by TG Wolff
The door to Posey’s office was open, the interior as dark and ominous as the approaching storm.
“Wrap it up,” Cruz said with the authority he’d previously concealed. “Now.”
Her eyes widened. “I have to run. Add the account numbers and send me the report. I’ll make sure Drew sees it as soon as he lands.” Angie returned the receiver to the cradle. “Is there a problem, Detective?”
“Andrew Posey. Where is he?”
“At the airport. His flight to Germany leaves in,” she glanced at her computer screen, “twenty minutes.”
Cruz served the search warrant and handed the scene off to Campbell and Buell. He handed the next warrant to Smitty and Czerski. “Take the residence. Everything is there to connect Posey and McCracken to Hannigan. Yablonski, get the car. We have a flight to catch.”
Yablonski was parked in the no stopping zone, lights on. Cruz and Montoya ran down the marble steps of city hall as the wind whipped the naked trees into a frenzy. The leading edge of the smoke gray clouds had arrived.
Yablonski hit the siren, then the gas. He coasted around Public Square, the wide roads busy with people, buses, and tourists looking at the GPS instead of the road. In those few minutes, the weather went from dry to white out.
“This storm will work for us,” Montoya said. “No way his flight won’t be delayed.” He worked the phone, using his rank to pave the way.
The few miles to Cleveland Hopkins International Airport were done at a pace a three-legged trotter could have beat. “It’s fucking February,” Yablonski shouted. “How do people not know how to drive in this by now?” The traffic on I-71 slowed to a crawl, clumping the off-peak traffic into herds of lemmings following their fearful leader. Yablonski pressed the high-speed lane, getting on the dumb ass’s bumper who did not get the concept that lights on meant get the fuck out of the way.
A seam opened. They surged forward only to run into the same shit a half mile ahead. By the time they parked, Cruz was ready to dismantle the plane to get Posey’s ass out. The authority of the Cleveland police and cooperation of TSA put them in the concourse within sight of Posey’s gate.
And the plane was gone.
“Where the fuck is it!” Cruz sprinted to the empty gate, searching for the plane scheduled to depart now.
“It’s still there,” Yablonski said, pointing to the plane backing away from the gate.
The uniformed attendant had no pity on her face. “We completed boarding for an on-time departure ahead of the arriving storm.” She indicated the digital clock and a time that was one minute after the posted departure time. “The terms of your ticket included arriving at the gate one hour before boarding.” It wasn’t the first time she’d recited the announcement.
“We’re not passengers.” He strode to the desk, his badge in front. “I’m a cop here to arrest a passenger. Turn the fucking plane around. Now.”
She snapped to attention and spoke into a radio handset, her gaze on Cruz. A grainy voice responded. “Flight four-eighteen has pushed away from the gate.”
“I can’t bring it back,” she said. They both turned to the orders being barked into a radio by the TSA accompanying official, making it clear the plane would return to the gate. “But it sounds like he can.”
In the time it takes to run the Kentucky Derby, the plane returned the thirty feet to the gate. The airline steward opened the door to the jetway. Cruz and Yablonski led the way down the cold, narrow corridor, stopping where directed, clear of the opening airplane doors.
The head flight attendant and a murmuring of disgruntled complaints met him. The captain stepped out of the cockpit, professional and in charge. “Captain Anton Michelli, Atlanta, Georgia. Can I see the warrant?”
Cruz passed the documents granting authority and did the introductions. He’d wanted to skip pleasantries, but successful police work required cooperation of many people in many capacities. Asshole was a weapon he used judiciously. “Where is he seated?”
“Six-C,” the lead attendant said.
The captain held up his hand, preventing them boarding. “I’m going to ask you to let me verify his identify. I don’t want to be the next internet sensation by letting you pull the wrong man off in cuffs.”
Cruz looked over his shoulder to Montoya and TSA. Both nodded.
“Don’t make it obvious we’re coming for him,” Cruz advised. “He could become hostile.”
“Fair enough.” The captain stepped to the front of the aisle where his passengers waited. “Sorry for the sudden change in plans, folks. Seems some paperwork needs to be cleared up. Rows four, five, and six, if you can provide your ID, we will get this bird back on her way.”
