by TG Wolff
They stood together, Aurora waving as their guest pulled away, then closed the house for the night.
“I’m not okay with that,” he said when they were in their bedroom. “For the record, I am not okay with Frankie Pelletier coming to our house anytime.”
She stripped off her shirt, waiving off his hard line. “She needed to talk.”
He peeled off his pants, throwing them into the laundry basket. “My work doesn’t come here.”
She shimmied out of her jeans, laughing. “You aren’t serious.”
He undid enough buttons to pull his shirt over his head. “Dead serious.”
“Baby, your work is here every day. Twenty-four-seven. Sometimes, I think this bed isn’t big enough for the three of us.”
“No.” He worked his ass off to keep his work life and his life with Aurora distinct and separate. “Here? It’s just me and you.”
In the camisole she liked best, she slid between the covers, lying on her side with her head propped on her hand. “You believe that, don’t you?”
He pulled on his sleep pants, crawled into bed, and kicked the sheets into obedience until he mirrored her position. “Yes, I do.”
Her fingers traced the scars by his eye. “When are you going to accept me as a part of your life? Your whole life.”
“You are my life, baby. The best part.” Tiring of the conversation, he pulled her against his body and got busy distracting her.
Monday, May 28
Cruz sat up in bed, reading his daily reflections with the sound of Aurora’s shower in the background. This morning she sang a spiritual, a classic, “Amazing Grace.” A beautiful song…except she couldn’t hit the high notes.
The words resonated. He felt lost. It had been over six months since Uncle Hall’s head was found. All the advances in technology and forensics had gotten him nowhere. Nobody was that perfect. He took a risk using Kroc and Frankie. They’d gotten closer than ever before to the phantom they hunted but still had little.
He returned his focus to the words of those who had walked in the steps before him. He focused on the good in life. Case in point: Aurora’s naked body.
“I feel guilty that you have to work all day while I get to play.” She rooted through the shared dresser, giving him an R-rated profile view.
“Hazards of the job. I’ll be happier knowing you are enjoying the holiday.”
She stepped into blue panties that disappeared between the globes of her perfect ass. “Really?”
“Really. It’s your family’s barbecue, you should be there.”
She selected a matching bra, put her arms through the straps, then hooked the back. “It is a tradition and grows every year. I think my parents expect over a hundred people to show. Can you imagine? It’s more like a reunion than a family barbecue. Friends, neighbors, my parents’ co-workers, everyone comes. Last year, my prom date showed up. I had to put on the dress I had made myself. Of course, my mother kept it.”
Family picnic, to Cruz, did not include ex-boyfriends. He could picture her laughing as boys and friends alike encircled her, a single, beautiful woman. Vultures.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He slid out of bed as she fastened the button on her silver pants. His hands were fast, pulling her back to his chest, her clothed buttocks against his morning cockstand. “Maybe I should go with you. Armed.” He brushed aside her hair and nipped her neck.
She looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re being silly.”
He chortled at the thought of being something a benign as silly with her being half-naked and talking about ex-boyfriends being at the picnic. “You aren’t even in the right ballpark, baby.”
She turned and took his face in her hands. “I love you.”
“I love you. What time will you be back?”
“I don’t know. I’ll help clean up, then I want to stop at the store to get supplies for a project with the kids. Maybe the grocery store, too.”
“Have fun, baby, but not too much fun.” Cruz kissed her soundly on the lips.
She giggled. “Silly. Happy hunting, Detective.”
There was no happy hunting, which was a good thing. He kept reminding himself it was a good thing. On Cruz’s recommendation, the commander had authorized overtime. Lots of overtime. Cruz knew exactly how many police offers were staked out around the city instead of picnic tables because the chief made a point of telling him.
But nothing happened.
Nothing. Zilch. Nada.
A team had staked out the remaining limited access highways since two hours before sunset Saturday night. The rib cook-off was a rousing but uneventful success. So was the Greek Festival and everything else. Good weather put everyone in the mood for a party.
Except Cruz. He kicked the shit out of a garbage can, frustrated at the nothingness of the day.
Cruz walked in the door as his AA meeting was starting. He fixed a cup of coffee and settled into a chair, intending to listen but he couldn’t hear a thing. The stories and experience of the others were drowned out by the noise in his head. He sipped the coffee, found it cold. One by one, the others filed by him. Time was up.
Tuesday, May 29
Eight in the morning, Cruz was working his way through his second cup of coffee and headlines from around the region featuring the growing debate: sinner or saint.
Yablonski sat a few feet away, watching three televisions are once.
“How are you following any of it?” Cruz asked.
He stroked his beard. “I’m a talented guy, gifted with multi-tasking skills far superior to mortal man.”
Cruz snorted a laugh. His phone rang. “Hey, baby, aren’t you supposed to be teaching?”
“Zeus, I’m worried.”
“What happened?” He sat up straighter, which had Yablonski doing the same thing.
“Jace Parker isn’t in school today. His mother called in that he fell and broke his arm. I mean, maybe he did but…I’m worried maybe he didn’t.”
“Yablonski and I will do a drive-by.”
“Thanks. I’ll feel better. Love you,” she said before hanging up.
