Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “Why don’t you try one of those exercise bikes?”

  “Uh, because they’re boring, and I enjoy running.” I snatched the bag of cold cuts out her hand and reached in for a second slice. I had called Gus on the run back to Ma’s and was waiting for him to check out the security-guard angle—A secure facility like Vicor has hundreds of security cameras. I’m sure that someone had monitored Vetrov’s attack on Brian Spano, and I wanted to know who it was. I checked my phone to make sure that I hadn’t missed any calls.

  “Okay, forget all of that,” Ma said. “How about I whip up a quick batch of macaroni with peas?”

  Yes! Oh God, yes. I smiled. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “I just got a chuck of Romano cheese—we’ll grate it fresh. How soon before Gus gets here?”

  “Could be a while—he’s checking on something for me.”

  “Those awful murders in Staten Island? Poor Nick, he must be crushed.”

  I had not seen Sonellio in a couple of days. On the one hand, I wanted him to get a few days rest, but on the other hand, I was afraid to see if he had gotten any worse.

  “Silly man. I can’t remember him without a cigarette in his mouth. You never smoked, right?”

  “Ma! How can you ask a question like that? You know how I feel about smoking.”

  “Well now, sure . . . I mean when you were a teenager. All kids sneak cigarettes.”

  “No. Never.” I may have snuck an occasional boyfriend into the house, but she didn’t ask, and I was not about to volunteer information. Not that it mattered anymore—in fact, we would probably have a good laugh over it.

  “You’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay, I believe you,” Ma had a wise-ass grin on her face. “But I know about you and Frankie Bono.”

  Oh shit. Here it comes.

  “What are you talking about?” My words of innocence didn’t matter—I could feel that I had one of those cat who ate the canary expressions on my face.

  “Don’t you BS me, Stephanie Marie Chalice. I knew all about it.”

  Wow . . . and Ambler called me a witch—now I knew where it came from. Should I deny it? Nah, what the hell for? I grinned. “How did you know?”

  “Do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think I didn’t see what they wrote about you in your high school yearbook? Bright and beautiful, she always makes the scene, but look out boys, she’s Frankie’s queen.”

  “Jesus, you saw that?”

  She chuckled. “Saw it? Your father and I had some of our biggest laughs over it.”

  I turned to look in the mirror. I was beet red. “So why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because you broke up with him soon afterward.” She grinned again. “But I knew.”

  She knew? How could she have known? I was a cop’s daughter—I’d always been careful to cover my tracks. Since a strong offense was the best defense, I said simply, “You’re full of it.”

  “Yeah, I’m full of it?”

  “You don’t know anything. You’re making it up.” I laughed so hard that it hurt.

  “You think you and your father were the only detectives in the house? It rubs off, you know. I’ve got you dead to rights.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Francine Delgado’s mother told me all about it. Francine used to follow the two of you home from school every day. She had such a crush on Frankie. Her mother said that she used to cry herself to sleep every night.”

  “Francine Delgado?”

  “Yes.”

  “Little Francine with acne?”

  “Yes!”

  “No wonder she hated me.”

  “Don’t feel too bad. She just married a football player, someone on the New York Jets.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Well, it’s true. She must’ve found a good dermatologist, because I saw her wedding picture and she looked beautiful.”

  “Really? That’s nice. I’m so happy for her.”

  “Speaking of marriage, when are you and Gus going to make it official?” She narrowed her gaze. “You’re wasting time.”

  Gus and I had talked about it but just hadn’t yet put a plan into action. Working two homicide cases didn’t help. “Soon.”

  “You’d better make it very soon, before Francine Delgado’s mother starts calling you the puttana cop.”

  My mouth dropped. “She wouldn’t?”

  “Oh yes she would. That woman carries a grudge like no one else, and she knows how to gossip. You made her daughter miserable, and I think she wants revenge.”

  “Oh let her talk. Who cares?”

  “I care. You don’t live in the neighborhood anymore. You think I want to hear things like that?”

