by Kiss of Evil
Suddenly, Christian looks up, acknowledging Paris’s presence. The sheer blackness of his eyes chills Paris’s blood. Paris had looked into these eyes once before.
Except, that time, they belonged to Sarah Weiss.
Christian says: “I have to know.”
“Know?” Paris replies. “Know what?”
“How?”
Paris understands what Christian is talking about, just as he realizes that something like this would eat at a person like him. Christian the trickster, the man who had recruited a woman named Celeste Conroy to do his dirty work; Celeste who looked so much like Sarah Weiss that Paris had no trouble believing it really was her that night in his apartment. The magic mushroom helped a little, of course.
“You mean my little misdirection with the computer camera?” Paris asks.
“Yes.”
Paris leans forward, close enough to see the humiliation and defeat in the man’s eyes. “Well, the blood on my forehead and the door locks were the easy parts.” Paris reaches into his pocket, drops a packet of ketchup and a paper clip on the table. “Old magician tricks.”
Christian absently touches a finger to his own forehead.
Paris opens his briefcase. “The hard part, at least for someone like me, was learning about the video lag. That I got out of a book. A hell of a good book. I think even you might get something out of it.” Paris reaches into his briefcase, drops a thin, soft cover book on the table in front of Christian.
Web Cam for Dummies.
Paris leans close to Christian’s ear, and adds: “No offense.”
79
A week after Christian del Blanco’s sentencing, a January heat wave descends upon Cleveland. It is fifty degrees and portends an early spring, a lie that Clevelanders have bought into forever. It is Bobby Dietricht’s third day back on the job; Greg Ebersole’s first.
At noon, while looking out his window at the shirtsleeved men and the coatless women on the street, Paris hears Greg’s knock on his doorjamb.
“Hey, Greg.”
“Look at this. I can’t believe it,” Greg says, entering. “I was just going through the backlog of mail and I got this.”
He hands Paris a letter on a Mount Sinai Hospital letterhead.
“It’s gotta be a joke, right?” Greg asks. “It’s either a joke or a mistake, right?”
Paris reads:
Dear Mr. Ebersole: Please let the enclosed invoice serve as your paid-in-full statement regarding all medical bills for Maxim A. Ebersole, in the amount of forty-four thousand eight hundred sixty dollars, forwarded to us by The Becky’s Angel Foundation, a nonprofit organization.
“Wow,” Paris says, reading it a second time, then handing the letter back. “And you didn’t know anything about this?”
“Not a thing,” Greg says.
“Amazing.”
“Do you think I’ll be allowed to keep it? I mean, jobwise?”
“I’m not sure,” Paris says. “But if it’s a foundation, I’m pretty sure you can.”
Greg reads the letter again. “Have you ever heard of The Becky’s Angel Foundation?”
Paris has to smile.
Rebecca D’Angelo.
“I may have run across the name,” he says, his mind drifting to the old police report sitting on his dining room table, the one he had kept for so many years like a dirty secret, the one detailing how a then-assistant prosecutor was caught with a young girl in an alley behind the Hanna Theatre. An assistant prosecutor who now sits as a juvenile court judge.
Maybe I’ve found a use for that report after all, Paris thinks.
Greg shakes his head, smiles. “What a world, huh?”
“Yep,” Paris says, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Crazier by the minute.”
“A fine specimen of dog,” Paris says. “Beautiful boy, Declan.” The Jack Russell terrier responds to Paris’s encomium, its muscular haunches propelling him from the ground up to Paris’s chest with one supple leap. “Is he a good ratter?”
“Oh yeah,” Mercedes replies. “He’s terrorized every squirrel for five blocks in every direction from my house. You’d think they’d have a contract out on him by now.”
