by TG Wolff
The vivid orange of the sun grew in intensity, and then it was gone.
The phone in his hand vibrated. Cruz answered with a single word. “Where?”
Thursday, July 5
“Do you have any idea, any at all what a thing like this can do to an event? The Burning River Festival. How in the hell did he get a head in there? The mayor is irate!” Ramsey paced his office, his longs legs making short work of the room. Not many people had the balls to chew out Win Ramsey, and few who did lived to tell the tale. Since Ramsey couldn’t kick the mayor’s ass, he kicked Cruz’s and Yablonski’s. “And now you stand here, after everything we invested in this little operation, and you tell me we have nothing?”
Cruz stood tall under the tongue lashing. Ramsey wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t thought of himself. “We have a lead. Raymond Ramos left the Hall house with a Miguel Mendez. We have him in interview. Mendez indicated Ramos was meeting a buyer. He didn’t have a name, but we are looking into a man named Anaconda Chavez-Brown. Video showed the two men, Chavez-Brown and Ramos, huddled in conversation.”
“We are working with the Districts to locate Chavez-Brown,” Yablonski added.
Special Agent Bishop slid a file to Yablonski. “I had our analysts run the list of names you sent me. Everything we have is there. I’ll tell you the money led nowhere. My DEA contacts have been tracking Chavez-Brown since he left Arizona a year ago. They suspect he’s moving into Cleveland, taking over orphaned territories and running out any challengers.”
“I’ve seen the DEA’s reports,” Yablonski said. “Chavez-Brown is sadistic and brutal in his tactics. I don’t like him showing up like this.”
”I want this son of a bitch in my jail. Do you hear me?” A fist the size of sledgehammer slammed onto the desk. “Now get out of my office and catch the bastard.”
Yablonski paced with Cruz down the empty corridor. “Do you think Chavez-Brown is the Drug Head Killer?”
“The timing is right.” It was hard to turn away from a suspect when there were so few.
“I’ve read everything there is to read, Cruzie. My gut says the guy would have no problem with the killing but the time and the patience for the staging? No. And he wouldn’t have let Kroc live. And he wouldn’t have reached out to the reporter. Physically, he fits the mold but everything else? I don’t see it.”
Cruz came to a halt, thinking. Wishing his read had been different. Anaconda “The Snake” Chavez-Brown had been busted for breaking and entering, theft, and assault. Nowhere on his resume was the word slick. “Probably,” he said. “Still have to follow up on him.”
“Absolutely,” Yablonski said as they started walking again. “Now what? Another party?”
“I was thinking something more direct.”
Shock and then outrage colored Frankie Pelletier’s voice. “Say that again. You want what?”
“We want you to run a story to bring the suspect to me.” He paced the area around his desk, figuring out the words to get her to do what he needed.
“Hold on. I have to get somewhere private.” A minute of silence. “Did you break up with Aurora?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Well I’m not driving a killer to her door. How could you even suggest it? Don’t you have any feelings for her?”
“Hold on a minute, Frankie. I’ve gone undercover. I’m living in a wired house in Cleveland.”
“Okay. I was worried you turned into an asshole. Let me think this through. You want me to run an article about how not all the drug dealers are running out of the city?”
“Yes. I want to get in his face, show him I’m defying him. Get him to come after me.”
Silence again. “I don’t know about this, Cruz.”
“Come on, Frankie. We know he reads your work. At least talk to your editor, but I need it soon. Tomorrow.”
“Let me think about it. If I’m going to make up a story, I need to think about it.”
Cruz let her disconnect the line without arguing further. She had printed the fax inside a thoughtfully-worded article. She would do the same with this. Nothing would be made up about the story.
He went to the murder board where Ray Ray’s picture now was. It made him sick to see it there. The man had been in his house hours before he was killed. Ray Ray was the closest thing El Tigre had to a friend. He might have been an unambitious user, but he was loyal to his friends, a dependable deliveryman to his uncle, and a loving partner to Keisha. His life wasn’t perfect, but it was his life.
Guilt blossomed. Cruz should have made him stay. Ray Ray would be alive if he had made him stay. This was one death he had had the power to prevent.
He shook his head, tired of feeling the weight of guilt for everything. If he had made Ray Ray stay, who’s he to say what Drug Head would have done? Maybe grabbed Ray Ray later. Maybe grabbed somebody else. Cruz was sure there was a logic going on in the suspect’s head, but he hadn’t unraveled it. Yet.
Yablonski came into the room. “I have to go over to Narcotics. Fifteen minutes and we’ll head out.” He tossed a newspaper on Cruz’s desk. “Check out the arts section.”
“The arts section? You going soft on me?” But he opened it and Aurora smiled at him. The article about the art exhibition took half the page. The picture of the artist and “Moon Struck”, the super-size painting from his garage, took the other half. On the following pages, three more of her paintings were featured, more than any of the other artists.
His chest swelled with pride, and he made a decision. This was the last time he was leaving her.
