The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  I dialed her cell, and she picked up on the second ring. “So you did call, like you promised.”

  “Yes, but this isn’t about us, Jennifer. I heard from Frank again.”

  “Oh, God. What did he say this time?” She sounded exasperated, but I sensed that she was also curious.

  “He wants to talk, to me, one-on-one.”

  “Seriously?” She clucked her tongue. “If you’re meeting him, I’m going with you.”

  “Hold on. He was adamant, Jennifer. Not you, and no cops. Besides, do you think he’d talk if you’re there?”

  She didn’t respond immediately, then she said, “You have a point, but Jesus, John, you didn’t get an address, a phone number?”

  “The call was over before I had the chance. He babbled for a while, kind of out of it, and said he’d text me later. Let’s hope he does.”

  “Damn it.” She paused, and then asked, “Did he spin any tales this time?”

  I measured my words. “He claims that the hit-and-run in Tijuana, the import/export business, were bullshit.”

  “Total nonsense, John. He’s so screwed up.”

  Her response came as no surprise, but I was now acutely aware that I had not heard Frank’s version of the story. “He wants witness protection. I told him I know nothing about that, but he insists on talking to me.”

  “He’s insane.” She was emphatic.

  I wanted her to be right. I wanted to be able to trust her. “If he follows up, I’ll meet with him and call you right away.”

  She sighed. “And we do need to talk about us.”

  “I know.” And part of us meant my Bar Association issue. “Whatever happens between you and me, I wish you’d reconsider having me as your lawyer. That makes this really complicated. I can make you a list, if you want.”

  “I don’t want, John. We’ve had this discussion. I like you as my lawyer.” When she continued, her tone was suggestive. “In fact, there’s a lot about you that I like.”

  I swallowed, wishing that the picture of Cathy and Molly weren’t on my desk. Cathy was beyond angry, Jennifer was beckoning, and my moral compass was wavering. “Soon, I promise. I’m still wrapping my head around everything—”

  “Don’t overprocess it, John. What do you want, what would make you happy? Think about it.”

  She hung up. I would have preferred that our conversation had been in person, over a drink or a cup of coffee, so that I could have read her expression. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. But it was clear that I would have to trust her regarding my ethical concerns—and more. There was nothing to prevent her from contacting Cathy and suggesting that the two of them meet for a nice, long lunch.

  Concentrating on work was difficult; a drink would have been nice, but the distinct possibility of a text from Frank meant that there would be no leaving my desk. I filled Marilyn in on my conversation with him and buried myself in some bullshit paperwork. Lunch rolled around, and Marilyn picked up some tolerable sandwiches from a dingy café downstairs.

  “You sure you’re okay?” She set my corned beef, in greasy deli wrap, on the desk.

  Marilyn was such a decent person, and she actually gave a damn about me, so I felt a pang of guilt. If she knew the truth about a certain blonde, she wouldn’t be so kindly disposed. “This thing with Frank …”

  “Maybe he’ll actually get back to you.”

  I knew that I’d be worthless the rest of the day, my mind ricocheting between Frank and Jennifer and Cathy. “Why don’t you knock off for the afternoon? No sense in both of us staring at the phone.”

  “I’m pretty good at it. Remember, I’m single.”

  “Well, go shimmy past a construction site, see what happens.”

  “Thanks for the dating advice.” She grinned. “I’m outta here, but call me if you forget how to turn off your computer.”

  The door clicked shut behind her. I was glad to be alone in the quiet of my office. I shuffled some papers around, drank some coffee, took a piss, popped antacids, and watched the clock. Repeat. And, during every long minute, I was totally preoccupied with the mess of my personal life. What the hell should I do? As five o’clock rolled around, I was about to abandon hope that Frank would text. I needed to retreat to Cena for a stiff drink.

  Then the cell phone buzzed. A concise message read 2nite, 6, 103 Findley, 2nd flr.

  Frank, Frank, Frank. If he’d been in front of me, I might have planted one on his bristly cheek. Google Maps located the address—a side street in the old Tremont neighborhood. Even at rush hour, I’d have no trouble making it on time, but I still hustled down to the garage.

