Chapter Sixteen

 

The alarm barked out, shattering the night that had just begun. Cruz grabbed the fucker, ripped it off the night table, and threw it across the room. Plastic splintered against plaster.

He sat up, feeling every hour of sleep he didn’t get. How could he sleep with Aurora’s scent in his bed, on her pillow? Absence made the night colder, lonelier. Fear crept in. That little fucker told him everything would be better if he just had a drink.

The bitch of it was the little fucker was right. If he ever needed a fucking drink, it was then.

What did a drunk do when he couldn’t be who he was? When he refused to be who he was?

He had stayed where he was, watching the clock change minute by minute, afraid if he got up he would do something he couldn’t take back. Instead he put his mind to work and developed a plan to beat Posey at his own game. He kicked off the covers, stalked into the closet blindly grabbing shirt, pants, tie. He showered, dressed, and left his house. Guilt poked at him, lectured that good things didn’t happen when he skipped reading his daily meditations. Bad things that had happened with the meetings, with the morning readings, not just to him but to his family.

Now bad things were going to happen to Andrew Posey. He wasn’t the only one who had connections. Cruz pulled into a travel station and invested two dollars in thirty-two ounces of coffee, wondering when a gas station stopped being a fucking gas station. He added a breakfast sandwich, a bottle of water, and a tin of breath freshening mints. He didn’t buy gas.

In the car, he gave Smitty and Czerski the enviable task of bringing Posey into interview. He rang Sonja and asked her to reserve a small conference room. Finally, he called Frankie Pelletier, journalist for the Akron-Beacon Journal. He’d met Frankie on the Drug Head case, when the suspect drew her in to be his voice. The woman had the chops for the job, a sense of fair play and justice.

Then he had time. The one thing Cruz didn’t want. The scenes from lunch with D’Arcy and the frantic conversation with Aurora replayed through his mind. Like he hadn’t be forced to watch them a thousand times the night before. Words weren’t enough, but what was there beyond words? How did couple get past having the earth move and a chasm open between them? She needed to trust him, and he wanted her trust; he needed it because his job was going to give them plenty of rough times. Their first year proved that. So what did he have to offer when her trust had been shaken?

 

 

Cursing leached through the faux wooden door, hot enough to blister paint. The vocabulary rated between high-end drug dealer and arrogant welfare fraudster. Words with seven letters and degrees of their own slummed with the four-letter variety, producing little bastards that stung like sweat bees.

In the mood for a fight, Cruz gave a knuckle rap and entered the room. Smitty and Czerski stood inside, their stoic faces unfazed by the bluster. Posey, by comparison, paced on the far side of the small table, his face red, spittle dried white in the corners of his mouth.

“You! How dare you drag me from my home.” Posey spat each word, his voice hoarse.

Cruz looked to his friends. “You dragged him?”

“We escorted him,” Czerski said. “You know how parking can be around here.”

“That was considerate of you. Thanks for your help.” Cruz waited while the pair left. “There were a few items from our conversation yesterday that need clarification. Please, sit.” He said “please,” thought “asshole.”

Posey did not sit.

“This will go faster if we can talk, just like we did in your home office.”

Posey sat with great, exaggerated grace. “I object to being dragged here and interviewed like a common criminal.”

“We aren’t in an interview room. I am not recording this. You aren’t under arrest. It’s just me and you talking about Val Hannigan.” He did his best to act professional, as though the interview was another part of a routine day.

A quick knock and the door opened. Montoya came in carrying a folder, his eyes flat, his expression empty. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Thank you for coming in, Drew. We haven’t formally met. I’m Commander Kurt Montoya, homicide.”

Cruz blinked once, that’s all the time he had to adjust his game plan.

“I assume that means you are responsible for him.” Posey spat the pronoun with disdain that was reciprocated in triplicate.

“I am responsible for all of homicide, Detective De La Cruz included. We appreciate you coming in to clear up a few things on Val Hannigan. We have a lead on a suspect and hope that you can clear the way.”

Posey paused thoughtfully. “You have a suspect?”

“Yes, but not a name.” Montoya withdrew a grainy image from the folder. “This man, not Val Hannigan, is responsible for the attempt on Sophie’s DeMusa in the hospital. We have reason to suspect the same person killed Hannigan. Does he look familiar?”

