Isaac Levertov. Strangled.
Edith Levertov. Broken neck.
Fayette Martin. Paris pauses, as he has every time he has looked at her picture, and considers those innocent eyes. Someone had looked deeply into those eyes, seen the life there, and then slaughtered her.
And then there is Jeremiah Cross.
If the little girl in that photo is Sarah Weiss, then she is central to this. And if Sarah Weiss ever had an advocate, literally and spiritually, it is Jeremiah Cross.
Paris asks himself: What do we know about Jeremiah Cross?
We know that Jeremiah Cross just happened to appear like magic on the Cleveland high-profile defense scene when Mike Ryan was killed. We know that Jeremiah Cross blames the department for his client’s suicide. We know that Jeremiah Cross has a hard-on for Paris every time they see each other. We know that Jeremiah Cross could easily fit the general description of the hot dog vendor. We know that Jeremiah Cross shares a last initial with the man, “Mr. Church,” who had called before Christmas and warned Paris of the ofun.
Church.
Cross.
Religious terms.
But, if Sarah Weiss changed her name from Blanco, why Cross? Why would he pick that name? What is Cross in German?
No idea.
And what about Spanish? What is Cross in Spanish?
Cruz.
No, Paris thinks. Don’t even go there.
He looks once again at the photograph of Lydia del Blanco and her two children. Knowing it’s a long shot, and deciding to keep it to himself for the time being, he picks up the phone, punches Tonya Grimes’s number. Tonya is one of the two investigators on duty.
“Grimes.”
“Tonya, Jack Paris.”
“Hi, handsome. What can I do you out of?”
“Two things. One, I need a full workup on a Jeremiah Cross, local attorney.” He spells it. “All I have is a PO box in Cleveland Heights.”
“That’s it?”
“Sorry.” Paris gives her the box number.
“No sweat. Don’t need more than that when Tonya is on ya.”
“That’s why we call.”
“And you need it… when?”
“Any time this year,” Paris says, treading lightly.
Tonya laughs. “Boy are you lucky that law enforcement is my first and only love.”
“We love you on six, Tonya. You know that.”
“Doesn’t that sizzle my slippers on New Year’s Eve. What else?”
“I need you to cross reference a homicide by the victim’s name.”
“Who’s the vic?”
“Anthony C. del Blanco.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks, Tonya. Call me.”
“On the case, detective.”
Paris hangs up, glances back at the mess on the floor.
All right. Where is the straight line from Mike Ryan to Fayette Martin to Willis Walker to the Levertovs?
Before the line can begin to be drawn in his mind, Paris hears Greg Ebersole’s heels clicking down the hall. Fast. Greg grabs onto the doorjamb, pokes his head into Paris’s office.
“We’ve got physical,” Greg says, out of breath.
“Lay it on me.”
“Just walked in the front door.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just got a package via courier. Inside was a leather jacket. The delivery kid said he picked it up from a woman in the lobby at the Wyndham. He’s with a sketch artist now.”
“You think it’s the jacket Fayette and the killer talked about online?”
“I’m betting on it.”
“Why?” Paris asks.
Greg finds his wind, says: “It’s covered in blood.”
Paris stares at the jacket on the lab table, trying to think of a single reason why it doesn’t look exactly like the jacket Rebecca wore when he had seen her at Pallucci’s, the jacket that had felt so sexy in his hands. This jacket is a motorcycle type, studded and multizippered. So was Rebecca’s.
But there are millions of them, right?
When Greg had said “covered in blood” he meant, as many cops do, that there was trace evidence, not that it was blood-soaked. There certainly is not a great deal visible to the naked eye, but as Paris watches the lab techs work, he sees that they are retrieving samples from all over the jacket, inside and out.
At seven-forty P.M., December 31, the break comes. Buddy Quadrino, head of the CPD’s latent print unit, is standing in the doorway to Elliott’s office. Paris and Carla Davis hold down the chairs.
“Have good news, BQ,” Carla says, wearily. “Please have good news.”
Buddy holds up a sheaf of paper, grinning broadly. “We’ve got patterns,” he says. “If he’s anywhere in anybody’s database we’ll have him in four or five hours.”
Paris and Carla high-five, then bolt for the door.
Captain Randall Elliott picks up his phone, slams a button, and barks a command he’d held inside for the past six days: “Get me the prosecutor’s office.”
56
The South Euclid library, the splendid, multilevel stone building that was once the William E. Telling estate on Cleveland’s far-east side, has an archive of back issues of the Plain Dealer, as well as the long-defunct Cleveland Press.
Mary sits down at one of the microfilm readers, loads the film, her heart accelerating with the whirring of the reels. Days, weeks, months fly by in a blur of light gray. So many stories. She zeroes in on the date. It hadn’t taken her long to find it. What had Jean Luc said that night?
It takes place a few years ago. I was barely a teenager. If I remember correctly, the Indians beat the Minnesota Twins that day…
After a little digging, and a little math based on Jean Luc’s age, she finds only three likely dates. The first two produce nothing. She forwards to the day after the third date and feels her skin begin to crawl when she finds the small article in the Metro section.
CLEVELAND MAN FOUND BEATEN,MUTILATED.
The dead man’s name was Anthony C. del Blanco.
She follows the story for the next five weeks, checking every page on which a follow-up story might be run. Nothing. It seems the investigation just evaporated. No arrest, no suspects, no justice for the dead man. Even if the dead man was a pig.
Jean Luc and his sister had simply gotten away with murder.
On page B-8 of the current Plain Dealer, she finds another story of interest, one that tugs at her heart. It is accompanied by a photo of Jack Paris standing next to a tall, fair-skinned guy. She reads the caption. The event was