  Soon, I was tooling past abandoned storefronts and mom-and-pop shops that budding entrepreneurs had transformed into glam restaurants and popular nightclubs. Contemporary housing projects had sprouted in the midst of faded neighborhoods. But Tremont’s tough underbelly was still evident in the wandering homeless and abandoned cars, the stray dogs. I wasn’t surprised to find that Frank was hidden somewhere beneath the long shadows cast by the spires of orthodox churches erected decades ago.

  When I reached the address he’d given me, I paused outside to take in a decrepit double that was surely the neighborhood eyesore in a block of boarded-up houses and trash-strewn yards. A dirt path, bordered by crabgrass, led to a teetering porch. Dark curtains covered every window.

  I rang the buzzer for the upper level and, hearing no ring, rapped loudly on the dry wooden door. Nothing. I double-checked the address and glanced at my watch. Definitely on time. On impulse, I tried the knob. The door was unlocked; it swung open with a firm shove. A dark staircase led to the upper apartment. I called Frank’s name.

  There was no answering voice, no sudden footstep.

  Maybe he was just asleep. I called out again, but only a distant horn broke the silence. My breathing became shallow. There was a glimmer of light upstairs, perhaps a low-wattage lamp or a tendril of sunlight defying the protective curtains. I pulled out my cell and used its muted light to guide me up the bare steps. Turning back just didn’t seem right.

  My footsteps seemed unnaturally loud as I creaked up the stairs. The stairway, bordered by peeling wallpaper, opened up into what appeared to be a living room. A large easy chair, a milk crate that served as a table, and a small television with tin foil balled on the end of the antenna seemed to be the only furnishings. A burned-out candle rested on the milk crate, illuminated by a ray of light that penetrated a narrow gap in the thick curtains. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I realized there was a guy sitting in the chair. The high, curved back hid him, but an arm dangled over the side, a strip of elastic tube knotted around the bicep. Frank had been shooting up and nodded off.

  “Frank?” I asked, moving toward him. Then he was there, right in front of me, and I wanted to avert my gaze but couldn’t. His empty eyes stared back at me, his throat parted by a deep and jagged gash. My shoes slid in the slick blood that pooled at the base of the chair as I tried to back away. A cluster of black flies had already found him and frenzied about, just as they had in his father’s raw torso. I pivoted and staggered down the dark stairs to the yard.

  Frank sure as fuck wasn’t going to be talking to anybody.

  17

  I was in a daze when the crime scene investigators took my fingerprints, in addition to imprints and photos of my shoes. But the fog quickly lifted when Bernie stormed from that house of death and hustled across the weed-choked yard. His eyes blazed. “You fucked up.”

  “Bernie, it—”

  “Shut up!” His face shook and a clenched fist jabbed the air with each word. “I talked to you about this, about calling me.”

  I took a step back. “There wasn’t a choice; he told me he wouldn’t talk to you. Christ, Bernie, I called as soon as I found him.”

  “Yeah? Well, he’s dead.”

  “He said he wanted to meet and tell me shit about Jennifer, then he hung up. He texted later, with an address, but it was only an hour ago.” Stifling hot air
drifted in from Lake Erie, and curious neighbors ringed the cordon of yellow police tape. There were a lot of ratty T-shirts and hoodies on display.

  “You had a fucking hour. Do you call me? No, you drive here with your thumb up your ass. You knew that gang was looking for him.”

  “Well, they found him. I mean, it had to be them, right?”

  “No, I think it was a couple nuns from Saint Joe’s, decided to go cut some guy’s throat for fun.” He looked back at the house, at the blue uniforms milling about. “My guess is that the Andar Feo got their dough from the dear departed. Maybe they’re out looking for your girlfriend now.”

  His comment hit pay dirt. Damn. He’d kick my ass if he found out the truth. But what he said scared the shit out of me. “He didn’t have her address, not even her phone. He couldn’t have told them if he wanted to.”

