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As Stacy whirled through downtown Cleveland, often going faster than most cops would allow any citizen to drive, the scale, texture, and images of the city began to take shape around her.
As she moved through each city block, downtown Cleveland displayed its typical beige color under a bright sun. The gradation from brown to gray to off-white of the passing landscape was prominent with no clouds hovering near the downtown skyscrapers’ tops. The surfaces of the buildings, both smooth and rough, were also beige. If Stacy hadn’t grown up in Cleveland or worked these streets as a cop, she would have no idea where she was in the city. A native felt comfortable in the passing blur, while a stranger would not.
She managed to sneak into headquarters and access some of the records and information on the Brooke Crawford murder case and the missing person case involving Colton DeVito. There would be more information to absorb once the crime scene was processed, and the bodies of George and Monica DeVito could be positively identified.
Unable to take files away from headquarters, she slipped into the records room and took notes on what they had recorded so far. To connect the threads, Stacy needed some perspective. And space.
With her notebook full, Stacy left headquarters and pulled in front of Superior Lofts. The building stood near the end of the street. Rockefeller Café bordered it to the right and another Starbucks Coffee shop across the street. Stacy huffed when her eyes came across the elongated green lettering on the front of the store. She had met Monica DeVito at another Starbucks downtown, which was the beginning of this entire mess.
Superior Lofts, built in the late 1880s, was an integral part of Cleveland’s Warehouse District. To the north of the district, residents and visitors could see the bluffs that overlooked Lake Erie to the north. West 3rd Street and West 10th Streets established the east and west borders of the neighborhood.
The warehouse buildings had been used as a mix of property for the metal and blue-collar industries that once thrived in Cleveland. Everything from metalworking shops to furniture stores had once been a part of the Warehouse District. In recent years, developers had purchased many of the properties at auction from the city, and the county had turned the once-defunct properties into business and residential space.
Stacy felt a pang of pain rise from her stomach. Her lungs began to seize, and she leaned forward. She had learned to take shallow, short breaths in these moments to try to reignite the muscles and blood vessels in her lungs to function normally. This time, nothing happened. Tears formed in her eyes as the pain and burning in her chest began to spread.
Stacy thought about all of the debris-laden smoke she inhaled during the fire at the DeVitos and figured that smoke had triggered something. Suddenly, her skin felt hot.
The pain got worse when taking in a deep breath. It was becoming clear that Stacy needed to get into her apartment and get to the supplemental oxygen.
As she gasped and panted, Stacy flung open the door of her Camry and managed to pull herself out. Her voice sounded pinched and muffled as she tried to breathe. She’d hoped the fresh air and movement would cause her labored breathing to subside, but it continued.
A college-aged man taking an evening run in his blue shorts and gray Cleveland Browns T-shirt stopped and stood on the curb next to the car.
“Miss, are you okay?”
Sweat dripped from his sweatband, ran down the edge of his sharp nose, and pooled on the neckline of his shirt. Stacy looked down at the logo. She never wanted to think about the Cleveland Browns again.
Stacy coughed a wet, racking hack. She held up a hand and pointed down the street.
“Apartment, there. Need to get there,” she said, her voice cracked.
“Okay, let me help.” The man leaned under Stacy’s arm and tossed it over his shoulder. The shoulder was bony and sloped, but the crevice of her arm fit around it carefully. He tucked her bulging binder of notes under his other arm.
“Just lean into me,” he told her. “Let me do the work.”
Stacy leaned against the man, coughing and gasping. Her steps became more awkward as she walked, her feet almost dragging against the concrete.
She felt the man squeeze her arm tighter. “I think I need to call for help.”
“I... am... the police,” she wheezed out between gasps.
By the time they made it to the landing of Superior Lofts, Stacy had regulated her breathing slightly. No longer did she find the edges of her vision blurred or her chest spiking with fits of burning and stabbing pain.
She sat down on the step and peered up at the man, who eyed her with concern.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
His green eyes stood out against the freckles on his face but accented his sharp nose.
“I’m fine. Thank you for helping me.” She felt some of the power come back to her voice.
The man leaned down and took Stacy’s hands and held them. “Please go see a doctor.”
Stacy smacked her lips, which were dry and sticky. “I will. I will be sure and get help.”
The man nodded and began bouncing up and down. He turned without a word and resumed his jog up the street.
Stacy staggered her way up to the third floor and managed to pull back the heavy steel door to her loft apartment just enough to slip in. Stacy felt greasy and exhausted. Every time her thoracic outlet syndrome flared up, it zapped any energy she had and forced her to lose focus.
Stacy fumbled with the buttons on her oxygen machine. She stuffed the ends of the cannula in her nose, and the cool, crisp flow of oxygen poured into her nose and throat, causing her to relax instantly.
Stripping off her clothes and unhooking her bra, Stacy settled onto the bed. A checkerboard of evening sunlight slid through the partially covered glass window. As the late afternoon gave way to the early evening, Stacy watched as the stubby light squares elongated into faded rectangles, as if stretching and yawning and surrendering to the sunset that was coming.
Stacy snagged the cell phone from her pants and sat it beside her Glock holster and shield. As the fresh oxygen made its way to her battered lungs, Stacy thumbed through her phone’s saved numbers. She clicked on one of the names.
“Hey, Stacy,” Gavin answered, sounding dourer and more serious than the last time they had talked.
“Hey, Gavin—”
“Look, I don’t mean to cut you off, but are you okay?”
“I am,” Stacy said, taking a deep breath. The connection on the line was terrible, and Gavin sounded bone-tired. “I’ve been involved in something.”
“I’d say,” he replied tartly. “The office is buzzing with what happened at the DeVitos. George and Monica both dead?”
Stacy sighed. “I’m afraid so. Burned to death.”
“Good God,” Gavin said. Stacy could picture him biting his lip and contemplating the news.
“But that’s not why I called.”
“Okay.”
“I wondered if you’d come by my place tonight.”
Silence. Then static filled the line. Stacy wondered if Gavin had dropped the phone.
“Sure. I have a bail hearing in about half an hour, but I could come by later.”
"Good. Let's say six-thirty. Oh, I'm ordering Chinese food. My treat."
Gavin hedged before speaking. “Sounds good. I am a sesame chicken and fried rice fan.”
“I’m more of General Tso’s fan, but I’ll get it.”
“Stacy,” Gavin said, his voice dropping an octave. “Everything okay?”
“It is. Promise. I want to take a fresh look at this Colton DeVito case, and I need some perspective.
“What type of perspective?”
Stacy sat up in the bed and thought about her collection of notes downstairs. “The one that tells me it’s okay to start all over.”