“What do we got?”
“The kid, Jace Parker. Aurora said his mother called him off school because of a broken arm.” He pulled on his bullet-proof vest, checked his weapon, then shoved two snack-sized candies in his pocket.
Yablonski did the same, except for the candy. “I’ll drive.”
Minutes later, they pulled in front of the Parker house. Jace sat on the driveway playing with cars. His left arm was in a cast from the palm of his hand to near his shoulder. His right cheek was swollen and bruised.
Jace jumped and then grinned when he recognized the man stalking up the drive. “Hi, Cruz. Do you have any candy?”
Taking a knee, he pasted a smile on his face while inside he raged at the violence this boy lived with. “I might. What do you think? M&Ms or gummy worms?”
His blue eyes flickered with mischief. “Can I have both?”
“Yeah, but don’t tell Detective Yablonski. He’s a candy thief.” He looked over his shoulder to where the bald man with a copper-wire beard walked around the car.
“I like him. He gave me crackers and pop.”
“He’s a good guy.” He returned Jace’s smile, then asked quietly. “What happened to your arm? Your face?”
Jace looked at the cracked concrete under his legs.
“Jace. I’m sorry, buddy.”
His face lifted then, blue eyes true and honest. “You didn’t do nothing, Cruz. I was bad.”
“What are you doing here?” Hayley Parker stood on the front porch with a narrow glare that threw daggers at Cruz and Yablonski.
Yablonski laid a hand on Cruz’s shoulder when he would have popped up.
“We have a few questions, ma’am. Is your husband home?”
“No, he’s not, and I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“You do,” Yablonski said, “but it’s your choice to
do it here or back downtown. You can have an attorney present if you want.”
Hayley ran her fingers through her hair, taking thick fists of it and pulling. “Why can’t you just leave us alone!”
Cruz stood now. “Who did this to Jace?”
She wrapped her arms over the stomach. “He fell.” She said nothing else but looked around, desperate to get back in the house.
Yablonski stepped forward. “Let’s talk about this downtown.”
“No. No,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“What happened to Jace?” Cruz asked.
She spoke slowly, quietly. “He was naughty. He had to be taught a lesson, is all. Then he fell.”
“Did you push him or your husband?”
She looked in his eyes. “I’d never hurt Jace.”
“Where is he, Mrs. Parker? Where is your husband?”
“What are you going to do?”
Yablonski answered. “Child abuse is a serious crime.”
“But, but, he didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. Tell them Jace. Tell them it was an accident.”
With the full attention of three adults on him, Jace froze. All color fell from his little face, leaving the purple of the bruise that much more grotesque.
Cruz positioned his body to protect Jace from sight. “You don’t have to answer, buddy. This wasn’t your fault.”
“It was yours,” his mother threw with venom. “If you would just stay out of our lives, we would be fine.”
Yablonski stepped closer, his whiskey voice soft. “Did he beat you, too? Are there bruises under that sweatshirt? This is your chance to break the cycle.”
“By handing you my husband? What will I do without him?”
“Live. Provide a home for you and Jace. One without accidents.”
Tears poured down her face. “I…I don’t have a job. I can’t feed us.”
“There are people who can help,” Yablonski said, holding out his hand. “You just have to ask. Tell us where your husband is. That’s the first step.” She hesitated but stepped closer. “Don’t be a statistic. There’s too many sad stories in this city. Be a survivor. Be an exception.”
She looked between Yablonski and her house, Yablonski and her son, her son and his broken arm. She whispered the name of a bar.
“What’s happening?” Jace asked.
“Daddy’s going to go away for a little while, somewhere he can’t hurt us anymore.”
Jace frowned. “Will they hurt him?”
“No,” Cruz said, seeing a boy’s concern for his father. “He’ll stay in jail and appear in court. A judge will decide what happens but, no, the police won’t hurt him. That’s not what we do.”
Cruz and Yablonski spent most of the day shuttling between meetings. The chief’s office felt more like the principal’s. The meeting in the commander’s office was like being raked over the coals by an accountant. Numbers, numbers, and more fucking numbers. The temporary help he had for the weekend was gone. Yablonski stayed because of the inarguable tie to narcotics.
And just when Cruz thought his head was going to split open and spew out the few remaining brain cells he had, they went to a meeting with the community’s religious leaders on the state of the Drug Head killings. Pastor Michael Ashford attended, his rhetoric toned down by his own experience with the vigilante. Father Alejandro Ruiz from Sagrada Familia was there. Cruz tried to dodge him before Catholic guilt caught him by the gonads. The meeting was four hours long. F.O.U.R. The only consensus was praise Jesus.
“I need a beer,” Yablonski said, his beard twisted and bent to the side.
“Me too,” Cruz said. Yablonski punched his arm. Hard. “Ouuuch.”
“Not funny, you bastard. Let’s go throw some darts. Call our ladies, eat some bar food, throw some darts.”
Erin came straight from work wearing her scrubs.
Cruz leaned back when she’d have kissed his cheek. “You don’t take care of anyone contagious, right? Maybe you should scrub first.”
She grabbed his head and kissed him full on the mouth. “Coward.”
