“I’ll be okay, Carl.” I couldn’t blame him for raising the topic, even if Cathy had placed it off limits. He wasn’t alone. Ever since the news, Cathy had asked me, too often, if we should talk about my father or the worn letter in my dresser drawer. Jack had called, and I’d assured him that all was well. Bernie and I had talked for some time, too, when I’d phoned to tell him about my odd conversation with Frank.
“Not sayin’ you won’t. It’s just … you could put it all behind you, before. Now, we’re reliving it.”
“My old man’s dead. I’ve been dealing with that for years. Like I said, there’s no problem.” I turned the conversation to the Indians and kept up the prattle until Alison and Cathy returned.
“I gave Molly a quick call,” Cathy said, sliding onto her seat. “She’s having fun but says she would have been fine at home.”
We’d let Molly stay alone a few times after she turned thirteen, but with the recent killings, Cathy would have none of that. Molly had bristled when we’d suggested having someone come over. A babysitter? Really? But she’d solved the problem by offering to overnight at a friend’s. I was just grateful that Cathy had not pursued the notion of sending Molly to live with her relatives in Chicago.
“Kids. At thirteen, they’re invincible.” Carl, my brother-in-law-turned-philosopher, raised a knowing eyebrow.
Alison gave me a tight smile. “We should probably order.”
I could only speculate about the exchange between Cathy and her sister in the ladies’ room. Just as I was about to say something else, try to be nice, there was an outburst in the bar. Someone cursed loudly. My first thought was that either the Indians had given up a homer or somebody had started a fight. But some guy yelled, “Not again,” and right away, I knew exactly what had happened. I hustled over to the television affixed to the gleaming steel wall.
Shaker Heights this time, on the East Side. Once the wealthiest community in the nation, it still harbored some sprawling mansions where they’d make guys like me enter through the back door.
A steely Vanessa Edwards stared into the camera. An unidentified woman walking her dog had found the body—“dismembered,” Vanessa breathed into the microphone—in an obscure clearing in a park. I imagined a leisurely evening stroll interrupted by good old Fido, breaking ahead to wedge his snout into some guy’s chest cavity.
Carl shook his head as I returned to the table, and Alison covered her face with her hands. Cathy simply stared at me, eyes wide. They’d all guessed what had happened, and three massacres were enough to jolt anyone.
I didn’t sit down.
“It seems like I should be there.” Whether for me or my family or for Jennifer, it didn’t much matter.
“What?” Cathy covered her mouth with her fingers for just a moment and then clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Why?”
I turned to Carl and Alison. “Will you take her home, stay with her until I get back?”
Carl sat up straight and raised his palms, as if to calm me down. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s my damn birthday.” Cathy’s tone was strident.
“I need to be there and see for myself.”
“I’ve been afraid of this, John,” she said flatly. “You’re not being rational.”
“Sit down, finish your drink,” Alison said.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I knew that she was relishing the moment, hoping that I’d storm out. She could have one of her I told you so moments with my wife.
“Everybody, just settle down.” Carl lowered his hands, then raised them again. “Let’s talk about it, John.”
The keys were right on the table, and I resisted the urge to snatch them and bolt. Cathy followed my gaze and slowly shook her head. She said, “You can call Bernie and find out everything.”
I nodded and ran a hand through my hair. She was right, and I knew it. They could never understand how I felt, though. None of their fathers had shoved a gun into his mouth, none of them had received a threatening letter that had scarred them for life. I dropped into my chair. “Yeah. I’ll call him in the morning. Find out what the hell happened.”
Cathy reached over and caressed my upper back with the palm of her hand. Carl picked up his menu and spread it open. “I’m thinking of the lobster pappardelle.”
I nodded, not hungry at all. Outside, the sun had nearly disappeared, and the sky was fading to black.
THE SILENCE WAS STIFLING ON THE WAY HOME. I WASN’T sure if Cathy was angry or just confused. When we walked into the kitchen from the garage, she dropped her purse on the table and turned to me.
