Exacting Justice

by TG Wolff

  “Zeus—”

  He gave her a little shake. “Just tell me you’re staying. I need to hear you say it.”

  She whispered, defeated. “I can’t do anything right.”

  He banded his arms across her shoulders, refusing to let her go. “You’re talented and sweet and beautiful and intelligent.” He pressed his lips to top of her head. “You can’t leave me.”

  Wrapping her arms around his waist, she held onto him as strongly as he held on to her.

  “You can always talk to me, baby. Always. We’ll go out tonight. Somewhere nice.”

  “Can’t. You promised your sister you would watch the girls tonight.”

  He’d forgotten. Damn it. He wanted to spend every minute making up. Alone. Sighing heavily, he adjusted his plan. Lifting her chin, he kissed her wet cheeks. “Come with me. After we’ll have a late night coffee. Just you and me.”

  “Of course, you’d want coffee, but I’d like the you and me part.” She stood still, letting his mouth soothe her. “I need to get back. How bad do I look?”

  He let her step back but kept hold of her hand. Her eyes were red and a little swollen. “You look beautiful.”

  She smiled just a little. “I’m sure you’re lying. Walk me to my room?”

  They walked hand-in-hand. When Cruz jerked his arm, Aurora fell against him. By the third time, she was laughing. With smiles their faces, they walked into the classroom.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mueller. Class, you remember Detective De La Cruz.”

  The sing-song greeting broadened Cruz’s smile. “Glad to see you are all paying attention and doing well.” He called out a few by name he’d picked up from Aurora’s stories. Most beamed at the recognition. One slid down in his seat. “How is your reading, Jace?”

  Jace looked at this desk, embarrassed. He shrugged his little shoulders.

  “Well, stick with it. It’ll come. I have to get back to work. I’m deputizing all of you and putting you in charge of Miss Williams. Keep her happy by listening and giving your best effort on everything.”

  He pulled their teacher close and kissed her cheek. Thirty giggles flooded the room, then he walked to the door. “Be good for my best girl.”

  His swagger was on as he walked through the door to homicide. His co-workers were loosely assembled around the murder board. Grim faces met his. “What’s happened? My phone didn’t ring.”

  Yablonski pointed with his chin to the newspapers fanned out on the table.

  “I saw them. We expected it sooner.” He had read the Plain Dealer that morning as he tried not to think of Aurora. He read the Beacon-Journal online, noting Frankie Pelletier had another front-page byline. The coverage of the case spread from the front section to the editorial page. One editorial applauded the stand against drugs, glossing over the fact that the stand was criminal and barbaric. Another was driven by statistics, touting the number of deaths caused by heroin and the economic impact of the drug epidemic. The final one encouraged police and public organizers to work together on a solution.

  Cruz had set up a Twitter account at the direction of his commander when he joined homicide. Montoya saw social media as a tool as important to modern day policing as a computer. Cruz had never tweeted. He lurked in the background, reading.

  The Drug Head Murders solicited visceral responses from those who posted. It started with the simple condemning of the deaths, support for the families and the community. With the discovery of the four heads last weekend plus the one at the rally, the rhetoric exploded. The ugliest cheered the killer on, going so far as to invite the suspect to their neighborhood.

  The sociologist in Cruz found the maturation of the dialog fascinating. His mind divided the posts into four major categories.

  The first group used the statements in the suspect’s fax to Frankie Pelletier as rallying points. Posts called neighbors to stand together against illegal drugs—a good message, Cruz thought—and to dispense the evil ones from our home—a dangerous message. Cruz lost some of the little sleep he’d been getting worrying about copycat crimes.

  The misguided hype was painting the suspect as a twist on a modern-day Robin Hood or Batman. It turned Cruz’s stomach that the vocal minority—and he had to believe it was a minority—cheered on a killer who decapitated his victims, using the heads for a public statement.

  #DrugHeads #BeNotAfraid #InstrumentOfJustice

  The second category of posts denounced the victims’ activities but condemned the violence that lead to their deaths. The comments ran along the lines of “I hate what you do but defend your right to live” and “Let the justice system work.”

