by TG Wolff
“Just call me Cruz. My friends do.”
Manor’s solemn face slowly broadened into a smile. “Well, I’ll see you soon, Cruz.”
With a nod, he approached his fast-moving target. “Joshua Harding?” The man turned, a quizzical expression on his face. “Detective Jesus De La Cruz, Cleveland police. I need to talk with you a minute.”
“Police?” He spat it out as if a dirty word.
“Yes. Can we go somewhere more private?” While all eyes were not on them, anyone who wanted to hear the conversation could.
“No. I don’t have to talk to you.” He squared his shoulders and began to walk out.
Cruz stepped into his path. “I’m not sure where you learned that, but it’s not true. You can talk to me here, voluntarily, or at the police station.”
Harding stood a few inches taller than Cruz and he used the height to try to establish an air of untouchability.
Tried, but failed.
“Your choice, Mr. Harding.”
“What is this about?”
“Sophie DeMusa.”
“Nope. No. Nuh-uh. Not talking about her. Period. Not now, not later, not without a lawyer. Arrest me if you want. I’m not saying a word.” Now everyone was watching the drama unfold. A cell phone or two came out and was pointed their way.
Cruz was reminded he had absolutely no fucking idea what went on in people’s heads. The entirety of the kid’s body language screamed “I’m guilty.” He just wasn’t sure of what. He didn’t think if he told Harding to come to the station, that he would. His bluff had been called. Now, he’d take Harding in, hold him for the allowable time, and figure out what the hell the guy did to, for, or with Sophie DeMusa.
“All right. We’ll do this your way. Joshua Harding, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Sophie DeMusa. You have the right to remain silent.” Cruz recited Harding’s rights as he cuffed the man in full view of the amateur videographers.
Harding, despite all his demands, did not remain silent. “Murder! Whatever she said, she lied. I didn’t do anything. Ask anyone.”
By the time Cruz handed Harding off to booking, he had a dull headache from the incessant chatter-slash-whining-slash-smack. He headed to his desk, looking forward to the tedium of paperwork to give his head a rest. His to-go cup was half full when Yablonski’s ringtone filled the small space. Nineteen-seventies boom chickawawa. “Whatcha got for me?”
“First the bad news,” Yablonski said. “I got detoured after Posey. Haven’t made it to Teresa Addison and it doesn’t look like I’m going to today. You want me to hit it in the morning?”
“No. I’ll go talk to her now. What did you get out of Posey?”
“Where to begin. He copped to the interview with Lutz; said the man caught him at a vulnerable moment and he couldn’t help but spew shit. He apologized for not giving me and my assistant a heads up. The fuck head. He may not be giving DeMusa a second thought, but he was hot about Fisher. Claimed the man single-handedly turned the entire LGBT community against him. Posey said he has never and will never set foot in Fisher’s store. Then his eyes did one of those cartoon things where they pop out and roll across the desk when I pulled the flyer out of his stack of papers. Three guesses how it got there.”
“I put it there.” His coffee full and dressed, Cruz worked his way to his desk.
“Of course, you did,” he said, answering sarcasm with sarcasm. “That’s the kind of bastard you are.”
“Natch. I’m a scarred-up asshole who gets off setting politicians up for a fall.”
“Your scars aren’t so bad, but you are an asshole. According to Mr. Posey. If we want to talk to him again, we need to bring a lawyer. Might be you should give Montoya a heads up.”
A laugh escaped. “You were supposed to be cool.”
“I was frigid. He was sweating. Something’s not right in the C-suite.”
“Related to DeMusa or something else?”
“Not sure yet, but we gotta keep an eye on him. So, how was your day?”
“Listen to what real police work netted.” He gave Yablonski the highlights of his day.
“Nice. You eliminated the roommates and lover wannabe Furth. Mayfield and Harding are still on. And then there were two?”
“Three. Margot Hennessy has motive and was at Three Witches in the time frame Sophie went from healthy to sick. Harding did something, I don’t know what. Mayfield we can put at the scene near the time of the crime. Add to it he doesn’t exist and, yeah, he’s got my attention.”
