Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (23 page)

He opened the door that led to the basement and hustled down the stairs. The house was a large ranch with a full basement. It was built in the fifties by Italian tradesmen and Babocci often boasted that it was built so solidly it could withstand a nuclear attack. “Hey, Tommy, I’m going out.” His deep voice echoed through the cavernous basement. “Hey, Tommy, you down here?” He heard the toilet flush and turned toward the bathroom. He could see his son through the partially opened door. He adjusted his focus so that it was off his son and on the wall-mounted shelf that contained boxes of disposable catheters, sterile lubricant, and toilet paper. He ached for his son whenever he saw his supplies.
They say the army turns boys into men—not this time. Thank God he can do that on his own now.
Inserting the catheter with one hand was difficult and there were many times when Giacomo needed to assist him when he first came home from the VA hospital.

He waited for the noise of the flushing toilet to subside. It took an additional moment for him to gain control of his emotions. He wiped some moisture from the corner of his eye. “Hey, Tommy, you almost done? I’m going out.”

Tom opened the bathroom door with his prosthetic hand. He smiled at his father while he cinched his belt. “Where are you heading, dad? It’s almost your bedtime.”

“Don’t be a wise guy. I’ve got business.”

“Business? What kind of business? Baci is closed for the night.”

“Shitty business. It’s this Jacoby thing. The police have a suspect.”

“They found the guy who murdered that family?”

“No, they didn’t find him; they’re looking for him. The boys and me are trying to help. I’ve got every
paesano
I know out looking for this sonofabitch.”

“And you think you’ll find him before the police do?”

“Hey, we may be a bunch of old guineas, but we know our shit. We’ve been taking care of our own for many, many years. Don’t be surprised if this guy ends up in the river before the police get their hands on him. You think I want this guy in the jerk-off court system wasting everyone’s time for the next five years? I don’t think so. Sometimes street justice is best.”

“Can I help?”

Babocci put his hands on his son’s shoulder and smiled. “How would you like to help?”

“You know I did recon in the army. I know how to find people.”

“Sure. Why not? You want to help; let’s go. I want this son of a bitch found before my friend Nick is no longer of this world.”

“Nick, that’s the old chief of detectives, right? I remember him. Nice man.”

“Nice man? He’s a fucking saint. I’d lie down my life for him. I know him almost forty years.”

“He’s sick?”

“Dying of cancer. It’s terrible. I went over to his place before. He looks like hell.” Babocci shook his head sadly and then turned to inspect the large glass painting Tom had been working on. “How’s the masterpiece coming along?”

“It’s done, dad.” I finished it yesterday.”

Babocci took a few steps closer so that he could better see the details of his son’s work. “That’s gorgeous, Tommy. I’m very proud of you.” He noticed another piece of glass, comparable in size to the one that had just been completed. “I see you’re ready to start a new one.” Tom shook his head excitedly. “Beautiful.” He gave his son a kiss on the cheek. “Grab your jacket if you’re serious about helping. I’m sure the boys would love to see you.”

“Okay. You don’t mind?”

“Mind? It’s like the passing of the torch. I’ve been part of this neighborhood over sixty years. No one comes in here and does what that piece of shit did to the Jacobys. No one!”

It
was first light when I pulled up in front of Michael Tillerman’s abandoned home. Gus and I agreed to split up for a while so that we could cover more ground. The APB on Tillerman was more than forty-eight hours old, and we had yet to receive a single worthwhile tip. Forzo had the entire Staten Island Police Department on high alert for our suspect. The fact that he hadn’t been found probably meant that he was hunkered down somewhere and not moving around. He would have to surface at some point—it was a waiting game I didn’t have the patience to play.

I thought I would be the first one on the scene at Tillerman’s, but I was wrong. A vintage BMW 2002tii was parked in front of the house. I recognized the car—Damien Zugg was already inside.

Zugg was on the floor in the kitchen, trying to grab something that must have fallen between the cabinets and the wall. He was like a forensic Hoover trying to suck up clues.

“Shit,” he said. He pushed away from the corner of the cabinet and stood up. He turned around and smiled at me.

“What did you find down there?”

He was holding a small object with long-nose tweezers. “I thought I found a slug back there, but it’s just a Raisinet,” he said as he dropped it into the kitchen sink.

“You’re up early. I thought I’d find this place deserted.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Zugg said. “I got up and went through my personal email. Did you know that Columbian women are nearby and waiting to hear from me?”

“That’s news.”

“I know and that’s not all—Russian brides and hot Asian chicks are chomping at the bit to be with me, which makes sense because I also learned that I can get Viagra without a prescription. They’re available twenty-four hours a day.”

I snickered.

“What’s a MILF?”

Oh dear Lord.
I was a little embarrassed but I figured hey, we’re all adults here. “It stands for mothers I’d like to . . . fill in the ending.”

Zugg looked embarrassed. “Sorry, I guess I could have looked it up on my own.”

“No worries. I received an email from Swaziland this morning. I’m getting an inheritance of twelve million dollars. Imagine my surprise to learn that I had relatives in Africa. It’s a very serendipitous morning for both of us.” Zugg grinned. “Now that we’ve discussed our good fortunes . . . find anything other than the Raisinet?”

“Except for the basement, the house looks as if it has been unoccupied for a long time. The Tillerman’s must have moved out in a hurry because most of the family possessions seem to have been left behind.”

“Middle of the night kind of thing?”

“That’s my thinking as well: clothing, furniture, toys—they’re all still here,” Zugg said.

