by TG Wolff
EXACTING JUSTICE
The De La Cruz Case Files
TG Wolff
PRAISE FOR EXACTING JUSTICE
“TG Wolff’s Detective De La Cruz is caught in the crosshairs of solving heinous crimes, defending himself against a wrongful lawsuit, helping an abusive drug dealer’s family, thwarting his mother’s matchmaking, and falling in love. Pit against those who subvert justice and twist the law to suit their own ends, Cruz stands true while suffering his own demons—everything a hero should be. Wolff’s unsentimental and precise writing draws readers. Add Exacting Justice to your ‘to be read’ pile.” —E. B. Davis, mystery author
“Working with an incarcerated population, I deal regularly with people who have made poor life decisions but who can be inherently funny, surprisingly talented, or overly concerned. I know that simple labels of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ don't work in the real world. In Exacting Justice, TG Wolff created characters just as messy, complicated, and dynamic as real life that keep you wanting to read page after page.” —Vincent Giammarco, Director of Behavioral Health Care
Copyright © 2018 by TG Wolff
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Exacting Justice
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles
Preview from Dangerous Boys by Greg F. Gifune
Preview from Second Story Man by Charles Salzberg
Preview from Tushhog by Jeffery Hess
To my mother, Jane, who loves this story.
October 31
How do I feel?
The lady on the phone thinks I’m depressed. She’s wrong. This is normal. When you lose the one you love most, you’re not supposed to smile. This journal was her idea. She said to ask myself daily “how do I feel” as a way to get in touch with myself.
I tried to explain but she didn’t get it. I don’t feel. Haven’t since the day you died.
I do think. Lying in bed this morning, I figured out five ways to kill myself. I can take pain, I just want it fast. I don’t have a gun but it’s easy enough to get. Point, click, done.
A knife is just as good if you know the right place to put it. Adrenaline makes the heart pump harder, draining you until it’s time to sleep.
Pills. I have bottles in the bathroom. Sleeping. Pain. Heavy duty pain. Just float higher and higher until I drift away.
Poison. Got gallons of cleaner in the shop. Wonder how that one that smells like oranges tastes.
A bridge column at eighty miles an hour would do it. Just drift to the right. WHAM. Done.
Chapter One
Tuesday, November 1
Detective Jesus De La Cruz parked his police issue behind a black-and-white. He drained his go cup, bolstering the four measly hours of sleep he’d gotten with some high-test Colombian before he stepped into the ugly day. Mother Nature blanketed Cleveland with thick, ominous clouds. Welcome to winter in Northeast Ohio. The gloomy day matched his mood, and it fit the neighborhood. Urban blight had struck hard at the corner of southeast Cleveland called Slavic Village, leaving it pock-marked with ignored, abused, and run-down homes. For every spot of blight though, there was a meticulously-cared-for house loved down to the last nail, a ray of sunshine fighting through the clouds.
The dirty white house in front of him was not the latter. It needed a fresh coat of paint, and the big front window was nothing but plywood. The gate was missing from the fence, and concrete sections of the sidewalk and driveway were crooked, cracked, and crumbled. Grass grew in cracks, but the lawn was bare.
The house wasn’t all grim. A bright orange pumpkin, hand-drawn, with crooked teeth, grinned from the yellow front door.
“What good are you?” The high-pitched cry escaped the house with the small boy who slipped out the door.
Cruz walked between the bumper of his car and one with the driver’s side window shattered. The caller reported a drive-by shooting the night before. The car needed to be swept for evidence. Across the dirt passing for a tree lawn, over the broken sidewalk, he reached the small walk to the house. From behind the thick porch post, the boy watched him approach. Cruz winked, trying to ease the worry in those young eyes—or was it suspicion?
Inside the house, a woman pitched forward at the waist, radiating hostility as she glared silently at the uniformed officer. The frenzied laughter of the Saturday morning cartoons filled the space between the two.
Cruz stepped into the small living room and took control. “Why did you wait until this morning to call?”
She jumped, her eyes wide at finding a second man in her house. Tall and scrawny, she wore pink sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt with a faded rainbow. Her dishwater-blonde hair poked out in tufts from a hastily tied tail. With a few more pounds, she could have been an attractive. “Who are you?”
“Detective Jesus De La Cruz. Could you turn the TV off?” The anorexic figures in primary colors disappeared, taking the noise with them. “Thank you. Officer, run the plates on the car in front of the house and get crime scene to sweep it.”
“Yes, sir,” the uniform said and set to his duties.
An impatient foot tapped. “You need to arrest the asshole who shot up my house.”
He nodded as though there were all the time in the world. “I need some information to get started. You’re Mrs. Parker, correct?”
The woman wrapped her arms across her stomach, her stance changing in a blink from aggressive to uncertain. “Hayley Parker.” Her gaze fell to the floor and stayed there.
