Every Kind of Wicked (A Gardiner and Renner Novel Book 6)

Sunday, 10: 15 a.m.

Sunday passed without progress on any front. Maggie mailed the Christmas gifts to her brother’s family from the automated machines in an empty post office lobby, and fretted. Either Rick was in another state investigating Jack’s past and didn’t answer his phone because he didn’t want anyone to talk him out of his mission—or because he had forgotten to charge it, something he often did—or he had, for some inexplicable reason, murdered Jennifer Toner and was now on the run from his former colleagues, including her.

She didn’t know which scenario worried her more.

She tried to walk off her frustration, having bundled up for the trip. The icy blast from the river swept through her parka as soon as she left the protection of her apartment building, muffler and gloves and boots in place until only her eyes were visible—and, after a block or two she wondered if she should invest in ski goggles as frostbite nipped at her eyeballs. She thought of window-shopping—the store windows of the Higbee’s and May Company used to be famous for their Christmastime displays. Those stores’ traditions were now lost to time and she didn’t think anything the casino might do would have the same joyous vibe. The city did its best to compensate, turning Public Square into a winter wonderland of lights and music, complete with an ice-skating rink.

Instead, she found herself back in front of the Justice Center, which had no music and very little joy. She could go inside to her office, try to find something useful to do, but knew there was nothing she could do, and that was the worst to bear. What the hell was Rick up to? Was he in Chicago, finding out stuff about Jack that she didn’t want to know? Did he kill Jennifer Toner in a botched attempt to frame Jack for it?

Did Jack kill Jennifer Toner in a successful attempt to frame Rick for it? That seemed even crazier—how would he get Rick’s fingerprint, unless Rick was dead, and if Rick was dead then what was the point of framing him for a murder? That made no sense at all. But if Rick wasn’t dead, where was he?

And round and round.

She didn’t push through the glass doors, knowing that she had gravitated there because she had no place else to go and to give in to that seemed too depressing to contemplate. She turned away, determined to go to the Chocolate Bar and have a hot chocolate martini instead.

But she didn’t. She just went home.

And fretted.

* * *

Shanaya Thomas went to work with dark circles under her eyes and continued to convince unsuspecting citizens that she worked for the IRS—phones never slept and no one wanted to risk arrest with the holiday looming around the corner—while her gaze constantly swept her surroundings to see if The Guy might be coming for her. Or possibly her boss.

She didn’t know which possibility scared her more.

* * *

Jack and Riley monitored the BOLOs for Marlon Toner, Philip Castleman, and Detective Richard Gardiner, but all three continued to exist only as whispers on the arctic wind. Riley spent the afternoon at his daughters’ school’s Christmas pageant, and Jack at least attended the autopsy of Jennifer Toner. It did not reveal anything particularly helpful: she had been killed by a single stab wound that penetrated the heart and nicked her aorta. The weapon was sharp and thin and round and at least eight inches long, approximately, and yes, once the pathologist reviewed the other pathologist’s notes from the previous autopsy, did seem quite similar to whatever instrument had killed Evan Harding.

One of the ME specialists taped the clothing for him. Technically Rick was now a suspect, so technically Maggie should not interact with any of the case evidence. This strict adherence to conflict of interest protocol would eventually fall apart, however, since Maggie was the only hair and fiber expert in the city. But he could cross that unstable, shuddering bridge when he got to it. Much better, anyway, that he investigate Rick for the murder of Jennifer Toner than Rick investigating him for any number of events in other cities. That part of current events had righted for him, once again.

Jack then went home and drank coffee with Greta curled on his lap. He knew she sat there more for the source of warmth than any great affection—he and his cat did not see eye to eye on proper thermostat settings—but appreciated the company all the same. He told himself he was recharging, but knew the reality: he was stuck.

Then Monday came.

Monday, 8:36 a.m.

Denny greeted her with “Any news?” He knew better than to waste time in small talk. It would neither distract nor comfort her.

