by TG Wolff
“What are you doing?”
He held up the bills. “What are these?”
Aurora waved it off as she dressed the coffee the way he liked it, light and sweet. “Oh, yeah. I need to mail those.”
Relieved, he returned them to the counter. “Good. I thought you might be in trouble.”
“Trouble? Like what?”
“You know, financial trouble. Like you couldn’t pay the bills.”
She traded the kitchen for the corner of her couch, handing off the steaming mug en route. “Well, I can’t pay all of them. I pick my favorites, and the rest wait until next month. It’s not a big deal,” she said when he just stared. “They’ll send another bill.”
He picked the stack back up before sitting next to her. He thought about choosing his words carefully, then blurted the question on the top of his mind. “Baby, how did you get so far behind? Half of these are overdue.”
“I don’t know. It’s just the basics, like groceries, cable, paint, and canvas. I needed to order the bridesmaid’s dress and the shoes.”
He looked through the credit card statement. The Keurig coffee maker she’d bought was on it. So was the bedding set she’d bought for his bedroom. And the paint for his living room and dining room. “Aurora, why were you buying me things you couldn’t afford?”
“I can afford them,” she said defensively. “I haven’t hit my credit limit.”
Cruz stared at her, certain he hadn’t heard her right. It wasn’t possible. She was a grown, educated woman. “Your credit limit?”
“Don’t worry. If I do, I can just get another card.”
“Another card?” Crunching the stack of bills in his fist, he lectured on budgets and interest rates and credit ratings and debt. The Fed chair might have made an appearance in the monologue.
Aurora pressed her face pressed into her knees. “Why are you yelling?”
Was he? He hadn’t noticed his voice raising with each past due notice. He didn’t remember standing. “Because you’re in trouble and you don’t seem to know it. Because I don’t like to see you distressed.”
“Then stop yelling!” She curled into a tighter ball.
He dropped his voice to try to soothe what he’d ruffled. “Baby, listen to me.” He sat on the edge of the couch, crowding her.
She pushed at him. “Go away.”
He dropped the bills to pull her unwilling body into his lap. “I’m sorry I yelled, but baby, we have a real problem.”
She wiped her eyes on her back of her hand. “You mean I have a real problem.”
“We. We’re together, right? That’s what ‘I love you’ means.” He kissed the top of her head, cradling her against him the best he could. “I have some mo—”
Aurora popped up so fast she nearly bashed his nose with her head. “If you say you have some money saved, I’m throwing you out.” She scrambled to her feet, planted her hands on her hips and glared down at him. “This is my problem. I’ll solve it.”
He held his hands up in surrender. “Let’s just go through them. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.”
Skeptically, she sank back down. Together, they walked through her life one line item at a time. She had quietly spent hundreds of dollars on him, and he hadn’t noticed. A shirt here. A set of towels there. His second-floor master bedroom was decorated artistically because of her. He never thought to ask about the money. Shame had him rubbing his hands over his face.
Her teacher’s salary didn’t afford extras. She used her credit card to cover the gaps but never caught up, the balance growing each month. She needed to cut expenses, fast and hard. The biggest was her rent.
“Move in with me.” He didn’t plan to say it, but as he heard it come from his mouth, he knew he meant it.
Her face snapped toward him. “What?”
“Live with me. You’ll save on rent and utilities.”
“You aren’t serious.” She leveled her perfected teacher’s glare at him. “Look at me, this is my not-impressed face.”
He wanted to smile but instead fixed his own face with the stone-cold expression every cop had. “Look at my face. I’m serious. Totally. Serious.”
“Zeus, we’ve talked about this,” she said, pressing her palms to his chest. “We aren’t going to rush things.”
“We stay together most nights. It would make it easier to have all our stuff in one place. And,” he said, sweetening the pot so she would see things his way, “we can finish the other half of the second floor, make it into a real studio. We’ll add skylights. There’s plenty of space for your easels and paint.”