In the forty-two inches separating the two sides of the table, Posey went from combative suspect to informative witness. “It could be anyone, I suppose. Do you have any other information?”

And Cruz saw where Montoya was taking this. “Approximately six-one, two hundred twenty pounds. Caucasian. Possibly with facial hair.” The description was the one given by the hospital nurse.

“It…it really could be anyone.”

“No one who has been through your office?” Cruz asked.

“My office?” Posey leaned back, his stance relaxed as he calculated. “Tens, even hundreds of people a month come through my office door. It’s not impossible. You don’t have any, I don’t know, identifying features?”

“We have a possible nickname. Crack or Cracken. We have it from a good source that Hannigan was meeting with the person on Sunday also. Obviously, we have questions.”

“And you have no idea who this person is?”

“We are working with Hannigan’s contacts on it,” Montoya said, playing an excellent good cop. “We are confident we’ll get there but it’s going to take time. The sooner we get a name, the sooner we can put this whole thing behind us.”

“Yes. I can see that. Let me call my assistant. Angie is my keeper of names and faces, as Detective Dellacorte knows. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

Montoya and Cruz exchanged a knowing look and stood simultaneously. Montoya led the way out, Cruz followed, closing the door behind him. Staring at his commander’s back, it dawned on him how big a fuck up he just made. “Kurt, I’m sorry.”

Montoya spun around, stalked at Cruz until their boots collided. “Don’t give me your bullshit. What the fuck were you thinking?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I need detectives, not renegades. You aren’t above the law. Period. You aren’t the law. Period. You enforce it. If you forgot what that means, you can go back to square one and learn it over again.”

Cruz kept his head down, not challenging the man he followed. “You’re right. I lost my head. I let the bullshit get to me. I know Posey is behind Hannigan and I’m close to proving it—so close, he attacked someone close to me to get me to quit.”

“What are you talking about?”

He stepped back, putting space between them. “My brother-in-law owns a landscaping company and does work for the city. He got a call yesterday that his contract was cancelled, because of me. It was inferred that if I cleared up the problem I have with city hall, he would come off the blacklist.”

Montoya went from pissed to furious. “And you didn’t think I needed to know this why?”

Because it was his problem. Because it was personal. Because he could handle it.

Cruz was smart enough not to say any of those. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.”

The conference room door opened. “Commander, I have a name for you. McCracken. First name Will or Bill.”

Montoya cut Cruz a last look, one meant to ensure his ass knew where the line was and stayed on the right side of it, then stepped into the conference room.

Cruz followed, glancing at Posey who had a triumphant gleam in his eye, as if the guy knew how short of a leash Montoya had him on. “Any details would be appreciated.”

“You were right, he was in my office. He sometimes helps Angie chase down details we need to execute the business of running this city. I had no idea he and Val were meeting outside of work hours. Commander, I feel compelled to tell you, McCraken is one of your own.”

With Posey becoming a veritable chatterbox, the balance of the interview lasted fifteen minutes. Montoya thanked Posey for his time and cooperation. Cruz couldn’t go that far but grunted in that general direction. Then he opened the door and stepped into the path of a detail he’d forgotten.

“Detective De La Cruz. I was wondering if you could spare me a minute?” Frankie Pelletier turned wide eyes on the man behind Cruz. “Mr. Posey.” A wealth of suspicion was conveyed in the two words.

“Absolutely,” Cruz said, wrapping his hand around her upper arm and practically swinging her into the conference room they’d just vacated. “Give me a minute.” He closed her in. “Thank you again for your time this morning, Mr. Posey. I believe we have just about enough to make an arrest.”

Posey nodded, staring at the closed door. “Keep me posted,” he ordered, then hastily left the floor.

“What’s Pelletier doing here?” Montoya asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, going for innocent. “I’ll find out.”

 

 

After collaborating with Frankie on a story that would keep her happy and him out of trouble, Cruz reported to Montoya. The ass chewing was formal, this time, edging dangerously close to an official reprimand. He wasn’t as bothered by a spot on his record as he was disappointed that when the going got tough, he’d forgotten he wasn’t standing alone.

Montoya sent Cruz to notify Hannigan’s mother, using it to get Cruz out of the department for an hour. He was that frustrated.

