We were at a stoplight on Lorain, on the way to the Liquor Locker, when Joe asked me to explain what had really happened with Ed all those years earlier. I was sure he’d wanted me to volunteer it myself, but the truth was, I kept forgetting he didn’t know. I had few secrets from Joe.
It didn’t take me long to explain it, and that felt wrong, somehow. It seemed as if it should take hours, not minutes.
“So you and his girlfriend were trying to bail him out of a situation he wouldn’t bail himself out of,” Joe said when I was through.
“Yes.”
He grunted but didn’t say anything else, just stared out the window and watched the houses and storefronts go by.
“I should have been up front about it back then,” I said. “But I hardly knew you, and . . . well, it wasn’t something that was easy to tell.”
“And you’re still feeling guilty about it.”
“About not telling you?”
“No. About what you did to your friend.”
“I betrayed him, Joe.”
“Only to try to help him.”
“No.”
He turned his head, but I didn’t look at him.
“It wasn’t about his girl,” I said. “I didn’t want to be with Allison. But I can’t pretend I went with her idea for purely noble purposes, either.”
“So what else was there?”
“I wanted to be the hero.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I see.”
“I wanted to help him, sure,” I said. “But I also wanted everyone to know that I’d been the one. Allison, Draper, Ed’s mother, everybody. I wanted to be the savior.”
“That’s not what you became.”
I laughed sadly. “No. People called me a lot of things when it went down, but none of those terms were mentioned.”
Joe was silent till we were on Train Avenue, then spoke without taking his eyes off the road.
“What you just said, LP . . . that’s every young cop’s story. That’s what they all want, at first—to be a hero. I’ve seen enough of them to know that’s the truth. And I’ve been there myself. Young cops want to be heroes.”
“And old cops?”
“Just want to understand,” he said. “Just want to know the truth, and then disappear again. Fade to black.”
Directly across from the Liquor Locker was a charred concrete foundation that was all that remained of the home where Anita Sentalar had died. Or at least where her body had burned. Joe pulled his Taurus up to the curb across from the liquor store and we both eyed the burn site. Little was left. It had burned, as Amy had said, real hot and real fast. Most of the crime-scene tape that had been used to rope the area off had been knocked down now by curious neighbors or kids. My window was down, and as Joe turned the motor off, I could almost imagine that the acrid smell of stale ashes and smoke was still in the air. A lazy wind blew between the old houses on either side of the ruin, whistling softly as it passed over the jagged concrete formations that remained.
“Hell of a strange place to dump a body,” Joe said, “whether he had access or not. It’s a crowded city street. Setting the place on fire discreetly wouldn’t have been easy.”
“The good news is, Ed wasn’t looking for a place to dump a body, and he didn’t burn the house, so that’s not an issue.”
“Sure.”
We got out of the car and walked across the street and into the liquor store, a place that felt as spacious as an airplane bathroom. There were three shelves filled with cheap booze and two coolers along the far wall that held cold beer. I saw four bottles of champagne on the end of one shelf, the most expensive a twenty-dollar bottle of Asti. A black guy with a fleshy face and several chins sat at the cash register and watched us look around. He had a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth.
“You looking for something in particular?” “Had a couple questions for you,” Joe said, stepping up to the register, but I stayed where I was, scanning the walls. There, in the back corner of the room, was one camera. It pointed toward the front of the store, at the door. I pivoted slightly and found another, mounted where it had a good view of the cash register. Now that I’d located both of the interior cameras, I followed their angles with my eyes and found what I’d expected—neither looked out across the street. I left the building while Joe introduced himself to the cashier, then stood on the sidewalk until I found the third camera, a little one pressed up under the eaves, angled so its lens pointed across the street, directly at the charred concrete blocks that had once been part of a house. The camera was black and clean, the bolts holding it in place firm and without rust.
I went back inside. Joe gave me a curious look and stopped talking. The black guy worked the toothpick over to the other side of his mouth and glared at me.
“Are you Jerome Huggins?” I said.
He nodded. “I am. There a reason you so interested in my security cameras?”
“Yes. You’re the guy who provided the tapes of the fire to the police, right?”
It was hot in the cramped little store, and beads of sweat stood out on Jerome Huggins’s bald head and ran along his jowls. A tiny fan sat beside the register, blowing warm air into his face.
“That’s right,” he said. “And as I was just asking your friend here, what the hell does that have to do with you?”