“Oh…but, no, I don’t want to move in together because I have some minor money problems.”
“You have major money issues, baby, but that isn’t why I want you to move in.” He propped himself on one arm, teasing, tempting her with his mouth. “You live with me. You can paint every day. I’ll make dinner, brow beat you when you forget to come down, take you to our bedroom to teach you a lesson.” He nipped at her flat belly. “You would enjoy it. I promise.”
“I bet I would.” Her body trembled with anticipation. “But what do you get out of the deal? I don’t want to come offering nothing but debt.”
“What do I get?” He lifted his chin, grinned and swept her shirt over her head. “Let me show you.”
Awareness was instant, coming on a deep inhale. The scent of Aurora and sex filled his senses. He rolled over and nearly fell out of bed. With a quick foot to the floor, he thought he wouldn’t miss sleeping in her full-size bed. The one in his home was a king. Plenty of room for sleeping and playing. Settling against the headboard, he inventoried the room, mentally sorting the furniture between things they would take and things needing a new home. This bed, for instance.
Most of her hand-me-down furniture had seen better days. They did the job, but he wanted more for her. Take the dresser. The second drawer only closed to within an inch of the frame, and the bottom drawer had to be carefully pulled out using two hands or it went crooked and stuck.
He pulled on his briefs and left the bedroom to talk to her about furniture. Aurora worked at her easel. She wore a short, black satin robe—a keeper—and her earphones. She liked music when she painted, and he guessed she used the earphones because he was sleeping.
Aurora was easygoing, but there was one exception. She hated to be interrupted when she painted. Hated in big, capital, italic letters. He found paper on her kitchen counter and wrote that he was awake. Returning to her bedroom, he planned to catch some college hoops before talking her into dinner out. He would cook but Aurora’s kitchen leaned heavily toward heat up or microwave than actual cooking. No, she would never be the kind of woman who would have dinner waiting when he came home from work. That didn’t bother him in the least. Grinning at the mess of a bed, he appreciated she had other talents, ones that smoothed out the jagged edges that came with being a homicide cop.
Because his perspective had been reset, he considered Oscar Bollier and Sophie DeMusa anew. He and Bollier were going to have words about the pompous asshole’s technique, but Aurora’s points made sense. This woman had to be important to Bollier for him to choose the nuclear option so quickly.
Using Aurora’s computer, Cruz logged into the secure connection to the Cleveland police server. He entered Sophie DeMusa’s name and found two entries. He clicked on the one dated fifteen days prior.
The 911 text came in at 6:10 on Friday night reporting an overdose. The responding unit arrived at 6:15. Sophie DeMusa was found on the floor of her bedroom with a head wound. A Jonathan Fisher had found her. The name was familiar, but Cruz couldn’t pinpoint from where. He read on, noting alcohol was present on the victim’s person. The file included her vital signs and other medical jargon ultimately describing her state as unconscious. Mr. Fisher indicated Ms. DeMusa had left work ill less than thirty minutes prior. He had gone into her apartment to check on her and found her on the floor. The report ended
with the transfer of custody to University Hospitals. Cruz clicked on an embedded link to a second log. A 911 call came in at 6:13, this one from Jonathan Fisher, providing the victim’s name and describing the head wound.
“Interesting,” he muttered to himself. The captured phone numbers were different. Cruz called the first. It was answered on the second ring.
“Yo.” The voice was male, deep.
“This is Detective De La Cruz, Cleveland homicide. Who am I speaking with?”
“Lamar Harrison. What is this about?”
“Mr. Harrison, did you make a 911 call from this number about two weeks ago?”
“No, sir. I just got this number last week. Had to change my last one because of all the robocalls.”
“Have you received any odd or unexpected calls or messages since you’ve had this number?”
“Just this one. Sorry.”
Cruz left his number just in case something came through and thanked the man for his time. Next, he dialed the second number. After three rings, it went to voicemail.
