by TG Wolff
Cruz ran his fingers through his untied hair. “You have been out of a coma for twenty-four hours. Did you consider waiting a few days? At least until you’re strong enough to walk out of here. Do you know the storm you’ve unleashed?”
Her chin rose defiantly. “I am August. Let it rain.”
Hell, shit, fuck, damn. No good deed, he thought.
Sophie must have seen the disapproval he tried to hide. “I’m done letting him write the narrative of my life. I let it go, you know. After Ms. Whitsome said she couldn’t press charges and Margot had me removed from the sorority, I had to figure out a new way to live and I did. At least, I was getting there. But you know what? I did nothing wrong. Not one damn thing. I’m done running.”
“Physically, you can’t run,” he pointed out. “You can’t walk yet. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have spoken out, but security should have been part of the equation. Two attempts have been made on your life.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, running through the choice words he had for Jonathan and, by extension, Bollier. He’d talk to Montoya in the morning to figure out a longer-term strategy for protecting Sophie from Posey, Hannigan, and God knew who else. “Hope you like having a roommate because until this is settled, you aren’t in this room alone.” He set his overnight bag down, opened it, and pulled out his gun and shoulder holster. He checked the gun, strapped the holster on, snapped the gun in place. Next came a novel, an elephant-sized bag of snacks, a travel pillow, and a coloring book with pencils. “What the hell?”
Sophie leaned over as far as she could, amused with the collection. “You always pack so thoroughly?”
“My girlfriend packed for me.” Bewilderment replaced the bite in his voice. “I swear, she packed like a woman. Who needs all this to sleep in a hospital room for one night?”
Sophie laughed softly. “Can I see the coloring book? Why do you have a makeup bag?”
He handed her the thin book with an outlined flower on the cover, then held up a small case covered in roses. “Is that what this is?” He unzipped it, pulling out travel-sized deodorant, dry shampoo, toothpaste. “Finally, something useful. Pepper spray. Keep this in your hand, under the cover.”
Sitting side by side, him in the chair, her in the bed, with a gallon bag of Chex Mix between them, they watched the ten o’clock news.
The newscaster looked directly into the camera. “Coming up next, a remarkable story of survival and determination. You don’t want to miss this.” Cut to commercial.
Sophie shifted restlessly under the thin blanket. “I have to admit, I’m a little nervous.”
The cop in him had something sharp on his tongue. The survivor in him checked it. No matter where you were, there was only one direction to go: forward. “Nah. You’re August.”
“They did an ultrasound today.” She showed him a still image of crazy white lines on a black background. “My little peanut was kicking up a storm. My own little August.” She grinned. “I think I just named my baby. Oh, they’re back. Here we go.” She pressed the image to her heart.
“Last December, Case Western Reserve University senior Sophie DeMusa was embroiled in a public battle with Cleveland mayor’s Chief of Staff Andrew Posey. Two weeks ago, Sophie was rushed to the hospital with head injuries suspected of resulting from a failed suicide attempt. Tonight, Ms. DeMusa sets the record straight.”
The scene changed from the newscaster on the set to a reporter standing in the hospital room. “This is Daphne DeShay reporting from University Hospital. Sophie, reports were you suffered from depression after the media storm regarding your affair with Andrew Posey and that you attempted to end your life when Posey refused to leave his wife for you. How do you respond to those allegations?”
The screen filled with Sophie’s face. “The only way you can respond to the ridiculous—with the truth. Andrew Posey sexually assaulted and raped me last October. When I brought the case to the Cleveland police, he couldn’t defend himself, so he attacked me instead. First through social media, then with blatantly false statements in the press. I am not now, nor have I ever been, mentally ill. Being a victim can make you feel weak and powerless, Daphne. It strips you down until you don’t recognize yourself. Posey did that to me. But you know what I discovered? Strength doesn’t come from having good things happen in your life. It comes from making good things out of the bad.”