  I supposed Gus and I had better take care of business before Ma became collateral damage in the mid-Manhattan gossip wars. As I said, it was already on our agenda. I heard a knock on the door. “That’s probably Gus. You can ask him yourself.”

  Ma followed me to the front door. “I also found Frankie’s bus pass when I was cleaning your bedroom one day.” She gave me a pat on the fanny. I could see that she was all worked up. “Open the door. I’m going to let Gus have it, both barrels.”

  I pulled the door open. Gus knew that he was in trouble at the first sight of Ma’s face. It read like a HazMat warning. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Are you going to marry me or what?” I demanded. “People are starting to talk.”

  “Talk about what? Who’s talking?” Gus looked somewhat flustered.

  “You’re in deep shit,” I chuckled. “Mrs. Delgado called me a puttana.”

  “She what?”

  “The talk around town is that I’m a big slut.”

  Ma began to howl. “It didn’t help any that you and Frankie Bono played grab-ass in the twelfth grade.” Gus looked at us as if we had lost our minds. Ma grabbed Gus by the arm and pulled him into the apartment. “Get in here, mister; we need to have a pow-wow.”

  I closed the door, but I knew that the neighbors could hear us laughing all the way down the hall.

  Ma pointed to the couch. “Sit down. Macaroni and peas okay for dinner?” she asked. Gus nodded. “Give me two minutes—I’ll put up a pot of water.”

  I grabbed Gus and yanked him down onto the couch. “You knew this was coming. I guess you’d better make me an honest woman.”

  Gus made an expression that said, yeah right. “So who’s this Frankie Bono character? I’m not going to marry you now,” he said facetiously. “You’re used goods.”

  I laughed so hard that it was difficult for me to switch gears. “Quick. Before she gets back, anything on the security guard angle?”

  “Yeah, you were right.” That was all that Gus managed to say before Ma came back into the room. Vetrov had to have been there for the drugs, and I was betting whoever took him down was there for the same reason. I was betting that a crosscheck on patients for Vicor’s trial drugs and security guards who worked at Vicor’s warehouse would be quite revealing.

  “You think I’m going to live forever?” Ma said dramatically. “I’m an old woman with diabetes. How long do I have to wait to see my darling daughter walk down the aisle?”

  I was still in a silly mood. I glared at Gus. “Well?”

  Gus was caught in the proverbial crossfire. “We can have a quick civil ceremony as soon as we wrap up our cases.”

  It took perhaps a nanosecond for the avalanche to fall on him. “You don’t understand,” Ma said with outrage. “My daughter is not going to have a civil ceremony. My daughter is going to get married in church with bridesmaids and flowers.”

  Gus looked to me for support, but there was no defense against my mother’s onslaught. He sat there and took it like a man.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Tillerman stood outside the entranceway of the Staten Island medical examiner’s office for a few moments to rehearse his performance. He had been in this position before, years ago when
he worked for the funeral parlor. He knew the drill. Stay calm. Act natural. He pushed the door open and walked up to the reception counter. A mature woman wearing glasses with blue frames looked up from her computer screen. “Sclafani Funeral Home,” he said and handed her completed release forms. “We called ahead for a pickup.” He was dressed in jeans. He wore a nylon jacket that was embroidered with the Sclafani emblem.

  The receptionist reviewed the paperwork and then checked her watch. “It’s lunchtime. I don’t know if anyone’s back there to help you.”

  Of course it’s lunchtime. That’s why I’m here. “There’s always someone on the floor. They never leave the morgue unattended.”

  The receptionist smiled. “I guess this isn’t your first trip to the rodeo.”

  “Nope. I know the ropes,” Tillerman said with a smile.

  She picked up the phone. “Let’s just see if I can get one of the technicians to help you. I think Jeffrey might still be here.” She checked the directory, hit the speaker setting, and then punched in an extension number.

  “Morgue.” The voice at the other end of the line sounded young to Tillerman. He smiled again.

