The Company of Demons Read online

  “I’m fine, okay?”

  Jack made a face. “Torso would do that too, you know. Write to people, the press, just to brag or mess with Ness. His last card was to Merylo, early fifties, couple of weeks after we found a guy minus his head and cock in a lumberyard.” He caught my blank look and then continued. “He wrote that he’d enjoyed playing the game and was adjusting to his new life in Southern California. Signed by—get this—a friend.”

  His gaze shifted to the white plaster ceiling. No doubt he remembered all of the letters the Butcher had authored two decades later for an eager media. Hapless was one word the killer had used to describe my father. I’d had to look it up.

  Suddenly, Jack hunched forward and shuddered, no doubt about it. There had to be something that he was hiding from me.

  I pivoted the beer can and waited a beat. “C’mon, what is it, Jack?”

  “Nothin’ more to say. How come you’re buggin’ me, anyway? You obviously know how to use the Internet, Mr. Legal Beagle. Or read the fuckin’ Plain Dealer.”

  “Why, when I can pick the brain of a walkin’ history book? Besides, I miss ya.”

  “Well, next time, we’re going to a bar. You’re suckin’ down way too much of my goddamn booze.” He said it with a mellow smile.

  I raised my glass. “Whiskey, invented by God so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.”

  Jack chuckled, even though he’d probably heard that line about a million times. “Why don’t we go to one of your fancy private clubs downtown? Or don’t you think I’d fit in with those dipshits wearin’ three-piece suits?”

  “Nah, I’ll come your way.” No fancy private club had ever invited me to join. I was a member of the West Side Irish American Club, but that involved no more than filling out an application and submitting a check.

  He drained his shot glass and eyed me. “I’m sorry about your friend, but don’t let it get to you, okay?”

  “Like I said, Jack, I’m fine. I’ll keep a lookout, that’s all.”

  Jack reached over to the telephone stand against the wall, a stack of magazines and a directory piled on the shelf. He opened a narrow drawer and lifted out a gleaming handgun, a well-maintained .45. “I’m not sayin’ there’s anything to worry about, but if you don’t have a permit, think about getting one. You got a wife and kid to protect, you know.”

  A firearm was something I wasn’t sure about, but I was sure of the fear that shimmered in his eyes. Oyster’s death had evoked memories we all wanted to bury, and that scared even a flinty old bastard like Jack Corrigan. Only slightly against my better judgment, I let the last of the booze burn down my throat before saying good-bye.

  I lingered in Jack’s driveway, watching a woman in a dark burka shuffle along the sidewalk across the street. Gone were the days when it seemed like everyone in Lakewood would flock to St. Margaret Mary’s and troop past the Stations of the Cross during Lent. I’d never forget the smell of greasy perch, pats of melted butter on baked potatoes, and the boisterous chatter that echoed from the ceiling of the church hall.

  Would that all memories were as pleasant.

  8

  The following Thursday, I knocked off early and strolled to the brick-paved East Fourth, a pedestrian street lined with vintage buildings that had been converted into upscale restaurants and condos. Contemporary taverns touted mixologists, not bartenders. My favorite haunt was the patio at Cena, a trendy restaurant that attracted a disproportionate number of attractive young men and women in designer clothes. The young, professional eye-candy parade.

  I needed the distraction and some time alone. My unease didn’t stem just from Oyster’s murder or the revelation about Jack and the Torso Murderer or even the gutted body at Wagar Beach. Despite my best efforts, I also had to wrestle with the feelings that Jennifer had revitalized. Memories of Martha. Memories of bedroom acrobatics cloaked in lies and deceit.

  The waitress, a cute, young Oriental poured into a clingy striped dress and wearing a floral perfume, curtly took my order for a whiskey. She seemed on edge, even wary. I scanned the street; the usual foot traffic was considerably diminished. Even the coveted tables reserved for outdoor dining, many shielded from the sun by monogrammed umbrellas hawking a brand of alcohol, lacked the usual turnout. I knew, from experience, the visceral fear that a serial killer could cast over an entire community.

  I was anticipating the soft bite of that first amber-colored drink, when Marilyn rang my cell.

