by TG Wolff
Cruz said every prayer he’d ever learned as he sprinted out the door and captured Aurora in his arm. She held on, her feet dangling inches from the ground.
“Tell me what is going on.” Her voice trembled as much as her body.
He needed a moment to hold her, to convince himself that she was here and whole. “I’ll tell you everything once we’re inside.” Reluctantly, he set her on her feet but kept her tucked under his shoulder. He found a secluded place for them in the nearly empty bar. “The suspect…he found your picture. I’m fairly certain it was he you were going to meet.”
“My picture? But how?”
He named himself the fool he was, taking responsibility not lessening the impact of his mistake and the near result. “I’m guessing the gallery has you on the website. He had your name, your story. It wouldn’t take much for him to get a phone number.”
“Are you sure it’s him? Maybe it was just an art lover who wanted my painting?”
Feeling how much she wanted it—both the sale and appreciation—he put his arm around her, tucking her close. “Maybe but the timing is too coincidental.”
She stilled and eventually shook her head, snapping herself back from wherever she had gone. “I don’t know how you deal with this.”
Yablonski joined them. Three single, white men were detained and then released. Two weighed more than two hundred fifty pounds, the third was missing an arm. The street detail had pulled over nearly a dozen black vans and SUVs. No Anaconda Chavez-Brown. Nobody wore a sign saying “I am the Drug Head Killer.” No van filled with headless torsos.
It was unanimous that Aurora would not be staying at her apartment. Yablonski considered putting her in a police-secured location. Aurora wanted to stay with a friend.
Yablonski crossed his arms over his barrel-chest, daring Cruz to disagree.
Aurora pushed out her bottom lip and gave him puppy eyes.
“I love you, Aurora. When it comes to the house, our social life, and ninety-nine percent of everything else, I’ll give you your way. But not in this. You’ll go with Matt and do what he says for as long as it takes to shut this bastard down.”
“Zeus.” Aurora breathed his name with compassion, love. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“Damn right. And I want your cell phone. He has this number. We’ll get you a new one.”
Cruz had been back in the Hall house thirty minutes when a courier came to the door. A courier. In this little throwback neighborhood. He couldn’t have been more surprised if a leprechaun knocked on his door.
The envelope he was handed had his name clearly printed across the front. Detective Jesus De La Cruz. Cleveland Division of Police.
“Fuck.”
If this was from who he thought it was, then the glue on the envelope could give him the DNA sample he’d been looking for. He went to the kitchen for the knife. Inside was a single piece of paper, cut to fit inside the envelope. Printed neatly in the center was an address.
He called Yablonski. “I’ve been made.”
“By who?”
“Pick me up. We have an appointment. Bring plenty of friends.”
The address was a familiar one in the Slavic Village neighborhood, the same one where Aurora’s elementary school was, the same where she was called to meet the “art buyer.” The closer they got, the more the hair stood up on Cruz’s neck.
“This isn’t going to be good,” Yablonski said.
“I hope the boy isn’t here.”
Yablonski parked in front of the home Hayley Parker shared with Jace. Everything was normal and was all the more eerie for it. Backed by six officers, all in body armor and heavy weapons, they approached the house. They covered the front and the back doors.
Cruz knocked and raised his voice. “Mrs. Parker? It’s Detective De La Cruz. Cleveland police. Open the door.”
Silence answered wickedly.
“Hayley? Open the door.”
Now it dared them. Cruz signaled, and the house was entered.
“We got a body,” an officer covering the rear called. “Female.”
“Search the house,” he called out as he made his way to the body. “She has a son. His name is Jace.” He squatted by her head, grief and regret swamping him. “You were so close, so close to getting out of this bullshit. What the fuck happened, Hayley?”
Calls of “clear” sounded throughout the house. He stood, relieved he didn’t have to look upon the small body. Now, hope beat within his chest. “Jace? It’s Cruz. Come on out, buddy. It’s safe.”
The house was searched. “No one, Detective.”
“He’s small and clever,” Cruz said. “We have to check everywhere. Literally. Under the front porch. Attic. Everywhere.”
The house was searched again. Inside and out.
“Send out an Amber alert. Jace Parker. Age five. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Weight fifty pounds. Blue cast on his left arm.”
“On it,” an officer called out.
Cruz went upstairs. The bedroom Hayley used had a queen-sized bed shoved into a room made for a full size. The bed was made. Clothes were folded in the drawers or hanging in the closet.
The smaller bedroom belonged to Jace. A twin mattress laid on the floor, but the bed was neatly made. A small number of trucks and action figures were scattered on the floor. Not messy so much as used.
Cruz opened a drawer in the small dresser.
It was empty.
He pulled a second drawer. Empty also. Cruz furiously pulled open drawers finding nothing by lint and dust. The closest held extra blankets and more toys, but no clothing hung from the dozen hangers.
On the bathroom sink was a cup with one pink toothbrush. One toothbrush, not two.
Cruz walked down the steps slowly. This didn’t make sense. This wasn’t the Drug Head Killer’s M.O. at all.