Notifying next of kin was always hard. Once you knocked on the door, any glimmer of hope the person on the other side had was destroyed. Hope was a powerful thing that could see people through brutal circumstances. War. Disease. Crime.

But it was incredibly fragile, able to be broken by two words: I’m sorry.

Truth was important, which was why it was hard. Cruz wasn’t relieved when Hannigan’s mother wasn’t at her home. He wanted this over as much as she needed it over. He called the cell number Yablonski had given him, hoping to locate her. As soon as he gave his name, she broke down. The phone was handed off to a familiar voice. Teresa Addison. Her voice trembled but didn’t break as she asked for details for burial. In the end, she thanked him for bringing Val home.

Cruz thought of Teresa Addison, her daughter, and Hannigan’s girlfriend, Lauren. Their grief was a railroad spike to his heart. Victims. Each of them was a victim and he would stand for them. He plotted his approach for arresting Andrew Posey. At city hall, he decided, in the large office where the man manipulated the rules to his favor. He relished the noise and commotion the man would make and the way it would echo off the unyielding marble.

Without intending to, he’d driven to Aurora’s school, arriving at her lunch break. This probably wasn’t a good idea, he thought, as he stared at the brick building. He got out of the car. Bad idea or not, he was going in.

He hustled across the school yard, showed his face to the camera, and entered the building that perpetually smelled like crayons. The secretary came out of her office to meet him, confusion on her face. “Hello, Detective. Is something wrong?”

“No, no. I just thought I’d surprise Aurora for lunch.” He kept it casual. Easy. He smiled; she didn’t.

“She called in sick today.”

“I, uh, I didn’t realize.” His stomach soured. “Did she say what was wrong?”

“Just that she wasn’t feeling well.” Her big eyes filled with sympathy. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m sure it is. I probably missed her call letting me know. I left early and it’s been a busy morning.” He looked at his phone, retreating until the bar of the door hit him sharply in the back. “Yep, there it is. She texted. A little sleep, a few aspirin, and she’ll be good as new.”

The principal, Mrs. Kaylor, called out. “Detective De La Cruz? Could you step in here a moment?” Then she stood in her doorway.

“Really, I need to go.”

“Please,” the woman said in a grave voice. “This is important.”

He did as she asked. Not sitting, not being invited to sit. The principal paced, her arms tight across her stomach, her face blanched and stern. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’ve never had to do something like this. I probably shouldn’t be talking to you, I know I shouldn’t be talking to you, but…”

Something was wrong with the school’s executive. An incident with a child? A threatening parent? “Tell me what’s happened, and we’ll figure out what resources you need. No one has the right to make you or your staff feel threatened.”

Her gray eyes went to his. In them, he saw sorrow and regret. “It’s nothing like that. You see, I received a call from downtown yesterday. I was told to, that is, they are suspending Aurora. Jan—the woman from Human Resources—indicated this came from the top. She couldn’t tell me why. Do you understand, Detective? Not that she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t. All she could say was a complaint was filed against Aurora for ethics violations. The complaint itself was pending, she hadn’t seen it, but the assistant superintendent told her the suspension was effective immediately.”

His heart stopped. He’d gotten Aurora suspended.

“I have never met a person more ethical than Aurora Williams and I told her that. I fight for my teachers, Detective. I fought for Aurora. I went all the way to the superintendent. He said he’d look into it. He called back this morning and said his hands were tied. He advised me to let the process play out and to stay out of it.”

“Is the mayor’s office involved?” he managed to ask.

“How did you know?” Kaylor cleared her throat of the emotion trapped within. “I know I have to talk to Aurora, but…damn it! I’m an educator. Not an executioner. This is going to break her heart. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he said. “I’ll…” What? He had to get word to her before she walked in the door tomorrow. If he couldn’t do it himself, he’d call her mother. “Let me tell her. I’ll have her call you.”

“I’m sorry. Tell her I’m absolutely certain she’ll be cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“I will. I need to go.” He made his escape. In the privacy of his car, his hands shook with anger, making working his phone difficult. He pulled his shit together, had to. Aurora needed him now and he wasn’t going to fuck up twice. He took a deep breath and called her. Voicemail answered. “Aurora, this is important. Something has happened. I need you to call.”

