Powers of Arrest (Will Borders: Cincinnati Casebook 2)

Those were almost the same words John had said to him when they were sitting on Will’s balcony, talking about Miami. Will hadn’t thought about it much at the time, but why would John be hanging around Oxford?

Why did John have the same brand of shoe that left a print on Kristen Gruber’s boat? For that matter, why had John gone to Kristen’s funeral, a woman he had met once? It’s not as if John was deep into the life of the city or looking for an excuse to dress up.

Will stared at the steering wheel, feeling numb inside. If he were examining this evidence about anyone else than his stepson, his son, he would think this is the only person he had encountered who had a connection between Kristen and Oxford. John had met Kristen. He had partied up at Oxford. It was circumstantial, so far. But circumstantial evidence could be the building blocks of a homicide case.

He laughed mordantly. Cindy was afraid John was involved with drugs. Right now that would be a relief.

John had wanted to tell Will something when he stopped by on Monday night. Did he intend to confess? The memory made Will angry and woozy at the same time. He should have pushed him.

All Will needed was some of John’s DNA to test against the hair found on the boat. Matching the shoe-print could also be probable cause. So would getting Cindy’s permission to enter the house, where he could search John’s room, and find Kristen’s badge, gun, wallet, and keys, as well as the underwear of all the victims. Right that moment, he should pull out his cell phone and call Diane Henderson or Dodds. Then he should call the police in Oregon and find out if they had any unsolved homicides from the time John was in Portland, especially ones involving a knife.

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He left the phone in his suit-coat pocket.

Maybe that female nursing student—Allison?—was a potential suspect. She would have a motive to kill two rivals being screwed under the stars by her good-looking boyfriend, and then coax him to the same fate. She didn’t have the strength for it. And how did she know Kristen? He was reaching to the moon.

He and Cindy hadn’t been the best parents, but had they raised a killer? The thought crowded out all his body’s other complaints. John had never killed an animal—that Will knew of. He had a Siamese cat for fifteen years while he was growing up, and was nothing but affectionate toward it. Would he write that kind of letter? The language sounded more mature. John didn’t even know Will had been the lead detective on the Gruber case. But he could also hear Dodds’ voice in his head: “Who the hell knows why or when somebody becomes a monster.” Killing at his stepfather’s alma mater, killing his famous and attractive colleague, addressing a note specifically to Will. If he stepped back, all of this would make him one thing: suspicious as hell.

The sound of a car’s tires squealing on the concrete made him jump. Here he had a killer at loose, taunting him with a note pinned through a dead man’s skin, and he’s in a reverie in a deserted parking garage.

“Smart, Borders,” he said, and started the car.

Before he drove out, he checked the Enquirer’s Web site. What he wrote was already there, as a brief, with his headline. The only editing was to attribute the information to him, rather than giving him the byline. He thanked God that the tough old police reporters who dug and worked closely with the cops had all retired, and now the people down at the paper pretty much only took dictation.

Chapter Twenty-one

Heather Bridges lived in an apartment in a turreted three-story brick building off Hamilton Avenue in Northside. It was a neighborhood above the split between Interstates 74 and 75, and sandwiched between Spring Grove Cemetery and Mount Airy Forest, and Will was amazed how quickly it had gone from down-on-its-luck Rust Belt to Bohemian trendy. Cincinnati had plenty of such districts, but only a limited number of Bohemians, especially with money.

He had gotten rid of his police tail with some difficulty, telling Dodds that he had to run an errand for his ex. Now he was telling lies for John. They called that “accomplice” in his business. But he didn’t need Dodds or some other detective following him up here. He was bait now. The letter on Noah Smith was addressed to him. With luck, good or bad, the killer might come after him. He successfully argued against wearing a constant wire. But he had a hand-held radio with him at all times. Now he carried it in his left hand as he used the right, as always, for the cane.

A girl’s voice answered the intercom after a long wait. “Cincinnati Police” was enough to get him buzzed in. Oh, for a day without a long stair climb. He made it. She was waiting on the second floor, with the door cracked and the chain on. He showed her his badge, now draped in black, and identification.

“You’re John’s dad.”

“May I come in?”

The chain slid off and he stepped inside a high-ceilinged living room. It held a few pieces of expensive new furniture and art posters on the wall. He didn’t take time to read the details of galleries and dates, although one prominently featured the avant-garde Contemporary Arts Center downtown.

“I’m only living here through the summer. Until I go to college. But I didn’t want to be stuck out at the parents’ house, if you know what I mean, nothing wrong with parents, mine are cool, but I love this area…”

The chirping young woman was tall, with reddish-brown hair falling in tendrils over her shoulders, high cheekbones, and shapely legs shown to advantage in shorts. He could see why John was attracted to her. Still, she was mussed and out of breath.

“Let’s sit down,” he interrupted. She sat quickly and nervously. He turned down the radio and set it on the cushion beside him.

“We need to talk, Heather.”

“About what, Will?” A smile to light up a city. The sense of entitlement he had expected from her parents’ bankbook.

“Let’s get off on the right foot,” Will said. “I’ll call you Heather. You call me Detective Borders.”

“Okay.” A pout descended over her lovely face.

“I know you and John were on the river Saturday night and early Sunday morning…”

The pout was turning to unconcealed alarm when a closed door fifteen feet down a hallway was thrown open and a man angrily strode toward them. He was only wearing boxer shorts.

“What’s going on, Heather? This dude bothering you?”