  Posts in this category included well-known local, regional, and state leaders. Pastor Michael Ashford tweeted in this category, which stunned Cruz only because he couldn’t picture the Anglo pastor hash-tagging anything.

  #CivilJustice #IAmNotAfraid #KeepYourHeads

  The third group was the most curious to Cruz because they were the most unexpected. They were posts by people highly passionate…about other causes. Most of the posts sounded like whining along the lines of “Why do you care about this cause when you don’t care about mine.” Of course, this was over simplifying the statements, and most of the other causes were real civic problems. Yet the connection of the issue to the Drug Head Murders often felt square peg in a round hole.

  “Cry over the Drug Heads while mothers abort their babies every day. #ProtectOurBabies.”

  “Domestic violence kills more women than heroin and the Drug Head killer. #DVKills.”

  “Cops would support Drug Head killer if all victims were people of color. #KillerCracker.”

  Few of those posts had more than a handful of likes and re-tweets, but there were out there to be read and thought about.

  The fourth group was the band wagon. Far away people—either geographically or idealistically—who tried to come up with something witty to say in the character allowance to bring a slice of the attention onto themselves. Professional entertainers. Professional commentators. Politicos. Generally entertaining, ultimately meaningless.

  Using the high of making up with Aurora, Cruz pushed hard on the idea of an interview. Kroc and Pelletier. The survivor and the messenger. The senior team sat around the chief’s conference table, looking with respect on the determined face of Officer Nick Kroc.

  Cruz stood, commanding the room. “We need to connect with the suspect and our best chance is sitting here. Officer Kroc is the sole survivor and, it is my opinion, may be able to initiate communication channels.”

  Montoya looked at Kroc. “It would mean your undercover days are over.”

  Kroc stood slowly but steady. “Chief, I joined the Cleveland police to serve the residents of the community. The capacity in which I do it is secondary. I am willing to engage the suspect, sir, after which, I’ll transfer to another department.”

  “Aren’t you on medical leave, Officer?”

  Kroc, dressed in civilian attire, stood taller. “I am fit for duty, sir.”

  Ramsey inspected his officer, slowly measuring him with eyes that saw beneath the bravado and brass. Satisfied, he turned to Cruz. “How are you going to pull this off?”

  “The suspect has already reached out to Francesca Pelletier of the Beacon-Journal. While we have not determined her connection to the suspect, it is reasonable to expect he reads her work. With Montoya’s support, I arranged for Pelletier to come here tomorrow afternoon. I’m working with Alison Hyatt for local promotion on television and radio. Kroc’s message will be that he understands the suspect’s crusade and to invite him to talk.”

  Cruz was late. Aurora may have made the mistake with the ring, but the incident had shaken her confidence in them. Being late was not the reinforcement he was looking for. He pulled into an empty spot, ran up the driveway, and into his sister’s house.

  Happy, unadulterated laughter greeted him. He followed it into the kitchen where smoke billowed out of the toaster. Gabby stood in the corner, waving her
hand to clear the thick smoke as she giggled. “I told you putting the pizza bagel in the toaster was a bad idea.”

  Aurora looked bewildered as she poked the toaster with a knife. “It should have worked.”

  “Enough of that,” he shouted, racing to the wall to unplug the appliance.

  “Tito!” Rhianna attached herself to his leg. “We’re making dinner.”

  He bent over and kissed her head. “You trying to hustle me out of a job?”

  “You can have it,” Gabby said. “Aurora has no idea what she’s doing.”

  Cruz switched to Spanish and scolded his niece. “Show respect. She doesn’t have to be here at all. Apologize.”

  Gabby wasn’t used to being the one in trouble. Her face turned bright red. “Sorry, Aurora,” she said in English.

  “It’s all right, Gabby. I can’t cook, but I do other things really well. How about we do your hair and makeup while Tito makes dinner.”

  Gabby’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, please.”

