The Heights by Kate Birdsall

Author:Kate Birdsall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: detective, female protagonist, female detective, mystery, murder
Publisher: Red Adept Publishing
Published: 2020-03-08T16:00:00+00:00

A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, I’ve finished working on the Struthers report and am thumbing through our vic’s text messages when Julian Martin, her son, returns my call. He leaves me a message while I’m in the bathroom. “Detective Boyle, this is Julian Martin. I can’t believe what’s happened. I’m trying to get time off work to come back to Cleveland, but maybe you could come to me or talk on the phone. Oh my God. Anyway, call me back when it’s convenient. Thanks.”

For some reason, I was expecting the opposite, given their mother’s phone records—it seems like she was a lot closer to Elise. But text messages tell us only so much. Most of what Elise sent are updates about school, various things about a guy named Sam, worries about one of her sorority sisters smoking too much pot. Martin’s replies, written using correct grammar and punctuation, seem supportive enough. There’s a lot of “You can do it!” and “I want to meet this Sam” and “Katie has problems, and they aren’t your problems.” An occasional smiley-face emoji. Lots of xoxo, that kind of thing.

I guess it looks typical, but then again, I’m not sure what typical mother-daughter relationships look like. I just gave my mom my cell phone number, like, six months ago, she recently learned how to text, and I sure as shit don’t text her about my life. I briefly consider what I’m going to do about my brother, Christopher, but there isn’t time for that right now.

Anyway, I call Julian back from the landline, so that “Cleveland Division of Police” will show up on his caller ID. He answers on the second ring, and I introduce myself.

“Detective,” he says. “Oh my God.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Martin,” I reply. “Thanks for calling back.”

“Please call me Julian,” he says, almost in a whisper. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call right away. This has been a lot to process.”

“Julian, I’m sorry to have to do this, but I do have some questions. First, though, can you tell me where you were on Saturday night, into Sunday morning?” The questions I have would be much better asked in person. It’s hard to gauge someone’s reaction—whether he’s telling the truth or lying or some combination—over the phone. It also surprises me that he’s willing to talk to me, given that he hasn’t seen my credentials.

I hear him take one of those shuddering breaths that mean he’s trying not to cry. “I was with someone,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Can you hold on?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before I can tell that he’s walking somewhere, likely with his phone at his side.

I sit back in my chair and glance around the squad room at my fellow detectives, who appear to be engrossed in work.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not out at work, so I came outside. I was with my boyfriend on Saturday night. We went to a club here—I live in Lansing, Michigan—and then back to his house.

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