Every Kind of Wicked. Lisa Black

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      Chapter 3

      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 СКАЧАТЬ