Driving Reign

By TG Wolff

Sophie DeMusa had plans. Finish college. Go to med school. Save the world. She never planned to be in a hospital bed, in a coma after ingesting too many pills. The homicide detective standing over her didn’t plan to be there either. After all, she wasn’t dead.

Detective Jesus De La Cruz was ready to turn away from the sad story of a suicide attempt. When his AA sponsor, Dr. Oscar Bollier, pressed, Cruz begrudgingly agreed to investigate. It should have been an open-and-shut case.

Except, if it was suicide, why were there two different 911 calls?

As Cruz digs into the weeks and months before Sophie’s hospitalization, he unearths a twisted knot of reality and perception. A sex scandal, a jilted lover, a callous director, a rainmaker, and a quid pro quo all made decisions and took actions that affected Sophie’s life. But did one of them try to kill her? The facts have Cruz questioning if there is such a thing as an innocent man.

Truth is a strong rope, tied in a noose. As he closes in, the knot tightens, but who will pay the price? A killer or a member of Cruz’s own family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Jul 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463521328

Book preview

DRIVING REIGN

The De La Cruz Case Files

TG Wolff

Copyright © 2020 by TG Wolff

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Driving Reign

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by the Author

Preview from Cutthroat by Paul Heatley

Preview from Never the Crime by Colin Conway and Frank Zafiro

Preview from Together They Were Crimson by Ryan Sayles

For Kathy. Who knew life could be so wonderfully surprising?

Chapter One

She’s not dead. Cleveland homicide Detective Jesus De La Cruz stood beside the hospital bed, watching the sheet over the woman’s chest rhythmically rise and fall.

I know she’s not dead. I wouldn’t have ‘MD’ after my name if I couldn’t tell a comatose patient from a dead one. Dr. Oscar Bollier had the ruffled look of a man above caring what society thought. He normally spoke in a tone underwritten by arrogance. Today, superiority was replaced with something Cruz couldn’t read. It was more than sad; less than desperate.

So why am I here?

Because she shouldn’t be.

The cop and the doctor met by chance, a wrong room number left on a message. Cruz had been in the bed, the right side of his face doing an imitation of dog food after the bloody night that ended his undercover narcotics career. The doctor took an interest in the cop suffering through alcohol withdrawal. He had been patient, returning daily, throwing a life preserver to the drowning man. Eventually, Cruz grabbed on.

And so, he waited with equal patience for the story of the not-dead woman to unfold.

Her name is Sophie DeMusa. She’s a senior at Case Western Reserve University and works as a waitress at Three Witches. Do you know it?

Cruz shook his head.

It’s one of those hip places on Murray Hill, close to campus. She lives in the apartment below. She was found in her bedroom, nasty cut on her head, and a handful of pills in her stomach.

The richness of the girl’s Mediterranean heritage showed through the pallor of unconsciousness. Her heart-shaped face featured the sculpted contours of a Greek or Roman maiden. Her eyes tipped up, though, nearly cat like. Exotic. Objectively beautiful.

Beauty was what it was. Not necessarily happy or healthy or stable. Beautiful people killed themselves just as often as the rest of us.

She didn’t try to kill herself, Bollier added, reading his mind.

Cruz mentally rolled his eyes. Maybe physically, too.

She wasn’t the kind to take pills, Bollier said quickly, a bite in his voice now.

Pills didn’t cause that wound. The side of the woman’s head was shaved, the short stubble disrupted by a line of stitches.

She hit her head on her nightstand.

When no further explanation came, Cruz waded in. Since you called me, I assume you think someone other than her put those pills in her belly?

Someone had to at least help. She wouldn’t turn to suicide.

Cruz exhaled slowly, searching for solid footing. If he heard it once, he heard it a hundred times. He wouldn’t do this or she would never do that. Denial was a slow, deep river. Good people make bad decisions, Oscar. We both lived that truth. I’m sympathetic to the woman’s situation but not hearing anything needing my attention. I’m sorry she did this, but she needs a counselor, not a homicide detective. Call Dr. Edna, he suggested, referring to Bollier’s psychiatrist friend who had been helpful to him during the Drug Head case. She’s your better bet.

You’re my better bet. Bollier turned a hundred-thousand watts of ill-tempered doctor on him. I said she wouldn’t kill herself, you’ll have to take that as fact, and since she wouldn’t, somebody else tried to. She lives in Cleveland, she was found in Cleveland, she’s in the hospital in Cleveland. You, a Cleveland detective, need to do your damn job and find her killer.

Cruz stood his ground, stamping out the temptation to go toe-to-toe with Bollier. Instead, he probed the reason behind the temper. Who is she to you?

