Razing Stakes

By TG Wolff

The first day of summer is the last day of a young accountant’s life. Colin McHenry is out for his regular run when an SUV crosses into his path, crushing him. Within hours of the hit-skip, Cleveland Homicide Detective Jesus De La Cruz finds the vehicle in the owner’s garage, who’s on vacation three time zones away. The setup is obvious, but not the hand behind it. The suspects read like a list out of a textbook: the jilted fiancée, the jealous coworker, the overlooked subordinate, the dirty client.

His plate already full, Cruz is assigned to a “special project,” a case needing to be solved quickly and quietly. Cleveland Water technicians are the targets of focused attacks. The crimes range from intimidation to assault. The locations swing between the east, west, and south sides of the city. This is definitely madness, but there is a method behind it.

The two cases are different and yet the same. Motives, opportunities, and alibis don’t point in a single direction. In these mysteries, Cruz has to think laterally, yanking down the curtain to expose the master minding the strings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005734343

Book preview

RAZING STAKES

The De La Cruz Case Files

TG Wolff

PRAISE FOR THE BOOKS

BY TG WOLFF

"TG Wolff’s Detective De La Cruz is caught in the crosshairs of solving heinous crimes, defending himself against a wrongful lawsuit, helping an abusive drug dealer’s family, thwarting his mother’s matchmaking, and falling in love. Pit against those who subvert justice and twist the law to suit their own ends, Cruz stands true while suffering his own demons—everything a hero should be. Wolff’s unsentimental and precise writing draws readers. Add Exacting Justice to your ‘to be read’ pile."

—E. B. Davis, mystery author

"Working with an incarcerated population, I deal regularly with people who have made poor life decisions but who can be inherently funny, surprisingly talented, or overly concerned. I know that simple labels of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ don’t work in the real world. In Exacting Justice, TG Wolff created characters just as messy, complicated, and dynamic as real life that keep you wanting to read page after page."

—Vincent Giammarco, Director of Behavioral Health Care

TG Wolff’s novel is for crime-fiction fans who like it action-packed and hard-edged. Written with feisty panache, it introduces Diamond, one of the most aggressive, ill-tempered, and wholly irresistible heroines to ever swagger across the page.

—David Housewright, Edgar Award-winning author

of Dead Man’s Mistress, for Widow’s Run

Copyright © 2022 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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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Razing Stakes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by the Author

Preview from The Boy from County Hell by Thomas Pluck

Preview from Forced Perspective by Colin Campbell

Preview from Moonlight Kills by Vincent Zandri

For Aunt Barb and Uncle Bill.

Thank you for indulging both the poet and engineer in me.

Without one, I wouldn’t be the other.

Without you, I would be neither.

One

Ten minutes dead. The sun shined brightly, no clouds on this first day of summer, the last day of John Doe’s life. Cleveland police Detective Jesus De La Cruz squatted next to the broken body. The warmth beneath his hand testified to the newness of death.

Two EMTs had worked to sustain the man’s life. One was at the ambulance now, tending to the tools of his trade. The other stood over the body, shaking his head at the victim. He was dead before we arrived, Detective. He just didn’t know it. The EMT peeled off his gloves, finality in a simple act. Damn it if we didn’t fight for him. In the end, he was just too crushed.

Cruz rose looking east and west, north and south. The crime scene was on the side of a road halfway between East 9th Street and East 55th Street. North Marginal was a two-way street carved between Lake Erie and a spur off I-90 called the Shoreway. Properties cut off by the Shoreway—the Coast Guard station, Burke Lakefront Airport, a private marina, a condominium complex—were accessed from North Marginal. Even at the busiest times of day, vehicular traffic here was scant. Middle of a workday, a steady stream of runners arced around the first responders.

Popular place, Cruz said, meeting the eyes of a curious runner rubbernecking as he slowed to a jog.

It is, the EMT said. Few better places downtown for running. A solid two and a half miles with no cross streets. Whoever hit him came from the east. Blew him up.

The body spoke for itself. No way it could be where it was being hit from the west. Cruz straddled the curb, which was a generous term for the inch separating the driving surface from the running path. A bicycle wouldn’t call it an obstacle. John Doe either never saw it coming or was unable to get out of the way. The impact had launched him into the airport’s tall security fence. The fence bounced him back, the one-hundred-eighty-pound body a pinball rebounding off bumpers.

John Doe had been moved, necessary and appropriate as he’d been alive when he was found.

Medical Examiner is en route, the EMT said. He’s yours now.

