Blood & Rust

by S. A. Swiniarski

  “I was trying to find out what happened to a body that disappeared from the morgue at St. Vincent’s.”

  Cody sighed and looked up at the darkened apartments above the bar. “What did our suicide have to with it?”

  “He was security when the body disappeared.”

  “And this body, it’s part of a case you’re working on?”

  The silence stretched until Inspector Cody said, “Well?”

  A wind came down the street, off the lake. It got under Stefan’s overcoat and chilled him. Eventually he shook his head and said, “No, it isn’t part of any official investigation.”

  Stefan could see his superior shake his head, as if in disappointment. “God, don’t you have better things to do with your free time? Was the body a murder victim?”

  “No—” Stefan said, then hesitated.

  “What else?”

  “—he may not even be dead, sir.”

  Detective Inspector Cody lowered his gaze to look into Stefan’s eyes. “You’d better tell me the whole story here.”

  Stefan gave as complete an accounting as he could. Cody stayed silent through it, only moving to pull out a cigarette and light it. When it was over, he blew smoke toward the bar, as if trying to erase what was happening.

  “Okay,” he said finally, “I’m not going to reprimand you. It’s just too much trouble when I’m retiring tomorrow.” He looked up at the bar, “This and the Kingsbury Run business—what a note to leave on.”

  Cody shook his head, looked at Stefan, and said, “This isn’t as your superior, it’s just some advice from an old cop. Don’t muddy the waters any further with extracurricular activities. What you have is a John Doe who didn’t die, a doctor who couldn’t admit his mistake, and a guard who lied to cover his own oversights and couldn’t live with it when he lost his job. You try and read any more into it, my successors may not be as forgiving.”

  “But—” Stefan began. In his mind he saw the connection between Samson Fairfax and Edward Mullen. They had both seen the Devil, in some form or other. But as the thought formed, Stefan knew it bore little weight, no matter how certain it seemed to him. He was chasing a shadow that no one else could see.

  “If you keep investigating anything off duty, beyond what’s assigned to you, you risk getting canned. Do you understand that? I’d hate to see the department lose you.”

  Stefan nodded.

  The doors slammed shut on the coroner’s wagon. As it drove away, Stefan wondered what other lies Mullen might have told for the Devil.

  11

  Wednesday, November 6

  Eliot Ness stood by the bar, martini in hand, and watched the powerful people mingle. He was here because someone in the Burton campaign invited him. Ness was a loyal party man and the invitation intrigued him, so he attended. He also attended the victory celebration because it was one of those high-profile parties where attendance could be a career move. Filling the ballroom around Ness were the most important and influential people in the city and, in a few cases, the whole country.

  Ness sipped his martini and wondered who had invited him and why. There had been hints about openings in the incoming administration, but no one from the campaign staff had approached him. He certainly hadn’t any opportunity to see the mayor-elect yet, much less talk to him. Burton was probably only going to show up to give a climactic, and boring, speech to the mass of high and mighty gathered in his honor.

  Most of the guests were party officials and big donors. Ness was neither. He wasn’t even local. The government he worked for was the Federal one. He lived in Bay Village, two suburbs west of the city, which meant that he hadn’t even voted in the Cleveland mayoral election.

  The explanation he’d come up with was the suspicion that someone invited him as part of the decor. The mayor had been elected in large part due to his platform of reform, law and order. Since the local police were as corrupt as anything Ness had seen outside Chicago, if the new mayor wanted law enforcement represented at his victory party, he probably wanted to go a little farther afield for those representatives.

  “Mr. Ness? Mr. Eliot Ness?”

  Ness turned to face the man calling his name. He was the one person in the ballroom younger than Ness. The man was in his late twenties and looked a little uncomfortable in black tie and tails. His hair was slicked back, not quite hiding its flaming red color.

  “Yes?” Ness said, as he began to sense a familiarity. “You work for the Press, don’t you?”

  “The News now. Peter Napier.” Napier extended his hand, and Ness was able to picture him in a rumpled suit and hat.

