Playing Dead by T.G. Wolff

Author:T.G. Wolff [Wolff, TG]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

Artie Sloan had come through with the list. On it were the men and women who were considered as defense witnesses. There were a few cops, some retired. There was McCracken’s family, including his estranged son and former wife. Cruz would look up the individuals on the remote chance that one of these people was one of their suspects, either Jack Napier or the man who dumped Carter’s body. Hoping to shortcut to the result, Cruz prioritized the woman Artie said McCracken had been closest to. Laura McCracken Jones worked at a suburban pediatrician’s office. A short woman, she wore a white long-sleeve shirt under a colorful scrub covered in happy puppy dogs.

Cruz followed her into a small consultation room.

“Thank you for coming, Detective,” she said as she closed the door. “Mr. Sloan called this morning, but he didn’t have a lot of information. I am hoping you can tell me what happened to Uncle Will.” Slowly, she sank into the chair opposite Cruz.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Jones. Your uncle’s body was found under a bridge on a seldom used road.”

“How…how did he die?” Her breathy voice broke.

“I am waiting for the ME’s report.”

She studied him. “You are trying not to say something.”

He didn’t deny it. “The scene was set, like on a stage. I’m hesitant to draw conclusions based on the surface because those would be the conclusions his killer wants us to come to.”

She nodded, acknowledging what he said, but she was still thinking. “It has to be bad. I…I would rather you tell me than read it online.”

Cruz respected her request. He was brief in his description and omitted the reference to the playing card.

“He owned one of those halberds,” Mrs. Jones said, dabbing tears with her sleeve. “My uncle has a small collection of weapons. I could see if it’s missing. Would you like to go to his house?”

In the time Mrs. Jones took to arrange an early end to her day, Cruz checked in at Homicide and then with the ME’s office. A visit was in his very near future.

McCracken’s home was on a well-kept street in Cleveland’s West Park neighborhood. Mrs. Jones parked in the driveway; Cruz on the street in front of the house. She unlocked the front door but waited for Cruz before going in.

The front of the house was dominated by a picture window centered over the wide porch. To the left of the window was a high-security door of the type a cop would choose for his home.

He stepped inside and faced the living room. It was a man’s space. Large, dark leather furniture was big on comfort, short on tables. The opposite wall held a television wider than Cruz’s wingspan. Everything was nice. And new.

Too nice and too new.

He inhaled deeply as he inventoried everything that dirty money had bought.

“I know what the police are saying about my uncle, everyone knows. But they’re wrong.” Mrs. Jones closed the door. “I don’t understand how you could accuse him of being the very thing he spent his life working against.

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