by TG Wolff
Taking her hand, he led her to their table. “I’m buying. Don’t even think about arguing.” His jeans were clean. His black shirt promised to be wrinkle free. He rubbed his shadowed jaw, wishing he had shaved. He couldn’t do anything about his face, except shave.
Her mouth fell open into a perfect O. “What’s this?”
“A lotus flower handmade by Tibetan monks, and sold to raise funds for heating oil for the monastery.”
She swallowed a smile, turning the gift in her hands. “It says ‘Made in Mexico.’”
“Mexican Tibetan monks. They’re rare.”
“I bet,” she said, cradling the flower to her chest. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” She stepped in.
“The monks made it, you know, just for you.” Toe to toe, he lowered his chin, inviting the soft brush her lips over his. “Yeah. Coffee. I’ll get coffee.”
“Decaf, please. It’s too late for caffeine.”
He snorted. “It is never too late for caffeine.”
Cruz was on his second cup while Aurora nursed her first. She repeatedly stroked the petals of the flower. She talked, he listened and asked questions when she would have retreated. He knew she was twenty-eight and an artist working in oils and pastels. She had two sisters, one older, one younger. She loved children. She was passionate about education and the arts, about her family and friends.
“Tell me about your friends,” Cruz said when her phone signaled a text.
Aurora rolled her green eyes. She thumbed over the icons and flipped through several images until she held the screen to him. “Karen. Veronica. Kylie. They were impressed with the flower.” Her phone chimed again. Aurora read the text and smiled.
“What?”
“They think you’re cute.”
He raised a brow. “Cute? You took my picture? Let me see it.”
She blushed, bright red. “Ah, no.”
It had to be a damn good picture to bring out that color. “There’s a woman waving at you.” He pointed to the window over her shoulder.
“Really? I wonder who?” Aurora turned to where he pointed.
He snatched the phone from her hand.
“Zeus! Gimme it back.”
“I’m not reading your texts. I just want to see the pict—it’s my butt.” His gaze snapped to her eyes. “You took a picture of my butt.”
She dropped her eyes to her hands, her fingers dancing across a spoon. “I took the one of your face first. You were in line and, well, you have a great butt.”
Cruz laughed. No one turned him inside out the way Aurora did. Unconsciously, he touched the scars by his eye. “It is my best side.”
“You have a nice face. Strong. Maybe a little stubborn, but nice. What happened? To your eye?”
Cruz dropped his hand because he wanted to cover the scars. “I was injured on the job. I got hit in the face with an engine block.”
Aurora dropped the spoon she was playing with. Large eyes in an expressionless face blinked at him.
“It was a few years ago. I don’t remember it. Not really. I worked undercover narcotics. I arranged a buy, it was a big deal for our investigation. Things went wrong early. The guy who was my competition in the organization decided to make a move. I turned, I must have turned. Anyway, the bust went down. When it was over, I was done working undercover. The doctor said I was an inch away from losing my eye. My face…it was messed up. Anyway, I recovered, and transferred to homicide.”
“Wow.” Her fingers rested on the back of his hand.
“Part of my recovery was realizing that I am an alcoholic.”
“Oh.” Aurora’s eyes widened. “You should have said something. I didn’t need the wine last night.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to not drink around me. That’s not why I’m telling you.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because I like being around you and I want to be around you more. If you’re going to be around me, you need to know I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
Aurora bit her lower lip. “I’m bad with money. I don’t know where it all goes. Sometimes, I sell my paintings to make ends meet.”
“I keep odd hours. With my job, I have to work all hours.”
“I’m a horrible cook. I burned water once.”
“I drink three gallons of coffee a day.”
“I sleep naked.”
His mouth went dry. “It’s getting late. Maybe you should come home with me. We can have a sleep over.”
Her eyes sparkled as she giggled, the sound sweet, like a bird. “You make me laugh, Zeus.”
Yeah, he liked that. “Have dinner with me.”