“What the hell, Cruzie? Hayley Parker was stabbed with a knife. She had defensive wounds on both hands. There were wounds on her back and the killing wound over her heart.”
“This isn’t our suspect. Who knew where I was? Hayley didn’t, and she didn’t send that letter. Who has Jace?”
Maybe he hadn’t been made, at least not by the suspect. But who knew who he was? The Stanislauses. Aurora. Maybe someone recognized him but didn’t give it away.
Who would kill Hayley Parker and take off with Jace?
The obvious answer, Christopher Parker.
Cruz waved over one of the uniforms. “Check that Christopher Parker is still locked up. The rest of you, start with the neighbors. The missing child is the priority.” He squatted down next to Hayley, squinting as the light reflected oddly off her forehead. “Yablonski. Look at this.”
Yablonski came next to him. “What is that? Wax? There’s some on her mouth, too.”
Cruz leaned over her, changing the angle. Small crosses of oil, on her forehead and lips reflected the light differently. He looked around the kitchen and spotted a bottle of cooking oil next to the sink. “Someone gave her last rites.”
It was the judicial system’s worst nightmare. A small-time criminal released on bond goes after the wife he abused, kills her, and vanishes with his son.
Every cop in the city was looking for Christopher Parker.
Every programmable billboard, every television station, every radio station broadcast the description of Jace Parker.
Cruz sat at his desk looking at the picture he’d gotten from the school yearbook Aurora provided. He ached somewhere deep inside. Jace had never gotten a break in his young life. His nieces came to mind and the home his sister and brother-in-law provided. Not perfect but just what every kid should have. Happily imperfect.
Needing to move, needing to do something, he pushed to standing. “I’m going back to Uncle’s,” he said to Yablonski. “I’ll take my shit and work from there.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But at least there, I’m doing something.”
“Has it occurred to you he sent you to Parker’s
house as a warning? You could be next.”
He was smart enough not to tell his friend that was the point. “Then we better be ready.”
Cruz drove back to the Hall house barely seeing the road in front of him. His head flipped through image after image of people he’d come in contact with since that first November day. There were so many. Who would have recognized him and sent him to Hayley? How did they see him without being seen in return?
He ran through names.
Loretta Hall. No.
Gerard Wallace. White, cocky, slim build. Not a no.
Walter Stanislav. Maybe. He was wily. Cruz could see him directing the way to Hayley. But how would he have found her? She was across town.
L’Tonya Simmons. Nope. In jail on arson charges.
Lydia Hernandez. He just didn’t see it.
Melissa Mayes. Dead. A victim by extension.
Sam Bell. Capable of causing trouble, but his dark skin got him off the hook as their killer.
Tony Gentile. In jail on murder charges
Dee Dee Reynolds, Roger McCormick, Ester Moorehouse, Felix Sidowski. The women got the gender pass. The men had an undeniable motive. The auto mechanic was a straw away from the camel’s back breaking. It wouldn’t be pretty when it did. McCormick deserved a second look. Maybe that straw snapped eight months ago. The butcher, on the other hand, had his shit more together than Cruz did. It didn’t ring for him. There needed to be some deep-seated, unresolved issues behind these killings. Sidowski conquered his demons. The officers camping at the Stanislav home had expanded the list another six months, adding ten more names to be interviewed.
Anaconda Chavez-Brown. Unaccounted for.
He felt a failure again, making him angry and mean. He parked the gas-hogging truck and used the remote to shut the gate. He was fucking closed. He didn’t care how bad anyone was jonesing for a fix. He left his laptop where it was. If he touched it, he’d throw it through a window.
He needed a drink—a shower. He needed a shower and to call Aurora. Fuck the rules. Something had to give or he’d freakin’ blow and take half the city with him.
Something caught his eye. A shadow. A blur.
He spun, going low, catching the man about to attack him around the waist. He pinned the arm that held the knife, but the attacker had enough room to poke a few holes in Cruz. The shallow bites kicked in Cruz’s survival instinct. When it came to flight or fight, for Cruz, it had always been fight.
Hard. Dirty. Often.
With momentum on his side, he took the attacker to the ground. His face landed near the attacker’s, and he bit him Mike Tyson-style. The attacker roared, fighting to dislodge him. He locked his legs around Cruz. They rolled over the coarse ground. Cruz’s head bounced off the concrete driveway. The knife dropped. They rolled, Cruz ending on top. Fists flew in the limited space. A right cross stunned Cruz, giving the attacker the opening he’d been looking for. He wrapped his hands around Cruz’s throat and squeezed.
Cruz clamped onto the thick wrists, unable to dislodge them. He gouged at the eyes, scratched at the face, punched at the nose. The grip didn’t slip. He looked around for something to use. Determine to squeeze the life out of Cruz, his assailant didn’t notice the hand that reached the dropped knife. The eyes with murder in them went wide when that knife was sheathed in his throat.
The hands around Cruz’s throat released immediately. He rolled away, gasping for air, rubbing his throat, barely hearing the life and death struggle the man next to him waged…and lost.
A shadow fell over him. Cruz reached for the piece on his ankle, then he recognized the officer. “Find out who this asshole is.”