He put the car in gear as he made a second call. “Kurt, it’s happened again, this time he’s gone after Aurora.” He gave his commander the executive summary. “I’m on my way there now.”

“I hope she—wait, you’re not talking about going home, are you?”

“No. I’m not.” He turned on his lights and siren, giving the amateurs fair warning he was coming through.

The city hall door slammed closed behind him. Cruz was deceptively calm, a place he carved out working undercover when he would outwardly appear to have no care in the world, inwardly be on high alert. The drive from Aurora’s school took less than six minutes. Kurt Montoya kept him talking. He never ordered him off, a sign that Montoya knew Cruz wouldn’t obey. Instead, he talked strategy.

Confront Posey, but make it productive.

Productive. With one word, Montoya gave him the freedom to do anything he wanted and nothing at all.

He took the stairs, jogging to give his body something to do while his head worked. In an ideal world, what did they want Posey to do? Confess to his role in Sasha Carter and Val Hannigan’s death. Accessory to murder.

Since that wasn’t going to happen, what was his second preferred outcome? Have Posey act in some way that directly connected him to criminal activity. So far, he had an agent, a thug doing the dirty work. They needed to catch him with the dirt on his hands.

In the hallway, staffers darted in and out of doors, avoiding making eye contact. Plausible deniability. He reached the door marked for the chief of staff, prepared for the first battle: Angela Johnson.

Inside the warm office, her desk chair was empty.

“I sent the information to ESI, as you wanted.” Angela’s voice carried from the big office. “The return email asked for meeting dates next week.”

“There’s nothing that can’t wait until I’m back,” Posey said. “They want to move fast but they don’t have the financing. Push them off. Now if one of the Andersons calls, them I want to talk to.”

With a feral grin, Cruz entered without knocking.

Posey’s attention snapped instantly on him. His fluid speech tripped over small words. Posey knew exactly why he was there. “Detective De La Rosa, this is getting ridiculous.” He used the pompous voice of a king speaking to a none-too-bright peasant. “If you can’t manage to ask all your questions during a conversation, I’m going to have to take a look at the standards we’re using for detectives. This is bordering on incompetence.” Posey planted his fists on his desk. “Angela, leave us.”

Angela looked between the two, then rose slowly.

Cruz recognized the posture for what it was. A last stand. Victory coursed through his veins, empowering him like no drug could. Next time, Posey would come at Cruz directly, and he’d be ready.

“Stay, Angela. This will only take a moment.” Cruz spoke gently to the assistant, being nothing but respectful. Then he turned to her boss. “My name Detective Jesus De La Cruz, homicide. I want you to know exactly who is responsible for toppling your house of cards. This time tomorrow, you will be under arrest for a litany of assault and accessory charges. As a courtesy, I’m inviting you to come in quietly, now, to avoid a media blitz.”

“Courtesy?!” Posey picked up his phone. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be soaring over the Atlantic while you’re getting measured for your new beat uniform. Angela, get him out of here.”

Angela went to the office door and stood, hand on the doorknob. Cruz preceded her through it, pausing while she closed the door. The slurs, curses, and promises audible through the wood panel were satisfying.

“That wasn’t smart,” she said, taking her seat. “He doesn’t take being threatened well.”

“Andrew Posey tied the noose and wrapped it around his own neck. I’m just the cop holding onto the other end.” He indicated the computer with his chin. “Don’t delete any files.”

He left city hall satisfied the visit had been productive. He was certain that within the next twenty-four hours, Posey would make a fatal mistake. Cruz was gambling. He didn’t have the search warrants yet. He didn’t have the arrest warrants yet. No one wanted to move until Bishop got off his ass and unleashed the hell hounds of the FBI. Time was not on their side. Posey was leaving the country this time tomorrow.

Now he had to wait. The ball was in Posey’s court.

Until then, he had the rest of those recordings to listen to. An idea lit. Hannigan recorded every other meeting with Posey. Why wouldn’t he do the same for his last meeting?

Cruz raced downtown, thinking through the possibilities. The flag was small. Any number of things could have happened to it. A phone call confirmed it wasn’t with the dead man’s effects. The blood-soaked shirt had nothing but buttonholes on the lapel.

If not on Hannigan’s shirt, maybe it was on his missing coat. The search warrant would cover the house, he just had to be patient there. No choice. But the dump site was fair game.

