White Heat

by Paul D. Marks

  “It sucked.” It was said without rancor by a boy who had too much experience with holidays falling short of commercial promises.

  “You didn’t get the candy you liked?”

  Little shoulders rose and fell. “I was s’posed to go trick or treatin’. Then I didn’t.”

  “That’s rough. Hold on a minute.” He jogged to his car and retrieved a bag of candy from the front seat. His nieces had made it from their own booty—primarily the candies they didn’t like—topped off by his sister who preferred to rot her brother’s teeth than her children’s. It wasn’t a lot of candy, but it might be enough to soothe the little boy. “Here you go.”

  Jace’s blue eyes glistened as he peered in the bag. “Wow! Where did you get all this?”

  The wonder at the small kindness made Cruz glad he’d thought of the candy. It was a little thing, but the boy looked at him like he was a hero. “I have nieces your age. They like to share. Are you allergic to nuts?” Unlikely as his mother had made him a PB&J the night before.

  “Nah. Toby in my class, he’s allergic to peanuts, but not me.” His hand dove into the bag, withdrawing a prize piece of chocolate. “You don’t dress like those other cops.”

  “No. I’m a detective.” He held his badge out to the boy. “Do you know what a detective is?”

  The blond head bobbed. “Inspector Gadget is a detective. Do you get all those things to track clues ’cause you’re a detective?”

  Cruz snorted with laughter. “I wish. I like your pumpkin. Did you make it in school?” He glanced at the door, listening for sounds saying he was needed.

  “Kindergarten is fun. Ms. Williams reads us stories and teaches us numbers and she always smells good.” He pulled out a purple-wrapped treat. “I’m going to give this to her.”

  “You like your teacher?”

  Jace nodded. “She’s nice and pretty. And she never yells. Even when you’re doin’ somethin’ you’re not s’pose to do. She looks sad and gives you a yellow on your card.”

  The wind gusted, reminding Cruz of the temperature. “Aren’t you cold with just a sweatshirt on?”

  “No.” The boy wore jeans with a knee torn out, gym shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt. He dug into the bag again and came out up a lollipop. “I’m outside a lot. I watch for people.”

  “People? People like me? Police?”

  “Sometimes. My mom called you to come.”

  “Do you know our job as policemen to help people? People like you and your mom and dad.”

  “Daddy says all cops do is fuck things up.”

  Cruz flinched. After everything he’d seen, he thought he was beyond surprise. Then, the day he expects a five-year-old to drop an f-bomb is the day he should turn in his badge. “I want to give you something, Jace. It’s my card. If you need help, you call me. Any time, any day.” He thought of his nieces, and how he took simple things for granted. “Do you know how to dial a phone?”

  “You turn it on and push the numbers.”

  “Yep. These numbers here.” He underlined digits. “You press these, and it’ll connect to me.”

  “What about the two-one-six?”

  “That’s the area code.” He added the one in front of the other digits. “You only need to dial these if you’re far away. Like, in another state.”

  “Texas is a state.” Jace handled the card reverently, as if it were a gift. He drew up his pantleg and put it in his sock. “If you catch Uncle, will you send him to Texas?”

  Cruz stilled. He wouldn’t question a kindergartener, but he couldn’t turn a deaf ear either. “Your uncle?”

  “Not my uncle.” Jace giggled. “His name is Uncle. Daddy and him go into the garage, but I’m not allowed to. Mommy says Uncle shot our house up.”

  Cruz was close and personal with the name. Uncle had been an up-and-comer when he first worked undercover narcotics. Cruz was skinnier then, hadn’t filled out yet, with scraggly hair hanging in his face, a constant five o’clock shadow, and a thick street accent. He and Uncle came up through the ranks together, first as friends, then competitors. Both had vied for a coveted position within the organization. Cruz for the connections. Uncle for the drugs, money and women. Cruz had known there would come a time when he and Uncle would be down and dirty. Uncle got there first.

  “Are you going to put him in jail?”