“We’re private investigators,” Joe said, reaching for his wallet.
Huggins waved him off. “I don’t give a shit what kind of badge ya’ll got, I don’t think I want to be talking to you. If you’re private investigators, who you working for?”
“Hell of a security system you’ve got in this place,” I said, waving my hand around the room. “Two interior cameras, one exterior. I’ve been in banks that had less coverage than that.”
“This ain’t Brecksville, boy,” Jerome Huggins said. “We got kids out there with big guns in their hands and small brains in their heads. Got to be prepared.”
“How long you had those cameras up?” I asked.
“Two years,” Huggins answered, chewing on the toothpick now with enough pressure to make his jaw muscles bulge.
I leaned on the counter, my face close to his, and smiled.
“Jerome,” I said, “you are full of shit.”
He wiped his sweaty jowls with one hand and spit the toothpick onto the floor at his feet.
“’Scuse me, boy?”
“Those cameras are almost brand-new, Jerome. I’d be willing to bet if we pull them down and have someone from the manufacturer come here and take a look, we’ll find out they were made in the last year. I’m guessing they haven’t been up for more than a month.”
Joe took a few steps to the side and stood peering up at one of the interior cameras, seeing what I already knew.
“I suggest,” Jerome Huggins said, “that you boys be getting the hell out of my store now.”
I shook my head. “Not yet, Jerome. Not till you tell us when those cameras went in and who told you to put them in.”
“Kiss . . . my . . . black . . . ass,” he said slowly, straightening up on his stool.
“You really buy those two years ago?” Joe said, voice casual.
Huggins looked at him with distaste but nodded.
“Where’d you get them?” Joe asked, still friendly.
Huggins’s chest rose as he took a deep breath. “From a catalog.”
“Any chance you’d have a receipt?” Joe said.
“Get out,” Huggins said. “Now.”
I put my palms on the counter and leaned in to him. “You’re a lying piece of shit, Jerome. Those cameras are new, and you put them up because somebody told you to do it. Isn’t that it?”
“I put them up because I like my security.” His hand dipped under the counter. “Same reason I keep this.” He brought out a small Smith & Wesson revolver, wrapped his fat fingers around the stock, and rested it gently on the counter, pointed my way. “I think it’s time for you to go home.”
I stayed where I was and stared at him. I stared at him for a long time. Long enough for him to begin to concentrate on it, to focus on meeting my eyes. When it seemed he was properly absorbed with that, I swept my left hand across the counter and knocked the revolver out of his fingers with one sharp, swift motion. He came up off his stool and swung at me clumsily. I avoided the blow and reached across the counter to grab him by the throat. Joe swore and put his hands on my shoulders, pulling me back.
“Tell me if it was like I said, Jerome.” I tightened my grasp on his throat and he gagged, his eyes wide and white, his hands tugging at my fingers, trying to free himself.
“Get off him,” Joe said, his hand finding a pressure point between my neck and shoulder as he pulled me back. I released Jerome Huggins’s throat and stepped away from the counter. He stood still, rubbing his neck and breathing heavily.
“Yeah, you best get him off,” he said to Joe. “This boy here got crazy eyes, man. Crazy eyes. I see ’em come in here like that sometimes, ready to kill over something ain’t nobody else even understands. I see ’em. And you know what they get next? They get dead, my man. Dead.”
“Who told you to put the cameras up, Jerome?” I said. “You tell me that, and we’re gone.”
He shook his head. “You’re already gone, brother.”
I wanted to say more, but Joe was pushing me toward the door.
We went outside and across the street. Joe unlocked the car but didn’t get inside, choosing instead to lean on the hood and stare at me.
“The cameras are new, Joe,” I said. “They set Ed up.”
The wind came across the empty lot and blew his tie up in his face. He smoothed it down and kept staring at me, silent.
“You know I’m right,” I said. “You saw the cameras, and you heard Huggins, and you know what it means.”
“I’ll tell you what else I saw. I saw you lose control, Lincoln. Fast.”
“You call that losing control? Please. That was pretty damn restrained. If I’d lost control, I would have broken every bottle of booze in that asshole’s store and then put him through the window.”
“Macho,” Joe said. “Cool.”
“Go to hell.”
For a minute he was quiet. Then he said, “You know what I would’ve put in my report if we were still on the force? I would’ve written that my partner needed to be removed from the case because of an excessive emotional involvement. I would’ve written that your judgment could not be trusted on this case, that you were a liability to yourself and everyone around you.”