She’s just a girl. His gaze dropped to her face, his expression softening. An acquaintance.

A lie. If anything got to him about his job, it was the number of lies. Big ones, little ones, lies of omission, of exaggeration. The lies were so old, they had their own AARP card.

Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it. You’re thinking too hard. You’re going to help her. It wasn’t a question.

First the lie, now an order. Cruz fought the instinct to push back because he respected the asshole doing the pushing. Look, Oscar, I know you don’t want to hear it, but many suicides or attempts come with a plethora of friends and family who didn’t see it coming. Mental health issues can be overlooked and explained away by the people closest. At least now, you can get her the help she needs.

I’m a doctor, you twit. I’ve forgotten more about suicide than you’ll ever know. One five-minute conversation and you’ve made up your mind. You’re not even going to look into the circumstances. Bollier lifted his chin, exuding dominance and superiority. In the years we have known each other, I have never asked for you favors or to use your position in anyway. Conversely, you have ‘picked my brain’ on your cases and asked me for connections to help you find the answers. You owe me. The entire department owes me. I’m calling in my marker. You won’t honor your obligation; I’ll call Montoya direct.

Cruz couldn’t think for the insult coursing through his veins. His mentor, his AA sponsor, was keeping a tally? Threatening to go over his head to homicide’s commander?

Fuck peace-making.

You son of a bitch, you can— Words flooded him now, articulating where the arrogant fucker could shove his threats. Except, some infinitesimal part of his brain told him anything he said now, he would regret. Or worse, he wouldn’t. No. I’m not doing this with you. I’m walking away and if you’re as smart as you claim, you won’t follow. He stalked out the door into the busy corridor.

She doesn’t have another option. The pompous, white bread voice followed him down the hall. Nurses and orderlies stared as the words fell on deaf ears. If you don’t step in, her killer gets away. I know you Jesus De La Cruz. You won’t let that happen. You won’t—

The doors to the floor closed behind him, cutting off the sermon.

Cruz seethed as he stalked the circuitous route out of the hospital. Never in his thirty-three years on this planet had he so misjudged someone. He’d known from day one Bollier could be an asshole. He’d witnessed it, was entertained by it. Over the years, he fell into the delusion that he was immune from the tirades, that their relationship went deeper than superficial shit. He played the sap, short and simple, sitting bright-eyed and bushy-tailed waiting for the almighty Dr. Oscar Bollier to dispense bits of wisdom.

The thought of a tally was a sucker punch to his gut. The threat of going over his head a solid shot to the solar plex. The fucker knew where to hit him. Preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed the rain soaking his shirt or thought to use the coat he carried.

He threw the coat in the car. Damn him. He started the engine, cursing Bollier as the chill penetrated to bone. Unthinking, he turned the heat on maximum and was blasted with air only a few digits above freezing. Shit. He turned it off with a jabbing finger, then threw the car in gear wanting only to get the hell out.

A horn blared.

Cruz slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding the car driving behind him down the aisle. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He punctuated each word with a fist to his city-issued steering wheel. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, turning out of the parking garage and into the driving rain that matched his mood.

Needing something more than his own company, he left University Circle for the suburb sitting atop the hill. In a one-bedroom apartment of a mixed-use development lived the woman who was an artist, a kindergarten teacher, and the best thing to happen to Cruz since…ever. Aurora Williams had tricked him into a date last Valentine’s Day and they’d been together since. Just three weeks shy of a year.

A whole year. There had been tough months. She stood by him when he was more cop than boyfriend, when he’d been falsely accused of heinous behavior.

Minutes later, he ran up the steps to her second-floor apartment two at a time, using his key to leave the rain behind. The door opened to the middle of her apartment. Blessed heat and the scent of his woman enveloped him. Hey, baby, it’s me.

Be right out.

Her large bedroom was on his right. Directly in front of him was the generously sized bathroom, door closed. To his left was the galley kitchen and living room all in one oversized space with a door to the small porch. He tossed the coat over a high-back chair back.

Aurora’s corner unit had windows on the front and the side, filling the space with natural light even on the rainy day. In front of the room, a new canvas sat on an easel. Simple pencil lines hinted at what it would become. A couple, dancing. There were so few lines, no more than maybe ten, but he could see the man, his arms around the woman. Her head was back as if laughing. He remembered the dance. Hell, he remembered the moment. It was her birthday last fall. The last warm night, as it turned out. She wore purple and the heels he loved. He wore a dark gray suit she liked taking off him. It was a good night. A very good night.

