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  “He’s going to get killed,” Allison repeats, and I avoid looking down directly into her face.

  “I know,” I say softly. Allison and I have had this conversation before. Ed and I have had this conversation before, too. He told me to keep my eyes on the other side of the street when I pass him in my cruiser, and otherwise things would be normal. I told him it couldn’t work that way. We haven’t spoken much since.

  “He’s gone all the time now,” Allison says. “We’ve had calls at all hours of the night. Once a guy sat in front of the house in a van for hours, just waiting for Ed to come back.”

  They still live on the near west side, which is part of the problem. Childers has recruited Ed because Ed knows the neighborhood well, knows who to talk to and who to avoid, and works the streets with all the familiarity you want from a foot soldier. For the life of me, I cannot reason out how this began, how Ed could possibly have allowed himself to get involved with Childers.

  “There’s only one way to get him to listen,” Allison says, and she reaches out and squeezes my upper arms to emphasize her point. “You told me you could arrange things if it came to that. I’m telling you it has come to that.”

  “Shit, Allison.” I shake my head. “He’s got to talk for it to work. If he doesn’t . . .”

  “He will. Trust me, Lincoln. If it comes down to a choice between freedom and jail, between me and a cell, he will make the right decision. You know he will. But until he’s faced with that choice, I’m afraid he’s going to keep looking at it as a game.”

  “He’s got to talk,” I repeat.

  “He’ll talk. He may not care enough to save himself right now, but if we press him to that point, Lincoln . . . if we put his back to the wall, he’ll have to.”

  “We’ll save him despite himself,” I say sarcastically, but she nods with an equal amount of sincerity.

  “Yes,” she says. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. But I need your help. You have to be involved, have to make sure he has the options. Are you sure you can do that?”

  I run my tongue across dry lips. “I’m sure. There’s a narcotics detective named Pritchard. Joe Pritchard. He’s got a good reputation, supposed to be a hell of a cop. And he’s got a serious hard-on for Antonio Childers. He’s not going to send a small player like Ed to jail when he could trade that conviction for information about Childers.”

  “So you’ll do it.”

  I take a long look at her face, then look back at the window, the glass dark with growing shadows.

  “Lincoln,” she says, “Ed is losing his life here. He’s going to be killed or he’s going to get sent to jail by someone else, someone who will see that he’s kept there a long time. You know talking is not doing any good. We have to force to him to walk away from this.”

  I swallow and get to my feet, step around her and into the middle of the living room, heading for the door.

  “I’ll call Pritchard tonight.”

  CHAPTER 6

  When I got to the office, Joe had the little television on top of the tall filing cabinet tuned to a news station. I watched while a grim-faced announcer stood on the sidewalk on Clark Avenue, recounting the “brutal end to a tragic tale” that had occurred there the night before.

  For a moment the screen was filled with a picture of Anita Sentalar: a smiling, beautiful young woman who appeared to be Puerto Rican. She had glossy dark hair framing a fine-boned, mocha-skinned face, and kind, intelligent eyes.

  The next face we saw was a different extreme. Old, sour, and angry. Red-rimmed eyes narrowing on the camera in a glower. This was Anita Sentalar’s father.

  “What comment do I have on the death of Ed Gradduk?” he said, responding to the question he’d just been asked. “Are you kidding me? My comment is, fantastic. Good. Street graves are just what guys like that deserve. It doesn’t bring my daughter back, though.”

  They switched from the Clark Avenue report back to the studio, where the anchor explained that no relationship between Gradduk and Sentalar had as yet been disclosed, and then told us we were about to see some “horrific footage” of the fire that had killed the female attorney on Train Avenue. I moved closer to the television screen and watched carefully.

  The liquor store security camera had provided a crisp, black-and-white image of the sidewalk in front of it, and, in turn, the house across the street. It was a run-down home, a crumbling structure that had been left untended and empty.

  The footage showed a man who walked down the sidewalk right in front of the liquor store, and the camera got a clear look at his face. It was unquestionably Ed Gradduk, and he was smiling while he crossed the street and disappeared along the side of the house.

