The Butcher's Granddaughter

by Michael Lion

  He looked up like that should have had some effect on me. It didn’t. He hadn’t seen her in the morgue.

  “You were in love,” I said without emotion. “You buy her the rock she’s got on her finger?”

  “Yes. And asked her to marry me.” His eyes suddenly cleared. “Are you from that fucking skunk McMeyers!? That cheap bastard! Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

  I sat silently for a minute as if I were considering his offer. It took me a minute, but I got it. “He must be your wife’s divorce attorney. You still married, Mr. Parenti?”

  He squared up the corners of the photo with the edge of his desk. It seemed to be bothering him less and less. “Yes. For twelve years.”

  “Planning on a life of bigamy?”

  He tapped the photo. “This only buys you so much disrespect, you little scrap of shit. Don’t push it. The divorce is in the works. It’s only a matter of time. She’s a socialite and doesn’t give a damn about anything as long as she gets a comfortable settlement, which I’m more than happy to bestow in exchange for having her out of my life.”

  “A shrew for a hooker. Doesn’t seem like a good trade to me. How come you bounced so hard for the redhead?”

  He shrugged, frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe she gave me what I needed. What my ‘shrew,’ as you so aptly put it, couldn’t.”

  “Or wouldn’t.”

  “Call me a pedophile. She’s a nice girl. She didn’t belong with that whore Cynthia.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that his secretary hadn’t told him that Josephine was dead. I didn’t quite know what to do with that. I stabbed. “Did she ever mention anyone whose last name was Nguyen?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I was tired of threatening him with the photo, so I pursed my lips and tried to think of something I hadn’t asked him.

  “I want you to know,” he started, filling space, “that if it was your purpose to come here and frighten me, you’ve done a stupendous job. However, I was wondering if you’d gotten enough information to turn those pictures over to me. As I said, I’m more than happy to give my wife a healthy settlement, but neither do I want to give her any more ammunition than she already has.”

  “Not yet. What did Ione say when you asked her to marry you?”

  “She said yes. But she said there was something she had to take care of first. There’s no easy way off that ship. I assumed it was some underhanded way to sneak away in the middle of the night.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “It would have been a week today. She told me to meet her here, tomorrow, and we’d be off. To get married, I mean.” He looked longingly at the scotch. I got up and poured him another sock. He took this one in two, slowing down.

  A week ago. Wednesday. The same night I spent saving the life of a little lost prostitute. “She would have had to buy her way off,” I said. “Any idea how she would do that? She must have been making money, but not enough to buy off future value from Cynthia Ming. Unless you were maybe helping her.”

  If he knew anything, he hid it well. He shook his head and then we sat in silence. I thought up questions while noticing that he had taken an interest in the clock. “Did she have any friends that you knew of?”

  He stared at the empty highball glass like it was a crystal ball. “Girlfriends, I assume. None of her johns were close to her...not like I was. I never saw her around anyone else, but I never saw her except on the Azure Mosaic.”

  “Did she keep company with any girl more than the others? You know, seem to prefer hanging out with one or two?”

  “No...wait, yes. Come to think of it, there was a blond. Tall girl, very pretty—I mean, they all were—I can’t remember her name. The name she used, that is.”

  I nodded toward his desk. “She in the photo?”

  He studied it. “No. Not obviously. There’s a lot of girls facing away from the camera.”

  He sat there fingering the photograph while I stared at him. He’d tripped over his own tongue, but I’d be damned if I could see where. Maybe he was, after all, just a john caught in a bad place. There was only one thing left to do, so I played my hole card. “Mr. Parenti, I have some bad news for you. Josephine King, the girl you know as Ione, is dead. She has been since the day after she agreed to marry you.”

  There were several possible reactions to that, but I didn’t think panic was one of them. The blood drained out his face and he clawed open the drawer for the little .22. I was over the desk with my piece out and a hand on his throat before he could even touch it. “Close it, fucker, close it!” I almost yelled, pushing the .45’s barrel against his forehead. He was shaking and almost crying. “Now back off.”