Friday, July 6
Cruz read the article online. “The Economics of the Drug Trade.” Frankie had written a superior piece, utilizing statistics compiled by Narcotics on the shift in local economics associated with the exodus of the snowman. He barely recognized the picture of himself on his porch, looking like an angel kicked out of hell. He was quoted as saying his moving back into the city was good business. The demand was high and the supply low, which made it a great place for a guy who could take on the risk.
He frowned as he read it. It didn’t sound street enough. Supply. Demand. Risk. Not street words. Why didn’t he catch it when he was talking?
The doorbell rang using the code for a buyer. The house was still a mess from the party. No worry about cleaning, it added to the image.
A woman was on the front porch. Cruz guessed her to be his sister’s age, though she looked a hundred years old. “I’m looking for an abe.”
Cruz didn’t say a word but went into the house and came back with a few dollars’ worth of happy. Beyond the woman, two houses down, sat a black van.
“Walk with me.” He turned the woman around and, hand on her elbow, made her walk down the stairs.
“I got a man. He gonna mess you up you mess with me,” she said, her blurry eyes wide.
Cruz let her go, straining to see the license plate. The cars parked on the street were too close together. Then the van swerved into the driving lane and laid rubber on the road. He ran at the van, hit his fist off the side as it sped past him. It was a stupid, impetuous thing to do because it put him on his ass while the van raced away.
The woman hurried to the street. “You okay, Tigre?”
“Get the hell out of here.” Cruz snapped, then sprinted into the house, answering Yablonski’s call.
“What the hell was that?” Calm was a thin veneer.
“Tell me you caught that.”
“Caught what? You leapt off the porch like a fucking puma.”
“He was here, Yablonski. He was right here. I hit the van.”
“What? You were hit by the van?”
“No. I hit it, with my forearm. I want cameras set up on the street. Today. If we don’t have them, call Special fucking Agent Bishop. Let him be useful.”
July 7
Francesca and Jesus De La Cruz are doing it. They are spreading the warning and bringing the infected to that house and they come like mosquitos drawn to
a bright light.
I want to know more about him. After feeling like the only soldier in the fight, I can’t help wanting to just…hang out or something.
I know that can’t happen. It’s against the rules.
But maybe…
I found a young soul and sent him to Jesus De La Cruz. If he can’t, then I’ll do my job.
I would like to rest.
No. I will not let evil trick me into blindness. I will stand until this sword is taken from me. This is my choice.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saturday, July 7
Cruz made an art form of being obvious and flashy. The corner where he worked had become the most popular in the neighborhood. At the house, he blasted the stereo until he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. Twice a day, he walked to the store three streets away, strutting like a thoroughbred out to stud. He greeted those bold enough to approach him with a broad smile and full supply of goods for sale. Every customer left happy and photographed…and sometimes fingerprinted.
Yablonski did not like those walks to the store and clucked at him like a mother hen. Some ol’, same ol’ got them nothing. He pushed the envelope with Kroc’s interview and they got a result. Two contacts led to confirmation of gender and race. He was pushing again. Hard. He wanted the suspect in handcuffs in hours. Not days, not weeks. Hours. He’d have a personal conversation about Ray Ray before the guy saw the interior of the interview rooms or booking or any other public building.
He was so close, he could taste it. Yesterday he’d come within feet of the suspect. The guy was watching him. He’d be coming. Soon. And Cruz would be waiting.
He stretched out his stride as he walked to the store. The sun blazed high in a cloudless sky that day, pressing temperatures into the nineties. He itched for the action. He bought an energy drink and hit the street, taking the long way back. At a playground, stopped to watch kids shoot hoops on asphalt hot enough to melt rubber.
The skull and crossbones phone vibrated. A text message. Intruder at house.
Is it our friend? If it was the suspect, every car the Cleveland police owned would be on the little street in minutes. But, if it was just a junkie looking for a free buzz, it wasn’t worth blowing his cover.
Not confirmed.
“Damn it.” He texted back. Stand by. Will investigate. Thunder rolled overhead as he ran back to the house. He’d gone farther than he realized. Cruz wasn’t a runner. He hoofed back to the neighborhood, then slowed to a strutting walk, catching his breath as he rounded the corner. A dealer of El Tigre’s stature didn’t run unless he had a damn good reason. If eyes were on him, sprinting to the door would worry those eyes. Maybe give them reason to think something was up. His head was held high as he walked through the gates he’d been leaving open to let people know he was open for business. The minute he was in the house, his phone rang.
“We didn’t get a clear visual on the face,” the officer on duty said. “Baggy pants, black hoodie. He went through fast. Five minutes tops. He hit the kitchen cabinets, freezer and refrigerator, under furniture, both bedrooms, bathroom.”
“Did he get anything?”
“He was stealing everything he could.”
Cruz studied the refrigerator and the greasy print on the handle. His breath escaped like a released balloon. “He hit the leftover pizza and gave us a nice print. I’ll collect it and drop it at Stan’s, but it’s not him. He’s not sloppy.”
He walked through the house taking inventory. His visitor took everything he found that could be physically ingested. Pizza. Beer. Bottle of Jager. Small bag of weed. Toothpaste.
