The Butcher's Son Read online

  That room was where Ian first learned the skills of knife, saw, mallet, hatchet and grinder necessary to turn a hanging carcass into steaks, chops, roasts, racks, mince and sausage. But unlike when he apprenticed there, the room was in shambles.

  The butcher who taught Ian, a white-haired Dutchman known as Smiling Sam who had worked under Augustus for decades, always told him how his grandfather kept as much control on sterility and cleanliness as he did on the edge of his favorite knife. One of Ian’s less pleasant tasks had been to take the meat grinder apart at the end of each day and make sure it was as pristine as the day it was installed. Like a soldier cleaning his rifle, the task was finicky, repetitive and vital. The tiniest missed particle of meat could lead to a listeria outbreak. Any apprentice who messed up on the grinder, the Dutchman told him, watched any possibility of a career vanish in the crimson haze of his grandfather’s merciless rage.

  The photographs showed a different rage; a tornado of pure brutality had swept through that room. Meat and steel were strewn on the floor without care; the cutting tables were overturned and dented as if an army of sledgehammers had undergone a communal schizophrenic break; and…

  Ian turned over the next photograph to see his grandfather hanging from a butcher’s hook.

  His assailants had stabbed the hook into his back, driving deep to catch on his ribs and powerful back muscles, before suspending him above the ground. They had avoided damaging his spine, not wanting to numb the network of nerves that carried pain signals across his body.

  Augustus Quinn did not die peacefully in his sleep of an aneurysm as Ian had always been told. He died kicking and screaming and suffering incredible pain.

  The reason for his closed-casket funeral became obvious as the close-up of his face showed that one eye had been gouged out and left to dangle by its fibrous root; his lips were nipped, slashed and swollen; cheekbones smashed to powder; nose broken and flattened; and both ears were torn — not sliced, but torn — off.

  Below the neck, things were even worse.

  Augustus had been tortured beyond anything imaginable. There wasn’t an inch of flesh left untouched from either knife, fist, hammer or flame. His stomach had been sliced open and intestines pooled on the floor; broken nubs of white bone protruded from flesh; his joints had been shattered, and the purple muscles on his legs bulged through deep, precise wounds.

  Coroner notes written beneath the photographs revealed the victim had been alive through all of it before being left to die on the hook of blood loss, shock and asphyxiation.

  Ian jumped in fright when Jersey placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He dropped the photos and rubbed at his eyes. His voice trembled as he spoke.

  “I can’t even say I liked the man.” Ian moved his head as though trying to shake away a hundred painful memories. “The truth is I hardly knew him, but…” He fanned the pile of photographs across the table. “No one should die like this.”

  Jersey squeezed his friend’s shoulder even tighter before adding, “The case was dropped due to lack of evidence. But that’s clearly bullshit. I found a statement from your father. It’s less than a page and reads like a grade one book report. Despite being covered in your grandfather’s blood, he couldn’t identify the assailants. Officially, it’s classified as a burglary gone wrong.”

  Ian shot a glance up at Jersey.

  “I know,” said Jersey, frustration creasing his face. “Fucking baloney.”

  Ian sucked in a deep breath, feeling the cold air freeze his lungs and numb his core. “Is there anything in the files about missing women?”

  “No. Why?”

  Ian explained about what he had been told by Mr. Palewandram.

  “You think that’s the reason for this?” Jersey pointed a finger at the photographs.

  “It’s the only thing I know of that Zelig is looking for. When I was in the car with him, he told me I had to find ‘her.’ But then he had some kind of fit before he could tell me who was missing or what my grandfather and father had to do with any of it.”

  “Women go missing in Portland all the time,” said Jersey. “You know that better than most. But I haven’t heard of any investigation into your grandfather on that front. Not to say one didn’t exist. I’ll check with cold case, but I’m thinking the officers who conducted this investigation know more than what’s in these reports.” Jersey’s teeth clenched together before he added, “The fucked-up way this case was handled, they were obviously working for someone other than Portland PD.”