Moments later, a miniature tornado blew the door open. Bodies flew left and right as a Tasmanian Devil resembling his girlfriend tore through the restaurant. Cruz set his drink down just as a hundred and twenty pounds landed in his arms.
“Guess what? Guesswhat guesswhat guesswhat?” Aurora didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m having an art show!” She radiated sheer joy. Pure happiness.
“That’s wonderful, baby!”
“Oh. My. God!” Erin punctuated each word. “When? Where? We are so going, Matt.”
“Okay, okay,” Aurora said to calm herself. “I got a call from Urban Spaces. It’s an upscale gallery in Tremont. They have a show starting June 15 and had an artist drop out. They invited me to take his spot.”
Aurora grabbed Erin’s hands. They jumped up and down together, howling like a couple of teenage girls.
“How did they get your name?” Cruz asked. The women looked at him, scowling. “I mean it’s great. Rahhh.” Jazz hands. “You’re going to knock their socks off, baby. I just wondered how they found you.”
“Frankie made the connection.”
“Frankie? Pelletier?”
“Yes,” Aurora said, jumping on heels not meant to leave the earth. “The mother of one of her high school friends owns Urban Spaces. She pictures she took the paintings I have in the house and shared them. Isn’t that great!”
“Sure. Yeah. Did you know she was photographing your art?”
Aurora put her hands on his shoulders. “Stop. Just for five minutes, stop being a cop and be the boyfriend of an almost famous artist.”
Those green eyes, as honest and true as the blue ones he had to look in this morning made him want to be a better man. He pulled her hard against his chest and spun her in a circle until they fell into a table with laughter.
“I’ve never done an art show,” Cruz said. “What do we need to do?”
“I have two weeks to deliver twelve pieces. I’ve already decided on most of them. I have to call my mom and see if she’ll loan me the painting I did for her birthday. Oh, and I have fabulous idea for a new painting. It’s big. Like. Big. Hmm, I don’t think it’ll fit up the stairs.”
“I’ll clear out the garage. I’ll build you a studio if that’s what you need.” When she locked her mouth to his, kissing him until he saw stars, he figured he’d finally said the right thing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday, June 4
“Five more days!”
Cruz cracked open his lids to radiant green eyes. “I thought kids were the ones counting down to the last day of school.”
Aurora snorted a laugh and ruffed his mess of hair. “Nobody looks forward to summer like a teacher. Why do you think we all took this job?”
She wore a crazy Azteca-patterned skirt and an off-white, sleeveless shirt that showed the figure he loved to touch. Her hair hung loose today. A yard of dark curls against the creamy backdrop. He fingered one hanging over her breast.
“You have a little time yet, don’t you?”
She deftly slipped his grip. “What you have in mind takes more than a little time.”
“I can be quick.”
She snorted again. “That isn’t something to brag about.” She smiled when he frowned. “We’ll have plenty of time tonight. I’ll see you after your meeting?”
“Absolutely. Well…”
She held up her hand. “I know. Unless something comes up.” Then she cocked an eyebrow, quickly undid two buttons and flashed him.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you incentive to see that you’re the only thing that comes up tonight. Happy hunting, Detective.” She ran out of the room, laughter trailing behind her. Since the invite to the art show, she’d been walking on air.
True to his word, Cruz cleaned out half the garage for her latest piece. She worked on it daily, which meant she was practically living with him. S
he didn’t bring it up so neither did he.
The back door closed and then his truck door. Her car officially died the week before. He had considered bribing the mechanic to put the beast to an end, but he didn’t have to. Aurora had loved the little car. Too bad it was held together by rust and memory. Last time he was in it, they hit a pot hole, and he got road rash on his feet. The last bolt finally gave, and his truck became unofficially hers, giving him one less thing to worry about.
While his professional life circled the toilet bowl, home life was damn good. He could think of nothing that would make it better. Love waited for him in the form of his coffee and microwaved Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwich. He sat at his dining room table, happy as he ate and read his daily reflection.
His phone rang. Dispatch. He took the call, then made one to Yablonski. “Meet me on the West Shoreway at the corporate limits.”
“Shit,” Yablonski said. “I hoped when we got through Memorial Day, it was a sign.”
“I hear you. Get ready for a long day.”
A tent was up to screen the audience. And there was an audience. The strip of land that was the center of attention buffered the West Shoreway from Edgewater Park, a beach front park on Lake Erie. The park was popular for walkers this time of day, most of whom were curious about ten police vehicles lined up like freight train cars.
Cruz stood on the edge of the scene, arms crossed, not liking a damn thing he saw. “Everything’s wrong.”
Yablonski mirrored his posture and attitude. “Not one thing is right. Isn’t even a half-decent copycat.”
“Did you recognize the victim?”
“No. I snapped a photo and sent it to my guys.”
In the tall grass, the head sat, nose to the ground, near the bottom on a hill. The stake it had been impaled up still stood near the crest of the hill, which became the shoulder of the road.
Yablonski’s phone chimed with a text. “D’Andre Lattimore. That name sounds familiar.”
Cruz knew it. “My profile list. Tony Gentile and Ester Moorehouse.”