  “Relax. It’s not their MO. They cut up the girl to send a message to the guy, remember?” He pointed back at the house, and I relived the silent sight of Frank, the iron scent of his blood. “They already gave him a fuckin’ message.”

  “What do I do now, Bernie?” Christ, it seemed like we were back in high school again.

  “Well, you already trotted through the blood pool. I’d call that enough for one night. Go home to Cathy.”

  “Someone needs to tell Jennifer.”

  “A car’s already there, John. Let the cops handle it; they’re pros. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Jesus, Bernie, no. It’s just that … her father, now her brother. She is my client, and I was the one who found Frank. Seems like she should hear something from me.”

  “If you feel compelled to call her, do that from your car.” He ran a hand over his face and, when he spoke again, was calmer. “You know, while you’re driving home to see your wife and kid.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, not yet ready to face Cathy. I still had no idea what to say to her. Or maybe I was afraid of the cutting words she might cast at me.

  “So walk through it again, your conversation with Frank.”

  I shrugged, trying to recall every word. “He said he wanted immunity, that their import/export business and the hit-and-run that killed Jennifer’s husband was all bullshit.”

  “So you called her and not me after Frank hung up. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “How well do you know her?”

  It struck me that I wasn’t so sure anymore. All I really knew about her was that she was awesome in bed. God, did I wish there had been the opportunity to talk with Frank. “Well, hell, Bernie, I’d pick her over her brother. Who would you believe?”

  He scrunched his face, as though the answer wasn’t clear to him, then turned and looked back at the mottled house. “The fact that they killed him here might help. Maybe they got sloppy. We’ll find somethin’.”

  “Will you let me know everything you turn up, Bernie?”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “Why, so you can fuck it up? This is a police investigation and, last I knew, you don’t have a uniform. We’ve had this talk.”

  “I just mean anything I can pass along to Jennifer. Maybe you’ll find the money …”

  “Odds of that are zero to shit. And we’ll call her directly, whenever we need to.” He looked away, back at Frank’s apartment again. “What you saw up there, Johnny … I think it’s a good night for you to get some sleep. Just go the fuck home.”

  “We’ve had this talk, too. I’m okay.” I remembered slipping in blood before, long ago, trying to adjust my dad’s position. His head being so near the toilet didn’t seem right.

  Bernie grimaced and took a beat. “I’ll need to see you tomorrow about what happened here. There’ll be a lot of pissed-off people when they find out you didn’t call me, particularly since you made a mosh pit of the crime scene. I’ll try to keep a lid on it.”

  Over his shoulder, I saw Wendy Coufalik duck under the yellow tape and burst toward us. My sphincter tightened.

  “So you knew two of the vics now and were first on the scene here. Coincidence?”

  Her face was inches from mine, her breath the odor of stale coffee.

  “Jesus, I explained everything to Bernie.”

  “I’ll fill you in,” he said. “I like the Mexican gang for this one. I’ll be surprised if this kid’s death is related to his old man’s.”

  She ignored him and snapped at me. “You played Lone Ranger on this? Sounds like obstruction of an investigation to me.”

  “I was just trying to help.” That hadn’t quite worked.

  Bernie stepped in, thank God, and said to Coufalik, “Let him go; I’ll fill you in.”

  She looked at him for a long moment and then turned to me. “I may want to talk to you directly. I assume you don’t have any travel plans.”

  Her implication was unsettling. “I’m not going anywhere. I—”

  “Get the fuck outta here.” Bernie’s eyes drilled into me. “Home. Straight home.”

  I understood that Bernie didn’t want me attempting to justify anything to Coufalik, so I turned toward my car. I caught my breath when Vanessa Edwards seemed to step out of nowhere, a cameraman behind her. “Mr. Coleman, you were present when the Butcher’s first victim was found, and we’ve been informed that you just discovered the body of his son. Are the murders related? Any comment?”

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. I nearly turned around, preferring to have Coufalik chew me a new one. But I raised my hands at Vanessa and walked on, shaking my head, wanting only to escape in my Buick.

