by TG Wolff
Yablonski stopped outside the chief’s office, looking between Cruz and Montoya. “How long do you think we have until the next one?”
March 28
I met again with the infected soul, hoping today would be different. The evil was so close to the surface, he stank of it. Still, I had to be sure. He isn’t afraid of me, just like the others. Evil makes them arrogant.
Whatever they see in me, it isn’t a threat. That is my gift.
The sun is up, the birds are singing. Yes, it’s going to be a good day.
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday, March 28
The upstairs master suite was now worthy of a photo spread in a home magazine. The purplish color he once thought girly had become something entirely different under Aurora’s brush. He frequently touched the paint, the three-dimensional effect disappearing under his fingers. This was his favorite room, with its enormous television, leather couch, and queen-sized bed complete with a naked woman.
Aurora Williams was tangled in his sheets, the curves and valleys of her long body was his own personal wonderland. She rolled over, smooth and languid as a great cat, her dark hair spreading across his pillow. Her shapely leg raised, toes pointed to the ceiling. He wanted that leg curled around his back. Again.
And he wanted more. “Meet my family.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “That sounds serious.”
He crawled across the comforter, took her nipple in his mouth. “I’m very serious,” he said against her skin, “when it comes to you.”
She arched her back, offering her breast. He suckled, coaxing a breathy moan from those kissable lips. “I can’t think when you do that.”
“I don’t want to you think. I want you to say you’ll meet my family. This weekend. Church, dinner at my sister’s home.” His tongue flicked the hard, little bud and her hips rolled.
“This is coercion,” she said breathlessly.
“Enticement.” He settled between her hips, slowly moving down the soft expanse of her bare belly. He pushed her legs apart, trailing nipping kissed down her silky leg until he was at her very core. His tongue lapped at her, then he lifted his head.
She squirmed closer to him. “You stopped.” It was a breathless whine edged with desperation.
“You haven’t answered me.”
“Zeus,” she cried, turning the name into three syllables. “Okay, yes. Now do…something.”
Twenty minutes later, Cruz opened the oven and checked the chicken. “Aurora. Dinner.” He had the hot dish half way out when his cell rang. Hurriedly, put the dish on the stove and grabbed his phone. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did nonetheless. It had been nearly six weeks since Bobby Mayes was the headline of the Cleveland Plain Dealer and the exhausting investigation that led nowhere. Cruz ended one call and placed another. Yablonski was breathing hard when he answered.
“It’s Cruz, we have another head.”
“Fuck.” A milder oath echoed in the background, a female voice. “Where?”
“Northbound I-77 near Fleet. See you there.” He disconnected the line and returned to the kitchen. “I have to go, baby. What are you doing?”
Aurora stood at the counter, a spatula in one hand and plastic bowl in the other. “Packing dinner. Here.” The glass she pushed at him was pink as cotton candy and thick as a milkshake. “The protein shake will help you recover after all your hard work, and it’ll buffer your stomach against all the coffee you’re going to pour into it.”
Touched, he set the strawberry concoction aside and pulled her into his arms. “Are you taking care of me, Ms. Williams?”
“I am, Detective De La Cruz.”
“It’s not an easy job. You sure you’re up to it?”
She snorted confidently. “I can handle you.”
“I like when you handle me.” He kissed her throat. “You can stay here.”
She shook her head. “It’s easier to get ready from my own place. Call me when you can.”
The weather had broken. The bitch of a lion held on to March until the last few days and then—boom—it was spring. In a town like Cleveland, good judgment was thrown by the wayside for the opportunity to be out of the house. It was only forty-eight degrees, but just seven days ago, it had been twenty-four. The abrupt jump in the thermometer was celebrated with shorts and T-shirts, light-weight jackets, and hanging out in the yard.
And, a head hanging in another cargo net from a neon orange sign that read: Caution Ahead.
The construction sign, another indication spring had truly come, was ten feet in front of the one Cruz had expected.
Cleveland Corp Limit.
The corporate limit sign sat in front of the Fleet Avenue bridge on I-77 northbound. One of the people who called the head in had pulled off the road. The owner stood near the still running car, bobbing and weaving like a boxer, trying to get around the officer who was tasked with babysitting. “It’s real, isn’t it? It’s like, the real thing, right?”
The twenty-something with dark hair and a goatee stepped on the white stripe separating life and death. The officer grabbed a fist full of shirt and pulled the guy to the safety of the shoulder as a car drifted close to them, paying more attention to the cops than the road.
“What’s your name?” Cruz snapped, furious the man has no sense of how close he just came to death.
“Brady. Brady Walkenshall.” His gaze flickered between Cruz and the head like he was watching a tennis match.
Cruz snapped his fingers, commanding attention. “You called nine-one-one at eight-twenty-seven reporting a body on the interstate.”
“Not a body. Just a head, I told the lady it was just a head.”
“Why did you stay, Mr. Walkenshall?”
The young man blinked. “What?”
“Why did you stop your car? Why did you stay?”
“I thought I should, you know, stay until you guys showed up. It’s one of those Drug Heads, isn’t it?” The man vibrated with excitement. “It looks like a Drug Head.”