  “Jeffrey, it’s Claire. Sclafani is here for a pickup. Can you come out and help?”

  Jeffrey burped on the other end of the line. “Oops, sorry, Claire. I’m eating at my desk.”

  “Taco Bell?”

  “No, Mickey D’s. I’ll be right there.”

  Claire hung up the phone. “Nice young man, but he eats the most god-awful stuff.

  “Fast food,” Tillerman said. “We’re all guilty.” He was doing a great job of being congenial, despite the fact that his stomach was churning with anxiety. His hand trembled and then locked in spasm momentarily. He began to rub the area between the palm and thumb.

  Claire noticed the tremor. “Are you all right, dear? It looks like you’re in pain.”

  “It’s nothing,” Tillerman said. “Occupational hazard.”

  “Oh, just like me—I’ve got carpal tunnel. Do you do a lot of typing?”

  “The paperwork is endless,” Tillerman replied. “The state drives us crazy with red tape.”

  “I know, it’s awful, isn’t it?”

  Tillerman nodded. He turned when he heard the release of an electric door lock. A man who looked to be in his twenties approached the reception counter. He held his security tag in one hand and a milkshake in the other. Tillerman grinned when he saw him. The position of morgue technician was an entry-level job. No experience was needed, just a high-school diploma. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  Claire waved an admonishing finger at him. “Jeffrey, you’ll get fat.”

  “No worries, Claire,” he replied. He picked up the paperwork and began to look through it. He glanced up at Tillerman. “Four bodies—I’m glad they sent someone big. I hope you didn’t bring a hearse.”

  Tillerman shook his head. “No. I’ve got a van with slide out trays. I can fit them all.”

  “Great,” Jeffrey said. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Gus had a bellyful of pasta and his foot on the gas. We were once again on our way to Staten Island, and Gus was happy as hell to have gotten out of Ma’s apartment with just a light beating. “What the hell was that?” he said. “You couldn’t have given me a head’s-up?”

  I began to laugh. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny. It was all happening right there and then. You walked through the door and got it right between the eyes.” I continued to laugh. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Jesus, I thought she was going to disembowel me.”

  “Well what do you want, hot stuff? You got her sweet, innocent daughter in a family way. That can’t go unpunished.”

  “You’re nuts, do you know that?” The Verrazano Bridge was coming into view. “So tell me about you and this Frankie guy.” Gus gave me a probing stare. “You were doing him in high school?”

  “No. It was just adolescent stuff: making out, petting, groping—you’ve been there. We’d watch TV, he’d cop a feel, and so on and so on. He never got past second base. Ma knows it too or she would have shut it down in a heartbeat. She trusted me and I would never let her down.”

  “The poor guy must have had a serious case of blue balls.”

  “Hey, I was brought up as a good Catholic girl. If Frankie had to go home and do a load by hand . . . well, so be it. Believe me, there were lots of guys who wanted to slide their hands up my blouse. Frankie was the envy of all his friends—he told me so.”

  The thump of the tires on the Verrazano’s approach grid cued me to focus my attention back onto the case. Our records search had turned up a match. It was well after hours, and it took me several calls to track down the suspect’s employer and get the address reported on his employment records. We were on our way to that address. “How long did this guy Tillerman work for Sclafani?”

  “He was there almost three years. According to Sclafani, he didn’t operate the furnace, but he spent enough time in the basement to pick up on how to operate it.”

  “And he’s been working security ever since?”

  “No. He was off the grid for a while. He’s only been with the security company for about six months.”

  “Hard to believe a big company like Vicor doesn’t have its own security team. I mean it’s the pharmaceuticals industry. I’m sure they spend a fortune to prevent industrial espionage.”

  “Oh, they have corporate security up the yin-yang, but they hire Beacon to do the nuts and bolts stuff,” Gus said. “You know, they sit at the reception area after hours and monitor the closed-circuit TV. They patrol the parking lot . . . They can’t actually enter the facility. They’re strictly outsiders.”

