by TG Wolff
He took a deep breath and let it out noisily. “I got up and realized I had no clothes. I remembered I’d done laundry Sunday night and never got it out of the dryer. I put on these pants, my boots, and my coat and went out the back door. Christa was on our landing and she carried a laundry basket. She had on her pink coat. She’s kinda cute, you know, and I offered to carry her basket. Is that much the same?”
“She said you carried her basket and had never done it before.”
He flashed a sleepy smile. “Did she say if she liked it?”
“I got the impression she did. What happened next?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. I mean, we walked down the stairs. I asked her about her weekend. You know, just casual. When we got down to the bottom, P.J. was there.”
“He was there, or he jumped out?”
“I don’t know. I was looking at Christa and she kinda jumped and then P.J. was there. Did she say he jumped us?”
“Not jumped you, but jumped out, like he was hiding under the stairs.”
“He was just there. I said hey to him and asked what he was doing. He said he came to see Sophie.”
“There isn’t a bell to the basement apartment, correct? Why wouldn’t he have buzzed you and Mr. Zayer to let him in?”
Pressman rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. He knows the back door is always locked. I don’t know why he didn’t go to the front door and tag us. Me or Evan would have let him in. Do you think that’s suspicious?”
“I think it raises questions. You told him about Sophie. How did he react?”
Pressman took another deep breath, looking as if thinking this hard, this early in the morning was a challenge. “Surprised, I guess. He said how she was fine on Friday when we were at the bar. He asked if the police thought she tried to kill herself. I said something like, ‘No, why would they?’ I hadn’t heard about police being part of it. That was before I met you.”
“He asked you if the police were involved?”
“Yeah, but like I said, I didn’t know you were, so I said no.”
“What was Christa doing?”
He shook his head slowly. “She didn’t like him there. I had her basket, so she cut around him and unlocked the back door.”
“Are you sure it was locked?”
“Why wouldn’t it have been locked? It’s always locked. Okay, once in a while it gets propped open, like when people are moving stuff in or out of the storage locker, but it was cold Monday. You know it was. No one was pulling out their bicycles.”
“Was Mr. Mayfield carrying anything, like a backpack or a bag?”
“Just his man purse. It’s this leather bag he carries. It hangs across him, like a courier bag.” Pressman used his hands to illustrate the bag sitting over his hip. “He always has it with him.”
“What’s in it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t look in purses. Even man purses.”
“Did Mr. Mayfield go into the basement with you and Ms. Moseby?”
“Yeah. We were talking about Sophie and stuff. Christa took her basket from me and went to the washers. I left my basket on top of the dryer. Sophie’s cat was in the window right over it. She hissed at me when I got close.”
“Was that normal?”
“No. I didn’t tease the cat. If Christa said that, she was wrong. I went for my basket and the cat put her ears back and hissed.”
“Was Mr. Mayfield with you?”
“Yeah. So? He didn’t do anything to the cat either.”
“You collected your clothes and you left with Mr. Mayfield. Whose idea was it to go back to your apartment?”
“Mine. His hand was bleeding and I asked if he wanted to come up for a Band-Aid. He said he cut it when he dropped his razor and it kept bleeding. Evan was playing Call of Duty when we went up and so we joined in. That’s it. I didn’t lie about any of it.”
“How long have you and Mr. Zayer been friends with Mr. Mayfield?”
“Not long. We met him at Three Witches before Christmas. He was trying to get Sophie’s number and going down in flames. Saw him a few times after, he just was always around. Is he in trouble or something? You’re asking a lot of questions about him.”
“I’m just trying to understand how everyone fits in here. The Atlas is a busy building. Lots of people coming and going. Does Mr. Mayfield live here, too?”
“No. If he did, he’d have a key to the basement, wouldn’t he? His apartment is up the hill in Cleveland Heights.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, um, I don’t.”
“Do you know Ronnie Taylor?”