They are standing under a red cedar gazebo, waiting out a drizzle that has slightly delayed this year’s Terrier Time Trials in Middlefield, a rural community near Cleveland. The time trials are a yearly event in which terriers of all types are tested in a wide variety of ways. The most popular, certainly among the dogs themselves, are the go-to-ground events, where a tunnel is buried in the ground, with a rat in a cage at the end, and the dogs are timed for how long it takes them to find and work their quarry. Dachshunds, Cairns, Westies, Dandie Dinmonts, and the undisputed king of the ratters, the Jack Russell, take part.
Manfred is a two-time champion.
Mercedes Cruz’s article for Mondo Latino has turned into a feature for Vanity Fair, where it is currently slated for August publication. She had spent twenty-four hours or so in the trunk of her car, parked on East Eighty-fifth Street, surviving on Girl Scout cookies and a frozen bottle of Evian water she had found in her gym bag. Aside from having to be restrained by no fewer than three bailiffs on the day Christian del Blanco was arraigned, she seems to be over it.
The good news is that she has promised Paris a steak dinner at Morton’s when the Vanity Fair check arrives. Manny and Declan have been promised the bones.
“Come on, Dad!” Melissa shouts. “They’re starting.”
Melissa stands at the edge of the split rail-fenced training field. Next to her stands her grandmother. Both are dressed in jeans and hooded parkas. Both are wearing rubber boots already caked with cold Ohio late-winter mud.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Gabriella says, echoing her granddaughter’s plea. “Come on, Jackie. Bring your friend.”
“Jackie?” Mercedes asks. She had lost a few pounds since her ordeal, had confessed to joining a karate class. Her braces are off, her hair is pony-tailed for the day. She looks fit and agile and lithely sexy.
Before heading off to the trial field, Paris turns his attention to the two dogs before him.
Manny and Declan sit at his feet, considering each other carefully, nose to nose, brothers at heart, competitors for the moment. Manny looks up at Paris, knowing it is time to go, surely wondering if, in Declan Cruz, he may have finally met his match.
Paris glances at Mercedes, catches her smiling at him.
And begins to wonder the same thing.
80
The dark-haired girl in seat 18A of the Greyhound bus heading west on Route 70 is making slow work of her Famous Amos chocolate chip cookie. Her mother, in 18B, holds an issue of Vogue in her hands, but isn’t reading. Instead, she stares out the window at the flat Indiana landscape.
At the Indianapolis stop, the woman and the little girl exit the bus. They both freshen up in the ladies’ room, buy a few more snacks, some tissues.
When they reboard and settle into their seats, the little girl’s mother thinks about their future. They have just over two thousand dollars. They have nowhere to live. There are no job prospects. And yet, she thinks as she looks out the window to see the sun suddenly peer from behind a cloud, ever since that registered letter arrived, so crazily out of the blue, they suddenly have everything.
They have each other.
As the bus begins to pull out of the Indianapolis station, she glances up from her magazine to see a man of about thirty-five making his way to the back of the bus, a small duffel bag over his shoulder, a cute boy of six in tow. The only seats open are 18C and 18D.
The man smiles, stashes his bag in the overhead. Before sitting down, he ruffles the young boy’s hair, then looks at the woman. “Hi,” the man says. He has kind, blue-gray eyes, sandy hair. His son looks just like him.
“Hi,” the woman answers.
“This is Andrew,” the man says. “And my name is Paul. What’s yours?”
The woman in 18B looks at the man, then at the boy, waiting for
what she figures to be the proper amount of time. For a single mom. She reaches over and takes her daughter’s gloriously sticky little hand in her own.
“Mary,” she says. “My name is Mary.”
81
The woman at the USAir counter at Hopkins International Airport looks five years younger than the last time he had seen her.
The cop walking up behind her looks as fresh as yesterday’s chili.
“Hey there,” the cop says.
The woman spins around, as if expecting something . . . what? Terrible? For a moment, her expression is unreadable, then it fashions a smile, quickly and genuinely. “Jack,” she says. “How sweet of you to come. How did you—”
“I’m a detective,” Paris says. “It’s a gift.”
