Driving Reign

by TG Wolff

  Cruz made notes, leaving space for the high emotion to dissipate. “When did she move into the apartment in the basement?”

  “New Year’s Eve,” Rachel said. “Jonathan Fisher owns the building. Sophie is like a favorite niece to him. He insisted she move in.”

  “He’s across the hall? The bookstore?”

  “Yes, but he left this morning for a rare book auction in Detroit. You should talk to him, though. He’s the one who found Sophie. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Cruz steered the conversation through the details, fleshing out the portrait of a woman who went from top of her class to basement apartment, figuratively as much as literally.

  Rachel seemed to realize the interview had run its course. “You’ll want to see her apartment, right? We have her spare key.”

  Cruz stayed seated, slowly shaking his head. “I can’t, Rachel. I don’t have a search warrant authorizing me to enter Ms. DeMusa’s private space.”

  “I’ll let you in.”

  “You don’t have the authority to grant me permission.”

  “More bullshit,” Sam snapped. “If you can’t help, why are you here?”

  “To learn more about Ms. DeMusa and the circumstances of that Friday night. If there is probable cause she did not voluntarily ingest the pills, then I’ll get a warrant.”

  Rachel was quiet for a moment, the same look on her face Rhianna wore when she was figuring out how to get her way. “Wouldn’t being inside her apartment help establish probable cause?”

  “It could. Or, just as likely, it could establish she acted by her own hand.”

  Another moment of quiet, then Rachel looked at her watch. “Well, it’s time for me to feed Sophie’s cat. Why don’t we finish talking while I take care of her?” She led him through the kitchen doors toward the rear of the building. She went to a heavy door, scarred with dings and scratches, and pulled it open, revealing a small alcove open to the rear yard. The square space had three doors. Cruz stood in one. Opposite was a solid door marked with a brass plate and etched letters, artistically announcing it accessed Fisher’s Books. To his right was another solid door.

  Rachel opened this last door. It led to a landing only large enough to allow the door to open, then a set of steps down. The basement was well lit both by LED fixtures and daylight weeping in through windows on the side and front of the building. The floor was painted a light gray and the space smelled of laundry detergent and dryer sheets.

  The length of the basement, to his left, was lined with fenced cages providing secure storage for the tenants. Six cubes, each numbered and padlocked. Beyond the storage areas and along the front wall were three washers, three driers. The utilitarian area held a long table and a moveable rack with clothing hanging from it. The area wasn’t currently being used, but a pink laundry basket sat atop one of the silent dryers.

  The wide aisle to the laundry was formed by the storage units and the outer wall of the basement apartment. Rachel opened the door, turned on the lights, then stepped back to allow Cruz to enter.

  “Has anyone been in here since that Friday?” he asked.

  “I come in every day to feed her cat, Diana.” A can of moist cat food sat on the counter. Rachel took it, pulled the tab quickly so the noise could be heard. A blur of white zipped through the bedroom door and onto a small table.

  The long-haired Persian purred for Rachel’s attention. Cruz reached out to see if the fur was as soft as it appeared, and the cat turned on him. His own reflexes saved him from a nasty swipe of sharp claws.

  “Sorry. I should have warned you. Diana can be unpredictable. I think she has kitty PTSD. Sophie found her in an alley on campus, a bloody, wet mess. You do not want to sneak up on her blind side.” She held out the underside of her wrist where a thin scar was slightly raised.

  Cruz offered his fist for the cat’s inspection. She sniffed and then butted her head into him. Cruz unfolded his hand, the silky head rose to fill it. One eye was a brilliant blue while the other was scared and didn’t fully open. She wore a blue collar faceted with large crystals, from which tags hung.

  “Are we friends, Diana?” He spoke softly, stroking the animal with his voice as much as his hand. “Rachel, have you noticed anything missing?”

  “No, but, you know, I was only looking for Diana.”

  “Take a look around now. Don’t touch anything, just look. Does anything seem different to you?”

