by TG Wolff
He dried the hair that hung past his shoulder blades. It was thick, wavy, the color of a chocolate bar, and the only thing he’d kept from his time undercover. Usually he braided it tight against his head.
Not today.
He rubbed heavy product through, combed in until it hung in a neat tail, then tied it at the base of his neck. Next came the green cat’s eye Aurora had given him. The stone matched her eyes and was the only thing he took with him when he had gone undercover to catch a serial killer. Sitting tightly around his neck, it was a tangible reminder that she loved him.
By the time he went downstairs, his truck and his girlfriend were gone. A freshly heated toaster breakfast sandwich and his first cup of coffee waited on the counter. The temperature was perfect. He drank half of it, welcoming the kick of caffeine and sugar.
He finished his second cup as he walked into the department. “Good morning, Sonja,” he said to the department’s administrative assistant.
“Good morning, Cruz. My, you look good today. What’s different?”
“Everything. Bad guys watch out.” He threw a quick jab, making her chuckle before hitting his desk. He booted up his computer and went straight for coffee numero tres.
“Don’t know how you drink this stuff.” Homicide Commander Kurt Montoya stared at the coffee maker as it took its time filling the pot.
Cruz took his commander’s cup, pulled the pot out, then shoved the cup under. “This isn’t your usual poison. Starting a new bad habit?”
“God, I hope not. My oldest came down with the stomach flu. It was like he was a toddler again. A six-foot tall, one-hundred-and-eighty-pound two-year-old. I think I got two hours of sleep, not consecutively.”
The cup full, Cruz swapped it for his own, handing the full one to the man wearing eye black in the office. “Sorry to hear it.”
“Me, too.” He sipped the dark brew, winced. “What do you have on your desk?”
“Still waiting on the lab results back on Edna Johnson. Her son claims she died in her sleep, but it doesn’t ring.” Cruz did the quick switch between his own cup and the pot, then added his usual cream, double sugar.
Montoya grunted, sipped the coffee again, winced again. “This really is horrible. Let me try yours.” His captain took the cup from his hand, tasted, nodded. “Better. What else do you have?” he asked, walking away.
Stunned for an instant, Cruz got busy fixing the commander’s abandoned cup then caught up. “Closed the Gunderson case. The medical examiner ruled a natural death. Massive heart attack.”
“How old was the man?”
“Fifty-one.”
“Tough for the family.” He shook his head. “Your hair’s not braided.”
Cruz hesitated, uncertain if it was a comment or a reprimand. He opted for simple. “No.” He took his cup, the one with his nieces’ faces grinning out, and replaced it with the newly doctored one. “Cream, two sugars.”
Montoya went to his office and set the cup on his desk. The chair groaned as his weight fell into it.
“Something came across my desk over the weekend. Have you heard anything about Posey and a college co-ed?”
Montoya nodded. “Not for a few weeks. Why? What have you heard?”
“Tell me what you know first.” He held up his hand. “I’m not stalling, just catching up. Posey supposedly raped a woman?”
“That’s what she said. He claimed it was consensual. She made a play for him; he’d been drinking and obliged.”
“He married?”
“To the mayor’s sister.” Montoya sipped the coffee first then drank greedily. “How long before it kicks in?”
“You’ll feel it. Was there video from the hotel?”
Montoya nodded. “She couldn’t walk straight. Posey was the only thing keeping her on her feet.”
“Was there a rape kit?”
“No. She waited weeks to report it. No charges were filed against Posey. Now what’s your interest in it?”
“The woman, Sophie DeMusa, is in University Hospital in a coma. She was found by her landlord, unconscious. She had a concussion and a belly full of pills.”
“Attempted suicide?”
“That’s the obvious answer, but her doctor doesn’t think so.”
“Why?”
Montoya was a good commander, fair in his judgements, methodical in his approach, relentless in his dedication. It was Montoya who got him thinking about making detective. Cruz respected the hell out of him. He committed to Bollier but wouldn’t lie to Montoya, even if it meant he had to beg. “Honestly, it isn’t much more than gut instinct. He knows her personally and claims she wasn’t suicidal.”
