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“Monica DeVito.”
Stacy repeated the name several times as if she were trying out the sound in her mouth. “And what does she want with me?”
When Stacy stepped into the lobby of headquarters, Monica DeVito was standing on the top of a chair, jutting a finger at Marty and shouting something inaudible, speaking in a different language. Several other uniformed officers, some leaving at the end of the night shift and some arriving for the day shift, formed a circle around the woman. Stacy noticed one of the younger officers with his fingers grazing the Taser attached to his belt.
“Monica,” Stacy called out. “Monica DeVito! I am Lieutenant Tavitt. I understand you want to talk to me.”
At that moment, Monica froze and glared at Stacy. She nearly stumbled as she got off the chair. Dressed in a faded gray sweatshirt and jeans with faded white tennis shoes, Monica was short, probably around five-ten, with a curvy figure, and she had thick brown hair cut to her shoulders. Her face was flushed pink, and a vein in her skin snaked across the forehead. Stacy looked Monica over to confirm she wasn’t brandishing a weapon.
“It’s about time,” Monica proclaimed as she stepped toward Stacy. “Stacy. Thank you! I didn’t know who else to talk to.”
Her brown eyes were deep-set, and they pulsed with an energy that Stacy recognized in people in distress.
Stacy nodded at the circle of officers. “It’s okay, guys. I’ve got it. Thanks.”
The circle stayed intact for a moment before slowly breaking apart. A few of the men went to check on Marty. Others who had been watching the spectacle disbanded since the show was now over.
Stacy made a gesture, and then Monica fell against her in an embrace.
“Thank God. Stacy, please, please help me.” Monica spoke in the typical Italian of a Clevelander, which featured stressing consonants powerfully and producing sharp sounds and adding vowels at the end of words. Stacy found the dialect clear and understandable.
Stacy shifted her weight, and Monica broke her embrace. When Stacy looked down at her face, she noticed a block of perfect white teeth, which seemed to accentuate the protruding forehead vein even more.
Not wanting to agitate Monica any further, Stacy offered a solution. “Why don’t we go somewhere else so we can talk in private? I could really use a cup of coffee.”
Monica softened her rigid posture at that offer as if someone had suddenly pushed a large volume of air out of her body. “Yes, yes. That would be fine.”
Stacy and Monica left headquarters and walked down Ontario Street. The early morning sky was a rich, marbled gray, and the trees planted along the sidewalks looked elegant in their bare beauty. Stacy noticed some of the buds were ready to open into the light, ready to color the world for the warmer spring days to come.
Given that Monica’s outburst in the lobby had her saying a lot, Stacy was surprised that she had remained silent as they walked. Monica kept a furtive pace, hands stuffed in her jeans pockets, and looked down at the sidewalks and streets. Stacy kept up but trailed behind her, trying to glean any clues from her body language.
When they reached the West Superior Avenue traffic circle that cut around the edge of Tower City, Stacy nodded to the Starbucks on the corner.
“Fine. Fine,” Monica replied, charging across the intersection before the pedestrian walk signal illuminated.
They weaved through the crowds of people clutching their coffee cups, blowing steam rising from the tops while they talked and took slurps of liquid. Inside, they found a table.
“Me first,” Monica said, still standing as Stacy sat down. “Coffee is on me.” Monica spoke in that sweet, alluring childish way that was also a part of the Italian dialect.
Stacy didn’t have a chance to place her order before Monica returned with two large cups of coffee. Stacy gave a half-smile as Monica presented her the cup. She closed her fingers around it, letting the heat warm them before taking a sip. It was hot, fresh, and black, just like Stacy liked it.
“Monica, I’m not sure how we know each other.”
“Let me explain,” she said, blowing over the lip of her cup and taking a sip. Her lips smacked together, and she pushed the cup aside.
“It’s been so long,” she began. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
Stacy stared at her cup for a moment before locking eyes with Monica. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
A gleam flashed in Monica’s eyes. “Does the name Robert Murphy at Cleveland State University mean anything?”
Stacy furrowed her brow. As she mulled over the name, pleasant memories did not come to mind. “Dr. Murphy. It does. Introduction to Criminal Justice.”
“Yes, and I sat behind you in class.”
Stacy searched the woman’s face, and then something clicked. “Monica. Monica Wilson. Oh, my God. You’re Monica Wilson?”
Monica outstretched her arms. Her entire countenance brightened. “That’s me. Although I am married now.”
Stacy reached forward and pulled Monica’s hands into her own. “Monica Wilson. How long has it been?”
“Twenty-three years.”
Stacy held her hands tighter. They were warm, like the coffee cup.
“I hated Dr. Murphy’s class,” Stacy said. “He just read to us from the book. For two-and-a-half hours.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “I remember. I also remember you taking notes on everything he said.”
“That’s because our grade was based on three tests. Flunk one, and it was over.”
“Yes. And then we lost touch.”
The mood had soured. “That was my fault,” Stacy exclaimed, although she couldn’t recall if that were true.
“No. It was my fault. I had signed up to take police theory with you in the spring semester, but then I transferred and eventually dropped out. We always wanted to be cops, and you were the one that made it.”
Monica cut off Stacy before she could say anything else.
“I didn’t know if you were still working in Cleveland, and then I saw what happened in the fall with the murder of that Browns football player.” She frowned. “And that terrible man kidnapped you, hurt you...”