  “Can you find out who they were?”

  Jersey’s eyes hardened into irradiated plutonium. “Try and stop me.”

  15

  Troubled by what he had seen in the photographs, Ian arrived at the offices of Children First in a haze of distraction. It was as if a part of his childhood had been erased and recorded over with new information without quite eliminating the static noise of the original.

  Jeannie was slipping into her coat to go home for the evening when Ian walked through the door. She was excited to see him, her smile so luminous that it lit up her entire face and made her long hair glisten like electrified strands of copper and gold.

  But Ian missed it, his vision barely registering her as anything more than a phantom, his lips mumbling a bland “Night, Jeannie” before brushing past her and heading into his office.

  He didn’t see her lingering by the door, chewing her lower lip in silent debate about whether she should leave it alone or push back, break her boss out of his inner distraction.

  When Ian glanced up again, he was alone.

  With a weary sigh, he walked out of his office and down the short hallway to the office of his partner, Linda McCabe. He knew she wasn’t in, but she had recently purchased one of those coffee machines with the pods — designed for idiots like him who never quite figured out how to make drip coffee taste any good.

  On autopilot, he made himself a strong black coffee. Sipping the brew, although barely tasting it, he returned to his desk and opened the large brown envelope that was waiting for him.

  Inside was the contract to release any hold he may have on the home he had shared with his wife and daughter. The brick and mortar meant nothing, but it represented a life so precious, so vital that it had been the breath that filled his lungs. Now he was inhaling dust as though someone was attempting to erase that memory, too, wipe away that last remnant of goodness from his heart, that fragile sliver of joy.

  As incentive for signing, there was a very large check clipped to the front page ready to be cashed.

  Ian picked up a pen and signed everywhere there was a color-coded, sticky plastic arrow. Red arrows were for signatures, blue arrows for initials.

  When he was done, he folded the check in half and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. He returned all the documents to the envelope. A large sticky note on the front told him to call a number when he was ready to have the documents picked up.

  Ian dialed the number, spoke to someone on the other end, and waited.

  When the courier arrived, Ian handed over the envelope. If you had asked him what the courier looked like or what company he worked for, he wouldn’t be able to say.

  Returning to his desk, Ian discovered his coffee cup was empty. He didn’t remember drinking it, so he returned to Linda’s office and made a fresh cup.

  This time, he savored the strong brew and sip by sip tried to bring his mind back to the present.

  In his front pocket, an antique key that had once belonged to his grandfather lay heavily against his thigh as though it carried a larger burden than being a simple keeper of locks.

  16

  Ian climbed the narrow staircase to the offices of Ragano & Associates, and knocked on the frosted glass door that bore the company’s name. He was half an hour early, and didn’t want to enter uninvited as he had before in case Ms. Ragano was with clients.

  When Rossella opened the door, her dark curls dangled loosely around her shoulders, her scarl
et lipstick imperfect with tiny grooves where her teeth had scraped it off in a nervous habit of concentration, and the top buttons of her blouse were undone to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of soft flesh straining against a blush lace bra.

  “You’re eager,” she said with a playful chirp. “I was just wrapping up some paperwork before getting changed.” She paused, becoming aware of the bruises on his face. “What happen—”

  Without a word, Ian’s right hand curled around the back of her neck, his fingers gliding through inky blackness to become trapped in soft entanglement. His palm cradled her skull, holding the weight of its perfect smooth roundness.

  He pulled her close, his lips locking forcefully onto hers, his need palpable like a drowning man fighting for air. Rossella gasped as he steered her into the office, thumping the door closed behind them with his heel, his bandaged hand fumbling with the delicate buttons on her blouse.

  He didn’t have to fumble for long as Rossella caught his bottom lip between her teeth and met his challenge head on. Like two fierce warriors, their bodies came together in a match of strength and desire, lust and need.

