by Colin Conway
John chuckled, finished the cigarette and stubbed it out against the wall next to the headboard, dumped the butt on the sill to clear away later.
“I’m getting chilly,” Mary said, rubbing her arms. “It’s always bloody freezing in this flat. I dunno how you stand it.”
“Hard as nails, man.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“That and I’m always out. Busy boy. Only ever here with you, really.”
Mary swung her legs over the side of the bed, gathered up her underwear and dress. “I’m flattered. Our little love nest. Special little place all our own.”
“Glad you approve. Love nest—that’s exactly what I was aiming for.” John went to the door, put back on the clothes he’d recently taken off.
“You ever thought about decorating? Fresh lick of paint?”
John shrugged. “What’s the point?”
“Make it feel like a home, that’s the point.”
“This whole block’s rough as a badger’s arse, man. Nowt homely about it.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“Not with any attitude.”
“Whey, y’kna, it’s not like we’re on the Riviera. But we are on the Tyne. No reason why we can’t improve our own personal surroundings and make it something special.”
“I’ve never been to the Riviera, but I reckon it’s canny different to the Tyne.”
“I’ve never been either, but aye, you’re probably right. And you know the point I’m trying to make.”
“Trying to make.”
Mary took a seat on the edge of the bed, pulled on her heels. “So. That’s something new I know about you now.”
John raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“You’ve never been to France.”
“I’ve never been to the Riviera. Never said I hadn’t been to France.”
“Have you?”
John said nothing.
“Oh, howay, man! It’s just a place. You can tell us that much.”
John shrugged. “I’ve been all over, me. Can’t keep track of them all.”
Mary shook her head, grinned, got to her feet and went to him. She put her hands on his chest, kissed him. “You’d better get a move on,” she said. “And I’d better get away back home.”
John grunted. “I’ll see you soon.”
“If you’re lucky.”
Mary left the building first. John stood by the window, watched her pass by on the street below. Waited five minutes. He didn’t have to rush. Didn’t mind making them wait.
He headed to the pub on foot, lit a cigarette on the way. Daniel Irons and Malcolm Reay sat in a corner, talking over pints. John took a seat with them, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t get me a drink, like, lads?”
Daniel looked at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know when you were gonna feel like fuckin showing up, did we?”
Malcolm cleared his throat. “You all right, John-lad? Where’ve you been?”
“Shagging.”
Malcolm laughed. Daniel didn’t look impressed.
He’d look less impressed if he’d known John had been shagging his wife.
Of course, he never looked impressed anyway. Had the perpetually severe face of a miserable bastard that never cracked a smile. John reckoned he was a real barrel of laughs at home. No wonder Mary came to see him.
Malcolm was more laid back. A modern kind of guy with long hair, a moustache, flared pants. He took a sip of his beer. Froth stuck to the hair on his top lip. He licked it off.
“We gonna be here long, or what?” John said.
“Long enough for you to get yerself a pint, if that’s what you’re asking,” Daniel said.
“Canny. Then I’ll be right back. Divvint gan anywhere.”
Daniel glared at him, but said nothing.
John went to the bar, waited to be served. The atmosphere was thick and smoky, an asthmatic’s nightmare. John lit another cigarette, ordered his pint. He glanced back at Daniel and Malcolm in the corner. They were talking again. Daniel was probably complaining about him, his attitude, being late. Let him complain. They needed John more than John needed them.
“Crack then, lads?” John said, sitting back down.
Daniel stared at him. “You ready? You sure?”
“Good to go.”
Daniel took a long breath through his nose. “What’re you messin around, for? You think I’d call you here if this wasn’t work related? I’m not lookin to fuckin socialise with ye.”
“I know that, Daniel. I wouldn’t wanna hear from you if it wasn’t work related.”
Daniel bristled. “You think this isn’t serious? You got somethin better to be doin?”
“I’ve always got somethin better to be doin, mate. I’m an in-demand lad. It’s a privilege for you to have me here sittin with you.”
Daniel ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth like there was a bad taste there. “I divvint like you, John.”
John shrugged.
“I divvint like yer attitude. Yer a cocky bastard, that’s all you are. We don’t need you.”
“You waited an awful long time for me to get here if you don’t need me.” John grinned.
Malcolm concentrated on his pint, stayed out of their heated discussion.
“You’re a two-bit heavy, that’s all,” Daniel said. “You’re nowt special. We can find another like you just like that.” He clicked his fingers.
“Aye, well, I’m here now so why don’t we just get on with it, eh? Course, if you’re that bothered, maybe you could have a chat with yer father-in-law, see what he has to say. The Top Man.”
The Top Man. Steven Edwards. Mary’s father.
Daniel gritted his teeth at that. John had done plenty of jobs for Steven down the years, and he’d had no complaints.
John cocked his head. “No?”
Malcolm put his hands down flat on the table, playing peacekeeper. “Why don’t we just get on with it, eh? We’re all here now, let’s just get this thing sorted.”
Daniel and John stared at each other, then Daniel broke his gaze and shifted in his seat. “Aye, all right.”
John sat back, smiled.