Dolores Ryan finishes her business at the counter, then turns back to Paris. “Is this an official city of Cleveland send off?” she asks.
Paris smiles. “Yeah. Something like that.”
The two of them step away from the counter. Dolores glances around the huge ticket lobby at the flurry of travelers. Her eyes find a familiar place; her heart, it seems, a secluded memory. “I remember, one time, I met Michael here when he was flying in from some cop seminar. Forensics, or ordnance, or something like that.”
“Indianapolis.”
“Right. He went twice a year. You were at those, too?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Ever learn anything?”
“Well, I can tell you that it’s precisely twenty steps from the bar to the men’s room at the airport Ramada.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Paris looks heavenward. “Sorry, Mikey.”
“Anyway, Michael’s flight was really late that time. Maybe two in the morning. And all I had on was this black plastic raincoat and spike heels.”
Paris’s eyebrows arch in unison. “Nothing else?”
“Not a stitch.”
“I see.”
“So, we’re down in baggage claim, and it’s deserted, and I give him this quick flash, right? Michael goes five shades of Irish red. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.” Dolores covers her mouth, keeping the laugh inside. “Do you remember that crooked smile he had when he was embarrassed?”
“I remember it well,” Paris says. “Although, as I recall, it wasn’t all that easy to embarrass Mike Ryan.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Let’s get back to the black plastic raincoat,” Paris says.
Dolores smiles, takes a moment, giving the remembrance its due. “We made love in the parking lot, Jack. Slow, sweet, married love. It wasn’t all hot and crazy like you might imagine when a wife who thinks her looks are going south tries a stunt like that. I don’t think Michael took his eyes from mine the whole time we walked from the baggage claim out to the parking lot. He was like a little kid in a toy store and the most sophisticated man in the world at the same time.”
Dolores glances at the steward standing by the entrance ramp. Carrie Ryan, sitting in front of the man, looks at Paris, smiles, lifts a thin arm to wave. The little girl’s smile squeezes Paris’s heart, and, if there had been any doubt—and there had been many—he now knows he is doing the right thing.
Paris turns his attention back to Dolores. He reaches out, takes her hands in his, searching for the right words. He had rehearsed them for a day and a half, but that didn’t seem to matter at the moment. Finally, he says: “Look . . . Dolores, I . . . I just wanted you to know that it’s over. All of it. That’s what’s important. You’re going to have a whole new life in Florida. All of this is behind you now. Everything. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really?”
Dolores looks deeply into Paris’s eyes. She holds him there for an instant, suspended, giving Paris hope that he will hear the words that will put his heart at ease. Instead, she offers him a sexy half-smile, nothing more. And, in that moment, Paris sees the twenty-four-year-old Dolores Alessio he had met so many years ago, the street-talking firebrand who had stolen Michael Ryan’s heart.
“First call for boarding, USAir flight 188, nonstop to Tampa, Florida . . . .”
They both glance at the entrance ramp. The steward begins to roll Carrie Ryan’s wheelchair onboard.
Dolores slides her hands around Paris’s waist, hooking her thumbs through his belt loops. She regards him, slowly, head to toe, and says: “You know, there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you, Detective Jack Paris.”
“Uh-oh,” Paris says. “An airport confession. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
“It’s a good thing.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Dolores says. “I’m sure.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“I always thought you were the handsomest of Michael’s cop-buddies.”
Paris blushes a little. “I’m shocked.”
“Shocked?” Dolores asks. “Why on earth would you be shocked?”
“Michael actually had other kinds of friends?”
Dolores laughs, pulls Paris into her arms, and the two of them embrace for a full and solemn minute, holding each other with a passion forged of secrets, a bond of silence they both now realize, in their hearts, can never be broken.
Ten minutes later, as Paris watches the 727 make the final turn on the runway, readying for takeoff, he reaches into his coat pocket and removes the old crime-scene photo of Anthony del Blanco’s mutilated body lying in the parking lot. He also removes the crumpled piece of paper, unfolds it, smoothes it against his chest. He reads it for the fiftieth time.