  Rossella released a moan of pleasure as Ian’s hot mouth locked onto her breasts, his eager tongue exploring each rigid nipple, his teeth gently nibbling at the tender flesh. She unfastened his belt and yanked down his jeans, dropping to her knees as Ian gasped and groaned. But then his fingers tightened in her hair again, guiding her upwards, needing to consume rather than be consumed.

  They found the waiting room couch as Ian finished undressing her. He kissed her feet, knees, thighs, stomach, chest, throat, mouth and face, ever drawn to her heated gaze, seeing the flame dance within and wondering if the friction of their bodies would create an inferno; if the fire department would show up to find human-shaped ash in the aftermath of spontaneous combustion.

  Ian groaned from both pleasure and pain as his ribs and bruises protested, but he quieted any concern from Rossella with the heat of his mouth and the thrust of his hips.

  When they climaxed, Ian’s body melted on top of her like modeling clay left too long on a bedroom radiator.

  Still grasping tightly to Rossella’s naked form, Ian shifted their bodies so that he lay behind her on the couch. He needed to feel the length of her against him, with legs intertwined, her back pressed against his chest, her buttocks against his groin, his face buried in the fragrance of her hair like a blanket of starless night. His right hand stroked the comforting softness of her breast, while his bandaged left cradled her head.

  Ian breathed her in as his lungs shuddered several times, sending a shiver down the length of his body, before finding a normal rhythm once again.

  “You’re still taking me to dinner,” Rossella said, her voice playful.

  “Definitely,” said Ian, his voice lazy with surrender.

  “Although I should finish with my client first.”

  Ian sat up, startled, his panic stopping only when Rossella’s chuckle reached his ears.

  “Psych,” she said, a frisky pink tongue darting between her lips. “Not that you took the time to check I was alone.”

  Grinning, Ian softly slapped her bare ass as Rossella skipped away from the couch to a small refrigerator in the corner. From inside, she pulled out two bottles of water and tossed one over to him.

  He caught it in his right hand, but before opening it, he studied the woman who had thrown it: naked, proud and unabashed.

  “You are stunning,” he said.

  She blushed slightly and made a mock curtsy. “Thank you.” Then wrinkling her nose, she added, “You, on the other hand, look a mess. What’s with the bandages?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Ian. “Ran into a little trouble, but it’s under control.”

  “You sure?”

  Ian opened the water bottle and took a long swallow before answering. “I’m sure.”

  Rossella crossed the room and bent to kiss him. The remainder of her lipstick was gone; her lips cold and tight from the icy water. “I’m going to grab a quick shower and get changed, then we’re going out to eat. I’m starved.”

  After picking up her scattered clothing, Rossella strode into her office and through one of two secondary doors set between three overstuffed bookcases. She left the door partially open and a moment later Ian heard the soft clunk of a glass door followed by the hiss of a shower.

  The thought of Rossella’s naked body slippery with warm, soapy water made Ian’s head spin, but he allowed the thought to dissolve in his mind like a rainfall of healing bliss.

  With a relaxed smile, he rose from the couch, found his clothes and dressed.

  *

  Dinner was at a steak house on a dead-end street near Rossella’s office. At one time, the road had been like any other in the downtown core, a simple connection between two main arteries. But a developer had convinced or bribed the city planner at the time to allow him to bridge two buildings he owned and create more high-traffic business frontage by sealing off the street.

  While the original businesses left behind this new brick, chrome and glass wall were left to wither in its shadow, new businesses saw opportunity. They convinced, or coerced through threat of lawsuits, the city to cover the tarmac with old-fashioned cobblestones, install cozy, black-iron light standards that flickered as though lit by candles, and provide economic development loans to antiqueify store frontage.