The screen continued to show Sophie’s wholesome face talking to the reporter while the newscaster voiced over. “Andrew Posey’s office responded that Mr. Posey looks forward to addressing the allegations and firmly closing the door on this episode. For the extended interview, visit our website.”
When the studio newscasters reappeared, Sophie muted the sound. “I thought it would be longer. She talked to me for nearly twenty minutes.” She hid disappointment behind a yawn. “I didn’t realize I looked so pale.”
“It was the lights. Bleaches everyone out. You tired? Want the lights out?”
“It’s not rational, I know, but I’m afraid to go to sleep. I don’t want to lose myself again.”
He’d lived that nightmare, being so damn tired he fell asleep whether he wanted to or not. It was easy to imagine the added worry a coma could bring. “You want to play cards? I’m sure Aurora packed those, too. Hell, there’s probably a chess set in there.”
“It’s like Mary Poppins’s bag.” She giggled. “Thank you for staying.”
Cruz darkened the room, then he taught her a two-handed version of euchre. By midnight, he sat under a dim light reading as Sophie slept soundlessly.
Yablonski texted. Nothing so far. Talked to mom&grandma. Visited friends they gave, not there. Last seen Sunday morn by mom. GF talked to him same, said he had to work. IMO she knows more.
I’ll have her brought in tomorrow, get her to talk, Cruz replied.
Ok later
Cruz thought through the implications of Hannigan being missing since Sunday, not Monday. It adjusted how far Hannigan could have gotten and what he could be planning. If he was coming after Sophie again, yesterday would have been the better choice, before he was reported missing.
Peabody took over the watch at two in the morning. Cruz took the small bag that was not filled with makeup to the room with the empty bed a couple doors down the hall. He laid down on top of the covers, keeping his shoes and gun on. He floated on the thin in-between. A hospital was not a place for deep sleeping. Every shuffle, every whisper brought him to the surface. The clock had just turned seven when he sat up and stretched the muscles abused by the medicinal mattress. He made use of the private bathroom and the toothbrush Aurora packed.
The hallway was a looping corridor where both ways led to the nurses’ stations. Halfway around, a break room provided a constant supply of coffee. The Styrofoam cups were miniscule. Cruz filled one to the top, estimating it was a quarter size of his usual morning coffee. He filled a second cup, stuffed two packages of cookies into his pocket, then headed back to the vacant room. As he rounded a corner, a woman’s scream married with a hoarse cry.
He dropped the coffee and sprinted down the hall. Sounds of a fist fight emanated from Sophie room. Bodies rolled out like an old west saloon. They hit the opposite wall, ending with a big man pressed against a wall by a bigger man.
“Break it up,” Cruz ordered, closing the distance on the pair. “I said break it up. Taylor, put him down.”
Ronnie Taylor had Peabody secured to the wall by his neck, feet dangling six inches off the ground. Peabody blinked furiously, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he fought the hand choked him.
“Taylor, drop him before I drop you.”
The bigger man hadn’t looked away from the prey within his grasp.
Cruz pulled his gun, making his point crystal clear. “Now!”
Taylor opened his hand. Peabody collapsed to the floor, staying where gravity dumped him while he fought for breath. Taylor dismissed Peabody, turning his back on the man. He went into Sophie
’s room, and gathered her into his arms.
Cruz stared the trio down, ready to haul them all downtown, Sophie included. “What the fuck is going on!”
Chapter Fourteen
Cruz sat across the desk from Montoya, identical mugs of joe between them. “It began with a nightmare. According to Peabody, Sophie was tossing and turning in her sleep, crying out. He went to her bedside to wake her when she did on her own. Sophie remembers waking to a man leaning over her. She screamed and used the pepper spray. Enter the young hero, Ronnie Taylor, who proceeded to kick the living hell out of Peabody. Two cracked ribs, bruised kidneys. Hell, a lot more than just his kidneys were bruised.”
Montoya examined the photos of Peabody’s mottled torso. “Where did she get the pepper spray?”
“I gave it to her the night before. Her aim was off, but she got enough of him to make him hurt. I wanted her to feel safe, didn’t think she’d use it on one of us.”