  “Now we’ll move ahead seventeen minutes,” the news anchor said, and the black-and-white footage jumped to a new clip. After a short pause, white flames showed themselves inside the house across the street, spreading with astonishing speed, licking their way up the walls and over the eaves.

  “Plenty of time for someone else to have burned that house,” I said.

  “Sure,” Joe answered, but he kept his eyes away from mine.

  I turned the television off and sat down behind my desk. Joe looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  “Still a man on a mission?”

  “If that means am I still going to see the prosecutor this morning, then, yes. But you don’t have to come along if you don’t want to get involved.”

  “If you’re involved, I’m involved. You know that.”

  I gave a small nod.

  “A guy called for you about an hour ago,” Joe said. “Said it’s about Gradduk.”

  “Give a name?”

  “Scott Draper.”

  “Shit.”

  He frowned. “Why’s that bad?”

  “He’s the one who took a swing at me last night, accused me of pushing Ed into the street. Ed had spent the evening hiding in the guy’s storeroom, soaking himself in bourbon.”

  “Amy called, too. She sounded upset.”

  “I disappeared on her last night,” I said. “I’ll call her now.”

  I had to listen to about a five-minute lecture from Amy before I even had the chance to get a word in, but then I explained my situation. When I was done, I switched from taking all the questions to asking a few of my own.

  “Any progress on the arson aspect?” I said.

  “Fire investigators are still giving it a look. They’ll probably make an announcement pretty soon, but they’re waiting for lab results. Whoever did it was pretty good. Place went up in flames real fast and burned real hot.”

  “Now that Gradduk’s dead, they’ll probably write the case off,” I said. “Say that justice has been served, if accidentally.”

  “I guess.”

  “You know who owned the house?”

  “I think the city owned it, actually. Some urban-renewal deal. They buy up vacant property and mortgage foreclosures, fix them up, and put low-income families into them.”

  “I see. Who are the cops on the case?”

  “Fire officials are assisting with the arson end of things. A Cleveland homicide cop is working it, too. Guy named Cal Richards. You know him?”

  “Yes, but not well. He’s supposed to be a hell of a good cop. Closes cases fast, and when he closes them, they’re flawless.”

  “That sounds like the man,” she said. “He did seem a little intense.”

  “Sure,” I said, “the way a shark seems intense when it’s about to feed. Is the coroner’s office working to find out whether the victim was killed by the fire, or dead beforehand?”

  “Lab results will take a while, but I think Richards suspects she was already dead.”

  “I expected that.”

  “The city fire investigators are swamped right now. Something like ten fires in the past two weeks, and more than half of those could be arson. They’ve got to check them all out. This one gets priority because there’s a victim, but, still, they’re spread thin.”
/>   “Maybe Joe and I will spur things along when we go visit the prosecutor today.”

  “Prosecutor?”

  I told her of Ed’s veiled comments about his interaction with the prosecutor.

  “That guy is maybe the most popular person in the city right now,” she said. “Hasn’t announced his candidacy for mayor yet, but it’s almost a sure thing that he will run.”

  “Think he’ll win?”

  “Probably. The way the city government’s been leaking money the last few years, voters don’t want another politician in there. They want an ass-kicker, and he fits that mold.”

  “You know him?”

  “Fairly well.”

  “And?”

  “And I think he’s a politician,” she said, and I could imagine her grin even though I couldn’t see it. “Nice enough guy, sure. But that’s in a face-to-face scenario. You leave his office and I bet the mood shifts real quick.”

  I’d never dealt with the current prosecutor, Mike Gajovich, directly, but I knew the crime rate had gone down on his watch and the conviction rate up. I’d heard grumblings that the conviction rate had more to do with petty drug arrests than anything else, though. When the city budget had reached crisis status in the last year, Gajovich had made himself something of a local hero with his outspoken criticism of the current mayor, who’d made cuts to police and fire department personnel even while he was adding high-paid consultants to his own staff. Gajovich’s brother was in the department, as well, and most of the cops I knew loved the guy.

