Exacting Justice

by TG Wolff

  “Did you call it in?”

  Stan shrugged. “What was the point? It was over before it started. Nobody was going to wait around for the police to show up. Nobody saw nothing.”

  “Nobody ever sees anything. When was the last time you saw Alvin?”

  Stan’s mouth arched into a horseshoe shape. He was quiet as he thought. “Tuesday. Halloween. He left before trick or treating. I remember because I thought that was a good thing for the kids.”

  “How about yesterday? Did you see him then?”

  “Can’t say but I can ask the missus. She stays up on comings and goings more than I do.” Stan stood when the animal control truck pulled in front of the house. “I guess I should have suspected something was wrong. Alvin doesn’t leave those dogs outside at night. They threw up a fit around nine last night.”

  “Nine?” Cruz rose also but stayed for the story.

  “Those dogs were going after something. I heard a slam, like a door close, and then everything quieted down. Didn’t think anything of it.”

  “How did Alvin handle visitors? Between the gate and the dogs, how did anybody get in?”

  “Well, now, that’s the point of it all, isn’t it? They didn’t. Not without an invitation.”

  Cruz downed the last half of the damn good coffee and handed Stan the empty cup. “Thank you, Mr. Stanislav. For your help and the coffee.”

  “My pleasure, Detective. I’d like to call Loretta, help her any way we can.”

  “It would be better if you let me notify her first. Trust me, you don’t want to be the first.” With that, Cruz traded the warmth of the Stanislav home for the cold street and two animal control officers.

  “What do we have?” one of them asked.

  “Kobe.” He pointed to the beast going nuts at the fence and then to the emerging Rott. “LeBron.”

  Skills. That’s what collared the two dogs in less time than it took for the officers to get there. Cruz left them to fill out paperwork and mounted the front steps to Alvin Hall’s home.

  The front door was ajar.

  Gun in hand, he knocked loudly, announced himself, and entered.

  The carbon copy of the Stanislav home was decorated in stripper red and ass kicker black. The living room was arranged around an entertainment center featuring a television that took up half the width of the narrow wall.

  The room had bachelor clutter—take-out bags, socks, shirts, a cereal bowl—and dealer clutter—bags, needles, knives, guns.

  Cruz called out again. No one answered. He swept through to what used to be the dining room and was now a prep room. Interior decorating hadn’t made it this far. Random strips were missing from the wall paper. The happy, smiling faces were replaced with smudges and dents, giving the room a war-torn look.

  An arched doorway off the dining room was hidden behind a stained, thick, cream-colored drape. He swept in low. The room was empty. Two twin mattresses against opposite walls were unmade. Sheets and thin blankets hung in twisted ropes across the floor. More take-out bags, a box of cereal, knocked over and half spilled. Three empty Red Bull cans.

  Back to the dining room and then through to the kitchen.

  This was a different kind of mess. One of the kitchen chairs was on the stove, another sprawled over the sink. Anything that had been on the vintage 1960s’ table was scattered over the floor.

  Cruz made the call to crime scene.

  He moved back through the house to the stairs and cleared the second floor. Two bedrooms. The larger room contained a wooden framed, full-sized bed, which was surprisingly feminine. His mother’s? Another television, more clothes, more drugs.

  The smaller room had a twin-sized mattress on a metal frame. There were no sheets but a thin navy-blue comforter. The rest of the room was empty except for posters of past NBA stars on the walls. Michael Jordan. Shaquille O’Neal. Terrell Brandon. Zydrunas Ilgauskas.

  Blasts from the past.

  It struck him that he and Uncle had been the same age. Cruz had just entered high school when the big “Z” stepped onto the Cleveland Cavaliers court for the first time.

  He filled his time waiting for crime scene getting reacquainted with Uncle. He found proof of Uncle’s drug activities but didn’t find the man himself—or the rest of the man himself, as the case were. With the very public discovery of Uncles head, it wasn’t long before crime scene knocked on the door.