“Can we talk for a while, John?” She rested her hands on her hips.
“Sure. Want a drink?”
“Do you have to …?”
“Just a short one.” I hadn’t had much at dinner and wanted one now, just to take the edge off.
“Whatever.” She pivoted toward the living room, her gray skirt flapping against her calves.
I poured a whiskey and followed. For a moment, I paused on the edge of the oval carpet atop the hardwood floor. I watched Cathy perch on the edge of the couch, near the seldom-used brick fireplace. A silver crucifix hung above the mantel.
“I don’t want an argument, John.” She stared at the glass-topped coffee table that displayed a few ceramic figurines and a copy of the Holy Bible. “It’s just that, tonight … you scared me a little.”
I leaned into the wall. “I just felt like it was something I had to do. But I didn’t. You were right. I’ll call Bernie tomorrow.”
“That’s not all that I’m talking about. I think maybe you need to see somebody again. Father McGraw, or a counselor.”
“I’m not going to run to some counselor just because the Butcher’s back.” Great. Now I sounded like the damn papers.
“I’m not asking you to do it because of the Butcher, John. I want you to do it for Molly and me.” She edged back on the sofa and crossed her arms. “It’s the little things. What happened tonight … your staying out late with that Browning woman … you just don’t seem to be yourself.”
I didn’t tell Cathy about my call to Jennifer, after I’d heard from Frank. I crossed the room and dropped into the recliner on the other side of the coffee table. “I’ve said it before, Cathy. I’m okay.”
She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Things have been pretty good between us for a long time. I just don’t want to see that changing.”
I took a sip of whiskey and placed the glass on the table. “I’ll give it some thought, Cathy.”
“Your favorite way of saying no.” She sagged back into the sofa. “For Molly, John?”
She was playing the daughter card, knowing that I’d do anything for my girl. “I promise to think about it, okay?”
Shaking her head, she stood up, a look of resignation—or disappointment?—on her face. “You make it so hard sometimes.”
She stepped past the coffee table and drifted to the staircase. After staring at me for a long moment, she gripped the rail and seemed to haul herself up the steps. I checked the locks again and then walked into the kitchen to refill my tumbler with ice and whiskey.
Cathy was overreacting.
I could handle whatever came my way.
11
“I swear to God, Bernie. I nearly left her birthday dinner to drive to Shaker.” We were in the break room in the basement of the Lakewood Police Department. When I called, Bernie told me that he was jammed, so I promised to just swing by and take five minutes of his time.
“Cathy’s birthday, and you nearly bailed? What the hell were you thinking?” Bernie sat across the Formica tabletop from me, his paw wrapped around a chipped mug of plain black coffee. “Soon as you found Oyster, I told you not to get wrapped up in this shit.”
“Hey, I stayed with her, all right? I just need to know what happened this time.”
Bernie squirmed in his orange plastic molded chair. The slump of his shoulders seemed more pronounced than ever, his ja
cket more rumpled. “Not much to tell you that wasn’t on the news. Same pattern. This one was a black guy. Headless, with his hands cut off.”
“Jesus, three in a row.”
“No ID. A lot like Rocky River.”
“Has the coroner told you anything more about him, or Oyster?”
He hesitated, tilting his cup until the coffee bubbled against the rim. “He said half the docs on his staff couldn’t do such delicate work—his words—of separating meat from bone.”
“Great. Jennifer will love hearing that about her father.”
“The forearms of the Rocky River guy were cut away at the elbows—very precisely, according to the doc. I already told you that the knife was different than the one used with Oyster, right?”
I nodded. Delicate. Skillful. Precise. “All men, so far. It was never like that before. There were always some female vics, too.”
“Brilliant insight. I told you I’ve got stuff to do, you know.”
“Don’t bust my balls. The guy last night was killed near the Shaker line. That’s through Kingsbury Run, where Torso dumped—”
“John, I know that.” Bernie edged forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Leave all of this to us. We know what we’re doin’.”