  I relaxed my grip on his throat as he pushed himself backward away from the desk. With my free hand I opened the drawer and took out the little gun and tossed it behind me. Lorena’s voice suddenly came over the intercom. “Mr. Parenti, is everything alright? Should I call the police?”

  I hit the reply button and said, “Only if you want a bigger mess than you’ve already got.”

  Parenti said, with haunting clarity, “Everything is fine, Ms. Vaccotti.” The empty click of the intercom echoed through the office.

  His eyes seemed to clear a little as I backed off from the desk. He was suddenly very interested in the picture again. He rolled back up to the desk and leaned over and peered at the upper left corner. There was something almost eerie in his demeanor, like he’d suffered a personality shift. “That blonde?” he suggested, still looking at the photo.

  “The one that Josephine hung out with?”

  He nodded. “Right here. Coming out of the cabin. It’s a little blurry, but I’m sure that’s her.” He pushed the photo across the desk at me, his finger on the surface where I was supposed to look.

  The girl was in motion, her blonde hair a gold haze as it whipped around her head, the white cotton sundress framed in the darkness of a cabin doorway. She was bringing a blurred hand up to her face, probably to sweep her hair away. If the picture had been taken a split-second later, her hand would have killed any chance of identifying her. But there was no mistaking the face.

  Coming out onto the deck of the Azure Mosaic, in perfect three-quarter profile, was Denise Waterston.

  This time he got to watch the blood drain from my face. I managed, “But how did—”

  And then the fire alarm went off.

  Chapter 14

  I stood up casually and said, “Fire escape?”

  He paused. I pointed the .45 at his mouth.

  “Panel door right of the elevator,” he said quickly.

  I made a couple of steps toward the door, picked up the little pistol on the carpet and emptied it, dropping the piece and keeping the shells. Then I spun back, pulling the envelope containing the negatives out of my coat, along with my Zippo. “Almost forgot. Never let it be said I welsh on a deal.” I touched the flame to a corner of the manila and dropped it in front of him, leaving him behind his desk trying to find something to smother the fire with.

  The concrete and steel fire stairs were a Spartan contrast to the Sterling Plaza’s lush interior. I crept slowly down two flights to the fifth floor and froze on the landing as the alarm suddenly died in mid-shriek. A tiny squeak echoed up the stairwell. Another brief wait brought the clatter of stiff-soled shoes making their way up the stairs, pausing now and then, punctuated by the sound of locks being tested and doors opening and closing. They tap-danced up the metal stairs, checking the building floor-by-floor. I waited for the next door-squeak and matched it, popping through the fifth-floor fire door and into a hallway full of unoccupied suites that smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. Shiny new doors with brass levers for handles lined the wall opposite a bank of elevators. I eased the fire door shut and listened to my breath echo quietly through the hallway.

  Another door was tested, and I could feel the vibrations of feet one floor below.

  I trained the .45’s frontsight at che
st level and backed down the hall, testing doors. They were all unlocked, all closed. I left them that way. When I got to the elevator bank, I pressed the brushed brass call button, then leaned across and pushed the heavy oak door to the empty suite directly opposite. It floated open silently on my left. On my right, a chime went off and the elevator doors yawned at me. I quickly reached inside and pressed the button for the lobby, blocking the elevator doors with a foot. I took a deep breath and held it.

  The fire door became crystal clear as my concentration razored in over the pistol’s sights. The first thing anybody who opened that fire exit would see was a man holding a gun at their chest, about to get into that elevator at all costs.

  My patience wasn’t tested. No sooner had the elevator door started to fight against my foot than the stairwell suddenly gaped open. No one was standing there. A split-second later an Asian head the size of a beachball and with as much hair, peeked around the jamb. I put three slugs through the doorway and one into the wall where I estimated the beachball would be, and tumbled to my left into the empty suite.