“Before you feel too sympathetic, read this.” Montoya pushed three sheets of stapled paper across the desk. “Buddy of mine has connections in the University division.”
It was a preliminary report of an internal investigation of a complaint filed against Lieutenant James Peabody by none other than Sophie DeMusa. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“Peabody reportedly propositioned her, cash for sex. When she declined, he grabbed her, promising to quote ‘make it good for her.’ He did it in front of customers at Three Witches.”
“When was this?”
Montoya double-checked the report. “Mid-December. Peabody was in civilian clothes but wore his uniform coat. She went to the University police the next day, filed the complaint with a list of witnesses.”
“She would have been in the middle of the mess with Posey.” Disappointment and pity welled up, for Sophie, for Peabody, for himself. Was there no one trustworthy? “Why is he still on the job?”
“DeMusa dropped it. The file didn’t have details. I expect you’ll fill in the gaps.”
“Damn right I will.”
“Good. Anything coming loose on the snitch within the department?” Montoya’s air of professionalism faded away at the topic of the pipeline to the mayor’s office.
“Nothing so far. I expected it to happen fast. Not sure if we dropped the bait in the wrong spots, the snitch knows we’re onto him and is keeping quiet, or it’s working, just slower than anticipated. We’ll give it a few more days before dropping more.”
“What did the Hannigan kid have on Posey?”
Cruz inhaled deeply. “He ghosted, Kurt.”
“Fuck.”
“In a nutshell. He disappeared without a ‘see ya later’ to his family or lawyer. The former says Hannigan wouldn’t do that and are helping to locate him. Last contact was Sunday morning when Hannigan reported he was going to work for a few hours. He never checked in at city hall.”
“You have a lot of loose ends out there. Find Hannigan and tie them up.”
“On it.” Cruz left Montoya’s office, tossing a mental coin on whether to confront Peabody or Posey first. Posey was the bigger fish but Peabody hiding this shit pissed him off. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath as he collided with another body.
“Sorry, Cruz. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” Buell lost the pages she carried in the collision. One of the newest members of homicide, she was assigned to the veteran Campbell to learn the ropes.
Cruz reached across a nearby desk, retrieving a page that had flown. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She added Cruz’s sheet to her stack and handed the pile to her partner. “Sketch artist results are in. He isn’t a strong match for any of the missing persons.”
“That would have been too easy.” Campbell studied the black-and-white face. “He was a good-looking kid. What do you think, Cruz?” He turned the page around. “Anyone you know?”
Recognition was instant. “Val Hannigan. I’ve been looking for him. Where was he found?”
“Dumped under a bridge early Monday morning in a box someone considered a home. He kicked the body out and it rolled to the edge of the street. Trash collection called it in. No ID. Clean-cut kid, well dressed. Bet he never saw the underside of a bridge while he was walking on those feet.”
Buell swept through screens on her phone. “Someone beat the shit out of his head. Take a look. This is the good half…and this is the other half.”
“His name is Percival Hannigan. He copped a plea on Friday to one of my cases.” Cruz gave them the Reader’s Digest version.
Campbell whistled. “Time of death was twenty-four-to-forty-eight hours earlier. He was kept on ice, literally.”
“Or left in a garage,” Buell added.
“He was last known alive Sunday late morning.”
“Fits,” Campbell said. “This guy was yours before he was ours, Cruzie. We’ll transfer everything we have to you.”
“Thanks. I want to read it all before I to go take a look at the dump site myself.”
Yablonski stepped into homicide, pulling off the red-orange knit cap nearly the same color as his beard. Cruz waved him back and met him at his desk. “Hannigan was murdered.”
“What! When?”
“Sunday. I haven’t read the report yet. He was identified two minutes before you walked in the door.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Yablonski scratched his head. “What does this mean for Sophie? For Posey?”
“Roll a board over here. Let’s set this up.” They split the board down the middle. Right side, the sketch of Val Hannigan was placed in the center. Left side, a picture of Sophie DeMusa. Andrew Posey went up above.
