Driving Reign

by TG Wolff

  “Tony. What’s going on? Everything good?” He paced as he spoke, restless energy building up.

  “No, Cruz. You in a place you can talk?” Tony’s usually carefree voice was pitched low and serious.

  “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

  “I got a call today from the city parks department. They’re cancelling the contract with me for supplementary maintenance.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did the contract get pulled?”

  “That’s the thing. My guy didn’t know. He made it clear, you know, without saying, that this wasn’t his idea. It came down from the top, he said. Cruz, he said my company is blacklisted over conflicts of interest between you, my company, and the mayor’s office.”

  Cruz halted his pacing, putting every bit of his attention on his brother-in-law. “What are you saying?”

  “Whatever you’re doing, someone wants you to back off. I was, and I quote, ‘encouraged’ to talk to you. I’m not going to ask you what’s going down. Not my business. But I will say this: if you give in to this bullshit, I will disown you as a brother-in-law.” Tony Moreno was pissed, something Cruz had never witnessed, and he’d lived with the man for a year.

  It was one thing for Tony to offer to sacrifice his business, another if Cruz let it happen. “What does losing the contract do to you?”

  “I can manage without the contract. I gave the city a discount because they helped me get started. I work for twice as much everywhere else. I don’t like the blacklist, but I’ll be damned if someone will use me and my company to get to you. You get me?”

  This was unreal. First Yablonski’s snitch, now Tony’s contract. And that scared the shit out of him. “Where are Mari and the girls?”

  “In the kitchen. Mari doesn’t know. I don’t want her to worry about the company.”

  “You have to tell her, and you have her keep the girls close.” Internally, he warred with how much to tell Tony. In the end, family won. He could live with getting reprimanded should Montoya find out. He could not live with his sister or, God forbid, the girls getting hurt because he stayed quiet. “Someone in the corner office is playing for keeps. They killed one of Yablonski’s snitches. I’m going to arrange protection for you, until I can get this cleared up.”

  He made the calls, getting a fraction of what he wanted. The district cops would do a few drive-bys, make sure everything was quiet.

  He sat alone at the table, empty plate in front of him, plastic containers reminding him of the world away yesterday was. He hated the happy fuckers in the bistro on the wall. He hated D’Arcy Whitsome and Selena Williams. He hated Andrew Posey and Val Hannigan and everyone and everything and since he couldn’t have a fucking drink, he threw the plate. It shattered against the wall, pieces bouncing back and hitting him. He threw the casserole dish, splattering barbecue sauce across the dining room until it resembled a crime scene. He threw plates and slammed glasses and punched the glass-fronted cabinet.

  When the cupboards were empty, the floor littered with razor sharp shards, he dragged his exhausted ass to the couch. He woke twelve hours later, meaner for the dreams that plagued him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The alarm barked out, shattering the night that had just begun. Cruz grabbed the fucker, ripped it off the night table, and threw it across the room. Plastic splintered against plaster.

  He sat up, feeling every hour of sleep he didn’t get. How could he sleep with Aurora’s scent in his bed, on her pillow? Absence made the night colder, lonelier. Fear crept in. That little fucker told him everything would be better if he just had a drink.

  The bitch of it was the little fucker was right. If he ever needed a fucking drink, it was then.

  What did a drunk do when he couldn’t be who he was? When he refused to be who he was?

  He had stayed where he was, watching the clock change minute by minute, afraid if he got up he would do something he couldn’t take back. Instead he put his mind to work and developed a plan to beat Posey at his own game. He kicked off the covers, stalked into the closet blindly grabbing shirt, pants, tie. He showered, dressed, and left his house. Guilt poked at him, lectured that good things didn’t happen when he skipped reading his daily meditations. Bad things that had happened with the meetings, with the morning readings, not just to him but to his family.

