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Cheryl Beth laughed, glad for the release. “If you do that, I’ll tell you really nasty E.R. stories…”
Will drove on slowly. The streets were deserted, a steady rain now coming down. Not even a wino was sleeping inside a doorway.
“He told me he had ‘Kristen’s’ gun,” Will said. “Not the woman I murdered, or the lady cop, or even Kristen Gruber. But ‘Kristen.’ He said it familiarly. He called me ‘Detective Borders,’ like the letter-writer and the voice on the phone. Then he called you ‘Cherry Beth.’ Has anyone called you that?”
“Not since I was teased in fifth grade. It sounds like a soft drink.”
He went on, “You know what else he said to me? He has the gun to the back of my head, he’s making threats, demanding that I give up my weapon, and he says, ‘How does that make you feel, detective?’ Those are the exact words Kenneth Buchanan used the first time I met him and he wanted me to know he’d already leaned on the chief.”
Dodds took it in and said nothing. Cheryl Beth was interested in the dynamic between the two of them, imagined how effective they had been as partners, but she also checked again to see that her door was locked.
“What else did he say about me?” she asked.
Will hesitated. “It wasn’t good. I would never let anything bad happen to you.”
“I know that.” At that moment, she felt strangely unafraid for herself. She was more concerned for Will. “Did he mention your father?”
“No. No, he didn’t.”
“So he doesn’t know you that well,” she said. “Otherwise, he would have used that to get at you.”
“Good point,” Dodds said. “That might mean he’s not law enforcement. I still don’t know why he chose Borders. So how do we get probable cause that will let us really go after Buchanan?”
They passed a marked unit. Two officers were standing on the sidewalk, talking to three young black men. All were soaking wet.
“I’m not sure,” Will said.
“So let’s find something. Screw Fassbinder.”
“I mean, I’m not sure a man Buchanan’s age could have absorbed that punishment from Junior and still outrun him and gotten away. Also, nothing from ViCAP about homicides in the Atlanta area that match the M.O. here.”
Cheryl Beth asked about ViCAP, and Will told her of the FBI database. Buchanan came to Cincinnati from Atlanta when his wife took the job with the symphony.
“Our guy has killed before,” Will said. “He knows the right moves. He’
s disciplined. But Buchanan was in Atlanta for thirteen years and nothing. He only decides to start killing now because he’s in Cincinnati? I don’t know…”
“So you’re doubting yourself now?” Dodds sounded annoyed.
Will shook his head. “I’m missing something…”
“Don’t go soft on me, Borders. It’s becoming a bad habit. You don’t believe I caught the cello player’s killer, either.”
“No,” Will said. “I don’t. Your golden gut is lying to you.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Calm down, boys,” Cheryl Beth said. A dark shape caught her eye: some kind of bundle or bag. “What’s that?”
They were at Fourteenth and Sycamore, back near the diner. Will swung the spotlight toward some bushes at the edge of the Cutter Playground. He pulled across the street and put the car in park. Dodds got out, snapping on gloves.
The intersection was completely empty. A pair of headlights lingered several blocks south, and then turned.
He came back toting a black gym bag and something else.
It was a wig.
He tossed them in the back seat and climbed back in.