Hello, baby. Her arms snaked around his waist. You’re wet. You should get out of that shirt. Why didn’t you wear a coat?

He turned and brought her in for a real hello. Aurora was mixed race, her father black, her mother white. He couldn’t say she resembled either. She had inherited her mother’s green eyes but instead of blonde hair, she had thick black hair that fell in rings. Barefoot, she fit perfectly under his chin and was tantalizingly close to mouth-to-mouth in those stacked heels of her painting.

Wow. Talk about your hellos. What did I do to deserve that? She kissed his chin before stepping away, pulling him toward the bedroom.

Nothing and everything. Something caught his eye. He clasped her hand and raised it. A white bandage covered the meaty part of her palm. What happened?

Oh, it’s just a little cut. Not a big deal.

He held on when she tugged, then peeked under the white tape. That’s not a little cut. How did you do it? It’s pretty clean. Was it a knife?

While Cruz had worked the night before, Aurora had gone out with bride-to-be Erin Davis and the rest of the bridal party. Cruz was the best man to the groom, Matt Yablonski, the narcotics detective who was his closest friend. The big day was less than a month away, and, to his mind, the women used it as an excuse to shop, giggle, and party.

Stop it, Zeus, she said, calling him by the nickname she’d given him on their first date. He wanted her to call him Cruz, but she couldn’t kiss a man she called by his last name. She pulled her hand away. You’re sounding like a detective again. I thought you had plans today.

I was going to help Yablonski clean out his basement, but he cancelled because of that. He pointed out the window to the rain. It’s January. What the hell is with this thirty-seven-degree rain shit? If it’s going to be cold, be cold. Twenty. Twenty’s a good number. He went to the window, annoyed at the thick, gray clouds. Let it snow, let it snow, let it fucking snow.

She cocked her head as if studying his pose. What happened between you and Matt?

Yablonski and Cruz had worked narcotics together until the night that changed Cruz’s face, his life, and his career. Last year, Cruz made a call looking for information and met the bald man with the copper wire beard for breakfast. There was nothing subtle about the now-narcotics detective, including the way he ramrodded back into Cruz’s life. It was a welcome intrusion.

Yablonski has nothing to do with this. Cruz had just gotten off the phone and was considering what to do with his now free Saturday when Bollier called. The memory got him worked up all over again. You want to know what the fucker did?

Matt?

Bollier! He gave her the play-by-play, finishing with the grand insult. He’s calling in his marker. His marker. Like he’s been keeping fucking score for these last three years.

Huh. She ignored the shouting and the swearing. Who’s the girl?

Sophie DeMusa. Apparently figuring out who she is part of the little puzzle he’s created for me. He said she was, get this, an acquaintance. How does a fifty-something highbrow doc get to be acquainted with a college senior? He’s lying. I don’t know if I’m more pissed about the lie or the blackmail.

He didn’t blackmail you.

He glared his disagreement with her assessment.

He’s strong-arming you, which is totally different. I wonder why?

Because he’s an asshole.

Stop it.

He called me a twit, Aurora.

And what did you call him?

A son of a bitch, but that’s not the point. Don’t take his side.

I’m not taking sides. She unbuttoned his shirt, peeling the transparent material from his body. She opened the drawer filled with his clothing. Fingering through the folded shirts, she selected a soft cotton shirt in a blue she would call sky. I know he hurt your feelings, but this is when you should think like a detective.

Denial was instant. My feelings aren’t hurt and I’m still wet.

Of course they are but put them aside. Oscar needs your help. Aurora took a towel from a folded stack of laundry and patted his chest dry. Why didn’t he just ask?

He snorted, lifting his arms to give her better access. Oscar Bollier doesn’t ask for help. Ever. It’s like he thinks less of himself if he can’t do it alone.

He always helps other people. He doesn’t think less of them. She dried his back and then attended to the long braid hanging to his shoulder blades.

I’m surprised he called me at all. He’s never done it before. It was true, he realized, and uncomfortable.

Well there’s your answer. That was him asking for help. You just missed it.

I don’t miss things. Even as he said it, he remembered his surprise at the request. He practically ran out of the house for the chance to help Bollier in one one-hundredth of the way he’d helped him. The memory humiliated him. Maybe. Why the strong-arm then, Ms. Detective?

Well…you weren’t going to help him so maybe, she shrugged, maybe this is important to him, and he needed a way to make you say yes. She tossed the towel aside. Why did you turn him down?

I didn’t. I mean I did, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want to help. She needs a psychiatrist or a psychologist, not a homicide detective. She isn’t dead. He pulled the dry shirt on, the warmth pleasant after the cold. The girl tried to commit suicide, baby. Plain and simple. Some people can’t get past the emotion to accept the facts.