“The Kung Fu master? Sure, he lives above us. I didn’t see him on Monday. He leaves early for work. He kinda leads two lives, working full time and on his PhD. He’s a good guy, though. And he’s great to ask for help moving. He’s strong as an elephant.”
“From all the Kung Fu?”
“He doesn’t do Kung Fu, it’s some other martial art. I can never remember the name. Evan and I went to one of his fights last summer. He comes off slow, ’cause of the way he talks, but in a ring, he doesn’t mess around.” He yawned, not trying to hide it. “I need a Red Bull. You want one?”
“No, thank you. Was Mr. Taylor one of the men trying to date Ms. DeMusa?”
Jakob Pressman crossed to the refrigerator on the far end of the room. “I saw them walking up Mayfield Road, holding hands.” He opened the can and made short work of it. “Huh. I’d forgotten about that. I guess it didn’t work out.”
“Do you remember when they broke up?”
“I don’t remember knowing they were together to have broken up. Ronnie is a quiet guy and Sophie isn’t dramatic. Well, she wasn’t.”
“Last question,” he removed a picture from his notebook, “have you seen this man around The Atlas or Three Witches?”
Pressman took the picture of Andrew Posey, taking time to study the face. He shook his head slowly. “Sorry. He doesn’t live here, I’ll tell you that much.”
In his car, Cruz typed up the interview. Ronnie Taylor, in his opinion, was collateral damage in the fallout of the DeMusa-Posey—what? Mess? Fiasco? He was the good guy pushed aside, left confused and heartbroken. God, it sounded like a chick flick, but pain was written all over the big face. Taylor wasn’t over DeMusa, not one inch. Cruz didn’t put him on the suspect list for two reasons. One, he thought Taylor more prone to an embarrassing gesture than harming Sophie. Two, Taylor wouldn’t have used pills. When a man is physical, a man is physical.
On the top of the suspect list was P.J. Mayfield, whoever he was. The guy was the right age and had the right look to insert himself into the collegiate atmosphere. He still could be a student, there were other universities in the city, but it didn’t play for him. Mayfield was at The Atlas for one reason: Sophie DeMusa.
Maybe it was simple. A handsome man sees a pretty girl and goes for it. She shoots him down, his ego doesn’t accept it, and he strikes out. It was the same reason he would be talking to Jackson Furth and Joshua Harding.
But, he thought. But, but, but. If it was just about dating a girl, why the lies?
Chapter Eight
The classroom door opened releasing the sound of constructive arguments into the previously silent corridor. Cruz came to his feet, searching for the man with “Jesus hair.” Jackson Furth’s roommate had giving the description and, a moment later, remembered the cop’s name.
Near the end of the parade was a white male, early twenties with medium brown hair hanging past his shoulders. It was parted down the middle, creating a frame for his face, just like in so many depictions of the man from Nazareth.
“Jackson Furth?”
“Yeah?” The male stopped, the woman behind running into him. With a reprimanding glare, she moved around.
“I’m Detective Jesus De La Cruz, Cleveland police, homicide. Could we have a word, in private?” He indicated the classroom.
“Did you need something, Jackson?”
“This detective wants to talk to me.”
The professor looked like somebody’s favorite uncle in a bulky knit sweater, with an expression of gentle concern. “Would you like me to stay?”
Furth looked at Cruz for a cue.
“Not necessary,” Cruz said. “Mr. Furth was identified as a witness in an incident and I just need to know what he saw.” Not a lie. The fact Furth was a potential suspect didn’t negate the truth of him being a witness.
Relief softened Furth’s face, and the professor was content to collect his materials and leave.
Furth spoke first, once they were alone. “What incident did I witness? I don’t remember seeing anything special.”
“Do you know Sophie DeMusa?”
“Sophie DeMusa? No, I don’t think I do.”
“She is a waitress at Three Witches.”
His face lit up. “Oh, yeah. I know Sophie. Hey, I heard she was in the hospital. Is she better?” The color in his face drained. “You said you were homicide.”