The steep, snow-covered side of an embankment was meant for boots with spikes. Cruz went down to his knees twice to prevent rolling as Hannigan had. He was in the right place. Small bits of gold drape were snagged in the coarse brush, wet and dark. Under the bridge, the snow thinned to a dusting, giving way to the endless nooks and crannies that could hide a lapel pin.

Rocks slid below, and Cruz turned to glimpse a fleeing man. The pursuit was thankfully short. The man named Al didn’t want trouble. Yes, he had shoved away the body that had rolled into his home. Not a crime to keep the long length of heavy fabric that caught on the winter landscape. Just trash thrown over the guardrail above. And he’d kept the sports coat that was nearly clean and the shoes that were close enough to fitting; it wasn’t nothing. The man wearing them wasn’t using them anymore.

Al traded the lot for a few bills and a warm pair of gloves.

At his desk, Cruz huddled over a hot cup of coffee, turning the lapel pin over and around. The flag was large for a lapel pin but not enough to raise suspicion. He was about to wake Hannigan’s girlfriend to learn how to download the files when he noticed a thin seam on the back side. His finger was too thick. He unwound a paper clip, using the tool to pull, pry, push—a small disk, the size of his fingernail, popped out.

The tablet had a slot just as small.

Technology was not the bitch she usually was, willingly opening the contents. The drive contained a single file taking the full capacity. Cruz inserted ear buds and pressed play.

“Sunday, February 2. Posey called me to his home to finalize plans for the trade trip.” Val Hannigan’s voice came across clearly. “I hope this doesn’t take too long. I want to go see Lauren. I took all of this out on her last night. There’s another car here, I don’t recognize it. Someone else he likes to give orders to.”

Car door opened. Brushing of material. Car door closed. Doorbell rang in the distance.

“Come on in.” The voice didn’t belong to Posey or his wife.

“Hey. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

No response was made to the comment.

“Val. Thanks for coming all the way over.” Posey welcomed his guest. His voice was all business. “Have a seat.”

More rustling of material. Hannigan’s voice quieted just enough to show the flag pin was no longer two inches from his mouth. “You want me to take notes?”

“Sure. Why don’t you do that,” Posey said. “The detective from homicide talked to you?”

“Detective De La Cruz? Yes, he tricked my mother into calling me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I hung up on him.”

“And your mother?”

“She doesn’t know anything to tell,” Val said, his voice calm, dismissive.

“Why did you call this lawyer? Applegate?”

“Strategy. The surest way to look guilty was to hide.” Val answered immediately and with confidence. “If they talked to me alone, they were going to twist everything I said to set it up to make me look guilty. I know how cops work. They write the story and then bully or beat you into it. By going in voluntarily and with a lawyer, I showed them I wasn’t going to play it.”

“What did they want to know?”

“The Friday Sophie was rushed to the hospital, they knew I was in the restaurant and wanted my statement. I gave them what I knew they already knew.”

Silence hung, judging between facts and lies.

“Did you tell them about your mother’s house and the development?”

“They wanted to know how I came to work in city hall. I told them you hired me as an intern after I improved on a planning concept. There was nothing wrong with how I got the job. My lawyer said since all the paperwork was done, we were good.”

“Hmmm.”

“Really, Mr. Posey. That was the end of it.” For the first time, concern crept into Hannigan’s voice.

“The way I heard it, you told them I saved your mother’s house because you ‘took care’ of Sophie for me.”

Then Cruz knew, someone from the prosecutor’s office talked too much.

“No. Absolutely not, Drew. Mr. Posey. I swear. For all they know, the two circumstances were unrelated. Me trying to date Sophie was totally and completely unrelated to my job with you.”

“How did you explain P.J. Mayfield?

“So, I lied about my name? That’s not a crime. Mr. Posey, you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of everything. Honest.”

“Honest.” Posey laughed, dark and maniacal. “This is politics. Honesty is circumstantial; loyalty is everything.”

“I’m committed to you.” Hannigan spoke quickly now, his pitch higher. He knew he stood before a lion. “You know I’m on your team.”

“On my team!” Posey roared as loudly as the animal. And then it was Hannigan shouting, begging, pleading.

