Ice Shear (22 page)

Two altar boys opened the front doors of the church and stood dazedly in the exit watching the bikes disappear around a corner. Finally, the crowd forming behind them, and a few sharp words from Monsignor Ottario, compelled them to hook the doors open.

Monsignor stood aside and gestured to the young men who were carrying the casket out toward the hearse. The Brouillettes, tightly behind, helped each other down the steps. Phil Brouillette looked ready to yank the box out of the back of the hearse, as did Marty, who stood next to the car's door, touching the casket as it glided past.

“Where'd the rest of the mourners go?” Zeke Jelickson yelled to Marty from the top of the church stairs. At his father's yell Marty turned, letting Danielle go. His mother ran to him and he folded over into a hug. He spoke to his father over his mother's shoulder: “Sent 'em home. I gotta keg, which'll let 'em mourn plenty.”

Amanda Brouillette walked up to Marty, stepping in front of his mother and taking his hand. “Thank you for taking care of things.” Her voice was even. “Things are so . . . are so . . . terrible.”

“Showing proper respect? That's so terrible?” Zeke Jelickson said, his arm thrown wide as if to embrace the congresswoman. She stepped closer to Marty.

“C'mon, Zeke.” Marty said. “Danielle's people wanted things proper.”

“You're Danielle's people. You're going to let them piss all over you?”

“You asshole.” Phil Brouillette stormed toward them. “You may think you can pollute our daughter's memory—”

Hale edged up to Phil Brouillette, although whether to protect him from Zeke Jelickson or to protect Zeke Jelickson from him, I didn't know. Hale nodded to me, and I positioned myself to the right of Zeke. Mourners had begun to stream out of the church but gave our group a wide berth, the grief too sharp on this island. I could smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke coming off Zeke, and brushed the wool of his suit, which was a fine weave, very soft, and no doubt expensive.

“I'm sorry for all our losses,” Zeke Jelickson said, grave and serious. “We're all sipping from the same bottle here. This is how our family honors the dead. We have as much say over Danielle as you do.”

“No, you're mistaken.” The congresswoman sounded like she was making an agriculture policy statement, but her words were harsh, all quaver from her voice gone. “She's mine. Mine and my husband's and Marty's.”

“And Marty's ours,” Linda Jelickson said. Marty shook his head.

“I don't think so,” the congresswoman said. “I think he's mine now.” Marty gave an even more vigorous no, but I don't think she noticed. “And this town is mine.” The congresswoman stepped forward so that only the people in the tight circle could hear as funeral goers streamed around us. She was right in Zeke Jelickson's face, and I was forced to step backward a few inches when, ever so slightly, he withdrew.

“And before you decide that you're going to cause trouble here, realize that if you cross me, if you defile my town, I will destroy you. I will reach across the country and bring you and your organization under so much scrutiny that you won't so much as be able to blink without my permission. If you think, Mr. and Mrs. Jelickson, you can do things our way, the right way, you are welcome to come over to our house for coffee and cake. If you can't, I will
roll over you
. It will happen so thoroughly and hard that you won't even know what happened.”

“Ma'am, I can see where Danielle got her swagger.” Zeke Jelickson tipped an imaginary hat. “We'll be seeing you while we're in town, I'm sure, but you'll have to excuse us: we have to go and plan the funeral of our son.”

“Which anyone with any class would have said they're sorry for,” spat Mrs. Jelickson. She walked toward a Harley that was parked illegally at a fire hydrant, but stopped and called to Marty. “Baby? You coming?”

Marty shook his head. “I need to see Dani buried.”

“Marty, would you like to ride with us over to the cemetery?” asked Amanda. Behind her, Phil looked ready to protest.

“No. I don't need that,” Marty said. Zeke Jelickson smiled, but his smile faded at what Marty said next. “I'm going to go to work after this.”

The congresswoman pulled a slim phone out of her bag. “Let me make a call. There's no reason that you should have to work today.”

“No, ma'am, don't,” Marty said. “I want to work, get away from all you people.” Marty ducked into a limo, his motorcycle boot the last thing visible before he was gone behind a black wall.

