The Butcher's Son Page 9

“You were wise,” he said. “I’m glad she’s happy.”

  Mr. Palewandram shrugged. “Happiness is not everything. Soon she will bear me a grandson.”

  “That will be wonderful, I am sure, but I hope you are enjoying your granddaughters in the meantime.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Dilip. “He dotes on them like they’re made of sugar and the world is full of rain.”

  Mr. Palewandram waved this off with a brusque, “Bah!”

  When the kettle announced its boil with a shrill whistle, Mr. Palewandram poured the steaming water into a large, brown teapot.

  “Sit,” he commanded while reaching under the counter to a small bar fridge and removing a carton of milk. “We’ll have tea and talk. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You have?” Ian questioned.

  “It was only a matter of time.”

  *

  Over tea, Ian quickly disposed of the pleasantries and asked, “What did you know about my grandfather? Zelig mentioned that all anyone remembers is the monster, but I never heard those stories. My grandfather wasn’t the doting type, but—”

  “The stories are ugly,” interrupted Mr. Palewandram. “And you have heard them, though at the time you may have refused to listen. That ugly boy with the unfortunate mother used to tease you mercilessly with them.”

  “Bo Kemp,” said Dilip. “And he’s still an ass.”

  Mr. Palewandram held up a finger to silence his son before continuing. “The stories were all based around the same set of circumstances: young women were seen entering your grandfather’s shop in the evening, after business hours, never to be seen or heard from again. From there, as you can imagine, the tittle-tattle takes on a life of its own: rape, murder, cannibalism. People gossip and the tales grow taller. People will swear they heard murderous screams, others will whisper about rivers of blood flowing into the gutters. But dig deeper and none of the rumors hold root in fact. We do know women were seen entering your grandfather’s shop after hours, but beyond that…” He shrugged. “No one is any more enlightened than anyone else.”

  Struggling to digest what he was hearing, Ian asked, “Was there ever a police investigation?”

  “Not into those stories. No bodies, no crime.” Mr. Palewandram squinted, capturing an old memory before it flitted away. “The police did poke around a little into your grandfather’s death, but that went nowhere fast. Zelig saw to that.”

  “Zelig?” Ian asked. “I thought my grandfather died from an aneurism?”

  “Oh, no.” Mr. Palewandram shook his head in surprise. “I was there when Augustus died.” He raised his hands to encompass not just his shop, but the neighborhood beyond its walls. “We all were.”

  “What happened?” Ian asked, barely able to breathe.

  “It was the sound that made the neighbors come running. The Songs, Capellos, Wilfred Kemp, myself…everyone. Your father was on his knees in the middle of the street. I remember the look on his face and the moist blood that coated his apron. His wail was as unintelligible as it was frightening, so at first we thought there had been some kind of accident. But inside the store, we found your grandfather hanging from one of his own meat hooks.” He lowered his gaze as if in shame, struggling with the memory of the experience before finishing in a whisper, “The river of blood that ran that day was his and his alone.”

  Ian’s voice quavered as he struggled to get the words out. “Who did it?”

  “You’ve already met him.”

  “Zelig?”

  Mr. Palewandram nodded.

  “But why?” Ian croaked.

  “We never knew. At least not for sure.” Mr. Palewandram sipped his tea in contemplation. “Your grandfather was a formidable man, and he protected this neighborhood from the likes of Zelig, but I can’t imagine the take from a half dozen stores was worth killing anyone over.” Mr. Palewandram’s eyes grew brighter as if a secret long-held was to finally be revealed. “No. I believe it had something to do with the stories of the vanishing women. Whatever the truth, there is more to that than any of us know.”

  14

  Back on the street, his collar turned up against a cold drizzle that nipped at his cheeks and made his nose drip, Ian phoned Jersey and said, “Can we meet?”

  “Sure,” answered the detective, “but I don’t have any results back on the ear yet.”

  “I have some information on that front that may help narrow the search.”

  “Oh?”