“Furniture is one thing, but if you were moving with your kids, wouldn’t you at least take a few of their favorite things? I mean even if you’re in a hurry—”

“Oh I agree. We now know that Michael Tillerman has a wife and two young boys. Their baseball gloves are still in the upstairs bedroom. I saw a Nintendo 3DS up there too—small items . . . certainly you’d take them to keep the boys entertained. I mean even if you were whisking them away in the middle of the night . . . maybe his wife took the kids and left him, or maybe—”

“They’re dead,” I met Zugg’s glance—we both seemed to be on the same page. “There are no records on any member of the Tillerman family in the past year. It’s as if they fell off the face of the earth. He could have killed them himself. I was confused as to why Tillerman has a necropsy table and embalming supplies in his basement. It doesn’t match his MO, but his own family . . . could it be that he murdered them?”

“And did what with the bodies?” Zugg asked.

“Buried them? Disposed of them? Who knows? He had the skill and equipment to do it. Maybe he killed them and then gave them a proper funeral. I mean the man is a certifiable lunatic, isn’t he? I’m still stymied by the extreme method he used to kill the woman in the narrows. He dropped her in the water and brought her up so quickly that her lungs exploded. I mean, come on, that’s so specific. Why would he do it that way?” I shrugged. “I’m not doing anyone any good flapping my gums. I’m going to have another look around.”

I walked into the dining room, which was decorated very simply. The walls were painted light green. The table, chairs, and side table were dark mahogany. The furniture looked pretty dated. I remembered that Tillerman had inherited the home from his parents—the dining room set was probably theirs. A vase was set in the middle of the side table. As with everything else, the vase had simply been left behind with flowers in it. The water had evaporated and the flowers had long ago withered and dried over the top of the vase. The pieces began to fit into place. It was difficult to recognize the vase with the dried white petals stuck to it, but the longer I stared at it the more it began to look familiar. I hovered over the vase, staring down at it. I tried to connect the dots. “Hey, Damien, can you come in here for a minute?”

Zugg didn’t answer but I heard footsteps and saw him walk into the room a moment later. “Yes?”

I pointed to the side table. “That vase, there’s something familiar about it. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

The vase was modern in style with sharply angled ridges. Zugg picked it up and examined it. It wasn’t until he lifted it up, overhead, that I was able to see the pattern on the base. It had six sharp points and six sharp grooves. The base made up a six-pointed star.

Zugg confirmed a moment later. “It’s a hexagram.”

“Damien, do you know what kind of flowers those are?”

The petals were difficult to make out. They had dried against the glass and decomposed to the point of being semi-transparent. Zugg studied them for a moment. “I believe they’re lilies. Polygonatum multiflorum perhaps.”

“I can barely see them, and you’ve narrowed it down to an exact genus and species? You’re pretty amazing, Damien. I saw a vase like that before, but I can’t remember where. Is that a common variety of lily?”

“You see them outdoors more than you might see them in an indoor floral arrangement—the petals are pretty small. There’s a more common name for them. They’re called Solomon’s Seal.”

It wasn’t until Zugg said
Solomon’s Seal
that I realized why the vase looked so familiar. “I saw an identical vase, and it was also filled with small lilies. It was on the side table near the staircase in the Jacoby house.

“Solomon’s Seal is also the name for a six-sided star or the Star of David.” The pieces were beginning to fit together. Zugg had a deadly serious expression on his face.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes,” Zugg said. “Whoever killed the Jacobys may have killed the Tillermans as well.”

Michael
Tillerman sat in a Buick Century waiting for 5:00 a.m. to arrive. He had stashed the panel van, knowing that the police would be looking for the vehicle he had used for the pickup from the ME’s office.

His right hand was locked in spasm and had been since he’d dug the grave in the middle of the night. He tried to flex his paralyzed hand, but it remained rigid.

He reached into his pocket with his left hand and pulled out a handful of tablets.
Eight
, he decided. It was the most he’d ever taken. He counted out the Repressor tablets and swallowed them down with a gulp of water.
Today’s the day.
He began to think about what lay in store for him. His heart began to pound from a powerful surge of adrenaline. It pounded with such force that Tillerman could feel the seatback rock from the force of each beat. He tried the Valsalva maneuver, to reduce the force of the palpitations. He closed his mouth, pinched his nostrils, and blew until his eardrums began to ache, but it did not relieve the fierce palpitations. He tried the exact opposite, taking several deep, rhythmic breaths in an effort to calm down. He broke out in an abrupt, drenching sweat. He opened the windows hoping fresh air might help. His cell phone vibrated. It took his mind off the palpitations. “Hello?”

“It’s time. Come around the back.”

Tillerman checked his watch. Somehow 5:00 a.m. had come and gone while he attempted triage.
Dear God, it’s time.
He began to shake uncontrollably. He had experienced severe tremors and spasm before, which he assumed were side effects of his medication, but this time he was sure that his symptoms were due to nerves.

It was still dark when he left the car, which he had parked on a secluded dead-end street. He walked quickly through the greenbelt until it would take him no further. He had lived on Staten Island all of his life and knew the undeveloped land from memory—he had often played there as a child and could still remember some of the landmarks that had endured since his youth. When he left the greenbelt, he cut through backyards and school grounds until he arrived at his destination and went inside.

He waited for Tillerman in the shadows as he always did. He wore a pure white, hooded cloak that hid his face from Tillerman’s sight. He kept his face down while he spoke. “You have completed the four sacrifices as required. Are you ready?”

Tillerman breathed nervously. He nodded. “Yes. I’m ready.”

He held out a folded white cloak. It was the same as the one he was wearing. He said a prayer in an Aramaic tongue to bless the cloak before he handed it to Tillerman. “Change into this. Wear nothing else.” He pointed to a bathroom. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Tillerman took the white cloak and walked into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later and saw that the floor was covered with a large printed cloth, which bore the pattern of a six-sided star.