Cruz collected the prints, delivered them to the neighbor who was getting a thrill being part of the investigation, then returned to the fugly red room to sulk. Two Latinos showed up, looking for a party. He indulged them because it was his job, but even they figured out he wasn’t fit for human consumption. He passed out—figuratively, not literally—in front of the television, then staggered to bed sometime between night and morning.
Sunday, July 8
The sun woke his wore-out ass by going LED on the bedroom. He stared at the ceiling, dejected. He wanted it yesterday. Instead he was still here, up for another day of playing king of the losers.
Was this ever going to end?
He reached for the paper…
He reached for the newspaper that had Aurora’s picture…
The newspaper that had Aurora’s picture folded so she smiled up at him was missing. Cold washed over him like an Arctic shower. He called his babysitter, who answered on the first ring.
“Was someone else in the house yesterday?”
“What? In the house?”
“Was there someone here beside the idiot who stole everything he could eat?”
“The alarm tripped just that one time.”
“The alarms are only on the doors, right? What if he came in some other way?” He was out of bed. All the windows in the house were open. It was July in a house without air conditioning. The screens in the front room, dining room, and the odd room off the dining room, were all intact. The kitchen window, the one over the table, was neatly cut along the frame. “Shit. Roll back the video. He was here. The fucker was here.”
“Already on it. Yeah, we got him. Shit. He went in not five minutes after you left.”
“Tell me you got his face.”
“Dark hoodie. Gloves. He’s going through the house. Cocky bastard is acting like he has all the time in the world. He’s not touching anything. Looks like he’s checking the place out to buy it. He’s going upstairs. He came out of your bedroom holding something. He tucked it into his sweatshirt.”
“Fuck!” Cruz raced back upstairs, taking them two at a time. He dropped to his knees next to his bed and removed the cell phone he’d taped to the underside of the frame.
One. Two. Three rings. Voicemail.
“If you’re looking for Aurora, well, it’s not your lucky day. But leave me a message and I’ll call you back real soon.”
“Aurora, it’s Zeus. Call me. Now.” He killed the line and barked back into his police issue. “Get someone to my house. He may be after my girlfriend.”
“How would he know your address?”
“How does he know anything!” He recited the plate number for his truck and then the waiting started.
After a minute, a literal minute, he was going to explode. He couldn’t sit here waiting to find out if Aurora’s head—“I’m going after her.”
Running down the stairs, he called her again. This time, she answered on the second ring. “Well, I guess this is my lucky day, I—”
“Aurora. Where are you?” He cut her off.
“Slavic Village. I got the most a-mazing call. I’m meeting a buyer. I just pulled into the parking lot.” She named a restaurant he’d heard of but never been to. “The buyer said he saw the article in the paper and wants to talk about ‘Moon Struck.’ He didn’t exactly make an offer but hinted at five thousand. That’s five with a thousand after it.”
He struggled to keep the rational part of his brain in the lead. “Did he give you a name?”
“Oh, my God, so his name is Michael D’Angeles. Is that epic or what?”
“Get out of there, Aurora.” Panic shoved rational thought to the ground and stepped on its throat. “Don’t ask any questions. Just turn the truck around and drive away.” The sound shifted to the speaker phone, and he heard the engine start.
“Where am I going?” The unbridled joy in her voice had been replaced with unmitigated fear.
Where was she going? He couldn’t send her to her family or his. Too risky. “Ritz-Carlton. Valet the truck. I’ll meet you in the lobby. If you’re there before me, stay in a busy, well-lit area.”
“Okay,” she said, then only the sounds of a city at mid-day filled the space between them.
“Aurora? Have you seen a black van?”
Her voice trembled. “I, uh, just passed one. Do you want—”
“Just
come to me.” Cruz was in the Escalade, pushing the envelope on traffic laws. “You’re doing great, baby. Just come to me.” He dug out his undercover phone and called Yablonski. “Get a car to the Slavic Village.” He named the restaurant. “We’re looking for a single white male. He is waiting for Aurora.”
“Shit. Are you sure? Is she there?”
“She’s headed to me.” Cruz’s private phone beeped; the call had disconnected. “Fuck. Hurry, Matt.”
“Who is it? Anaconda Chavez-Brown?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Detain every single white male. Lock them all down.”
By the digital clock on the dashboard, it had only been sixteen minutes since he left the house. He parked the Escalade in front of the hotel, tossed the keys at the valet, and ran into the hotel.
“Sir, your ticket. You’ll need it to get your car back.”
Cruz slowed enough for the valet to catch up and hand him the ticket, then he was through the revolving door and in the lobby. He didn’t see her. He searched the restaurant and the bar. He called her but didn’t hear a phone answering. If she was here, he would have heard her phone ringing. He was closer, he told himself, he should have beaten her to the hotel.
The call rolled to voicemail.
Why didn’t she answer?
Fear was as real and tangible as the picture window Cruz paced in, as the thick carpet under his feet. It was the little devil on your shoulder, telling you you were shit, and your whole life was shit, and you were going to live a lonely, shitty life alone.
A truck turned a corner, driving right at him, too fast. The valet leapt back as the tires squealed to a stop, and then he spun around as the woman driving ran past him.