by TG Wolff
Cruz leapt back, but his boots didn’t clear the fallout zone. His fellow detectives turned away, buffering themselves from their leader.
After two wet and a few dry heaves, Montoya straightened. “If you have a problem with that, I don’t give a fuck.” He turned back to his office, slapping his cell in Cruz’s hand. “Call my kid. He can carry my ass out of here. Sonja has my calendar for the rest of the week. Good luck.” He shuffled into the office, wastebasket in hand, and closed the door.
Just like that, Cruz’s busy got jacked. “Right. Anyone have immediate needs?” He swept his gaze across the room, meeting each one of his coworkers’ as they shook their heads. “You know what you’re doing, get back at it. Magliotti, can you help me out with an interview?”
Sonja held out a tube of disinfecting wipes. Cruz used three on the cell before he placed the call, even then, he put the kid on speaker. It took a little work to convince the kid this was not a drill and to get his butt downtown. Cruz left the contaminated phone on Sonja’s desk, waving Magliotti in.
“What do you got, Cruzie?” Magliotti filled a page with notes on Joshua Harding. “No worries. I’ll let you know what I get.”
“Thanks, Mag.”
While waiting for Montoya Jr. to arrive, Sonja went over the commander’s schedule for the next day. She wrote it down in a sort of checklist beginning at seven in the morning with breakfast with the chief. He was leaning over, watching the computer screen, when his phone rang. D’Arcy Whitsome was on the other end.
“I saw the article,” she said in lieu of hello. “Can you meet me at The Verdict? I have meetings all day but should be there by four-thirty.”
The woman was fired up and Cruz was curious what she had new to offer. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. At least I have something to look forward to.” She hung up.
A young man came into homicide, tall with dark hair, dark eyes. Aaron Montoya was a carbon copy of his father, albeit his belt several inches smaller. But then, the kid was still a teen.
“Hi, Aaron,” Sonja said, gracious in her tone. “I think you grew again.”
“Yeah, I guess. Mom said she’s going to stop feeding me. She’s mad she keeps having to buy me pants.” The boy’s shy smile showed his discomfort at being the center of adult attention.
“Well, if she does, you come to me,” Sonja said. “I’m always happy to cook for a growing boy. Your father is in his office.”
“Okay. Thanks.” With another smile, the lanky teen went to the closed office and opened the door. “Dad, I’m here. It stinks in here! Dad, what? That’s disgusting! I’m not going over there!”
Sonja stood in concern; Cruz stilled her with a hand on her arm, amused by the diatribe.
The commander shuffled out, arm around the trash can. “I held your head while you puked.”
His son walked a step ahead, ensuring no chance of touching. “That’s Mom’s job. I’m just driving you home.”
Once normality returned to the department, Cruz began investigating Percival Hannigan, looking for those connections to Sophie DeMusa and city hall. Like many his age, Hannigan publicly documented his life on social media. Graduated from college last summer with a degree in business. Worked at a bank until starting with the mayor’s office after the New Year. His Facebook page contained a dozen postings about the city wiping out his neighborhood, running out longtime residents to replace them with some Californian’s idea of what the Midwest should look like. Hannigan had grown a following. As more joined his outrage, the young man’s rhetoric became more decisive, more calculating. Mid-December, he posted his intent to meet with the mayor and change his mind about the development. Then the posts abruptly ended. Percival Hannigan went from posting a few times a day to nothing.
Something changed.
The Verdict was crowded at five o’clock when Cruz finally arrived. He found D’Arcy sitting in the same booth as last time. Her hair was down, her martini glass tipped up. When it too came down, Cruz saw a woman at the end of a long day.
“You’re late. Again. Funny thing is, I’m usually the one who’s late. Never noticed how annoying it was to wait on someone.”
“It happens,” he said as he slid in opposite her.
The waitress came over. “What can I get you?” She cleared the empty glass D’Arcy had pushed out of the way.
“Cranberry and 7 Up, please.”