  Uncle had moved his mother to a neat and trim bungalow just inside the Shaker Heights city limits, an upscale suburb abutting Cleveland. Cruz turned off the main boulevard, through wide streets with hundred-year-old trees to a sweet little neighborhood tucked away from the rest of the world. A safe neighborhood where children’s laughter competed with the birds for air time.

  Pastor Michael Ashford sat in the passenger seat, watching the scenery in solemn silence. The middle-aged man was as white as a slice of bread. His thick brown hair was flecked with enough silver to garner respect and framed a full face with kind brown eyes. Cruz’s gut had him calling the man who was a friend to Cleveland police. If there was such a thing as being good at this kind of stuff, Pastor Mike was.

  Cruz understood the psychology of grief, but he wasn’t a counselor. Words weren’t his strength, and emotions he avoided. Mrs. Hall mattered. He wanted more for her than what he had to give. Too quickly, he parked in front of a picture-perfect house with a Honda Civic sitting in the driveway. The one-story, square brick house had a thick lawn, still green and weed free. On the small sandstone porch, two flower pots overflowed with brilliant orange mums. A sign hanging next to the front door said “Welcome” in seven languages.

  Cruz gritted his teeth and walked up the stairs, knowing without looking that the pastor was right behind him, ready for the fall-out. He palmed his credentials and rang the bell.

  The woman who answered the door was a little older than the picture in his memory, but the eyes were the same. Wide. Warm. Welcoming. She had put on a few pounds, weight that looked good on her tall frame. He remembered Loretta Hall as tired and worn. The woman in front of him looked the picture of health with her flawless, dark complexion.

  Bile rose at what he was about to do to her. “Mrs. Hall?”

  The welcome in her eyes dimmed. She wrapped her arms under her breasts, over the scrubs with kittens and puppies on them. “Yes?”

  “I am Detective De La Cruz, Cleveland police.”

  “Cleveland?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Say it fast and clear. It was the kindest thing to do. “I regret to inform you that—”

  “Don’t say it.” She closed her eyes and held her hand out. “Please, don’t say it.”

  Cruz swallowed again. “That your son, Alvin Hall, was found dead.”

  “When?” She whispered, her eyes still closed.

  “This morning, ma’am. May we come in? This is Pastor Michael Ashford.”

  Mrs. Hall dropped her head and stepped backward, letting Cruz enter and Ashford behind him. Ashford quickly took the lead, guiding Ms. Hall to a sturdy chair at her dining room table. The room was small, the table with four chairs nearly filled the space. A corner cabinet snuggled next to a window held treasured glass figurines. The short spans of walls were covered with the smiling faces Cruz remembered plus a few new ones. Alvin was up there.

  “We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hall. Is there someone I can call to be with you?” Michael asked.

  “M-my sister. My sister, Bernice.” She picked up the cell phone on the table, fumbling it as dysfunctional fingers tried to touch in the right places. “A-are you sure it was Alvin?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cruz said.

  “How? How did he die?”

  “We are still putting together the details. His head was found this morning.”

  She grabbed onto the table. “Did you say…?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m going to ask you to keep that to yourself. It’s important for us to keep certain details from becoming public while we investigate the homicide. Do
you understand, Mrs. Hall?”

  She nodded, her head moving the slightest bit possible.

  “Was Alvin having trouble with anyone? Maybe at work? In his personal life?”

  She blinked rapidly, processing what Cruz had said. “He was murdered. If it were a car accident or the like, his head would…wouldn’t…” She handed the phone to Pastor Michael and left him to make the call.

  Michael went into the small kitchen and spoke to the sister in quiet, calm tones.

  “We are still trying to understand the circumstances. When was the last time you spoke with Alvin? May I sit?”

  “Sit? Oh, good Lord. My manners. Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink? I have…what do I have?” Mrs. Hall looked to Cruz for the answer.

  “A glass of water would be appreciated.” He didn’t want the water, but she needed a purpose for that specific moment. A respite while she digested the information.