“You have reached the voicemail of Jonathan Fisher. I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day. But chin up, leave your name and number and I will call you back. Lickety Split.”
“Interesting,” Cruz said again. He brought up the victim’s driver’s license. Her address was list as Bucyrus, Ohio. She would turn twenty-two on February sixth, a few days after Cruz’s own birthday. Her record was clean.
Next, he went to the other entry in the database. A rape case. The complaint was dated last November alleging the assault occurred near the end of October. The special victims detective was named Radcliffe, who Cruz knew from past cases. The assistant prosecuting attorney was D’Arcy Whitsome, a name he didn’t know. No charges were filed against the man, noting insufficient evidence. “Oh, fuck,” he said as he read the name of the accused. Andrew Posey. While Cruz had never met him, he knew the name. They had the same boss. Posey was chief of staff to Cleveland Mayor Peter Mulgrew. The file contained nearly twenty letters and emails to the prosecutor. Cruz skimmed them. Most disagreed with the prosecutor’s decision. Some were pointed and professional, others were passionate, accusatory, nasty. One was signed by over one hundred people. There were three letters in support. The one on the mayor’s letterhead thanked the prosecutor’s office for their haste in addressing a “distressing matter.” An email from the executive director of the McGregor Foundation for Social Equity included a thinly veiled promise of an election campaign contribution as a token of gratitude. The last, written by Margot Hennessy of Alpha Theta Nu Sorority, complimented the prosecutor on his diligence and appreciated the swift end to a troubling event in the chapter’s legacy.
Cruz leaned back in the chair, contemplating the situation. A young woman accused a powerful city official of rape, a charge without sufficient evidence for prosecution. Less than two months later, the same young woman was hospitalized for a head injury and drug overdose.
As Cruz had told Bollier, it looked like a case for a counselor, not a homicide detective.
Except…why were their two 911 calls?
He’d look into it. First thing Monday, he’d talk with his commander.
He closed the connection to Cleveland police, ready for the mindlessness of basketball. But then he noticed Aurora’s checkbook nearly touching his right hand. Wanting to get a better idea of where she stood financially, he dug into it. He would make her whole. After all, he had money, not because the Cleveland police poured buckets of it over their detectives, but because he never spent any. His biggest expense was his house and even there he had underbought by his real estate agent’s standards. He owned his truck, the one Aurora drove, and that was about it.
He would make her solid again, take the worry off her shoulders. There would be a fight over it. Aurora was fiercely independent, but she wouldn’t stay mad. She wasn’t capable of it, and then there would be makeup sex. He smiled. It was a damn good plan.
Proving plan and practice were different, her checkbook rivaled the ancient Egyptians in terms of hieroglyphics. There was no starting point. He flipped through the pages twice. Deposits, debits, and checks were hastily noted, interlaced with doodles. There was no starting balance from which to get to the current balance.
“Groc” turned out to be the grocery store, thanks to one entry with the complete spelling. No actual store name. Using the bills, he decoded a few of the stores and utilities. Then there was an entry for “cookie.” The amount was twenty-five dollars. He flipped back, finding checks written to (or for) “cookie” for amounts ranging from twenty-five to seventy-five dollars over the last six weeks.
He couldn’t put a context to this. She hadn’t spent three hundred dollars on cookies over the last six weeks. That would have noticed.
His personal cell rang. “Hey, Yablonski.”
“Cruzie. Erin and I are in the mood for ribs. You two want in?” Yablonski had a voice as smooth as whiskey over gravel. When he wanted it to be, it was damn scary. At the moment, it was hungry. He named a place and a time.
“That should work. Aurora’s painting. I’ll need to break her away.”
“Erin, text Aurora,” Yablonski said. “She’s painting and Cruzie’s afraid she’ll bite him if he interrupts.”
“Shit,” Cruz said, “I like when she bites, but then we’ll never make it to dinner.”
Erin said something Cruz couldn’t hear, to which Yablonski snorted. “You aren’t going to torture us with more table decoration options. Just pick one! They’re all the same. Ouch!”