Yablonski’s name was called in the background. “Later, Cruzie. Gotta run.”
Cruz considered what Yablonski said. If Posey hated Fisher, he wouldn’t show at the book discussion. Still, the flyer on his desk was too odd to let go. Someone had been in both Fisher’s bookstore and Posey’s office. He would have to make an appearance at the event, just to see who else showed.
The complex where Teresa Addison lived was, well, complex. Cruz was grateful he’d called ahead and was given instructions to use door twenty-three. The place had more nooks and crannies than an English muffin and everyone seemed to have a door. The one he wanted was on the far side of the building, closest to the park abutting the property.
“You da cop?”
Door twenty-three was held open by a man whose face had been used as a punching bag. The decades didn’t erase the smooth, stalking manner of a fighter. His hands were big, his shoulders wide. He was slightly stooped, but it only added to the menace in eyes that were measuring, assessing vulnerable spots.
“Detective Jesus De La Cruz.” Shoulders back, chin up, his own don’t-fuck-with-me warning in his gaze, he held out his ID. The guy turned his head, inspecting what was offered with his right eye.
“Retina detached too many times. Left eye is fuckin’ worthless. Yep. I’m Killa Hathaway. Come on. We’re expectin’ ya.”
The “we” had Cruz keeping his weight on the balls of his feet. But really, this was a senior residence complex, what was the worst that could be waiting for him? “Thank you, Mr. Hathaway.”
“Mista. Ha!” The old man laughed, the sound big and booming. “Killa. Just call me Killa. Terry, I got your fuckin’ cop.”
“Killer! Language.” The female scolding came from the second door on the right.
“He’s a cop, Terry. It’s not the first fuckin’ time he’s heard the word fuck.”
Inside a small apartment, three intrigued faces awaited. The single room working as the living space, dining area, and kitchen was large and bright with feminine touches throughout. Pastel flowers, coordinated curtains, and an abundance of pillows.
Teresa Addison sat in a wheelchair, wearing a rose-pink dress that hung to the middle of one calf. The other was missing. “Don’t mind Killer’s colorful language, Detective.”
“Colorful, schmolorful,” Killer said, falling into an open chair. “You know how you know a kid’s gonna grow up to be a cop? His first word is fuck.” Killer burst with laughter; the rest of his audience was deadpan. “What? That’s fucking hysterical.”
Cruz turned on the premise of gauging the rest of the space to give himself a moment to laugh at the scene that was fucking hysterical. When he faced the audience again, the wheelchair-bound woman was scalding Killer with a glare. Once he was sufficiently burned, she looked to Cruz. Her face blossomed into a smile, showing off dimples.
“I’m Teresa Addison, Detective. These are my friends. That’s Jim Croce, the plumber, not the musician, Rose Barker, and you already met Killer.”
“This is Chipper,” Rose said, holding up a small dog wearing a bow tie. “We held lunch for you.” She set the dog down and patted a hand on the empty seat.
Cruz was outnumbered four-to-one and, based on the forward-leaning posture and expectant faces, was the featured act of the day. “I appreciate it, ma’am, but I just need to speak with Mrs. Addison for a moment.”
“Call me Teresa. We can talk while
we eat.” She wheeled to his side and took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. Then she was in motion again and Cruz had two choices: keep up or fall down. “You’re in for a treat. Killer made lasagna and we have Rose’s pie for dessert.”
“I brought the beer,” Jim said, opening a bottle and pushing it in front of Cruz. “Chipper, cut it out.” The dog was licking his ankle, tail going like a fan.
“No, thank you, sir. I’m working.”
“Too bad.” The hand that hadn’t left the bottle pulled it back to his own place. “Can’t let it go to waste.”
Killer was now at the stove, filling plates Rose ferried to the table. “Mrs. Addison, Teresa, I’m not here for lunch. We need to talk about your sleeping pills.”
“Give it a rest, Detective. She wouldn’t let us eat ’til you got here. You’re here, we’re eatin’.” Killer set a plate in front of Cruz, then sat with his own. “I’m gonna fuckin’ pass out if I don’t eat soon. Then you’ll have to call 911 and you’ll hafta stick around and deal with the drama and yadda yadda.”
