by TG Wolff
“Detective, come in. Please. It’s a nasty day out there.” She stepped back, welcoming him into her home. “I’m Emma Posey. This is Dotty.”
“Nice to meet both of you. You have a beautiful house.”
“Thank you,” she said, beaming with pride. This was her territory, of course. In the center hall, it was obvious she was a woman of taste and style. “Why don’t you wait in Drew’s office? I’ll let my husband know you’re here.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She let him into a generously sized office, then her footfalls faded up steps. “Drew? Honey?”
Cruz stalked the periphery of the room, cataloguing it. This was an extension of the main body of the house with four windows looking out to the rear yard, a matching four looking to the street, and four more looking to the neighbor’s house, divided evenly on either side of the fireplace. The mantle held framed pictures, Posey with political, social, and entertainment celebrities. Some included Mrs. Posey; most did not. On the floor sat a fireplace set. The wrought iron stems were long, graceful with grips that scrolled over the hand, reminding him of a fencing foil. The fireplace had rills of ash across the bottom as though hastily and poorly cleaned. The working ends of the broom, shovel, and tongs were gray with ash. The poker was not.
The windows were trimmed in a heavy drape. Bunches of grapes and berries nestled in gold filigree against a duller golden background. Except one of the windows was bare, the bar that held the material ripped from the plaster.
The arrangement of the furniture was unbalanced. It was the only word he could come up with to describe the bottom-heavy feel to the room. The desk was arranged facing the fire; the guest chair between the two. The couch was uncomfortably close to the desk with an oval coffee table and two armchairs completing the space. This left the area in front of the street-side windows barren and empty, as if it was waiting for something to fill it.
In a corner stood the American flag. Mounted in a round base, the eagle adorned top was half a foot from the ceiling.
Quick feet came down the stairs, the voice preceding the man. “Detective Yablonski,” Posey said, stopping when he saw who was admiring the US flag. “Detective Del Toro.”
Cruz nearly smiled, imagining how Yablonski would respond to the slight. He held his tongue and turned around.
Posey charged across the room, commanding the field. “I don’t appreciate unscheduled meetings, Detective. Not at my house. You want my attention, call my office.”
Cruz was pleased. Angela Johnson had not telephoned her boss. He inventoried Posey’s body language then began the unofficial interview. “Percival Hannigan was found murdered. My superiors thought you should be told privately. I’ll inform them they were wrong and call Ms. Johnson to schedule a time to debrief you.” He started for the door. Suddenly, he had a long list of things to do.
“Stop.” The order expected immediate compliance.
Cruz obeyed, and let the performance unfold, a critic at opening night.
Posey stalked across the empty stage, reaching a front window where he struck a pose. Right hand reaching overhead, grasping the gold drape, chin dropped to chest. A man struggling to accept the truth. He turned to the audience; his brows wrinkled with angst. “How did he die?”
Cruz stepped into the role of Cop #1 who provided the facts for the actor to perform against. A minor player, not important enough to have a name. “Blunt force trauma.”
A deep breath braced the leading man against reality. “This city and its underbelly. I swear, if I was mayor, the streets would be clean. I would rise up and scour the city of the pestilence and violence that eat away at our core.” He buried his face in the crook of his arm.
Cruz lifted a single brow. It was a little early in the scene for the epic declaration of morality. A flaw in the writing.
Posey turned back to Cruz with a dramatic sweep of his head. “Where was he found?”
“Under a bridge in the Flats.” The Flats was a narrow strip of land on either side of the Cuyahoga River where shipping and industry had given way to restaurants and entertainment. In places, it was a no man’s land, forgotten by both what had been and what could be.
Posey fell into the lone wingback chair. “Unbelievable. What was he doing there? Did one of those indigents kill him?” He shifted, planting both feet on the floor, elbows on knees. “If I told Peter once I told him a hundred times, we need to clean up the river. It’s been fifty years since it burned and it’s still uninhabitable.”
“Evidence does not indicate Hannigan had been there alive. His body was dumped, staged to frame a stranger. He was stripped of wallet and valuables.”
“Then how was he identified?”
“Lucky coincidence.”
“I can’t believe this.” Posey brought his fist down on the chair arm. “I can’t fucking believe this. Val was…he was the future of this city, Detective.” His voice nearly broke. “I swear to you, I do not understand the world these days.”
“That is my day, every day, Mr. Posey.”
“Of course. Of course,” he said again in whispered empathy. “Is the news public knowledge yet?”
“No. His family will be informed shortly. Because Mr. Hannigan was an employee of your office and because of the relationship between city hall and the Cleveland police, I am giving you advanced notification.”
“Thank you, Detective. I do appreciate it. Please let Angie know when the family has been notified, then I’ll inform the staff.” The protagonist rose, edging the audience to the door, signaling the end of the scene.
Cruz, still in the role of Cop #1, went off script. He maintained his position in front of the naked window, looking to what was missing. “What happened to your drapes?”
“My wife’s dog,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
The detective’s eyebrows jumped. “Big dog.”
“More like bad dog. He’s not allowed in here and that’s why.” Posey stilled at the door, annoyance played across his face that the scene had not ended with his hero’s lament. “You aren’t just here to tell me Hannigan was found.”
