by TG Wolff
He put the car in gear as he made a second call. “Kurt, it’s happened again, this time he’s gone after Aurora.” He gave his commander the executive summary. “I’m on my way there now.”
“I hope she—wait, you’re not talking about going home, are you?”
“No. I’m not.” He turned on his lights and siren, giving the amateurs fair warning he was coming through.
The city hall door slammed closed behind him. Cruz was deceptively calm, a place he carved out working undercover when he would outwardly appear to have no care in the world, inwardly be on high alert. The drive from Aurora’s school took less than six minutes. Kurt Montoya kept him talking. He never ordered him off, a sign that Montoya knew Cruz wouldn’t obey. Instead, he talked strategy.
Confront Posey, but make it productive.
Productive. With one word, Montoya gave him the freedom to do anything he wanted and nothing at all.
He took the stairs, jogging to give his body something to do while his head worked. In an ideal world, what did they want Posey to do? Confess to his role in Sasha Carter and Val Hannigan’s death. Accessory to murder.
Since that wasn’t going to happen, what was his second preferred outcome? Have Posey act in some way that directly connected him to criminal activity. So far, he had an agent, a thug doing the dirty work. They needed to catch him with the dirt on his hands.
In the hallway, staffers darted in and out of doors, avoiding making eye contact. Plausible deniability. He reached the door marked for the chief of staff, prepared for the first battle: Angela Johnson.
Inside the warm office, her desk chair was empty.
“I sent the information to ESI, as you wanted.” Angela’s voice carried from the big office. “The return email asked for meeting dates next week.”
“There’s nothing that can’t wait until I’m back,” Posey said. “They want to move fast but they don’t have the financing. Push them off. Now if one of the Andersons calls, them I want to talk to.”
With a feral grin, Cruz entered without knocking.
Posey’s attention snapped instantly on him. His fluid speech tripped over small words. Posey knew exactly why he was there. “Detective De La Rosa, this is getting ridiculous.” He used the pompous voice of a king speaking to a none-too-bright peasant. “If you can’t manage to ask all your questions during a conversation, I’m going to have to take a look at the standards we’re using for detectives. This is bordering on incompetence.” Posey planted his fists on his desk. “Angela, leave us.”
Angela looked between the two, then rose slowly.
Cruz recognized the posture for what it was. A last stand. Victory coursed through his veins, empowering him like no drug could. Next time, Posey would come at Cruz directly, and he’d be ready.
“Stay, Angela. This will only take a moment.” Cruz spoke gently to the assistant, being nothing but respectful. Then he turned to her boss. “My name Detective Jesus De La Cruz, homicide. I want you to know exactly who is responsible for toppling your house of cards. This time tomorrow, you will be under arrest for a litany of assault and accessory charges. As a courtesy, I’m inviting you to come in quietly, now, to avoid a media blitz.”
“Courtesy?!” Posey picked up his phone. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be soaring over the Atlantic while you’re getting measured for your new beat uniform. Angela, get him out of here.”
Angela went to the office door and stood, hand on the doorknob. Cruz preceded her through it, pausing while she closed the door. The slurs, curses, and promises audible through the wood panel were satisfying.
“That wasn’t smart,” she said, taking her seat. “He doesn’t take being threatened well.”
“Andrew Posey tied the noose and wrapped it around his own neck. I’m just the cop holding onto the other end.” He indicated the computer with his chin. “Don’t delete any files.”
He left city hall satisfied the visit had been productive. He was certain that within the next twenty-four hours, Posey would make a fatal mistake. Cruz was gambling. He didn’t have the search warrants yet. He didn’t have the arrest warrants yet. No one wanted to move until Bishop got off his ass and unleashed the hell hounds of the FBI. Time was not on their side. Posey was leaving the country this time tomorrow.
Now he had to wait. The ball was in Posey’s court.
Until then, he had the rest of those recordings to listen to. An idea lit. Hannigan recorded every other meeting with Posey. Why wouldn’t he do the same for his last meeting?