Social media had named the killer then distorted, warped, twisted the facts until his case resembled a graphic novel. “Don’t call it that. Do you know this man? The victim?”
“Me? No. I just, you know, saw him and well, he looked like a Drug Head. Like on the internet.” Walkenshall’s phone beeped in his hand. He looked at the screen, then grinned widely. “I just hit ten thousand likes.”
“You posted a picture to the internet?”
“Oh, yeah,” Walkenshall said with delight and pride.
The man was standing here, and yet it wasn’t real to him. Cruz tightened his fist, then released it. “You took a picture of a crime scene and posted it to the internet?”
Walkenshall nodded, a toothy grin on his face, then the edge in Cruz’s voice got through. “I, um, didn’t think of it that way—”
Cruz took an advancing step forward. “Mr. Walkenshall, what is your connection to the deceased?”
“No. Like I said, I didn’t know the guy. I was just driving by, like I said.”
“You know what I think? I think you parked down the highway, walked back here to post your sick message. But you were seen. You were reported faster than you expected. When you couldn’t get away clean, you called it in yourself. What better way to fly under our radar then acting like a self-obsessed idiot by posting a fallen man’s last stand.”
Walkenshall stepped back. “No. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not acting. I am an idiot.”
Cruz verbally attacked. “Who but the killer wouldn’t care about the man’s family? Who but the killer would want the product of his work out for everyone to see? We have kept your work under wraps. That pissed you off, didn’t it, Mr. Walkenshall?”
“No. No, no, no. You have this wrong. All wrong.”
Cruz saw Matt Yablonski drop down the short wall and begin to cross to him. “Officer, take Mr. Walkenshall into custody. I’ll finish this interview downtown.”
Leaving the uniform to the suspe
ct, Cruz turned to meet Yablonski.
“You got our guy?” Yablonski asked.
“Not likely. You want to see if you recognize the victim?”
Although the temperature had risen, the gust from each passing car was enough to chill. Yablonski ignore it, his coat hanging open, intent on the unseeing face. “Holy shit, Cruz. This is a game changer.”
“Who is it?”
“You don’t recognize him?” Yablonski raked a hand down his long beard. “Orion McKinley aka Bear. Nasty piece of work. He’d gotten into the big leagues, so to speak. We didn’t think he was in town.”
Cruz squatted, using a flashlight to dispel the shadows created by the street light far above their heads. Caucasian. Mediterranean heritage. Black hair. A lot of it. “Somebody knew he was here.” Cruz stood. “What do you mean by this being a game changer?”
“Gangs. McKinley came up through the ranks of the Reapers. They ate up territory and spit out what they couldn’t use, sell, or shoot. He pulled it together after your bust.”
“Explains why I don’t know him.” When you were eating your meals through a straw, keeping track of gang turf wasn’t high on the to-do list.
“We gotta keep this quiet, Cruz. There’s going to be fallout. Gang war fallout. We need to get this up the ladder.”
“Don’t hold your breath on the keeping it quiet. Our boy back there snapped pictures and posted to the internet.”
In the darkness of night, Orion McKinley’s house was a colorless mass. Colorless but not silent.
“I know he over dere, bitch. I know he over dere and I’m gonna mutha fuckin cut you up. I told you dun mess with my man.” The woman stalked the length of the lit porch, shouting into the cell phone, her angry tenor the only sound in the night. She wore skin tight leggings in a small checkerboard pattern that dazzled the eyes when she walked. Most of her top half was covered in a lime green sweatshirt, cut off just below her breasts. She wasn’t fat, but what she had poked out over the waistband of the leggings. She was an average-toned African-American, neither light- nor dark-skinned. Her hair was pulled severely back from her face and tied so the few inches of tail poked straight out the back of her head. Wisps and pieces that escaped radiated outward from her face. The angry words had come from an angry mouth, set in a frown so deep it reached to Cincinnati. “You tell Bear to get his cheatin’ ass home before you ain’t got no ass for him to get.”
“Cleveland police,” Cruz said as he and Yablonski approached the house.
The brows pressed down, further darkening her face. “What the fuck you want?”
“Does Orion McKinley live here?”
“Yeah. So?”
“And you are?”
“L’Tonya Simmons. His mutha fucking wife,” she said, yelling into the phone again.
“Ms. Simmons, I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. McKinley was found dead this evening.”
Her expression went blank. For five seconds, her face was completely empty. And then she exploded. Arms flailed as she stalked across the porch. “You think I’m stupid? Bear ain’t dead. Ain’t nothin’ that can kill Bear. You think I’m so fuckin’ stupid that I’d believe a cop ’bout anythin’?”
“Ms. Simmons, when did you see Mr. McKinley last?”
“Like you don’ know.” She pitched forward, hands on her hips. “This mornin’. That mutha fucker went to the store for Dew and never came back. I know he went to that bitch Sharonda. I went and looked for myself, but those cock suckers locked all the doors. Good thin’ too or I’da cut dem botf.”
“What is Sharonda’s last name? Where does she live?”