  “You have an appointment to see him?” Amy asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you need my help. I’ll call him and ask if he’ll agree to see us for a few minutes. My guess is he will. Right now the guy is soaking up media attention whenever possible. You know, catering to the political bid next year.”

  “Call him,” I said. “We’ll triple-team the poor bastard and see if we can’t get somewhere.”

  Amy called back within ten minutes and told me she’d arranged a meeting with Gajovich at ten. I thanked her and told her we’d meet her at the Justice Center. When I passed the news along to Joe, he looked grim, but he stood up and slid his suit jacket over his shoulder without a word of complaint.

  “Last chance to back out,” I said.

  “I had my last chance the day before I asked you to be my partner,” he said. “I’ve been kicking myself ever since.”

  “That’s what I like most about working with you,” I replied, “the constant support.”

  The Cuyahoga County Prosecutor’s Office is located in the Justice Center, a twenty-six-floor building of little aesthetic appeal that stands on Ontario Street, casting a shadow over Cleveland Browns Stadium. The building is also home to the police department’s downtown headquarters, but I decided not to drop in and say hello to the chief. There was no love lost between the two of us. The prosecutor and his minions were on the eighth and ninth floors of the building. Amy, Joe, and I took the elevator up and sat in the lobby together, waiting. Amy assured us we’d get in to see Gajovich without trouble.

  “Trust me,” she said, “I deal with this guy on a regular basis, and, happy family man or not, he’s got wandering eyes. You tell him I’m on my way to his office, and he’s on his way to greet me.”

  “Journalism at its finest,” I said.

  Amy shrugged. “Hey, not my fault most of our elected officials are lecherous jerks.”

  She made good on her promise. Hardly had the secretary gone to alert her boss of our arrival before Mike Gajovich stepped out into the lobby with a big grin on his face, looking right at Amy.

  “What a lovely surprise,” he said, walking toward her happily, and immediately my respect for him plunged. Prosecutors are supposed to be like cops, dodging the press whenever possible. I never trusted a cop who went out of his way to be friendly to a reporter, and the same notion lingered here.

  Gajovich stepped right past Joe as if he didn’t see him, offering his hand to Amy. When she took it, he covered her palm with both of his, still with that grin on his face.

  “Gosh,” I said to Joe, “it’s almost like this guy doesn’t recognize one of the most decorated cops in department history.”

  Joe didn’t respond, looking bored with the whole scene, but Gajovich took his hands away from Amy’s and looked at us for the first time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you gentlemen waiting to see me?”

  “We’re with her,” I said, jerking a thumb in Amy’s direction.

  “Hey, that’s great,” he answered, his face making every word a lie. “How come you didn’t tell me you were bringing backup, Amy?”

  “Slipped my mind,” she said. “This is Lincoln Perry, and that’s Joe Pritchard. They’re private investigators now, but both of them were cops at one time.”

  “Joe Pritchard, of course.” Gajovich shook hands with Joe as if my partner had been sculpted from pure gold. “You’re a law enforcement legend in this city. A pleasure to finally meet you.” He turned to me and offered a limp hand. “And Lincoln Perry. I think I remember hearing about you, too.”

  “Got booted from the force for a night of drunken disorderly conduct and an assault on one of our better-known attorneys,” I said helpfully. Hate to be forgotten.

  Gajovich managed a smile. “I wasn’t sure of the circumstances, and I doubt they’re the reason for your visit now, so we don’t have to get into it.”

  “Right.”

  “Come on back into my office and we’ll have a talk. I’m really swamped today, but I promised Amy I’d clear a few minutes.” He winked at her, and I wanted to kick him in the ass.

  We went back into an office that wasn’t particularly impressive aside from a gold-embossed nameplate on the desk that looked as if it weighed thirty pounds.