  “I just watched a video of my father being gunned down.”

  “Jesus! Who shot the video?”

  “A goon in the employ of a local gangster. You ever hear of someone named Zelig?”

  “Ice Pick? Yeah, I know him. You better come in.”

  *

  Ian plugged the meter and headed into the Portland Justice Center. The eighteen-story high-rise housed the Portland Police Bureau, four courtrooms and the 676-bed maximum-security Multnomah County Detention Center. That made it a one-stop shop for booking, arraignment and incarceration. Step off on the wrong floor, and a wide-eyed suspect could accidentally catch a glimpse of his over-washed, pink-shirted future — if he didn’t cooperate.

  Ian knew the building intimately as he had been through its doors more times than he liked to count, and not always for the purest of reasons.

  Jersey met Ian when he stepped off the elevator on the thirteenth floor, and his first question was, “What the hell happened? You were in one piece when I left you yesterday.”

  Despite the breath-catching jabs of pain that caught him by surprise every time he moved too quickly, Ian had forgotten what he looked like to the outside world. He wasn’t much for mirrors, and there were days when he often couldn’t remember if he had combed his hair, never mind check for mustard stains on the edge of his mouth or ketchup on his shirt — or, in this case, cuts and bruises, splints and bandages.

  “I had visitors last night,” Ian explained.

  “The Bowery brothers?”

  Ian nodded.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Ian shrugged. “Their word against mine, and you know they’ll have witnesses that swear they never left the wake. One odd thing though.”

  “They left you alive?” Jersey scolded in frustration.

  “Apart from that. They wrote a note on my bathroom mirror that said stay away. That’s not their style.”

  “I didn’t know they could write.”

  “Exactly. I think the brothers were sent as a warning from this new player in town who executed Noah. He must have heard about my outburst at the funeral and doesn’t want me stirring up trouble.”

  “You’re not much of an obstacle,” said Jersey matter-of-factly. “If he wanted rid.”

  “No, but I have a few friends who might miss me.”

  “Very few.”

  “But still.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “Yeah.” Ian shrugged again. “I should have.”

  *

  Jersey led Ian through a pair of frosted glass doors and into a cluttered maze of desks that held Portland PD’s detective division. Ian recognized many of the faces from his work at Children First; others from his short time on the other side of the table.

  On his escorted journey through the maze, Ian nodded to a familiar detective with a deeply tanned face that resembled well-worn leather. Dominating the space around him, the man held a passing resemblance to John Wayne in True Grit, minus the eye patch. With a non-regulation Stetson tilted back on his head, he was rubbing his bare feet with a hand towel while a pair of rattle-skin cowboy boots dried out on his desk. He didn’t look happy, made even less so by his impeccably dressed partner in a bespoke suit who had a difficult time keeping the shit-eating grin off his face.

  “Should I ask?” said Ian.

  “I wouldn’t,” said Jersey. “When Preston’s in one of his moods, it’s wise to keep a wide berth.”

  Upon reaching Jersey’s two-man cubicle, Ian was surprised to f
ind a dangerously attractive woman occupying one of the chairs. Dressed in skintight blue jeans, killer boots, and a body-hugging black T-shirt, the athletic woman seemed far too tightly strung and far too sexy to be a cop. The badge on her belt and the shoulder holster under her arm, however, said otherwise.

  “Have you met my partner before?” Jersey asked.

  “Never had the pleasure.” Ian held out his hand.

  The woman looked Ian up and down, studying every inch of crumpled clothing and bandaged appendage, before accepting the handshake and introducing herself as Detective Amarela Valente.

  “How long you been divorced?” she asked, her tongue hand-forged and razor sharp.

  “That obvious?”

  “Glaring.”

  As Ian grinned, Amarela snapped her fingers in sudden recognition.

  “Wait a minute, you’re that guy,” she said, her words easing from between blood-orange lips as though being chewed before spoken, “from that thing a couple months back.” Her smile was as disarming as it was unexpected. “I thought for sure you’d go down for that. But once Jersey filled me in on your daughter, I can’t say I blame you.”

