by TG Wolff
“I love you, too.” It wasn’t enough. “Do you think, if I asked you to marry me again, you’d say yes?”
Her eyes became glassy. “I think I would.” Hastily, she pressed her fingers to his lips. “Ask me when you come back.” She smiled weakly and even that faded when a car pulled in the driveway. “Better get going. Matt’s here.” She gave him a quick kiss and left him alone.
He fingered the stone around his neck, picked up his bag, then walked out the door of his house. His Cleveland Division of Police car was in his garage. The truck Aurora drove pinned it in. He patted the back of it, entreating it to take care of her.
“I’m coming back.” he shouted to the silhouette in the window. “I am coming back.”
Cruz drove the tricked-out Escalade through the neighborhood Uncle Hall used to own. He parked it in front of a house no person in their right mind would pay more than twenty Gs for. The windows were darkened by shades except where they were torn. The screen door was off one hinge and cocked at a useless angle. The paint was in the process of pealing itself off the wood framed home.
He knocked on the front door.
A blurry-eyed man with a gun tucked into the front of his jeans opened the door. “We ain’t fuckin’ buyin’.”
Cruz smiled. “That’s not what I heard, my friend.”
The blurry eyes widened, the pupils struggling to focus. “Tigre? Oh, holy fuck. El Tigre. I thought you got popped, like, two years ago.”
“Nope. Still kickin’. Can I come in, Ray Ray? Don’t like having my ass hangin’ out in the wind.”
Raymond Ramos, known as Ray Ray, had been Cruz’s right hand man when he’d been undercover. He had given Cruz the nickname Tigre after an alley fight and the name stuck. Ray Ray was nearly the same age as Cruz and made what legitimate dollars he had delivering soft drinks for his uncle’s distributing company.
“Come in, come in, come in.” Ray Ray backed up, inviting Cruz in like an honored guest. The house hadn’t changed much in the years. One of the chairs was new. A few more holes in the wall. “Oh, hey, meet my woman. Keisha,” he yelled. “Come in here and meet El Tigre.”
Keisha was young, barely legal, and she was high.
“Tigre,” she giggled. “Meow. I like your necklace.”
“Keisha, go get my friend a drink. I’d offer you blow, but we just finished it off. Gotta find a new bag man, you know what I’m saying?” He snickered, caught himself, and then smiled. He took the gun out of his pants and set it on the coffee table. “Sit down. How you still walkin’ around? Thought Uncle capped you.”
Fingering the scars at his eye, Cruz sat in the newer chair. “Nearly. Messed me up bad.”
“How’d you get out of there? The cops showed up and everything went to hell. I couldn’t find you.”
“No idea how I got out of there.” No memory was a blessing. “Woke up in a hospital with tubes going in and out. My face wrapped up like a fuckin’ mummy. Almost lost my eye.”
Ray Ray leaned forward, staring at the scars. “Shit, man. That’s too close.”
“When I got out, I had to put miles between me and Uncle. Serious miles. Didn’t need him coming back at me while I was drinkin’ my dinner through a straw.”
“That was smart. You always was smart. Uncle was lookin’ for you.”
“Figured. I woulda if I was him. I had to ghost, you know? Went to Dayton. I gotta cousin that took me in. Started working down there.”
“Whatcha doin’ back here?”
“Heard Uncle met the reaper. Heard lots a people met the reaper. I came back to take back what’s was mine.”
Ray Ray clapped loudly. “Thank you, Jesus.”
Cruz laughed at the unwitting joke. Keisha sauntered in and handed Cruz a beer. He took it a little too forcefully, over compensating for being hesitant to touch the damn thing. Keisha didn’t notice.
He opened it but didn’t drink. “I’m setting up in Uncle’s old house. Thinking of throwing a little welcome home party for myself. You know anyone who wants to party?”
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? The entire mother fuckin’ city wants to party. The fuckin’ Drug Head guy’s killin’ my buzz.”
Playing dumb and arrogant, Cruz snorted mockingly. “Who’s this Drug Head guy? A snowman?”