Daniel popped his knuckles. John wondered if he was supposed to be intimidated. “It happens in three days,” he said. “Are you paying attention?”
John winked.
Daniel went over the plan. When he’d finished, he looked at them both. “Got that?” Malcolm nodded enthusiastically. John raised his eyebrows.
“Good,” Daniel said. “And I shouldn’t have to say this, but divvint be fuckin late the day of, eh? You reckon you can do that?”
“I’m a professional, Dan.”
“Aye, so you claim.”
“You’ve seen me in action.”
“Aye, and yet I still feel like I’ve gotta keep on at you about doing things the right fuckin way. Funny that, isn’t it?”
“You’re too uptight.”
“The fuckin two of ye are too uptight,” Malcolm said, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ, feels like I’m sitting in the middle of a pissing contest here. Lookit, we’ll get the job done, it’ll gan off without a hitch, it’ll be fine. Everything’ll be fine, all right?”
“You don’t need to persuade me,” John said. “I already know.”
Daniel ground his teeth. Whenever John was round him—and this predated his involvement with Mary—he always seemed to be itching for a fight. John wasn’t sure if that was a trait particular to when he was nearby, or if that was how Daniel went on with everyone. Either way, John would be more than happy to oblige him, if he ever wanted to get down and dirty and throw some fists. Plenty had stepped up before, none of them had walked away intact.
“Well.” Daniel finished his pint. “We’ll just have to find out together, won’t we? But I’ll tell you this now, John—three days’ time, if you’re late, I’m out. You understand? I’ll be walkin
g away. I’m not putting myself at risk over your bullshit. I won’t put myself at risk for anyone.”
“Fair enough,” John said. “Neither would I.”
“Whatever. I’m goin home.” He got to his feet.
“Reckon I’ll stay out for a few more,” John said. He looked round the room. “Might go somewhere with a bit more life to it than this shithole, though.”
Malcolm grinned. John turned to him.
“What about you, Malc? You gotta get home and away to bed like some auld gadgy, or are you up for hitting the Toon?”
“Whey, I’m definitely up for a few more drinks, like,” Malcolm said. “It’s a Tuesday though, I divvint reckon anywhere else is gonna be much livelier than this.”
“We’ll just have to take our chances, then. See what the night brings us.”
Daniel looked between the two of them as they spoke. He was standing, but he hadn’t left the table yet. “Listen, if either of you turn up hungover an’all, it’s off. And I’ll be very pissed. And you can bet yer arse the Top Man will be pissed, too.”
“You think it’ll take us three days to shake a hangover?” John said.
“It worries me that maybe you’ll not stop drinking for three fuckin days.”
John and Malcolm exchanged glances. “We’ll show him,” Malcolm said. “Let’s gan for four!”
“Divvint let his bad influence rub off on you, Malcolm.”
Malcolm laughed. “Trust me, mate, I’ve had me fill of bad influences. There’s not a bad decision I’ve never not made.”
“I know.” Daniel nodded, solemn. “I’ve seen some of your lasses.”
John laughed. He had to hand it to Daniel. That one was funny.
Daniel left. John resisted the urge to tell him to say hello to Mary for him. It wasn’t worth the trouble.
“So,” Malcolm said. “Where we gonna go?”
John downed his pint, started getting to his feet. “Anywhere that isn’t fuckin here.”
Click here to learn more about Cutthroat by Paul Heatley.
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Here is a preview from Driving Reign, the second book in the De La Cruz case files by TG Wolff.
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Chapter One
“She’s not dead.” Cleveland homicide Detective Jesus De La Cruz stood beside the hospital bed, watching the sheet over the woman’s chest rhythmically rise and fall.
“I know she’s not dead. I wouldn’t have ‘MD’ after my name if I couldn’t tell a comatose patient from a dead one.” Dr. Oscar Bollier had the ruffled look of a man above caring what society thought. He normally spoke in a tone underwritten by arrogance. Today, superiority was replaced with something Cruz couldn’t read. It was more than sad; less than desperate.
“So why am I here?”
“Because she shouldn’t be.”
The cop and the doctor met by chance, a wrong room number left on a message. Cruz had been in the bed, the right side of his face doing an imitation of dog food after the bloody night that ended his undercover narcotics career. The doctor took an interest in the cop suffering through alcohol withdrawal. He had been patient, returning daily, throwing a life preserver to the drowning man. Eventually, Cruz grabbed on.
And so, he waited with equal patience for the story of the not-dead woman to unfold.
“Her name is Sophie DeMusa. She’s a senior at Case Western Reserve University and works as a waitress at Three Witches. Do you know it?”
Cruz shook his head.
“It’s one of those hip places on Murray Hill, close to campus. She lives in the apartment below. She was found in her bedroom, nasty cut on her head, and a handful of pills in her stomach.”
The richness of the girl’s Mediterranean heritage showed through the pallor of unconsciousness. Her heart-shaped face featured the sculpted contours of a Greek or Roman maiden. Her eyes tipped up, though, nearly cat like. Exotic. Objectively beautiful.
Beauty was what it was. Not necessarily happy or healthy or stable. Beautiful people killed themselves just as often as the rest of us.
“She didn’t try to kill herself,” Bollier added, reading his mind.