“I’ll take another,” D’Arcy said, swirling the half-full glass.
The waitress nodded. “Anything to eat?”
Cruz couldn’t eat, likely he’d be digesting the lasagna for days. He felt like a snake after it ate something big, like an ostrich egg, and it just lay there with the protrusion sticking out. He couldn’t eat but thought D’Arcy needed to. “Maybe an appetizer. What do you like?”
“The artichoke dip is good. So are the spring rolls.”
“One of each,” Cruz ordered, “and waters, please.”
He made small talk, recognizing D’Arcy wasn’t in a good place. Hitting martinis wasn’t going to help. He asked about her nephews because he knew they were important to her. She told stories about her father and traveling with him. Cruz brought the subject around to Michigan football, which, in hindsight, wasn’t smart given the recent bowl game outcome. Still she ate the food and drank water, leaving the new martini practically untouched. Her face softened, leaving the lawyer at the office and letting the woman relax.
“Thanks for this,” she said. “I’ve been torqued ever since I saw that article. Damn, but it pissed me off.” She bit into the last spring roll.
It took a moment for Cruz to catch on. The day had been so long he’d nearly forgotten about The Real News article and Posey’s contribution.
“He blames her, you know.” Her voice was matter of fact. They could have been discussing the weather. “Posey blames Sophie for the fact that he can’t attend a press conference without someone asking about the case. He was the ass who made it public in the first place, then, when it doesn’t play his way, he tears her to pieces. Did you read the shit they printed?”
“I read it. Do you believe Sophie was mentally unstable?”
“No. I told you before, she was holding up better than most. I warned her filing charges wouldn’t be easy. Doing the right thing often is hard. I don’t think she knew what she was in for. I mean, how could you, right?”
“How much did you interact with Posey?”
“You know how it is. I was in the same room at the same time, but he had five lawyers each with six-figure incomes working him like one of those puppets with strings.”
“Marionettes.”
“Exactly.” She mimed controlling the strings. “‘Yes, we had sex. I didn’t want to, but she pressed her bosoms against me. If I’d been sober, I maybe I could have fended her off.’” D’Arcy snorted. “Why his wife stood by him, I’ll never understand.”
“Did you know Sophie asked Posey for money in exchange for not going to the police?”
She hesitated, then slowly nodded. “It was a stupid attempt at a resolution. Showed just how inexperienced Sophie was.”
“Did it sink your case?”
“No. Like I said, the boat was already taking on water. I could have spun it. After all, she didn’t ask for money for herself and one of the conditions was he honor his marriage vows. Hardly the demands of a woman trying to get in his wallet.”
“Did the name Percival or Val Hannigan come up?”
“No, it doesn’t sound familiar. Did he work at the hotel?”
“His name recently came up as a person of interest.”
“I’ll check my notes but, really, it doesn’t sound familiar.”
“How about Joshua Harding?”
She shook her head.
“Margot Hennessy?”
“Oh, she’s a piece of work. Sets women’s right back a hundred years. She sets up a meeting, all nice a proper, and tells me I can’t move f
orward with charges because the sorority will be irreparably damaged. In the twenty minutes I let her lecture me, not once did she cite a fact or show any concern for either person involved.”
“Hennessy was the one who ejected Sophie from the sorority. The rest of the house is protesting it and raising money for Sophie’s bills.”
“Well, good for them.”
“Did Posey pressure you to drop the charges?”
“That’s a polite way of putting it. He was in the prosecutor’s ear daily. And before you ask, no, Posey had nothing to do with us not filing charges. It was my call, based on the evidence and what I thought a jury would accept. He made it clear, he wasn’t going to plea. There was too much going against a conviction and nothing to be gained by going through the work of a trial.” She pushed the last of the artichoke dip away. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing. You didn’t have any.”
“I had a big lunch. Might not eat for a day or two.”
She smiled, the weight of the world gone from her shoulders. “This was fun. I don’t do this often. I still don’t know many people here, outside of family. It was good to get out, let my hair down, and forget I’m a lawyer.”