  Michael disconnected the line. “Your sister is on her way.”

  “Thank you. Would you like a glass of water? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Michael.” He smiled gently. “Most people call me Pastor Mike.”

  “Michael,” she repeated. “Like the angel.” The kitchen was a ten-by-ten square, broken up by three doorways and the usual appliances. The corner near the sink had a cabinet over top. Mrs. Hall opened the door and retrieved a glass. It slipped from her hand, shattering on the countertop. “Oh. Look what I’ve done.”

  Michael stilled her hands. “I’ll take care of it. Sit and talk with Detective De La Cruz.”

  Mrs. Hall walked the six steps from the kitchen to the dining room chair, her mind disconnected from her body. She sank slowly into the chair, facing Cruz.

  “Mrs. Hall, when was the last time you spoke with Alvin?”

  “Yesterday. He picked up a bucket of chicken for lunch. He always buys extra, so I can eat it during the week. I cooked for him his whole life and suddenly I can’t cook for myself.” She smiled as she spoke, lost in an argument that had become a running joke. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “What time did he leave?”

  “Three? Maybe three?”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  She shook her head. A slow movement to the left and then to the right. “I thought he was going home.”

  “And you aren’t aware of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your son?”

  Her gaze flickered with the intensity of a supernova. “I know what people say about Alvin. But they don’t know him. He is a good man. He bought this house. He helped me plant my flowers. You tell me how bad a man can be that helps his mother plant flowers.”

  “A good man, I like to think. I help my mother with her flowers, too. She has a thing for roses.”

  She searched his face, then she pressed a hand to her throat, her mouth curling in distaste. “They say he sells drugs.”

  “My priority is finding the person who ended your son’s life. The more you can tell me, the better I can do my job.”

  “I don’t know how Alvin made his money.” Mrs. Hall wouldn’t look at him. “When I asked, he would say I didn’t need to worry about it.”

  “What about friends, girlfriends? Anyone who might have been with him after he left here Sunday?”

  “Maybe Gerard. They’ve known each other since middle school.” Mrs. Hall reached for the phone again, but just couldn’t seem to pick it up.

  “I have it, Loretta,” Pastor Mike said. “Gerard?”

  She nodded. “Gerard Wallace.”

  “Found it. It’s ringing.”

  Mrs. Hall accepted the phone back and held it to her ear.

  “’Lo?” Cruz could hear the voice as clearly as if it had been on speaker phone.

  “Gerard? It’s Loretta Hall.”

  “Hey, Mrs. H. What’s up?”

  “Gerard. The police are here. They say that Alvin is…” She choked on the word that said she was never going to see her baby again. “They say he’s dead.” She shoved the phone at Cruz.

  “Mr. Wallace. This is Detective De La Cruz, Cleveland police. Is there a place we can meet?”

  Wallace snorted. “No place around here.”

  “Euclid and Mayfield. There’s a coffee shop.”

  Silence answered.

  He pressed. “For Mrs. Hall.”

  “Thirty minutes. You ain’t there, I ain’t stayin’.”

  When the line went dead, Cruz looked at Pastor Mike. “I have to leave.”

  “Go on. My wife will pick me up.”

  Mrs. Hall put her hand on Cruz’s arm. “Please, Detective…take care of my boy.”

  Night had firmly taken hold as Cruz parked under the floodlight. He had made this journey one hundred twenty-four times before. The first time was hard. The next few times harder. While the journey then became easier, recovery would always be something he worked at. Inside, he silently climbed the stairs to the main floor where bad coffee and familiar faces greeted him.

  “Cruz, you look cold. Coffee’s hot.” A man looking twenty years older than his age poured liquid sludge into a white cup and offered it.

  Gratitude put the smile on Cruz’s face. “You know my soft spot.”

  November 6

  I watched the morning news. They announced “breaking news” and cut away to another reporter. They found my sign.

