A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  “Really?”

  “I’m pretty sure these guys are the only ones authorized to fabricate and manufacture these rings. You can’t just buy one. You must go through them and get special permission before you can buy a ring like this. And they’ll charge you good money to fabricate one of these rings.”

  “What is a ring like this worth?” I decided to ask.

  “Seriously? They’re priceless. Says here in the book that there are only a limited number of rings at any one time in any area. The rubies are especially imported from Italy and is an ancient design from back in the Renaissance period in Florence. It says here when the owner of the ring dies, the ring must be destroyed or buried with its owner when he passes away. Says here that the design belongs to some ‘fraternal order,’” Michael explained.

  “What fraternal order?”

  “I don’t know. Only says a ‘fraternal order’. It would make sense though. I remember my customer a long time ago having a really hard time getting anyone to give any him information on fabricating this ring, let alone buying one.”

  “What does Feinstein have to do with this?”

  “I know they’re the fabricators. At least that’s the rumor on the streets. I’ve heard it mentioned at a few jewelry shows that they’re the only ones authorized by this ‘fraternal order’ to fabricate and sell these rings. But they are very exclusive,” Michael explained.

  He then gave the ring back to me, after returning it in the plastic sandwich bag.

  “Where did you get this ring?” he was pushing me for an answer.

  “Police business,” I replied again.

  “Come on, Phil! We go back too far. Tell me where you got this, or the next time you come in here looking for a last-minute gift on Christmas Eve, I’ll throw you out!” he was joking, and I knew he wasn’t serious.

  We were both smiling at his joke, as I eagerly asked him, “Are you jammed up here? Can you leave for a few hours?”

  “Sure. My son is here. He can run things for a while. Why?” I looked at him intently. “Let’s take a ride and pay Mr. Feinstein a visit.”

  Michael was all too eager to leave his store. He must have thought we were auditioning for ‘Dragnet’, as he excitedly jumped into the passenger side of my squad car. The traffic on I-290 was light, and in less than twenty minutes, we were double parking my Crown Vic in front of 376 South Wabash in the Chicago Loop downtown. Arezzo pressed the buzzer button, and we then walked up the three flights of stairs of the very old, antiquated three story building. He was explaining to me all along how old and established the Feinstein jewelry store was, with a deep-rooted, established clientele that spanned several generations, mostly from the North Shore of Chicago and its high-end suburbs.

  After walking up the stairs, there was another glass door, which we needed to be buzzed into. One of the sales associates, not knowing who we were, automatically buzzed us inside, probably against her boss’s wishes as he was tending to another customer.

  As we walked into the store, David Feinstein gave Michael one of those shocked, ‘what the fuck are you doing here’ looks as we waited for the store owner to finish with his customer. Feinstein was a bald, good looking young man wearing a crisp white shirt and tie, diamond cufflinks and several rings on his fingers. He was also displaying a glittering, over-sized gold watch and several diamond bracelets on each wrist. He was probably exhibiting several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry on both hands. I said to myself in a loud whisper that I hoped he didn’t go around in public wearing all that damn, expensive jewelry. Michael began chuckling, as I’m sure he had heard me.

  “I’ll be right with you, Michael,” he immediately said, as he was ringing up his customer who obviously, had a lot of money to spend.

  After twenty minutes or so, David Feinstein approached Michael and gave him a handshake and a man-hug, trying to pretend that he was happy to see him. Mike introduced me only as his friend, Phil, and asked if we could meet him in private.

  “I’m sorry you both came all the way down here, but I’m really jammed up. Could we all get together at another time?” he politely asked us, getting ready to blow us off for another customer.

  At that moment, I started getting irritated and I pulled out my police star, properly introducing myself.

  “I’m Detective Philip Dorian from the Chicago Police Department at the Sixteenth District. Could we have a word with you please?”

  Feinstein only looked at me with a blank stare, as he was momentarily speechless.