Monica nodded slowly, as if saddened by the memory, and then looked down at the table. The sadness and desperation that Stacy noted at headquarters had returned.
Stacy released her hands. She didn’t want to think about what happened to her last fall or anything else about Devon Baker, the Cleveland Browns, or Jamal the informant, who had come close to nearly killing her.
“It’s so good to see you, Monica,” she said brightly, trying to soften the sadness in both of them. “Truly. Now, what did you want to talk about?”
Monica brought her head up slowly. Her eyes welled with tears. “My boy, Colton, is missing.”
Stacy felt her stomach clench when she heard the word missing. It was a frightening word for families and a perplexing one for the police because it led to so many possibilities, most of them grim.
“Okay. What happened?”
Monica recounted what she knew for Stacy. Colton had finished electrician school at Cuyahoga Community College and got a job with American Electric Power after graduation. The company had assigned him to work in Houston to help rebuild damaged transmission lines in Houston’s various neighborhoods following Hurricane Harvey.
In Houston, American Electric Power had found one of their trucks parked near an apartment complex rewired following Hurricane Harvey. The truck emitted an electronic pulse back to the Houston transportation center when parked without any activity. Another work crew found the vehicle and traced it back to Colton, the last known driver. But there was no sign of him anywhere near the truck. After another day had passed and Colton didn’t show up for work, his boss contacted Houston police and asked them to go to his apartment and conduct a welfare check. They found mail still in the mailbox and no lights on anywhere in the apartment.
On the third day, the police came back with Colton’s landlord and opened the apartment. The apartment inside was orderly and tidy, Colton’s bed made, and it looked like nobody had been there for several days. Stacy listened intently and nodded thoughtfully.
“Something bad has happened, Stacy. I can feel it.” Monica slapped her hand against her chest. “I am a mother. My son is missing, and something bad has happened.”
Stacy understood the feeling of a missing loved one—more than she wanted to share with Monica right now.
“Monica, if Colton has been living and working in Houston, you need to file the missing person’s report with the Houston Police Department. That is not our jurisdiction.”
“I did today,” she said. “But they think Colton might be back in Cleveland.”
Stacy had brought the coffee cup to her lips but froze in mid-movement. She sat it back down. “Why?”
“My husband flew to Houston yesterday to meet with the police. They found the receipt for a bus ticket. They are not sure when it was purchased, but the ticket said it was for a trip to Cleveland.”
Stacy let the silence pool around that thought. “Could it be an older ticket? Maybe one Colton purchased a while back to come and visit you for the holidays or some other reason?”
At that, Monica’s resolve crumbled. She began sobbing, dotting her eyes with the one small corporate-issued napkin provided to every customer for each Starbucks order.
Stacy observed her gestures. The woman was clearly hurting.
“Colton doesn’t talk to his father or me much anymore. He left home and hasn’t been back.” She looked at Stacy with eyes full of discomfort, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
Stacy nodded. “It always is.” Stacy pieced together what she’d heard and then tried a different tact. “Maybe Colton was planning to surprise you with a visit?”
Monica brushed off the suggestion with a waved hand. “There is no reason for him to come home in early May. No birthdays, holidays, nothing.”
“So, you and your husband believe that he might be here.”
“Yes.”
“Does he have friends who still live in the area? Someone he might be staying with?”
Monica shook her head again. Stacy watched her stop after a moment, eyes flitting back and forth like she was trying to come up with a memory from the deep recesses of her mind.
“There is someone. An ex-girlfriend. Her name is Brooke Crawford. Oh, Colton loved her so. Nearly broke his heart when she left him. But I don’t think he’d be with her now.”
Stacy made a mental note of the name.
“Is he seeing anyone else?”
Monica shook her head. “No. Oh God, when Brooke left Colton, it devastated him.” She smirked through her sadness. “Colton always had girls wanting to date him, but Brooke was different. When they broke up, his father and I tried setting him up on dates with girls whose parents were friends of ours, but Colton never went on one date with any of them. He would just get teary-eyed and say that Brooke was the only girl he’d ever love.”
Monica took another sip of her coffee and sniffled. She locked eyes on Stacy, eagerly waiting for a reply or an offer of help. Stacy watched her breathing become labored, and she rocked forward in the seat.
“Let me see what I can do,” Stacy said.
Monica brightened again. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, Stacy. Anything you can do, anything to help, would be great.” Monica jumped from her seat and raced over to Stacy. She grabbed Stacy’s head and gave her a big kiss.
“Grazie! Grazie! Bless you,” Monica said.
A quick chirp emanated from Stacy’s pocket, so she pulled out her cell phone. It was Austin.
“Excuse me a minute, Monica.” Monica lowered her head in a low bow.
“What’s up? Any news on Deerfield?”
“No, not yet. Are you finished with your appointment?”
Stacy looked at Monica, who steepled her hands together and kept whispering Grazie to herself over and over.
“Not exactly. Why?”
“We just got a call from dispatch. Homicide in Bratenahl. BPD called and asked for assistance.”
Stacy sucked in a breath. “Okay. I’m over at Tower City. Wait on me. I’ll be right there.”
Austin was speaking to someone else in the background. His voice came back to the phone, strong and clear.
“I’m already over here. It’s bad, Stacy. Really bad.”