Chapter 3 #2
Benaiah huffed derisively, helping himself to another mouthful of coffee.
“The money’s been gone for months. The account where the transfers were made has been closed.
The police shared that these occurrences are unfortunately common among the elderly.
Thousands of people are scammed monthly and yearly.
Education is the best tool against further abuse.
They promised the case would pass to a team that investigates these sorts of things, but we shouldn’t hold our breath.
The likelihood of getting the money back is slim.
They’re working on it.” He put air quotes around the last three words, clearly not believing the claim.
He set his mug down and smoothed his hands over his pants.
“Please, Mr. Krause. You have to do something. They didn’t seem to care that a stranger showed up at a secure nursing home posing as my son.
They said the investigative team would follow up, but they have hundreds of similar cases, so I needed to cut my losses.
My father isn’t poor, but thirty thousand dollars isn’t pocket change.
I can’t let this go. I can’t wait for the police to decide they give half a patootie five years from now.
Chances are, I won’t hear from them again.
Dad will become a statistic. Nothing more. ”
He was right to be upset. In most cases, I would have agreed with the police’s assessment—as much as it galled me to do so—but Benaiah’s case had more depth.
An interesting spin. This wasn’t a phone call from a desperate grandson seeking immediate cash for a made-up reason.
This wasn’t a quick turnaround. Whoever was involved had stepped up their game.
Hunted, studied, and targeted their victim.
Not only had they visited Elwood Scarrow face-to-face—a risky endeavor—but they had used bank transfers and wires to procure far more than a few hundred bucks.
“I’ll look into it,” I said after much contemplation.
Benaiah pressed his hands together in prayer formation. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Krause.”
“I won’t make promises, either. Like the police said, I doubt I can get your father’s money back, but I’ll poke around and see what I can find.”
We spent the next half hour sorting out the paperwork.
Benaiah paid the retainer and promised to meet me the following morning at Evergreen Estate.
I wanted Tallus present when I talked to Elwood Scarrow.
Benaiah claimed his father was mentally agile, but on the off chance he was embellishing, my boyfriend had more patience.
I also needed time to consider what we might be able to do that the police hadn’t.
The case might go nowhere, but at least it wasn’t a cheating spouse.
***
I arrived at the Toronto Police Headquarters building thirty minutes before Tallus’s shift was due to end.
My intention was to sit tight in the Jeep and wait, but my mind drifted to the previous night, dinner at Tallus’s parents’, the multiple drinks I’d consumed, and the cigarette I’d smoked after escaping to take a phone call.
Like always, Tallus refused to shine a light on my addictions, but the guilt that rose with my lack of control compounded each time I reached for the bottle or bought a new pack of smokes.
My shame burned under the surface of my skin.
I heard Bernice say, Weddings, sweetheart.
Tallus tells me you have no interest in getting married.
It’s a shame, really. It doesn’t have to be a fanfare. It can be simple.
I snorted. Simple and Diem Krause did not go together. Besides, I’d asked Tallus if he wanted more, and he’d told me no. He swore that what we had was enough. He was happy.
We’d discussed weddings and my stance on the whole fanfare, and Tallus had made it seem like he had no burning desire to tie the knot either. What we have is good enough, he’d told me.
Then why did it feel like it wasn’t?
Did Tallus say something different to his mother?
Deep down, was he disappointed? My grandfather’s ring hung on a chain around his neck.
He never took it off and liked to absently fondle it while he watched TV.
It was a symbol of my commitment. Of my love.
That ring meant more to me than a wedding ever would.
Did he know that? Did he understand how much I loved him?
Was it no longer enough?
It’s enough, D. You’re enough.
I believed him, so why couldn’t I let it go?
The more I stewed, the more powerful the itch to drink and smoke and escape. Would Tallus want more if I were willing to give more? Was he agreeable for the sake of my feelings?
Tallus deserved a man with both feet firmly planted on the ground. Not a struggling addict who could barely converse with his parents over Sunday dinner. I wanted to be that man.
Costa Ruiz’s words from six months ago came back to me.
Like they often did during times of self-reproach and doubt.
We had stood in the covered parking lot at the hospital.
He had helped Tallus rescue me after I’d been kidnapped from a high-profile syndicate that the police had been hunting for years.
