Driving Reign

by TG Wolff

  Sitting in his driveway, head pounding like a drum, he realized the shouting match with Bollier hadn’t fixed a thing. And, yeah, the entire book group heard every word. Afterward, neither stayed, neither looked at the other.

  He stared at the butt end of his truck, the one Aurora drove, wondering where it had been, what it knew that he didn’t. His hand rubbed his chest, over his heart where it hurt to be lied to.

  He didn’t have the energy for another fight. He damn well didn’t have the energy to find out Aurora was stepping out on him. But he couldn’t ignore it.

  He got out of his car, the small tracking device in his palm. “Please,” he said in a whisper as he tucked the bug in place. “Please, please, please.”

  The phone charging on his nightstand rang. It wasn’t the nuclear meltdown ring of dispatch but was as loud as Quasimodo’s bell in the silent room.

  “No, Mom. Don’t wanna go to school today.” Aurora was draped over Cruz, arm across his chest, leg between his thighs. “I’m tired,” she said, snuggling into him.

  With a smile, he pressed his lips to her hair before moving her aside where she curled into a ball. He slid out of bed, trying not to wake her. He’d kept her up past her bedtime, reminding her how good they were together. He should have confronted her about the lie, but he was afraid of what was behind it. His Plan B was to keep her so exhausted, she wouldn’t have the energy or inclination to consider other options.

  In the anteroom that was her studio, in front of the painting of the two of them dancing, he accepted the call. “Cruz.”

  “University Circle police, there has been an incident involving Ms. Sophie DeMusa.”

  Lieutenant James Peabody stood at ease outside Sophie DeMusa’s room. With his vest and belt on, he presented a very large obstacle to entering the room. Behind him, men and women in scrubs worked to protect a vulnerable life.

  Introductions out of the way, they got down to it.

  “Approximately eleven-forty-five this evening, one of the nurses entered DeMusa’s room and found a man at the IV. When the nurse approached the man, he attacked her, knocking her to the floor before running out. The nurse sounded the alarm and security responded. Cameras picked up the suspect as he escaped, injuring two other employees and a patient in the process.”

  “I’ll make the call to crime scene. What’s DeMusa’s condition?”

  “Above my pay grade. The doc in charge and the nurse who was injured are in the room at the end of the hall.”

  Cruz followed where the finger pointed to a small room meant for families to take a break. Two stuffed chairs and a matching short love seat filled the room. A woman sat on the couch, a man standing over her, pen light in hand.

  “Excuse me. I’m Detective Jesus De La Cruz. I understand you disrupted the attack on Sophie DeMusa?”

  “Veronica Story. I’m Sophie’s nurse. I did my rounds after starting my shift. Sometime later, I realized I didn’t have my asthma inhaler. I remembered taking it out of my pocket when I was getting something else out but couldn’t remember where I left it. I had been revisiting the patient rooms when I found a man at Sophie’s IV. The room was dim, and he was angled away from me, but my first thought was he was putting something in it. I ran at him, ordering him away.”

  “Did you call for security at that point?”

  “No. My priority was to get him away from my patient. He attacked me.” From her surprised expression, it was clear she never expected the reaction. “He knocked me down. I was afraid he was going to kick me, but he ran out. I pushed the security button then and stopped the IV. I wasn’t fast enough. Her blood pressure dropped, she went into cardiac arrest.” The nurse caught her breath, a gasp threatening to turn into a sob. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel as upset as I sound.”

  “It’s the adrenaline, Veronica,” the doctor said, his voice pitched to keep her calm. “You saved her life. Two minutes later, hell even a minute later, we couldn’t have brought her back.”

  Cruz cataloged the man. Mid-forties, short hair with the beginning of gray at the temples, an air of authority. “You are?”

  “Dr. Adam McCarthy. I’m in charge of the floor. My team and I worked on Sophie until we had her stable. It wasn’t easy and she’s not out of the woods yet. We have no idea what was pumped into her system. I’d like to send a sample to the lab. I can get it expedited.”

  Cruz nodded, expecting the doctor could get faster results. “We’ll put the rest through our lab, verify the results. I’m going to need you to work with me. This entire wing is a crime scene.”

