She was thirty-four years old, five-feet-seven, one-hundred-thirty pounds, single. She had joined the force ten years ago after graduating from the University of Cincinnati. After four years on patrol, she had joined Central Vice, then became PIO. The jacket held a slick folder used to promote LadyCops. Inside that was a color eight-and-half-by-eleven photo of Kristen, wearing a black T-shirt, black flack vest emblazoned with “POLICE,” and a smile with perfect teeth and seamless confidence. The other two officers on the show were uniforms, one white with brown hair, the other black and average-looking. Neither had the fine looks of Kristen.
Gruber’s record looked almost too clean: No excessive force complaints, no shootings, not even an accidental firearm discharge. She had plenty of commendations. Will flipped through the supervisor reviews: “proactive,” “highly effective,” “diffused dangerous situation,” “dedicated,” “tough,” “unrelenting.” Will knew some of these sergeants and lieutenants, and a few were still back in the Stone Age about female officers. They would be much more likely to grade her hard. Yet she uniformly won them over. That and the all-American-girl face: an Ivory Soap complexion for Ivory’s hometown. He remembered her from the academy: even then she seemed like a comer.
He was not. His body was giving out on him after working the longest straight shift since he had gotten out of the hospital. He usually took a break in the middle of the day and laid down. Not today, and even the gift of adrenaline was starting to run out. His back was catching fire with pain. His right leg felt wrapped around itself with muscle spasms. He had been off pain meds for months now. Nothing to do about that except take Advil back at home. He popped his two Neurontin on time, washing them down with bottled water, and wished he could go upstairs by himself. But jurisdictional niceties must be observed.
“Can’t quit,” he mumbled, waiting for the pills to kick in and lessen the spasms.
He saw the headlights behind him and a dark Ford Crown Vic slowed. He waved and started the car, pulling up to the building’s main entrance. The Covington detective met him at the door. Her name was Diane Henderson, and she was also a thirty-something strawberry blonde, but she was shorter and lacked the youthful dazzle and fit build of Kristen. Henderson was still in the black jeans and white top she had worn when he had first met her and the other Covington cops that morning.
“You have a search warrant?” she said.
Will nodded. With a murdered police officer, the Hamilton County judges had been lined up to sign.
They approached the concierge, a middle-aged black man in a blazer and tie, who exuded a studied dignity. He examined Will’s badge and identification a long time. Will’s shield still lacked the black band of mourning. He’d have to fix that later. Then he read the search warrant. They asked if he had a master key.
“I’ll let you in,” he said. “Terrible thing, what happened to that girl.”
“Yes, sir,” Will said, and asked if the concierge worked there regularly. He did, every night except Monday and Tuesday. All visitors had to check in at his desk. Unfortunately, a log of names wasn’t kept. The concierge called the tenant and then the visitor was allowed to go up.
“Did Ms. Gruber have a boyfriend?” Will asked.
“Hmmmmm. Couldn’t really say, detective.”
“Which means?” Henderson said.
He stared at his shoes. “Which means, ma’am, that she kept male company, but I don’t know which were her boyfriends. I’m not paid to pay attention to things like that. She was a good tenant.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Will said. “So you’re saying she had more than one boyfriend?”
“She was a normal young woman,” the concierge said.
Will asked, “Did she have a lot of men or a few men? Regulars?”
“She was young and attractive. She was burnin’ rubber, if you know what I mean. And I don’t mean anything more than that. She was a good tenant, like I said. I can remember some men who came a few times. Some once or twice.”
They started toward the elevators, Henderson and the concierge sprinting ahead of him, or so it seemed. Will walked as fast as he could and they slowed down. “So they stayed the night? These men?”
“Some did.”
“Five in one year?” Will asked.
“Sounds about right.” He stared at Will. “Detective, I don’t get paid to keep track of tenants’ personal lives. In fact, I get paid to do the opposite, as long as they follow the rules.”
They stepped in the elevator and started to the fifteenth floor.
Henderson spoke. “What about women?”
“She had women visitors, if that’s what you mean.”
“Any stay the night.”
He paused. “I noticed one. Not my business to know more. Kids today are different.”
The elevator doors slid open with the sound of a whoosh and an electronic bell, and they stepped out into a carpeted hallway.
“We may be back in the next few days to show you photos,” Will said.
“I’ll try to help, but to be honest all you people look alike to me.”
Nobody laughed.
“So her visitors were all white?”
“That would be so.”
He led them to a door and used the master key. It didn’t open easily. He had to jiggle it and pull the door up slightly before it opened.
“It automatically locks, so please close up when you’re done.” The concierge disappeared quickly.
“‘All you people look alike to me.’” Henderson let out a low laugh.
The condo was spacious, with hardwood floors and new contemporary furniture.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a neat-freak who was a vic,” she said, and it was true. They turned on lights, and the place looked immaculate. Everything was in its place. The kitchen seemed unused. The refrigerator held three bottles of Chardonnay and half-a-dozen individual containers of plain yogurt. The cabinets had a few dishes, pots, and pans, but this was not a woman who cooked.
“So is your leg injured, Borders?”
“It’s way more complicated than that,” Will said. And she left it alone, motioning. “I’ll start in the bedroom.”
He slipped on latex gloves and wandered around the living room, which had two walls of windows facing south and east. Traffic on Columbia Parkway shot by silently far below, and the view of the big bend in the Ohio River must have been spectacular in daylight. As it was, he could see the lights of Newport across the wide darkness of water. A large framed photo of the Riverfest fireworks dominated one wall. Another held a sizeable flat plasma television facing a cream sofa and chairs. There were no books. One shelf held a photo of her parents, another of her in uniform on graduation day from the academy. No boyfriends. He opened drawers and cabinets to a chest below the TV: carefully catalogued DVDs of LadyCops episodes, a few movies, a new DVD player. No knives or threatening letters.
A smaller bedroom held a desk, chair, and computer. Two pens sat neatly spaced next to the PC. Six inches away, a cordless phone sat charging in its dock. Beside the desk, a shelf contained half a dozen black boxes, the kind you bought at a home organization store. He sat down and began opening them. The first held office supplies. The next two were filled with letters, all neatly filed with tabs indicating months. He slid one out at random and began to read. It was addressed to her, care of CPD headquarters. A thirteen-year-old girl from San Diego watched Kristen on every episode of LadyCops and wanted to become a police officer “like you.” At the top, a neat hand had written in red, “replied 2/23.” Will was amazed a teenager would write a real letter, but then Kristen’s email address wasn’t easily available. He slid it back in its place and opened another. The Cleveland NAACP was complaining that the show only had African-American suspects.