The murmur of the crowd was accented with the shuffling of people and things.
“Thank you, Mr. Robinson. Great, Mrs. Robinson.” Name after name rattled off in the captain’s lilting accent. “Mrs. Posey, thank you. Mr. Posey.”
The name was a starter’s pistol. Cruz pushed past the lead attendant to the aisle, his gaze snapping to his quarry. Yablonski was the wall behind him.
Recognition was instant, as was the outrage. “Not you two! Again! Harassment is illegal, whether you carry a badge or not.”
Cruz took his upper arm, assisting him to stand. “Andrew Posey, you are under arrest for the murder of Percival Hannigan. Additional—”
“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Posey surged into the aisle, shouting in the suddenly silent cabin. “Do you know who I am! I will eat your badge for dinner.”
A swarm of cell phones rose from the seats, aimed toward the drama. Cruz handled Posey professionally, demonstrating immense restraint as he pressed his suspect’s front to the side of the seat. The first cuff clicked in place, then the second, leaning in close to keep the conversation private. “I know exactly who you are. This time, there’s no one here to clean up after you.” With a hand around his arm, Cruz marched Posey toward the exit.
“Drew!” Emma Posey reached for her husband.
“Stay where you are, Mrs. Posey.” Cruz handed her husband off to Yablonski. “Do not interfere.”
“I am not interfering, Detective. I am standing by my husband.” Phone to her ear, she hastily pulled her bag from under the seat and followed off the plane.
“Call Jimmy,” Posey yelled to his wife. “Tell him to bring every attorney in the office with him.”
“Peter, it’s Emma. You will not believe what is happening.”
Marching Posey down the concourse was like waving a red flag to a herd of bulls. Heads turned, cell phones lifted. Like the rest of the Cleveland police and TSA professionals, Cruz held his head high, kept his expression neutral. Just another day at the office. Posey, on the other hand, ran his mouth nonstop. The topics changed faster than a Twitter feed. Innocence! Abuse of power! Conspiracy!
Mrs. Posey was the mockingbird behind the delegation simulcasting the play-by-play to, presumably, a lawyer. At a secure checkpoint, the TSA abruptly stopped her. “I’ll take care of everything, Drew. Jimmy will meet you downtown!”
The snow blanketed the city north to south, east to west, slowing the pace of society to glacial. Yablonski drove, Cruz rode shotgun with Posey cuffed and caged.
“Someone needs to invent a mouth cuff,” Yablonski said, tiring of the monologue.
“Someone did. It’s called a gag.” Cruz checked his watch. “You have to appreciate his stamina. He’s closing in on an hour. Most guys would have lost their voice by now. Damn, is the snow ever going to stop?”
“Tomorrow. We could get two feet downtown, double that in the snow belt. Looks like rush hour already, smart people getting out now.”
Even going against traffic, it took close to another hour to deliver and process the chief of staff. They would let Posey stew, talk someone else’s ear off, eventually let his lawyers in and then they would get to the interview. It was going to be a long second half of the day.
“You might
as well head back to narcotics,” Cruz told Yablonski. “Get some work done while the waiting game plays out.”
“Right but call me after. I want to hear how he tries to push this off. You did good work, Cruzie. Damn, good work.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Sure, you could have. It would have taken twice as long and lack the style I bring to a case,” Yablonski backed away, arms wide, grin cocky, “but you’da got there eventually.”
Cruz worked with Bishop and Montoya, investing hours in preparation. They were ready and anxious to get going. But the snow didn’t let up, stopping lawyers in their tracks. Mid-afternoon, he was dismissed. Once he stepped into his house, he focused on Aurora and enjoyed the same from her. Posey didn’t enter his mind again until the next morning when Cruz pulled his bedroom drape aside to reveal a sea of white. His road was down there, somewhere. Snowplows hadn’t yet gotten to his small corner of the city, so it was only the parked cars and trees that hinted at where the asphalt was hidden. He hoped the interview wouldn’t be postponed again. Posey had a lot to answer for.