I was not in great shape that afternoon.
Edges frayed. Addictions ripe and loud and screaming mercilessly in my ears.
Tallus’s near-death had hit hard, and I crashed into a bottle of liquor so fast I’d not been able to find my way out since.
I’d gone from long bouts of sobriety to nightly drinking. I’d gone from months of no cigarettes to a pack and a half a week. I wanted to let go of both but didn’t know how.
Ruiz claimed he knew a guy who might be willing to help. Not a therapist—I had one of those—but someone intimately acquainted with addiction. All I had to do was ask, he’d said.
All I had to do was man the fuck up and make a phone call. Admit I was too weak to do it on my own.
I’d sat on that phone call for months, unable to take action. Unable to admit that I needed help. That I couldn’t do it alone. I was familiar with the Twelve Steps from my time in rehab, and Step One was key to getting a person through the door.
“I am powerless over alcohol,” I whispered into the empty Jeep. “Alcohol has made me its bitch.” I huffed humorlessly.
Echo cocked her head to the side as though trying to understand the strange human words. I scratched her ear, and she leaned into the touch, tongue darting out to lick my wrist.
“I know. I own it, but what the fuck am I doing about it? Nothing. That’s what.”
I checked the time. I still had fifteen minutes before Tallus was done with work. With the insatiable urge to drink burning and itching under my skin and determination so weak it might not stick around long, I said to Echo, “What do you think, girl? Should we man up and go talk to him?”
She chuffed her opinion as though she had tapped into my brain and read my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
Another chuff.
“Fine. Can’t hurt, right? For Tallus.”
Echo recognized Tallus’s name and glanced around as though seeking her other daddy.
“Soon. Let’s take a quick walk before he’s done.” I killed the engine, let out a shaky breath, and instead of finding my smokes—which I desperately fucking wanted—I popped a piece of gum and got out, heading inside the building.
Costa Ruiz’s office was in the bowels of the Toronto Police Headquarters building.
He was the department’s information technology specialist and also Tallus’s cousin.
The man was brilliantly smart and loyal to a fault.
We had never been friends, but since Tallus had repaired his relationship with Ruiz a while back, I’d developed a neutral sort of respect for him.
The man had put his job on the line to help Tallus, and without his forward thinking, my boyfriend would have died.
The elevator let Echo and me out in a close, stuffy corridor. Boxed fluorescent lights lined the ceiling and cast dull illumination along the gray concrete walls. Most doors were closed, and an eerie graveyard silence made me wonder if anyone was around.
Faint light spilled from an open door near the far end of the hallway. The only sign of life. As I approached, the droning hum of cooling fans and the scent of warm plastic filled the air. The dungeon’s lone occupant was home.
Ruiz sat behind an L-shaped desk, surrounded by several computer screens, pounding on three separate keyboards.
A pen, clamped between his teeth, bounced up and down.
Another was wedged behind his ear. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to the elbows, showing off heavily tattooed arms. His black hair was slick and stiff with product. His jaw sported end-of-the-day stubble.
I hadn’t said a word or made a noise, but Ruiz must have sensed my presence and mumbled from around the pen, “Just a second.”
More typing. More crunching on the plastic casing of the pen.
I noted a few dusty photographs of his family among the debris.
Banker boxes lined one wall, stacked precariously high in places, threatening to topple.
The disorderly state of the office felt more like a statement about his chaotic life than an indication of his cleaning habits.
Ruiz might have taken longer doing whatever it was he was doing if Echo hadn’t sneezed, her dog tags tinkling.
Jolting around in his fancy desk chair, Ruiz seemed less startled to find a canine in his office than he was at seeing my oversized frame filling the doorway. Fair enough. I was likely at the bottom of his list of expected guests.
He spat the pen he’d been chewing onto a pile of paperwork and tilted his head to the side. “Krause? The fuck are you doing here?”
Echo chuffed, as though insulted at not being noticed, and Ruiz grinned.
“Hey, girl. I see you too.” He held out his hand. “It’s been ages. Come here and have a scratch from Uncle Costa.”
“No petting. She’s working.” Echo knew the rules and remained seated at my feet, tongue lolling, eyes squinting with her happy dog smile.