“He’s a killer. A no-good fuckin’ killer and the police ain’t doin’ nothin’ to stop him. He capped Uncle. Got Bear. People runnin’, man. If they gotta place to go, they goin’.”
“But not you?”
Ray Ray grinned as pat the gun on the table. “Drug Head don’t worry me. I hope he takes a run.”
July 3
Jesus De La Cruz has moved into one of the houses. His hair is long and he has a beard but I see him.
He calls the infected souls to him. He plays his music loud and stands on the street corner and they come to him.
He is like me, now. One soul at a time, we fight for the redemption of the city.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tuesday, July 3
It was déjà vu all over again. Cruz sat in Walter Stanislav’s home, sipping the Cuban coffee. The house changed little since the day last November when he’d accepted the man’s hospitality while waiting for Alvin ‘Uncle’ Hall’s dogs to be contained.
Today they sat in the kitchen instead of the living room. The shades drawn, sheltering his meeting with the bald man with the wiry beard.
“We’ve been profiling every one you’ve come in contact with.” Yablonski sipped the coffee, winced, then pushed it away. “You’re a popular guy. It’s keeping the boys and girls busy.”
“Any hits?” He’d gone above and beyond to be a loud, visible beacon to anyone who wanted a piece of anything. Sometimes it seemed there was a line out his door.
“Nothing strong, not yet. You really think the suspect is going to show up at a party?”
“He was able to approach the victims without raising their suspicion. He had to be someone they were familiar with.”
“I like the way you handled Dee Dee Reynolds.”
“What were the odds she’d answer the call when Keisha miscarried?” The EMT he once thought could be his suspect had sliced through chaos like a hot knife through butter. “I never saw nothing like that, Yablonski. Dialing nine-one-one was the only thing I could to do.”
“Do you think she made you?”
He gave a single shake of his head. “She had her hands full with Keisha and Ray Ray.”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty hard to miss a guy like El Tigre.”
Cruz rolled his eyes. “You aren’t going to give me a hard time about that.”
“Of course, I am. As your friend, I’m duty bound to use it against you for the rest of your life.”
“Shit. Well, don’t tell Aurora.”
Yablonski grinned. “Too late.”
“I saw the mayor’s speech on TV,” Cruz said, turning back to topics that didn’t choke him up. Working undercover never bothered him before, but then he’d been alone. There was no one to miss or be missed by. He had thirty days to make an arrest. Today was day 8 “He’s committed a lot of resources to July Fourth events.”
“Ester Moorehouse has amped things up and joined forces with Pastor Michael Ashford for a community forum. It managed to get a lot of people in a room that hadn’t been together before. The county prosecutor talked about treatment and rehabilitation being tools to improve people’s lives and reduce prison populations. The mayor announced an initiative rewarding addicts for staying sober with tuition-free classes at any of the higher institutions in the city.”
“Any? Case Western Reserve included?” Cruz raised a skeptic’s eyebrow.
“That’s what the man said.”
“Now that’s going to be a culture shock.”
“Are you still planning a party for tonight?”
“I gotta get his attention. Working street corners isn’t doing it.”
“You don’t know that. Just because he hasn’t killed you yet doesn’t me
an he isn’t planning it. You watch your ass.”
Sixty people filled the house, turning it into a slice of hedonism. The beer he carried was warm and full. He’d done what he had to do to sell that he was back and legit. It was easier to pull off the lie in a big group like this where no one cared about anyone except themselves. Cruz could stagger and slur his words, laugh and ramble, and no one was the wiser.
One on one was harder, especially with a social guy like Ray Ray. Cruz was surprised the guy took a piss alone. So, he did what he had to do. He’d come to hate the feeling of his head being disassociated from his body. He needed to be in control, as much control as the Drug Head Killer was in.
Too many people to watch. The big ones and little ones he mentally moved aside. He wanted to the average ones, the white ones, the ones who blended. That outted a black woman with her hair cut boy short and a Hispanic man whose hands were too smooth to be described as rough or hairy. He had two potentials. The first was a white man turned down by two women, so far. His smile never faded, he just adjusted and tried again.