“What do you think of a blue ombre?”
Cruz glanced to the woman in his bed, propped up on her elbow and expecting an answer to the bizarre question. He turned back to the window, trying to measure the snow depth based on the trees. “Most hombres I know are brown.”
“Brown? You want to paint your office brown?”
“What? No.” He went to the closet and dressed. “Why would I want brown? Or an hombre, for that matter.”
“Ombre, you know, when one color fades into another. Since I’m off indefinitely, I might as well get a few things done. I’m thinking we do your office in blue and mine in a rose, like sunrise and sunset. Instead of carpet, we can put in the engineered hardwood and rugs. Maybe matching desks.”
His pants on, he shrugged into a crisp, white button-down and crossed to her. “Sounds great, but not one dime goes on your credit card. I’m headed to the office. I want to put a little more time in before the interview with Posey.” He took the cat’s eye from the nightstand, fastened it around his neck before buttoning the shirt. Returning to the closet, he selected a tie.
“No, not that one.”
It took three more before she nodded. “When will you be back?”
“Don’t know.” He hesitated before leaving their bedroom. “I’ll call. Don’t go out unless you really need to. Roads don’t look great.”
“Alright.” She stretched like a cat, pulling the cover down enough to expose her breast. “I’ll just lie here, basking in the glow of makeup sex.”
“You’re a cruel woman. God, I love you.”
“Happy hunting, Detective.”
Driving wasn’t as bad as he expected. The plows and their tenacious drivers had beat the snow into submission on the main streets. In the nearly twenty-four hours since Posey’s arrest, the searches of his office and home were completed. The suspected murder weapon tested clean for blood at the scene but there were still the metallurgical tests to connect the flecks found on Hannigan. McCracken, after all, would have coached Posey on how to clean it. The gold fibers matched the drapery upon visual inspection. Analytics would confirm it beyond a doubt. The walk-off homerun was the blood stain under the oddly positioned couch.
The interview had changed from one of the standard rooms to a conference room to accommodate all the players. The good guys sat with their backs to the door. Cruz sat on the end, next to Kurt Montoya. Agent Bishop and an attorney from the Justice Department sat in the middle with D’Arcy Whitsome on the opposite end.
The bad guys looked like they peeled themselves out of a GQ magazine. Posey sat front and center, three lawyers to either side. He had the countenance of a king served undercooked meat. His fingertips drummed on the steel tabletop, boredom and annoyance projected in the gesture.
Montoya started the record, calling off who was present. “Mr. Posey, do you understand your rights as they were read to you?”
Posey rolled his eyes before looking to the lawyer seated to his right. Lawyer #1 took the cue. “Mr. Posey understands his rights. I am Jimmy Santora, principal with Sullivan, Santora, and Liebowitz, representing Mr. Posey. We want it stated for the record—”
“You’ll get your turn,” Montoya said, squashing any question of who was running the show. “Let’s start with why we are all here.” He read a list of charges featuring the verbs assault and murder.
Bishop and the DOJ were silent, two sharks circling the unaware surfer, their own list of verbs growing.
Lawyer #1 made a statement along the lines of “blah blah blah didn’t do it, blah blah blah no motive, blah blah blah harassment.”
Posey stared at Cruz, the lion wanting to go for the throat. Cruz understood the feeling; he returned it. After all those hours listening to Val Hannigan, Cruz knew the kid. A young man who would never get the chance to be an old man because of games Posey played to be master reigning over the city. Sophie DeMusa never had a chance, not when a seasoned criminal like McCracken got handed his ass. How many more were there, Cruz wondered.
Montoya served up questions, Lawyer #1 batted them back. It was like watching a rocking chair race, no one was getting anywhere.
Posey yawned, boredom and distain in his posture. It was a front. Cruz read Posey as a thin, taught wire, ready to break.
“You got off on it.” Cruz spoke to Posey under his attorney’s running monologue. “Bashing the kid’s head in with the iron was a rush. Andrew Posey, the runner-up to his brother-in-law. If it wasn’t for Peter Mulgrew, you’d be living in one of the twelve-hundred-square-foot homes you’re busy tearing down. But for one moment, you were the difference between life and death.”