Montoya chuckled. Not funny ha-ha, but funny sad. “If we had a dollar—”
“I told him the same. Still, he’s asking us, asking me to look into the case.”
His commander leaned back in his chair, his olive complexion blanched. “God damn, but I hate when politics colors things. Land mines all around. Damned if we do, twice as damned if we don’t.” He rubbed his hands over his close-cut hair. “We both know the odds are she swallowed the pills, but I refuse to turn my back because of potential noise from 601 Lakeside. Look into it. Anything comes close to Posey, you come to me.”
“Got it, Commander.” Cruz stood, happy with what he got, but then hesitated. “You sure you’re okay, Kurt? You look a little…green.”
“I’m fine.” He dismissed the concern but leaned forward in his chair. “I meant what I said. Do not talk to the man without your butt being in that chair first.”
Cruz reiterated his assent and got to work. He called the hospital and identified himself to her nurse on duty, Joely Crimson, who recognized his name. Bollier, undoubtedly, working behind the scenes to part the waters. There was no change in Sophie DeMusa’s condition. Yes, he would be called if there was.
His second call went to Eli Ratcliffe with special victims. After the requisite “how’s it going” and the equally required “all good” when it never was, they got down to business. “The hotel security footage was damning, Cruz. She’d appeared drunk, hung on him, went willingly into the room. I don’t doubt that the next day, she regretted it, but no judge or jury was going say it wasn’t consensual. He’s an arrogant prick, but it’s not a crime. You reopening the case?”
“No. It’s just background.” Cruz brought Ratcliffe up to speed on Sophie’s condition.
“Well if you do look Posey’s way, make sure you have your back covered. He tried to have me fired for harassment. Lucky for me, my commander knows Posey. She shut it down, hard and fast.”
“Thanks for the warning.” They finished exchanging open invitations to get together that both knew would only happen if coincidence came their way. Cruz’s next call was to the Cuyahoga County Prosecutor’s office. D’Arcy Whitsome’s voicemail gave him the option to leave a message she would return within twenty-four hours or press zero for the admin in the case of an emergency. Not qualifying for the latter, he left the message including Sophie’s name.
Phone calls finished, he left his desk to find out for himself who Sophie DeMusa was and whether the harm inflicted had come by her own hand. First stop was her landlord, Jonathan Fisher.
Chapter Three
Sophie DeMusa lived and worked in The Atlas, a four-story building featuring businesses on the first floor and apartments above. The Atlas shared Murray Hill, a narrow brick street in Cleveland’s Little Italy, with duplexes and other smaller brick buildings of the same era. The neighborhood was rich in culture, poor in parking. Cruz left his car in the loading zone, turning the strip of lights on to let everyone know his business was official.
The temperature had dropped a dozen degrees overnight. There would be no rain today. The late January sun valiantly worked to break through the cloud cover synonymous with winter. A light breeze toyed with his hair, tossing it across his shoulder, surprising him as he’d forgotten it wasn’t braided. He took th
e half a dozen steps to the oversized wooden doors. Inside, the hexagon-tiled foyer presented the choice of three doors inset with beveled glass. To the right lay Fisher’s Rare Books and Antiquities, dark and closed. To the left, Three Witches Bar and Restaurant had their door propped open. Straight ahead was a staircase climbing upward, wide enough for three adults to walk abreast.
There was no staircase going down. Bollier had said Sophie lived in a basement apartment.
Cruz went back out the front door and leaned over the railing. Two half-height windows sat directly under Three Witches. The curtains of the basement unit moved, then a cat’s head poked through. Green eyes locked onto his, unblinking, then dismissed him.
Back inside, the sign on Fisher’s door said someone—presumably Fisher—would be back at eleven-thirty. Less than half an hour.