  When the other drug dealers see it, they’ll get out of my city. No one else will have to live in this hell I’m in.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, November 8

  Forty-eight hours later, Cruz still collected puzzle pieces. Interviews and searches failed to connect Uncle to the drop spot. While he waited for results from the labs, he sat at a table for two, tugging on another string. He studied the placemat to distract himself from being nervous. Stupid shit. You’d think he was meeting a date instead of—

  Matt Yablonski walked in, wearing his game face.

  Yablonski had to stand on his toes to reach six feet. Shaped like a bullet, the polish on his shaved head gleamed in the lights. His thick neck connected ears to shoulders. Tree trunk thighs meant he swung his legs out to the side to walk. His face made up for the lack of hair on his head. The full beard, the color and texture of copper wire, would impress ZZ Top. Add eyes as grey as thunderstorm and Matt Yablonski was a thing of nightmares.

  Those eyes scrutinized Cruz and then flashed with recognition. “Lookie what we have here! Didn’t recognize you with that pretty face.” Yablonski smiled, it was the face of a smart ass. “All that nasty, long hair gone. Your nose is straight. Who comes out of a mess like that with their nose straighter?”

  “The hair’s not gone, just tamed.” He pulled the braid from behind his neck. “Looks like the years smacked you in the face with an ugly stick.”

  Yablonski drew his beefy hand down his long beard. “I’m an acquired taste.”

  Laughing, Cruz stood and greeted his long-lost friend with a one-armed hug. The bear hug in return cracked his back.

  “It’s been too damn long, Cruzie. Too damn long.”

  “It has,” he said as they took their seats. “I appreciate—”

  “What’s good here? Business before pleasure, remember?” He picked up the menu.

  “I forgot how seriously you take a meal.” There was no awkwardness. He had been afraid there would be. He should have known better. This was Yablonski. “Steak and eggs. Unless you’re watching your girlish figure.”

  Yablonski ditched the menu, then patted his barrel belly. “Don’t gotta do that anymore. Got myself a woman.”

  “The blow-up kind doesn’t actually count as a woman.”

  He muttered unpleasantries as he pulled out a picture and held it for inspection. “Erin.”

  A pretty woman sat on Yablonski’s lap. The look on his face said it all. “A cute nurse. I withdraw my previous remarks.”

  “Damn right you do.” Yablonski smiled at the picture before putting it away. “How abou
t you?”

  “Appallingly single, if you ask my mother.”

  “Bet that pretty face of yours gets you plenty of booty.”

  Cruz snorted. He’d slept solo since his face got close and personal with an engine block. Turns out, ugly isn’t sexy. “That’s me. Every night and twice on Sundays.”

  The waitress came over, refilled Cruz’s cup, and filled Yablonski’s up. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Two steak and eggs,” Cruz said. “I’ll take my steak medium, my eggs over easy. Make my friend’s steak medium rare and scramble the eggs.”

  Yablonski clapped his fist over his heart. “You do remember.”

  “Yeah.” He choked up, suddenly missing the friend three feet away. “I remember.” He sipped his coffee, watched the waitress as she turned in the order.

  “Uh oh. Awkward silence.” Yablonski threw a folder on the table. “Our friend Uncle was a busy man.”

  The mug shot sat atop the thick pages. Uncle looked like shit. Strung out. Pissed off. Yablonski talked through the years Cruz had missed.

  “Uncle turned into a regular entrepreneur,” Cruz said. “If he was pushing out, someone had to be pushing back.”

  “Lots of someones. You nail down the timeline?”

  “Left his mother’s house around three. Was with a woman, Candy Licious, starting around six. She swore he was alive and grinning from the happy ending she’d left him with. Neighbor heard the dog bark around nine. First call on his head came in at six-forty-five the next morning.”

  Breakfast arrived. New York strips with two eggs and a mountain of shredded, golden fried hash browns. Yablonski jumped in. Cruz hadn’t gotten fork to steak when his cell rang. They both looked at it.

  “Goddammit,” Yablonski said. “Every time I have a hot meal in front of me…”