Driving Reign

by TG Wolff

  “No comment, ma’am.” He ended the call, smiling as he wrote his notes. Never a dull moment. His thoughts were interrupted by a call from Nurse Crimson confirming Sophie’s pregnancy. An ultrasound would be done to estimate how far along she was. At his request, Sophie’s condition would stay with the professionals caring for her. Did Sophie have a reason for keeping her pregnancy secret from the women who took her in? A baby created possibilities, especially if the father-to-be wasn’t eager to be. Cruz brought up a calendar. The charity event had been held October twenty-seventh, nearly three months ago.

  Was Sophie carrying Andrew Posey’s baby?

  Chapter Four

  Cruz shut down his system and stepped out of his car. A wind gust stole his breath. Dark gray clouds were seeping in from the northwest. The Lake Erie snow machine was turning on. Inside Three Witches, Carly waved him to a seat at the bar. “Did you find anything? To help Sophie?”

  He shrugged, not dealing with questions he wouldn’t answer. “What’s good for lunch?”

  “Everything, but I recommend the stew.”

  “I’ll take it, and a cup of coffee, please.” Three Witches was now half full with more people coming in by the minute. Rachel waitressed while Carly worked the bar, leaving the cooking to Sam and her hired crew.

  It was an academic crowd. Cruz listened to the bits of conversation floating his way. Theories. Debates over literary text. Bafflement. Excitement. The “real world” felt a million miles away, not just below the floorboards where Teresa Addison’s sleeping pills nearly killed a pregnant Sophie DeMusa.

  Cruz’s musings were disrupted when a man took the chair next to him. The jacket being hung across the back brushed his arm.

  “Special of the day, Professor?” Carly asked, wiping the already clean bar.

  “Yes, thank you.” The lean face smiled awkwardly. “My usual seat. Lunch, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’ve had a thought to buying into the business, at least I’d have something more for my money than a growing beltline.” He held out his hand. “Grayson Manor.”

  “Jesus De La Cruz.”

  His next seat neighbor was tall and lanky, with a gaunt face and razor-sharp cheeks. The face was out of The Headless Horseman, the clothes a buy from some professor’s warehouse. Sometimes, Cruz thought, there were reasons behind stereotypes.

  “Here you are, Detective. Sam’s famous stew.” Carly set the steamy crock with a savory aroma in front of him.

  His stomach growled. “Tell me she made it in a cauldron, even if you have to lie to me.”

  “We only use it on special occasions. Yours will be right out, Professor.”

  “Thanks, Carly,” Manor said. “So, a detective. What do you detect?”

  “Anything that ends in a question mark.”

  The retort was rewarded with a bark of laughter. “I work at Case Western. Professor of Creative Writing.”

  The stew was as good as it smelled but enjoying it in peace wasn’t going to happen. Waiting for Yablonski and an answer on the search warrant meant he had time, like it or not. “What do you creatively write?”

  “Homicides. Thrillers actually.” He laughed. “Don’t tell me, you hate them, right? See all the flaws? Cringe at the simplifications?”

  “I’m not a fan of most the TV shows. Make it all look too neat, too simple, you know? I don’t read many mysteries, not fiction anyway. My tastes run to magazines, nonfiction, and the occasional textbook.”

  “I can see that. I detest with venomous spittle books on writing. Nothing bores me more than to read about someone else’s creative process. Haven’t found a single one of them worth half as much as they cost. Except mine, of course.” He winked. “It’s worth twice the list price.”

  “I’m thinking the same about this stew. Excuse me,” he said, when his phone rang. He turned away to answer Yablonski. “Are we good?”

  “We are. I’m on my way to get it now. Give me an hour.”

  “I’ll have a bowl of stew waiting for you.” Pleased, he returned to his lunch and the conversation.

  Carly returned with a new bowl, which she set in front of Manor. “Did the detective tell you he’s going to prove Sophie didn’t try to kill herself?”

  Cruz shook his head calmly. “I’m doing a routine investigation to determine if there was any foul play involved in the events leading to Ms. DeMusa’s hospitalization.”

  “I’ll bet it was that philosophy major. What was his name?” Manor waved his hand as though to make the name appear by magic. “Jackson Furth.”