“Thanks for having my back there, man,” Dave said to Hale once the Brouillettes were safely away.

“No problem,” Hale said, lifting his hand to his ear. He wasn't really with us, listening for updates on the Brouillettes or the Merrimen or both. He paused and frowned, the message he was receiving more important than the scene in front of him. He blinked, realizing where he was. “Need help containing the Merrimen?”

“Christ, yes, although it's going to be a manpower stretch.”

“We can help with that, you know. We can help you with interviews, too, once this funeral's over.”

“Manpower yes, interviews no. We don't—”

“Detective Batko. Officer Lyons.” Jerry's voice droned through the crowd. “As soon as I have paid my respects, we are going to have a long talk. Be ready, I'll expect more than the incompetence you have shown to date. Bikers at a funeral? Letting Marty Jelickson walk free? I don't know what you think you are doing, but you clearly have no idea. . . .”

A
T MARTY'S HOUSE, DAVE
and I found the Merrimen strewn across the front yard, like lawn ornaments of the damned. They moved collectively to block the steps, a wall of bushy beards and green bandanas.

The big guy who led the pack was sitting in a lawn chair in front of the house, a bottle of Jack Daniel's between his legs.

“Private property,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh. Should we call in the FBI to do the interview?”

The big guy, whose patch read
TINY
, nodded to a young, wiry kid, clearly a probie—a prospect, I corrected myself, a probie was a new cop. The kid slipped inside the house without a word. I found myself shifting from foot to foot while we waited, my panty-hosed legs raw from the cold. I probably should have changed clothes, or at least taken off my pearls, but Dave and I were eager to talk to the Jelicksons before they compared notes with Marty. Good thing Marty was avoiding them.

The Merrimen, in their henleys and leather jackets, seemed impervious to the cold. Three of them circled close, and the warmth came off them in waves. I didn't want their kind of heat and stepped back.

Dave nodded at the bottle propped between Tiny's legs. “You know that alcohol only makes you feel like you're warm, but can induce hypothermia, right?”

“Trying to check out the package of a real man?” Tiny said. The rest of the group laughed like it was the funniest thing ever, holding their guts.

“Faggot,” Panhead said. He had a well-trimmed beard and few patches.
Newbie,
I thought.

The front door opened, and the prospect stood half in and half out of the house. “Zeke wants a report from the pigs.”

The steps groaned under the combined weight of Dave, me, and the welcome wagon that lined the banisters. The prospect let the door snap shut in Dave's face. I wondered whether we had avoided a fight or were heading for a bigger one.

The living room was barely recognizable from just a few days before. The TV was reoriented to face the recliner rather than the couch, and an ashtray held the remains of a couple dozen cigarettes, the smoke skirting the ceiling. The books and CDs were no longer in spread-out piles, but uneven towers now dotted the room—redecorating provided by the FBI. I stepped carefully, worried that I might send one tumbling.

There didn't seem to be any room for Marty.

Zeke Jelickson sat back in the recliner, swinging his feet up. The footrest scraped my calf, and his steel-toed boot jammed into my knee. I held my ground.

“Find who killed my boy?” Zeke asked.

“Is your wife here?” Dave said. “We were hoping to talk to both of you, bring you up to date on the case.”

“She's changing her clothes. We both had to take a shower, get the stink of Danielle's family off us. So if you two want to get going, go back to handing out coupons to people who forgot to put a nickel in the meter, go
right
ahead. You're not gonna do shit to find who killed our boy.”

He crossed his arms, resolute. Dave kept talking, explaining the course of the investigation and next steps. I studied the patches that covered Zeke's leather vest. He had a flaming skull, which matched a tattoo on his forearm—the Abominations logo—and a second skull and crossbones that gave the signal that he had maimed, or more likely killed, someone who threatened the club. Enforcer was sewn to his shoulder, and six in memory of patches marked the lower edge. I wondered how many of the dead died of natural causes, how many of motorcycle accidents, and how many were murdered. On his left shoulder was a patch that read pigfucker, and I gave an involuntary shudder. It was a boast to other bikers that he had slept with a cop.

“Like that one, missy?” he said to me, winking. “I should really have three of those, but who wants to look at that many pigs?”