Yablonski drew the lines. Posey to Sophie. Hannigan to Posey. “Who else goes up? Who else plays?”
Jonathan Fisher. The name popped in his head but, damn, he hated to say it out loud. Posey claimed Fisher tried to get him fired after the criminal charges were dropped. What would Fisher do to the man who nearly killed Sophie? “Jonathan Fisher to Sophie. Fisher to Posey. Fisher to Hannigan, through The Atlas, his bookstore, and Three Witches.”
Yablonski nodded as he drew it out. “How about the women? They were unwavering in their defense of Sophie. Would they go as far as killing Hannigan?”
“Samantha Eisen introduced herself with a baseball bat. Carly Montemayor is emotionally driven. I would expect Rachel Montemayor to talk the other two out of the plan, not into it. Put them up there.”
“Got it. Who else?”
“James Peabody, University Circle Police, formerly accused of inappropriate conduct against Sophie.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Connection to Hannigan? Not that I know of. Yet. Add Joshua Harding and Margot Hennessy. Both have alibis for the night of Sophie’s supposed suicide attempt, but they’re weak. The connection between Harding and Hannigan is weak, too. Margot? I could see her taking Hannigan out if it would come back on her precious house.” He thought as Yablonski printed out photos and connected the dots. “Add Ronnie Taylor. He and Sophie had been dating until she ended the relationship after the incident with Posey. He didn’t attack Sophie but seeing what he did to Peabody and what was done to Hannigan, he has to go up there.”
“You got a deep bench here,” Yablonski said as he worked. “What can I do to help?”
“You take Ronnie Taylor, Margot Hennessy, and Joshua Harding. Taylor will talk to you. The other two have already been our guests once and may cry lawyer again. See if you can work your magic on them. I’ll take Peabody and Posey. Maybe he’ll remember my name this time.”
“Sounds good. We can debrief over birthday cake.”
“Shit. Today’s my birthday.” He didn’t have time for cake and ice cream. And it wasn’t like his birthday really meant anything. “Do you think—”
“Uh huh. Nope. Not going there. Aurora’s still pissed over the raid. You don’t let her fuss over you, and she’ll kick your birthday ass. Send me the info I need. I�
�ll read it over at my own desk.”
Cruz sat at his computer and got Yablonski everything he had on Taylor, Hennessy, and Harding. Cruz contemplated his own next move. Still too pissed at Peabody to be professional, he’d start with Posey.
The lights were on in Angela Johnson’s office, but the room was empty. Cruz moved on to the corner office door. He knocked and when there was no response, tried the doorknob. Locked.
“Can I help you?” The authoritarian voice used the polite phrase in lieu of the implied don’t you dare break into that office.
“Ms. Johnson. Is Posey in?”
“Obviously, he’s not, Detective.” She took her chair, the tilt of her chin indicating no forgiveness for what he attempted to do. “He’s working from home this morning. I expect him early afternoon. Can I take a message?”
“I’ll come back. It’s nothing urgent, just an update on our previous conversation.” Cruz left the admin with the lie, hoping she would dismiss his visit. He wanted to catch Posey’s unfiltered reaction to Hannigan’s death; not a practiced one.
The sky wept misery as Cruz drove to an address on the Lake Erie shoreline. The morning temperature straddled the freezing point meaning the water falling wasn’t rain or snow. It was thick, cold crap that found the crevice between a winter coat and hot skin, soaking the first and assaulting the second. Cruz sank sure feet into the slush covering the sidewalk to the stately colonial. The home was priced in the top ten percent of those in the city, surpassed only by those on the opposite side of the street who had a private view of a Great Lake.
Cruz rang the bell.
A dog barked. One of those small yappy kind without enough meat on its bones for a decent snack.
A woman answered the door, matching the dog she held. “Can I help you?”
“Detective Jesus De La Cruz, Cleveland police. Is Mr. Posey home, ma’am?”
