“Honor among thieves, eh?” The tattooed lady returned, slid a tuna sandwich in front of me and a grilled salami and cheese for Bernie. “So, how’d he do in prison?”
“I’m told he was popular. Anyway, he met some guys inside who were hooked up in Detroit. Frank told them he could score mucho coke down here for them, open up another supply. When he got out, they came calling.” Bernie chomped into his sandwich and then wiped a string of gooey cheese from his chin. “Long story short, Frank took big bucks from the Detroiters and got double-crossed by the supplier. That honor thing was a one-way street. They took the money from Frank, but he got nothin’. Except, of course, some very pissed-off guys from Detroit.”
All of this was interesting, but nothing I needed to know to handle an estate. The way it sounded, Frank was back to being a player, probably trading coke to the foxy girls in exchange for a blow job. “And you’re telling me this because …”
“This Detroit gang’s a branch of a Mexican one, with ties all the way to their base, south of the border. They’re called the Andar Feo. Means Walking Ugly.”
“What are they—deformed?” My grin was not returned.
“If you fuck with them, they rarely kill you. They round up all the women in your family—grandmothers, mothers, aunts, daughters, cousins—they don’t give a shit.”
My stomach tightened, and I left the tuna sandwich on the cutrate china plate. The waitress popped over with a thermal carafe and refilled our mugs.
Bernie leaned back in the booth and went on. “They rape ’em first, Johnny, and it doesn’t matter how old or young they are. Sometimes it lasts for days. The son of a bitch they’re pissed at, they keep him tied to a chair and make him watch the whole damn thing. Then, when they’ve had their fun, they mutilate ’em. Noses, ears, whatever the hell they want. Even if they kill the guy, they let the women live, to send a message, let people know who not to screw with. That’s the name, right there, the Walking Ugly.”
“Jesus. You warned the sister, right?” My thoughts flashed to Cathy but then centered on Molly. She was just a kid. I wanted her there, next to me in the booth, my arm around her.
“Nah, figured I’d wait until they were coming at her with a hacksaw.” He gulped his coffee again. “She seemed to take it in stride, has it pretty together, for what just happened.”
“You’re not thinking they did Oyster, though?”
“Not their style, but we won’t rule anything out.” He took another bite and waved Ms. Tattoo over for some more coffee. “Am I right? You haven’t met Jennifer yet?”
“No, but I’ll see her at the funeral.” I nudged the plate away, the sandwich untouched.
“I’ll have someone there early, for a word with Frank. We’ll cut him slack the day he’s buryin’ his father, but he’s gotta promise to come in and talk. I don’t wanna get rough, but he’s still on parole, and if he blows us off …”
“If I have the chance, I’ll say something.”
“Here.” He pulled a photo from his jacket. “Have one of his mug shots, on me.”
Frank’s face was drawn. His stringy, dark hair blended with a wispy goatee and mustache. An ornate tattoo, geometrical shapes of green and red and black, trailed along his neck.
“Just because you’re wondering, Jennifer got the better end of the gene pool,” Bernie said. “She must be midforties, but she’s still a looker. Who knows? Maybe she’ll remind you of the sister. Think you can keep this strictly lawyer-client?”
He grinned, so I figured it wasn’t a warning and smiled back. This was the side of Bernie that I liked. Maybe I’d have a bite of that sandwich after all. “Professional all the way. Boy Scout, remember?”
“I’m sure. Actually, it’d better be. You keep your focus on Cathy.” Damn, but he could not resist Lecture Mode. I was relieved when his phone rang, and he wrestled for it in his jacket pocket. He listened, closed his eyes, and said, “On my way.”
He slipped the phone in his pocket and clambered out of the booth. “They just found another body.”
5
I focused on Bernie’s Chevy as he pulled off the Shoreway to Lake Road, heading west. Our destination surprised me: Wagar Beach in Rocky River, a tony section of town where McMansions with circular drives, brick paver walks, and manicured hedges perched on the lakefront. Not the kind of place where I got to hang out as a kid, and not the kind of place accustomed to serving as a dumping ground for a murder victim.