I’ll take care of him. Cruz studied the victim. The man was mostly skin. He had taken off his shirt on the warm day, one of the first to be hot. A shirt lay on the edge of the path, marked by an evidence tag. Two other shirts lay close to the body; one black, one yellow and stained with blood.

The running shorts covered hip to mid-thigh. He wore socks, shoes, and a fitness device on his wrist. Skin was scraped off his arms, legs, chest, and face, the asphalt unforgiving. An AirPod was in his left ear, the right one missing.

Squatting again, Cruz felt the side seams of the shorts, finding zippered pockets. Inside the right one was a slim, card-size piece of plastic, a security badge for a building on East 9th Street. The dead man smiled out of a poor-quality image. Beneath was the name Colin McHenry.

Detective, we found his phone, one of the officers securing the scene called out. It’s in good shape. Thumb print pass coded.

Open it before the ME takes him. Who found him?

A pair of runners. I parked them under the big tree. The officer pointed across North Marginal to a small grove on a manmade hill. The two men waited anxiously under the tree, watching the activity. Both were runners. Both were shirtless. Both came to attention as Cruz approached and introduced himself.

I’m Landon Chartres, this is Denny Bradford. We saw him as soon as we came around the bend. He was half in the street. The otherwise straight line of North Marginal had a large curve bumping out to make space for an exit from the Shoreway. McHenry’s body would have been screened by the fence and shrubs separating the public from the airport’s private property.

We knew someone was ahead of us, Bradford said. When you turn onto the Marginal, you can you see all the way to the curve.

Chartres nodded like a bobblehead. We saw the vehicle that must have hit him. It was the only one that passed us before we got to him. Black SUV. Part of the license plate was LDC. Those are my initials, so it caught my attention. I didn’t catch the make or model.

Bradford looked behind him, to East 9th Street. He repeatedly shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was only out of our sight to a few minutes. Would you say he had a five-minute lead, Landon?

At most. Probably more like three or four. We called 9-1-1 and pulled him out of the road. Anyone coming around the curve would have hit him. We used our shirts to try to stop the bleeding.

As a pair of witnesses went, these two were easy, answering questions before he could ask them. They wanted to talk, maybe even needed to talk. Did anyone pass you from behind, coming from East 9th going east?

The pair looked at each other, huddled like they were on a pitcher’s mound deciding on a call. It was Chartres who answered. We don’t think so, Detective, but we couldn’t swear to it. We weren’t paying that much attention. But the one that came toward us, the one with my initials, it was flying.

Is he going to make it? Bradford asked, hope in his voice. The ambulance got here fast. We kept pressure on his wounds, like they tell you to.

I’m sorry, he didn’t. As if on cue, an engine started. The ambulance pulled away without a passenger.

Bradford blinked rapidly, his eyes glassing over. Chartres fell back against the tree. Oh my God, he said. This doesn’t feel real.

Did he say anything to you? Cruz asked.

No, no, he didn’t speak, Chartres said. We talked to him. His eyes were open, and he moved his hand, but he didn’t say anything. Do you know who he is?

His name is Colin McHenry. Do you know him? Cruz showed them the security picture already in an evidence bag.

Bradford took it. He looks familiar. If he runs here regularly, we’ve probably come across him. We run a few times a week. He handed the badge back. Do you think you’ll find who killed him?

I’m going to do my best, Cruz said, the trite answer also being the truth. I’ll need your contact information. If you remember anything about the vehicle, please call. Every little bit helps. He handed cards to the pair. Neither seemed fully reconciled with the sharp turn their day had taken. One of the officers will take you back to your office.

Cruz stayed with McHenry until the ME van pulled up. There wouldn’t be an autopsy. The mysteries in his death were who and why. How was crystal clear. His clothes would be taken, tested for trace evidence that could connect the vehicle to the scene.

If he found the vehicle.

Thanks to Bradford and Chartres, Cruz had more to go on than they often did. With McHenry’s phone open, Cruz accessed his contacts. He copied down the addresses and phone numbers for McHenry’s sister and parents. The sister lived local. He would visit her, deliver the hard news personally. But first, he would stop at the office building and learn more about his man.

East 9th Street between Lakeside and St. Clair, next to Cleveland’s Federal Building, was a square, brown office structure twenty stories tall. The atrium had a high ceiling with stone floors and was cold after the heat of the midday sun. Security occupied the north wall, two men working behind a chest-high desk.

Detective Jesus De La Cruz. He led with his badge. I’m investigating a hit-skip on North Marginal. The victim had a security badge for this building. He offered the evidence bag. I need to know who he worked for.