Cruz mentally rolled his eyes. Maybe physically, too.
“She wasn’t the kind to take pills,” Bollier said quickly, a bite in his voice now.
“Pills didn’t cause that wound.” The side of the woman’s head was shaved, the short stubble disrupted by a line of stitches.
“She hit her head on her nightstand.”
When no further explanation came, Cruz waded in. “Since you called me, I assume you think someone other than her put those pills in her belly?”
“Someone had to at least help. She wouldn’t turn to suicide.”
Cruz exhaled slowly, searching for solid footing. If he heard it once, he heard it a hundred times. He wouldn’t do this or she would never do that. Denial was a slow, deep river. “Good people make bad decisions, Oscar. We both lived that truth. I’m sympathetic to the woman’s situation but not hearing anything needing my attention. I’m sorry she did this, but she needs a counselor, not a homicide detective. Call Dr. Edna,” he suggested, referring to Bollier’s psychiatrist friend who had been helpful to him during the Drug Head case. “She’s your better bet.”
“You’re my better bet.” Bollier turned a hundred-thousand watts of ill-tempered doctor on him. “I said she wouldn’t kill herself, you’ll have to take that as fact, and since she wouldn’t, somebody else tried to. She lives in Cleveland, she was found in Cleveland, she’s in the hospital in Cleveland. You, a Cleveland detective, need to do your damn job and find her killer.”
Cruz stood his ground, stamping out the temptation to go toe-to-toe with Bollier. Instead, he probed the reason behind the temper. “Who is she to you?”
“She’s just a girl.” His gaze dropped to her face, his expression softening. “An acquaintance.”
A lie. If anything got to him about his job, it was the number of lies. Big ones, little ones, lies of omission, of exaggeration. The lies were so old, they had their own AARP card.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it. You’re thinking too hard. You’re going to help her.” It wasn’t a question.
First the lie, now an order. Cruz fought the instinct to push back because he respected the asshole doing the pushing. “Look, Oscar, I know you don’t want to hear it, but many suicides or attempts come with a plethora of friends and family who didn’t see it coming. Mental health issues can be overlooked and explained away by the people closest. At least now, you can get her the help she needs.”
“I’m a doctor, you twit. I’ve forgotten more about suicide than you’ll ever know. One five-minute conversation and you’ve made up your mind. You’re not even going to look into the circumstances.” Bollier lifted his chin, exuding dominance and superiority. “In the years we have known each other, I have never asked for you favors or to use your position in anyway. Conversely, you have ‘picked my brain’ on your cases and asked me for connections to help you find the answers. You owe me. The entire department owes me. I’m calling in my marker. You won’t honor your obligation; I’ll call Montoya direct.”
Cruz couldn’t think for the insult coursing through his veins. His mentor, his AA sponsor, was keeping a tally? Threatening to go over his head to homicide’s commander?
Fuck peace-making.
“You son of a bitch, you can—” Words flooded him now, articulating where the arrogant fucker could shove his threats. Except, some infinitesimal part of his brain told him anything he said now, he would regret. Or worse, he wouldn’t. “No. I’m not doing this with you. I’m walking away and if you’re as smart as you claim, you won’t follow.” He stalked out the door into the busy corridor.
“She doesn’t have another option.” The pompous, white bread voice followed him down the hall. Nurs
es and orderlies stared as the words fell on deaf ears. “If you don’t step in, her killer gets away. I know you Jesus De La Cruz. You won’t let that happen. You won’t—”
The doors to the floor closed behind him, cutting off the sermon.
Cruz seethed as he stalked the circuitous route out of the hospital. Never in his thirty-three years on this planet had he so misjudged someone. He’d known from day one Bollier could be an asshole. He’d witnessed it, was entertained by it. Over the years, he fell into the delusion that he was immune from the tirades, that their relationship went deeper than superficial shit. He played the sap, short and simple, sitting bright-eyed and bushy-tailed waiting for the almighty Dr. Oscar Bollier to dispense bits of wisdom.
The thought of a tally was a sucker punch to his gut. The threat of going over his head a solid shot to the solar plex. The fucker knew where to hit him. Preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed the rain soaking his shirt or thought to use the coat he carried.
He threw the coat in the car. “Damn him.” He started the engine, cursing Bollier as the chill penetrated to bone. Unthinking, he turned the heat on maximum and was blasted with air only a few digits above freezing. “Shit.” He turned it off with a jabbing finger, then threw the car in gear wanting only to get the hell out.
A horn blared.
Cruz slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding the car driving behind him down the aisle. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” He punctuated each word with a fist to his city-issued steering wheel. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, turning out of the parking garage and into the driving rain that matched his mood.
Needing something more than his own company, he left University Circle for the suburb sitting atop the hill. In a one-bedroom apartment of a mixed-use development lived the woman who was an artist, a kindergarten teacher, and the best thing to happen to Cruz since…ever. Aurora Williams had tricked him into a date last Valentine’s Day and they’d been together since. Just three weeks shy of a year.
A whole year. There had been tough months. She stood by him when he was more cop than boyfriend, when he’d been falsely accused of heinous behavior.