The following photo was of me, seated on the patio at Cena on a sunny day. I turned to Jennifer. “What the fuck?” Someone had taken the shot from near the intersection with Prospect Avenue. There was a cocktail in front of me, and I was staring at the action on the street.
The last photo, though, turned me numb. Cathy and Molly. In Cathy’s Chevy, at the end of our driveway. Based on the angle, it appeared that someone sitting in a parked car along the street had taken the shot. I swallowed hard.
“That’s your wife, daughter …”
I felt oddly sorry for Jennifer—the flannel-pajama-clad beauty I’d made love to, smacked with the reality of my marriage on the day of her brother’s death. “Yes. Cathy, Molly, in our driveway.”
“I recognized them from the picture in your office. Cathy looks older here.”
“That one was taken a long time ago. She still looks good.” The words caught in my throat.
Jennifer’s lips tightened. “I’m not saying she doesn’t.”
I picked up the envelope. Jennifer’s address was handwritten, and there was no return. “Any idea …?”
She shook her head. “John, I’m scared.”
I felt detached, paralyzed. Cathy—cowering behind the living room curtains, locking up, double-checking, terrified the Butcher was out there. And my Molly. Had my actions somehow put them in danger?
I stepped away from Jennifer. “This is bullshit. I’m calling Salvatore.”
“What’s it mean, John?”
“No fucking idea. Looks like someone’s trying to scare us, scare you.”
“But why … your wife and daughter?”
I shook my head, powered up the cell, and dialed Bernie. He answered on the second ring, and that was the last good thing about the conversation.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Jennifer’s. Look, I know what you said …” My voice hushed, I headed into the living room and told him about the photos.
“You are a complete moron.”
“You can kick my ass later, but these fuckin’ photos—her, me, Frank, Cathy, for Christ’s sake. Cathy. Bernie, there’s a picture of her and Molly.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Glad you’re so concerned about your family. Bring me all this shit tomorrow. Let me guess, you fingered the photos and the envelope.”
“Jesus, Bernie, so did Jennifer. It’s not like—”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes. Bring it to me and, right now, zip up your pants and get the fuck outta there.”
I lowered my voice still further, barely whispering. “It ain’t like that, Bernie. Jesus, her brother just got murdered, now these frickin’ photos …”
“I can’t fucking hear you. Look, asshole, you’re puttin’ yourself in a situation. If it blows apart, don’t come crying to me.”
He hung up, and I returned to Jennifer’s side, flicking my cell off again because I just could not handle a call from Cathy. “He wants me to bring these to him in the morning.”
“God, I need a drink. Could you pour some wine?”
Nodding, I walked into the kitchen. The mini wooden rack on the kitchen counter was bare, so I swung open the refrigerator door in case she had a half-empty bottle. Nothing. I called to her, “Outta luck, Jen.” She strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Her lower lip trembled a bit. “Would you mind running out …?”
“I really need to get home, Jennifer. I’m sorry.” I was already going to be way late—if that even mattered at this point.
“It’s just up at the corner; a three-minute stroll. Please? I know you can’t stay.”
She looked so vulnerable. There was no way that Cathy hadn’t locked every door and window. She and Molly would be safe until I got home. Despite knowing that Cathy would be beyond the boiling point, I nodded. “Let’s hope the convenience store has a decent bottle.”
She brightened, her eyes finally showing some light. “You’re very kind, John. I’m just so spaced out …”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She laid a perfectly manicured hand on my arm. “I should probably eat something, too. After the police left, I wasn’t hungry, but now …”
“How’s a turkey sandwich sound? Homemade—by Subway.”
“Perfect. Take my keys. The apartment’s on the silver ring. And be careful, John.”