  Rachel took the assignment seriously, walking through Sophie’s private space one slow step at a time. The single large room in which they stood was living room, dining room, and kitchen. The “front” of the apartment faced the rear of the building. Two half-sized windows looked out to the alley. Three windows along the length overlooked the neighboring driveway. The room was carpeted in a short pile in shades of brown and sparsely furnished. A futon couch with a fuzzy blanket pooled on it separated the living space from the kitchen. A coffee table in a blonde wood held textbooks and sheets of loose-leaf paper. More books stood in orderly stacks along the wall. A small, flat-screen television sat under the alley windows. The space was lived in. Cluttered without being sloppy. Messy without being dirty.

  The cat sat on the table behind the couch. The table and two chairs matched the ones in Three Witches. The kitchen was the open space formed by an L-shaped counter and featured a full-size stove, refrigerator, and sink.

  “Everything looks the same as always,” Rachel said. She went to the bathroom with Cruz following. Sink, toilet, litter box, bathtub with a curtain encircling to create a shower. All were clean.

  Cruz used a gloved hand to open the mirrored cabinet. The strongest thing in it was mouthwash and small containers of creams, and a bottle of antacids. He followed Rachel to the last room, the bedroom.

  This room was, by comparison, a mess. Opposite the entry door, the closet folding doors were open. Panties and bras littered the carpet. Sweaters and shirts hung crookedly from hangers or had given up and fallen to the floor.

  End tables sandwiched the bed, mismatched lamps with stacks of books on each. One lamp was knocked over. Books had spilled to the floor. The bed covers were wadded into an oversized ball in the center of the bed. The carpet was blood stained in front of the nearer table.

  “That’s where she fell.” Rachel unnecessarily pointed to a large, dark stain.

  Cruz squatted, examining the blood dried on both the carpet and the nightstand. A large, deep-set stain dominated the area, but several smaller stains intruded on the edges. He stood then, visually sweeping the room. “Did she have a cell phone?”

  “Yes. We have it up in our office now. It’s locked and we don’t have the passcode.” Rachel looked around the room. “I don’t see anything missing, but I’m not sure I would notice.”

  The difference between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment bothered Cruz. He been in rooms so layered in clutter and human detritus it took hours to thoroughly search. It had the feel of Roman archeology. Current day on the top layer. Beneath was last week. Beneath that was last month, and so on.

  Sophie’s space didn’t have complicated layers. She didn’t have the lived-in clutter they’d cleaned from Aurora’s apartment. On the opposite side of the bed, he dropped to his knees, searching the floor. The tightly woven carpet would hold everything on the surface. The mattress sat on a simple frame without the fancy drapery to hide the metal. Under the bed, small shadows created dimension. He found several tufts of Diana’s fur, small pieces of errant paper, a sock, and an irregular shape. Near the wall were two small, oval tablets in a greenish color. He took a picture, leaving the pills where they sat.

  An empty glass sat on the end table next to a coaster. He sniffed it, detecting nothing but water. The surface of the table beneath swelled with a water mark with a red tinge. He scratched it; his finger smelled sweet.

  It struck him as odd that Sophie set the wet glass on the cheap surface instead of two inches to the right on the coaster.
and that the glass that smelled of water left a red ring. If you were really going to kill yourself, were you likely to care if the glass left a water mark? Hardly. But, by the same token, would you break what would likely be a habit of setting the glass in its place?

  He took a closer look at the splatter on the sheets. Not all were blood. Something had been spilled, splashed. Wine. Cranberry juice. Something that wasn’t here any longer.

  Four books were stacked in front of the thin-bodied lamp. All came from the Case Western Reserve University library and had insomnia-curing titles like Laboratory Techniques in Organic Chemistry and Human Anatomy and Physiology. Small slips of thin paper were pinned under the lamp. Cruz examined the three, each a receipt from the same library. Sophie borrowed four to five books each time, all with titles pointing to a woman studying medicine.

  One caught his attention for being out of place and having deeper ramifications. His gaze flashed to Rachel as he wondered how much she knew and how far Sophie trusted her.