“When?”
Cruz thought through his schedule. Tomorrow would be no better than today. “Saturday. My place. I’ll cook.”
“It’s a date.”
February 16
I have a cold. My brain feels like a cannonball inside my skull. I wish I had some chicken soup but all that’s in my kitchen is the basics. I used to like to cook. I didn’t notice that I stopped. An apple and oatmeal isn’t the same as chicken soup.
There hasn’t been much in the news about my sign. The weather was rotten. That’s probably where I caught the cold. One channel replayed a clip from the bridge where I hung the sign. It was gone but there were a few police cars. They should leave the signs up longer, so more would see them.
The reporter chased after a man. I couldn’t believe it when he said the name.
Jesus De La Cruz.
Chapter Ten
Friday, February 16
The day was all about nothing.
Nothing in the Rocky River Valley Park a hundred feet below where the latest head was found. Nothing on the cargo net. Nothing from Yablonski and narcotics. A-a-and, nothing in his go cup. He’d call it a wrap and head home to—
The phone rang. “De La Cruz.”
“This is Nelson from Missing Persons. We took a call loosely matching the description of your John Doe. Sending the details your way.”
An email came through with Nelson’s name on it. Cruz opened it and read it back to the man who sent it. “Bobby Mayes, nineteen years old, last seen Monday, February twelfth by his mother, Melissa Mayes. What took her so long to report him missing?”
“She thought he was staying with a friend for a few days. When he wasn’t home this morning, she called the friend and learned he never showed.”
“Blond hair, brown eyes. Scar on his forearm. Well, that’s not going to help me. Okay. I’ll let you know if this goes anywhere. Thanks, Nelson.” Cruz ended the call and made a second one. “Yablonski. I have a name for you. Bobby Mayes.”
“Not ringing any bells, Cruzie.” A keyboard clicked in the background. “Nope. Let me knock a few heads together and I’ll call you back.”
An hour later, Cruz knew Robert James Mayes had a speeding ticket last November, unpaid, but no car was registered in his name. The address on his driver’s license was his mother’s. He worked at a pet store. His social media of choice was Twitter. Narcotics hadn’t heard of him.
The image snapped by the medical examiner resembled the one taken by the Ohio Department of Motor Vehicles. Hair in the same color spectrum—one was wet, the other dry. Eye color was similar; shape couldn’t be evaluated. Face shape was similar. Skin color impossible to compare.
The likelihood of a match was seventy-five percent, in his estimation.
Cruz and his tenth cup of coffee parked in front of the Mayes home at fifteen minutes before six. It was a faded, yellow house with a long front porch in the area Martinez had claimed.
A petite woman answered the door. Her black hair, streaked with gray, fell past her shoulders. She tucked it behind her ears, an obvious nervous habit. “Officer Cruz?”
“Detective De La Cruz,” he corrected. “Mrs. Melissa Mayes?”
She nodded, and then stepped back. “Come in. Please.” The living room was a large square. A doorway off the side of the room was covered with a cur
tain, a bedroom Cruz suspected. Through the living room was a dining room that was nearly the same size. A man stood in the doorway.
“Th-this is my neighbor, Sam Bell.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bell.”
Arms crossed over a thin chest. “I’m here to make sure Melissa is treated right. I have my cell phone recording his whole conversation.”
“All right.” He had no problem with keeping everybody on the up-and-up. Using his own smart phone, Cruz activated the recording app. “February sixteen, five-forty-five p.m. Detective De La Cruz at the home of Melissa Mayes regarding the disappearance of her son, Robert. Also present, Mr. Sam Bell. Can we sit, Mrs. Mayes?”
“Yes. O-of course.”
Bell led the way, pointing Cruz into a chair at the dining room table. Mrs. Mayes sat across from him, pale, trembling, unfocused. He read her as literally sick with worry. Mr. Bell sat next to him, leaning forward, ready to capture the social injustice he expected Cruz to perpetrate any second now.