Cruz laughed. “We talked too much shop for that to happen.”
“I guess but, you know, you can’t tell someone about your day who isn’t in the field. They can’t get what it’s like to spend your days navigating the law, criminals, and victims.”
He understood what she was saying but drowning those stories with a bottle wasn’t a long-term answer. “You’re right and you’re wrong. Everyone needs to find a way to let off the steam before you explode. Talking, dancing, football, sex, American ninja training. Find something you love and do it ’til you can’t see straight.”
D’Arcy cocked her head, amused. “You sound like you care.”
“Sure, I care. I’ve seen what happens when you keep it bottled up. It’s not pretty, D’Arcy, and you won’t last long in the job.” If someone had said the same thing to him all those years ago, would it have made a difference? The man he was today liked to think so. He walked D’Arcy to her car before heading east. There wasn’t enough time to go home and relax, but there was too much time to go directly to Fisher’s. His solution was to head to Aurora’s parents’ house. The Williamses lived in the nice neighborhood, in a comfortable house bought when the salaries of the now-partnered attorney and partnered accountant were considerably smaller. They hadn’t moved from the home where their three daughters had grown but now had a Lexus and a Cadillac Escalade parked in the garage.
Cruz entered through the door to the garage. “Knock, knock. Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
“Cruz? Is that you?” Ansel Williams stepped into the hallway, looking like an accountant in pressed dress pants and a striped button-down shirt. Every button on the shirt was done including the ones at his neck and at both wrists. Cruz felt claustrophobic looking at him. “Hey, your hair’s down. Is it Sunday?” He extended his hand.
Cruz accepted the hand and the small smile that was the equivalent of an ear-to-ear grin on anyone else. “Naw, just trying something new.”
“Maybe I should let my hair down.” He ran his hand over the small curls cut tight against his head. “What brings you up the hill?”
“I had some time before an evening meeting. Thought I’d spend it with you and Aurora.”
Ansel tripped over nothing. It was the stagger step of someone caught off guard.
Cruz grabbed his arm, spinning the older man to face him. “What happened? Where’s Aurora? Is she hurt?”
“Nothing’s wrong. She’s just, well, she’s not here. She decided that, um, she wanted to paint. Yeah.” His face brightened as the lie took shape. “She decided to stay at the house instead of driving over here. Plus, you know how the weather can change in a minute this time of year. But you’re welcome to come on in. There’s plenty of my famous potato soup.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“I have coffee.”
“Sold.” Only he wasn’t. Cruz took a chair at the kitchen table and texted his woman.
Hey beautiful. At ur parents. Where u?
The response lagged.
Hey back handsome. I’m at the house. I had the urge to paint.
To an outsider, this would have explained everything. But what an outsider wouldn’t know is if Aurora was really painting, her response would have been shorter. Something like home painting.
Aurora’s mother, Catherine, came around the corner. The litigating attorney was relaxed in her suit skirt and dress blouse, barefoot with no jacket. “Hello, Cruz, I thought I heard your voice.” Catherine had white blonde hair and the green eyes she shared with her daughter. She was his personal hero, having come to his rescue last summer when Internal Affairs and a lawsuit threatened to rip him to pieces. “Didn’t Aurora call you? She decided to stay home tonight.”
The disappointment crushed him. Et tu, Catherine? Et tu?
“No, I guess we crossed wires.”
“She said you were working late.”
“I am. I have to be in Little Italy at seven-thirty. Just had a few minutes in between.” He reached for the coat zipper and pulled it up. “Well, it was good seeing the both of you. I’ll get back at it.”
Ansel held out a bowl. “But I have soup.”
Hand to stomach, he inched closer to the door. “Really, I’m good. I’ll see you soon.”
“Tuesday. For your birthday dinner.” Ansel turned to the wall calendar next to the refrigerator. “Yes, there it is.”