“No. No one can get hold of him, no one’s seen his car, and they can’t find the victim’s brother either.”

“And he hasn’t called you?”

“Of course not!”

“Sorry,” he said, divesting himself of coat and gloves and not quite meeting her gaze. “It’s . . . I mean, he’s your ex-husband. No one would expect you to . . .”

“I wouldn’t protect him.” But she couldn’t be entirely sure of that. She had been married to him. She was sure as hell protecting Jack, and decided not to examine that fact right then. “I would help him, I mean . . . encourage him to come in and explain, but I don’t believe he needs protection, not from us. I don’t for a minute believe that he killed Jennifer Toner.”

But she couldn’t be entirely sure of that, either.

Carol entered, and Maggie caught her up with current events. The older woman drank two cups of coffee in rapid succession, such was her agitation as she expressed shock, amazement, confusion, and abject fury that Maggie hadn’t called her to share this emotional turmoil. Maggie protested that she had not been particularly turmoiled in her emotions, but knew she had and knew that Carol knew. After Maggie promised upon her lifeblood to keep Carol apprised of any and all updates to future developments in this and any other drama that affected Maggie, Carol trundled off to her DNA analysis room, still shaking her head.

Maggie texted Jack: Anything?

A text returned with reasonable promptness. No.

Time to get to work, to make sure she crossed every t and dotted every i on all the other tasks, which the taxpayers of Cleveland routinely paid her to complete. Rick would be all right. He would surface, having been deep in pursuit of Jennifer Toner’s killer, and for once he could be the hero of his own story, the toast of the department for at least a week or two. It would distract him from the pursuit of Jack’s past, thus doing her a favor as well.

In any event, there was nothing for her to do right then, provided Jack had told her the truth.

She definitely couldn’t be sure of that.

In exactly ninety minutes, Carol returned with a look on her face Maggie had never seen, and said she had something to tell her.

Monday, 9:10 a.m.

The guys in Vice hadn’t been personally acquainted with Marlon Toner, but could offer some general suggestions on where to start looking. They also suggested the homeless shelters—if he were out of doors, this bitter cold would force him to seek shelter no matter how much he wanted to avoid the authorities.

“I’m not so sure,” Riley said. He sat at his desk across from Jack’s, warming his hands on a cup of coffee. He wore a Christmas-themed tie that must have been a gift from one of his daughters because Jack could see no reason other than sentiment to hang such a bright conglomeration of elves, three-dimensional reindeer horns, and gold lamé accents around one’s neck. He kept this thought to himself.

“His sister said that he said he didn’t need money,” Riley went on. “So he may have a place to stay.”

“She also said he hadn’t showered in a couple days, so that could have been his pride talking.”

“It’s six degrees outside. I doubt he’d sleep on a grate purely to keep from having to tell his sister he was broke.”

“True, but we don’t have a lot of options. We can start at the hangouts first, try the shelters second.”

Riley massaged the dip where his nose met his skull. “I’m going to need more coffee.”

But then another detective walked in and told them they had a visitor. “Some little chick says she’s here about somebody named Harding. Your guy in the cemetery, right?”

Riley got up with something like enthusiasm. A visitor, after all, put off the moment when they would have to plunge into the aforementioned six degrees.

Shanaya Thomas stood in what passed for a lobby for their floor, dressed in a parka she kept zipped to her chin. “I came to get Evani’s stuff,” she said without preamble.

“Let’s find a place where we can sit down,” Riley said.

“I don’t have much time. I have to get to work.”

“I understand,” he assured her, which assured her of absolutely nothing because her getting to work on time was not their priority. Wringing more information about Evan Harding out of her, that was their priority.

They ushered her into an interview room, a much softer name than interrogation room, with only slightly softer decor. It held nothing save one simple table and three chairs. Two for them, one for her, but the disproportion didn’t appear to bother the girl.

Jack thought she had changed in the past two days. The sweet, grieving and completely innocent persona had been set aside as unhelpful; she had decided on her goals and narrowed her focus to a laser point. This didn’t make her cold or aggressive, only determined. He had to use that determination to get what he needed from her.