  “Say, Amy, who’s this new reporter covering the city beat?” Gajovich said, sitting down behind his desk and stretching his arms behind his head. He was in his late forties but looked ten years younger, with tousled blond hair and freckles that gave him a bit of Tom Sawyer charm. He was smooth and confident, and despite his leering at Amy I could see why people tended to like him. His bearing suggested a genuine quality, and in government and administrative circles that’s not something you see every day. If and when he made a run for the mayor’s office, I wasn’t going to bet against him.

  “Andrew?” Amy said. “He got promoted from features. Why, don’t you like him?”

  Gajovich grinned at Joe and me. “Can he spell my name right? If so, then we’re good.”

  He laughed, and we all joined in, as that was clearly the thing to do.

  “Hell,” Joe said. “Could you blame him if he couldn’t?”

  We all laughed some more then, just yucking it up to start this meeting.

  “So I should probably be nervous,” Gajovich said, leaning forward.

  “Why?” Joe said.

  “Two private investigators and a reporter? You kidding me? This is a threatening group.” He gave us the grin again, and we all returned it. My face was already starting to ache. In my business we don’t do so much smiling so early in the day. “What’s on your minds?”

  Amy turned in her chair and motioned to me. “It’s really Lincoln’s show. I’m along for the ride.”

  “Well, let me have it,” Gajovich said, still showing us his perfect teeth. We’d put him in such a good mood that some lucky bastard was probably going to get a plea bargain this morning.

  “Do you know a guy named Ed Gradduk?” I said.

  The smile dissipated slowly, ice melting in the sun.

  “Ed Gradduk,” I repeated when he didn’t answer.

  Gajovich let out a sigh that nearly cleared his desk of paperwork and leaned back in his chair. “You mean the murderer?”

  “I mean the guy who got run over by one of Cleveland’s finest last night,” I said. “Far as I know, nobody’d convicted him of murder yet. Or is that not required around here?”

  “Getting fired in
disgrace didn’t do a whole lot to change your attitude, did it?” Gajovich said.

  “I got fired quite a while ago, and that’s got nothing to do with why we’re here.” Even as I spoke, I was amazed at how quickly the tone had changed. I mentioned Gradduk’s name; Gajovich and I were adversaries. That fast, that simple.

  He looked at Amy. “You know, I would have appreciated it if you’d given me an idea of what to expect here.”

  She spread her hands. “Hell, Mike, I didn’t know what to expect. I’m just an interested observer.”

  For a minute no one said anything. When the silence was broken, it was by Joe.

  “So I’m confused. Where’s the hostility coming from?”

  Gajovich didn’t look away from me. “There’s no hostility,” he said. “Sorry if I gave that impression. Here’s the deal: I’m not a big fan of this Gradduk fellow. He came into my office not long ago with some crazy idea, criticized me for not supporting him, and a few weeks later I find out he’s an arsonist and a killer.”

  “What crazy idea did he come to you with?” I said.

  “That’s what you’re here for?” Gajovich said.

  “Yes.”

  “And what’s your interest?”

  “That of a concerned friend and citizen. You know, one of those taxpayers who provides your salary. And one who plans to vote in the next election.”

  He ran a hand through that boyish blond hair and smiled at me, but there was no Tom Sawyer in it this time. “I’m not a guy to screw with, Perry.”

  “Didn’t come in here with the intention of screwing with anybody. Came here with a pretty simple question.”

  “You know,” Gajovich said, “a lot of people forget that I am still a practicing attorney. That’s what a prosecutor is, of course, an attorney. And people also forget that any legal conversations I have are protected by attorney/client privilege. They’re private.”

  “Including the one you had with Ed Gradduk,” Joe said.

  Gajovich nodded. “Yes. I don’t know what Gradduk told you, or what you heard. And I don’t really care. Here’s what I do know, and what I do care about: Gradduk was a criminal. He came in here with a record, and when I sent him away, he promptly went out and killed somebody. I regret that he was killed in that accident, and not just because it was an embarrassing moment for our police force. I regret that he was killed because it robbed me of the opportunity to see him prosecuted, to see him put back where he belonged.”