The serving in front of Cruz was the size of a paperback and twice as thick. The aroma made his stomach growl, celebrating the decision to forego the cafeteria’s offerings.
Teresa shook her head. “Killer’s dramatic but a great cook. Go ahead, try it.”
While he doubted Killer would keel over from starvation, the point that he’d get to the end faster by eating was valid. Four pair of eyes watched.
“Just eat,” Killer ordered, his mouth full.
He wouldn’t eat the whole thing, but he could take a bite or two to keep his witness happy. So, he did, just to be polite. He took a second because manners mattered. “Really,” he said around the third bite, “I need to know about your pills.”
“It’s like I told you, Detective, there were only two boxes in the package. I’m supposed to get three.” Teresa covered Killer’s hand. “This is delicious.”
The others added their accolades. “Damn straight,” Killer said. “I got the good cheese this time. I told you that shit from the grocery store was crap.”
“We talked about this, Killer, no shit or crap at the table. We’re eating,” Teresa said.
Cruz tried again. “You received your regular box from your pharmacy. Was it sealed when you got it?”
“It was on this table. The box wasn’t sealed and there were only two packages inside. Lookie, lookie. I still have the box.” She pointed to the kitchen counter.
Cruz retrieved the standard cardboard box and examined the tape. It had been sliced by something sharp, a precise line without tearing. “How is the mail delivered? Who brought it into your home?” He returned to the table and took another bite; it was the sacrifice he made to keep his witness focused.
“There’s a mail room off the common area. We each have mail cubbies. Whenever one of us is there, we bring it to the others.”
“It’s called being neighborly,” Jim said. “If I’m there when it’s brought in, why wouldn’t I bring Teresa’s mail down?”
He pivoted to give the smaller man his full attention. “You brought the box in and set it on her table?”
“I put it on her counter, where she likes the mail, and it wasn’t open. I woulda noticed.”
Back to Teresa. “But when you found the box, it was on the table and open.”
“I didn’t notice it was opened until later. Then I spent an hour on the phone with the pharmacy. The first fifteen minutes were to get through the damn phone menu then I was transferred to three different people who were all very nice but didn’t do squat. They said I had to file a complaint and then the complaint department said I needed to file a loss report.” She leaned into Cruz. “I think they were trying to make me furious on purpose so I would hang up. Is that a crime, Detective?”
“It should be,” Rose said before Cruz could answer. “It’s a crime to waste people’s time like that. We’re their customers.”
“Rose, can you please get Chipper off my leg?” Jim looked three seconds from punting Chipper into the next room.
Cruz peeked under the table, finding the happy little dog was enamored with Jim’s pant leg, the little tail whipping back and forth. Rose lifted the dog to her lap and gave him a stern talking to.
“Have any of you have medication stolen? Any others?”
Killer shrugged his wide shoulders. “We ain’t spring chickens, Detective. Most of what goes missing is found on cleaning day.”
Rose shifted Chipper away from her plate. “Most of what is stolen here is small stuff. I left a plate of cookies in the common room, came back here to use the bathroom, and when I went back, the only thing left was the pattern on the plate.”
He continued to eat as they talked about incidents and debated mischief versus memory loss. Nothing struck a chord with him as related to Sophie DeMusa. He asked about other people going into the rooms, but this wing functioned like a college dorm. They were all in each other’s business all the time. Eight apartments in the wing, ten residents. Residents from other sections commonly cut through their hallway to reach the park. With no compass pointing him in the right direction, he’d end up with a list of fifty names to check out.
“You want a mystery, how’s this, my shoes keep disappearing.” Jim pointed at Cruz with his fork. “Every time I go for a walk, my shoes disappear.”
“Fuckin’ weird walkin’ barefoot.” Killer held his hand out for Cruz’s plate. “You want seconds?”
A single bite was left in the pool of sauce. “No. Thank you.” He handed the plate up, waiting for that you-fucking-over-ate feeling to hit.