Problem was, he didn’t know what he needed from her. She might have no more clue who had murdered her boyfriend than Jack had.

“Have you been able to locate any relatives of Evan’s? Other friends?” Riley began.

“No.”

“Where did he live before?”

“Before when?”

“Before your current apartment.”

She considered. “He was sleeping at a Holiday Inn Express with some other guys when I met him.”

“What other guys?”

“I don’t know. They weren’t great friends, just needed a place to split costs.”

The detectives kept asking questions in an attempt to find any sort of hard fact, but according to Shanaya she didn’t know where Evan had been born, where he’d gone to school, any former address, any doctor, dentist, or prison he might have visited, or a single name of a blood relative. “He didn’t talk about anything before we met. I got the impression his life had not been a happy one. I don’t think his parents were very kind.”

When they began to ask the same details about her own life, she noticed the time growing late. She needed to go and didn’t care to talk about herself anyway. Her past hadn’t always been pleasant either. So could she have Evan’s belongings now, please? She would feel so much closer to him if she could have his ring.

“Well, that’s the problem,” Riley said, dragging out the words in a way Jack knew would irritate her. He could feel the slight vibration in the table from the way her foot drummed on the floor beneath it. “We can’t release the victim’s property, except to his next of kin.”

Jack saw an expression flare behind the girl’s eyes. Not anger . . . more like despair. A soul-crushing, final-straw overwhelming of hopelessness, quickly shoved out of the way by a wave of fresh resolve. “I am his next of kin.”

“Not according to the law. We need a relative, and you two weren’t married. You aren’t even on the lease.”

“He didn’t have anyone else.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but we have only your word for that. I’ve never had a victim with less of a—well, presence. We can’t find any sort of record, not school, residence, nothing in his name. The social security number he gave his employer was bogus. You two faked your enrollment to get the apartment so the college doesn’t have anything for us. So unless you can flesh out Evan’s life for us, we may have to keep his personal property . . . forever.”

A full second of stunned silence. “You can’t do that.”

“We don’t have a choice, Ms. Thomas. There are laws that govern this sort of thing.”

Jack watched, waiting for her to break, waiting for her to figure out that the only way she could get that stuff was to level with them.

Provided she hadn’t killed him, of course.

She hesitated so long that he began to think he’d been wrong. Perhaps she did only want the boy’s ring as a memento, some small comfort to the deep grief she couldn’t express because an unhappy life had taught her to keep her thoughts hidden. The guy might have kept the key taped to his ankle to hide it from her, and she truly didn’t know of its existence.

Then she straightened and stood up. She said she understood and would try to find out from what few friends they had if Evan had mentioned relatives. Jack took this to mean she had not given up, not by a long shot—only that she would regroup and come back to them again.

He didn’t want to wait. “Evan had a key.”

A startled, wary look.

“A small, plain one. Do you know what it unlocks?”

Hesitation. Then: “No.”

“You never saw a key, he didn’t mention it?”

“ No. ”

She held his gaze.

“All right, then,” he said. “This way—we’ll show you out. Incidentally, we’re getting Evan’s cell phone records from his carrier. It requires a subpoena, but we got one.”

Perhaps the disappointment over the key had worn her down, because she did an uncharacteristically bad job of hiding her worry over this. “Oh.”

“We should get the full record in a day or two. With luck that will give us a direction to look in, to find out who might have wanted to harm Evan.”

“Oh,” she said again. “I hope so.” And she left.

“No, she doesn’t,” Riley said as soon as she had disappeared into the elevator. “Why did you mention the key? You think it’s got something to do with his death?”

“It’s the only unexplained thing about the victim.”

“You kidding? Everything about this victim is unexplained.”

“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “But we’re not getting anywhere and she’s stonewalling her black little heart out. She wants that damn key, which makes it the only leverage we have.”

Riley cocked an eyebrow. “Yet it still didn’t budge that boulder.”