The man who had been watching monitors indicated to his partner to change positions. The guard, Wilkins, according to his name tag, motioned Cruz to the other end of the security desk and a computer. He took the ID. Colin McHenry. He’s one that runs a few times a week, all year round. Always a wave or a word, more often when he comes than when he goes. Here it is. Eleventh floor. Harcourt Williams.

Cruz knew the name. Some days, the world is just too damn small. How do I get up there?

Sign in and I’ll call for the elevator. The time is…1:14.

Cruz printed his name, his destination, and his arrival time, then followed Wilkins to the elevator. The guard swiped a pass matching McHenry’s to activate the elevator, then pressed the up button.

All building tenants have security badges? Cruz asked. Do they scan in and out?

Wilkins pocketed his badge. The IDs work the elevators, bathroom doors, and the entrances after hours, Detective. The tenants have their own security for their suites. The elevator door opened. Good luck, sir.

Thanks. Cruz stepped into the elevator and pressed eleven. The doors closed on the atrium, opening moments later to a tasteful corporate design. The multicolored carpet in desert tones looked like overlapping blood splatter.

He shook his head, laughing at himself. It was a sad day when he saw carpeting and thought blood splatter.

The world headquarters of Harcourt Williams lay behind twin glass doors. There was a scan pad to the right for a badge, but when Cruz pulled the handle, the door opened. Explained why McHenry only carried the security badge for the building. Elevator wouldn’t have worked without it.

Cruz stepped in, trading the blood splatter carpeting for gray. Lots and lots of gray. Maybe there weren’t fifty shades, but there were at least six. Above a long black leather couch was a twist of color, bold against a black background.

He smiled.

Aurora. The artist. His woman.

Good afternoon. How can I help you?

Cruz turned to the woman behind the desk. In her fifties, her face was affable with an air of efficiency. She coordinated with the room, or it coordinated with her. Barbara Methany, the name plate said. Her professional suit matched the trim around the doors, her dark hair was dramatically swept off her face, the blue-flame scarf was an artistic touch.

Is Ansel Williams available, please?

Who can I say is calling?

Jesus De La Cruz.

Those sharp eyes flashed with recognition. She knew who he was. One moment. The keyboard clicked in rapid fire strokes. A moments later, Ansel Williams barreled up the aisle toward the reception area. Cruz had never seen him move so fast.

Aurora? The light-skinned black man was pale. My God, what did those bastards do to her? Where is she? Why haven’t you arrested them?

I’m not here about her. Cruz held up his hands, calming the man. Of course, Ansel’s first thought would be something happened to his daughter. Especially today. That’s what happened when a homicide detective showed up in a place he’d never been before. Can we talk privately?

My office. Thank you, Barbara. Please send any calls to voice mail. Ansel led the way past a village of cubicles with curious heads turning to see the visitor. The gray theme continued here with walls between offices broken up by strokes of Aurora’s brushes. Ansel stepped through the door at the end. The office had a tranquil feel, matching the man whose name was on the front door. The righthand door. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?

Cruz knew water was the right answer. It was hot outside, the weather going from spring to summer as if Mother Nature flipped a switch. He had been in the sun long enough to sweat, making water the smart choice. But couldn’t get himself to say it.

Ansel gave a knowing smile. Both, it is. Sit down. I’ll be right back. He walked down another cubicle corridor before turning left.

In the year Cruz had known Ansel Williams, his respect for the quiet man had grown into admiration. It was in the way he navigated his three adult daughters, accepted Cruz as his middle’s choice, and was ballast for his wife, a take-no-prisoners defense attorney. It was in the way he knew Cruz needed water but wanted coffee. Ansel was a man who took care of details himself. He had a C-suite, with the biggest, simplest desk Cruz had ever seen.

He checked his phone.

I keep looking at mine, too. Ansel set a trio of drinks on the round table, then closed the door and sat. You damn near gave me a heart attack. I tell myself not to worry. Catherine will take that inquiry board apart before she would let them hurt our daughter. Are you here to wait for the verdict with me or is there another occasion that brings you to the eleventh floor?

From one bad topic to another. You have a man working for you, Colin McHenry.

Yes, Ansel said, frowning. He’s one of our senior account managers. Excellent accountant, excellent manager. Is he in trouble?

I’m sorry, he was hit by a car while running. He didn’t survive.

Colin? Our Colin? Ansel began shaking his head. No. Impossible. He was just here. In that chair.

He was running along the Marginal when a vehicle struck him. He died at the scene. Cruz reached across the table and opened the bottle of water. Drink a little.

Ansel did as he was told, his gaze drifting out the window to the city. Was it an accident?

Middle of the day. Dry road. The driver left the scene. That makes it criminal.