  I spun around prone on the ground and brushed the door shut with my gun hand as a volley of bullets and Vietnamese tore through the hallway. Then suddenly it was quiet.

  I lay prone in the dim afternoon light of the office, pistol trained up at the middle of the door, and waited. Across the hall, the bell chimed and the elevator slid shut. That was the cue.

  Two whispering voices crept down the hall. Through the crack beneath the door I watched two pairs of expensive wingtips stop with their heels toward me, watching to see which way the elevator went. They grunted to each other and scrambled away. I dropped the barrel to the carpet and let out the breath.

  I stood up and scoped the room. None of the tall, tinted windows opened more than a few inches, satisfying insurance policies and building codes. The suite faced the alley behind the building, affording an opulent view of the bank buildings a block away and nothing else, so I went across the hall and broke into an opposite office and peered down onto Beverly Boulevard.

  The beachball and a crony were getting into a generic silver Buick Regal. The crony was a white guy and vaguely reminded me of someone. He turned toward the building before sliding into the driver’s seat. Huge, expensive sunglasses hid his face. Then he slipped from sight.

  Tanya was nowhere. And she had my bike.

  I stuffed the piece under my jacket and watched the Buick pull away from the curb and make a left on Wilshire. They didn’t look like they were in a big hurry to tell anybody they had lost me again.

  I waited until they were good and gone, then left the suite and shuffled carefully down the fire stairs, skipping the lobby and dropping down into the parking garage. The only cars there were a ’74 Vega, a sexy little Mazda Miyata, and a large 800 Series BMW. That would be the janitor, Miss Vaccotti, and Big Ben Parenti. I was worried about Tanya, but before I could wonder where she might wind up, Parenti busted out of the stairwell into the garage. I stumbled out of sight behind a concrete pylon in the corner and watched him fumble through his pockets. He got his keys out but in the process dropped his wallet, then dropped his keys trying to pick up the wallet. He was breathing heavily, and his head was a red blister sticking out of his collar. He managed to open the door without stepping on the two-thousand-dollar raincoat he had draped over one arm. He popped the rear locks and was tossing the raincoat into the back seat when a plane ticket fell out of it and slid under the car. Parenti swore like he’d dropped a brick on his foot, and dirtied up his suit fishing it out from beneath the trunk. As he struggled back to his feet and heaved his bulk into the driver’s seat, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I realized I was looking at man in fear for his life. And something I had said put that fear into him.

  The creepy feeling that I was watching a dead man kept me from running up and shoving the gun through the window and demanding crazy things. Images drenched in confusion flashed through my head as I followed the BMW’s brake lights up the ramp and out of the garage. I took a deep breath and recalled Song’s death-mask face: the splinter shoved into her brain, the destroyed beauty. It cleared my head and I stepped out from behind the pylon. Tires squealed around some distant corner.

  For the first time in my life I was completely lost. But I knew I had just found the caboose on a very big train.

  “United Airlines Reservations, thank you for waiting. This is Ginger. How may I help you?”

  Ginger waited a second while I fished a business card from my pocket that I’d kyped from Parenti’s reception desk. “Um, yes, I’m sorry. My name is Parenti, Ben Parenti. My secretary made some reservations for me and I’m afraid I’ve lost the tickets. Could you help me?”

  The sound of fingers punching keyboards floated across the line and created an appropriate backdrop for Ginger’s masculine and unattractive voice. “Certainly, Mr. Parenti. How do you spell your last name?”

  I spelled. Keys ticked.

  “And what was your destination, sir?”

  She had me there. I stabbed. “Well, it was supposed to be...to New York, but like I said, my secretary—”

  “One moment, Mr. Parenti.” More typing. “I’m sorry, sir, but I show nothing under that name. Are you sure you gave me the correct spel—”

  I hung up, already flipping through the Yellow Pages for another major flyer. I dialed.

