Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (16 page)

“That’s absolutely gruesome.”

Sclafani shrugged. “What can I say? It paid for the Mustang.”

“All right, so I’ll need a list of all your current and former employees—not just the crematory operators, but anyone who worked for you and might have been able to operate the furnace.”

Sclafani rubbed his eyes. “That will be a long list; my father opened the funeral parlor in 1965. A lot of the employees have come and gone—it takes a certain type of individual, if you know what I mean.”

“Trust me, I get it. Let’s start with the last five years. I don’t think we have to go back to the days of disco.”

Sclafani chuckled. “Those were the good old days for me. You should’ve seen me on the dance floor. I made John Travolta look like he had arthritis.”

“You’re an impressive guy, Rocco.”

“All the men in my family are good dancers.”

I heard someone clearing his throat. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Gus had entered the room. “Is this a homicide investigation or an episode of
Who Do You Think You Are
?” Gus laughed and shook hands with Sclafani. “How are you, Rocco?”

“Better than this morning. I almost had a cow when I found that body this morning. I mean it’s what I do for a living, but it was still a shock. I mean who does shit like that?”

“If we knew, we wouldn’t be here,” Gus said. “But this might help. The crime lab was able to pull the 2D barcode off the back of the incinerated driver’s license found in the victim’s wallet.” He opened a folder and placed an enlarged copy of the drivers’ license on the table. The man depicted had a large, round face, dark hair, and a beard. I could also see that one of his top incisor teeth was gold. The name on the drivers’ license was Marat Vetrov. The deceased had a Brooklyn address.

I turned the printout so that Sclafani could see the face. “Ever see this man before?”

He
was looking at the driver’s license when his throat tightened and he began to cough. I handed him a glass of water. “Take it easy, Brian. It’s just a picture.”

Brian Spano was a diminutive man. He looked like a boy lying in a standard-size hospital bed. He had a small frame and narrow shoulders. It was only the wrinkles and receding hairline that gave away his age. He took the cup of water from me and sipped through the straw. “Yeah,” he said with an edge in his voice. “That’s him.” He began to cough nervously.

“Brian, calm down; he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Okay.” He took a few deep breaths. I gave him time to settle down.

I looked at the two pictures in my folder, Vetrov’s driver’s license photo and the sketch artist’s rendering of the man who had attacked Spano. Forzo’s squad was pretty damn sharp. They put two and two together and brought me the sketch of Spano’s attacker as soon as it came in. The two images were close, but not that close. “You’re sure that’s him?”

“I’m positive. I’ll never forget that face. It was the last thing I saw before I—” He reached for his neck and touched the support collar he was wearing. “I thought it was all over. I remember thinking,
this is it
! I thought I was about to die. I remember the look in his eye as he held me by the throat. Christ, I even remember his gold tooth. Do you believe that? I remember his stupid, gold tooth. I thought that I was going to die, and I noticed his tooth. Weird.” Spano finished the water and put the empty cup on his tray. “So how did he die?”

“Someone broke his neck. His body was found in a funeral parlor cremation furnace.”

Spano adjusted his pillow. “He got what he deserved.”

“So let’s run through your testimony again, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You were doing a routine inventory. You saw cartons of pharmaceuticals on the floor, and then your assailant grabbed you by the throat.”

“He shook me like I was a toy, detective. I was never so scared in my life.”

“I’m sure it was pretty bad. You heard your neck snap, and you passed out.”

“That’s right.”

“And you don’t remember anything else until you came to at the garbage dump?”

“That’s right.”

“So no idea who brought you there or who rescued you from Vetrov?”

I could see in Spano’s eyes that he wanted to remember. He was fighting to remember, but it just wasn’t there. He seemed to be embarrassed. “I guess I was out the whole time. I’m sorry.”

“You have my card. Hold onto it. You never know . . . something may come to you later.”

“Forget it, detective,” Spano said in a self-deprecating tone. “I’m not exactly a clutch hitter.”

I could tell that Spano was feeling sorry for himself. Now I’m not a priest or a bartender, but I figured I could lend him a shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My life’s a mess, detective. I just got divorced.” I saw his lips tighten. “I only get to see my son once every two weeks. I really want to come through for you, but the way my life is going . . . just don’t expect too much, okay?”

Someone knocked on the door. I was still looking at Spano, and I could see the life return to his eyes. “Alex? Oh my God, buddy, come here.” A woman and a little boy were standing in the doorway. I knew it was his wife and child. The woman let go of the boy’s hand, and he ran over to Spano. He climbed onto the bed and into his father’s arms. I saw tears in Spano’s eyes as I stood.

“Things will get better, Brian,” I said. “Keep your chin up.” Spano smiled at me for a second and then turned back to his son. I introduced myself to his wife and then left the room. Spano was no hero, but he had been through a tough time. Sometimes things happened for a reason. Perhaps his assault . . .
I hope they get back together.
I didn’t know if my little prayer would work, but it was worth a shot. Everyone deserves a second chance.

I bought a bottle of water from the vending machine. I figured the two of us needed some sorely needed hydration. I had chugged half the bottle when my cell phone rang. Herbert Ambler’s name appeared on the caller ID. “What’s up, my friend?”

“A third medallion just arrived at FBI headquarters, and it’s tablet-shaped like the first two.”

“And?” I was eager to hear the rest. I knew that it was something important.

“The numeral three is written out with incisor teeth and—”

“Well don’t leave me hanging.”

Ambler chuckled. “One of the teeth is gold.”

Tillerman
unscrewed the top from the small bottle of medication and shook the remaining tablets into the palm of his hand. He stared at his trembling hand for a few seconds. His spasms had gotten much worse. They occurred more often and for longer lengths of time. He waited for the tremor to subside.