Posey screamed over him. “You were going to sell me out, you dumb fuck!” Metal clanked on metal and the iron met flesh. Each strike was captured in sickeningly detailed digital bytes. “That fuckhead Mulgrew threatened to walk away from me. Fucking walk away from me. Why? Because you were too much of a coward to keep your mouth shut. Because you were too weak to do what had to be done.”

“Enough. Stop. He’s had enough.” It was the second man in the room. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You do what you’re told.” The sound of metal and flesh quieted but were no less distinct. The shouts of this unidentified man defending himself.

“I own you. I’m your fucking master.” Another blow landed. “You never interfere. You understand?”

“I understand,” the man shouted. The man who had to be the cop named McCracken.

The silence of death played for one second, two, three.

“I had such high hopes for you.” Posey again, this time clearer, much closer to the flag. “Clean that up.”

“I’ll need something to wrap him in.”

“Do I have to do everything?” A cacophony followed. Metal landing on wood. “Anything else?”

“Your car in the garage?”

“What do you want with my car?” Posey asked, his voice incredulous.

“In this nice neighborhood of yours, someone will notice me carrying a body to mine, even in fancy wrapping. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll take your car, you drive Hannigan’s…”

 

 

“Posey’s not going to run. He thinks he’s tied up his loose ends. Running now just shows guilt.” Bishop finished on his tablet, gracing the room with his undivided attention. “Based on what we know about the narcotics’ informant and the intimidation tactics on Cruz’s family, there’s a lot more meat on this bone than just Hannigan. The Department of Justice needs to look at this. I’ll interview him. If nothing else, he’ll hang himself for lying, the way so many others have before him.”

Cruz planted his hands on the desk. “We don’t need him to hang himself. Hannigan’s done it for him.”

“For the murder, yes. But not for any of the rest. I know it’s hard to be patient.” Bishop ignored the suggestion to do something physically impossible. “But it will pay off. You know me, Cruz. I won’t let him walk.”

Protocols were followed, transferring the evidence from the Cleveland police to the FBI. The final pep talk from Bishop did nothing to help Cruz get his rah-rah on. He was still stewing when Bishop walked out of homicide. “We need to pick Posey up, Kurt. The fucker is leaving the country.”

“First things first, get the i’s dotted and t’s crossed on McCracken. Buell left a file on your desk. Find him and get him to turn. I want his statement in triplicate before I have Posey in holding.”

Hours later, he walked through the parking garage, unable to believe it was still Thursday. It was too long to still be the same day. Right, he hadn’t slept the night before. And food, well, it was a four-letter word. But he had coffee, which was better. After all, it had six letters. He should go home.

Except, he couldn’t.

He needed to talk to Aurora, tell her about the bullshit suspension. Except she didn’t answer his calls, return his messages, respond to his texts. He couldn’t let her be blindsided.

He went to Becky’s. He needed a place where everyone knew his name and had his back. Most alcoholics wouldn’t go to a bar under the circumstances, but it was the one place he was certain he couldn’t get a drink. The bar was crowded. Smitty and Czerski physically dragged him to their table. Good friends did that. He talked but didn’t listen. He played darts but didn’t enjoy kicking ass. He drank Brass Balls, the 7 Up and cranberry drink Yablonski introduced him to his first time back in the bar.

“Loser buys.” Two big hands came from behind Cruz and set three drinks on the table.

“A class act. I like it,” Smitty said, claiming a fresh bottle of beer, pushing its twin to Czerski, and the glass to Cruz. “Anytime you want a rematch, you know where to find us.”

Cruz threw it back like there was something besides sugar in it. It was different, had a little vanilla thing going that made it fancier. Another one appeared, just like magic. He looked over his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem, Detective.” The man gave a small salute. “They’re on the house tonight. Designated drivers drink for free.”

He drank that one, and then another. The comradery of the place settled in, mellowing him. Being alone was rough, being with people who understood, people who got you even if they didn’t get you, this was what he needed. He inhaled deeply, enjoying his head being empty, deserving a break from the chaos. Who did this, he wondered? Who voluntarily lived their life racing from one crisis to the next? Fuck, most of the crises weren’t even his.

This is the way life should be lived.

Easy.

“You good, Cruzie?” Smitty shook his shoulder. “You look like you’re fading on us.”

