Butterfly Kisses

by Patrick Logan

  She could almost hear the man’s cheeks contract in a smile. It was also evident in his voice, which came out just a little squeakier than usual.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “And Henry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let Detective Simmons break the news, okay?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I don’t li—”

  “And don’t call me ma’am. Makes me sound as old as Mrs. Pritchard.”

  Detective Yasiv started to add something else, but Chase had already hung up and was in the process of making her next call before he even uttered a syllable.

  Neil and Thomas and Chris were all friends in high school?

  Chase did some mental math, considering Thomas’s age. The man was thirty-eight when he passed, meaning that they had all been friends twenty-five or so years ago. Did they keep in touch? Were they still friends now? Did they hang out?

  Probably not Chris considering that he was in Montreal, but maybe Neil and Thomas. After all, both were wealthy, young, and probably frequented the same types of bars. Maybe—

  “Officer Dunbar,” a scratchy voice announced.

  “Ah, yes, Dunbar, it’s Detective Adams.”

  She paused and Officer Dunbar, the man she had entrusted with Thomas’s cell phone, spoke up.

  “Adams, I’ve found something that you might want to see. It’s—”

  “Bring it to the main conference room in an hour. But I need you to do something for me right away.”

  “Yep, sure. What do you need?”

  “I want you to pull up old high school records from New York in ninety-two or ninety-three. Look at where Thomas went to school first, and then see if you can put both Neil Pritchard and Chris Popolo…”

  “Papadopoulos,” Dunbar helped her out.

  “Yeah, that’s it. See if they went to school together, and if not maybe they went to neighboring schools. I want to know if they played football, baseball, even paired up or against each other on the debate team.”

  Dunbar cleared his throat.

  “Can’t you just ask Thomas’s wife or brother where he went to high school? It would speed things up a bit.”

  Chase pictured Clarissa’s stern face.

  No more questions, they can’t find out I’ve been talking to you.

  “They aren’t cooperating. Anyways, can you do it?”

  “Yeah, I can do it.”

  Chase thought for a moment.

  “Is that… is that it, Detective Adams?”

  “No, one more thing. Can you check Thomas’s phone, cross reference it for any messages to Neil or Chris? I don’t have either of their numbers, but they shouldn’t be that hard to find. Any texts, Facebook posts, or Twitter mentions that connect them recently. Can you do that?”

  Chase turned onto the off-ramp, and continued toward 62nd precinct.

  “Dunbar? You still there?”

  “Yeeeeah, about the cell phone. Sergeant Rhodes was in here asking about it earlier.”

  Chase choked and her dashboard lit up, indicating that she was veering out of her lane.

  “He what?”

  “Yeah, there are some rumors going around in evidence that a lawyer from Smith, Smith and Johnson—”

  “Jackson.”

  “Sorry, Smith, Smith, and Jackson came by the station and wondered why his cell phone, which he apparently never leaves home without, wasn’t on the list of evidence collected from the crime scene. He wanted to know if the killer had stolen it. And then Rhodes came down asking about it…”

  Chase swore under her breath.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I hadn’t seen it, that sometimes things get delayed when entering into evidence. Could be because they were processing all the gold chains and grills from the gangbangers who died in the Bronx the other night.”

  Chase exhaled sharply, but still had an uncomfortable feeling in her chest.

  “What did he say?”

  “He did what Rhodes always does.”

  Dunbar paused.

  “Which is?”

  “Oh, sorry. Forgot you haven’t been with us for that long. Rhodes turns bright red like a tomato with glasses on and tells us to get our act together.”

  Chase breathed a little more easily.

  “Ok, great. Thank you, Dunbar. We’ll get the phone into evidence soon, okay? Just see what you can do about the schools and the messages and meet me in the conference room in one hour. Keep your head low.”

  “Will do. See you soon.”

  Chase hung up the phone just as she pulled into 62nd precinct parking lot.

  Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled.

  We are going to catch this bastard after all. Whoever he is.

  CHAPTER 30

  Drake was surprised by the cool air inside the apartment building. This area didn’t strike him as a place that would have AC in the individual units, let alone throughout the main lobby.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he tried to catch his bearings. To his right was a hallway, and Drake could make out the outline of several doorways along its length. To his left was an old staircase.

  He blinked twice, and swiped some dust motes from in front of his eyes. Now that his pupils had dilated to the size of olive pits, he could make out a 1 above the door nearest to him. He couldn’t see a number over the next in the hallway, but he assumed that this door, and the one after, were 2 and 3, respectively.

  Which meant that apartment 6—the one belonging to ‘V’—was upstairs.

  Drake started in that direction, but the sound of a door closing from somewhere above gave him pause. The sound of footsteps that followed set him to motion.

  Thinking fast, Drake spun away from the staircase and pressed his back against it. His eyes whipped back and forth, trying to find a place to hide; an alcove, maybe, or a fire escape.

  But there was nothing.