But was it, you know, an accident or intentional? You’re a homicide detective. If it were an accident, you wouldn’t be here.

It’s my job to determine if it was an accident. Middle of the day. Dry road. Only secluded spot on three miles of road. I have questions.

Ansel’s gaze snapped back to Cruz. You have questions. I have questions. Everyone will have questions. What do I tell them? My staff.

The facts. Colin was struck and killed while running. Police are investigating. Don’t speculate. He finished the water, seeing Ansel needed the time to process. Do you know his sister, Caitlin?

No, some of the others might. Jesus, Ansel said suddenly, one of two people who called him by his given name. Barbara is his aunt. How do I tell her?

Cruz rested his hand on Ansel’s forearm. You don’t. I do. Call her in.

In less than two minutes, Barbara Methany’s life was changed forever. But then, it had changed a half hour before, she just hadn’t known it. Cruz waited patiently as Ansel soothed the grieving woman, then he answered the questions he could.

Then it was Barbara’s turn. Colin lives with his sister, Caitlin. He has for the last few weeks, since he called off his engagement. Oh, that poor boy. He just couldn’t catch a break lately. I…I have to call my sister, Colin’s mother.

Let me take you home, Ansel said, then he looked to Cruz. Should I tell everyone, before we leave?

His parents and sister need to know first, Barbara said, taking the choice from him.

Fifteen minutes later, Cruz sat in front of a new townhouse in an old neighborhood. Caitlin McHenry was an instructor in graphic arts at Cuyahoga Community College. Classes were not in session, but Caitlin wasn’t home. The streets of this Tremont neighborhood were empty, waiting for residents to return. He had questions he needed to ask and, if her aunt hadn’t reached her, he would deliver the news.

Cruz put the car in gear. Worry crept in on him as he left the neighborhood. Aurora, a first-grade teacher, had been suspended back in February. It was because of his job, not hers, but few knew the truth. Aurora had been ashamed, then sad, now…he wasn’t sure. She began working at their favorite bar, bartending four nights a week. Sadly, she made more than when she taught. She painted, too. After finishing a mural commissioned for a baby’s room, project after project seemed to fall in her lap. The work hadn’t done much to soften the blow of being accused of having an inappropriate relationship with a student.

Cruz checked the time. Again. He should have gone with her. Too late now. He parked his car and made his way to homicide.

Any word, Cruz? Sonja was homicide’s gatekeeper and knew everything. Everybody’s everything.

Not yet. He knocked twice on her desk, his way of saying thanks for asking. He hit the coffeepot and the box of cookies before nudging his laptop back to life. He started with the 9-1-1 logs. The call from Landon Chartres came in at 11:54.

Next, Cruz navigated to the files for the traffic cameras. The two intersections sandwiching the assault on Colin McHenry were not busy enough to warrant cameras, but they were the closest to some high-valued assets, which justified the investment. He ran through footage until the clock in the lower left corner read Time 11:30:00. He noted the time, plate, make, and model of each vehicle turning on or off North Marginal at East 9th Street.

There it was. LDC 3495. Black Chevy Tahoe turned right from East 9th onto North Marginal. Timestamp 11:35:24. Except, based on the time of the 9-1-1 call, the vehicle that struck McHenry wouldn’t be there for another ten to fifteen minutes. And it was going the wrong way.

The same Chevy Tahoe turned right from North Marginal to East 9th at 11:37:56. Image frozen, Cruz double checked the plate. There was no mistake. This was the same vehicle that turned onto the Marginal two and a half minutes prior. Where had it gone?

Turning right onto East 9th didn’t provide a lot of options. Less than a quarter mile from water, you either turned left immediately, going to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Great Lakes Science Center, and FirstEnergy (aka Cleveland Browns) Stadium, or you turned around.

Which the Tahoe did. The north facing camera caught the SUV pulling a U-turn, coming back to the intersection, and turning back onto North Marginal. Timestamp 11:39:29.

It came back four minutes later, turning left on East 9th.

What the fuck? Cruz reversed the footage and watched again, this time focusing on pedestrians. A light parade of tourists walked down the hill to the destinations. Some wore testaments to their favorite rockers. Others pushed strollers, held little hands, or carried excited children on their shoulders.

A runner wove between the staggered groups. Not McHenry. Then another, this one female. Five runners later, Cruz had a match. 11:38:15. A minute later, the SUV made the turn. It was the right time, and the plate, but it was heading the wrong way. The physical evidence at the scene indicated the impact came from the east. At 11:42:27 a pair of runners, male, made the turn onto the long stretch. Chartres and Bradford, both wearing shirts, were four minutes behind McHenry. The black SUV raced back through the intersection, forcing a pair of women crossing to jump back on the sidewalk. The time was 11:50:13.