  “Hey, just doing my job. You’re not clamming up on me, are you?”

  “C’mon, Vanessa, no comment. Ask the cops for a statement.” I plowed onward.

  “Wait a minute, John. Off the record.” She lowered the microphone, waved the cameraman away, and stuck to my shoulder. She was damn good at quick-stepping in high heels. “What the hell’s going on? I’ve seen you at three crime scenes now—what’s your tie-in?” The last thing I needed was the press crawling up my ass, scrounging for details. But pissing off Vanessa Edwards would not be a good idea, so I gave her an answer that seemed like a plausible reason why an interview was out of bounds. “Look, I can’t make any comment because a police investigation is ongoing.”

  She looked skeptical. “I’m just asking about you. You were at the Lakewood scene, Rocky River—”

  “Vanessa, look, that’s really all I can say.” My Buick was now just a few feet away.

  “C’mon, what the hell’s this all about?”

  I opened the car door and settled inside, wishing I knew the answer. I gave Vanessa a wave and started the engine. I’d only driven a couple of miles, debating whether to go home or to a bar, when my cell rang. I fished it out of the cup holder. It looked like I wouldn’t need to call Jennifer; she was calling me.

  There was no greeting. “You need to come over, John. There’s something you have to see.”

  I knew one thing: nothing good would come of visiting Jennifer at her apartment again, even on the night of her brother’s murder. “Jennifer, I’m really sorry about your brother, but this may not be the best time—”

  “This isn’t about us, John.” There was a sharp intake of breath. “It’s about your wife and daughter.”

  18

  Jennifer hung up before I said another word. A round-trip to Parma would stall my return home, and Cathy would be primed to explode. I couldn’t very well call her and tell her about Frank’s death, because then she’d know that there was no reason not to come home. I’d have to come up with yet one more creative excuse, and Jennifer would need to understand that my visit had to be brief.

  Something had surely rattled her about Cathy and Molly, on the very night of her brother’s murder, and I wondered what the hell was waiting for me in her apartment. There had been enough surprises for one day. Powering off the cell in case Cathy decided to phone, I dismissed the notion that she might have contacted Jennifer and confronted her, point blank,
about us, because Cathy would not have known how to contact her.

  When Jennifer opened the door to her unit, I noticed that her face was drained of color. Despite their estrangement, the reality of Frank’s brutal death had to come as a shock. I dropped my keys on a recessed shelf in an alcove near the door and awkwardly extended my arms for a hug that I would keep as nonsexual as possible. She stepped into my embrace, and my fingers brushed her satiny hair. She was wearing flannel pajamas, buttoned at the neck. I tried blocking out the thought that she still managed to look sexy as hell.

  We slowly separated, and she took a deep breath. “The cops said that he did text you?”

  “Yeah, late in the day. No message, except where and when to meet.”

  “Jesus, John, if you’d gotten there any sooner, you might have walked in on it.”

  “I hadn’t really thought about that.” I imagined Cathy and Molly, on the sofa in our living room, listening to the cops explain that my throat had been slashed in some Tremont hovel. “I’m really sorry, Jennifer, but I can’t stay. You said—”

  “I checked the mail after the police left.” I followed her into the dining room, and she pointed to a large white envelope and a stack of photos on the table.

  The top photograph was of Frank. My eyes drifted to his thin neck, and I recalled the dark rivulets of blood. Beneath his photo was a candid shot of Jennifer, taken outside of a Heinen’s grocery. The next photo was of Mary, in the parking lot at Ed’s Eggs. The print looked like it had been taken with a telephoto lens, because Mary seemed completely unaware that she was being photographed. I glanced back at the photos of Jennifer and Frank—these, too, seemed to be surveillance photographs.

  The next photo, however, stopped me cold: a shot of Marilyn, passing through the lobby of the Singer Building, carrying her usual handbag and sporting a pair of vibrant earrings. I stared for a minute, trying to understand why someone would send Jennifer a photo of my secretary. Like the others, Marilyn appeared not to have known that she was the focus of a viewfinder.