Cruz raced downtown, thinking through the possibilities. The flag was small. Any number of things could have happened to it. A phone call confirmed it wasn’t with the dead man’s effects. The blood-soaked shirt had nothing but buttonholes on the lapel.
If not on Hannigan’s shirt, maybe it was on his missing coat. The search warrant would cover the house, he just had to be patient there. No choice. But the dump site was fair game.
The steep, snow-covered side of an embankment was meant for boots with spikes. Cruz went down to his knees twice to prevent rolling as Hannigan had. He was in the right place. Small bits of gold drape were snagged in the coarse brush, wet and dark. Under the bridge, the snow thinned to a dusting, giving way to the endless nooks and crannies that could hide a lapel pin.
Rocks slid below, and Cruz turned to glimpse a fleeing man. The pursuit was thankfully short. The man named Al didn’t want trouble. Yes, he had shoved away the body that had rolled into his home. Not a crime to keep the long length of heavy fabric that caught on the winter landscape. Just trash thrown over the guardrail above. And he’d kept the sports coat that was nearly clean and the shoes that were close enough to fitting; it wasn’t nothing. The man wearing them wasn’t using them anymore.
Al traded the lot for a few bills and a warm pair of gloves.
At his desk, Cruz huddled over a hot cup of coffee, turning the lapel pin over and around. The flag was large for a lapel pin but not enough to raise suspicion. He was about to wake Hannigan’s girlfriend to learn how to download the files when he noticed a thin seam on the back side. His finger was too thick. He unwound a paper clip, using the tool to pull, pry, push—a small disk, the size of his fingernail, popped out.
The tablet had a slot just as small.
Technology was not the bitch she usually was, willingly opening the contents. The drive contained a single file taking the full capacity. Cruz inserted ear buds and pressed play.
“Sunday, February 2. Posey called me to his home to finalize plans for the trade trip.” Val Hannigan’s voice came across clearly. “I hope this doesn’t take too long. I want to go see Lauren. I took all of this out on her last night. There’s another car here, I don’t recognize it. Someone else he likes to give orders to.”
Car door opened. Brushing of material. Car door closed. Doorbell rang in the distance.
“Come on in.” The voice didn’t belong to Posey or his wife.
“Hey. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
No response was made to the comment.
“Val. Thanks for coming all the way over.” Posey welcomed his guest. His voice was all business. “Have a seat.”
More rustling of material. Hannigan’s voice quieted just enough to show the flag pin was no longer two inches from his mouth. “You want me to take notes?”
“Sure. Why don’t you do that,” Posey said. “The detective from homicide talked to you?”
“Detective De La Cruz? Yes, he tricked my mother into calling me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I hung up on him.”
“And your mother?”
“She doesn’t know anything to tell,” Val said, his voice calm, dismissive.
“Why did you call this lawyer? Applegate?”
“Strategy. The surest way to look guilty was to hide.” Val answered immediately and with confidence. “If they talked to me alone, they were going to twist everyt
hing I said to set it up to make me look guilty. I know how cops work. They write the story and then bully or beat you into it. By going in voluntarily and with a lawyer, I showed them I wasn’t going to play it.”
“What did they want to know?”
“The Friday Sophie was rushed to the hospital, they knew I was in the restaurant and wanted my statement. I gave them what I knew they already knew.”
Silence hung, judging between facts and lies.
“Did you tell them about your mother’s house and the development?”
“They wanted to know how I came to work in city hall. I told them you hired me as an intern after I improved on a planning concept. There was nothing wrong with how I got the job. My lawyer said since all the paperwork was done, we were good.”
“Hmmm.”
“Really, Mr. Posey. That was the end of it.” For the first time, concern crept into Hannigan’s voice.
“The way I heard it, you told them I saved your mother’s house because you ‘took care’ of Sophie for me.”