  “Thanks,” said Ian awkwardly. He didn’t see a need to mention the torment that haunted his sleep ever since ‘that thing,’ or the fact that he was as shocked as anyone when the case was unexpectedly dropped against him.

  “Amarela’s up to speed on the ear,” said Jersey as he settled into his own chair. He indicated a spare fold-up for Ian. “But tell us about Zelig.”

  “I thought he was dead,” said Amarela.

  “He looks it,” said Ian, which brought another ice-cold flash of smile from the female detective. Ian explained about the car ride and the video, before adding, “The beermat said McNally’s.”

  “That narrows it down,” said Amarela, sarcasm dripping. “Isn’t every Irish bar named something like that?”

  Jersey smirked. “Anything else?”

  “The logo was a four-leaf clover—”

  “Seriously?” Amarela interjected with more than a hint of derision.

  “But there was a bite taken out of one of the leaves.”

  “Like an actual bite or was it part of the logo?”

  “Part of the logo,” said Ian.

  “Well, that’s something.”

  Amarela spun around to face her computer and began an Internet search.

  With the female detective busy, Ian turned his attention to Jersey and said, “I also need to see what you can dig up about an old case.”

  “Which one?” asked Jersey.

  “My grandfather. I always believed he died from an aneurysm, but I’m told that was a lie. Witnesses say he was murdered by Zelig, but the case got swept under the rug.”

  Before Jersey could reply, Amarela said, “Got something. There’s a bar in Boston that matches your description.”

  “Run a check on any recent shootings in the Boston PD files,” said Jersey.

  “It’s Boston,” Amarela snipped. “Their murder rate is double the national average. You gotta be more specific than that.”

  Jersey sighed. “We’re looking for a bullet-riddled John Doe with a missing ear who was found behind an Irish bar.”

  “I bet they get at least two of those a week,” she said with a twinkle in her eye before picking up the phone.

  “Your grandfather was murdered?” Jersey asked Ian, returning to the previous topic.

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “And you think Ice Pick was involved?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh.”

  “And there’s something else.”

  Both men became distracted when Amarela’s voice suddenly dropped an octave, slipping effortlessly into a shimmering cloak of smoke and promise, as her flirtatious words stroked the ego of the recipient on the other end of the phone line. When she hung up, she tapped a file number into her computer.

  “Google,” she said as her screen refreshed, “got nothing on a lonely desk sergeant.”

  *

  Leaning over Amarela’s shoulder, Ian studied the dead man’s face displayed on her computer screen. The corpse’s pallor resembled a puddle of grimy rainwater growing stagnant in an alley, his mouth was slack and drooping to one side as though he had suffered a stroke, and his near-translucent eyelids were half-closed and sunk so deeply it was as if he had been dead for years.

  All in all, Jack Quinn did not look at peace.

  Even in death there was a deeply ingrained frown-line knotted between his eyes, and the mottled bruising of his flesh spoke volumes about his violent end. Close-up photos showed his missing ear, while other photos detailed each bullet’s impact on his torso, legs and back.

  He had gone down in a hailstorm of bullets, with most of them chewing him apart after the fatal shot had already hit its mark.

  “Cojeme,” said Amarela in a hushed tone. “They really wanted him dead.”

  “The irony is they were supposed to bring him in alive,” said Ian. “He held the key to whatever Zelig wants from my family.”

  “So is it over?” Amarela asked, her distrusting eyes locking onto Ian’s face as though attempting to peer beneath the surface of his flesh to watch how each individual muscle and ligament reacted.

  “No.” Ian shook his head. “That’s why Zelig sent me the ear. He thinks the key was passed on to me.”

  “And it wasn’t?”

  “I don’t even know what the key is.” Ian turned to Jersey. “Can you dig up my grandfather’s file?”

  “We’ll need to check the basement. Most of the archives were never transferred onto the server.”

