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

Friday, 8:48 a. m.

On the other side of the Cuyahoga River, perhaps three miles from where Jack and Maggie stood, Rick Gardiner turned up his collar against the wind off the lake and sniffed the air. They stood outside in the alley between the market and the river, but odors seemed to escape even through the market’s brick walls. A rime of gusting snow covered everything in a thin, unbroken layer, including the corpse. “What is that smell?”

“Dead body?” his partner suggested.

“No. I think it’s sauerkraut. I could go for a hot dog with kraut. And a little mustard.” In the winter months the West Side Market worked as a skeleton of its summer persona, but the few stalls open did manage a brisk business during lunchtime. The place always made Rick think of the 1920s scenes from The Godfather; shopping in old-world streets full of carts and vendors and fresh fruits and sausages.

Will Dembrowski, tall and wiry, pointed out that they had eaten breakfast only an hour before.

“Don’t matter. Hot dogs are like popcorn. You smell it, you gotta have it.”

“You want a tube of mystery meat in your stomach, no problem. But what about this guy?”

Rick looked down past his own slight paunch at the body of the dead man. Straggly dirty-blond beard, straggly dirty-blond hair, skin and features that appeared to be a mix of several different racial categories, clothes that hadn’t been laundered in a month covered with a worn puffy parka. “What about him? The needle still in his arm pretty much says it all.”

Will could not deny that the needle pretty much did say it all. There were no obvious injuries, no disturbance to the ensemble other than the rolled-up sleeve. The man had apparently been sitting on an overturned plastic milk crate, maybe leaning up against a surprisingly solid tower of empty wooden boxes that had once held vegetables. A weathered label on the side showed some sort of beet or turnip or whatever—Rick had never been particularly interested in vegetables unless they were deep fried in tempura. And usually not even then.

Under an overhang and between the boxes and the brick wall, the spot felt surprisingly cozy despite the December weather. None of the boxes seemed out of place, the milk crate squarely flush, two sheets of plywood still propped on their short ends against the brick. If a fight to the death had occurred there, it had been expertly cleaned up. Most likely this was exactly what it looked like: a victim who took one gram too many of an illegal drug and died a lonely death.

The Medical Examiner’s investigator had declined to respond, reserving their limited manpower for less open-and-shut situations. Because of that, the two cops were free to check the pockets and move the body.

Rick put on latex gloves for this. He didn’t like touching dead people, or dead people’s stuff, and especially dead homeless people’s stuff. His nose wrinkled just to flip the coat open. “Bet he didn’t smell too good when he was alive . . . certainly not now.”

Will said, “That’s one helpful thing about the cold. Everything about this would be worse in August. Not only him but old food, rotten meat. Bugs.”

Rick pulled the pockets open, gingerly searching the insides, wary of open syringes or needles. “You’re one of those friggin’ optimistic people, aren’t you?”

“Guess so.”

“I hate that.”

The victim had something in every pocket, usually crumpled pieces of paper, their edges wearing away, flyers, halves of cigarettes, the occasional coin. Nothing of any significance, no more drugs, no cell phone. Rick grunted and stood halfway up, grasping the right arm. Will understood the shorthand and grabbed the right ankle. They flipped the guy onto his stomach.

Will pulled the parka up, then gave a shout as a large cockroach scuttled out and headed for the warm brick building.

Rick was too surprised to step on it and didn’t want bug guts on the bottom of his shoe anyway. “Sheesh, that thing’s as big as a mouse! And it’s winter! Shouldn’t they be dead?”

“It’s warm inside. They find a spot to hang out and survive.” Still, Will patted the man’s back pants pockets with extra caution. No more insects emerged, but he found a wallet.

It contained two dollars, two quarters, business cards to five different bars—none bearing any sort of notation, like the phone number of his dealer or that of a friendly barmaid—and a faded photograph of a young girl, maybe ten or eleven years of age. Of more interest to Rick, a driver’s license and Medicare card in the name of Marlon Toner. He held it toward his partner.

“Address?”

“West Twenty-Ninth. If he’s got an address, why does he smell as if he hasn’t washed his clothes in six months?”

“The Maytag is on the fritz?”