“Don’t say anything,” Lawyer #3 ordered.
Cruz charged on, speaking only to Posey, remembering the audacity in the voice that killed. “You like playing the big man. You sweet talk women like DeMusa, bully kids like Hannigan, all to get what you want. They’re nothing but a means to an end.”
“You know nothing.” Posey enunciated each word with distaste. “Typical. The problem with set asides like you is good cops are the ones set aside.”
“We’re done here,” Lawyer #4, or maybe it was #5, said. The suits stood.
Cruz smiled, entertained by the insult. The harder Posey worked to needle him, the closer Cruz was to breaking that last string. “You got cocky, thinking yourself untouchable. Hiring a cop to kill. He’s going to turn on you. He’s been in the game so long, he’s forgotten more than you will ever know.”
“I asked McCracken to do nothing.” Posey planted the flat of his hands on the table, his head crossing into Cruz’s personal space. “He came to me, tired of being overlooked by the Cleveland police, wanting to get out of that hole you all locked him in. Hannigan wanted his mother’s precious house. DeMusa wanted the service award and scholarship that went with it. They all came to me because they want what I can give them. You look shocked, Detective. Did you really think I’d take advantage of innocents?”
Cruz knew he did; Hannigan had recorded it. “You ordered McCracken to take care of DeMusa. You didn’t care how as long as she was gone from your life. You ordered him to keep Yablonski busy, also gone from your life.”
Posey’s mask slipped, just for a moment, but it was telling. Lawyers hovered, unsure what to say.
“Yes,” Cruz said, “we know you were behind the death of a confidential informant.”
Posey was on his feet. “I did not kill that junkie. Whatever McCracken did, he did of his own design.”
“Just like Hannigan was working on his own when he drugged DeMusa. Or McCracken again, doctoring my drink, getting me high and busted to discredit me. Funny how these good Samaritans keep cleaning up your problems all on their own.”
Posey nodded, his posture confident in his denial. “It’s their business, not mine.”
“You run a tight ship. Angie Johnson, your a
dmin, said you were one of the best to run the office. You know what you want and how to get it. This city is better today not because of Mulgrew but because of you.”
He snorted. “Damn right,” he hissed. “I’m good at what I do. Peter Mulgrew would be nothing without me. Nothing. I run city hall. I keep the council voting with him. I have investors coming to our shores. The projects I brokered brought two thousand new jobs, good-paying jobs, to this city last year. This year, we’ll double that.”
“But success has a price.”
His defiant chin rose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, De La Cruz.”
A smile flickered—the fucker finally got his name right. “You knew exactly what Val Hannigan did to Sophie DeMusa. You didn’t just know, you were proud of him, impressed enough you cut through a mountain of red tape to put him in the intern pool the next day. What did Val do to piss you off?”
Lawyer #1 put a hand on Posey’s shoulder, backing him into the chair. Posey shook him off. “Val pissed McCracken off. It was all McCracken. Said the kid needed to be taught a lesson. I tried to stop him, but he overpowered me.”
Cruz fell back in his chair, pulling from Hannigan’s recordings. “That’s not the story McCracken is telling. His story is you lost your cool because Val talked to me. You questioned his loyalty and when he couldn’t prove it, you beat Val to death with the fireplace poker. Nearly did the same to McCracken until he agreed to dump the body wrapped in your drapes.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek, measured the quality of Posey’s suit. “Bet you’re going to look good in orange.”
Posey’s face blanched at the details no one but McCracken knew. “You goddamn bastard!” He leapt across the table; five pairs of hands restrained him. “You spew that shit in public and I’ll do more than take your badge, I’ll ruin your life! I own your girlfriend. I owe that spic landscaper. Don’t you get it? No one works in this city without me.” Spit flew from his mouth, shouting tore the voice hoarse, but still it roared over his unheeded attorneys. “One word from me and you’ll be on the street, disgraced, unemployed, homeless. Your own mother won’t recognize you.”