  “Go ahead, girls,” he said, holding Aurora back. When they were alone, he kissed her cheeks and the tip of her nose before attending to her lips. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Aurora made a satisfied little sigh as she leaned into him. “I’m sorry you didn’t get here before I killed their toaster.” The burned cheese was still smoking.

  “Don’t worry about it. Go have fun with the girls. I’ll find something to put together.”

  A half hour later, Cruz served a sophisticated dinner of scrambled eggs and pancakes to three of high societies’ more important ladies. Gabrielle showed hints of the beautiful woman she would become with the dark eye make-up, fake eyelashes, blush, and pink lip gloss. Her father would choke, if he saw her.

  Rhianna was dressed as queen of the cat people in a leopard-print leotard and black tights. Her face was artistically painted with spots, nose, and whiskers.

  “Who wants a pancake,” Cruz asked.

  Gabby tossed her hair back. “I would love one, darling.”

  He slid the pancake onto her plate. “That’s Tito darling to you.”

  “Meow. Me-ee-ow,” Rhianna said, scratching playfully at his leg.

  “Maybe I should open a can of tuna. Cats eat tuna, not pancakes.”

  She shook her head definitively and pointed at the plate. “Me-ow.”

  “Ah, maybe tomorrow.” He served the pancake and added a generous amount of syrup. “And you, Ms. Williams?”

  Aurora held her plate up. “Absolutely. I’m starving. I missed lunch today.

  There were games and a TV show, more games, then it was bedtime. Once, twice, three times. Cruz stumbled into the kitchen, doubled over with laughter.

  Aurora looked up from the dishes in the sink to glance at the clock on the microwave. “It’s after ten. Do you think they are down for the count?”

  “They are so worried about ruining their makeup they refuse to set their heads down. I rolled up towels and told them it would keep their heads up, but they had to lie very, very still.”

  “You think that’s going to work?”

  “I’m not putting money on it.”

  She dried her hands and leaned against the counter. “They’re great girls. I think Rhianna has finally forgiven me for stealing her Tito.”

  “Forgiven you? I think you’ve unseated me. Did you see her push me aside, so she could sit next to you? She loves her Tiarora.”

  “So, now that it’s just the two of us…what does Tiarora mean?”

  “Tia means aunt. Rora means they are too impatient to say Aurora.”

  “So, I’m been promoted to aunt, huh?”

  He crossed the small kitchen, caging her against the counter and looking laughing green eyes. “I think we should do it. Make it official.”

  “Make what official?”

  “Your status as an aunt. Let’s do it. Get married.”

  The laughter faded. Her gaze drifted to the corner of the kitchen floor. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to ask me—”

  “You didn’t.” With two fingers, he brought her gaze back to his. “Sure, maybe it put the idea in my head, but I would have got there on my own. Eventually.”

  “Exactly. Eventually. Not now. We’ll know when the time is right.”

  “But you’re not saying no, now. I consider this matter still open. When you’re ready to get married, remember I’m your man.”

  He took her, then, with a kiss that started tender and grew with passion into a heat that consumed them both. Beneath his hands, her body tensed, vibrated with a sexual energy he knew would leave him drained and very satisfied. He bent her back until she had to rely on his strength to stay on her feet. Her hands pulled his shirt from his pants and burrowed under. Skin to skin. It was what he wanted, too.

  “No making babies in my kitchen, Tito.”

  Little sisters. Even when they were grown they knew how to ruin a good plan. “Go away, Mariana.”

  “This is my house. You go away, Jesus.”

  Aurora pushed him back. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Very nice.” Mari opened the refrigerator and set a bag of leftovers inside. “How were the girls?”

  “Tiarora spoiled them,” Cruz said, braggingly. “Make-up and hair and dress-up clothes.”

  “They wouldn’t let us wash their faces,” Aurora said. “The make-up pencils on Rhia might make a mess on her pillow.”

  “Mama, Mama! Look at me! I’m a jaguar. Meow!” The spotted cub landed in the middle of the kitchen, grinning ear to ear.