  Ness shook the man’s hand and said, “I never forget a reporter’s face.”

  Napier chuckled. Ness’ love for the press was no secret, and the press usually did its best to return the favor. “So, are you on some big case right now?”

  Ness shook his head, “Not unless the Canadian whiskey stocking the bar missed passing through customs.” Ness looked across the bar, and the bartender, an elderly man in a white jacket, shrank back a bit at Ness’ glance. Ness sighed and said, “It’s a joke.” The bartender smiled and laughed nervously. He returned to face Napier. “No big case. I’m just a guest here.”

  Napier nodded. “Well, I’m on duty here. Care to spare a few minutes?”

  “Always,” Ness said, draining the remainder of his martini.

  “You were invited here—Were you involved in the Burton campaign at all?”

  Ness chuckled. “If I’d been, you’d know, wouldn’t you? No, I’m here as a private citizen to offer my congratulations to Mr. Burton.”

  Napier whipped out a notepad and jotted down a few words. “Do you think that inviting you here is intended to send a message to local gangs?”

  “I can’t speak for Mr. Burton, but I would like to think that it means that the new administration will have a cordial relationship with the Federal law enforcement agencies.”

  “Are you saying that Mayor Davis didn’t have that kind of relationship?”

  Ness shook his head, “Not at all. I simply think it is a positive note that Mayor-elect Burton has shown signs that he fully intends to carry out the spirit of reform that his campaign promised.”

  “Would you consider an appointment within the new administration?”

  The question took Ness aback somewhat. He was answering before it fully sank in, mostly because he had long ago trained himself never to fumble for words in front of the press. “Now that is a novel question. It would mean a big change. I’ve always worked for the Federal Government. Playing any role in a municipal administration would be a much different thing than anything I’ve done before.”

  “Does that mean that you wouldn’t want the job?”

  “Now that would depend on the job, wouldn’t it? I’ve never been averse to a challenge, but the answer would have to depend on the exact situation. Right now it’s all hypothetical.” Ness looked around at the ballroom and finally whispered to Napier. “Off the record, where did that question come from?”

  Napier smiled, “Off the record?”

  Ness nodded.

  “Friend of a friend who works for Burton. Someone close to the new mayor is going to suggest you for a job, a someone who’s in love with the reputation you got in Chicago.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Honest.” Napier scribbled something on his notepad and looked up. “Now let me ask you about—” His expression changed. “Holy Mary, you must be pulling my leg.”

  “What?” Ness said, nonplussed.

  Napier was looking over Ness’ shoulder now, his eyes following something near the entrance of the ballroom. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?” Ness turned to see what it was that was attracting Napier’s attention. He saw people mingling, talking to each other. It took a moment before he recognized what it was that was attracting Napier’s attention. A man was working his way toward a set of tables to the right of the main entrance. He wasn’t dressed for
the event, and what would normally be an impeccably cut three-piece suit stood out in the midst of the tuxedos.

  Napier started moving to intercept the man, and Ness followed. “Who is that?” he asked, managing to suppress a little irritation at having the interview interrupted.

  “That’s Van number one,” Napier said. The comment did nothing to enlighten Ness. The man was obviously someone of some importance, otherwise someone would have stopped him before he had reached the party itself. Ness had the feeling that the man should be familiar to him, but his face held nothing that really distinguished him.

  Meanwhile Napier was nodding, “Yes, it is. Oris Paxton Van Sweringen, by God. Someone left his ivory tower unlocked—”

  The baroque name finally triggered Ness’ memory, though the result was something less than concrete. He remembered a number of articles about the Van Sweringen brothers, all about trains, real estate, and financial pyramids.

  “Didn’t he just go bankrupt or something?” Ness asked. They were slipping through the high and the mighty, converging on the Van Sweringen brother. Ness could see where the man was heading, a table at the far corner of the ballroom, at which sat an ominous-looking blond man flanked by a pair of gentlemen whose type was all too familiar to Ness.