“I understand, Bernie.” I leaned forward too. “It’s just that … Cathy is wigged out. Even talked about sending Molly to relatives in Chicago. You know about the letter, how the Butcher said he’d be watching. What if he is? My wife, my kid?”
“You’re overreacting.”
I leaned back, the plastic seat bending. “Just keep me in the loop, that’s all I ask. Remember Jack Corrigan?”
He grinned. “How can anyone forget him?”
“We spent some time together, going over all the old cases, and I’ve read everything I can find on the Internet. Maybe there’s something I can offer, fill in some blanks.”
“We have experts on this. They’re forming a task force. I’m meeting with one of them soon.” Bernie pointedly looked at his watch. “Heard from Frank again? We’ve got nothin’.”
He didn’t need to spell out that the conversation was about over. “Not since that last call. I just don’t know what to make of him. Mistrusts Jennifer, that’s for sure. He makes it sound like he’s afraid of her.”
“What’s your take on her?” He drained his mug.
“Normal, as far as I can tell.” Except, maybe, for kissing an older, married man on the lips in the parking lot at Dino’s. “Convinced that her brother’s delusional.”
Bernie gave me an appraising look and then glanced at his watch again. “I’m supposed to meet with Detective Coufalik now. Wendy Coufalik. A no-nonsense type, trained in this serial killer crap. She’ll interface with the FBI. Let me see if she’ll talk to you.”
“Really?” Damn, Bernie was listening to me after all.
“Tell her everything Frank said. Maybe she’ll think of something I haven’t. Worth a shot.” He stood up and shoved the chair snugly against the table. “Give me a minute.”
Ten minutes later, I was trotting up the steps to a conference room on the first floor, where he introduced me to Wendy Coufalik. She was stout, like a weightlifter, and premature wrinkles lined her forehead. Bernie sat next to her while I slid onto the metal chair across the table. Utilitarian brown carpet covered the conference room floor, and photos of public officials hung on nicked white walls.
“So, you a Cleveland native?” I said, just to break the ice.
“Slavic Village.” Her voice was low and firm. She reached across the rectangular conference table, over a pen and pad, to give me a firm handshake. Her roots told me plenty. Slavic Village had transformed over the years from a tough Eastern European immigrant neighborhood in the shadow of the steel mills to a volatile mix of mostly unemployed blacks and whites.
“I’ve been to the Red Chimney restaurant over there. It’s—”
“So, how long did you know Wilbur Frederickson?” She’d hung a blue blazer over the back of her chair, and a white button-down shirt hung loosely on her, the top button undone.
Coufalik wasn’t exactly making me feel all warm and fuzzy. “I already told them all the background info. I thought—”
“I know what you thought. Bernie told me why you wanted to talk. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. From the beginning. Got it?”
I shrugged, taken aback by her sledgehammer approach. “I knew him for years, just a casual relationship. I’d see him at the Tam O’Shanter, the bar we hung out in. He was a good guy.”
“Did you socialize with him, other than at the bar?”
“No. I don’t think I ever saw him outside the Tam.”
“Did he talk of beefs he had with anybody?” She tapped her pen on the table. Bernie saw me looking at a coffeemaker next to a stack of Styrofoam cups and gave me a nod.
“Never. He wasn’t that kind of guy. People liked him.”
“Anything about his son?”
I got up and poured a cup. “Everything I know, Bernie told me. I don’t even recall Oyster mentioning him.”
“And it wasn’t money problems. Bernie told me he had a pot.”
“More than anyone could have imagined.” I sat back down. The coffee was thin and tasted bitter, which I should have anticipated, because Bernie wasn’t drinking any.
Coufalik looked at him, then down at the table, apparently considering where to go next. She made a note, and I tried to read it, upside down, but she cupped her hand over the pad. She looked up and asked, “Who knew he was loaded?”