  Cruz looked at Aurora. “I told you I wouldn’t put money on her staying in bed.”

  Mari looked at her daughter’s elaborate makeup and then at Aurora. “I see why she didn’t want it washed off. That’s spectacular.”

  “Tiarora promised to do makeup for Halloween. I’m going to be a zebra.” She neighed like a horse.

  “Come on, jaguar girl,” Tony said. “Time for bed.”

  “Like I’ve told you five times,” Cruz called after them. “We should get going. See you Sunday, Mari.” He kissed his sister’s cheek.

  “Good night, Tito.” Mari pulled Aurora in for a long, tight hug, then grinned. “Good night, Tiarora.”

  Cruz walked her to her car. He opened the door, but she spun him around, backing him again the rear door. She took his mouth. Passionate. Demanding. Her right hand buried in his hair while her left explored further south. “Race you home.”

  May 18

  When I was little and went to the lake, I loved to watch the waves. I’d sit on rocks the size of my bed and watch little ripples turn into crashing waves. Other kids played in the waves, jumping over them, riding them, diving under them. I liked to watch.

  Today I watched as people have started picking up my message and carrying it forward. Life is about the impact we make on the lives of others. My city is learning to protect themselves. It is rewarding in a way no job could be.

  I’ve learned my lesson, though. I have to keep working. I have to. There is only one way to go. I have to let go of the last part of my old life. I’m ready. I’m finally ready.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday, May 19

  Cruz read the meditation for the day as his coffee brewed. When the coffee maker gave the last belt of steam, he set the book aside and began whistling. Starting the day with sex did more for his frame of mind than philosophy did. Well, more for his body. On a whim, he wrote her a note, describing in detail what he planned to do when he returned home.

  He smiled all the way downtown.

  The morning started with a strategy meeting with Dr. Chen and Officer Nick Kroc, a precursor to the afternoon meeting with Francesca Pelletier and her editor, J. Edwin Moses.

  “We’ll have them run the article on Monday,” Cruz said. “The coverage on the drive-time radio shows gives us a higher probability that we will get the suspect’s attention.”

  “How much do I give?” Kroc asked.

  “Everything,” Chen said. “
The suspect is intelligent. It’s important you keep it real.”

  “He isn’t doing this for glory,” Cruz added. “There is no signature. No bragging. Based on his note to Pelletier, he’s doing a job. A crusade he has taken up.”

  “I can understand that,” Kroc said. “As much as I don’t want to relate to this guy, I get that. One of my good friends in high school, his family was devastated by drugs. Two of his cousins became addicts. I knew them. We hung together in the summer. Drugs changed them. They stole from their parents and when they were out of money, they stole from stores. Their parents lost the house, had to move in with my friend’s parents. One of the guys overdosed when we were seventeen. Seventeen. The other is in-and-out of rehab but hasn’t been able to make a clean break.”

  “It’s hard,” Cruz said. “Damn hard.”

  Chen tapped his pen on the table. “That’s what you need to say. Both of you.”

  Cruz frowned. “Both of us?”

  “Your story is just as compelling. Ex-undercover narcotics detective. Recovering addict.”

  Kroc looked at Cruz with unconcealed surprise. Cruz’s first instinct was to withdraw, but he’d trained himself to own to what he was. To stand up for what he is.

  “I went deep under. When I came up, I was an alcoholic. I used when I was in, but it was liquor that did it for me. Vodka.” Then Cruz grinned, lifting his to go cup. “Now it’s caffeine.”

  Kroc nodded, respect in the small gesture. “I spent time with Frankie. She visited me in the hospital. She’s going to ask real questions, no matter how much we want to script it. Why did he let me go? Why did I work undercover? How do I feel about the work the suspect does? She’ll ask what I remember. Probably if I was afraid. Is anything out of bounds?”

  “If this is going to work,” Chen said, “you’ll need to put something out there. Give him a reason to talk to you.”

  “I agree, but we draw a line at around this case,” Cruz said. “We can’t compromise the work Kroc’s done. They can’t release your name.”