I put my hands on the car roof and leaned against it, meeting his eyes.
“We aren’t on the force anymore, Joe.” “That doesn’t mean you can do that,” he said, pointing across the street at the Liquor Locker.
“These bastards set my friend up for a murder, and then they killed him!” I said, my voice tight and loud, my hands pressed hard against the car. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. I’m here to settle the damn score, okay? And if I’ve got to settle it by kicking in doors and slapping a piece of shit like Jerome back there around, that’s what I’m going to do. You don’t like it, then get the hell out of here and go home. I’ll finish this alone.”
“You think this is the way to go about it? You’re even shouting at me now. There’s a way to investigate—”
“They set my friend up for a murder and then they killed him!” I screamed it this time and punched the roof of his car. “You want to talk about protocol and manners? Are you kidding me?”
Joe stood up straight, every muscle rigid, his eyes flat and small. He did not speak.
“I don’t need to hear about what you’d write in your damn report if we were still on the force,” I said, my voice softer now. “We’re not there anymore, and this isn’t a case somebody dropped on my desk. This is the best friend I ever had, Joe, and he’s dead. Don’t tell me to treat it like it’s another day at the job. It’s not.”
He took a deep breath, moved his eyes to the street, but stayed silent.
“You want to go home, go home,” I said. “I’m going to see Alberta Gradduk.”
He stayed where he was. I turned and walked away from him, east down Train. It would be a long walk to Ed’s old house, but I had plenty of fuel to burn.
I’d gone maybe three blocks when Joe pulled up beside me and stopped, the motor idling. I looked in at him. He didn’t turn to face me, just kept his eyes on the street while he popped the door locks open and waited for me to get inside.
Her face had taken on a grayish cast that reminded me of the Cuyahoga on a cold March morning. Her eyes were rimmed with red lines and her breath was stale with cigarette smoke and bourbon. I stood on the steps and stared at her, tried to remember her as she’d once been, an attractive woman who rarely drank and didn’t smoke. It wasn’t easy.
“I told you,” Alberta Gradduk said, “to go away. I didn’t want to see you back here. Why won’t you leave us alone?”
“It’s not ‘us,’ anymore, Mrs. Gradduk,” I said. “Your son is dead. And I don’t give a damn what you think of me, or where you want me to go, or how much you want to be left alone. I’m here to find out what really happened to Ed, and I’m not leaving.”
For a moment I was sure she’d slam the door in my face again, but she didn’t. Instead she turned away from the door and walked back into the house on unsteady legs. She left the door standing open, though, and Joe and I followed her inside.
Stepping over the threshold and into the house was like walking into a museum, a place designed to freeze the past and preserve memories. I remembered every turn and doorway and room so well I could have navigated the house blindfolded, though I hadn’t been inside in fifteen years.
Joe and I sat on a dirty couch with our backs to the street while Alberta took an armchair across from us. She shuffled with a pack of cigarettes and an empty glass on the coffee table for a bit but didn’t do anything with either.
“It’s been a long time since I was in this house,” I said. I’d been obnoxious and commanding out on the steps, trying to get in the door, but I didn’t really want this conversation to be contentious. If I could somehow convince Alberta Gradduk to talk with me as the old family friend I still felt I was, it would be a much better scenario. “Ed had clearly been doing some work on the place.”
“How’s what we did in our home any business of yours?” Alberta snapped.
“You like being back in the house, then?” I said, ignoring her comment.
She rolled an unlit cigarette between her fingers. “I hate this house.”
“You didn’t want Ed to buy it?”
“Ed didn’t care what I thought of that.” She looked up at me and glared. “Why are you bothering me with all this? You think asking questions about this stupid old house is going to help anything? They’re burying my son in three days, you know. Burying him.” She rolled her eyes over to Joe. “What are you staring at?”
He smiled the smile of a patient priest in a confessional, passing no judgment. “Just listening, ma’am.”
“This is my partner,” I said. “His name’s Joe Pritchard. He was a police detective for a long time. I thought he could help us here.”
She looked at Joe contemptuously. “I hate the police, mister. Every one of you.”
He looked at me as if to say nice icebreaker, but didn’t speak.
“Ed got set up,” I said, leaning forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “I’m sure of that, Mrs. Gradduk. I want to prove it to everyone else, though.”