Cruz opened a new screen and brought up the state database for license plates. LDC 3495 was confirmed as a 2018 Chevy Tahoe, owned by Heath Owens of Shaker Heights. Cruz worked quickly to secure the search warrant and the cooperation of the Shaker Heights police.

Buell, he called to the youngest and newest member of their department. Up for issuing a search warrant?

Yes, sir. She hastily abandoned her own computer and joined him.

The neighborhood was the kind with perfect lawns and weeded flowerbeds. This was a good neighborhood, a safe street. Cruz was familiar with the area; Ansel and Catherine, his future in-laws, lived a few streets over. Cruz and Buell were joined by an officer with the Shaker Heights department. Three houses from the end was their target. They knocked on the front door, loud and clear about their presence.

No answer.

Through the windows, the front room appeared neat, well furnished, and empty. The three rounded to the back of the house, where the garage faced. Mr. Owens was about to get notified by his security system when they broke in.

What are you doing there? A woman looked over the privacy fence.

Cruz held up his badge. Detective Jesus De La Cruz. We’re looking for Mr. Heath Owens.

Heath and Shari are in Seattle. They left three days ago. Her eyes darted from him, to Buell, to the uniform. Is there a problem?

Their vehicle was involved in an incident. We have a warrant to search it. Do you have access to the garage?

I do, but I want to call them. Just a minute. I’ll be right over. The woman disappeared.

Talk about your solid alibi, Buell murmured.

Rock solid, Cruz said. We’re looking at a stolen vehicle. We’ll need to find out who knew they were out of town.

It’s going to be a long list, Detective, the Shaker cop said. This is a tight neighborhood. Most families have lived here for ten, twenty years. Here she comes.

The woman hurrying up the driveway was dressed to work out, her hair clipped back off her face. She held a phone in her hand, speaking loudly. I don’t know what’s going on Shari, I told you. Just wait a minute. Officers, this is Shari Owens.

Cruz took the phone. Mrs. Owens, this is Detective De La Cruz, Cleveland police. A vehicle with the license plate registered to your husband was involved in an accident today.

Today? Are you saying someone stole our car? My husband just came in. The call switched to speaker phone. Heath, it’s the police, they say our car was in an accident today.

Impossible, her husband said.

Cruz kept the conversation on task. Mr. and Mrs. Owens, we have a search warrant for the vehicle. Your neighbor indicated she can open the garage.

Emma, let them in, Heath Owens said. You know the code.

Cruz handed the phone back. Your name?

Emma Randolph. She went to the keypad mounted on the garage door frame, holding the phone flat and calling a play-by-play for the Owenses. "The garage door is going up and…whew both cars are there."

It was not what Cruz expected. He verified the plate against a printed image from the camera. Circling the truck, he examined the grill, and then the sides, finding dents in both. This is the vehicle.

It’s been washed recently, Buell said from the rear. Detergent streaks on the back.

Heath, did you wash the Tahoe before you left? Emma asked.

No. I can’t remember the last time I had it washed.

Cruz returned to the rear of the vehicle where Emma stood with the phone. Who else has the code to the garage?

Shari Owens answered. Several of the neighbors, their families. Six, maybe seven people.

We are going to need a list. What about keys to the house?

No one. You don’t need it if you have the garage code.

Did you take your car keys with you?

No, Heath said. We Ubered to the airport. I left my keys on the kitchen counter. You can check. Emma, take them into the kitchen. They should be in the apple bowl.

The search warrant didn’t cover the house, but it didn’t need to with the owner’s permission. Ms. Randolph, would you recognize if anything was missing from the house?

Um, no, but I can Facetime Shari and carry her through.

Do that Emma, Shari said. Please. I can’t believe someone took our car.

Her husband scoffed. I can’t believe they put it back.

What is going on here? The demand came from the driveway and an unseen woman.

Buell left her position to meet the newcomer. Ladies, stay back. This is a police matter.

Police matter? There must be a mistake, a different female voice said.

The Shaker cop left the garage for the approaching women. Cruz followed, Emma walking with him. Three women were blocked by Buell and the Shaker cop, stopped between the garage and Emma Randolph’s home. The women were alike in dignity and style. It was difficult to differentiate between them. All were shades of blonde. All were average height. All looked like they invested time and money in clothes, makeup, and fitness.

What’s going on here? asked the one on the right, the third voice. Emma, what’s happened?

Cruz held up a hand, stalling the neighborhood welcoming committee. "Ms. Randolph,