  “Did you find something?” Rachel asked.

  “Sophie, she liked books? What did she read?” He gave her an opening.

  “Totally. Most of the stuff she read went ten feet over my head. Back before, she would try to talk to me about some scientific thingy or another and I couldn’t do anything but stare at her.”

  “What about after?”

  “Like we said, she pulled into herself. She doesn’t tend to talk unless she has something to say.” Rachel sifted through the clothes on the floor. “She still loves her books. I think that’s why she and Jonathan get on so well.”

  It wasn’t what he was looking for. He’d have to keep this information close to his vest.

  Mee-oow. Diana rolled to her back, calling for attention from the doorway.

  “I bet you have all the boy cats falling at your feet. But not me, Diana, not me.” He caved in, squatted down to rub the cat’s head. A misplaced color caught his attention. Wedged between the wall and the back of Sophie’s dresser was a white packet. Using his pen, he dragged the package along the wall until he could read the brand and the prescription. He snapped a picture using his cell and pushed the package back into place. “Does the name Teresa Addison mean anything to you?”

  “Teresa Addison?” Rachel stilled as she considered the question. “There’s a Terry Anderson, but he’s a guy. Teresa. No, I’m sorry. Who is she?”

  “I don’t know yet. Come on, we’re done here..” He turned off the bedroom lights and left her to follow. She hurried after him, closing the front door behind them. “Make sure you lock it. And don’t you or your friends come back in without checking with me first.”

  Rachel caught his arm as he turned toward the stairs. “Does that mean you have probable cause?”

  Cruz left the question unanswered, retreating to exploit the new information. The city-issued vehicle that wouldn’t inspire a car thief to break a sweat was home away from home. Well, office away from office. Sometimes, he preferred it to the four-legged desk because it allowed him to work uninterrupted. Yes, his radio chattered on in the background, but his cop brain had been trained to listen for what he needed to hear and ignore the rest.

  He took out his cell and placed the first call. It took several minutes before he heard the voice he needed.

  “Joely Crimson. Can I help you?” The nurse’s voice sounded more put out than helpful.

  “Crimson, it’s Detective De La Cruz. About Sophie DeMusa, does she have any other injuries besides her head and the overdose?” He should have been more thorough in his consideration of the victim but had been too pissed off at Bollier to think clearly.

  “There was bruising on both hands and forearms. Nothing deep, they healed quickly without intervention.”

  “Could they have been defensive injuries?”

  “Maybe. Her knuckles were scraped, two of her fingernails were broken. If she was in a fight, they both had soft touches. No damage anywhere except hands and arms, no open cuts.”

  “Any chance there is tissue samples under her nails?”

  “Always a chance.”

  “I’ll send someone over. One last thing.” On the library receipt between The Definitive Guide to Animal Flatulence and How to Analyze Perfectly Sane People was the unexpected title What to Expect When You’re Expecting. “Did you give her a pregnancy test?”

  “No. Why would we? Oh, hell. I’ll call you back.” The line disconnected.

  Call number two went to the bailiff for the judge Cruz had worked with previously for search warrants. It wasn’t a good sign the bailiff answered on the second ring. The judge was on the slopes, high above places where cell phone coverage existed.

  The next call was a Hail Mary pass to the ten-yard line.

  “I was just about to call you,” Yablonski said. “Wanna grab lunch?”

  “Sure. Ever eaten at a place called Three Witches?”

  “Naw. I’d remember the name. Where is it?”

  Cruz gave him the address. “I need you to do me a favor first.” He laid out the details Yablonski would need to call his preferred judge’s bailiff, to get to the judge, to get a search warrant.

  “Let me work my magic and I’ll give you a call back.”

  “Thanks.” A car pulled out of a coveted spot in front of The Atlas; Cruz relocated and settled in for a little digging.