The second white man had ropy muscles, greasy wavy hair, and a beard trimmed to a perfect triangle. He leaned against a wall, watching the room.
Cruz looked everywhere but at him. The man had the right stature, the right build but didn’t blend in. It was the danger in the set of the dark eyes that set off Cruz’s internal warning system. Cruz was armed. A handgun in an ankle holster. A knife in his pocket. He had intended them for show but would use them if it came down to it. The guy stayed where he was, talking to those who drifted his way. Cruz let him stay there, waiting for him to approach.
After midnight, the front of the house lit up with red and blue lights. Cruz shifted the little white girl off his lap and went out his front door. He met the cops down at the sidewalk, wanting to keep it private. A few of his guests staggered onto the porch but weren’t willing to go the last twenty feet. “’Sup?”
The two uniforms approached without recognition. “We’ve received complaints about the noise, sir. You have to turn it down.” One of the officers looked past Cruz to the porch. A few of the wasted partiers were making lewd gestures.
“It’s the fourth of July. A day made for partyin’.” He held his hands up in surrender when the officer took an aggressive step forward. “We’ll keep it inside.” He walked back to the house, ushering everyone in. He turned the music down from eleven to four, which sounded like a whisper after hours of blaring sic beats.
The corner with the watcher was empty except for three bottles.
Two more hours and people started dropping. Some left, more slept where they sat.
Ray Ray stepped over a pair of legs on his way to the door. “Nobody throws a party like El Tigre.”
“You don’t have to go, man. Crash here.”
“Next time, man. I gotta special delivery to make. Early. Won’t pay to be late, you know?”
“That dude was right, this was the place to be. Yo, Ray Ray. You leavin’? Can I catch a ride?” A light skinned Latino in a Cleveland Indians T-shirt came down his stairs.
At first Ray Ray didn’t look like he knew him, then he flung his arm around the slim man. “What the hell. I’m feeling generous tonight. See you later, Tigre. Great fuckin’ party.”
Wednesday, July 4
The cell phone in the case with skull and crossbones rang. Light fought through Loretta Hall’s curtains to mess with Cruz’s eyes. He squinted, forcing his pupils to focus on the screen. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Yeah,” he said, draping his arm over his eyes.
“Tigre?” A woman sniffled. “This is Keisha. Ray Ray’s girl?”
“Keisha. Right. Right.” He looked at the clock. Half past eleven. “What’s going on?”
“Is Ray Ray there?”
“I don’t think so. He left after two this morning. You want me to check?”
“Yeah. I’m worried on accounta he hasn’t called. He always calls.”
Wearing the thin cotton pants he slept in, Cruz opened his bedroom door. A dozen people slept in his house. Two were in the little bed that had been Alvin’s. Boy, girl with the sheet around their waists.
“Time to get up and out.” Cruz pounded on the bedroom door, earning him groans and curses from the sleeping couple. There was a guy on the stairs. Two on the couch. One on each chair. The floor here, there, and everywhere. None of them were Ray Ray.
“Sorry, Keisha. Not here.”
“Tell me the truth, Tigre. Did he go home with another woman?” Her voice trembled as she asked the question she feared most.
“No, Keisha. He said he had to work. What the fuck? It’s a holiday.”
“It was just a half-day for some of their best customers, but he didn’t show, Tigre. His uncle’s pissed.”
“Maybe he’s sleepin’ it off somewhere.”
“Maybe,” she said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it. “He doesn’t just disappear like this. Not without a call or text.”
“Meet me at Ray Ray’s house.” He ended the call as he got busy cleaning house. “Party’s fucking over. Out.”
One guy rolled over and put a pillow over his face. Cruz took a handful of shirt and another of jeans and dragged the bastard off the couch.
“I. Said. Out.”
The rats scrambled off the ship. Five minutes and he was alone. Walking amid the detritus, he retrieved his cell phone from the top of the kitchen cabinet.
“Yablonski. Ray Ray left here two this morning, girlfriend just reported him MIA. He works for his uncle’s distributorship. I’m on my way to the girlfriend. Going to convince her to bring you in.”