  Carly waved off the suggestion. “Oh, Jackson’s alright. He just, well, he believes those philosophy courses a little too much. He just needs a girlfriend.”

  “He wanted Sophie to be his girlfriend and didn’t like when she said no.”

  “He didn’t understand when she said no. That’s what she got for trying to be nice. She set him straight.”

  Cruz pulled a notebook from his inside pocket. “Jackson Firth. With an ‘I’?”

  “A U,” Carly said. “But really, he’s harmless. You should check out Joshua Harding. He kept making passes at Sophie until she poured a pitcher of beer into his lap.”

  “Him,” Manor said with contempt. “You should definitely talk to him.”

  Cruz made a note. “When was that, Carly? Recently?”

  “I guess it was…Thursday night.” She gasped. “The day before she nearly died. Do you think Joshua did it?”

  “Carly, we aren’t jumping to conclusions. I’m collecting information and properly vetting it. You will not accuse anyone of trying to kill Sophie. Am I clear?” He broke out the voice he used with Rhianna. He waited for her nod before moving on. “Anyone else?”

  “You mean besides the obvious?” Manor paused for dramatic effect. “Andrew Posey.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Posey around here? Has he come in?”

  “No. He isn’t welcome here. Ever,” Carly said, the ice in her tone freezing the conversation. A new customer sat down, and she left to do her job.

  “She’s upset,” Manor said. “These young women are incredibly close. They are all hurting. Do you think…” he drifted off.

  “This is a routine investigation, Professor Manor. I don’t think. I don’t know. Not yet. That being said, if you saw anything, noticed anything, please share.”

  “Understood, Detective, understood. I don’t know Sophie the way they do, but I do like her.”

  “Do you know if she was dating anyone? Before or after the incident with Posey?”

  “There were always men around her. I don’t know if you’ve seen Sophie, but she is beautiful. Not pretty, beautiful. She’s got this exotic edge to her. The witches would know about boyfriends. I really would look into that Jackson character. I don’t think he’s as harmless as Carly believes.” Manor became distracted when Carly changed the channel on the television and a map of Greater Cleveland filled the screen with accumulation predictions. “Only three to six inches here.”

  “Snow belt could get eighteen.” His house, only ten miles west, would be dry if the predictions held.

  Conversation turned away from Sophie but flowed until Manor had to return for his afternoon classes. Little by little, the occupancy rate of Three Witches fell…and then there was one. Cars crawled down the street, none belonged to Yablonski. He should have been there by now, even with the snow. His phone rang, but it wasn’t a number he recognized. “De La Cruz.”

  “Yes, this is D’Arcy Whitsome, returning your call. I understand you’re looking into a case of mine?” The voice was young, energetic, with an edge that cut through bullshit.

  “Not exactly.” He explained the situation. “I’m looking for background. Did you work directly with Sophie?”

  “I did and I’m happy to give you the facts and my opinion on those facts. I’m due in court again in fifteen minutes. How about meeting me this afternoon? I’ll be ready for a drink by then. Let’s say The Verdic
t? Four-thirty?”

  “See you then,” he said, then ended the call. The clock on the phone reminded him it had been nearly three hours since he’d locked the apartment door. Felt longer. As a detective, he spent a lot of time waiting. Waiting for lab reports, for witness statements, for crime scene analysis.

  With a gallows humor, Cruz thought back to the mess of last year when he was thigh deep in decapitated heads. Those days, he called anyone—a judge, crime scene, the media—and they were there before he hung up the phone. He barely had time for a cup of coffee before a team arrived. He had a hall pass. A golden ticket. Go to the front of the line.

  Finally, Yablonski pulled into the building’s driveway.

  “Carly, can you bring another stew?”

  As Yablonski pulled off layers, his lunch was set on the bar. “Thank you. Big mess, Cruzie, big mess.” Yablonski huddled over the steaming bowl, shivering. “I swear to you, I could have walked faster.”

  Cruz looked to the big man’s barrel belly. “Fastest I’ve seen you walk is to the beer cooler.”

  “Hot dog stand. We were driving on slush. Crawling. Creeping.”