Cruz would make use of the time talking to Sophie’s employer. Three Witches continued the oak motif, layering heavy wrought-iron and dim lighting. The atmosphere made it easy to believe in boil, boil, toil and trouble, fire burn and caldron bubble. Empty tables dotted the room almost randomly. Three customers sat at the bar, eating their lunch, drinking from ornate mugs.
“Welcome to Three Witches. What’s your poison?” The woman behind the bar had hair to her waist that changed from brown at the roots to red in the middle, and blonde at the ends.
Cruz flashed his badge. “I’m—”
“You’re here about Sophie?” Her eyes, blue as gas flames, widened.
“Yes ma’am—”
“Rachel! Sam!” Her shrill voice likely reached Pennsylvania and had all prudent folks seeking shelter. Cruz took an involuntary step backward, shaking his head to escape the crushing sound.
The diners didn’t flinch.
With a thud, the swinging doors slapped the bar. Out burst a tall, blonde woman in a fitted black T-shirt with the restaurant’s logo. “Carly! What’s the matter?” The newcomer took one look at Cruz and pulled the bartender behind her.
The doors hadn’t stopped swinging when a second woman kicked it open. Her black hair was buzz cut short on the left but hung to her jaw on the right. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, lined in black, making the white appear to glow. Her head was tilted to the right, hair hanging away from her face. She swung a baseball bat, loosening up.
“Trouble don’t play here,” the batter said. “Move on.”
“He’s the police,” Carly said, stepping out from behind the blonde who, by looks, was her sister.
The batter snorted. “My ass. Police don’t look like that.”
The scars threw people. This wasn’t the first time he’d been eyed as closer to a felon than a cop. “Detective Jesus De La Cruz, Cleveland homicide.” He placed his badge on the bar.
Sam glanced at the badge, then crooked an eyebrow and raked him over with her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, the room was shattered with a heartbreaking cry.
“No!” Carly pressed her hands to her heart. “She can’t be dead! She can’t!”
The women converged on Carly as she wailed; the diners stopped eating and stared. Her words ran together until one was unintelligible from the next.
Cruz shook his head, trying to maintain his bearings when it felt like a tornado was loose in the restaurant. “Nobody died. Nobody’s dead. Enough,” he shouted. “No. One. Is. Dead.”
The ruckus wound down until the silence was as uncomfortable as the noise had been. The women turned to him in unison. The tall blonde dared to speak. “Sophie is…”
“Her condition hasn’t changed, to my knowledge.”
“Do NOT do that to us.” The bat swung his way again as the order was issued.
“Set the bat on the bar and step away.” He infused his voice with the authority of his position. “Now.”
The unrepentant woman complied.
“What are your names?” he asked, taking out the notebook he would undoubtedly need.
“Rachel Montemayor,” said the tall blonde. “This is my sister, Carly, and my partner, Samantha Eisen.”
“Sam,” she said, sweeping the bat off the bar and stowing it below. Her gaze didn’t leave Cruz’s face. “Why is a homicide detective here? I thought she overdosed.”
“She didn’t overdose,” Carly said. “You have to stop saying that.”
“How else do you explain the pills? You knew there was something wrong.”
Carly looked to Cruz with imploring eyes. “Sophie had been under a lot of stress, but she’d never take pills. She’s organic. All natural. Are pills all natural? No.”
“They can be,” Sam countered. “Mine are.”
He read the body language of each woman. Carly was the heart. Sam was the guts. Rachel was the head, the voice of reason. “Ms. Montemayor, I understand Ms. DeMusa works for you as a waitress.”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “Since the end of last school year. She answered the sign we had in the window for a waitress. She has been a model employee.”
“Did Ms. DeMusa work Friday, January tenth?”
“The day she was rushed to the hospital? Yes,” Sam said. “She was scheduled at six but started around four. One of our other waitresses called off. Sophie jumped right in. That’s the kind of woman she is.”
Rachel and Batter-up Sam looked in their early thirties, while Carly appeared a few years younger, nearer to Sophie’s age. “What happened between four o’clock and when EMS arrived?”