  He enlarged the image on his phone, the text on the prescription label conveniently provided an address in the Cleveland suburb of North Royalton and a phone number. As he dialed, he estimated Sophie DeMusa’s apartment and address were a good forty minutes apart. They weren’t so far as the crow flies but as the car drives, you couldn’t get there fast.

  “Kingston Place,” said a merry female voice.

  “This is Detective Jesus De La Cruz, Cleveland police. Where have I called?”

  “Kingston Place, Detective. We are a rehabilitation and nursing facility. Who were you trying to reach?”

  “Teresa Addison.”

  “Please hold while I transfer you.” The line went silent.

  “Who’s calling on this phone?” The elderly female voice was distant, as if talking to someone in the room rather than into the phone. “I didn’t even know this one worked.”

  “Mrs. Addison? Teresa Addison?”

  “Oh ho! You are there! Lookie see at that.” She spoke into the phone now, enjoying the novelty of the call. “And who might you be?”

  “Detective Jesus De La Cruz, Cleveland police, ma’am. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

  “At my age, Detective Jesus De La Cruz, interruptions are the highlight of the day. That’s some name you have there. Come by it honestly?”

  “My mother gave it to me. I can’t say how honestly she came by it.” He couldn’t suppress the smile that came with word play. “Mrs. Addison, I came across a package of sleeping pills with your name on—”

  “Ah ha! I told them. I told them swarmy insurance bastards someone stole my sleepers, but do they listen? No! They accused me of losing them. As if because I’m eighty-seven years old I can’t keep track of my own damn pills. They only delivered two packages, that’s what I told them. I’m supposed to get three. Where did you find them?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Sure, it is. Maybe if I know where they are, I can tell you how they got there. Did you think of that?”

  She was baiting him like a walleye. “Cleveland’s east side, ma’am. Near Little Italy.”

  “Little Italy, huh?” She gasped. “Maybe the beady-eyed delivery man palmed them? You can’t trust men with beady eyes.”

  “You haven’t been to this part of the city recently?”

  She cackled at a joke he didn’t get. “I didn’t put them there, if that’s what you’re asking. What kind of crime was it?”

  “I didn’t say there was a crime, ma’am.”

  “Say Shmay. You wouldn’t be calling me if there wasn’t trouble attac
hed.”

  He smiled, entertained by his witness. “I can’t divulge that, ma’am, the investigation is still in progress.”

  “Come on, Detective Jesus De La Cruz, we’re friends, aren’t we? Look, who am I going to tell?”

  “I don’t need my case becoming dinner gossip at every table in Kingston Place.”

  “Have a heart, Detective.” She changed her tune, going for pitiful. “You would make me the queen of the dining hall. Being part of a crime would beat Marjorie Struman’s stories about her grandson. She thinks he’s a landscaper, but he really grows marijuana in Colorado.”

  “Is it common for medications to go missing at Kingston Place?”

  “Common? I wouldn’t use that word, but things happen. This and that go missing now and again. Boredom drives people to do odd things, Detective. Someone stole one of Jimmy’s shoes. He took them off to walk barefoot in the grass. He likes that. He set them by the door, lined them side by side just like he does a few times a week. Came back fifteen minutes later and what do you think he found?”

  “One shoe?”

  “Exactly! One. Shoe. Detect that, Detective.”

  “What about medication?”

  “Those of us living in the apartments take care of our own meds. I have my insulin, can’t live without it, and my sleepers. I don’t use them every day, but I’m happy to have them when I need them. Never had any stolen before this. I’ll ask the others, but I’m sure I’da heard about it if they were missing. Rehab and skilled nursing is different. They administer pills. If there’s something missing there, it’s a conspiracy. Lee Harvey Oswald all over again.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Addison—”

  “Wait. Can you bring me my sleepers? That tight wad Medicaid doesn’t believe they were stolen.”

  “The scene is still being secured and your medication is part of it. I’m afraid they’re soon to be evidence.”

  “Evidence, huh. That should close Marjorie’s pie hole. You didn’t tell me what kinda crime it was? Come on, Detective, be a pal.”