  Cruz stroked the smooth scars at the corner of his eye. “It’s not that simple.” Which was a crappy answer. “Jace? Uncle is a bad man. I want you to promise me you’ll stay away from him. Will you do that?” Knowing he’d already stayed too long, Cruz turned to the street. The uniformed officer was with the car owner. They would do the job, but without Hayley Parker naming Uncle, giving the case slim-to-none odds was being generous.

  November 1

  I think about you every day. I wonder what you think of me. I hope you don’t hate me. I know it was my fault. If I listened to you…If I was faster…If I knew…If

  If

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  Chapter Two

  Sunday, November 5

  At age two, Rhianna DeMarco declared her uncle was her best friend. “Tito” took her to the park, kissed boo-boos, and played everything from coloring pages to soccer. Three years later, her best friends were her cat, her neighbor, but she steadfastly held onto Tito.

  Cruz limped out of Sacrada Familia Catholic Church with a five-year-old barnacle looking at him like he was the best man in the world. “You’re getting too big, girl. You’re going to be carrying me soon.”

  “I can’t carry you, Tito. You weigh, like, a thousand pounds.”

  “An elephant weighs a thousand pounds. Do I look like an elephant?” He lifted his squealing niece into the air. “What do you think, Gabby? Do I look like an elephant?”

  At a sophisticated eight years old, Gabriella walked between her parents. She cocked her head, her long hair falling over her shoulder. “You used to look scary, like a monster. Now you look like…hmmm. I think you just look like Tito.”

  “Elefante!” Rhianna screamed, then faded into the laughter when his fingers tickled her.

  “Jesus. Jesus!” His name raced the wind across the parking lot.

  “Don’t look now, Tito.” Mariana, his favorite and only sister, smothered a giggle. “Mama has found another flower for you to pluck.”

  “Aye Dios mio.” The phrases in his head were so colorful, they were neon. His mother hurried across the parking lot. Running to keep up with the hand dragging her was a woman about his age with large chocolate eyes and white teeth set in an oversized grin.

  “Jesus. This is Nadia. Nadia, this is my son, Jesus.”

  Cruz offered his hand. “Nadia. This is my sister, Mariana and her husband, Tony.”

  Vanessa De La Cruz shoved the jewel toward her son, cutting off the small talk. “Nadia is a secretary—”

  “Administrative assistant,” Nadia corrected.

  “She has her own car, an apartment, and a 401(k) plan,” his mother said without pause in her thick accent.

  He swatted at his sister as she covered laughter with a cough. “Well, Nadia, congratulations, you are doing well.”

  “My son is a detective with the Cleveland police.” His mother brushed the hair out of his face “The long hair isn’t him. It’s part of working under blankets.”

  He caught his mother’s hand and held it, leaving his hair where it was. Six days a week, it was pulled against his head and tightly braided. Sundays, he let it hang free down his back and anywhere else it wanted to go. “Undercover, Mom. Not under blankets.”

  “I like your hair,” Nadia said. “Is it as soft as it looks?”

  “Tito,” Rhianna said in a loud whine. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Ma
riana reached for her daughter. “Let’s—”

  Cruz shouldered his sister aside and lifted his niece to his hip. “Sorry, Nadia. Nature calls. You understand.” He hurried toward the church without looking back.

  Inside the foyer, Rhianna leapt down. “Did I do it right, Tito?”

  “You were perfect.” He knelt, took out his wallet, and handed Rhianna two dollar bills.

  “Can we do it again?”

  “With your abuela, we’ll do it every Sunday.” A throat cleared behind him. He cringed, dreading the lecture, then peeked over his shoulder. “Mari.”

  His sister stood with her arms crossed under her chest, her foot tapping on the carpeted floor. “I can’t believe you would use my daughter this way.” Her barely contained grin ruined the effect. “You better hope Mom doesn’t catch you. I’m not covering your butt.”

  Rhianna giggled. “Butt.”

  “Every Sunday, Mari, every Sunday she finds a new girl to parade like, like…”

  “For her, marriage and happiness are hand and glove. She wants to see you happy, that’s all.”