As I pulled to the curb, Bernie was already running along the brick road, toward the stone stairs leading to the sheltered beach. A stone archway marked the entrance, and I lingered there with the gathering crowd. Technically, Bernie was out of his jurisdiction, since Rocky River has its own police force, but they’d work together on a murder. Dead bodies have a way of getting people to cooperate.
At least fifteen minutes elapsed before Bernie reappeared. He ducked under the sagging police tape and motioned me away from the throng. “To answer your question, it isn’t Frank. No tats.”
“And?” A serial killer was out there, no doubt, if this victim was carved up in a manner similar to Oyster. I shuddered, remembering my dad’s pallid expression whenever another mutilated body cropped up in an abandoned parking lot or scum-filled ditch.
“Fucking mess. Head’s gone, like your buddy Oyster, but this guy’s also missing his hands.” He shook his head and then spat out a wad of phlegm.
My eye caught some preppy teenagers decked out in skimpy bathing suits, towels draped over their shoulders. Some were hugging, and a couple of the girls were crying. “Kids find him?”
“The flies caught their attention. Skipped school for an afternoon and stumbled across the body.”
They’d had quite a day at the beach, all right. “Any clothes, a wallet, like with Oyster?”
“Nothin’. Gonna be hell to ID.” Bernie looked away, then back at me. “Maybe you shouldn’t have come out here, shouldn’t be near this shit.”
“That was a long time ago, Bernie. You’re worrying for nothing.”
He looked over my shoulder. “Damn, the vultures are descending.”
I turned to watch as a local news van barreled down Avalon Drive. I could imagine the special alerts and lurid headlines, all stemming from a quiet neighborhood accustomed to—and quite content with—staying out of the news.
“Gotta go,” Bernie said, ducking back under the tape.
I had nearly reached my car when the first news van pulled to the curb. The door slid open, and out bounded Vanessa Edwards, elegant in a coffee-colored suit that beautifully matched her skin tone. Our eyes locked.
“Hey! You’re …”
“John Coleman.” The fact that she hadn’t remembered my name sent my ego tumbling.
“That’s right, the lawyer. I just read about you in the paper. Are you tied to this victim, too?”
“A bystander, Vanessa. That’s it.” I got into the car, fast. No one was going to interview me again.
“C’mon, just a few questions.” She knocked on my window, then smiled and said loudly, “I’ll find out—you know that. Expect a call!”
As she ran toward the cordoned area, I decided to phone Jennifer. Hearing about this new murder on the news, on the heels of what had happened to her dad, would be jarring. It sure as hell had jarred me. Of course, I’d call Cathy, to reassure her and keep her calm. After school, we’d both talk to Molly and make sure she was okay.
Marilyn would have promptly opened a file for the estate. As expected, Jennifer’s contact info scrolled up on my cell. I punched the button, pulled away from the curb, and soon had her on the line. She listened intently to the afternoon’s morbid story.
“That’s just terrible. Another family has to go through this.”
She seemed so sensitive. It was disturbing to imagine her in the grasp of the Andar Feo. “I have to tell you, on the way over here, I was worried that it might have been Frank. Bernie Salvatore said he told you about that gang.”
&nbs
p; “That’s Frank’s problem.” Suddenly she didn’t sound so sensitive.
“To be honest, I’m more worried about you. If these guys go after … well, you are his sister.”
“They’ll have a hard time finding me; I have a different last name. Frank doesn’t even have my address or phone number—that’s the only way to handle an addict. Dad was the only one who’d still talk to him, God knows why.”
“Just the same, do you have somewhere you can stay for a while? A friend?” I braked at the intersection with Detroit, waiting for the light to change.
“He’s not a part of my life, and I won’t move because he’s in trouble. I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Coleman.”