“Coffee?” The ex-boxer asked as he collected all the empty plates.
“Only if you have it made.”
“It feels good,” Jim shouted to the bigger man’s back, not letting go of the bone. “Bah, what do you know? You eat frozen French fries.” He gave testimony to Cruz. “Out of the freezer, Detective. Not once they’re cooked.”
“I told you,” Teresa said, a voice of reason, “the simple solution is to leave your shoes on.”
“A man should be able to walk barefoot in his own home. And this,” he waved his hands to encompass the whole of the facility, “is my home.”
The dog in Rose’s arms strained to reach Jim’s flailing hands. The tail wagging so hard it might have come off.
Then, Cruz had a hunch. “Do you walk with Jim, Rose?”
“Oh, sure. I’m next door. We often walk together.”
“Can I take a look at your apartment?” He followed Rose back one door, the entourage trailing behind him.
Rose’s apartment was a mirror image of Teresa’s, hers done in quiet blue tones. Next to a powder blue recliner was a dog bed and a collection of toys. The bed was noticeably lumpy. He pulled the bed up, revealing a collection of chewed up shoes.
“Chipper,” Rose scolded. “What did you do?”
“He’s a thief, Rose. A four-pawed thief.” Jim stacked the shoes in his arms. He stalked to her front door, pausing as he glared at the happy little beast. “Bad dog.”
“Oh, Jim. Don’t be mad. He didn’t mean it.” Rose trailed after Jim, translating Chipper’s yips into English.
Killer laughed so hard he was bent over, his big hand on Teresa’s shoulder. She laughed, too, hiding it behind her hand. “Come on, Detective. You’ve earned a slice of pie with your coffee.”
As Teresa and Killer cleared the table and set a dessert he really didn’t want, Cruz examined the personal items on the wall of shelves. Her wedding photo and several other pictures of her and her husband over the decades. A collection of bells from tourist destinations across the US. Photos documenting a young girl growing into a woman, then a bride, and finally a mother. A pudgy baby grew with each image from a toddler to a boy to a teen to, finally, a familiar faced man. He took this last portrait off the shelf. “Mrs. Addison? Who is this?”
“Oh, that’s my grandson, Percival. Of course, that�
�s not cool these days. He makes us call him Val.” She shook her head. “What kind of name is that for a man?”
“Val’s last name?”
“Hannigan.” Her eyes dimmed with worry. “You don’t think my grandson…”
Chapter Nine
Kurt Montoya was snoring. Cruz thought twice about knocking, but this was too big not to take to the homicide commander. Two quick raps were answered with a cough and then an order.
“Come.”
“Commander, I…” Cruz started to enter, thought better of it, and stopped short of the threshold. The man looked like hell. “Shit, Kurt, should you go home?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. What do you got?” He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it more than he straightened it.
“The identify of P.J. Mayfield. He is Percival Hannigan, grandson of the woman whose pills were in Sophie DeMusa’s stomach. Current address is his mother’s house in Cleveland. Commander, he’s a staffer for the mayor.”
Montoya went from white to pea green. “You’re not serious.”
“He told his grandmother he convinced Mulgrew and Posey to change a development to save the family house. They liked the idea so much, they offered him a job.”
“Does he have any connection to DeMusa?”
“Not that the grandmother knew of. She was adamant her grandson would not have been hitting on a waitress; he has a girlfriend.”
“How long has he worked on Lakeside?”
“About two weeks. Kurt, Teresa Addison, the grandmother, she called Hannigan after I talked to her about the pills. The apartment being tossed wasn’t a coincidence. She unknowingly gave him a heads up. He took a big risk going back and nearly pulled it off.”
“Chase it down. Follow it up. Find a motive.” Montoya stood, swayed on feet. He came out from behind the desk, using the top for stability. Cruz gave his commander and his germs wide berth as he came through the door to face the homicide department.
“I have an announcement,” Montoya called out. “Until further notice, Cruz is the acting commander. If you have a problem with that…” He grabbed a small garbage can from the corner and threw up.