  “I get it. Eat. It’ll warm you.”

  “Then I hear it. Brakes locking up. I’m coming up on an intersection and the cars going the other direction are falling like dominoes. Bam bam bam bam. Fenders were bent, people were shaken, and the intersection was snarled. I’m so freaking cold I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.” His reddened hand shook as he raised the spoon to his lips. “This is good.”

  Sam delivered a batch of clean glasses to Carly, her gaze coming to Cruz three times before she returned to the kitchen.

  “That one has given me the bad eye since I walked in. Doesn’t trust me.”

  “Probably doesn’t think you’re a real cop.” Yablonski finished off the stew. “Where’s your braid? What’s with the fancy clothes?”

  Now he did cringe on the inside. “Nothing fancy. Just felt like something different today. You warming up? Your fingers look like boiled hot dogs.”

  Yablonski flexed his big hand. “They’re better. I don’t know if I’ll ever play a concerto, but that’s the city’s loss.”

  Cruz chortled at the thought of the big man piano-side. “You can’t even spell concerto.”

  “Sure, I can. F-u-c-k. Y-o-u. We here to work or what?”

  Cruz led Yablonski through Three Witches, using the spare key to access the basement. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, something heavy tumbled to the floor from his left. Diana landed at his feet, blinking up with her one good eye.

  “Big cat,” Yablonski said. “What’s on her fur?”

  Her blind-side shoulder was matted with blood. Against the white of her fur, the thick liquid was dark and fresh. And it definitely wasn’t there when he left her on the other side of the door.

  Heat rose with the possibility—no, the likelihood—that someone had been in the apartment since he locked the door. “I left the cat inside. There’s no other way out.” He paced the length of the apartment wall confirming no window, no door, no hole in the wall. “Is the door locked?”

  Yablonski pulled his glove on, turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  At a glance, Cruz knew his scene had been compromised. “Son of a bitch.”

  Yablonski flattened against the door, identifying himself, and ordering anyone inside to do the same. The cat ran in. Otherwise, nothing moved. Together, they cleared the small apartment. No one was hiding in the closet or under the bed, but someone had been in the space. And they tossed it. Where before only the bedroom was messy, now the kitchen and living area were upturned. The couch cushions were on the floor, the throw blanket pinned beneath them. Books were scattered across the floor. Diana’s cat stand was toppled as was one of the chairs for the kitchen table. Drawers and cabinet doors were open. Papers and pens and charge cords littered the floor.

  Cruz sprinted left, into the bedroom, but the package with Teresa Addison’s name was gone. Cursing, he returned to the entryway.

  Yablonski squatted on the kitchen floor. Small red circles dotted the linoleum. “Were those drops there before?”

  “No. Not on the cat, either.” Cruz lifted Diana, holding her while Yablonski cut the stained fur. “Nice job, Diana. Good kitty.”

  The pills were still under the bed. The water glass was gone. The pregnancy book was tumbled among the textbooks, overlooked and discarded.

  The call had been made, and the ETA on crime scene was sometime between now and Wednesday. Reality was there was more crime than resources to process it. End result, crime scene, laboratories, and other support units were dispatched by priority. It was triage for evidence.

  Cruz sealed off the entire basement, declaring it a crime scene. Until released, no one would be entering the lower level. “Nowhere to go but up,” he said, leading Yablonski out of the basement.

  In the hexagon-floored foyer, a thick oak door with bevel glass turned the stairs it protected into a kaleidoscope. Yablonski pressed a button on the security panel. Ten seconds later, a buzzer granted access.

  “About time you showed up. Don’t I get it free if it’s more than thirty minutes?” The voice echoed down the stairs. Male. Young. Educated.

  A lanky twenty-something stood barefoot in the doorway of the apartment above Three Witches in a “I don’t want to taco ’bout it” T-shirt.

  “Detective De La Cruz, Cleveland police.” Cruz held up his ID. “Detective Yablonski. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Uh, sure. I guess. You wanna come in?” He backed into the apartment where three others were shouting at a television. “Shut up, you assholes. Cops are here.”

  Like prairie dogs on alert, the young men sat taller, focusing attention on the intruder.