“Haven’t slept in a…in a long time. Feel like I could now. Really sleep, you know?”

Czerski laughed. “I haven’t seen you this mellow since you came out from the Drug Head case and got laid again.”

Aurora’s ringtone blasted from his phone, quiet in the tumultuous bar and yet the only thing Cruz heard. Smitty and Czerski laughed at his expense. He didn’t care. Fuck them. He had a woman, a hot woman, and they had their hands. He flipped them off as he answered the call. “Hey, baby, you ignoring me?”

“No, I didn’t have my phone. I left it in Selena’s car last night. When I got it back, the battery was dead. I called you as soon as it would work again.”

Cool, he thought. Good reason. “You ready to kiss and make up?”

“I’m not quite there yet. Where are you?”

“Becky’s.” He laughed at the “kissy” faces his friends were making. “Smitty and Czerski say hi. Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Cool. Whose home?”

“Ours. What happened to the dining room? Are you alright?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, are you coming home? I want to talk.”

“Okay.” He stood, wrestled with his coat and phone to keep from dropping either. “You know I love you, right?”

“Um, yeah. I know. That’s why I’m willing to talk. Are you sure you’re okay? You sound half asleep.”

“Mellow, baby.” He took the top off a new drink, gave a thumbs up to his buddies, and crossed to the side door. The tables and chairs were scattered and in the way. He ran into six of them before finally reaching the door. “Be home in ten.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

The heavy door didn’t want to be opened, but Cruz won, falling out into air fifty degrees colder. “This is why people live in Florida. Or Arizona. Or Panama.” His car wasn’t any warmer. He turned the heat on, snarled at the vents that weren’t giving him what he wanted.

Rush hour was past. Only people on the street were people doing whatever people do when they aren’t rushing from work. He stopped at a red light.

A horn sounded behind him. He lifted his head from his chest. “Sorry,” he said to the rearview mirror and drove forward. Curb, lane, sweeping right hand turn onto I-90 west. Except he was heading south. Who laid out these roads? West should go west. He looked over Progressive Field to the Cuyahoga River. If it were summer, he’d see the sun setting there. Brilliant reds and purples would paint the sky.

A horn honked, long and loud. Cruz checked, made certain he was awake. Double checked the car was between the lines. Oops. Turned the wheel until the car was between the lines.

Brilliant light reflected in his mirror. He rolled down his window, waved the guy around him. A blast of a siren said it was for him. “Damn it. Aurora’s going be pissed.” He leaned his head back, trying force his brain to clear.

“License and registration?” A young cop stood at the open window. “You okay, sir?”

“Yep. Wait.” He dug out his ID. “I’m De La Cruz. Homicide.”

The cop looked between his ID and his eyes. Not once. Three times. “You coming off a double, Detective?”

“Naw. But my girlfriend’s pissed at me so I didn’t get any sleep. She thinks I cheated on her. Didn’t. My girlfriend is hot. Scorching hot. Volcano hot. What’s hotter than a volcano?”

“Out of the car, sir.” He stepped back. “Have you been drinking?”

“Nope. I’m a recovering alcoholic. Clean and sober for over three years. That’s thirty-three months.”

“Thirty-six.”

“What’s thirty-six?”

“Three years.”

Cruz couldn’t make sense of the nonsense. And this man was dealing with civilians. “Officer, you aren’t making any sense. I should report you to your commander. I’ll let you off with a warning, long as you clean it up.” He turned back to his car.

The cop called for backup. “Sir, you’re high. I cannot let you back in that car. For your safety, I’m asking you to get in my car.”

“My safety? I’m not high,” he said, for the first time hearing all five of the i’s in the word. “Impossible. I was drinking 7 Up and cranberry juice. It’s called a Brass Ball. Yablonski named it because only alcoholics with brass balls hang out in bars.”

This time he heard the nonsense coming from his mouth. It just kept falling out, like a faucet left to dribble to keep the pipes from freezing.

“Fuck. How?” His brain was so dull, he made turtle racing look fast pace. “Officer, take me to a hospital, ASAP.” He folded into the back seat. He dialed Czerski, shouted over the music raging. “The drink I left on the table, is it still there?”

“Yeah, it’s here. What’s going on?”

“Secure it. It’s evidence. Someone drugged me.”