  “American Airlines Reservations, thank you for holding. This is Brenda. May I help you?” This voice was metallic and efficient, but feminine in a Space Odyssey sort of way.

  “Ben Parenti here,” I started, and gave her the spiel. She didn’t ask me my destination.

  A couple of seconds’ silence, except for the ubiquitous key chattering, and she was back. “Yes sir, Mr. Parenti. Flying into Honolulu International at—”

  Hung up. I was curled around the phone in the corner of a bar just off Wilshire, about ten blocks west of the Sterling Plaza. The bar itself was long and mahogany and built to stand at and drink, not sit around and talk. Everything else was dark wood and tarnished brass, and the phone booth had about four generations of graffiti carved into it. I ordered a beer and some chili fries and called back United Airlines. I made reservations and gave the reservationist a fake address and phone number.

  I started in on the fries and beer and tried to think of reasons why wily old Benjamin would be flitting off on unplanned vacations with a look on his face like he was passing a spiny animal. While I was thinking about that, my mind started to wander and I pulled out the other photo that Noddy had blown up from the locket. I laid it on the counter and stared at it, stuffing fries into my mouth more and more slowly. The grease finally reminded me of Caz and I decided to use the phone, since it was handy.

  The Los Angeles Police Department is home to the busiest telephone switchboard in the country, handling an average of one call every four seconds, twenty-four hours a day. The 911 Emergency line has been known to put rape victims on hold while the crime is in progress. I had been on hold for about twenty-five minutes when a deep, impatient voice came on and said, “Department?”

  “Homicide.”

  Hold for another ten minutes, constantly being reminded by a recorded voice that my call would be handled in the order it was received. I watched traffic outside the bar’s huge front window, half-expecting Tanya to come cruising by like a Barbie doll lost at a biker convention.

  Click. “Homicide.”

  “Detective Sergeant Luzana Cazares.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “You wouldn’t be interested,” I said. “But she would, trust me.”

  A palm went over the receiver, followed by some mumbling. I glanced at the clock over the bar and started counting off two minutes. The bartender, a guy on the bad side of fifty with a flour-sack gut and no tan, wandered by and motioned at the empty beer bottle. I nodded and heard the click of another transfer that probably went to a phone less than twelve feet away.

  “Cazares.”

  “H
ello, beautiful.”

  I heard what had to be coffee being spilled and then a chair scraped along the floor and hit something hollow and metal, a desk or a trash can. Caz swore in general and then swore at me.

  “Goddamnit, Bird! Where the fuck are you?” Her breathing was labored. I could picture her face, an exquisite red, a mouth spraying little flecks of spit all over the receiver.

  “Why? You been lookin’ for me? Don’t worry Sarge, I’m safe for the moment.”

  “A lot you know! Look, asshole, you’re in a pile a shit up to your face, and if you don’t come in and I mean right fucking now, you’re gonna drown in it! Get me?!”

  “Yeah,” I said casually, glancing at the second-hand sweeping around the bar clock. “Some funny stuff’s been happening to me lately, Caz. Know anything about it?”

  “Yeah. I know you been hidin’ dead Chinks under your bed.”

  Stinging images washed over me in a wave. We had been talking for almost a minute. I would give her thirty more seconds. I said very evenly, “Caz, you know I didn’t do Li. And if you ever call her a Chink again, you’ll have so much trouble making your next car payment you’ll wish I’d just cut your fingers off instead.”

  She cooled a little. “We gotta talk.”

  Minute-and-a-half. “No time. Why don’t you give me your direct office line, say, right now?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “No! Just a second!”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Five-five-five-six-seven-five-four! Christ!”

  I sent the receiver into its cradle at a little under two minutes. Then I dialed back direct.

  “Call off the dogs,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The tap. Call it off, or I disappear again.”

  Her meaty hand wrapped around the receiver, followed by some mumbling. I heard a faint click echo along the line. “You got my word, Bird. No trace.”