  The footsteps were nearing the bottom of the stairs now, and he knew that it would only be seconds before whoever it was—Raul? Was it Raul?—spotted him standing there, hands empty.

  Drake did the only thing he could think of, grateful for once that he had left his coat in the car and that his shirt, a simple, white t-shirt, had significant, and fresh, sweat stains around the armpits and collar.

  He slumped against the stairs, turning his head away from the staircase mouth, and rested his right arm on his crossed legs, palm to the sky. Drake’s mouth went slack, and he closed his eyes, trying to force his heart to beat more slowly, to regulate his breathing.

  The footsteps continued, and Drake pictured Raul making his way to the front door, perhaps offering a pitiful glance at a junkie who had passed out after shooting too much smack.

  Then the person paused and Drake felt eyes on him.

  It took every ounce of his being not to spring to his feet and throttle whoever it was.

  And then, just when he thought that his pathetic ruse was going to fail, that Raul was going to come over and tap him on the shoulder, all the while saying ‘nice try, officer,’ he heard the footsteps move away from him. A second later, the door opened and closed.

  Drake counted to sixty before opening his eyes. And even then, he allowed them to lift only to half mast. He turned his head with what he hoped was a natural sounding groan toward the door.

  When he saw that the Raul’s dark face wasn’t staring back at him, he leapt to his feet and then took the stairs two at a time.

  The upper landing and layout was identical to the lower level down to the cracked floor tiles. And it appeared that his first instinct had been correct: the first door he passed had a number 4 sticker haphazardly glued to it. The next door was blank, but the last had a six drawn in sharpie on the center. There was also something different about this door.

  Drake leaned backward, peering over at the door to apartment 5. In passing, they looked nearly identical: both covered in coarse wood veneer with matching gold d
oorknobs, both of which had bare spots revealing plastic beneath.

  Only it wasn’t plastic, at least not on the door to apartment 6. This doorknob was too shiny to be plastic.

  It was metal.

  And door 6 wasn’t wood either, Drake thought, inspecting the thick hinges. It had been painted to look like wood, to look just like the others, but it was a facade that didn’t stand up to closer inspection.

  What is this place? Drake thought, but even before he rapped his knuckles off the steel door, he thought he knew.

  And when a light and airy female voice spoke from within, his suspicions were confirmed.

  “Raul? That you? Did you forget something?”

  Drake said nothing. He heard the woman come to the door, followed by the characteristic sound of locks being turned.

  Three of them to be exact.

  The door opened a crack and Drake grinned widely. The solitary eye that peered from the opening, green with meticulously applied mascara, widened.

  “You’re not Raul,” she said. Her voice was suspicious, but not alarmed.

  “No, I’m not,” he said.

  The woman opened the door wider, and slid one arm up the frame giving him a peak of a black brazier that fit snugly on her pale, but ample breasts.

  “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  The girl grinned.

  “Veronica. What’s yours?”

  Drake looked her up and down. This was no ordinary call girl, despite the neighborhood. She was pretty, bordering on beautiful, and lacked the loose skin and pallid flesh of some of the other prostitutes that plied their trade in exchange for a quick fix.

  This was a high-class hooker hanging out in a neighborhood made to disguise, and perhaps even protect, their very distinguished customers.

  Drake thought back to what the black man on the stoop had said.

  Best you get back in your car, whiteboy. This ain’t the place for you.

  No, it wasn’t. But maybe it was a place for Thomas Smith and people like him.

  The woman in the doorway mistook his silence for speechlessness.

  “Like what you see?”

  He nodded.

  “Veronica… is it?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the repetition of her name, and she slid her hand down the back of the door. She also shifted her small frame to one side, clearly getting ready to slam the door if he tried anything.

  “I have the police on speed dial,” she said, her voice transitioning from sultry to stern without a hint of change in her face or smile.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Drake said, pulling out his badge. “My name’s Drake. Detective Drake and we’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Something of an amateur chef himself, Beckett Campbell was in culinary heaven at Magpie’s Pizzeria. The atmosphere was comfortable without being grungy, and the service was frequent but not intrusive.

  He started with oysters, despite being apprehensive at the idea of oysters and pizza, and they were on point. But it was his main that was simply spectacular.

  Wood fired pizza topped with thick pieces of mozzarella, fresh basil, and handmade meatballs he imagined his Nona would make… had she been Italian, not from Missouri and her favorite meal wasn’t ‘fancy Kraft Dinner’, which meant putting sliced hot dogs in it and throwing a half-melted piece of American cheese on top.

  It was, in a word, delicious—the pizza, the KD not so much.

  When the waitress came by, a young woman with long brown hair and stenciled eyebrows, to ask him if he needed a refill on his Coke, he nodded and then wiped some liquid gold from his lips.

  “I have to say that this is one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had.”

  She laughed politely.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, seriously. It’s delicious… and I’m from New York.”

  The woman smiled at him, but the joviality of a moment ago was gone from her face.

  “The owners were—are—from New York as well,” she said softly.