He was only taking six Repressor tablets a day, but there were seven left in the bottle. He dropped the empty bottle on the passenger seat of his van and threw the seven small tablets into his mouth. He crunched them between his teeth and washed them down with a swig of cold coffee. He no longer needed to worry about conservation. The big Russian had stolen thousands of tablets and now they were all his—enough to last for years.

“Now remember; just one pill per day.” He chuckled as he remembered Dr. Schrader’s warning. He had envisioned crushing Schrader in his powerful arms, pulverizing his ribs, and ending his life. He had dreamed about it—Schrader in his arms, his speech slowing until it finally stopped. The memory of the dream brought a smile to his face. Schrader’s incessant nagging ate away at him, and the thought of his death made Tillerman feel peaceful. Schrader was meant to be the last of the four sacrifices.

He looked through the windshield of his van at the six-story apartment building just across the street. He imagined that he could see her window, the window she would sit in front of while she worked on her computers. Although he’d intended for Schrader to be the last, Kozakova’s betrayal had catapulted her to the top of Tillerman’s hit list. Her accomplice was dead, and she would be next.

Giacomo
Babocci kicked the kitchen door closed. He set an aluminum tray down on the table. “Tommy,” he called out. “I’m home. I brought a nice tray of scaloppini home from the club. Hey, Tommaso, you hear me?” He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. “He’s still downstairs?” he grumbled.

Babocci quickly looked around the ranch-style house and then took the stairs down to the basement. His son was sitting on the concrete floor, painting. Before him was a square, six-foot panel of glass, which was set into a metal frame and secured on either side to brick support columns. Every square inch of the glass was covered with paint. “Tommy, you didn’t hear me call?”

Tom turned to greet his father. He had a content smile on his face. “Sorry, dad, I was lost in the moment.”

Babocci smiled in return. It pleased him to see his son happy. Happy moments for his boy were few and far between. “So the glass is working out for you?”

“It’s a great medium, dad, just like you said. I wish I had tried it sooner. The brush moves across the glass effortlessly.” He set down his brush and pushed back with his right arm to move out of the way and give his father a full, unobstructed view of his work. It was a landscape of a large, weathered house set near the ocean. “What do you think?”

Babocci stepped back so that he could get a better perspective. “I love the colors, especially the blue.”

“That’s cobalt, dad.” The house was painted in shades of cobalt and white. Tom had achieved a very dramatic rendering of the old house and the ocean. His skill with the brush was first rate.

“And you used the pointillism technique throughout?” Tom nodded. “Seurat and Georges Lemmen used that method frequently. It’s a lot of work but the result speaks for itself.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Incredible work, Tommy, I was never this good.” Babocci looked more closely. He stared at the dark areas and the light. When he focused on the painting he could see that the dark areas had a dense concentration of dots. The concentration of paint dots in the lighter areas were much more diffused. “Just great, and the way the shadows play on the old house . . . I love it.” Babocci never cried in front of his son, but he ached to do so. Every moment with his son tore at him; a tug of war between thankfulness and torment. “I’m starving. How about you?”

“Hell yes. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Babocci extended his hand. “I’ll help you up.”

“No thanks. I’m good.” Tom pushed down on the floor with his right hand to lift his torso and then stood on his right leg. He didn’t put weight on his prosthetic left leg until he was almost completely vertical. He took a moment to inspect his artwork. He got right up against the painting and stared at the dark window as if he were looking into the house.

“Everything all right?”

“Just being my meticulous, neurotic self.”

Tom turned to face his father. A shadow illuminated him in the worst possible light. Babocci saw the gathered waistband of his son’s jeans and the end of his belt that hung over his damaged hip and decimated left leg. He fought the impulse to gasp. His son had gone off to war in the Persian Gulf and returned half a man. The left side of his son’s body had been destroyed in an enemy offensive. His left arm had been removed in an army hospital operating room along with his lower leg. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine, dad. I’m home two years already—you don’t have to ask me every day.” He put his right arm on his father’s shoulder, and they began to walk side by side.

“You’re doing good,” Babocci said. “I can barely feel you limp.”

“I only limp when I’m tired, dad. I walk over two miles every day.”

“Two miles?
Madonna
.” Babocci pinched his son’s cheek. “You’re in better shape than I am. Let’s go upstairs and stuff ourselves on Alfredo’s veal.”

“What about dessert?”

“I brought home half of a pizza grana.” He kissed his fingertips again. “
Delizioso
.”

“Thanks, dad, you’ve been like a father
and
mother to me ever since—”

Babocci held up his finger to silence his son. He made the sign of the cross. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”

There
are times when it was okay to be indulgent and times when you have to forsake the sweet tooth and break a sweat. This was one of those times. I was shoulder to shoulder with my brother Ricky as we ran along the FDR Drive. Running next to Ricky was like running alongside a racehorse. He was silent and strong, rarely speaking when we ran. He wasn’t there to keep me company. He was there to look out for his pregnant sister. He would catch me looking at him every now and then—just quick glances from the corner of my eye—adoring glances because I loved Ricky for who he was.

“You okay, sis?”

“Yup,” I always kept it simple and sweet, and then I would tease him by pulling ahead and forcing him to catch up. He would catch me every now and again, and I would respond with the same one word affirmation and another burst in speed. I laughed on the inside every time, and then my heart would ache for a moment because . . . I wondered what he was thinking in that simple but beautiful mind of his. I wondered if he understood what had happened to him. Did he remember how he was before? Did he remember being a high school football sensation? Did he yearn to be more? Did he hope to get better, or did he just live in the here and now? I didn’t know which was better for him. I only wanted him to be happy.
I love you, Ricky.