“Sophie didn’t feel well. I mean, when she came in at four, she was fine.” Sam took a dirty glass from the bar and began to wash it below. “While she put her hair up, she asked how the lunch crowd was. She reminded me she was going home the next day to see her mother. She was looking forward to being spoiled for a few days.”
“Has her mother been notified?”
“We called,” Rachel said. “She wants to come, but she has COPD. Sophie said she gets wiped walking from the car to the house. Anyway, Sophie was fine when she started working.”
“When did she start feeling poorly?”
“It’s hard to keep track of time when we’re busy,” Rachel said. The others nodded their agreement. “It wasn’t too long. She was pale, like zero color in her face, and she was sweaty. She kept water on the edge of the bar, and I refilled it for her twice. I asked her if she was all right and she blew it off. Said it was probably something she ate.”
“She came into the kitchen looking like hell,” Sam said. “I love her and wouldn’t have wanted her serving my food, so I sent her home. She handed her tables off to Rachel, came back through the kitchen, and went downstairs. I told her we’d be down to check on her.”
“Is that what Mr. Fisher was doing? Checking on her?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “He came in for his dinner and noticed Sophie wasn’t working. I told him what happened, and he said he’d check on her. Next thing we know, they’re bringing her out, covered in blood.”
“No one else went down the stairs,” he asked pointedly.
“Not through our place.” Tears ran down Carly’s face. “It killed us that we couldn’t go with her. Jonathan called with updates, not that there was much to say. We were finally winding down when he let us know she was stable.”
Sam scrubbed the bar so hard, she nearly took the varnish off. “The next morning, we found out about the pills.” She sniped at Carly. “How did they get there if she didn’t take them?”
“Someone could have drugged her. Those kind of things happen,” Carly said, looking to Cruz, eyes begging him to back her up.
“Maybe I’d believe it if it was liquid or even powder, but these were pills.” Sam shook her head fiercely. “We were here for her. She should have known that. She didn’t have to deal with the asshole alone.” Her anger was palpable.
“You’re talking about the scandal.”
Rachel glanced to the other women, then began. “Sophie is like a little sister to us. We’re having a hard ti
me with her, uh, accident. Her trouble began in October. She belongs to a sorority—”
“Used to,” Sam said sharply. “Alpha Theta Nu. They kicked her out, the bitches.”
“They aren’t all bitches. Just the one.” Rachel corrected Sam mildly before continuing her story. “Sophie was president of her chapter and part of the committee in charge of organizing a gala event to benefit McDonald’s Women’s Hospital. Super swanky. The night of the event, one of the donors, he—”
“He raped her.” Sam spat the accusation, then pounded her fist on the bar. “When that wasn’t enough, he ruined her life.”
Rachel took a deep breath but didn’t contradict this time. “We knew something was wrong right away. Sophie was the most optimistic, happy person you have ever met. Nobody had that much sunshine. After the gala, she didn’t sparkle anymore. She didn’t smile. If she was touched, she jumped.” Rachel rubbed Sam’s back again, responding to some silent cue. “One night, we were slow. We closed early and cornered her. Jonathan was here. It took some time, but she told us. She was a wreck. We took her home with us. She cried a lot. We pushed until she called the rape crisis center. She closed the bedroom door and talked to someone for a long time. The next day, she told us she just wanted to move on. She went back to her sorority and life picked back up. So it seemed. A few weeks later, just after Thanksgiving, she came into work very upset. She had gone to the police. We were surprised, glad she did it, but surprised. She knew it would be a he-said, she-said, but felt she had to do this to be able to move on. Sophie wasn’t naïve, Detective.”
“And that’s when the shit really hit the fan,” Sam said. “After all, you don’t accuse Andrew Posey of rape without the media getting interested. He pushed back hard. Hulk smash hard. You people believed his shit. It wasn’t enough that blind-ass prosecutor wouldn’t file charge. Fucking Posey filed a complaint against Sophie with the university and the hospital. Her sorority kicked her out.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. She was homeless.”