  “John, you’re not going to like this.”

  My chest tightened. “I’m betting you’re right.”

  “We got the check and final statement from Oyster’s mutual fund. Two hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn, just two days before he died.”

  The waitress placed my drink in front of me. I mouthed for her to run a tab and took a slug of booze. “Get me Bernie Salvatore’s number, and send him that statement.”

  There was a slight sigh, and I realized that his number was probably on my phone, but Marilyn could tell this wasn’t the time to remind me. I called Bernie, told him what we’d learned, and promised that he’d be receiving a fax. Certain that Frank had pulled something, I had another drink and waited for Bernie to call back. My phone rang before I’d drained a quarter of the whiskey.

  “The mutual fund guy told me that Oyster was a regular little saver, same deposit every month for over twenty years,” Bernie said. “They’ll scan me the docs about the withdrawal.”

  “Look, I know there may be things you need to keep under wraps, but to the extent that you can keep me posted …”

  “I’ll do what I can. You tell Jennifer yet?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” I could only imagine her reaction. “Talked to the brother at the funeral. Weird guy, and no love lost with his sister. He says she’ll screw him, that she’s capable of anything.”

  “Yeah, paroled drug addicts are traditionally good judges of character.”

  I chuckled. “He claims that he and Oyster were close.”

  “Unfortunately, the math’s starting to add up. Two hundred Gs gone, the old man killed, and Frank missing.”

  “Maybe Oyster gave him the money. I mean, Frank was his only son. He said he’d be in touch. I’ll urge him to call you.”

  “Good, because until he talks to me, what can I do?” He was silent for a moment, and I wondered if we’d disconnected. Then he said, “The coroner finished with the Rocky River guy. Says that a different blade, a saw tooth, was used on him, compared to Oyster.”

  “Different killers?”

  “Just different knives. Makes it harder for us to trace. Coroner is convinced it’s the same killer. Both corpses were, to use his words, skillfully dismembered.”

  I decided to follow up on what Jack had told me. “On the old cases, the vics were alive when—”

  “I wish it weren’t, John, but it’s the same now. Both Oyster and the guy in Rocky River. They likely knew what was being done to ’em.”

  After ending the call, I imagined what it would be like to be alert when somebody started chopping into my neck. Each killer, over all these years, used the same brutal modus operandi. The thought sent a shudder through me. I took another sip of whiskey and stared at the phone. Calling Jennifer to tell her the inheritance might be light by six figures wasn’t going to make my day. Or hers.

  As soon as we’d exchanged pleasantries, I broke the news.

  Her breath escaped in a rush: “Damn it!”

  “Listen, the police are investigating—”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Okay, shoot.” Another surprise was all that I needed.

  “No, not on the phone. Can we meet later? I’m off at five thirty.”

  I hesitated for a second. But Jennifer was a client, requesting a meeting. The fact that I found her attractive and reminiscent of someone else was beside the point. “Do you know Dino’s?”

  “The Italian place in Brecksville, right? I’ve heard it’s nice.”

/>   “You’ll like it. Six?”

  “See you then. And John? Thank you.”

  I tossed the cell from one hand to the other before calling Cathy to tell her about my change of plans. She wasn’t exactly pleased.

  “The daughter of the dead guy? It can’t wait until Monday?”

  “What do you want me to do, Cathy? Tell her I’m the one lawyer who won’t work nights?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s scary out there.”

  “C’mon, I won’t be late. And we’ll go out this weekend.”

  “That’s big of you. Carl and Alison, remember? Happy birthday to me.”

  Shit—the birthday plans with her sister and brother-in-law had completely slipped my mind. “Honey, c’mon. I’m sorry. It’s just that there’s a helluva lot on my plate. These killings …”

  “May be a good reason to come home.” She was rubbing her earlobe raw, no doubt. “Don’t worry; your wife and daughter will be fine.”

  “Cathy …”

  “I’m not going to argue, John.”