  “This is a critical care floor, Detective. Our patients can’t just be moved.” There it was. That tone, the same one Bollier used as a war cry.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding them as they curled into fists, working to keep his personal baggage separate from work. “I understand that, Doctor, hence my request to work together. If you can’t—”

  “Of course, we can,” the nurse said, rising to stand between the two bulls about to lock horns. “I gave Lieutenant Peabody a description. White male, about six-foot. I didn’t get a clear look at his face. He wore jeans, a hoodie, thick-soled boots, similar to the ones Lieutenant Peabody is wearing. He was strong, Detective. When he shoved me, I flew backward.”

  “Anything at all distinctive you remember? Scars? Tattoos? Hair or eye color?”

  “I only saw part of his face, when I walked in. I think he was clean shaven. Everything else was covered, even his hands.”

  Crime scene arrived while he was reviewing the security footage. The suspect entered the room prior to the nurse’s rounds looking like any other civilian staying with family. He carried flowers and a backpack. He walked past Sophie’s room, entering a room two doors down. At 11:42pm, he left the room and entered Sophie’s. The nurse entered less than one minute later. The man ran out of the room, out of the camera angle, moments before the medical team hurried in.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday began for the second time at six in the morning with the latest pop diva signing about a man who didn’t know a good thing when he had it. When Cruz surfaced from a dreamless sleep, his first thought was how the words and the music didn’t match. No one should sound so happy about being dumped.

  The woman he’d wrapped himself around inhaled deeply and stretched. “Morning.” She snuggled her beautiful ass into his body. “You’re warm.”

  “That’s not the only thing I am.” He bit her earlobe.

  “Hmmm. Too bad we both have to work. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were independently wealthy and could just lie in bed all day?”

  “We wouldn’t be lying.” He nuzzled her neck, coaxing breathy sighs and little giggles. One hand pulled her tighter against his chest while the other slid over silky skin to her breast.

  She pinned his hand one millimeter from heaven. “We can’t. I have a meeting with a parent before school and you’re having breakfast with the chief. Remember, you’re acting commander.” She ruthlessly shut him down, leaving their bed and taking the warmth with her.

  “I have time,” he mumbled, knowing he already lost the battle.

  She turned off the alarm. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A few hours. Enough.”

  “That’s good. I worry when you push yourself so hard. Didn’t you work like fourteen hours yesterday?” She left the room, directly followed by the sound of shower.

  He turned the light on, wincing at the intrusion, then sat up against the headboard. He was a few words into the day’s reflection when an off-pitch Ariana Grande tune displaced the quiet. He set the book aside, having a better idea.

  “Zeus? What are you doing?”

  “Washing your back…and other parts.”

  Aurora laughed. “We are going to be so late.”

  Yeah, he was late. The gleaming conference table had all seats filled except one. Eyes were on him as he walked into the chief’s office, but he had no regrets. Wi
n Ramsey dropped a small stack of papers on the table. “Where’s Montoya?”

  “Stomach flu. Trust me, you do not want him here.” A continental breakfast was set atop a low bookcase. The men and women around the table had full plates in front of them. “You want coffee? Black, right?”

  “Yes. Thanks. Your hair isn’t braided.”

  Cruz poured two cups, dressed one to his taste. “Something different.” He slathered cream cheese on a bagel; he could have said he didn’t have time but that would have made it seem like he’d done something wrong. And that it would be braided tomorrow. It wouldn’t. He set Ramsey’s coffee at his arm and took the vacant seat in the middle.

  “Does everyone know Detective Jesus De La Cruz?” After the introductions were made, the chief began the meeting.

  Cruz figured out quickly his job was to listen and take notes. When he looked around a little desperately for paper, the chief tossed a notepad and pen in his direction.

  Turned out to be the easiest meeting he’d ever attended with the chief. Heads weren’t rolling, literally or metaphorically. He kept up with the topics thanks to Sonja’s briefing.

  When the meeting broke up, Cruz lingered for a private moment with the chief.