  “I need to call my lawyer,” he then said immediately.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said very nicely, leaning over his jewelry counter and getting as close as I could to his face. I was starting to get extremely aggravated with this asshole.

  “Because if that’s how you’re going to play this, I will handcuff and arrest you in front of all of your high-class, North Shore, ‘hoity-toity’ customers here and totally fucking embarrass you in your own jewelry store. Then we can all go to Jefferson Park and have a nice little party with your lawyer at my precinct. Now does doesn’t that sound like fun?” I sternly exclaimed, making sure he understood every syllable that was coming out of my mouth.

  “Now I don’t think you would like that now, would you, Mr. Feinstein?” as I was giving him my Cheshire cat grin that I only saved for criminal interrogations.

  Feinstein looked at the both of us, knowing that we were serious. He only said ‘follow me’ as he walked from behind the jewelry display case and towards the back room.

  It was an old, dark, dingy room clad with several large safes, a small kitchenette and an old dining table that looked like it had come with the dilapidated old building.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he eagerly asked, anxious to get rid of us.

  “What do you know about this?” as I pulled out the plastic sandwich bag with the priceless gold, red crossed ring.

  He glared at it quickly and pretended he didn’t know anything about it.

  “Nothing. I’ve never seen this before,” shaking his head.

  Michael Arezzo just started laughing, as he looked over at me, hoping I wouldn’t arrest him right there on the spot. I only glared at Feinstein, giving him one of my “don’t mess with me” dirty looks that I usually saved for drug dealers and south side gang bangers.

  “Now why are you lying to us, Mr. Feinstein? We know that you’re the only one in Chicago authorized to fabricate this ring for some fraternal order, God only knows who.” I had my ‘Barney Miller’ face on, trying to politely talk nice to him.

  “Let’s all play nice in the sandbox, here. Cooperate and tell me whatever it is that you know about this ring.”

  He looked at me again, knowing that I was ready to mess up his pretty boy face if he kept talking smart.

  “Honestly Detective, I don’t know much. Our family has been fabricating these rings for years, ever since my grandfather owned this store over one hundred years ago. All I know is that once in a very great while, we get a written purchase order in a sealed envelope dropped off at our mailbox, requesting the fabrication of this ‘SRC’ ring…that’s what we call it. We’re told not to ask any questions. Someone anony-mously comes in to inspect it, picks it up and leaves us with an envelope full of cash and walks away. It’s usually a very quick, very clean transaction,” he stated.

  “How much cash do you usually receive?”

  He looked at me nervously, probably thinking I was really a federal agent from the Treasury Department. He only shook his head.

  “Come on, David,” Michael pleaded. “He’s not going to report you. We all know its unclaimed cash. Just tell him the truth.”

  David Feinstein looked at me and held up five fingers.

  “Five thousand bucks?” I asked. Feinstein only shook his head.

  “$50,000?” exclaimed Arezzo, raising his eyebrows.

  Feinstein nodded. “That’s our fee which includes our being very discrete about any in
formation regarding this ring,” said Feinstein.

  “What does the ‘SRC’ stand for?” I eagerly asked. Feinstein only looked at me again, anxious to end our little back room party. There were several long moments of silence, as Feinstein was contemplating his answer.

  “If I tell you,” he hesitated, “will you both promise to immediately leave and to never come into my store again? Never asking me anymore questions about this ring?” he requested.

  “Deal,” Michael immediately said, knowing that I would never agree to such silly, foolish terms.

  I gave Michael the dirtiest of looks, which included my furrowed eyebrows.

  Feinstein then got up and pulled out a blank sheet of white paper out of one of his computer printers. He scribbled something down for a few moments while standing in front of one of his many safes. He then folded it and stuffed it into a plain white envelope from his adjacent desk. I got the impression he was handing us the security codes from the Pentagon for the ‘red button’ and the nuclear warhead missiles. Feinstein then sealed it and passed it over to Arezzo.