I locked the door behind me and walked outside. Despite the balmy night, I felt chilled and sick with fear. Maybe it was the fact that I’d just been skating in Frank’s goddamn blood, maybe it was the photos, but I was jumpy as all hell. There was still a serial killer out there, and I sure as shit didn’t want somebody blindsiding me while I was running a damn errand. Did you hear about John Coleman? Yeah, they found him with his nuts sliced off, stuffed right inside a turkey hoagie from Subway. I felt like a punk-ass for letting myself wonder if maybe I should have driven all of about three hundred yards.
The convenience store had a fifteen-dollar bottle of red that I figured wouldn’t taste like rotgut. I felt like screaming at the girl behind the Subway next door to just slap some turkey inside a loaf of bread and stop reciting optional condiments. When the bagged sandwich was finally in hand, I clutched the wine bottle by the neck to swing it like a club if some maniac attacked me and tried to cut off my dick and my head. About halfway back to the apartment, somebody slammed a car door and startled me. It was nothing, just some guy going into the CVS.
When I entered Jennifer’s apartment, she was sitting at her dining table, now clear of her father’s papers. She had set out two plates, wine glasses, and a corkscrew.
I set the sandwich and the wine on the table. “I really should go.”
“Five minutes, John, that’s all. I have some questions. You probably haven’t eaten either. Half a sandwich.”
“Five minutes.” My eyes drifted to the small desk and the photos of Martha, Oyster, Frank, and the late hubby. My skin crawled; Jennifer now seemed to have an austere shrine to dead relatives. And I’d found two of them and screwed one. I opened the wine and filled both of our glasses.
“This makes me the sole beneficiary on Dad’s insurance, right?” For someone whose brother had just been murdered, Jennifer seemed incredibly detached. Certain people can appear as though they never sweat. She looked like an animated statue, chiseled from ice.
I sat across from her and took a sip of wine. There were so many cryptic depths to her, and I was just muddling about on the surface. What was the face of the real Jennifer Browning? “I’ll send Frank’s death certificate to the insurance company as soon as I can.”
She nodded and turned the wineglass with her delicate fingers, staring at the burgundy reflection on the table. “I suppose it will take awhile?”
“It will. A claim this size, they’ll check everything out.”
She took a bite of her sandwich and nodded. After she swallowed, she set the sandwich on the table and leaned back in her chair. “I understand your decision. I saw the concern on your face when you looked at those photos. You love her.”
I couldn’t shake the photo of Cathy innocently backing her Chevy out of the driveway, Molly strapped into the passenger seat. “We’ve been married a long time. I just don’t want to hurt them. My daughter … she had a rough time of it. Foster care and all of that. I don’t know that she could handle it if our marriage fell apart.”
“It’s okay to say that you love her.” Jennifer took a sip of wine. She had already steeled herself for this moment, I realized. There were no tears, just resignation. “Somehow, I thought we’d be more than a one-night stand.”
“We can still be—”
“Friends?” She laughed. “Go home to your family, John. Take care of them.” She shoved the sandwich away from her and pulled the wine glass close, near the edge of the table. “We’re okay. Really, we are.”
The way that she mouthed those words struck me as odd, but I chalked the feeling up to the blood I’d waded in and the disconcerting
photos I couldn’t explain. I had clearly been given a cue to say good night. I grabbed the photos and envelope but stopped at the door. Curse me, but despite every word, gazing at her made me remember being wrapped in her sheets.
“Tonight probably wasn’t the best time for us to talk,” I said.
Jennifer shrugged. “Don’t prolong anything, John. That will just make it more difficult for me.”
“It’s not just my family. I don’t want to hurt you, either.” I remembered Martha’s hysteria the night I’d ended our relationship. So maybe Jennifer was right: the sooner, the better, for all of us. If only I could stop thinking of her naked on top of me, the way she had moaned, the way she had tasted.
“And you don’t have to worry; I won’t hurt you.” She nodded her head once, twice. “You trust me, don’t you?”
I wasn’t clear whether she was discussing my emotions or the leverage she had over me. But there was only one answer, in spite of every lingering doubt. “Of course.”