  “First time I’ve seen you in six months,” Ramsey said. “Can’t say I’ve missed you.” He smiled. “Nothing personal.”

  The conference table had been crowded with experts when a serial killer was on the loose. From media to psychology, all the angles were covered.

  “No, sir. I still have my ear to the ground, in case he pops up somewhere else. Chief, did Montoya brief you on the DeMusa case?”

  “I thought that was history.”

  Cruz gave him the highlights. “We’ve spoken with Posey twice. The last ended with threats to involve you directly. Now we find out our leading suspect is working for the mayor’s office.”

  “Any connection between 601 Lakeside and DeMusa’s visitor last night?”

  “Still investigating. No initial identification on the suspect.”

  “Alright. Keep me informed, Cruz. I’ll give the mayor a heads up on Posey.” He dropped his voice. “It won’t be the first time.”

  “Sir, is there any possibility the mayor may be involved?”

  “Confidentially, the mayor has his sights set on the governor’s office. He was in here trying to pump our numbers up, so he can brag about them on the campaign trail. If Posey is dirty, the mayor will want to distance himself from the slop. That’s leverage we can use. Do your job, by the book, no shortcuts. I’ll play politics.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You handled yourself well today.”

  Back in homicide, Sonja greeted him with a to-do list. It would take juggling to keep on top of his and Montoya’s workloads. A flash of yellow had him doing a double take. “Redecorating?”

  Hazmat tape zigzagged across Montoya’s door. “It adds color,” she said, laughing softly. “I’m thinking about disinfecting it before he gets back.”

  “We’d all appreciate if you did. You talk to him today?”

  “I called about an hour ago and spoke to his wife.” She gave him more detail than he ever wanted to know about anyone. “I don’t expect him back until Monday. How was the meeting with the chief?”

  “Good.” He gave her the rundown and the list of follow-ups for Montoya. “Find an open conference room and have everyone meet there in fifteen minutes.”

  When it came to the acting commander role, Cruz was doing a hell of lot of acting. He had never given thought beyond detective. He didn’t have precedent to follow, having spent most of his copping career undercover. Montoya was a good commander. He always had their backs. He listened and considered the facts, options, and scenarios before making a decision. And he was no pushover. When he said no, it was no. Period.

  His fellow detectives trickled in, some of whom had decades more experience in the job than he did. There was acceptance on their faces. Likely, they were glad Montoya hadn’t thrown up on their shoes.

  “Thanks for joining on short notice. Thought this would be faster than one by one. First, an update on Montoya.” He opted for a snippet of what he’d gotten from Sonja. At the far end of the table, Robinson slouched, the chair holding his head up. He’d never seen a dark-skinned black man look so pale. “You come down with the stomach flu or whatever, stay home. None of us need to catch your nasties.” He ran through the few items he’d reviewed with Sonja, providing updates on initiatives and training Montoya had previously briefed them on. “With Montoya out, I’ll do my best to be available. Let me know what I can do.”

  The detectives filed out, the chatter mostly about what color Montoya had been and the spectacular vomit that wrecked Cruz’s shoes. Cruz held up a hand as Robinson shuffled toward the door. “You ailing, Robbie?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You make Casper look like he’s sporting a tan.”

  Robinson chuckled as he walked away. “Fuckin’ Casper, my black ass.”

  “Go home, Robinson,” he shouted to the man’s back. “That’s an order.” The first order he’d given as homicide commander. Yeah, he could get used to it.

  “Good time for Joshua Harding?” Magliotti moved to the chair next to him. “The day she poured the beer over his head, he had been bragging how he was going to make it with DeMusa. She had a reputation as an ice princess, no one had gotten a date with her, though they all tried. It sounded like the more she said no, the more Harding and his friends were challenged. He put his hand on her rear and when he didn’t remove it, she poured the pitcher in his lap. He left, pissed to walk home soaked in beer, more pissed at his friends. He came back the next day, the Friday in question, supposedly to talk to Sophie, going to the restaurant’s rear door. He tried to apologize but a,” he went to his notes, “Ronnie Taylor forced him to leave.”

  Cruz chuckled. “Taylor’s good at that.”