  “Could you both leave now? Please? ”

  I glared at Michael Arezzo, not liking the way we were being manhandled out the door. I was ready to get up and handcuff this little son-of-a-bitch, rather than expose ourselves to his backroom, jewelry store drama. Michael only grasped my arm, preventing me from doing something that would have probably gotten me on the six o’clock news.

  “Thank you, David,” he said, as he steered me towards the exit and outside of the jewelry store.

  We walked down the three flights of stairs without saying a word to each other until we were outside, standing on the sidewalk in front of my double-parked squad car.

  “Now that was fun,” Michael smiled, still holding the sealed envelope.

  I only looked at him and shook my head, as he opened the freshly sealed envelope with his index finger. He read the white sheet of paper and then looked at me, totally perplexed. He then crumbled it up and tossed it into a nearby open garbage can. Arezzo started walking towards the passenger side of my squad car, as he was suddenly very anxious to get back to his jewelry store. I only stood there, staring at Michael.

  “What does it say?” I asked as I bent down over the open garbage can to retrieve the crumbled-up piece of paper.

  “This guy is full of shit. Let’s get out of here,” he said, knowing that this little downtown trip was a total waste of our time. I got the immediate impression that he didn’t want me to read the note.

  I opened the crumpled-up note and read what it said. A crude drawing of a rose with the ‘SRC’ initials were hastily scribbled on the memo, along with the three words for which it stood for:

  Society Rose Crucifix.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lunch With Arezzo

  The sunrise of that early morning made it necessary for Olivia to pull down her sun visor and reach for her sunglasses, as she set the cruise control of her almost new, white BMW. She had left her condo in downtown Detroit early that morning and was making her way towards Chicago on interstate I-94. Olivia was well equipped for the long, five-hour drive, with her Starbucks, extra wet cappuccino and a few bottles of cold water on the front seat of her car. Her cell phone was programmed into her hands-free audio display as it began to ring first thing that morning. It was Cindy from her office.

  “Hey Cindy,” she immediately answered, while continuing west on I-94 past the Parma 130 exit.

  “Hey Olivia. What’s your ETA to Chicago?”

  “I’ve probably got another four hours ahead of me. Miss me already?”

  “Of course. Your hotel reservations at the Sheridan are all set for this week,” Cindy said. “I will text you with the address and the confirmation info.”

  “Thanks Cindy. You’re the best.” Olivia often wondered where she would be in her life without her responsible administrative assistant.

  “Think you’ll need a whole week in Chicago to settle these claims? Or are you going to do some ‘Windy City’ partying too?” She could tell that there was a slight tone of jealousy in her administrative assistant’s voice.

  “Hopefully. You know Chicago is a beautiful city in the summertime,” Olivia replied.

  Her drive to Chicago that early morning was really, a multi-faceted journey. Since her unexpected visit from the Chicago attorney yesterday, and along with his ‘unusual gift’, Olivia figured that she needed to get more involved with these Chicago homicide investigations. She just didn’t want to hire a strange private investigator to look over the shoulders of the Chicago Police Department and aimlessly go along with their conclusions. And she certainly didn’t want to get into the FBI’s way or any other of the federal and state agencies that were involved with this case.

  But after Gleason’s visit, she felt that she needed to personally get involved. There were some large insurance claims at stake here. With wrongful death lawsuits being filed, she didn’t want to expose her company to any additional liabilities down the road, especially from the Archdiocese of Chicago. She was also afraid to make the wrong call, and she felt that she needed to be ‘more involved’ in this extensive criminal investigation, one way or the other.

  And yes, of course, there was one more reason for this long, five-hour drive. Detective Philip Dorian. She had not heard from him since their ‘business’ dinner date a week ago, and she had finally left him a message yesterday. He was obviously too busy to return her call. She had gotten the impression from his desk sergeant that Phillip was ‘knee-deep in shit’ regarding these “Pedophile Priest Murders,” and probably didn’t have the time to call her back.