“No, sir. I have to put together his last movements. You met with him on Sunday.” It was a statement, not a question, spoken like the information was fact.
Posey’s eyes widened—slight and only for a moment, but the surprise was there. “We had a meeting on Sunday. Val never showed.”
“When and where was it scheduled?”
“We planned to meet for breakfast at ten-thirty.” He named a chain restaurant popular for the first meal of the day. “I waited fifteen minutes, ate breakfast, which took another twenty-some minutes, and left. I tried calling him, of course. He didn’t answer.”
“You weren’t worried?”
“I was irritated, but I wrote it off as the generation. These millennials have no work ethic. They want all the perks of the job—the money, the attention, the priority treatment—but they don’t want to work for it. Getting them to show up on time is a Herculean effort. Tell them to work overtime or in the evening, and they act like it’s optional. I was disappointed Val didn’t show, I thought he was different, but I didn’t recognize it as anything criminal.”
Cruz nodded, agreeing, feeding the response Posey wanted to hear. “Describe Hannigan as an employee.”
“Virtually ideal. He was an intern, the lowest position in the mayor’s office, but he put the time in. He was willing to learn and to do the dirty work necessary to run a city. He ran errands, helped with the mayor’s appearances, you know, the things with no glory, but that matter.”
“What were you meeting about?”
“Nothing relevant to his murder.”
In character, Cruz did not react to the dismissal. The detective inside suspected the meeting had occurred and had been the death of Hannigan. “You routinely met on Sundays?”
“No, Detective, this was an unusual meeting, reflecting an unusual week. We
have a trade delegation going to Germany. We are in active talks to bring new manufacturing to the city. Key members of the administration will be out of the office, increasing the burden on those behind.”
“Hannigan staying or going?”
“Staying. I’m going.”
“Did you meet with your other interns on Sunday?”
“No,” Posey said, irritation beginning to break through his character. “The others have been with me longer and know the routine. Val was still under my wing. It’s my norm to give an intern special attention for the first six months or so, really make sure they understand what’s expected and what needs to be done. Val was so new, he shined.”
“Were you aware of any difficulties in his life? Trouble with his family or girlfriend? Maybe with gambling or drugs?”
“No. I didn’t know Val well personally, but in my time with him, he never mentioned anything that raised a red flag. He spoke of his mother and a grandmother, I think. The other interns might know. They are a talkative group. Have you checked his social media?” Posey’s cell rang. He glanced at the screen. “I have to take this, Detective. Is there anything else?”
“Not at this time.” The phone rang again. “I’ll see myself out.”
Posey answered the call. “Give me thirty seconds,” he said into the phone, then readdressed his visitor. “I’ll see you to the door.” Phone in hand, he crossed the room quickly and opened his office door. He walked behind Cruz, herding him across the foyer. He reached around and opened his front door, standing aside to let his guest pass. “Thank you for being discreet, Detective. Again, let me know when the family has been notified.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Cruz stepped off the small concrete porch, not looking back when the door closed firmly in place. Posey’s wife hurried up the driveway in house slippers and a winter coat. She cradled the dog and a newspaper in her arm.
“Cute dog,” he said when they were within speaking distance. “What breed is she?”
“Bichon Frisé.” Emma Posey stroked the small head.
He held his hand for the pup’s inspection, taking the enthusiastic licking as an invitation to pet. “Do you have others?”
“No, just my baby.” She laughed. “Since our children are gone, Dotty gets all my attention. So spoiled, aren’t you?” she said to the dog who answered with a lick of her mistress’s chin. “I’m going to miss her when we’re in Germany. At least I know she’ll be in good hands. Peter and his wife are taking her.”
“I heard about the trip. Trade delegation, right? When do you leave?”
“Friday. I may have to bring an extra suitcase. Three weeks of business dinners, polite conversations, and tours of attractions requires a wardrobe. A much better option than being here with a contractor in and out every day.”
“A contractor?”
“Drew suggested redoing his office and the living room while we were gone. It’s been a little crazy, picking out carpets and fabrics so hastily, but it will be fun coming back to a new house.” Mrs. Posey giggled as the dog nearly crawled into Cruz’s arms. “She really likes you.”
“I like her,” he said, but pushed the furball gently back. “Your feet have to be cold. I’m sorry to hold you up.”
“No apologies, Detective. Stay safe.” With a genuine smile, she entered an empty garage bay, the door rolling closed behind her.
He started the car, putting it in gear, and waited until he rounded the corner to pound the steering wheel in triumph. He placed a call, waiting impatiently while it rang. Montoya’s cell rolled to voicemail. He hit his lights, damning the weather, traffic, and Andrew Posey.
At his desk, he typed up his report and filed the paperwork for a search warrant. The report was succinct, outlining a sequence of events that had Val Hannigan beaten to death in Andrew Posey’s home office, wrapped in the heavy gold fabric of his drapery, and removed for disposal. He wanted to search the whole of the house, Posey’s car, and his office.
Then the report and warrant were in Montoya’s hands.