  “Lawyer felt the need to tell me, at best, his client was guilty of being over enthusiastic in his pursuit of the waitress and how we were wasting time and money over a non-incident.”

  “Nice of him to think of us that way. What did Harding do after he left Three Witches?”

  “He says he went to a friend’s apartment and was with them until near midnight. I have the friend’s contact information. He verified Harding arrived a little after five and was in the apartment until midnight.”

  “Covering him for the time in question. Why was this worth spending the night on us?”

  “My take? He’s afraid Ronnie Taylor will think he attacked DeMusa. We don’t worry him. Taylor, on the other hand…” Magliotti shrugged. “He’s probably got it right. We got nothing on him without DeMusa’s statement. With, there could be a sexual harassment charge, maybe assault. My recommendation is to hold it in your back pocket until DeMusa wakes.”

  “Agree. Cut him loose but make him sweat. I want to send him a message about his behavior. Do you have time to bring someone else in to interview?”

  “I’ll make the time. Who?”

  “Margot Hennessy. Alpha Theta Nu. Go in with lights, make lots of noise.”

  The morning was nearly gone when Cruz sat down to pay attention to his own cases. The lab report for the fingerprints from Sophie’s apartment and the wine bottle were in his email inbox. One set matched to Sophie, the second to Jonathan Fisher. The third set came back as unknown.

  “Useless,” he muttered.

  His cell lit up, a text from Yablonski.

  Meet me at Becky’s

  When

  Now

  Becky’s was their usual after-hours hangout, but they served a damn good lunch. Cruz walked past ten empty tables to get to the one in the back where Yablonski sat. “Why did you sit way back here—what the fuck happened to your face!”

  Yablonski’s left eye was swollen shut, blacks, blues, and purples painte
d the puffy ball. An angry red circle dotted the swell of his cheek. His chapped lip was cracked, a bloody scab filling the gap.

  Cruz took a seat, checking his reaction. “You and Nurse Erin playing the pirate and the stowaway again?”

  Yablonski snickered, then moaned. “She only leaves marks where you can’t see ’em. And don’t make me laugh. This fucking hurts.”

  “Looks like it does. If Erin didn’t do it, who did, and are they still alive?”

  The waitress came to their table, setting a drink and an ice pack in front of Yablonski. Cruz’s usual was set in front of him.

  “Alexander ‘Rotten’ Carter. Older brother of my snitch, the late Sasha Carter.” Yablonski put the ice pack to his cheek. “What a mess. I went to meet Sasha, like I told you.”

  “Water Department truck. I remember.”

  “Her brother is a drug dealer. The competition went after big brother. She’d been fucking one of them, the competitor, and snitched on ’em. We brought them down about a year ago. She’s stayed mine, gives me some info now and then. Always on the competition, goes deaf, dumb, and blind when I mention Rotten. Fine by me, I figure, I’ll take what I can get and get the rest other ways.” He sipped his drink using the straw, winced, then transferred the ice to his lip. “So last night, I knock on the door, doing what I do. She doesn’t answer. I know she’s in there. The hair on the back of my neck is tingling. I called for backup before I forced my way in. She’s on the couch, convulsing. I started working on her same time I called for an ambulance. Middle of CPR, Rotten fucking leaps over a chair, tackling me. We’re fighting, hard-core fighting, and Sasha’s dying.” He moved the ice pack to his eyes. “Rotten thinks I’m killing her. He’s trying to kill me. One of us wouldn’t have made it out if backup hadn’t gotten there when they did. EMS runs in, they hit her with everything they got. Too late is too late, you know? Rotten is promising to kill me and everyone I love.”

  “Not the first time we’ve heard that.”

  “I’m giving the responding cops my lines—complaint about water, door was open, heard something, trying to help—Rotten is shouting about ‘bad shit’ being on his street and coming from me. He gets hauled off for weapons, it’s enough to get him out of the house. Took the water truck back when I dropped the keys under the seat. Guess what I found?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Three ounces. I’m betting it’s the same ‘bad shit’ that Sasha OD’d on.” He lifted the ice pack, his good eye flat, dead. “Someone is setting me up.”