  “Their corporate assets were auctioned off in the sweet-heart deal of all time. They never lost control, despite all the lost and misinvested money.” Napier shook his head. “The Vans almost never come out in public. They weren’t even at the dedication of their Union Terminal Building. God only knows what Oris is doing here.”

  The two of them reached the table at the same time as Van Sweringen. Napier called to him as he had to Ness. “Mr. Van Sweringen?”

  Once Napier spoke, drawing attention to himself, it seemed as if the world around the table slowed to a near stop. Van Sweringen and the blond man at the table turned their attention to Napier, while the other two turned their attention to Ness. Ness returned the attention.

  “Yes, can I help you with something?” Van Sweringen’s voice sounded strained. He kept glancing back to the table even as he spoke to Napier. Ness was unsure if it was the blond man, or his hoodlum bodyguards, that was making Van Sweringen so nervous.

  “Peter Napier of the News,” Napier said, holding out his hand. “If I could have a minute of your time?”

  Van Sweringen left Napier’s hand hanging in midair. “No.” He shook his head. “I’m here to talk to Mr. Dietrich, not the press.”

  Napier wasn’t put off that easily, “Perhaps I should introduce both of you to Mr. Eliot Ness?”

  Ness stepped forward, saving most of his attention for Mr. Dietrich. All three of the table’s occupants stood up, and Ness noticed that the bodyguard on the left looked a little uncomfortable at Napier’s mention of his name.

  Napier continued, “You might be familiar with his crime-fighting career back in Chicago.”

  “Mr. Van Sweringen.” Ness gave his most disarming smile to the man as he took his hand. He noticed that the mention of law enforcement seemed to make everyone but Dietrich nervous. Van Sweringen’s hand felt like a dead fish. He held out his hand for Dietrich, and it was taken in a much firmer grasp. “Mr. Dietrich.”

  Dietrich nodded and looked at Ness as if he was seeing much too deeply into him. Ness felt the man was measuring him for something. The man had more presence than anyone that Ness had ever met. There was a charisma there, a confidence that informed every movement Dietrich made. Looking into Dietrich’s eyes, Ness could sense a will that had rarely been thwarted.

  “Mr. Ness,” Dietrich said in a richly accented voice. Even the European flavor to his voice added to the impression, as if Ness was in the presence of a peer of Stalin, or Mussolini. Ness kept eye contact, despite every impression that told him to defer to the man. Ness was proud, and he wasn’t about to back down from anyone out of nervousness. If anything, nervousness made Ness more apt to stand his ground.

  Ness smiled and let Dietrich let go first, even though it was a relief when the physical contact ended. “You are an uncommon man, Mr. Ness,” Dietrich said with a small smile.

  “You know me, then?” Ness asked.

  “No, I do not.” The smile became a little wider. “I am a recent immigrant to this country. All I know of you is what I see in your face. Iron overlaid by the appearance of youth. I am certain your opponents often underestimate you.”

  “He’s the man who broke up the Capone gang in Chicago,” Napier said. He was still watching Van Sweringen. Dietrich didn’t seem to interest the reporter.

  Van Sweringen seemed flustered by the attention and protested, “I’m here on private business with—”

  Dietrich raised a hand, and Van Sweringen stilled his voice. “Just a moment,” he said in a level voice. Ness was still trying to identify the accent. It seemed Central European, which was common enough in this city. “I am talking with Mr. Ness.”

  Dietrich seemed to take an interest in him. That was fine with Ness, the feeling was mutual. He should be aware of someone who flanked himself with Sicilian thugs and wore his own power like a tailored suit. “You’re a recent immigrant, might I ask where from?”

  “Recently I come from Budapest. Originally from some small country that you never heard of, which no longer exists.”

  Ness nodded. “Europe is an unfortunate place lately.”

  Dietrich laughed. “It has always been unfortunate, Mr. Ness. That is the nature of Europe.” The two hoods didn’t laugh. From the way they and Van Sweringen looked, he and Dietrich could have been holding each other at gun-point, rather than making small talk. “But I see your next question, the current environment—especially around Germany—made it more reasonable to take my business here, to America.”