  Phillip Dorian made quite an indelible impression on her the last time she was in town. He was handsome, easy-going, and extremely kind and respectful to her on that last evening they had spent together at the restaurant and the Chicago River Walk. Although that evening had started out with platonic intentions in discussing the progress of these investigations, she couldn’t seem get him out of her mind. They had spent several hours discussing their personal lives, and she got the impression that he was still quite tainted from his divorce. She hoped she could penetrate through his ‘emotional brick wall’, as he seemed to have a latent distrust for women. She hoped that maybe, she could be a part of his life, even though he was an intense Chicago Blackhawks hockey fan.

  I have no use for Chicago Blackhawks, she jokingly thought. She imagined herself with Phillip at a Detroit-Chicago hockey game, sitting at rink-side seats at the United Center, wearing her Red Wings jersey and Phil with his Blackhawks attire. What fun it would be, she thought to herself, to potentially share her life with someone who would look beyond her brains and beauty and to show her how to laugh, love and have fun again. Her life seemed to be so bland and boring lately, drinking with her girlfriends on Thursday nights and going on occasional, ‘nowhere’ dates with men whose only interest was a one-night stand.

  Phillip Dorian seemed so different. They seemed to have so many interests in common, besides being intense hockey fans. He seemed to be very empathetic and had a sense of humor that she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Phil was a gentleman who didn’t take himself too seriously and displayed quite a bit of class on that brief night that they shared together. Olivia was hoping, deep down inside, that their personal chemistry could to lead to something more.

  Olivia balanced the steering wheel with her knee while she opened a bottle of water, as she continued to drive westbound towards Chicago.

  ____________________________________________

  I was leaving the ‘Jeweler’s Row’ section of South Wabash Street and was making my way back to towards the Eisenhower Expressway. I had to drop off Michael Arezzo back to his jewelry store on North Harlem Avenue, and was hoping there wasn’t a significant amount of traffic. Michael was totally silent since leaving Feinstein’s jewelry store and hadn’t said too much on our way back. He was staring off into traffic, as if he were in a psychological trance.

&nbs
p; “Mikie, are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, Phil.” Several long minutes continued to pass while he continued to remain silent.

  “What’s on your mind,” I eagerly asked.

  “Nothing…everything is fine.”

  “Really?” I asked him, knowing full well that he was handing me a line of crap.

  “How do you feel about grabbing lunch?” I asked him, looking at my watch and realizing that I was way overdue.

  “Okay…” he said slowly, “Dei Edoardo’s is open for lunch in Oak Park. It’s right on Lake Street after the Harlem Exit.”

  “Got it.”

  I realized throughout the car ride that his Wheels were turning and there was something on his mind. I thought maybe, some Italian food and an early afternoon glass of wine might loosen his tongue, especially if it had something to do with that ‘red cross’ ring. I parked my Crown Vic near a handicapped parking space in front of the Lake Street restaurant and we were both seated. We ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, hoping that at the very least, I could get Michael out of his silent funk. He was well into his second glass of wine, when he finally started to confide his thoughts.

  “I have a confession to make, Phil.”

  “If you’re looking for a priest, you’re in the wrong place,” I joked.

  “I have seen that ring many times before, and it has been bringing back some memories about my Nonno in Italy that I haven’t remembered in a very long time.”

  “Really?” I was rather surprised at his revelation.

  “My grandfather in Italy had a ring just like that. He wore it all the time and never took it off,” he confessed.

  He took another long drink of his red wine and continued. “Our family is from a town not far from Lucca in Italy, a medieval town called Barga. I often visited my grandparents there when I was a kid and spent several summers there with them. I always admired that ruby red cross ring, and I asked him several times if he would ever let me have that ring when he passed on. He always joked and said that “the ring would be buried with him when he was gone”. But I never understood why. During the summer of 1989, I spent that last summer with my grandparents. My Nonno was quite sick then, so I wanted to spend as much time as I could with him.” He took another long swallow, as our pasta entrée’s began to arrive.