He’d forgotten Aurora was planning dinner at a downtown restaurant. Another expense she couldn’t afford. He’d talk her out of it. Birthdays weren’t big for him. He hadn’t celebrated his all the time he worked under cover. The year he lived with his sister he was still eating through a straw. She put a piece of cake into a blender for him. The weirdest, best present ever.
“Right. Tuesday. I’ll see you then.” Boom chickawawa rang out, startling him. “That’s Yablonski. Excuse me.”
He left the house at a brisk pace. He did not run out of the house. A man only ran out of a house when he had a reason to be worried. So, his woman wasn’t were she said she was. Doesn’t mean he should be worried. “Hey Yablonski, Erin say anything to you about Aurora?”
“Everything she’s said for the last month has started ‘For the wedding.’ So, yeah, she’s said a lot about Aurora, her pro-bono decorator. What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Things just aren’t adding up.” He told him about the checks to or for “cookie” and not being where she says she’s going to be. “Something is going on.”
“You ask her?”
“I will when I get home tonight. Heading down to Fisher’s now. I want to see who shows up at the book discussion.”
“I’m having a late night, too. Got a call from a snitch who needs to see me ASAP. She can’t meet me out, so I’m borrowing a truck from Cleveland Water and going to check out her plumbing. Question for you on another case.”
Talking about someone else’s problem was a welcome distraction on the drive to Fisher’s. The parking gods were not on his side, leaving him with a brisk walk in the wrong shoes.
Inside the bookstore, Fisher received Cruz like a respected diplomat. Not the kind of exposure a cop wanted who was looking to catch bad people doing bad things. Quickly, Fisher was pulled away by a customer and Cruz was able to surveil. There were parts of Cleveland where it was easy to believe the entire population was white as Wonder Bread. There were other parts where the entire population was dark as a Guinness. Here at Fisher’s it was clear there was a whole lot in between.
Black. White. Asian. Indian.
Goth. Vintage. Artsy. Chic. And a Bohemian who did not understand the concept of winter.
Blonde. Brunette. Shaved. Twisted. Purple.
Pierced. Tatted. Shaved (again). Plucked.
With his hair
down, Cruz fit right in.
Andrew Posey didn’t show. Val Hannigan wasn’t there. It would have been too easy. His luck didn’t run that way. Sitting next to Fisher, he captured names and discrete images of attendees to research later. The only familiar person was Chloe Capstone, resident, fourth floor.
As the discussion started, his attention drifted. He texted Aurora. How is the painting coming?
Lag. Lag. Lag. Thumbs up emoji.
Translation: Good.
You eat dinner?
Lag. Lag. Lag. Banana emoji.
She was home now, really painting. Fisher spoke, everyone nodded. Except him. He was wondering where she was before she was home.
The door opened, and the holy shit part of his day began. Oscar Bollier walked in. Jonathan Fisher greeted him with a kiss on the mouth. Not a European besame type of kiss but a honey-I’m-home kind of lip-on-lip lock.
What the fuck? This day wasn’t long enough for a fight with his girlfriend and his sponsor.
Bollier’s eyes bugged out of his head when he noticed who the long-haired Hispanic was. Fisher added a chair to the circle between the two of them.
Cruz had a thousand comments in his head, most were some version of, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were gay, and Jonathan was your partner and you never introduced us.” Over the years, how many dinners had they had? How many family events had Cruz invited Bollier to? How many birthdays and holidays had passed? How many fucking conversations? Never, ever, ever had Bollier talked about or brought anyone along. Woman or man. What the hell? Did Bollier think he’d care? Hell, yeah, he cared, he cared he got shut out. Door slammed in his proverbial face. Insult. The fucking marker all over again.
Cruz thumbed over to his texting app. Ur a dick.
I can explain.
U ashamed of me? Him?
Not ashamed of either of you.
Bullshit. U R a dick.
Bollier surged out of his chair. “Can I have a word with you? Privately?” He headed for the storeroom.
Cruz followed. “Oh, you can have it. But you aren’t going to like it.”