Cruz set his notebook on the table. “I understand you last saw your son on Monday, is that correct?”
“Yes. He was scheduled Tuesday one to nine at the pet store. I left for work while he was still asleep. He had plans with a friend for a movie marathon.”
“Do you know the name of his friend?”
“Pete Bartoli. Bobby didn’t come home on last night, so I called Pete. He said Bobby was good and not to worry, but he doesn’t answer his phone and he hasn’t called and he’s not home.” Her voice trailed off. Bell covered her hands with his and she clung to him.
“I’ll need an address and phone number for Pete. Does Bobby usually stay with friends in the middle of the week?”
“He is nineteen. Sometimes he stays there. Sometimes Pete and others stay here.”
“I would like a list of his friends, addresses and phone numbers if you have them. Where did Bobby work?”
“Pet Carnival. He was promoted to assistant manager after he graduated high school. He was supposed to open the store today. I called at his lunch, just to check, and they said he didn’t show up. He wouldn’t just skip. That job means a lot, and he is doing so well. He does was much as the manager.”
“Probably taking advantage of Bobby,” Bell said. “Having him do the manager’s work without paying him the manager’s wages.”
Cruz continued with his notes, not reacting to the comments. “Was there anyone Bobby was having any problems with? Work, friends, girlfriend?” When the mother shook her head, he changed angles. “Do you have a picture of Bobby that I may have?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Mayes rose slowly, then went into the kitchen. She returned with a five by seven senior picture. The formal picture was taken in a park. The face smiling out was on a lanky body, sitting on a picnic table, elbows on his knees.
The picture upped the percentage to ninety percent to Cruz’s mind. “Mrs. Mayes, can I see Bobby’s room?”
Mrs. Mayes looked to Bell, who was reading Cruz like a book. “Better not, Melissa. Cops are always looking for a way to pin it on the victim.”
“Mrs. Mayes,” he said in a voice both calm and authoritative. “You called us to find your son. I need information to do that. Cleveland is a big place. Everything helps.”
She led the way through the kitchen and up a narrow set of steps. The second floor consisted of a bathroom and two bedrooms. The wall between the bedrooms had been knocked down, but never finished, creating one large room. It was a teenage version of a man cave. A sixty-inch television swallowed one wall. Four gaming lounge chairs were arranged in front of it with video game controllers in the mix. Pricey shoes from the top NBA players were scattered around the room. An ionic air purifier hummed unobtrusively on the floor.
The toys in the room were just a little too nice for an assistant manager at a pet store, even one that lived with his mother. And you only used an air purifier when there was something in the air you needed to get out.
The odds just hit one-hundred percent.
One look at the anxious woman said she had no idea. “Mrs. Mayes, I’d like your permission to search the room.”
Bell did not like that. “Don’t do it, Melissa. You got rights. He can’t search it without a warrant.” He spoke with the knowledge and confidence that came from watching every episode of Law & Order twice.
“Mr. Bell is correct, Mrs. Mayes, unless you give me your permission.”
“I don’t know, I don’t.” Mrs. Mayes became frantic, more uncertain with every word Bell whispered in her ear.
Cruz left fifteen minutes later without searching the room, but he did have Bobby Mayes’s hairbrush and toothbrush. He left the worried mother and her defiant friend with empty words, knowing on his next visit, he would be coming as a homicide detective.
On instinct, Cruz went to Pet Carnival. The items he collected from the Mayes’s home could wait an hour to be logged in. He wanted to see what Mayes did for a living.
Inside the shop, Mary Jane McNamara reached into the vat of crickets, oblivious to the jumping and chirping. She bagged and tagged the horde before ringing them up. Cruz waited for the customer to pay and leave.
“You want to know about Bobby?” The high school junior was more composed than many adults talking to a police detective. “He was nice, you know? If we were slow, he’d let me study and would schedule me around my school activities. He was good to work for.”
There was a tentativeness in her voice that didn’t match her words. “But?”