“Oh. Right.” Ruiz sat back, crossed his arms, and eyed me skeptically. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Please tell me my cousin hasn’t gotten himself in trouble again. I’m getting tired of rescuing his ass.”
“He’s fine. This is for… I’m here because…”
I looked everywhere but at the cocky, self-assured IT specialist as I tried and failed to find the right words.
My determination from ten minutes ago vanished, and I instantly regretted my decision to seek Ruiz out, remembering why I’d put it off for this long.
It meant voicing the problem and owning my failures. Out loud. To another human being.
Outside of Dr. Peterson and Tallus, I didn’t do well when it came to discussing flaws. Admitting I was an alcoholic left a bad taste in my mouth—and, ironically, made me want to reach for the bottle.
“I, um…”
Ruiz arched a brow.
Fuck. Fuck it.
I went for broke. “Do you have that number?”
“Number?”
“The…” Goddammit. Why did I have to explain? Why couldn’t he remember? “At the hospital, you said… You said you knew someone… who could help me.”
When Ruiz continued to stare, I reluctantly added, “With my… addictions.” The last word came out so quietly, I was surprised he heard it.
His features softened, and he uncrossed his arms. It made me want to punch a wall. I didn’t want pity.
“Things aren’t going so well, huh?”
“Would I be here if things were peachy?”
“Don’t bite the head off the guy willing to help you, Krause.”
He was right, and I muttered an apology, still unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.
“Are you serious about getting sober?”
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. I was always serious, not that it had gotten me far.
He studied me for a long time before indicating a plastic chair wedged into the corner of the room. “Pull up a seat. I need to make a phone call. Before I refer you to someone, I need to be sure he’s on board too.”
I shifted the chair next to the door and sat. The office wasn’t small, but it was congested with all the machinery and boxes, and I was a man who needed more personal space than most. Echo placed herself between my thighs, leaning heavily against my leg. Her weight helped keep me grounded.
While Ruiz made a call on his cell, Echo nudged my hand with her wet nose. I stroked her fur and tried not to think about what I was giving up by doing this and instead tried to focus on what I might gain.
“Hey. It’s me.” The heat of Ruiz’s gaze seared my face as he talked jovially to whoever was on the other end of the line. “No, asshole. I called you because I wanted to talk to you. If I wanted to talk to my boy,” he paused a long time, rolling a hand, before adding, “friend, I’d have called him.”
“Whatever. There was a pause, dumbass. You’re just jealous.” Ruiz chuckled and listened to the other person for a time before sobering and saying. “Yeah. So, here’s the thing. I have a friend who needs a friend. He’s a struggling addict, and he wants to get sober.”
My skin burned with shame at the word struggling, and I wanted to bark, I’m not struggling, asshole, but who was I kidding?
I’d basically admitted it to myself, but hearing someone else advertise my failures so bluntly hurt more than I expected.
Was that how I would be defined from now on? The struggling addict.
Such a winner.
“It’s Krause. Yes, Diem Krause.” A long pause ensued, and where the pause from earlier had been intentional and done comedically, this one was serious. Extensive. Ruiz remained silent, listening to the other person talk. Did they know me? Were they judging me?
Was it too late to change my mind and back out?
Ruiz finally spoke. “So you’re cool if I give him your number?” He nodded a few times as he rocked side to side in his desk chair, fiddling with the pen he’d been chewing on upon my arrival. “Yeah, I’ll tell him.”
They talked a minute longer before saying goodbye.
Ruiz tossed the phone on the desk and dug around until he located a dwindling stack of Post-its. Using his desecrated pen, he jotted a name and number on the yellow pad before tearing off the top sheet and offering it out.
I hesitated before taking the paper, but when I reached for it, Ruiz held it back.
Before I could snarl and ask what the fuck, he said, “He’s a decent guy and willing to help, but I can promise you, Krause, if you’re an asshole with him, you’ll be on your own. He’s not going to put up with your shit.”
My reputation at the department preceded me. I clenched my jaw and nodded, resisting the urge to snap something ugly.
Ruiz relinquished the paper, and I glanced at the name he’d written.
My entire body sagged. Fuck my life. I should have known it would be the cocky homicide detective I’d never gotten along with. Of all fucking people, it had to be Aslan fucking Doyle.