“Glad that’s not an issue.” She picked up the sandwich but paused before taking a bite. “Make sure the door locks behind you. Good night.”
I retrieved my keys from the shelf, walked into the hallway, and down to the parking lot. An evening breeze chilled my neck. With a glance over my shoulder, I turned on the cell. It was half past midnight, and Cathy had called. Twice, in fact. I prayed that nothing had happened to my family while I’d been eating a turkey hoagie and sipping wine with Jennifer.
Cathy answered on the first ring. “You son of a bitch.”
“I’m sorry. Oyster’s son was killed tonight.” I reached the Buick, clambered inside, and locked the doors.
“I know. It’s been on the news for hours. Where the hell have you been?”
“Cathy …” It seemed as though words were fighting not to come out of my gaping mouth.
Telling her then about the photographs would have been a mistake. There was no explanation, and she’d spend the night awake, worrying.
“Never mind,” she said. “I don’t need your lies. There’s a monster out there, and you act like nothing’s going on. Getting into fights, staying out all fucking night, and you don’t even think to let me know you’re okay?”
“Just wait—”
“I’m not done! Stay out! Wherever you are, I don’t care. But don’t you dare come home.”
I started to lie, to tell her I’d gotten drunk after finding Frank, but she stampeded over me.
“The doors are locked, and I’m going to bed. Molly’s asleep. Don’t you think the Butcher kills these people at night, in the dark? How do you know you’re not being followed now, running around like you do?”
My eyes pivoted to the rearview mirror and out the car windows. She had no idea how close to the truth she was—the photo of me, the one of her and Molly in the Chevy. “Cathy, I’m sober, and I’ll come straight home. We can talk, promise.”
“It’s too late. I don’t want you here.”
“Don’t do this, Cathy. I’ll sleep on the couch again, if you want.” She didn’t understand how much I suddenly wanted to be there, with her and Molly.
“If you’re with someone, just stay with her. If you’re alone, get a room. I’m sure you know where you can rent one by the hour.”
“You’re out of line, Cathy.”
“Me? That’s a laugh.” I expected that both of her earlobes were bright red, but there was no tremor in her voice. “Molly cried herself to sleep tonight, worried about you. Wonders what the hell you were doing in Tremont with a dead man.”
“Just let me come home. I’ll explain.”
“You have no idea how much I wanted you here. I wanted you to check the locks, watch over our daughter.”
“Give me the chance.”
“I …” Her voice broke. “I don’t need you tonight.”
“But Molly—”
“She’s finally sleeping. Give her that.”
She wasn’t going to change her mind. I scanned the dark silhouettes of parked vehicles once again and broke the silence. “I’ll go to the office, sleep on the couch. But call me if you need anything, anything at all.”
“I don’t care where you go, John. And what I needed was to have you here to say good night to Molly.”
“You made your point.” She’d be safe tonight, no different from the nights when I’d been there, or when I hadn’t. “Let’s talk tomorrow, after you’ve calmed down.”
“I’m perfectly calm, damn it. But you’re right, we’ll talk, because I will not keep doing this.”
“When you come home from school, I’ll be there. We can sit in the living room. Molly will be at practice.”
“Perfect. I’ll make a fucking casserole, and we can light a candle.” She sniffled, and I gnawed at my lower lip. Why did I think it made any difference where we sat?
“Don’t do anything stupid tonight, John. And if you were with somebody else, make sure you find the spine to tell me that tomorrow.”
19
There was a sudden rap on the office door. My eyes popped open.
“Coffee’s on!”
I’d left a note for Marilyn, in case she came in before I awoke, which was exactly what had happened. A vision of Frank roared at me; I sprang up on the lumpy couch. Finding one body like that was enough, but a father and a son? To say that sleep had been fitful would be an understatement. I dressed, thankful that I’d hung the shirt so it didn’t look like I’d worn it for multiple days—maybe just two. A hot shower would have been a dream, let alone fresh underwear.