“I really don’t know, but probably no one. He sure never let on.”
“What about regulars at the bar?”
“There were a couple of other guys, but we all went by first names. Tim and Karen, they’re the owners, might know.”
Coufalik nodded and made another note. “Why did the daughter call you about the estate?”
“She said he had my card, which was probably in case he got stopped by one of your guys after a few too many.”
I chuckled, but Coufalik didn’t react. “What’s she say about her brother?”
I hesitated; the question put me in an awkward position. “Look, she’s a client, and I can’t divulge any conversations subject to the attorney–client privilege.”
Coufalik looked at me and rapped her pen on the table.
“Let’s just say she’s said nothing inconsistent with what Bernie told me about Frank, or what I understand Jennifer has said to Bernie, okay?” I wasn’t sure if my statement violated the attorney–client privilege, but I’d live with it, because having Coufalik pissed off at me wasn’t high on my list.
She trained her keen eyes on me. “I understand you’ve talked to Frank Frederickson. Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Sure.” I focused on my brief conversations with the elusive Frank. “First time was at his father’s funeral. He wanted to know how long it would take to settle the estate, but he said something odd about Jennifer. That he knew what she was capable of, whatever that means.”
“Any idea?”
I shook my head and glanced at Bernie, who was eyeing my Styrofoam cup. Probably against his better judgment, he rose to get himself some. “The second time was a phone call. He’s convinced that she’ll cheat him out of the money and that I need to open my eyes. He also said he knows nothing about Oyster’s death and that the money he got from him was legit.”
“Is that what he said?”
I struggled to recall Frank’s exact words. “Not exactly, no. I think it was that all of this has nothing to do with the money he got from the old man.”
“Different ways to read that.” Coufalik drilled her eyes into me. “That all?”
“When I brought up the Andar Feo, he said it wasn’t them that he was afraid of. He said that I was clueless about his sister, that he could tell me things about her. No specifics.”
“You tried calling him, I suppose?”
“Same number that Bernie has
. Frank never picks up.”
Coufalik kept her eyes locked on mine. “So what about her, this Jennifer Browning?”
I almost told her that she was going down the wrong path, but instead, just answered her question. “Seems totally aboveboard to me. After all, Frank’s pretty screwed up, right?”
“I didn’t ask about Frank. Did she ever ask you to cheat him, give her some advantage?”
I considered raising the attorney–client privilege issue again, but what I had to say could only help Jennifer. Screw it. “As a matter of fact, no. She’s even worried that he’ll blow his inheritance; she asked me about a guardian.”
Coufalik edged her pad out of the way and leaned on the table. “Why is Frank only calling you?”
“Because I’m handling the estate, right? He wants his money.”
“Well, let us know immediately if you hear from him again.”
“Of course. And remember, I want to meet with him too, and go over some financial issues. Makes my job a lot easier. We’re on the same page here.”
She nodded and folded her notepad. “Thanks for stopping by.”
She stood and slung the jacket over her shoulder. As she turned to leave, I couldn’t help but notice her firm butt and guessed that she was probably a regular on the treadmill. She must have sensed me looking, because she pivoted in my direction.
“Really?” Her eyes drilled into me again. Shaking her head, she walked out, and the door whacked shut behind her.
Bernie twisted the Styrofoam cup in his hands. His face was flushed. “Nice. Smooth, John.”
“Jesus, Bernie, I didn’t … I came down here with the best intentions and feel like I got the bum’s rush.”
“She’s not the patient sort. Now, you’ll let this thing go?”
Right then, it became as clear as the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame’s glass pyramid. Bernie had spoken to Coufalik of my history, of his opinion that I should walk away from anything to do with the Butcher before I crashed and burned. Do me a solid; I’ve known the guy forever. Sit down with him, ride him hard, and maybe he’ll put this to bed.
I didn’t call him on it directly, but said, “You just want me to fade into the sunset, right, Bernie?”
The Company of Demons Page 7