  Now bad things were going to happen to Andrew Posey. He wasn’t the only one who had connections. Cruz pulled into a travel station and invested two dollars in thirty-two ounces of coffee, wondering when a gas station stopped being a fucking gas station. He added a breakfast sandwich, a bottle of water, and a tin of breath freshening mints. He didn’t buy gas.

  In the car, he gave Smitty and Czerski the enviable task of bringing Posey into interview. He rang Sonja and asked her to reserve a small conference room. Finally, he called Frankie Pelletier, journalist for the Akron-Beacon Journal. He’d met Frankie on the Drug Head case, when the suspect drew her in to be his voice. The woman had the chops for the job, a sense of fair play and justice.

  Then he had time. The one thing Cruz didn’t want. The scenes from lunch with D’Arcy and the frantic conversation with Aurora replayed through his mind. Like he hadn’t be forced to watch them a thousand times the night before. Words weren’t enough, but what was there beyond words? How did couple get past having the earth move and a chasm open between them? She needed to trust him, and he wanted her trust; he needed it because his job was going to give them plenty of rough times. Their first year proved that. So what did he have to offer when her trust had been shaken?

  Cursing leached through the faux wooden door, hot enough to blister paint. The vocabulary rated between high-end drug dealer and arrogant welfare fraudster. Words with seven letters and degrees of their own slummed with the four-letter variety, producing little bastards that stung like sweat bees.

  In the mood for a fight, Cruz gave a knuckle rap and entered the room. Smitty and Czerski stood inside, their stoic faces unfazed by the bluster. Posey, by comparison, paced on the far side of the small table, his face red, spittle dried white in the corners of his mouth.

  “You! How dare you drag me from my home.” Posey spat each word, his voice hoarse.

  Cruz looked to his friends. “You dragged him?”

  “We escorted him,” Czerski said. “You know how parking can be around here.”

  “That was considerate of you. Thanks for your help.” Cruz waited while the pair left. “There were a few items from our conversation yesterday that need clarification. Please, sit.” He said “please,” thought “asshole.”

  Posey did not sit.

  “This will go faster if we can talk, just like we did in your home office.”

  Posey sat with great, exaggerated grace. “I object to being dragged here and interviewed like a common criminal.”

  “We aren’t in an interview room. I am not recording this. You aren’t under arrest. It’s just me and you talking about Val Hannigan.” He did his best to act professional, as though the interview was another part of a routine day.

  A quick knock and the door opened. Montoya came in carrying a folder, his eyes flat, his expression empty. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Thank you for coming in, Drew. We haven’t formally met. I’m Commander Kurt Montoya, homicide.”

  Cruz blinked once, that’s all the time he had to adjust his game plan.

  “I assume that means you are responsible for him.” Posey spat the pronoun with disdain that was reciprocated in triplicate.

  “I am responsible for all of homicide, Detective De La Cruz included. We appreciate you coming in to clear up a few things on Val Hannigan. We have a lead on a suspect and hope that you can clear the way.”

  Posey paused thoughtfully. “You have a suspect?”

  “Yes, but not a name.” Montoya withdrew a grainy image from the folder. “This man, not Val Hannigan, is responsible for the attempt on Sophie’s DeMusa in the hospital. We have reason to suspect the
same person killed Hannigan. Does he look familiar?”

  In the forty-two inches separating the two sides of the table, Posey went from combative suspect to informative witness. “It could be anyone, I suppose. Do you have any other information?”

  And Cruz saw where Montoya was taking this. “Approximately six-one, two hundred twenty pounds. Caucasian. Possibly with facial hair.” The description was the one given by the hospital nurse.

  “It…it really could be anyone.”

  “No one who has been through your office?” Cruz asked.

  “My office?” Posey leaned back, his stance relaxed as he calculated. “Tens, even hundreds of people a month come through my office door. It’s not impossible. You don’t have any, I don’t know, identifying features?”

  “We have a possible nickname. Crack or Cracken. We have it from a good source that Hannigan was meeting with the person on Sunday also. Obviously, we have questions.”