“Ms. DeMusa remains in a coma from her injuries. I am investigating the circumstances leading to her condition. You know Ms. DeMusa well.” He made the statement.
“I wanted to know Ms. DeMusa well, but she didn’t feel the same.”
“What happened between you two?”
“Nothing. She was always nice and talked to me when I came in. I thought she liked me. I invited her to a party, but she said she didn’t go to parties. Then I asked if she wanted to see a superhero movie, but she said she hadn’t seen the prequel. So, I asked her if she wanted to go to dinner. She had to eat, right? I even picked out this restaurant with vegetarian and vegan options in case she didn’t like meat, dairy, fish, or wheat. I thought I had it covered. Turns out she liked to stay in, alone. She said the same to the other guy, so, you know, maybe she’s into women.”
“What other guy?”
“I don’t know his name. He hung around Evan Zayer and Jakob Pressman. They live in the building and are at Three Witches all the time.”
“Does P.J. Mayfield sound familiar? Joshua Harding?”
“The first. Mayfield.”
“Did he ask her out?”
“Yeah. I heard him a few times. She usually said no but sometimes she pretended she didn’t hear him. He was always trying something to get her attention. The other week, she had gone into the kitchen. He shoved a tray of dirties off the bar. When Sam came out of the kitchen to help Carly, he went in. Didn’t see Sophie or him come back out.”
“Do you remember when that was?” He made the question casual when it could explain how someone had gotten to her apartment.
“Let me think.” He opened the calendar on his phone. “Here’s today. Alan was with me, my roommate, and we had dinner, so…” He mumbled as he pointed to the dates. “Probably this Friday.”
Bingo. “Are you sure?”
“Ninety percent. We can check with Alan.”
“Do that.” Cruz waited, listened as Furth called his roommate on speaker phone. Alan proved to be a fountain of data. He verified the date and confirmed Furth’s account.
“He bumped the tray,” Alan said. “Hard. It wasn’t an accident. It was like an avalanche in slow motion. A few glasses fell, then the tray tipped and they all fell. Crazy loud. Sam runs out of the kitchen using the door behind the bar. Mayfield went into the kitchen through the dining room door. The clock over the door said six-fifty.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yeah. The clock is fast, but I’m sure that’s what it said.”
“Did either of you see Jonathan Fisher come in?”
“Sure,” Furth said. “Maybe ten minutes later? He picked up a to-go bag and left.”
Taking the information the pair provided, Cruz found a table and a decent cup of coffee in a cafeteria to clean up his notes. The roommates had been observant, filling in details eluding the Witches. By all accounts, Sophie DeMusa had gone from healthy at four o’clock to ill at five-thirty. Sometime in between, Margot Hennessy had a confrontation with Sophie. The phantom P.J. Mayfield had approached her multiple times, then followed her out of the restaurant. Had he contributed to her becoming ill or had he just taken advantage of it? Cruz made a note to follow up with the hospital: had anything other than the sleeping pills been found in her system?
“Detective De La Cruz? Is that you?”
An expectant face waited above his notebook. “Grayson Manor.”
Manor and his lunch sat down. “I really can’t believe this. It’s like the cosmos aligned or something. I was going to call you.”
Cruz hurriedly collected his notes, tucking them away from curious eyes and wayward condiments. “Oh? About what?”
“I’m part of the local chapter of a writers’ group and wanted to offer you the unique opportunity to present on the realities of being a detective.” He smiled in a “fisherman landing a whale” kind of way.
Cruz didn’t like being on a line. “A unique opportunity, huh? Your original guy cancelled?”
The practiced smile was replaced with a real one. “Without so much as an ‘I’m sorry.’ The bastard. What do you say?”
It could be interesting, talking with writers. He’d consider it a public service if he could straighten out details before they got them wrong. “When and what do you want me to do?”