“Please, call me John.” The light flicked green, and I pulled through, past a family-owned grocery and the glass façade of a swank wine bar. “Just think about it, okay?”
“I’m touched that you’re worried, John. You take care.” She hung up.
I’m touched that you’re worried, John. I looked forward to meeting her in person—even if the first time would be at a funeral home. Her sexy voice alone intrigued me. I rested the phone on the console and gripped the wheel with both damp hands. What the hell was going through my mind, daydreaming about another woman? Maybe agreeing to represent Jennifer had been a mistake.
A deep breath helped to calm me. Oyster’s death had brought an ugly past alive. Just as I’d been assuring everyone, though, there was nothing wrong. My main task for the day was to pick Molly up after school and hope that she wouldn’t be too disappointed when she learned that we wouldn’t be visiting the skateboard park. We would head straight home for a quiet, uneventful spaghetti dinner. Cathy would have polished and set the oaken table. We would talk of things other than serial killers. She would remind me of her upcoming birthday dinner, with her sister and brother-in-law. Her parents would stare down at us from faded color photographs arranged in thin wooden frames on the checkered blue-and-white wallpaper. There were photos of my mom, too, with her tight-lipped smile.
One photo of my father, handsome in a blue uniform, hung on the wall. Whenever Cathy said grace, my eyes would wander to that particular picture, and I would recall the games of catch, walleye fishing on the lake, our hikes through the Metroparks. We’d wander the trails there most Saturday mornings, just my dad and me. Afterward, he’d take me to Pete’s Hotdogs on Lorain, and we’d gorge on dogs stuffed into steamed buns and topped with local Stadium mustard and greasy fried onions. Those were the memories I’d try to focus on.
But I could never, ever block out the rest.
THE MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR OYSTER WAS HELD AT A funeral home on Center Ridge Road. The ceremony, a blissfully brief Methodist affair, was so much simpler than our elaborate Catholic rituals. I waited until Jennifer had thanked the minister for his comments, and then I crossed toward the front of the small chapel to introduce myself. Bernie’s assessment had been dead on. She was a younger, even prettier version of Martha: short blonde hair, hazel eyes, and creamy skin.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, taking my hand. “I suppose you’d like to meet Frank.”
I followed her gaze toward the floral arrangements displayed near the casket, where Frank had strolled as soon as the ceremony had concluded. He was staring at a lily of the valley, probably wondering if he could smoke it. “Yeah, I should.”
“Do you mind introducing yourself? I’m … I’m so done with him.”
“I understand.”
“Well …” She looked away, as though she were considering whether to say anything more. With a sigh, she continued, her eyes misting over. “He’s wearing Dad’s retirement watch. He must have gone to the house before the locks were changed.”
I didn’t believe a word of what I was about to say, but an attempt at smoothing things over seemed like the right approach. “Maybe your dad gave it to him, Jennifer. I can say something to him, if you want.”
She shook her head, her face locked in a tight grimace. “Dad would have known he’d pawn it. But let it go for now, John. I don’t want him blowing up here.” Her lyrical tone had been replaced by one of steel.
Jennifer turned to thank the remaining mourners, and I crossed the room to Frank. His handshake was limp, and his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. I would not have been surprised to learn he was high at his own father’s funeral.
After introducing myself and explaining my role in handling the estate, I gave him my card. “Any questions, call me.”
He stuck out his chin, bristling with his stubbly goatee. “How long will this take?”
Greedy bastard. “I’ll handle everything the best I can, but it will take months to move through court. I’ll need your address, phone number.”
“I’m kinda between places.” He nodded in the direction of Jennifer. “She has my number.”
“The cops say you’re a hard man to reach.” I felt obligated to Bernie to raise the issue.
“Yeah, one of them stopped by earlier.” His bright eyes darted around the room, as though a hit squad might burst in. “There’re people after me, you know. I took a risk just being here.”
“I heard that, but you’re safe with the cops. They only want to see if you can help.”