“Like anybody cares.” She waved her bony hands at me in disgust. She was in the same dress she’d been wearing when I’d come to the house two days earlier.
“We don’t want to bother you, ma’am,” Joe said. “We’re really just hoping to help. Could you tell us what happened when the police came to arrest your son?”
She set the cigarette back on the table and scowled at it. “Marched in here like he owned the place, that’s what he did. Didn’t knock, just opened the door and walked right in.”
I raised my eyebrows. “The cop didn’t knock? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, I was sitting right in this room. I had the paper out, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what I was reading in it. I heard him come up on the steps and I put the paper down, thinking I’d have to go to the door when he knocked. But before I could even get out of my chair, he was inside.”
“What did he say?” Joe asked.
“Not a damn thing at first. Just looked at me all surprised, like he hadn’t imagined finding me in my own house. I asked just what the hell he thought he was doing. He asked what I was doing here. What I was doing here, like I didn’t belong and he did. That’s when Ed came in.”
“Where had Ed been till then?” I asked. I could remember sitting on the floor in this room with Ed, watching television. When we were in third grade, he’d had a model train that ran around the floor, and we used to run the track under the couch and pin its skirt up so the trains could go through our makeshift tunnel. Beside me was the door that led out to the front porch, where we used to sit in the evenings and listen to Norm Gradduk’s stories, watch him play solitaire and drink Stroh’s beer.
“I don’t know, I didn’t follow him from room to room,” Alberta said, her voice high and whiny, like a child’s.
“So what happened when Ed saw the police officer?” Joe said.
“When Ed came in, he pointed the gun at him and told him to get his hands in the air.”
Joe and I exchanged a glance. “Ed had a gun?” Joe asked.
Alberta was disgusted. “No.”
“But you said he pointed a gun . . .”
“That’s right. Pointed it at Ed.”
“The cop had a gun out?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“He had a gun out when he came into the house?” Joe said.
“That’s right.”
We looked at one another again. An unannounced entrance, with gun drawn. This was certainly not the situation that had been presented in Jack Padgett’s incident report.
“What happened then?” Joe said.
“He told me to go upstairs and leave them alone. He said he needed to be alone with Ed. I yelled at him and told him to leave. He told me to go upstairs, but Ed told me to stay where I was. They kept shouting, and then Ed hit him in the face. Hit him hard. He hit him and I yelled and then Ed opened the door and ran.”
“Did it seem like Ed knew the cop?” I said.
Her eyelids went up slowly, as if it took a concentrated effort.
“You know,” Alberta Gradduk said, “you’re just like your father.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just like him,” she said, and I could tell that it was no compliment.
“What does my father have to do with this?”
She stared at me unpleasantly. “People have their own problems. They should be allowed to deal with them privately. I never liked meddlers.”
“I’m not meddling, Mrs. Gradduk; I’m trying to clear your son’s name. I’d like to think you’d support that attempt.”
“I want you to leave.”
“You haven’t answered all my questions yet.”
“And I’m not going to!” She shouted this time, her eyes wide and angry, a spray of spit following her words. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to come back. Just go away and leave us alone. We’ll be fine without you and your judgment.”
I started to open my mouth to tell her I wasn’t judging anyone, but then I saw it was going to be wasted effort, and I shook my head and stood up. Joe followed suit.
“That’s right, get out,” Alberta Gradduk said, her voice back to its natural state, that weak, raspy whisper.
“We’re going,” I said, pulling open the front door. “You have a good day, Mrs. Gradduk. I’m sorry about Ed.”
We were back at the car when I turned to Joe.
“He came in without knocking or identifying himself, gun drawn,” I said. “Seemed surprised and bothered to find the mother there. Once Ed showed up, Padgett told Alberta to leave them alone in the room. Ed told her not to.”
Joe was silent.
“They came to kill him,” I said. “Padgett didn’t expect Ed’s mother to be there. She threw him. Her presence saved his life, at least right then. Ed saw the situation for what it was, and he ran.”
Joe’s face was empty, his eyes hard. I knew I had him now, though. Joe came from a family of cops, and he’d devoted most of his life to being the best cop in the city. If there was one thing he could not stomach, it was the idea of a corrupt police officer.
“You ready to ride with me yet?” I said.
His smile was cold as he held up his car keys. “Hell,” he said. “I’m driving.”