“Or it’s an old address. I don’t see his bags, so he must have his stuff stashed somewhere.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“DOB. . . .” Rick looked from the card to the victim, to the card, to the victim. “This guy looks a lot older than twenty-six.”

“It’s not the years, it’s the mileage. No phone?”

Rick pulled one out of the other pocket and tossed it to him. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

Will pushed the phone’s home button. Nothing. He pushed more buttons. Nothing. “It’s dead.”

“These guys usually have those pay-as-you-go burners. You can’t pay, it burns.”

“Either way, useless to us.”

Rick called Dispatch and got the guy’s criminal history, which consisted of a minor drug charge and a speeding ticket, both from twelve months prior. Then they waited for the body snatchers. Rick rocked back and forth on his feet to keep the blood moving and thought more about hot dogs.

“Where are you going next week?” Will suddenly asked, startling him out of his reverie of condiments. “You told me but I forgot.”

“Um . . . Chicago.”

“That’s right. What for?”

Rick, usually voluble about any plan, thought or desire of his own making, hesitated until Will prompted, “Visiting family? Vacation with that—what was her name again?”

“Maura,” Rick said, referring to a woman he’d dated a few times in the past month. “No, it’s, um—my nephew’s graduation.”

“In December?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. You’ll be back by next weekend?”

“Yeah.” That was all his partner needed to know. Will certainly didn’t need to know that Rick intended to visit the Chicago PD to ask if Jack Renner had ever worked there and in what capacity.

Rick didn’t expect full and prompt cooperation from the city. The huge force had taken a lot of PR flack the past few years. They’d be super hesitant to kick over any rocks, to admit that the guy had worked for them, to admit that the guy hadn’t worked for them, to admit that they’d had a bunch of scumbags killed without figuring out it had all been done by one vigilante and they never figured it out. Rick being a fellow officer as well probably wouldn’t open any doors, not with the siege that city had become, and they’d probably want to call CPD and check his credentials first. That would lead to questions from his nominal supervisor, the HR department, and Will.

But he was willing to take that chance.

If he had a working theory, it was this: Jack Renner was obsessed. He had followed this vigilante killer’s trail across the country, doing anything to stay on his trail—using another cop’s name, discrediting guys like Rick to get assigned to the case, cozying up to the hot forensics chick to get the inside scoop on what was found at the scenes and maybe some help with manipulating the evidence. Like a malevolent version of the grifter in The Music Man. That’s the analogy he should use with Maggie. She liked that movie. And if he could convince her that she’d been used, her fury would make Genghis Khan look like Strawberry Shortcake.

Plus, if he could prove that Jack Renner had used different names and different backstories to infiltrate other police departments, the CPD would have to face up to that and get rid of the guy. Get him out of Cleveland and out of Maggie’s life. She would see that Rick had been right all along.

It wasn’t jealousy that motivated him, Rick told himself for the umpteenth time. It was concern.

But Will, or Maggie, or the homicide unit powers that be would never believe that. Better to get the evidence first than to waste time arguing with them. Then there would be nothing Renner could do. What did they call that? A fait accompli? Besides, road trips were supposed to be good for the soul.

Will flagged down the body snatchers, startling Rick out of his thoughts, and he moved out of the way. Keeping a watch for any more of those rodent-sized cockroaches, he didn’t offer to help. Picking up stiffs was not his job.

And they did so, but only after an in-depth discussion of which butchers made the best beef jerky. “They all make their own,” body snatcher number one said. “I like Czuchraj’s.”

Number two said, “Sebastian’s Meats.”

One gave a grunt that was neither agreement nor disagreement, more of the result of exertion as they hefted the body bag onto the gurney.

Will voted: “Dohar’s. When will the post be?”

Two said, “Maybe later today. They’re not too busy so far. Want them to call you?”

“Yes,” Will said.

“No,” Rick told them, and said to his partner, “Open and shut. And we’ve got a notification to do.” He had a bag to pack, car to gas up, GPS to program, and he didn’t need some druggie’s autopsy wasting his time. He waved the envelope holding Marlon Toner’s driver’s license.

Will conceded. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go see who lives on West Twenty-Ninth. You gonna forget about the dog with kraut?”

“Hell no,” Rick said. “We can do that first.”