Waiting patiently was not Cruz’s strong suit. He still had Peabody on his list. Digging, he found the complaint. Cruz slogged through shit like this every day. Knowing the two parties involved—liking the two parties involved—made this a hundred times harder. Cruz had Peabody’s cell number and used it.
“Hey Cruz, have you caught your fugitive?”
“In a manner of speaking. While I was at it, came across something that surprised me. Your name on a complaint.”
“I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Yes, I did it.” The sigh following was long and deep. “My wife and I were in a bad place. We’d had a fight, another fight, and I went out. One drink led to another and my hand wandered where it shouldn’t have on the attractive waitress. Sophie slapped my face hard enough to leave a handprint. I went into work the next day, the complaint was waiting. You hear stories about people hitting bottom and it being the wakeup call they needed. Having that complaint filed, knowing I was going to lose my job, it woke me up. I went into counseling that day. I apologized to Sophie, not because I expected her to withdraw the complaint, but because my shit had spilled over to her. A complete stranger. I’d made her a victim. That isn’t me.”
“What were you thinking guarding her yourself? You were compromised.”
“I owed her. After I apologized, she went to my commanding officer and fought for my job. No way I was going to let her get hurt in my hospital, not again.”
“She woke up with you standing over her.”
“I was just waking her from a nightmare.”
“You were there. Just like you were there the first time. Two incidents in the hospital and your fingerprints are all over them.”
Silence hung in the balance.
“Did you go after Val Hannigan? Did your debt to Sophie extend to taking out the man who put her in the hospital?”
“What? Did I—No. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Like what?” Cruz fished, wanting to see what he knew. He had told Peabody about Hannigan’s confession and disappearing act but hadn’t disclosed his fate.
“I wouldn’t go after someone. Personally.” When Cruz didn’t respond, Peabody tried again. “I fucked up in December. I had nothing to do with Hannigan ghosting on you. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want a full account of your actions and whereabouts from Friday noon through this morning. I want to know who you talked to, who saw you.”
“You’ll have it before the end of the day.” Remorse filled his voice. “Cruz, I didn’t do this. I screwed up and I’m doing everything I know to make up for it. You have to believe me.”
“Beliefs are for priests, not cops. Write the report.”
Damn, but he hated being blindsided. Seemed like he couldn’t have a single conversation where there wasn’t some ulterior agenda hidden beneath half-truths. His cell rang, Yablonski’s ring tone. “Tell me something good. Even if you have to make it up.”
“I have Hannigan’s girlfriend, Lauren Saylor, in interview.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. You’re going to want to see this.”
Cruz hurried to the small room where a young woman nervously looked around the sparse room and his grizzly bear friend opened a can of cola for her. “Lauren, this is Detective De La Cruz.”
The woman had blonde hair pulled back into a tail, though much had escaped. Her eyes had dark circles beneath, and her mouth was swollen. Even as he noticed, she pulled the spot between her teeth and bit. She was thin and hid beneath an oversized university sweatshirt.
Cruz pointed to the name on the shirt. “John Carroll is my alma mater. Are you a student there?” He sat, hoping to relax the woman enough to get the information he needed.
Lauren nodded. “I’m a junior. Val, he graduated last summer and was taking graduate classes while he waited for me. Well, he did until the job at city hall.”
Her lips curled, hinting at the disapproval she kept from her voice.
“You didn’t like Val working at the city?”
“I didn’t like who he was becoming. Val used to be so…” she struggled to find the right words. “He used to want to fix the world, you know? He had all these ideas, really good ideas, of ways to change the conversation around things like homelessness and mental illness.”
“But he changed after he started working.”
She nodded again. “He turned into my father. All he sees now are reasons why things couldn’t work. He says nothing ever gets done without money. I told him that wasn’t true. We—our generation—can change the world if we work together.” An emotion passed over her face. Annoyance, maybe anger. “He called me naïve.”
“Was that recently?”
“Saturday. We went out for dinner and got in an argument.” The negative emotion yielded to regret. “We never argue. Never. He was different that night. He was uptight and edgy and, well, like he wanted a fight.”
Cruz leaned in, softening his voice. “Lauren, did Val tell you about Friday? About his meeting with the lawyers.”
“I was with him when he went to Sarah Applegate. I heard it all. I can’t believe he worked for a man like Posey.”
“When did you last see Val? Did he say anything about going out of town? Maybe taking a trip?”
“He texted me Sunday and definitely wasn’t planning to leave town.” She pulled out her cell, swiped a few times, then turned it to face Cruz.
He read it for Yablonski’s benefit. “Sorry for last night. Make it up to you. Goin to P 4 meet. Wont be long. Movie later?” Cruz’s gaze met his friend’s, both understanding Val had walked blindly into trouble. “‘P’ is Andrew Posey?”
She nodded. “I won’t believe he left town without telling me. I guess you have a lot of girlfriends say that but Val and I, we have something real.” Her eyes turned glassy with tears. “If I’m right and he didn’t run, then he’s in trouble.” She pulled a tablet from a bag on the floor, activated it, then opened a web page. “These are the recordings Val made. I don’t care what you do with them, just find him. Please.”