir. And, well…”

“Spill it.”

“… you are in a position to ask for comparisons of the bullets in these cases. Whereas I am just—”

“A worthless shit-for-brains rookie, yes, I know, with the weight of a gnat that just landed on an elephant’s ass.”

“I was just thinking that, sir.”

That actually made Kelley chuckle.

The pair sat silently for a while as Captain Kelley mulled his options.

“The foundation you’re pouring for this house of horror isn’t strong enough to hold up an outhouse, you know. And don’t tell me you were just thinking that.”

“Not strong enough yet, sir, no.”

“Well, let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you turn out to be Sherlock the Fuck Holmes and you’ve uncovered a serial killer that the FBI, in all its power and prowess, missed. If those bullets match, they’ll take over all these cases so fast, you won’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

“I don’t have any problem with the FBI taking over for me,” Mark said, raising his palms as if in surrender. “They are certainly better equipped for it than a crap-for-brains rookie.”

There was a somber aspect to Kelley’s expression that reminded Mark, improbably enough, of a minister or priest. “You just want this guy caught.”

“And stopped.” He sat forward again. “If I’m right, Captain, this monster has killed over a dozen people in the last decade, and that’s just the ones I’ve been able to find. There’s no telling how many there are, really.”

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.