  Something Gus said struck me. It took a moment for it to sink in. “Did you say Beacon Security?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  An image flashed in my head. I pictured a security guard asleep at his post. The emblem on his jacket read Beacon Security. “You didn’t happen to ask Beacon where else Tillerman has been assigned, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Beacon Security covers the pumping station we visited at Kowsky Plaza in Lower Manhattan. I remember seeing the name on the security guard’s jacket.” My skin began to tingle. “My God, we’re so close.”

  It must have been the close proximity to Sonellio’s home that made me think of him. He was a cop to the very end. He was staring at the grave and yet wanted nothing more than justice for his neighbors. I ached for him and planned to phone him first thing in the morning to brief him on Tillerman, our new suspect. I wondered if we’d be able to give him closure before . . . I sighed.

  We were off the boulevard. Gus directed the car down a narrow side street. He checked the address he had written on his notepad. “There it is, on the right.”

  I looked up at the sky through the windshield. It was the most beautiful shade of navy blue. Puffs of clouds like dabs of white paint obscured my view of the moon. An old street light sputtered on and off. There was little light, but it wasn’t hard to tell that the house we had come to visit had been boarded up. I felt my heart sink. “Damn.”

  Gus pulled up in front of the small home and turned off the engine. We each grabbed a Maglite and got out of the car to take a look.

  Chapter Forty

  Tatiana was the place to go on a Saturday night if you were a Russian living in Brooklyn. The supper club featured fine dining, dancing, and a show. The patrons dressed to the nines. Vodka flowed like water. Russians are always thirsty.

  Anya Kozakova sat at a table for ten, but she was the only one not up on the dance floor. She lifted a bottle of vodka out of a block of ice and poured the last of it into her glass. “Here’s to me,” she said sadly. “At least I’m out of the apartment.” The house band was loud. The vocalist had dark hair, a widow’s peak, and a groomed beard. He wore a bright blue taffeta tuxedo jacket. He sang in Russian while the band covered a popular tune, “япоцеловалдевочкаи�
�любилего,” which loosely translated into “I kissed a girl and I liked it.”

  Kozakova hummed the song, accompanying the vocalist. The fresh hit of vodka topped off her buzz. Her mind was numb and quiet. It was the first time in days that she was not thinking in computer code.

  Her friend Olga saw her and walked off the dance floor. Olga was a tall blond. She had legs like Cameron Diaz and wore a dress short enough to show off every inch of them. She plopped down in the chair next to Kozakova and began to massage her feet. “These shoes are killing me,” she said. “That’s what I get for buying cheap knockoffs.”

  “Cheap knockoffs maybe, but every man out there wants to dance with you,” Kozakova said. “You have gorgeous legs.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Where is your big, fuzzy friend, Marat? He’s usually here.”

  “I thought he was coming but . . . you know men. He’s probably passed out drunk somewhere. I can only count on seeing him when he’s horny.”

  “Speaking of horny, why don’t you dance with that single guy over there. He’s dancing with a couple. Open your top button and shove your big breasts in his face.”

  “Which one?” Kozakova said as she turned toward the dance floor.

  Olga pointed to a tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and a mustache.

  “Him? The one who looks like Nietzsche? You must be joking.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Olga protested defensively. “Better you should sit here alone?” She picked up the closest glass of vodka and toasted Kozakova. “Go, Anya, the night is long—better to go home with a homely man than to go home alone.” She whispered in her ear, “A vibrator may get you off, but it won’t keep you warm.” Olga laughed and then stood up. “Come on, the singer has a great voice. I love Nicki Minaj.” She quickly walked back to the dance floor.

  Kozakova swallowed the rest of her vodka and stood up without thinking about a plan or consequences. She undid the top button of her blouse as Olga had instructed and made her way over to the dance floor. She arrived just a few seconds too late. By the time she located the Nietzsche look-alike, he was dancing with someone else.