Please leave the newspaper in the wooden box until Sunday. Thanks!
Paris isn’t sure when the seed first took root within him. Maybe it was the moment he recalled seeing the red wig in the hatbox while rummaging around in bay number 202, the first time he visited My-Self Storage. Or perhaps it was when he had parked on Denison Avenue two days ago, binoculars in hand, the day Dolores Ryan sold her yellow Mazda to an elderly couple.
He looks at the back of the old photo, at the words written in the same blocky style, the same red ink as Dolores’s note to the paperboy:
Evil is a breed, Fingers.
The jet engines roar.
Paris closes his eyes for a moment, imagining the madness of the final few hours of Sarafina del Blanco’s life. Deep inside, where his own guilt lives, he knows it just might have been Dolores Ryan, in her red wig, drinking at the Gamekeeper’s Taverne with Sarafina that night. He knows it just might have been Dolores Ryan who sat with Sarafina in that car, on that hill in Russell Township, polishing off a bottle of whiskey. He knows it just might have been Dolores Ryan—a woman who had now lost both her father and her husband to a murderer’s bullet—who had then splashed gasoline all over the interior of the car and, mad-eyed with rage and hatred and vengeance, tossed a match.
As the last of the exhaust from the 727 dissipates high above the runway at Hopkins International Airport, as Detective John Salvatore Paris turns on his heels and heads for the parking lot, and the city beyond, there are two thoughts that track him, two thoughts he hopes will bring closure to the insanity that began on a hot July day twenty-six years ago, two thoughts that will be at his side, later that night, as he sits upon the rocks at the Seventy-second Street pier, as he makes a pile of photographs and negatives and yellowed police reports and handwritten notes, as he starts a small, purging fire of his own:
You square it with your God, Dusty.
I’ll square it with mine.
Epilogue
∼
He is six-five, two-seventy. A Goliath, even in here.
We are in the laundry, in the northwest corner, a spot furthest from the guard station at the southernmost end of C Block. We are both serving life terms at the Ohio State Penitentiary in Youngstown.
“My name is Antoine Walker,” the big man says, blocking my path. “Ring a bell?”
I take a half-step back. The bullet with which Jack Pa
ris had surprised me had shattered most of my right hip. The small stumble is not lost on the predator in front of me.
“The world is full of Walkers,” I say.
“Not anymore,” Antoine says, inching closer. “One less now.”
“Is that right?”
Movement behind me.
“Man by the name of Willis Walker. My daddy. Got his motherfuckin’ dick cut off.”
“I might have heard about it.”
“Me too,” Antoine says. “We all heard about it. Heard about that voodoo shit, too. They say you’re some kinda witch. That true?”
“No.”
Antoine steps closer, towering over me. Hawk and rodent.
“The pain is coming,” Antoine says. “You know that, right?”
I remain silent. I sense a presence behind me. I feel hot breath on my neck.
“The man ax you a question,” the presence says. “He ax you a question.”
“Yes,” I say, without turning around. “I know the pain is coming.”
“But you don’t know when, do you?”
“No. I do not.”
“I’m doin’ life plus twenty,” Antoine says. “You?”
This time, my silence suffices.
“See? We got much time,” Antoine says as he unbuttons the fly on his prison scrubs. He does not take his eyes off me. “Much time indeed.”
I feel a crowding of men behind me. The damp, ripe assemblage of a dozen or so bodies. When Antoine Walker places a heavy hand on my shoulder, I sink slowly to my knees, my mind and body and soul returning to another time, to a stifling room above a Tijuana bodega, thinking:
I am nkisi. I am brujo.
I will survive.
Translation of the Dedication
“Who starts with a spoon will finish with a ladle,
Who starts with a ladle will finish with a spoon.”
—ESTONIAN PROVERB
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