He laughed, picturing the little nurse pushing the big man around. “Don’t worry, Yablonski, I’m sure Aurora saw them all last night. We should be safe.”
“How would Aurora have seen them last night? Erin worked a double.”
There was more background chatter he didn’t hear because if Aurora wasn’t with Erin last night…exactly where was she? “I’ll see you in an hour.” He killed the line and left the bedroom on silent feet, stopping in the hallway to watch his girlfriend. Her hand moved expertly and in its wake, a street lined with shops emerged. The headphones were on a small table, now, next to her phone.
He intentionally made noise, letting his presence be known.
She turned, a bright, satisfied smile on her face. “This one is going to be good.”
“They’re all good, baby. Yablonski just called. We’re meeting him and Erin for dinner in an hour.”
“Great. I’m starving, and this is a good break point. Plus, I want to see the new ideas she found for the table decorations. We need to buy the supplies this week.” She began cleaning her fingers, which were stained black.
“I thought you were with Erin and the other girls last night.” He leaned against the counter, watching her body language for tells.
“Erin ended up having to work a double. I called my sister and hung out with her. Did I tell you what happened to Selina at work?” She swept up her cell phone, talking as she went to the bedroom and dressed. “Her boss is a total jerk.”
Cruz doubted it. Her older sister was a pain in the ass. Still, he listened. In every word, he heard the truth and the lie snaking beneath it.
Chapter Two
Sundays Cruz let his hair down and savored where he was in life. Today, began at La Sagrada Familia with the Spanish-language Catholic mass and his niece, Rhianna, fidgeting as she asked every question that trotted across her six-year-old brain. His sister, Mariana, repeatedly gave her daughter the look to which said daughter gave her the smile. Aurora, aka Tiaurora, had become fast friends with the little girl who was once over-protective of her uncle’s affections. Now Rhianna insisted on sitting next to Tiaurora, who played some hand game to occupy them both. Rhia giggled and her father, Tony, glanced back at his youngest and winked.
The service ended, and they joined the parade out. The clouds had parted, giving way to a rare, beautiful winter day. The air was crisp, sunny with a bright blue sky. Auro
ra basked in the sunshine, taking a deep breath and, with a smile, letting it out. She hadn’t been raised with religion as a part of her life. Where he found the structure and ritual of mass comforting, she found the rigidity and formality confining. She went whenever he did, for him. And so, he never called her out on her breath in the sunshine. Or the rain. Or snow.
“You look beautiful today, Gabriella,” Aurora said to his nine-year-old niece. “Jade is a perfect color for you.”
Gabi lifted her chin at the compliment. “Do you think you can do my makeup again?” She spun to her mother. “Can she, Mom?”
Mari looked surreptitiously at her husband. “Maybe a little lip gloss.”
“And eye shadow? Please? Please, please, please?”
“Jesus! Is that you?” The voice came from atop the church stairs—one of the many, many women his mother attempted to set him up with last year. Her name was…her name was…damn it. What was her name?
“Alicia.” Vanessa De La Cruz sang the name as she stepped in front of her son. “What happened to your dress? Did the store run out of material?”
The woman self-consciously pulled the sides of her long coat across the flesh showing in the V of the yellow dress.
Aurora took his hand, squeezing tightly. “Another one?”
“Not my fault. Before I met you, my mother was determined to find my soul mate. No matter how many frogs I had to kiss.”
“She doesn’t look like a frog,” Rhianna said, head cocked as she considered the woman.
The girl had ears like an elephant. “It’s a figure of speech,” he said.
“Gabi looks more like a frog. Least her dress is green. That one,” she pursed her lips, “she looks more like a monkey.”
“A monkey? Where did you get that?”
“Her bananas are falling out.”
Cruz swept his niece to his shoulder and headed for the car, dragging Aurora behind him, not looking to see if anyone heard what Rhianna had said.