That’s not Oscar, Zeus. She frowned, her full lips pouting in consideration. He’s pragmatic to a fault. The man doesn’t know how to handle emotions, if you ask me.

Aurora was right. Bollier thought with his head, not his heart. He put aside the feelings he refused to consider were hurt and thought like the detective he was. Bollier’s analytical mind didn’t have room for denial. There was more to the story, which meant this was his request for help. It was as subtle as a sledgehammer on a cantaloupe.

Cut Oscar a break, she said softly. Everyone needs one, every now and then.

I guess. He sighed, accepting he was going to give in. He lied to me, too. He said she was only an acquaintance, but you should have seen the look on his face when he was next to her bed. What kind of secret does he have he can’t tell me? This last question he posed to himself.

She pulled away, leading him out of the bedroom. Not all secrets are bad. Neither are all lies. Don’t jump to conclusions. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

You think so?

Either that, or you’ll figure it out. You’re a detective. A damn good one. Do you want coffee? She let go of his hand as she went into her narrow kitchen and the coffee maker sitting on the counter.

You know I do. He went to the ceramic lotus flower he’d given her on their second date. Today it sat on a corner of the kitchen counter. It was cheap, and she knew it. He joked Buddhist monks made it. Mexican Buddhists based on the sticker on the bottom. It had become one of their inside jokes. Cruz picked the flower up, liking that each time he was in the apartment, it was moved.

The paper under the trinket caught his attention. In big red letters were the words Final Notice. He thumbed through the stack of bills, half of which were overdue.

What are you doing?

He held up the bills. What are these?

Aurora waved it off as she dressed the coffee the way he liked it, light and sweet. Oh, yeah. I need to mail those.

Relieved, he returned them to the counter. Good. I thought you might be in trouble.

Trouble? Like what?

You know, financial trouble. Like you couldn’t pay the bills.

She traded the kitchen for the corner of her couch, handing off the steaming mug en route. Well, I can’t pay all of them. I pick my favorites, and the rest wait until next month. It’s not a big deal, she said when he just stared. They’ll send another bill.

He picked the stack back up before sitting next to her. He thought about choosing his words carefully, then blurted the question on the top of his mind. Baby, how did you get so far behind? Half of these are overdue.

I don’t know. It’s just the basics, like groceries, cable, paint, and canvas. I needed to order the bridesmaid’s dress and the shoes.

He looked through the credit card statement. The Keurig coffee maker she’d bought was on it. So was the bedding set she’d bought for his bedroom. And the paint for his living room and dining room. Aurora, why were you buying me things you couldn’t afford?

I can afford them, she said defensively. I haven’t hit my credit limit.

Cruz stared at her, certain he hadn’t heard her right. It wasn’t possible. She was a grown, educated woman. Your credit limit?

Don’t worry. If I do, I can just get another card.

Another card? Crunching the stack of bills in his fist, he lectured on budgets and interest rates and credit ratings and debt. The Fed chair might have made an appearance in the monologue.

Aurora pressed her face pressed into her knees. Why are you yelling?

Was he? He hadn’t noticed his voice raising with each past due notice. He didn’t remember standing. Because you’re in trouble and you don’t seem to know it. Because I don’t like to see you distressed.

"Then stop yelling!" She curled into a tighter ball.

He dropped his voice to try to soothe what he’d ruffled. Baby, listen to me. He sat on the edge of the couch, crowding her.

She pushed at him. Go away.

He dropped the bills to pull her unwilling body into his lap. I’m sorry I yelled, but baby, we have a real problem.

She wiped her eyes on her back of her hand. You mean I have a real problem.

We. We’re together, right? That’s what ‘I love you’ means. He kissed the top of her head, cradling her against him the best he could. I have some mo—

Aurora popped up so fast she nearly bashed his nose with her head. If you say you have some money saved, I’m throwing you out. She scrambled to her feet, planted her hands on her hips and glared down at him. This is my problem. I’ll solve it.

He held his hands up in surrender. Let’s just go through them. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.

Skeptically, she sank back down. Together, they walked through her life one line item at a time. She had quietly spent hundreds of dollars on him, and he hadn’t noticed. A shirt here. A set of towels there. His second-floor master bedroom was decorated artistically because of her. He never thought to ask about the money. Shame had him rubbing his hands over his face.

Her teacher’s salary didn’t afford extras. She used her credit card to cover the gaps but never caught up, the balance growing each month. She needed to cut expenses, fast and hard. The biggest was her rent.

Move in with me. He didn’t plan to say it, but as he heard it come from his mouth, he knew he meant it.