  He opened the door enough to peer out. “We’re clear.” He took one of Rhianna’s hands, his sister took the other. “A woman is not the answer to everything. Look, I know it’s not their fault. That’s why I came up with this. I make an exit, and nobody gets hurt.”

  At Mari and Tony’s house, laughter and chatter and noise were the soundtrack to the dinner of stuffed peppers and rice Cruz prepared. This was his home for a year and a half. The room they kept for him anchored him in a world that still shifted beneath his feet. He loved those little girls, who had a sixth sense about when he hurt, when he struggled. They gave him the strength to step out on his own again.

  Coming back each Sunday was a reward for making it through another week. He leaned back in his chair, content to watch the girls clear the table.

  “Are you staying tonight, Tito?” Gabby asked with a broad smile.

  “Please, please, please,” Rhianna said, jumping with two plates in her hands.

  “I stayed over Tuesday night.” Cruz caught the plates before they fell, then pointed a finger between the two girls. “Neither of you let me sleep. Four hours. That’s all I got.”

  Gabby rolled her eyes. “It was Halloween, Tito. Nobody’s supposed to sleep on Halloween.”

  “Too many monsters.” Rhianna pulled back her lips and gnashed her teeth.

  “You definitely are going to keep me awake and I have to work in the morning. Plus, you know I meet Dr. Oscar on Sunday nights.”

  Both girls pouted, but then Gabby lifted her brows. “Will you play before you go?”

  Rhianna grabbed her uncle’s hand and pulled with all her might. “Yeah, yeah. Me and Gabby against Tito.”

  Hours later, Cruz walked into the familiar restaurant, high on life. After two years of meeting at the same table, he could find Bollier with his eyes closed.

  “You have grass stains on your knees.”

  “I lost seventy to fifty-six. The girls cheat.” As he sat, coffee appeared before him, dressed just the way he liked.

  Dr. Oscar Bollier’s edges were frayed: his hair too long, his shirt rumpled, his beard untrimmed. To find the man, you had to look in his eyes.

  Calm. Collected. Content.

  That drew Cruz to this man, the elusive Cs he wanted for himself.

  “How’s the office?” Cruz asked.

  “Can’t complain. Now, my patients, they complain. Did have something funny come in.”

  “Funny” was never “funny.” Funny was weird or grotesque. It often oozed. It sometimes smelled. As he listened, Cruz was grateful, as he had been so many other times, that he was not eating. Even homicide detectives had their limits.

  “And you,” Bollier said. “Detect anything interesting lately?”

  “I thought working undercover narcotics for six years I’d seen it all. Yesterday, a five-year-old dropped an f-bomb on me. Imitating his old man—a dealer.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I’d been around him a few times. He tried to place me. The clean shave and new face throws them.” He touched the scars at the corner of his eye that were his bane and had become his talisman. “He’s going to try something stupid on a guy that takes pride on taking stupid shits apart. It gets so predictable, you know? There are times I’d like to see something different.”

  Bollier snorted derisively. “Be careful. I wished for something different once.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got what I wished for.”

  Click here to learn more about Exacting Justice by TG Wolff.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from Suburban Dick, the first Gus Harris crime novel by CS DeWildt…

  Chapter One

  Gus Harris wasn’t proud of himself, not by a long shot. But a job was a job. And this job had him sitting in his ’76 Cutlass Supreme and watching the kids leave South Elementary. In his hand was a photo of an eleven-year-old boy, blonde, nice looking kid if not a little runty, a mouth full of crooked teeth. Gus scanned the stream of kids leaving through the front gate, looking for the face that matched the photo before tucking the snapshot into the rubber-banded visor, next to another photo, this one a high school age girl, dark haired and pretty with a beautiful smile that seemed the antithesis of the boy’s.

  The flow of students slowed to a trickle of after-school discipline cases and little bodies carrying giant band instruments and overstuffed backpacks. Gus was beginning to wonder if he’d missed the kid he was looking for and thought about taking a ride around the block when he finally saw the messy head of hair and the crooked teeth from the photo. Gus watched the kid peek outside the gate, scanning the sidewalks and across the street. He put his head down and ran.