“I’m pulling the video from last night. One hell of a party, my friend. Got him. Who is the little guy with him?”
“No idea but find him. ID the man in the corner, too. Got a couple of beer bottles with his tag on ’em.”
“On it.”
It took some work to get Keisha to come up with the idea of calling the police. Cruz played the Drug Head card. The nineteen-year-old had been a bundle of nerves but was going to play the wait-see-cry-pray game.
Yablonski responded to the call with a uniformed officer. Cruz stood behind Keisha, projecting he-didn’t-give-a-fuck-what-was-going-down.
“Can I call you Keisha?” Yablonski asked, sounding more like a guidance counselor than a cop. “What is the name of the company Raymond works for?”
“Cuyahoga Distributing. His uncle owns it. Angelo Ramos.”
“All right. The officer is going to give Uncle Angelo a call while you and I talk about Raymond. What time does he usually go to work?”
“He leaves around four. He has to load the truck before he starts his deliveries. A lot of the restaurants want their deliveries early.”
“Does he have a regular route?”
“Mostly. Sometimes there might be a special order or if someone’s sick, you know.”
“Do you live here with Raymond?”
She shook her head. “But I stay over a lot.”
“Can you tell if anything is missing? Did he come home?”
“I, uh, don’t know. I didn’t look around like that.”
“Could you do that now for me?”
Cruz stayed where he was, looking like he’d as soon stick a knife in his friend’s kidney as talk to him.
“You got a problem with me?” Yablonski asked, sounding like he wanted an excuse to stand on Cruz’s throat.
“You ugly. You white. You cop.” He ticked off his fingers. “Guess you out, pendejo.”
Yablonski ground the fist of one hand into the mitt of the other. “Watch your language, boy.”
Keisha ran down the stairs. “His work uniform is gone. The pants and shirt he wears.”
The officer came back in the front door. “Detective.”
Yablonski held up his hand. “Keisha. It would be helpful if you could find a recent picture of Raymond and something personal of his. Toothbrush. Comb. Anything like that.”<
br />
When she ran off, the officer came up to Yablonski and stood close enough Cruz could overhear.
“Raymond Ramos came in, loaded his truck, and was gone before anyone else arrived. One of the dispatchers came in at six. Ramos didn’t answer any calls—cell or radio. Didn’t make any deliveries. The truck is GPS equipped. Angelo Ramos found the truck parked on Train Avenue. No sign of his nephew.”
There was a moment for the unspoken to sink in.
“I’ll get his cell number from her,” Yablonski said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a ping. Did we get an ID on our partiers?”
“The hitchhiker is Miguel Mendez, nineteen. Was picked up on a DUI the day after he turned eighteen. I have the address. The other guy is Anaconda Chavez-Brown—”
Yablonski whistled low and long.
“You know him?” the officer asked.
“We haven’t been formally introduced, but he has a reputation.”
Keisha ran back in. “Do these work?” She held out a snapshot taken at a Christmas party, his toothbrush, comb, and ball cap.
“Perfect. I’ll need his cell phone number. There is a chance we can trace him.”
She gave it up instantly. “What else?”
“I have your number. We’ll get to work and call you when we know something.”
She blinked up at Yablonski. “That’s it?”
Yablonski rested a supportive hand on her shoulder. “You’ve given us a lot. A lot more than most people. Let us do our job.”
Then they left. Cruz stayed where he was, hating that others were doing the work. Keisha rubbed her eyes, looking around for something to do besides cry.
“Fuck this, Keisha. Let’s go look places where the cops can’t.”
It took hours, but they looked everywhere. Flops even cockroaches considered too nasty to live in and dark nooks of fancy buildings. The shadows. The streets. The holes people crawled in to escape. Everywhere. They didn’t find Ray Ray.
A small porch projected off second floor on the rear of the Hall house. Cruz stood on it, watching the sun melt into the horizon. Blue gave way to purple, streaked with brilliant red and orange. It looked like a painting and he thought of Aurora. Impatient firebugs set off illegal fireworks, bright splashes of light against a cotton-candy sky.