  Cruz repeated the introductions. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Evan Zayer,” taco shirt said, then pointed to the guy in the Cavs T-shirt. “This is Jakob Pressman, my roommate, and P.J. Mayfield.”

  In the large living room with hardwood floors and bare walls, Call of Duty waged on, the report bouncing off the stark room. It was a guys’ apartment, furnished with a broken-in couch and two recliners in different colors. A coffee table had dishes underneath, controllers on top.

  “Can you turn it off,” Yablonski asked, indicating the video game.

  “We’re following up on Sophie DeMusa,” Cruz said. “First, were any of you down in the basement today?”

  Jakob lifted his hand. “I put laundry in last night. I brought it up this morning.” The shirt he wore looked like it had been pulled through a keyhole. He pointed to the basket next to the couch piled high with other clothes from the same keyhole.

  “Did you see anyone down there?”

  “Sure. Christa walked down with me. She’s on the fourth floor. We met P.J. at the door.”

  Cruz acknowledged P.J. but stayed with Jakob. “Walk us through it.”

  “Through what? Christa and I walked down the back stairs. I carried her basket and we talked about the band she saw on Saturday. We met P.J. outside the back door. Christa used her key to open the door. P.J. was looking for Sophie and we told him about the hospital. I got my laundry and P.J. and I came up here.”

  “You left Christa in the basement alone?”

  His brows furrowed in confusion. “Well, yeah. She didn’t need help loading the washer and, women get nervous when you offer to handle their underwear.”

  Cruz shook his head. “I meant you didn’t see anyone else in the basement. Just the three of you?”

  “Yes.”

  Yablonski stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “What about the cat? Diana.”

  “Yeah, that was weird,” Jakob said. “She was up in one of the windows and wouldn’t come down. She kept hissing at me. Christa yelled at me to stop teasing her. I didn’t do anything to that cat. She’s just mean.”

  Cruz thought of the animal taking a swipe at him and
then begging for his attention. The cat wasn’t anything as simple as mean. He turned to the man in the dress pants, vest, and tie. “Do you live in the building, Mr. Mayfield?”

  “No. I live in an apartment off campus.”

  “He hangs out with us, so he can stare at Sophie’s ass.” Evan punctuated with comment with a fist to his friend’s shoulder. “She will never go out with him. We told him a hundred times. Look at Jakob, she shot him down like a cruise missile.”

  “I wasn’t really interested,” the wrinkled roommate said. “Just trying to help her out.”

  Evan called, “Bullshit.”

  “She was nice.”

  “Was,” Evan repeated. “Did you catch that, detectives? She’s gone Medusa. You step out of line and she’ll freeze you with a look that turns your balls to ice cubes. Tell him, P.J. She stepped on your balls a time or two.”

  “She’s warming up to me.” P.J. Mayfield was so clean-cut he squeaked. “I’m getting close to a date.” His friends laughed. “Well, she didn’t throw anything at me last time. Progress.”

  “What did she throw the time before?” Cruz asked.

  “A book,” Evan said quickly.

  “It was a paperback,” P.J. said. “It didn’t hurt.”

  “You didn’t know Sophie was in the hospital?”

  “I was out of town until yesterday. This morning I came to see Sophie. She doesn’t have a doorbell, not like the rest of the apartments. I figured I would knock at the back door, someone would hear. Luckily, I didn’t have to. I heard Jakob coming down the back steps. They’re metal and make a lot of noise. I couldn’t believe it when they said she’d swallowed all those pills.” He shook his head slowly, sadness apparent in the long lines of his frown. “Really, I never thought she’d do something like that.”

  It was a refrain of an old song.

  Yablonski challenged their unappointed leader. “What about you, Evan? A confident guy like you would have no trouble with a difficult woman.”

  The taco guy cocked a smile. “My girlfriend would kick my ass. I’m not into pain.”

  Cruz asked them to describe Sophie’s behavior, her attitude. Evan and Jakob had known her “before.” All their descriptions contrasted the hard-edged, sarcastic, paranoid woman of today with the outgoing, happy, easygoing woman of yesterday. Only P.J., who just met Sophie a few weeks ago, described her in positive terms. His friends disagreed. Loudly.