He had the distinct impression of a dog kicked too many times. “Why don’t we sit, and you tell me what happened. I like the pumpkin on the door.” He paid the compliment to put her at ease, to show he was on her side, and because he liked the pumpkin.
“Jace likes to draw and stuff.”
“He’s talented.” With a sweep of his arm, he invited her to sit on her couch. He took the matching armchair. “Tell me what happened.”
“Someone shot at my house.” She sat ramrod straight and repeatedly looked to the place where the picture window should have been. “Is this going to take long?”
“No,” he said, because it’s the answer she wanted. “This was yesterday, Halloween. What time?”
Her head shook back-and-forth, back-and-forth. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking at a clock.”
“Tell me what you were doing.”
“Jace and I were in the kitchen. I was making him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to eat before trick-or-treating. He had his Halloween costume on—he was Spiderman—and climbing on the chair. I told him to get down before he fell. That’s when I heard a pop and glass broke. I pulled Jace to the floor.”
“Trick-or-treating began at six. Was it five? Five-thirty?
“Five-thirty, I guess. Closer to it anyways.”
“How many shots were fired?”
“I don’t know. Four. Maybe five. I wasn’t counting. Can’t you—”
; Shouting from the front porch cut her short. Low, bass notes filled with male bravado. Small words. Harsh tones.
The woman looked to the front door, covering her mouth with trembling fingers. “Christopher’s home.”
The front door burst open, and a lanky, white man stormed in. “Hayley. What the fuck did you do?” Christopher Parker stood a shade under six-foot, probably went all of a buck-sixty, but walked with the swagger of a stud.
Cruz stood between the wife and the cause of her anxiety. “Mr. Parker?” He asked the question, matching last names were not a given.
Blocked from his wife, Parker’s gaze snapped to Cruz’s face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”
“Detective De La Cruz. Your wife reported shots fired at your home yesterday. Were you here when it happened?” Cruz dismissed the scrutinizing gaze and repeated the question. “Sir, were you here at the time of the shooting?”
Parker pressed his lips together like a four-year-old determined not to eat peas.
“Just tell him, Christopher. Let him get the bastard for what he did.” Her voice quivered but had the boldness she used on the uniform.
Parker side-stepped and loomed over his wife. “I told you I would handle it. Don’t involve the cops in my business.”
“He shot at me, Christopher.” She stood now, shouting back at her husband. “Me and Jace. I want him to pay.”
Cruz raised his hand to stop Parker from silencing his wife. “Mrs. Parker, did you see who shot at the house?”
The show of strength didn’t last long. Suddenly reticent, Hayley picked at the hem of her T-shirt. “I didn’t, like, see him, but I know it was him. I know.”
And that was the end. Hayley Parker shut down under her husband’s reprimanding glare. She retreated into a shell where she couldn’t remember the last twenty-four hours and wouldn’t sign anything. Cruz left reluctantly not because he enjoyed their company, but because he was certain there was about to be an incident of domestic violence. He had done his best to warn off Parker but doubted it was good enough.
Jace Parker sat on the porch with his chin resting on his knees. He watched Cruz come out of his house with eyes too old.
“You’re Jace, right? I’m Detective De La Cruz.” He walked down the steps, intentionally standing on the walk so the boy wouldn’t have to look up. “You can call me Cruz.”
Jace had his mother’s coloring and spectacularly large, blue eyes.
He kept it casual, using the boy as an excuse to stay close to the house. Just in case. “Did you have a good Halloween?”
“It sucked.” It was said without rancor by a boy who had too much experience with holidays falling short of commercial promises.
“You didn’t get the candy you liked?”
Little shoulders rose and fell. “I was s’posed to go trick or treatin’. Then I didn’t.”
“That’s rough. Hold on a minute.” He jogged to his car and retrieved a bag of candy from the front seat. His nieces had made it from their own booty—primarily the candies they didn’t like—topped off by his sister who preferred to rot her brother’s teeth than her children’s. It wasn’t a lot of candy, but it might be enough to soothe the little boy. “Here you go.”
Jace’s blue eyes glistened as he peered in the bag. “Wow! Where did you get all this?”
The wonder at the small kindness made Cruz glad he’d thought of the candy. It was a little thing, but the boy looked at him like he was a hero. “I have nieces your age. They like to share. Are you allergic to nuts?” Unlikely as his mother had made him a PB&J the night before.
“Nah. Toby in my class, he’s allergic to peanuts, but not me.” His hand dove into the bag, withdrawing a prize piece of chocolate. “You don’t dress like those other cops.”
“No. I’m a detective.” He held his badge out to the boy. “Do you know what a detective is?”
The blond head bobbed. “Inspector Gadget is a detective. Do you get all those things to track clues ’cause you’re a detective?”
Cruz snorted with laughter. “I wish. I like your pumpkin. Did you make it in school?” He glanced at the door, listening for sounds saying he was needed.