The cop squatted down as sirens grew louder. “It’s Chavez-Brown. Ambulance is on its way. Just lie still.”
He fought to his feet. Like hell he was staying still. “Cancel it. I’m fine.”
July 8
I can’t stop crying. I’m soaking the paper and my hand is shaking and it won’t stop. I can’t see through the tears.
I have a son again. I don’t deserve a second chance, I know that, but I will not let him down. Jace needs someone to protect him, to stand against the evil that he lived with in his own house. He cries for his mother.
If you are looking down, Jason, I want you to know he’ll never replace you. He may use your name but he’ll never be you. I hope you will think of him as a brother, one I could never give you. Look out for us. Be our guardian angel. I’m taking him away from here, to a place where no one can hurt him. Some place good. Some place safe.
My calling has changed. The sword has been passed to my successor. Jesus De La Cruz.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday, July 9
Ray Ray’s girl Keisha picked Cruz up from the hospital and delivered him to the Hall’s house. Cruz refused to stay the night, and Yablonski refused to take him back. The cuts and contusions weren’t anything he couldn’t take care of himself. He didn’t need as many stitches as the overzealous resident put in. The chatty little bastard should join a quilting bee. He’d have skipped the whole experience if the officer watching hadn’t called in support at the first sign of blood.
His official phone rang around half past six in the morning. A restless night and aching body made him sloshy, slow answering the phone.
“Detective. We have another head,” an officer on the scene said.
“Where.”
“In front of City Hall. In one of the big planters. There is a letter addressed to you.”
In ten minutes, Cruz stood with Yablonski looking for the last time at the face of Christopher Parker. Cruz opened the letter with gloved hand. He read it twice and then handed it to Yablonski.
Yablonski read it, brows pressed together. “Is this…is this how it ends?
Jesus De La Cruz,
I wanted to do this in person. After all the time we’ve worked together, I would have liked to have sat down and talked about the battles the way other soldiers do. I have been proud to be the sword defending the city but my time is over while yours is just beginning. I saw you in battle. You were magnificent. You have picked up the sword that I had laid down. I’m proud of you.
Thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander our city for the ruin of souls. Stand in front of them. Defend them. Protect them. It must be done for our people to have a chance at a good life.
I will pray to St. Michael every day with you in my mind. I will pray for the health and happiness of your family. They are your strength.
Vaya con Dios.
Michael D’Angeles
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tuesday, July 10
Cruz commanded the audience in the chief’s office. “Christopher Parker was released from custody on Friday, July the sixth. On Sunday, July the eighth, he killed his wife, Hayley Parker. The knife he used to kill her was turned in by a restaurant owner in their Slavic Village neighborhood after customers reported it in the parking lot. The prints on the knife were Parker’s. The blood was Hayley’s.”
“Is that where he killed her,” Dr. Chen asked.
“No,” Cruz said, “he killed her in their home. How the knife came to be in the restaurant parking lot is not known. The restaurant in question is the one which Aurora Williams was invited to by a so-called art buyer. This shortly after someone broke into the house we used and stole a photo of her.”
Ramsey looked at him sternly. “That we will discuss later.”
Cruz could only nod. “The buyer gave her the name Michael D’Angeles, the same name used to sign the note left with the head of Christopher Parker. While the name is phony, the man is very real.”
Chen raised two fingers. “You are certain this man was not Chavez-Brown?”
“Chavez-Brown, the man who jumped me outside the Hall home, was dead before Parker’s head appeared in the City Hall planter. We will complete the investigation, but it is likely Chavez-Brown was only interested in territory.”
“Clearly,” Chen said, ac
cepting the logic. “Do you maintain that Michael D’Angeles is the suspect? The Drug Head Killer? Perhaps he is the accomplice we theorized about.”
“I am certain the person Aurora Williams spoke to was our suspect. She indicated he was soft spoken, having a voice that was mild but male. There is no physical evidence to support an accomplice, male or female.”
Ramsey sat behind his desk, his powerful hands folded as he listened. “How did Parker meet D’Angeles?”
“What is known is that Parker did meet D’Angeles and their meeting ended violently. In the end, he was decapitated. The head was left facing the road. Cameras in the area captured an apparent homeless person shuffling through at five yesterday morning. The person was bundled up, despite the warm temperatures, and carried a backpack. He sat on the planter and arranged Parker’s head. The video is not that clear, but no one else approached until a woman arriving early at City Hall made the discovery. Parker is with the Medical Examiner. We are awaiting results.”
“What about the boy?” Chen asked.
Cruz ran his hand over his braided hair. Hadn’t he asked himself that question every minute of the last day? “Someone anointed Hayley Parker’s body in the Catholic sacrament of Last Rites. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I say that someone was not her husband, which puts at least one other person in the house.” He took a deep breath. “Jace is gone, his clothes are gone, his toothbrush is gone. And, if the letter is to be believed, our killer has hung up his saw.”
“You think the suspect took the child?” PIO Hyatt asked distastefully. “What would be the point?”
Yablonski tossed out answers like snowballs. “A hostage. Leverage. A cover.”
“How much danger is the boy in?” Ramsey asked.