“Two weeks from today, seven o’clock at Fisher’s. You choose the topic. The majority of us write mysteries and thrillers. Then there’s Asa, he’s our token poet. If you want an idea, how about a day in the life of a homicide detective?”
He guffawed at the television warped perceptions. “You trying to cure your group of insomnia.”
“Handling evidence, fingerprints, blood, arrest procedures. Really, they’ll eat up anything you want to share.”
Cruz could talk about any of those things in his sleep. “If a case breaks, I’ll have to cancel.”
“Understandable. Now, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Follow-up interviews. I needed to put my thoughts together before finding Joshua Harding. Coffee helps.”
“This must be your lucky day. You don’t even have to go back out in the weather. You see the loud table over my shoulder?”
A round table of five young men raucously recounted a weekend of skiing. One sat with his back partially toward their table, his dark blue sweatshirt had HARDING spelled in bright white letters. Cruz adjusted his chair until he had a clear view of Joshua Harding next to Manor’s right shoulder.
“You know P.J. Mayfield?” he asked Manor.
“Mayfield? Aren’t you going to interrogate Harding?”
“Interview. Not interrogate. And he’s not going anywhere.” Cruz wondered at the distaste in Manor’s voice. “You’re not a Harding fan?”
“I suppose, as a professor, I shouldn’t have opinions. But I do.”
“And yours is?”
“He’s arrogant. To the point of being an asshole.”
“So, you think he may have drugged Ms. DeMusa because he’s an asshole?” He shook his head. “I hope you write better motives into your books.”
Manor’s brows pressed low as he examined Cruz’s face. “You’re teasing me.” He rubbed the spot between his eyes where the lines had collided. “My killers are never anything as simple as assholes. Which, I’m guessing, is your point. And, to Mr. Harding’s defense, that’s all he is. He is of average intelligence, average wit, below average motivation. I suspect if a woman did jolt him, his take would be a) it never happened; b) he dumped her; or c) he didn’t want her anyway. If he committed a crime, it would be one of passion. He hasn’t got the intellect for anything deeper.”
“But this is Case Western Reserve University, Professor Manor. Certainly, you’ve been to
the website and read the accolades and the ratings. Those of average intelligence need not apply.”
“You’re teasing me again, making me out to be a snob. Fine. I’ll own it. Intellect without purpose is a waste. That is what Mr. Harding is. Can we talk about something else? You’re ruining my appetite.”
“How about P.J. Mayfield?”
“Right, you mentioned him before. Is he a student?”
“He frequented Three Witches beginning a few weeks ago and became friendly with Atlas residents Jakob Pressman and Evan Zayer. White male, early twenties, fit, well-dressed, strawberry blond, green eyes.”
“Sorry, he doesn’t sound familar. Is he a person of interest?”
Cruz nodded and sipped his coffee, not opening himself up to being goaded into details. Manor took the hint. The table in question roared loud enough to make all heads turn.
“I don’t hold anything against them,” Manor said. “This time is a rare one between childhood and adulthood. Oh, they all think this is so hard with the tests and the papers and the due dates. It just shows how young they are and lacking in perspective. Before I could fill my refrigerator by writing, I worked in a nursing facility. The end of a bad day there, someone died. Sometimes, more than one someones. It’s hard to get worked up over a paper after you’ve held a lady’s hand while she left this world. Perspective, you know?”
Cruz thought back to his own college days. The scholarship meant he traded the responsibilities of the house and his sister for tests and papers. Still, he’d gone a little wild once he was out of his mother’s house. For the first time, he was just a single man in a world of single females.
Women were his first addiction.
Thinking about everything he’d mucked through since graduation, all the violence, all the drugs, all the abuse, yeah, he had to laugh at the time he’d gotten so worked up about a final he threw up on the way to the test.
“They’re lucky they don’t know what’s waiting for them. There’s a reason they say ignorance is bliss.” He saw Harding begin to collect his trash. “Excuse me, Manor.”
“It was good running into you, Detective De La Cruz.”