  In this Victorian-era guise, the Tudor-style steak house had set up shop across from a British pub with dozens of micro and imported beers on tap. Other stores included a bicycle shop that sold vintage replicas alongside modern, battery-powered electrics with fat, four-inch tires and upscale leather grips; a gourmet cheese shop; handmade paper and card manufacturer; and several eclectic fashion outlets.

  Ian sliced into his three-inch thick steak, lightly sprinkled with smoke-infused sea salt, and lifted it to his mouth. The juicy red meat attacked his tongue with flavor.

  “Oh. My. God,” he said aloud. “Why didn’t I know about this place?”

  “Obviously, you are very uncultured,” said Rossella with a teasing smirk.

  “Obviously,” Ian agreed.

  Sitting across from him, Rossella wore a figure-hugging black dress and a necklace of tiny, perfect pearls. Ian had always thought of pearls as something only old women wore, but their shimmering elegance added an extra touch of class to Rossella’s already perfect silhouette. Unfortunately, this made his appearance even scruffier than he would have liked. It had been so long since he had been on a proper date that he had forgotten the gentlemen’s basics: haircut and shave, ear and nose hair trim, clean shirt and tie, polished shoes, and most importantly, flowers for the lovely creature who was allowing him the privilege of her company.

  Instead, he had arrived empty-handed and looked the same as he always did — which wasn’t great.

  Fortunately, Rossella didn’t seem to mind.

  Ian cut into a large potato, its skin charcoal black from being cooked directly in the coals of an outdoor fire. Inside, the potato was soft, creamy and delicate as though it had been carefully injected with butter during roasting.

  “Oh. My. God,” he said again as the potato melted on his tongue.

  “I love to watch a man with an appetite,” said Rossella as she dug into her own steak, which was of equal size to his own.

  “Do they rent rooms here?” asked Ian. “I want to move in and never eat anywhere else again.”

  Rossella laughed with delight. “I’ll ask the owner.” She lifted a glass of robust red in a toast. “To pleasure.”

  Ian clinked his glass against hers.

  “So tell me,” she said as the meal progressed, “about your injuries.”

  “It’s nothing, I told you.”

  “Mmmm, your words said it was nothing, but your actions showed something is troubling you. We don’t know each other well yet, but I’m thinking what happened in my office isn’t your usual seduction technique.”

  Ian blushed slightly befo
re taking a long sip of wine. The opulent, oak-finished Nero D’Avola swirled around his tongue with notes of licorice, black cherry and leather.

  When he placed his glass back on the table, he released a sigh of both contentment and defeat.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m not usually that…” He paused to find the right word.

  “Aggressive,” suggested Rossella.

  When Ian winced, Rossella reached over and stroked his hand. “Not in a bad way,” she added with a gentle smile. “I enjoyed myself. Immensely.”

  Ian relaxed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone. I’d forgotten the comfort it brings.”

  Ian told her about his wife, Helena, his daughter, Emily, and the destruction of his family through guilt, grief and shame. Rossella listened, stroked his hand, and allowed the pain to be released.

  “You still love her,” she said. “Your wife.”

  “I never stopped,” Ian admitted. “We were so damn happy together, the three of us, but…after…Helena and I lost our way and the road back has contained more bumps than we hoped.”

  When Ian was done with the past, Rossella changed the subject by asking, “And these new injuries?”

  “Those are from last night, after I left you. A couple of punks broke into my house to teach me a lesson in manners and send a message.”

  “A message?”

  “A warning really. Not to poke my nose into places it doesn’t belong.”

  “Oh?”

  “I attended the funeral of a young boy yesterday. He was one of my clients. I didn’t take it well. His father was involved in a drug deal that went sour, and his son paid the price. His father wants it to end there. I don’t.”

  Rossella’s voice filled with concern. “Did you report the attack?”

  “It’s being handled.” Ian shrugged dismissively. “But that’s not what earlier was about. Between us, I mean.”

  Rossella smiled over the rim of her wine glass. “You’re a complex man, Mr. Quinn.”