  “Oh shit,” Gus said. He shifted into drive and barely checked the mirror before pulling a wide U-turn amidst horn honks and profanity.

  “You dumb mother fucker!” a lady in an SUV shouted out her window.

  Gus laughed and gave her a quick bird. “Dumb mother fucker” he might be, but he was a dumb mother fucker with a job to do. He caught up to the kid quickly, passed him by and parked at an expired meter on the next block. He got out and watched the kid turn the corner. Gus hoofed it double-time and crossed the street, walked the same direction as the boy on the opposite side. Foot traffic was light but there were enough faces that Gus could move among them and not draw any specific attention from any of them; this job had to be done discretely.

  The kid was looking over his shoulders, checking each small alley as he poised his body to run.

  “Scared shitless,” Gus said to himself. The kid made another turn and Gus had to wait for the light and lost sight of the boy. Gus defied the flashing red hand and angered the medium-thick traffic into another chorus of honking woe.

  Gus scanned the narrow street, but it was dead. He considered turning back, make sure he hadn’t been wrong.

  Then the muffled voices, and yelling, laughter. He turned the corner into an alley, and found the source, behind a row of trash cans. It was two other kids, fourteen or fifteen, older than the kid they had cornered, bigger.

  “Faggot,” one of them said. “Say how much of a faggot you are. Tell us how much you like to suck cock!” The older boys were giggling as one of them pointed a cell phone in the little kid’s face.

  “Budding filmmakers,” Gus thought.

  “Come on! You like it in the ass don’t you, you little faggot?”

  The little kid stood stone faced. He had an angry look Gus recognized, a kind of pride that would make a kid bite his own tongue off before anyone forced him to say anything.

  Gus stepped up like a cat and snatched the phone out of the cameraman’s hands.

  “What the fuck? Give it back you fucking bum!”

  The comment caught Gus off guard and he had to do a double take at himself, brown suit and loafers, worn but not necessarily dated or derelict. His beard was getting out of con
trol though, and he hadn’t had a haircut in a few months.

  “Give him his phone!” The second bully said, reaching in to snatch it. His finger grazed the back of Gus’s hand and that contact was the only pretense the man needed. He punched the little shit hard in the sternum, knocking him across the alley and on his ass.

  “That’s assault!” the other boy said.

  “What is it?” Gus said. Stepping a little closer.

  “Assault,” he said again though the words stuck a bit in his throat.

  “Huh?” Gus said taking another step forward. “You’re concerned with the law now?” The kid opened his mouth to speak Gus closed it with a snapping jab that knocked the boy on his ass. “This fun for you? Terrorizing little kids?”

  “What do you care?”

  Gus looked at the kid. “He’s my client. I do the dirt he can’t. Kid said a couple shit heads were messing with him on the way home from school.” Gus turned to the little kid. “Did you mean these girls?” The kid nodded.

  “Can I have my phone back?” the kid on

  “Ha. No.”

  “I’ll delete the video. C’mon. You got to. My dad will kill me.”

  Gus looked at the boy for a moment, gave the impression he was considering it before dragging the kid to his feet and slapping him hard across the mouth. The kid just stood there with his jaw hanging open and Gus slapped him again, same side, drawing a trickle of blood from the corner of the kid’s mouth. The boy tried to run, but Gus caught him by the sleeve. The kid swung an arm and Gus dodged it easily, grabbed the kid by the scruff and showed the little shit the full man-strength he wouldn’t know until he was one.

  “Let me go! Help me, Kevin!”

  Kevin tipped the flat brim of his Dodgers cap and was gone.

  “Let me guess,” Gus yelled after him, “you’re the smart one!” He laughed and leaned into the kid he was holding. “Like you’re in a boy band. Wait, is that one? The ‘smart one?’ Which one are you?” The kid was crying now and that’s what he sounded like, a little kid. “The sensitive one. I know that’s one.” Gus loosened his grip and shoved the kid to the street. The boy continued to cry and the crotch of his light gray jeans grew dark.