I walked stiffly to the coffee alcove. As Marilyn handed me a cup of steaming java, she eyed the shirt and the stubble on my face. “Just so you know, you look like hell. This about the Frederickson boy? The news said you found him.”
Thinking of Frank without envisioning that bloody gash in his throat was impossible, but for Marilyn to assume that I’d wound up on the office couch because of my hellish night was a relief. “Yeah. Pretty flipped out and drank way too much to drive. Seeing Oyster, then Frank. Damn.”
“And two murders, like we’re cursed.” She toyed with a white feather in her earring. “That poor girl …”
“Girl? What do you mean?”
She looked up at me, surprised. “You haven’t …”
“What?”
“I heard on the news, on the way in. There was another killing, the body dumped right downtown.” Marilyn crossed her arms as if she were hugging herself.
I brushed past her desk toward the dinky old television set in my office. Grabbing the remote, I punched buttons to hone in on a station airing a report on the killing. The newscaster was a young guy of Greek descent who emphasized every sensational word: the torso of a dismembered white female had been found in an alley connected to a valet parking lot, one used by patrons of the popular East Fourth Street entertainment district. The police were withholding further information, pending notification of next of kin.
“Doesn’t seem possible.” Marilyn had trailed behind me. Her beige dress seemed appropriately somber. “There’re hundreds of people on Fourth any night of the week.”
“The body had to have been dumped after the bars closed.” East Fourth, where I’d sat at Cena, oblivious to the fact that someone was snapping my picture. Pictures. Cathy and Molly, Jennifer. There was no way that Cathy would have left the house last night, no matter how angry she was with me, not with our daughter in bed. But Jennifer? Christ, could she have been so upset when I left that she’d gone out?
“Excuse me, Marilyn, I need to make a call.” I put a hand on her back and guided her toward the door. She looked perplexed, but that wasn’t my concern. There was no way I could allow her to overhear my conversation with a certain blonde.
Jennifer didn’t pick up her landline or cell, so I left a message asking her to call me right away. Sinking into the chair, I cupped my hands over my face. Whether driven by concern or guilt, I needed to know that Jennifer was okay and not lying naked and cut up in a dam
n alley. Bernie Salvatore would know all of the grisly details, but he’d be all over my ass about my late-night visit to her apartment.
The safe bet was Jack Corrigan. He’d make a call to somebody still on the force and tell me what he found out, no bullshit about it. He answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“Jack, John Coleman. I need a favor.”
“Rough go last night. Saw about Frank Frederickson on the news.”
“But there’s been another murder, some girl off East Fourth.”
“I know. Watchin’ it on the TV now.”
“Can you make a call, find out if it’s Jennifer Browning?”
“Why the hell would you think that?”
“She wasn’t acting like herself, after finding out about her brother.” There was no need to tell Jack anything more.
“How do you know that?”
Fuck. “I saw her.”
“So you are gettin’ some ass.”
“C’mon, Jack, don’t bust my balls. It’s a lot more involved than you think. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Can’t wait to hear.” He took a sip of what I assumed was coffee. “Don’t piss on yourself. I’ll get back to you.”
He hung up, and I wallowed into the leather of my chair. I was sweating into my already gamy shorts, and the tepid coffee roiled in my stomach. I considered calling Jennifer at work, although I thought it highly unlikely that she would have gone into work under the circumstances. I was about to try calling her again when my cell buzzed. Jennifer. I lay my head back and answered.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you, John. Sorry I didn’t pick up; I was in the shower.”
“Did you see the news? They found a dead woman, a white woman.”
“I know, but what …”
“I thought, maybe, that you’d gone out.” Suddenly, my call didn’t seem to make any sense. “Sorry, I was … worried. I mean, your brother, those photos.”
A few seconds slipped away, and I felt like a fool, but she said, “Thanks for caring, John. Last night was tough. For a lot of reasons.”
There was an empty silence between us until, finally, I said, “I just had to know that you were all right.”
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