I ignored him. “Your ink. When'd you get the skull and crossbones?”

“Two years ago. Marty did the tattoo. He's got a sure hand and a sharp eye.”

Linda Jelickson arrived, made up and blown dry, wearing tight Levi's and a tighter peach sweater. Her skin was pink from the shower and her eyes were red. Dave extended his hand but she ignored it, sitting at the far end of the couch and grabbing her husband's arm.

Dave dropped into a squatting position, so that he was at eye level with the sitting Jelicksons. “I'm very sorry for your loss. I had the chance to meet Ray, spend some time with him. He was the kind of boy I would hope for in a son, forthright and someone who believed in family.”

“Bullshit,” muttered Zeke, and I tended to agree, but Dave had Linda Jelickson's attention.

Dave continued, “I hate that something happened to your boy, that he will never have a chance to grow up into the man he was becoming.”

Linda Jelickson nodded along. “He was a man.”

Dave shook his head as he stood up. “He was close to being a man. He had a little more growing up to do. He needed protection to do that, protection from all of us, including me. It's such a waste.”

The room was quiet, the shout of “Shit, man!” filtering through the uninsulated window. While there was a wall between us, I was very aware of the threat at my back.

“He was an old soul,” Linda Jelickson said. She reached for her pack of Merits, pulling out a cigarette with coral nails, the tips of her fingers stained brown. She lit it and took a deep drag. “He would never rat out anyone, you know. One time, Marty and his buddies were jumping off the roof of the garage, and Ray joined in—he was only five but he wasn't afraid of nothing. All the shaking from those twelve-year-old boys—and Ray—and the shelving units came clean off the walls. The boys knew they would get beat for it. Ray wouldn't lie to me—‘I did it, Mama,' he said—but he didn't tell on Marty.”

No mother could have looked prouder. “Not snitching” was valued over everything else by the Jelicksons, it seemed.

“Marty got a beat down for that one,” Zeke said.

Linda reached out and grabbed her husband's hand. “Marty always needed a firm hand. He had a lot of Jim in him.”

“So Marty wasn't your real son, Zeke?” I asked.

Linda looked offended. “He was a real father to Marty after Jim died. Jim Fizzeller.” She pointed to one of Zeke's in memory patches. “Motorcycle accident when Marty was only nine. We had our first rains and California roads get slick. Danielle's funeral today, well, I haven't seen such a big funeral since his.”

“And Zeke took care of the fatherless boy?” Dave asked.

“Do either of you have any children?” Linda asked. Dave answered no, and hid his surprise when I said no as well, but no way was Zeke Jelickson going to find out anything about Lucy.

“So what you two will never understand is the bond that develops between a boy and his father. No boy could have asked for better.”

“I stand up for my blood and the brotherhood,” Zeke said. “Something you know fuck all about.”

Linda cut him off. “Zeke was a brother. . .a close friend. . .of Jim, Jim and me. And a year later I had Ray”—so no long mourning period, I thought—“and well, marrying Zeke was the best thing for everyone. No one had a better family than those boys, and they knew it. The boys still called us all the time.”

Somehow I doubted that Marty was the one picking up the phone.

A tear slipped from the corner of Linda Jelickson's eye, and she flicked it with a nail, perfectly preserving her eye makeup. “Ray called me when he needed his mom. And sometimes he called Zeke, for a father's wisdom.”

Or advice on making meth, I thought.

“Could you tell us the phone number you called Ray on?”

Linda immediately went on the offensive. “Why do you need to know that?”

“We're checking phone records, and want to rule certain numbers out.”

Linda folded her arms. “Likely story.”

“Ma'am, it's obvious that you loved your son, and we would never suspect either you or your husband in these murders,” Dave said.

Zeke Jelickson stared at Dave, his eyes in a permanent squint from glaring at other people. “And the fact that we weren't in the fucking state proves it. You want phone records? Get a warrant.”

“Please, Mr. Jelickson,” Dave said. “You're not a suspect.” Dave unbuttoned his coat, and I wanted to follow suit—the heat of four people talking and the smoke filling the room was getting uncomfortable.