  “What is your business, Mr. Dietrich?”

  “Investments,” he said. “I took my capital out of Europe, and I am investing in this country’s future.”

  “Ah,” Ness looked around at the ballroom. “I assume one of your investments was supporting Burton’s campaign.”

  “You are perceptive. I am a supporter of law and order.”

  Napier spoke up, sounding a little irritated at having been left out of the conversation. “I’m sure Van Sweringen can appreciate that, what with dismembered corpses being found on his rail line—”

  Van Sweringen’s face reddened. “How dare you connect that atrocity with me! That is no more related to me than— than—corpses washing up on the beach are related to the Humphry Popcorn Company! One more statement like that and I’ll have you brought in for slander! Leave—both of you—before I have you removed!” Van Sweringen’s voice was steadily rising, and people were turning to look at them now. Ness suspected that if he continued shouting like that, it would be Van Sweringen they’d remove—on a stretcher after a heart attack.

  Van Sweringen took a step forward to confront Napier physically, but Dietrich stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder. Van Sweringen turned to face Dietrich, and they stared at each other.

  For the first time, Ness could see anger in Dietrich’s expression. Deep in his eyes was a consuming rage that focused on Van Sweringen. “That is enough, Oris,” Dietrich hissed quietly. Ness would have expected Van Sweringen to start raging at Dietrich next, but instead he seemed to deflate under Dietrich’s gaze. Without turning to face them, Dietrich said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ness. Perhaps you and your friend should go now. Perhaps I will see you again.”

  Ness nodded, looking at the two thugs staring at him. “Perhaps,” he said. Then he took Napier’s arm and led him back toward the bar. They withdrew slowly enough for Ness to hear the start of a whispered argument between Dietrich and Van Sweringen. All he made out was Van Sweringen’s voice saying something about his brother, and Dietrich saying, “How dare you talk so loosely—”

  Ness wanted another drink.

  Back at the bar he ordered a martini and asked Napier, “What was it you were taking about, that made Van Sweringen so furious?”

/>   Napier ordered whiskey. “It wasn’t like I was implying anything, Christ.”

  “What was it, though, ‘dismembered corpses?’ ”

  “Oh, well, there’s this place, Kingsbury Run, where the trains cut through to the Union Terminal...”

  Napier told Ness about the Kingsbury Run murders in all their gory detail. It only took a little while for the case to spark some familiarity. Ness had heard about it two months ago. Some paper had called it, “the most bizarre double murder in Cleveland history.” He hadn’t heard much about it since.

  When Napier was done, Ness finished off the martini and asked, “So what was his comment about the Humphry Popcorn Company supposed to mean?”

  “God knows; I don’t. Something about Euclid Beach Park, I guess.”

  “Know anything about Mr. Dietrich?”

  Napier shook his head. “First time I ever met him.”

  “I thought the high and mighty was supposed to be your beat?”

  Napier shrugged and swirled the Scotch in his glass. “Hey, I don’t know the guy. Maybe he’s new in town, maybe he isn’t all that important. Either way he’s low-enough profile that I haven’t seen anything about the guy. Maybe ‘Dietrich’ is an alias?”

  Ness nodded. “That would make sense.”

  Napier looked askance at him and said, “Why do you say that?”

  “Did you see the goons with him?”

  Napier nodded.

  “Well, I think one of them is Carlo Pasquale, from the Mayfield Road Mob.”

  “Oh.” Napier nodded sagely and drank his scotch.

  Meanwhile, the lights dimmed and the mayor-elect began to speak. By the time the lights came back on, Dietrich, Van Sweringen, and Carlo Pasquale were all gone.

  12

  Friday, December 6

  Florence Polillo waited until nightfall before she walked out of her flat. Sunlight was painful to her now, and she wouldn’t face the day unless she had to. Shortly, the day would be lost to her forever. The bars were coming to life around her, and people she once knew occasionally shouted a greeting, or made a proposition. She ignored them all. She strode the sidewalk like a ghost. This world had been taken from her, and no one had yet given her one to replace it.