  She hung up. I nursed another drink to drown the guilt that my wife had doled out, then I headed to Dino’s, an old-school joint with subdued lighting and a sleek black leather bar. I’d suggested the restaurant because it was far from my usual hangouts, so no one I knew would spot me with a beautiful blonde. No, really, she’s a client! A padded chair at the serpentine bar was soft and welcoming. I’d taken two sips of whiskey when Jennifer floated through the door. Her tight red dress, cut nice and low, turned some heads. A string of gleaming pearls and black high-heel shoes made me forget about business, but I struggled to focus on Cathy and Molly and Father McGraw.

  “You look great.” The words escaped me, like an eager kid lunging for his first kiss. What the hell was I thinking?

  She smiled demurely, and we followed the maître d’ to a snug booth with a white tablecloth and red votive. She ordered a vodka tonic, and we focused on the leather-bound menus. A silver-haired waiter clad in a tuxedo brought her cocktail and took our orders. Jennifer had decided on the veal piccata, while I requested the cavatelli and a bottle of Chianti to share. After he gathered the menus and turned away, I resolved to keep things professional. “You wanted to talk, Jennifer …?” She sipped her drink. “I spoke with Dad a couple of weeks before he died, and he hinted that Frank was up to his usual tricks. I think he knew about his problem with that gang from Detroit.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “Told me not to worry. He knew I’d just get upset.”

  “What makes you think he knew about the Andar Feo?”

  “Because he said it was going to take money to keep Frank out of trouble. I went over all of this with the police, not thinking it had anything to do with what had happened to Dad. But when you told me about that withdrawal, the dots started to connect, and I thought you should know about our talk.”

  “Salvatore’s frustrated because your brother won’t call. I haven’t heard from him since the funeral.”

  “I wonder if he does know something about what happened to Dad. If not, why won’t he just go to the police?” The decorous waiter appeared with our wine, and while he poured, Jennifer leaned back in the booth. She looked away and tilted her head, reminding me of a fragile porcelain doll. “It’s hard to think he had anything to do with it, but … do I even know him anymore? Martha and I begged Dad to just shut him out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

  “Frank will reach out, eventually. Not to be crass, but he knows there’s an estate involved here.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a drug addict for a brother. “I’m sorry for, you know, the way he is.”

  We sipped the wine and made small talk until the waiter bustled to the table and delivered our steaming plates with a flourish. Jennifer smiled and applauded lightly. As the aromas of the lemon sauce on the piccata and the rich tomatoes that smothered my cavatelli filled the air, I tried to remember when a meal had smelled so delicious.

  Jennifer sliced into her delicate veal. “Detective Salvatore said you guys go way back.”

  “Freshmen year, high school, the Green Wave football team.” I didn’t tell her that making second-string was a struggle. Before my dad had plummeted off the deep end, he’d patiently taught me the tackling drills he’d learned as a three-year varsity starter. We’d square off in our ragged backyard, my cleats tearing up the spotty grass. Ram your shoulder in there, wrap those arms, drive, drive, drive!

  “Looks like you’re still in good shape.” Her face reddened and her gaze shifted from me to her plate.

  “Thanks.” I managed to sound flip about it, but her comment made my evening. “I jog when I can.” No need to tell her that my last run had been more than three weeks back, maybe a mile along the perimeter of Lakewood Park.

  “Green Wave, that’s Holy Name. German school, right?” Jennifer grinned and cut another piece of veal.

  “Ha! First sip of green beer at twelve and marched in ten straight St. Pat’s parades.”

  “Our little band of Methodists always waved Irish flags. Dad said it was the Cleveland thing to do.”

  “Everybody’s honorary Irish on March 17th.”

  “Thanks for including us.” Her eyes twinkled as she dabbed at her mouth with the white cloth napkin. “Tell me you never dyed your hair.”

  “Emerald as the isle itself. Even sported a green boa one year.”

  “Interesting visual.”

  “And that was before I’d started drinking.”

  She laughed and arranged her napkin on the table. “Funny how Cleveland gets a bad rap, but nobody who grows up here wants to leave. Nothing else seemed right, except coming home, after Robert died. I’m glad I did, because it gave me the chance to get really close to Mom and my sister.”