  “What do you want me to do with…” Amarela swallowed the words she was going to use, and instead substituted, “…your father?”

  Ian hesitated a moment before coming to the only conclusion he knew he had to. The only solution that would truly give him closure. “Is it possible to bring his body out here? We have a family plot.”

  “I’ll check with Boston,” said Amarela. “But if you foot the bill, I don’t see a problem.”

  Ian reached out to brush the woman’s shoulder in thanks, but stopped before his hand broke the barrier of her personal space. As an attractive woman she was likely prone to unwanted physical contact, and he didn’t want to send the wrong message.

  Instead, he simply said, “Thank you.”

  *

  Jersey and Ian rode the elevator into the bowels of the building.

  “I like your partner,” said Ian as they descended. “Feisty. She must keep you on your toes.”

  “She does that.” Jersey grinned. “She seemed to like you, too, which is unusual.”

  “For someone to like me?”

  “Well, there is that.” Jersey grinned wider, enjoying the banter. “No, for Amarela. She’s not too keen on men in general. When the lieutenant put us together, I could tell he didn’t think it would work. Amarela has been very vocal in the past about what douchebags her partners were, and the lieutenant was afraid we were going to end up in a messy sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  “So why does it work with you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” asked Jersey with a flicker of delight sparking in the corners of his eyes.

  “Uh-nuh.”

  “She met her match in the hottie department.” Jersey opened his arms to display his more than ample wares. “Women cannot get enough of this.”

  Both men laughed as the elevator reached its destination.

  *

  The basement of the Justice Center was a warren of windowless corridors filled with the droning cicada noise of large machinery secreted away behind closed doors and grated vents. At some point, however, somebody must have visited a hospital and noticed that painting color-coded arrows and follow-me lines on the wall made navigation easier.

  A wide blue stripe led the pair directly to a door marked Portland Police Department Archives — Authorized Entry Only.

  Jersey used his swipe card to unlo
ck the magnetic latch, and flicked on the overhead lights from a bank of switches on the wall. The room pulsated as fluorescent bulbs flickered and warmed, transforming the stark white walls into a glacial blue to match the temperature.

  The room was cold, its initial blast frosty enough to make Ian’s breath visible. The temperature shift stopped Ian in his tracks, finding its frigidity unusually disturbing as if awakening an old memory that lingered just out of reach. He shrugged the disturbance off. It had already been a day of too many memories, and he didn’t need any more added to the pile.

  Along with temperature control, the storage room was unexpectedly spotless. Row upon row of white cardboard boxes were stacked on strong metal racks. Each box was labeled in bold, black ink with a series of numbers and a barcode.

  Whoever had been behind the clever color-coded lines on the basement walls must have also had a hand in organizing this room.

  “It’s unmanned?” asked Ian.

  Jersey shrugged. “We have a retired sergeant who comes in when needed, but I have no idea what schedule he’s on. This room is rarely used except by the cold case crew.”

  Moving over to a lone computer station, Jersey logged in and typed in his search parameters. When he found what he was looking for, a tiny printer beside the computer spat out a piece of paper no larger than a fast food receipt.

  Jersey took the receipt over to the rows of metal racks and soon matched the number printed on it to the correct box. He retrieved the box and brought it over to a long table surrounded by six metal chairs. With Ian by his side, Jersey pulled the lid off the box and retrieved the folders and files from inside.

  *

  One of the first folders that Ian opened contained crime scene photographs taken from inside the butcher shop. Most of the prints were eight-by-ten-inch, hand-developed black-and-whites on Kodak paper. Someone, however, had included a few color Polaroid snaps that surprisingly hadn’t been turned into oily abstracts by the passage of time.

  The photographs took Ian beyond the pristine customer area, behind the magnetic metal mesh curtain that Ian had loved to sneak through when he was a child — he remembered pretending that he was entering an alternate universe, one where gravity was lighter and he had to grip the earth with his toes or risk floating to the ceiling — and into the refrigerated processing area where the aesthetic art of butchery was practiced.