  Beckett feigned surprise at her choice of words.

  …were from New York.

  “Really?”

  “Really. But,” her voice hitched and Beckett stood, putting a comforting arm over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s just so fresh.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, trying his best to comfort a woman that he had only just met.

  She wiped a tear from her eye.

  “It’s just that one of the owners left us unexpectedly.”

  Beckett nodded.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. Is the other owner in the restaurant? I would like to give my condolences and congratulate him on the fantastic meal.”

  The woman squinted at him suspiciously.

  “You aren’t a food critic, are you? Because if you are, this probably isn’t the best time. And you have to tell me if you are, you know.”

  Beckett suppressed a smile.

  “No, not a critic. Just here on a quick vacation.”

  The waitress returned his smile.

  “He’s here. And he’s also the head cook. Let me see if he’ll come by.”

  “Thank you,” Beckett said as he took his seat again.

  If he had been alone, he might have patted himself on the back for his acting job. Instead, he rewarded himself with another pizza slice, despite his belly’s protests.

  It was just that good.

  Beckett had a mouthful of meatball when a man sat down in front of him, slamming two full beer glasses on the table. His eyes shot up, and then his jaw suddenly went slack.

  It was Chris Papadopoulos in the flesh.

  Living and breathing.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said. “Here, have a beer on the house.”

  Beckett leaned in close, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. He had seen images of Chris on the Internet, of his smiling face standing outside the very restaurant he was eating in now.

  How is this possible?

  But as he concentrated even further, he realized that it wasn’t him, not quite. The man sitting across from him was heavier than Chris, with a round face, and a hairline that looked as if it had run scared from his forehead.

  “You okay, buddy?”

  Beckett swallowed, and wondered if somehow the Internet had lied to him.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for sure.

  “Ah,” the man said, realization crossing his face, “you must have seen the newspaper article. Chris was my twin brother. My name’s Gregor. Here, have a beer.”

  Beckett finally drew a full breath, and instead of addressing the elephant in the room directly, he turned his attention to the beer instead.

  “It’s only eleven o’clock,” he stated.

  “Closer to noon, actually. Anyways, this is Montreal—we drink craft brew for breakfast.”

  Beckett shrugged and reached for his beer. He took a small sip at first, but then swallowed a large gulp.

  Like the pizza, it was delicious. No Heady Topper, but a close second.

  “I’m really sorry to hear about your loss,” Beckett said.

  The man sighed.

  “The police say they have leads, but I don’t have much faith in them. You know, some people come in here and chastise me, ask me how dare I open the restaurant so soon after his death, but this is what Chris would have wanted. And it’s what I want, too; keeps my mind off things, if nothing else.”

  Beckett nodded.

  “I understand. And I must say that I’m glad you did: this pizza is delectable.”

  Gregor’s round face brightened a little.

  “Thank you. Marissa says that you’re from New York? In town for a visit?”

  “Yep, just for the day. Read about the restaurant and decided to—”

  “It’s okay, you can say it: you wanted to see what it was like, after the… after Chris’s passing.”

  Beckett made a face as if to say I�
��m sorry and You got me, at the same time.

  “It’s okay, I get it. Being from New York, though, you should be used to this sort of thing. Here in Montreal on the other hand…” he let his sentence trail off before continuing. “Me and my brother were born in New York, you know.”

  “That’s what… Marissa said. Do you get a chance to go back often?”

  Gregor shook his head.

  “No, neither myself nor Chris have been back for years. Our restaurants take—took,” he corrected himself, “up all our time. The restaurant business is tough everywhere, but particularly so in Montreal.”

  “So I hear. But you keep making pie like this and I see this thing going far. You franchised yet?”

  Gregor smirked.

  “No, not yet. Have three locations though. Franchising was something that Chris was working on.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beckett said again.

  “That’s alright. What else you have planned for your visit?” Gregor said, clearly wanting to change the subject.

  “Well, truth be told, I’m actually a doctor. Was thinking about checking out the new hospital.”

  “Ah, the Glen. It’s a beautiful place. Slow as shit, but can’t fault them on that—you know, public health care and all.”

  “I hear you.”

  Gregor drank half his beer in one gulp.

  “You know what? I have a buddy that works there… an eye doctor or cancer guy, nerdy bastard, can never understand half the shit he says. Anyways, his name is Lucas Taylor. If you can find him, let him know that I sent you. He’ll give you a tour.”

  Beckett nodded.

  “That’s awesome. Thanks again.”

  Gregor finished his beer and stood.

  “Enjoy your stay in Montreal. And your meal’s on me.”

  Beckett rose to his feet as well.

  “No, I can’t—”

  The man held up his hand.

  “Consider it northern hospitality.”

  Knowing that Gregor was not going to change his mind, Beckett thanked the man for what felt like the hundredth time and then shook his hand.

  With a full stomach and a mind racing with ideas, Beckett left Magpie’s and searched for a cab to take him to the Glen hospital.

  CHAPTER 32