I finished my weight workout and then went outside and ran. The air was cold; it was only March, and in Cleveland March feels a lot more like the end of winter than it does the beginning of spring. There were still traces of snow in the parking lots, but the sidewalks were clear and the footing was safe. I ran regardless of the conditions, but it was nice not to have to worry about the slick patches of black ice that blended with the shadows.
I ran four miles, my body becoming hot under the sweatshirt despite the cold, the sweat beginning to drip down my face. When I returned to the gym I remained on the sidewalk until my breathing was back to normal, and then I went upstairs. I live in an apartment above the gym, and sometimes, late at night, I can hear the distant thuds of dropped weights and the clang of metal on metal from some night owl’s workout.
I showered and changed clothes, then stood in front of the open refrigerator debating what to make for dinner. The phone rang while I was considering the limited options and thinking it was time for a trip to the grocery store. I picked up the receiver, expecting it was Joe and hoping it wasn’t Angela calling again to question my judgment in ending our short-lived relationship.
“Hello?”
“Lincoln, I need you.” It was Amy, and she wasn’t happy.
“What’s wrong?” I said. Silence. “Amy? What’s wrong?”
“Just come over. I’ll explain when you’re here.”
She hung up, and I sighed and let the refrigerator door swing shut. So much for dinner. I grabbed my keys and left.
I’d driven a Jeep until recently, when I’d traded it in and purchased a four-year-old Chevy Silverado pickup truck. I like big cars, and the two settings of four-wheel drive meant I could handle any weather the Cleveland winter chose to dish out, but both Amy and Joe ridiculed the truck constantly. On the other hand, when I wanted to drive fast in the big truck, as I did on the way to Amy’s apartment, people tended to get out of my way.
The first thing I noticed when I pulled into a parking spot in front of Amy’s apartment was her car. The Acura was parked in its customary place but that was where the normalcy ended. The side panels and trunk were covered with large dents, all four windows had been broken out, and the windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks.
I turned my truck off and climbed out, staring at the car in amazement. I was standing beside it, running my fingers over some of the larger dents, when Amy came out of her apartment.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, holding her arms tightly around herself, seemingly more to offer comfort than warmth. Her eyes were dry and she was calm, but at the same time I sensed a quality of tension and fear that I had never seen in her before. As long as I had known Amy, she’d always presented an attitude of confidence and bravado. I was surprised to see her this rattled.
“What happened?” I said.
She smiled. “I got a little too eager to help.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you gave me those names this afternoon, I ran them through the archives and didn’t find much. There was a story about the robbery they were involved with, and that was about it. But I didn’t want to report back with nothing, so I decided to do a little investigating on my own. I located addresses for two of them and drove out to talk to the neighbors.” She forced a tight-lipped smile. “Apparently, that wasn’t the wisest choice.”
I stared at her. “They did this? The guys on the list I gave you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. The neighbors weren’t real helpful, and they all seemed nervous. I left without learning anything, went back to work for another hour, and then came home. When I pulled into the lot, four men were waiting for me. Three of them had bats, and they started hitting my car, smashing the windows. I was screaming and trying to get my cell phone to call the police, and then the fourth one, this big blond guy, leaned down beside the driver’s door and smiled at me.” She gritted her teeth and frowned, angry. “People in the parking lot were screaming, someone was yelling about calling the police, and this guy, he’s smiling. Completely nonchalant. He hands me my own business card through the broken window and says, ‘I think it would be a good idea for you to forget all about us, ma’am.’ And then they left. They just got inside this fancy SUV and drove away.”
I looked at the car again, at the thousands of dollars of damage done so casually, and I took a few long, slow breaths, pushing down the rising anger.
“How are you so sure it was the guys on my list? Could it have been people from the trial you’re covering, or some other story?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, Lincoln, it couldn’t have been anyone else. First of all, I’d been handing out my cards to all the neighbors, which is probably where that asshole got his. And he had a definite accent. His English was flawless, but it was spoken in this clipped, careful voice. It was obviously a second language for him, and I’d be willing to bet he was Russian.”
“Did the police come?”
“Yes. They filled out a vandalism report, which should help me with the insurance company, but I told them I had no idea who the guys were. I don’t think they believed me, but that’s fine. I figured I’d talk to you first.” She cocked her head and looked at me. “Who are these guys, Lincoln?”
“I don’t know,” I said, wondering the same thing. “I know they’re criminals who were of interest to Wayne Weston shortly before his death. That’s all I know, so far.” I tapped on the side of her car. “I’m really sorry, Ace.”
She waved me off. “Don’t be, Lincoln, it wasn’t your fault. All you wanted was a computer archives check. It was stupid for me to go around asking questions without knowing what I was getting into, but that’s my job, so it was a pretty natural response.”
“I suppose you could press charges, if it really was the Russians,” I said. “But I think it would be best if you let me look into things first.”
“No way I’m pressing charges. I mean, I just asked some questions, and they did this.” She gestured at the car. “It probably wouldn’t be wise to do anything else to piss them off.”
I looked away. Intimidation is a powerful and ugly tool. And an effective one. They’d intimidated Amy, and she’d never struck me as the type of person readily susceptible to such tactics.
Apparently, she was thinking similarly.
“I’m used to thugs,” she said softly. “I deal with con men, murderers, thieves, and rapists. I write stories about them, I push their personal affairs into the public eye, and I upset them. And I’ve never really worried about it. But with these guys, it wasn’t the same. They were totally indifferent, you know? The one who talked to me, he looked just . . . I don’t know . . . empty. He looked like he could have raped me, killed me, or given me roses and felt exactly the same about all of it.” She took a deep breath. “Who are these guys, Lincoln?” she asked again.
I was saved from reaffirming my ignorance by a white Lexus coupe that squealed to a stop beside my truck. Amy and I both turned, and she put her hands to her head.
“Jacob,” she said. “I completely forgot he was coming over.”
Jacob Terry stepped out of the Lexus and looked at us with a wide smile. He was a tall, good-looking guy, with perfect teeth, eyebrows, and nails, and a haircut that said “beauty salon” where mine said “barber shop.” He’s supposedly the most popular news anchor in the city, but I remember a time when Pee Wee Herman and Geraldo Rivera were successful television personalities, so that’s not saying much.
“Hey, babe,” he said to Amy. “And you’re Lincoln Perry, correct?”
“Uh-huh.”
He beamed at me and offered his hand, apparently thrilled with the pleasant surprise of my company. “Good to see you again, Mr. Perry.”