“Sure.” He paused, glancing about. “I saw her staring at it, the watch. He gave it to me.”
“Okay.” I was relieved that he’d brought it up. “But natural for her to wonder about it, that’s all.”
“Fuck her.” He stepped closer to me, his face lit by anger. “Whatever she says, me and the old man stayed close through all the bullshit.”
“I hear you, Frank. No reason to get upset.” I kept my voice as calm as possible. The last thing I needed would be for Jennifer to think that I’d sparked a confrontation.
“She’ll try to fuck me over, you know.” He clenched his teeth and nodded.
I stepped back and raised my hands. “I don’t know that, Frank. Your father’s will determines—”
“I don’t care about no will. She will try to fuck me over.” He enunciated the last words carefully, slowly, as though I were confused.
“The process is run through the court, Frank. You really don’t need to worry.” Great. I’d been hired only days ago and was already stepping into a mess.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Lawyer.” He took a few steps back, chuckling. “You have no idea what she’s capable of.”
He stuck my card in his pants pocket and turned toward the casket. I retreated in the direction of the parlor. Jennifer was chatting with some folks, so I just waved good-bye. There was no sense in further upsetting her. Bringing up her brother’s cryptic comments could wait until we met in my office. I did think about telling her what he had said about the watch, but there was no way that she was going to believe him.
I stopped near the doorway by an arrangement of photos of Oyster and others on a white poster board. One showed him with Martha, smiling broadly and seated across from her at a picnic table. I looked away.
Frank was resting a hand on the cherrywood surface of the coffin, his head bowed in prayer.
6
“It was kind of you, coming to the funeral.” Jennifer scanned the simple furnishings in my office and nestled into an upholstered chair.
“The ceremony was nice.” Her pink dress hugged her figure nicely and accented her blonde hair. When I’d come out to greet Jennifer in the lobby, Marilyn had raised her eyebrows and shot me a wry look.
Jennifer pointed to a photo of Cathy and Molly on my desk. “Your family?”
“Yeah, our bundle of thirteen-year-old energy. Last year’s Christmas show at the Palace.”
“Thought I recognized the lobby, all that marble. Your daughter’s the image of your wife.”
I rolled my chair forward and rested my arms on the desk. “We hear that, but she’s adopted.”
“Could have fooled me. Great pic.” Jennifer shifted her focus to the window behind me, with its view of the brick wall of the office building across the street
. She shut her eyes. “Every time I looked at that closed casket, it reminded me of what happened to Dad.”
I felt for her, wondering what an undertaker does when there aren’t even enough parts to reassemble a corpse. “They’ll trip up this creep. Maybe some clue will tie the Rocky River murder to your father’s.”
She shot me a skeptical look. “Everyone’s talking about those serial killers from years back. The police never found a thing.”
“They need time, that’s all. Lab work, pathology, all of it.”
I recalled the same discussion with my family, just a couple of days ago. Cathy, her earlobe scarlet from anxious rubbing, had embraced our daughter the minute we’d walked through the door. The conversation during our spaghetti dinner had been tense.
“I don’t know.” Jennifer crossed her legs, adjusting her snug pink dress, and her eyes misted over. “My late husband—Robert—was killed in Tijuana. A hit and run, some pickup truck. They never found who did that, either. It’s not the same, of course, but …”
At the funeral home, I’d noticed the absence of a wedding ring and assumed, since she had a different last name than Oyster, that she was divorced. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“We lived in San Diego then. He worked for a little import/export business and everything was great. The day he was … hit, we’d taken the train into Mexico like we’d done twenty times before. Just for fun.” She took a tissue from her purse. “I’m sorry. It’s just … losing my father, being at the funeral home, brought everything back.”
“I understand.” Better than she’d ever know; never hearing the Butcher’s name again would be just fine with me. Time for a change of topic. “Your brother said some odd things when we met.”
The Company of Demons Page 3