Then Cruz knew, someone from the prosecutor’s office talked too much.
“No. Absolutely not, Drew. Mr. Posey. I swear. For all they know, the two circumstances were unrelated. Me trying to date Sophie was totally and completely unrelated to my job with you.”
“How did you explain P.J. Mayfield?
“So, I lied about my name? That’s not a crime. Mr. Posey, you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of everything. Honest.”
“Honest.” Posey laughed, dark and maniacal. “This is politics. Honesty is circumstantial; loyalty is everything.”
“I’m committed to you.” Hannigan spoke quickly now, his pitch higher. He knew he stood before a lion. “You know I’m on your team.”
“On my team!” Posey roared as loudly as the animal. And then it was Hannigan shouting, begging, pleading.
Posey screamed over him. “You were going to sell me out, you dumb fuck!” Metal clanked on metal and the iron met flesh. Each strike was captured in sickeningly detailed digital bytes. “That fuckhead Mulgrew threatened to walk away from me. Fucking walk away from me. Why? Because you were too much of a coward to keep your mouth shut. Because you were too weak to do what had to be done.”
“Enough. Stop. He’s had enough.” It was the second man in the room. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“You do what you’re told.” The sound of metal and flesh quieted but were no less distinct. The shouts of this unidentified man defending himself.
“I own you. I’m your fucking master.” Another blow landed. “You never interfere. You understand?”
“I understand,” the man shouted. The man who had to be the cop named McCracken.
The silence of death played for one second, two, three.
“I had such high hopes for you.” Posey again, this time clearer, much closer to the flag. “Clean that up.”
“I’ll need something to wrap him in.”
“Do I have to do everything?” A cacophony followed. Metal landing on wood. “Anything else?”
“Your car in the garage?”
“What do you want with my car?” Posey asked, his voice incredulous.
“In this nice neighborhood of yours, someone will notice me carrying a body to mine, even in fancy wrapping. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll take your car, you drive Hannigan’s…”
“Posey’s not going to run. He thinks he’s tied up his loose ends. Running now just shows guilt.” Bishop finished on his tablet, gracing the room with his undivided attention. “Based on what we know about the narcotics’ informant and the intimidation tactics on Cruz’s family, there’s a lot more meat on this bone than just Hannigan. The Department of Justice needs to look at this. I’ll interview him. If nothing else, he’ll hang himself for lying, the way so many others have before him.”
Cruz planted his hands on the desk. “We don’t need him to hang himself. Hannigan’s done it for him.”
“For the murder, yes. But not for any of the rest. I know it’s hard to be patient.” Bishop ignored the suggestion to do something physically impossible. “But it will pay off. You know me, Cruz. I won’t let him walk.”
Protocols were followed, transferring the evidence from the Cleveland police to the FBI. The final pep talk from Bishop did nothing to help Cruz get his rah-rah on. He was still stewing when Bishop walked out of homicide. “We need to pick Posey up, Kurt. The fucker is leaving the country.”
“First things first, get the i’s dotted and t’s crossed on McCracken. Buell left a file on your desk. Find him and get him to turn. I want his statement in triplicate before I have Posey in holding.”
Hours later, he walked through the parking garage, unable to believe it was still Thursday. It was too long to still be the same day. Right, he hadn’t slept the night before. And food, well, it was a four-letter word. But he had coffee, which was better. After all, it had six letters. He should go home.
Except, he couldn’t.
He needed to talk to Aurora, tell her about the bullshit suspension. Except she didn’t answer his calls, return his messages, respond to his texts. He couldn’t let her be blindsided.
He went to Becky’s. He needed a place where everyone knew his name and had his back. Most alcoholics wouldn’t go to a bar under the circumstances, but it was the one place he was certain he couldn’t get a drink. The bar was crowded. Smitty and Czerski physically dragged him to their table. Good friends did that. He talked but didn’t listen. He played darts but didn’t enjoy kicking ass. He drank Brass Balls, the 7 Up and cranberry drink Yablonski introduced him to his first time back in the bar.