“There are no ‘buts,’ Okay, so his friend creeps me out. He smells funny and stares at me and giggles.” She shivered, hands rubbing her arms to warm them. “Totally creepy.”
“When did you see Bobby last?”
“Tuesday. He asked me to stay late and close for him.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Just before seven. I remember because I got hit with a rush right at seven and wished he had stayed just another fifteen minutes.”
“Bobby didn’t drive that night. Did you see who picked him up?”
“No, but Bobby was happy to see him.”
“Him? Male?”
She shook her head. “Don’t know. Bobby pushed the door open and said something like ‘Are you ready to do this?’”
“What do you think he meant by that?”
“I don’t know. When he asked me to close, I asked what was going on. I wasn’t sticking my nose in, it was just conversation. He got quiet, like he was trying to think of a lie to tell me. I didn’t really care, so I just told him I would. Why not? Like I said, he is a good manager.”
“Are there security videos outside the building?”
“Just inside on the front and back doors. It’s in the office.” She led the way, using a key from a ring to unlock it.
“Is it always locked?”
“Unless the manager or Bobby is in. I have the key, so I can lock the cash up when I close.” She pointed him to the security system, and then the bell rang in the main room. “That’s a customer. Is it okay if I go help them?”
“Sure, Mary Jane. I’ll come out when I’m done.” The small office had another ionic air purifier running, and it still smelled of latent marijuana. Cruz did a search but came up empty. He’d get a search warrant tomorrow to do a thorough job. The smell itself was enough to confirm his suspicions.
He focused on the system that saved seven days of video before overwriting itself. He reversed through the footage until ten minutes before seven on Friday night. There was Bobby Mayes doing exactly what Mary Jane had described. The camera caught nothing but the white glare of headlights.
Cruz went back into the store. This time, Mary Jane was trying to net little fish swimming their tail fins off to evade her. The twenty-something she served didn’t look like the aquarium type.
He started to sweat when he noticed the ID hanging from Cruz’s neck. “You know what, skip it. I’ll come back another time.”
“But you said you were out of feeders.” M
ary Jane talked to his retreating back. “Hey! Don’t you need your fish food?”
Cruz tapped a knuckle on the glass. “You sell a lot of these little guys?”
“Bobby does. He’s like a fish whisperer. He even made his own fish food. We sell a bunch of it.” She handed Cruz the small, white container the customer had left behind.
The light-weight container had a home printed label of two very happy fish. Cruz opened it, inhaled and stopped before he was as happy as the fish. “Do you have a phone number for the owner? I need to talk to him.”
Saturday, February 17
By noon, it was official. Bobby Mayes and the I-480 John Doe were one and the same. The Pet Carnival owner was cooperating. crime scene spent the better part of the night searching the store and recovered marijuana, heroin, and a stash of prescription drugs. Pet Carnival sat at the end of a strip of five stores. Each store had their own security systems, but none caught the vehicle that picked up Mayes.
Melissa Mayes worked as an administrative assistant for downtown hotel. She returned Cruz’s call in person, anxious for news of her Bobby. In one of the smaller interview rooms, he told her they had found him.
Her thin chest heaved twice, and then she rose and left the room.
Bewildered, Cruz followed her. “Mrs. Mayes. Please let me call someone for you.” When she didn’t acknowledge he had spoken, he reached for her shoulder. “Mrs. Mayes?”
“Detective, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you know anything about Bobby.”
Oh. Shit.
“Mrs. Mayes. Please, sit down.” He grabbed the nearest chair and put it in her path. She looked at it as if she couldn’t quite remember what you used it for. “Is there someone I can call? A brother or sister?”
“There’s just me. Me and Bobby.”
“A friend? Mr. Bell?”
“Sam. Sam is my friend.” Her hand trembled as she handed her phone to Cruz.
He asked a passing female officer to sit with Mrs. Mayes and withdrew to a corner to make the call.