  The tone of the conversation had taken a right turn—talking about Martha was not on my agenda. I nodded and took a gulp of wine. “I never asked you what you do.”

  “I manage that office supply store in Strongsville, Business One. I do some tutoring, too, ESL. You know—English as a second language? I learned Spanish in college, and it’s everywhere in San Diego. Habla algo?”

  “If you’re asking whether I can speak it, I know por favor and cerveza.”

  “Eso es un principio,” she said, shooting me a smile, her hazel eyes mesmerizing. “That’s a beginning. You’ll learn.”

  I pictured her, all prim and proper at the head of a classroom, the subject of every boy’s fantasy. We continued to chat until the waiter cleared our plates. Jennifer obviously could have told me about Frank over the phone, but I wasn’t complaining. I asked if she’d like a postprandial, hoping that my pronunciation was correct, and we ordered Amarettos. When I finally stole a furtive glance at my watch, it was after ten. Cathy would have my ass.

  Ironically, Jennifer touched my hand, her fingers soft and warm. “Please let your wife know how much I appreciate your staying late.”

  I paid the check, and we strolled into the parking lot.

  Only a sliver of the moon was shining, but the sky was luminous, teeming with glistening white stars. I escorted Jennifer to her late-model Caprice. Suddenly, she stood on her tiptoes, gently placed one hand behind my head, and brushed her lips against mine. The kiss wasn’t passionate, but it was suggestive and sensual enough to banish all thoughts of Cathy. I wanted to succumb to Jennifer, slip that red dress over her head, strip everything off her until she wore only the pearls and the heels.

  “Necesito tu fuerza, John. That means, I need your strength.” She pulled away and got into her car. As she drove from the lot, my eyes remained locked on the glowing red taillights of her car until they vanished. I stood still, alone on the pavement, before shuffling to my Buick. What the hell had just happened? There was no doubt that I needed to block out the kiss and go home to my wife and daughter, but the enticing vision of Jennifer Browning seduced me for the entire drive.

  The kitchen light was on, as usual, when I walked in from the garage. Bef
ore heading upstairs, I checked every lock. Cathy was awake and propped against the pillows in our double bed. She reached for the remote and muted the TV on the dresser.

  “A little late, don’t you think?”

  “She’s stressed out. Her father’s been killed, now her brother’s disappeared, and there’s a problem with the estate.”

  Her eyes raked me from head to foot, but I didn’t flinch. I was embarrassed that my old habit of checking the rearview mirror for signs of lipstick had automatically kicked in.

  Cathy pointedly looked at the illuminated numbers on her nightstand clock. “It took you until almost eleven to talk about that?”

  I held up the palm of my hand and shoved aside the recent memory of a soft and unexpected kiss. “Sorry. I’m tired. Dinner ran late. We can talk about it tomorrow, if you want.”

  “Nice birthday conversation.”

  I bit my tongue, stripped off the tie, and hung my jacket in the closet. “I’m making a drink. Want anything?”

  “Why don’t you come to bed?”

  “Just a short one.” I slipped out of my shoes and walked softly toward the stairs, so as not to wake Molly. Cathy must have turned the volume back on; indistinct voices followed me downstairs.

  I had just poured my whiskey, and it wasn’t a short one, when Cathy burst into the kitchen, her robe billowing. Her face was drawn.

  “Turn on Channel Five.”

  I hit the remote, and Vanessa Edwards appeared on the screen. A banner that proclaimed Breaking News scrolled along the bottom. “… just released by the police. It’s been authenticated. The recent killings are, indeed, the work of the Butcher.”

  I nearly dropped my glass. Cathy was at my side, holding my arm.

  Edwards continued as the screen flashed a photo of a letter. I recognized the block-cut characters, similar to those on the photocopy buried in my dresser drawer, as the newscaster read each word aloud:

  Miss me?

  It has been too long. I’ve forgotten how much fun it is to frolic in Cleveland. And so easy! Really—a history of imbecilic cops. Your bumbling, mustachioed chief mocking the fact that I could be back after all this time. He is as clueless as the hapless Coleman all those years ago.