  “And you have no idea who this person is?”

  “We are working with Hannigan’s contacts on it,” Montoya said, playing an excellent good cop. “We are confident we’ll get there but it’s going to take time. The sooner we get a name, the sooner we can put this whole thing behind us.”

  “Yes. I can see that. Let me call my assistant. Angie is my keeper of names and faces, as Detective Dellacorte knows. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  Montoya and Cruz exchanged a knowing look and stood simultaneously. Montoya led the way out, Cruz followed, closing the door behind him. Staring at his commander’s back, it dawned on him how big a fuck up he just made. “Kurt, I’m sorry.”

  Montoya spun around, stalked at Cruz until their boots collided. “Don’t give me your bullshit. What the fuck were you thinking?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I need detectives, not renegades. You aren’t above the law. Period. You aren’t the law. Period. You enforce it. If you forgot what that means, you can go back to square one and learn it over again.”

  Cruz kept his head down, not challenging the man he followed. “You’re right. I lost my head. I let the bullshit get to me. I know Posey is behind Hannigan and I’m close to proving it—so close, he attacked someone close to me to get me to quit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He stepped back, putting space between them. “My brother-in-law owns a landscaping company and does work for the city. He got a call yesterday that his contract was cancelled, because of me. It was inferred that if I cleared up the problem I have with city hall, he would come off the blacklist.”

  Montoya went from pissed to furious. “And you didn’t think I needed to know this why?”

  Because it was his problem. Because it was personal. Because he could handle it.

  Cruz was smart enough not to say any of those. “I fucked up.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  The conference room door opened. “Commander, I have a name for you. McCracken. First name Will or Bill.”

  Montoya cut Cruz a last look, one meant to ensure his ass knew where the line was and stayed on the right side of it, then stepped into the conference room.

  Cruz followed, glancing at Posey who had a triumphant gleam in his eye, as if the guy knew how short of a leash Montoya had him on. “Any details would be appreciated.”

  “You were right, he was in my office. He sometimes helps Angie chase down details we need to execute the business of running this city. I had no idea he and Val were meeting outside of work hours. Commander, I feel compelled to tell you, McCraken is one of your own.”

  With Posey becoming a veritable chatterbox, the balance of the interview lasted fifteen minutes. Montoya thanked Posey for his time and cooperation. Cruz couldn’t go that far but grunted in that general direction. Then he opened the door and stepped into the path of a detail he’d forgotten.

  “Detective De La Cruz. I was wondering if you could spare me a minute?” Frankie Pelletier turned wide eyes on the man behind Cruz. “Mr. Posey.” A wealth of suspicion was conveyed in the two words.

  “Absolutely,” Cruz said, wrapping his hand around her upper arm and practically swinging her into the conference room they’d just vacated. “Give me a minute.” He closed her in. “Thank you again for your time this morning, Mr. Posey. I believe we have just about enough to make an arrest.”

  Posey nodded, staring at the closed door. “Keep me posted,” he ordered, then hastily left the floor.

  “What’s Pelletier doing here?” Montoya asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, going for innocent. “I’ll find out.”

  After collaborating with Frankie on a story that would keep her happy and him out of trouble, Cruz reported to Montoya. The ass chewing was formal, this time, edging dangerously close to an official reprimand. He wasn’t as bothered by a spot on his record as he was disappointed that when the going got tough, he’d forgotten he wasn’t standing alone.

  Montoya sent Cruz to notify Hannigan’s mother, using it to get Cruz out of the department for an hour. He was that frustrated.

  Notifying next of kin was always hard. Once you knocked on the door, any glimmer of hope the person on the other side had was destroyed. Hope was a powerful thing that could see people through brutal circumstances. War. Disease. Crime.

  But it was incredibly fragile, able to be broken by two words: I’m sorry.