Her face snapped toward him. What?

Live with me. You’ll save on rent and utilities.

You aren’t serious. She leveled her perfected teacher’s glare at him. Look at me, this is my not-impressed face.

He wanted to smile but instead fixed his own face with the stone-cold expression every cop had. "Look at my face. I’m serious. Totally. Serious."

Zeus, we’ve talked about this, she said, pressing her palms to his chest. We aren’t going to rush things.

We stay together most nights. It would make it easier to have all our stuff in one place. And, he said, sweetening the pot so she would see things his way, we can finish the other half of the second floor, make it into a real studio. We’ll add skylights. There’s plenty of space for your easels and paint.

Oh…but, no, I don’t want to move in together because I have some minor money problems.

You have major money issues, baby, but that isn’t why I want you to move in. He propped himself on one arm, teasing, tempting her with his mouth. You live with me. You can paint every day. I’ll make dinner, brow beat you when you forget to come down, take you to our bedroom to teach you a lesson. He nipped at her flat belly. You would enjoy it. I promise.

I bet I would. Her body trembled with anticipation. But what do you get out of the deal? I don’t want to come offering nothing but debt.

What do I get? He lifted his chin, grinned and swept her shirt over her head. Let me show you.

Awareness was instant, coming on a deep inhale. The scent of Aurora and sex filled his senses. He rolled over and nearly fell out of bed. With a quick foot to the floor, he thought he wouldn’t miss sleeping in her full-size bed. The one in his home was a king. Plenty of room for sleeping and playing. Settling against the headboard, he inventoried the room, mentally sorting the furniture between things they would take and things needing a new home. This bed, for instance.

Most of her hand-me-down furniture had seen better days. They did the job, but he wanted more for her. Take the dresser. The second drawer only closed to within an inch of the frame, and the bottom drawer had to be carefully pulled out using two hands or it went crooked and stuck.

He pulled on his briefs and left the bedroom to talk to her about furniture. Aurora worked at her easel. She wore a short, black satin robe—a keeper—and her earphones. She liked music when she painted, and he guessed she used the earphones because he was sleeping.

Aurora was easygoing, but there was one exception. She hated to be interrupted when she painted. Hated in big, capital, italic letters. He found paper on her kitchen counter and wrote that he was awake. Returning to her bedroom, he planned to catch some college hoops before talking her into dinner out. He would cook but Aurora’s kitchen leaned heavily toward heat up or microwave than actual cooking. No, she would never be the kind of woman who would have dinner waiting when he came home from work. That didn’t bother him in the least. Grinning at the mess of a bed, he appreciated she had other talents, ones that smoothed out the jagged edges that came with being a homicide cop.

Because his perspective had been reset, he considered Oscar Bollier and Sophie DeMusa anew. He and Bollier were going to have words about the pompous asshole’s technique, but Aurora’s points made sense. This woman had to be important to Bollier for him to choose the nuclear option so quickly.

Using Aurora’s computer, Cruz logged into the secure connection to the Cleveland police server. He entered Sophie DeMusa’s name and found two entries. He clicked on the one dated fifteen days prior.

The 911 text came in at 6:10 on Friday night reporting an overdose. The responding unit arrived at 6:15. Sophie DeMusa was found on the floor of her bedroom with a head wound. A Jonathan Fisher had found her. The name was familiar, but Cruz couldn’t pinpoint from where. He read on, noting alcohol was present on the victim’s person. The file included her vital signs and other medical jargon ultimately describing her state as unconscious. Mr. Fisher indicated Ms. DeMusa had left work ill less than thirty minutes prior. He had gone into her apartment to check on her and found her on the floor. The report ended with the transfer of custody to University Hospitals. Cruz clicked on an embedded link to a second log. A 911 call came in at 6:13, this one from Jonathan Fisher, providing the victim’s name and describing the head wound.

Interesting, he muttered to himself. The captured phone numbers were different. Cruz called the first. It was answered on the second ring.

Yo. The voice was male, deep.

This is Detective De La Cruz, Cleveland homicide. Who am I speaking with?

Lamar Harrison. What is this about?

Mr. Harrison, did you make a 911 call from this number about two weeks ago?

No, sir. I just got this number last week. Had to change my last one because of all the robocalls.

Have you received any odd or unexpected calls or messages since you’ve had this number?

Just this one. Sorry.

Cruz left his number just in case something came through and thanked the man for his time. Next, he dialed the second number. After three rings, it went to voicemail.

"You have reached the voicemail of Jonathan Fisher. I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day. But chin up, leave your name and number and I will call