“Loser buys.” Two big hands came from behind Cruz and set three drinks on the table.
“A class act. I like it,” Smitty said, claiming a fresh bottle of beer, pushing its twin to Czerski, and the glass to Cruz. “Anytime you want a rematch, you know where to find us.”
Cruz threw it back like there was something besides sugar in it. It was different, had a little vanilla thing going that made it fancier. Another one appeared, just like magic. He looked over his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem, Detective.” The man gave a small salute. “They’re on the house tonight. Designated drivers drink for free.”
He drank that one, and then another. The comradery of the place settled in, mellowing him. Being alone was rough, being with people who understood, people who got you even if they didn’t get you, this was what he needed. He inhaled deeply, enjoying his head being empty, deserving a break from the chaos. Who did this, he wondered? Who voluntarily lived their life racing from one crisis to the next? Fuck, most of the crises weren’t even his.
This is the way life should be lived.
Easy.
“You good, Cruzie?” Smitty shook his shoulder. “You look like you’re fading on us.”
“Haven’t slept in a…in a long time. Feel like I could now. Really sleep, you know?”
Czerski laughed. “I haven’t seen you this mellow since you came out from the Drug Head case and got laid again.”
Aurora’s ringtone blasted from his phone, quiet in the tumultuous bar and yet the only thing Cruz heard. Smitty and Czerski laughed at his expense. He didn’t care. Fuck them. He had a woman, a hot woman, and they had their hands. He flipped them off as he answered the call. “Hey, baby, you ignoring me?”
“No, I didn’t have my phone. I left it in Selena’s car last night. When I got it back, the battery was dead. I called you as soon as it would work again.”
Cool, he thought. Good reason. “You ready to kiss and make up?”
“I’m not quite there yet. Where are you?”
“Becky’s.” He laughed at the “kissy” faces his friends were making. “Smitty and Czerski say hi. Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Cool. Whose home?”
“Ours. What happened to the dining room? Are you alrigh
t?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, are you coming home? I want to talk.”
“Okay.” He stood, wrestled with his coat and phone to keep from dropping either. “You know I love you, right?”
“Um, yeah. I know. That’s why I’m willing to talk. Are you sure you’re okay? You sound half asleep.”
“Mellow, baby.” He took the top off a new drink, gave a thumbs up to his buddies, and crossed to the side door. The tables and chairs were scattered and in the way. He ran into six of them before finally reaching the door. “Be home in ten.”
“Okay, I’ll be here.”
The heavy door didn’t want to be opened, but Cruz won, falling out into air fifty degrees colder. “This is why people live in Florida. Or Arizona. Or Panama.” His car wasn’t any warmer. He turned the heat on, snarled at the vents that weren’t giving him what he wanted.
Rush hour was past. Only people on the street were people doing whatever people do when they aren’t rushing from work. He stopped at a red light.
A horn sounded behind him. He lifted his head from his chest. “Sorry,” he said to the rearview mirror and drove forward. Curb, lane, sweeping right hand turn onto I-90 west. Except he was heading south. Who laid out these roads? West should go west. He looked over Progressive Field to the Cuyahoga River. If it were summer, he’d see the sun setting there. Brilliant reds and purples would paint the sky.
A horn honked, long and loud. Cruz checked, made certain he was awake. Double checked the car was between the lines. Oops. Turned the wheel until the car was between the lines.
Brilliant light reflected in his mirror. He rolled down his window, waved the guy around him. A blast of a siren said it was for him. “Damn it. Aurora’s going be pissed.” He leaned his head back, trying force his brain to clear.
“License and registration?” A young cop stood at the open window. “You okay, sir?”
“Yep. Wait.” He dug out his ID. “I’m De La Cruz. Homicide.”
The cop looked between his ID and his eyes. Not once. Three times. “You coming off a double, Detective?”