  Truth was important, which was why it was hard. Cruz wasn’t relieved when Hannigan’s mother wasn’t at her home. He wanted this over as much as she needed it over. He called the cell number Yablonski had given him, hoping to locate her. As soon as he gave his name, she broke down. The phone was handed off to a familiar voice. Teresa Addison. Her voice trembled but didn’t break as she asked for details for burial. In the end, she thanked him for bringing Val home.

  Cruz thought of Teresa Addison, her daughter, and Hannigan’s girlfriend, Lauren. Their grief was a railroad spike to his heart. Victims. Each of them was a victim and he would stand for them. He plotted his approach for arresting Andrew Posey. At city hall, he decided, in the large office where the man manipulated the rules to his favor. He relished the noise and commotion the man would make and the way it would echo off the unyielding marble.

  Without intending to, he’d driven to Aurora’s school, arriving at her lunch break. This probably wasn’t a good idea, he thought, as he stared at the brick building. He got out of the car. Bad idea or not, he was going in.

  He hustled across the school yard, showed his face to the camera, and entered the building that perpetually smelled like crayons. The secretary came out of her office to meet him, confusion on her face. “Hello, Detective. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. I just thought I’d surprise Aurora for lunch.” He kept it casual. Easy. He smiled; she didn’t.

  “She called in sick today.”

  “I, uh, I didn’t realize.” His stomach soured. “Did she say what was wrong?”

  “Just that she wasn’t feeling well.” Her big eyes filled with sympathy. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m sure it is. I probably missed her call letting me know. I left early and it’s been a busy morning.” He looked at his phone, retreating until the bar of the door hit him sharply in the back. “Yep, there it is. She texted. A little sleep, a few aspirin, and she’ll be good as new.”

  The principal, Mrs. Kaylor, called out. “Detective De La Cruz? Could you step in here a moment?” Then she stood in her doorway.

  “Really, I need to go.”

  “Please,” the woman said in a grave voice. “This is important.”

  He did as she asked. Not sitting, not being invited to sit. The principal paced, her arms tight across her stomach, her face blanched and stern. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I’ve never had to do something like this. I probably shouldn’t be talking to you, I know I shouldn’t be talking to you, but…”

  Something was wrong with the school’s executive. An incid
ent with a child? A threatening parent? “Tell me what’s happened, and we’ll figure out what resources you need. No one has the right to make you or your staff feel threatened.”

  Her gray eyes went to his. In them, he saw sorrow and regret. “It’s nothing like that. You see, I received a call from downtown yesterday. I was told to, that is, they are suspending Aurora. Jan—the woman from Human Resources—indicated this came from the top. She couldn’t tell me why. Do you understand, Detective? Not that she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t. All she could say was a complaint was filed against Aurora for ethics violations. The complaint itself was pending, she hadn’t seen it, but the assistant superintendent told her the suspension was effective immediately.”

  His heart stopped. He’d gotten Aurora suspended.

  “I have never met a person more ethical than Aurora Williams and I told her that. I fight for my teachers, Detective. I fought for Aurora. I went all the way to the superintendent. He said he’d look into it. He called back this morning and said his hands were tied. He advised me to let the process play out and to stay out of it.”

  “Is the mayor’s office involved?” he managed to ask.

  “How did you know?” Kaylor cleared her throat of the emotion trapped within. “I know I have to talk to Aurora, but…damn it! I’m an educator. Not an executioner. This is going to break her heart. She doesn’t deserve this.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” he said. “I’ll…” What? He had to get word to her before she walked in the door tomorrow. If he couldn’t do it himself, he’d call her mother. “Let me tell her. I’ll have her call you.”

  “I’m sorry. Tell her I’m absolutely certain she’ll be cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “I will. I need to go.” He made his escape. In the privacy of his car, his hands shook with anger, making working his phone difficult. He pulled his shit together, had to. Aurora needed him now and he wasn’t going to fuck up twice. He took a deep breath and called her. Voicemail answered. “Aurora, this is important. Something has happened. I need you to call.”