“Kindergarten is fun. Ms. Williams reads us stories and teaches us numbers and she always smells good.” He pulled out a purple-wrapped treat. “I’m going to give this to her.”
“You like your teacher?”
Jace nodded. “She’s nice and pretty. And she never yells. Even when you’re doin’ somethin’ you’re not s’pose to do. She looks sad and gives you a yellow on your card.”
The wind gusted, reminding Cruz of the temperature. “Aren’t you cold with just a sweatshirt on?”
“No.” The boy wore jeans with a knee torn out, gym shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt. He dug into the bag again and came out up a lollipop. “I’m outside a lot. I watch for people.”
“People? People like me? Police?”
“Sometimes. My mom called you to come.”
“Do you know our job as policemen to help people? People like you and your mom and dad.”
“Daddy says all cops do is fuck things up.”
Cruz flinched. After everything he’d seen, he thought he was beyond surprise. Then, the day he expects a five-year-old to drop an f-bomb is the day he should turn in his badge. “I want to give you something, Jace. It’s my card. If you need help, you call me. Any time, any day.” He thought of his nieces, and how he took simple things for granted. “Do you know how to dial a phone?”
“You turn it on and push the numbers.”
“Yep. These numbers here.” He underlined digits. “You press these, and it’ll connect to me.”
“What about the two-one-six?”
“That’s the area code.” He added the one in front of the other digits. “You only need to dial these if you’re far away. Like, in another state.”
“Texas is a state.” Jace handled the card reverently, as if it were a gift. He drew up his pantleg and put it in his sock. “If you catch Uncle, will you send him to Texas?”
Cruz stilled. He wouldn’t question a kindergartener, but he couldn’t turn a deaf ear either. “Your uncle?”
“Not my uncle.” Jace giggled. “His name is Uncle. Daddy and him go into the garage, but I’m not allowed to. Mommy says Uncle shot our house up.”
Cruz was close and personal with the name. Uncle had been an up-and-comer when he first worked undercover narcotics. Cruz was skinnier then, hadn’t filled out yet, with scraggly hair hanging in his face, a constant five o’clock shadow, and a thick street accent. He and Uncle came up through the ranks together, first as friends, then competitors. Both had vied for a coveted position within the organization. Cruz for the connections. Uncle for the drugs, money and women. Cruz had known there would come a time when he and Uncle would be down and dirty. Uncle got there first.
“Are you going to put him in jail?”
Cruz stroked the smooth scars at the corner of his eye. “It’s not that simple.” Which was a crappy answer. “Jace? Uncle is a bad man. I want you to promise me you’ll stay away from him. Will you do that?” Knowing he’d already stayed too long, Cruz turned to the street. The uniformed officer was with the car owner. They would do the job, but without Hayley Parker naming Uncle, giving the case slim-to-none odds was being generous.
November 1
I think about you every day. I wonder what you think of me. I hope you don’t hate me. I know it was my fault. If I listened to you…If I was faster…If I knew…If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
If
Chapter Two
Sunday, November 5
At age two, Rhianna DeMarco declared her uncle was her best friend. “Tito” took her to the park, kissed boo-boos, and p
layed everything from coloring pages to soccer. Three years later, her best friends were her cat, her neighbor, but she steadfastly held onto Tito.
Cruz limped out of Sacrada Familia Catholic Church with a five-year-old barnacle looking at him like he was the best man in the world. “You’re getting too big, girl. You’re going to be carrying me soon.”
“I can’t carry you, Tito. You weigh, like, a thousand pounds.”
“An elephant weighs a thousand pounds. Do I look like an elephant?” He lifted his squealing niece into the air. “What do you think, Gabby? Do I look like an elephant?”
At a sophisticated eight years old, Gabriella walked between her parents. She cocked her head, her long hair falling over her shoulder. “You used to look scary, like a monster. Now you look like…hmmm. I think you just look like Tito.”
“Elefante!” Rhianna screamed, then faded into the laughter when his fingers tickled her.
“Jesus. Jesus!” His name raced the wind across the parking lot.
“Don’t look now, Tito.” Mariana, his favorite and only sister, smothered a giggle. “Mama has found another flower for you to pluck.”
“Aye Dios mio.” The phrases in his head were so colorful, they were neon. His mother hurried across the parking lot. Running to keep up with the hand dragging her was a woman about his age with large chocolate eyes and white teeth set in an oversized grin.
“Jesus. This is Nadia. Nadia, this is my son, Jesus.”
Cruz offered his hand. “Nadia. This is my sister, Mariana and her husband, Tony.”
Vanessa De La Cruz shoved the jewel toward her son, cutting off the small talk. “Nadia is a secretary—”
“Administrative assistant,” Nadia corrected.
“She has her own car, an apartment, and a 401(k) plan,” his mother said without pause in her thick accent.