“Dat’s right. You go look there. Sharonda Smith.” She didn’t know the address but knew the street and described the house.
“Let’s go inside, Ms. Simmons. We can talk privately,” Yablonski suggested.
Her animated body stilled. “No. You ain’t invited. I know my rights. You gotta have a thing if’n you wanna come in.” She ran into the house, slammed the door closed, and locked it.
Yablonski dialed the phone as he walked. “She’s going to clean that house before I can get a search warrant. Gotta get a sewer crew here to plug the pipe.”
“Tell me I heard you right.” The voice came through the night, edged with hope, glee. “Bear’s dead?”
Cruz walked toward a middle-aged man standing in the shadows of a large oak tree. “And you are?”
“Antwan King. This is my house,” he said, gesturing to the one behind him. “Make my year. Tell me Bear is dead.”
“I’m Detective De La Cruz; this is Detective Yablonski. The investigation is still underway but, yes, Mr. McKinley was found dead this evening. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Just before eleven this morning. Squealed his tires and tore down the street. Left rubber in the road.”
“Have you seen anyone out of place lately? You know, someone hanging around that didn’t belong?”
“You know what Bear was, Detectives?” the man asked, lowering his chin and looking out of the tops of his eyes.
“Yeah,” Yablonski said. “We know.”
“Then you know he terrorized this neighborhood. Side of my house has so many bullet holes it’s starting to look like Swiss cheese. You come back in the day and take a look.”
“Have you seen a dark van,” Yablonski said.
“Yeah. Complained to my wife it was parked too close to my driveway. I saw it the next day parked two houses down. Saw it a few times after.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Like you said. Dark. Black. Plain.”
“Make? Model?”
King shook his head. “I didn’t care enough to look, and I don’t recognize that stuff the way some guys do.”
“What about the plates,” Yablonski said.
“Ohio. The colorful one. Sorry, that’s it.”
“We appreciate it, sir.” Cruz offered a card. “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”
“I will, Detective, but I gotta tell you, I’m not sad at all Bear is dead. This is a good day for this neighborhood.”
“You shut yo mouth, ol’ man.” L’Tonya Simmons’s roar came from her front door. “You show Bear respect and shut your mouth.”
King turned toward the ugly sound and raised his voice. “I am done shutting up. I have put up with your shit for years. He’s dead. Hallelujah. The Bear is dead.” King danced on his front lawn.
“You sonofa bitch. You gonna pay. Bear gonna come home and then you gonna pay.” She punctuated the threat with the slam of the front door.
Cruz looked from the front door to the grinning man. “Call me if you remember anything.”
“I will, Detective. Y’all have a peaceful night. I know I will.”
March 29
The sign I put up yesterday was seen by everyone. The news said it went viral on social media. Now they’ll see the way Evil uses drugs to infect their souls.
Satan has a powerful weapon. It reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. The witch tempted the children with candy. The devil tempts with drugs.
The witch shoved the children into the oven. The devil sucks the souls into the fires of hell.
Once they go in, there’s no getting out.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday, March 29
The story made the front page of the Plain Dealer and was featured on every local television and radio news feed. The story was simple. Another head was found. I-77 near Fleet Avenue. Police are investigating. Identity of the victim is being withheld. There is no further comment at this time.
Cruz sat at his desk, reading the thick file on the life and times of Orion McKinley. He answered his phone without looking away from the screen. “De La Cruz.”
“Good morning, Zeus.”
“Good morning, baby.” Cruz pushed the file back, welcoming the distraction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t call.”
“Zeus, you’re fine. I didn’t expect you to call. I guess I’m checking on you. D
id you eat dinner?”
He liked the idea of her checking on him. “Yes, about two this morning. I was glad to have it.”
“Good. I heard on the news about another Drug Head.”
He winced at her use of the name. “Baby, don’t call it that. Don’t get tied up in the half-truth bullshit posted by people who get off on attention. These men were victims of vicious murders, not characters on the latest Netflix original.”
“I’m sorry, Zeus. I didn’t mean anything by it.” A pause lingered. “It was found close to my school, wasn’t it?”
He could have walked to her school from the scene without breaking a sweat. “Yes. Look, I want you to take precautions. If you see anyone out of place, you call.”
“I will. Would you come in and talk to the children again? I would feel better if you talked to them about strangers.”
“Sure, but not today. I’ll have to see when I can break away.”
“Will you come over tonight?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll try.”
Fast strides carried Yablonski across the room. “Let’s go. I got the warrant for McKinley’s house.”
Cruz was out of his chair, shrugging into his coat. “I have to go, baby. I’ll call later.”
McKinley’s street looked different for more than just the daylight. Two fire trucks blocked the street, spraying water on the last stubborn flames licking Antwon King’s home.
Cruz parked where he could.
“Anyone hurt,” Yablonski asked a firefighter.
“Everyone got out. Smoke detectors did their job.”
Cruz looked at McKinley’s house. A sheet covering the picture window snapped back in place. He knew Yablonski was on the same page when he signaled for two uniform officers to join them.