Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (25 page)

“That’s right. According to lore, the interlaced triangles represent the four earth elements,” Twain said. “The top point of the triangle represents fire. The bottom represents water. The left represents air and the right represents earth.”

“Tillerman made four sacrifices, one for each of the four earth elements. Do you think?”

“I do.”

The idea was so bizarre, and yet in some demented way, it actually made sense—Michael Tillerman was trying to bring someone back to life.

We
followed the K-9 dogs twenty yards into the greenbelt until they found the spot. The digging began immediately. Gus and I waited while shovelful after shovelful of earth was removed from the ground. A biker had seen what he described as “a giant digging a hole.” He had seen Tillerman’s wanted poster on TV and called the Most Wanted hotline.

“Who do you think we’ll find down there?” Gus asked.

“Honestly, I hope they dig up an old pair of boots. I am just so tired of finding bodies. I don’t think I can take any more.”

“Old boots? You mean as in old war boots?”

Actually the image of a pair of
Christian Louboutin boots popped into my head, but I wasn’t going to admit that to
Gus
. Besides, the ground was muddy, and I just couldn’t contemplate soiling a gorgeous pair of fine leather boots like that. “Yes, like old war boots. Discarded boots that no one wants.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I know, but my legs are cramping so I can’t think about a pair of Joan Crawford F-me pumps right now.”

“How about later?” Gus displayed an impish smile.

“Really? How can you think of sex at a time like this? Eight people are dead, maybe nine, and a maniac is running around killing people, hoping to bring someone back to life. That doesn’t stymie your libido?”

“I can picture you in a pair of thigh-high boots and a lacy, black teddy. Nothing can slow me down when it comes to the thought of ravaging your body. I honestly don’t give a tinker’s damn.”

“A tinker’s damn? Do you even know what a tinker is?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” I whispered in his ear. “Catch Tillerman, and I’ll wear anything you like. Now pay attention and focus on the case.”

“Thanks for the incentive.” Gus smiled and pinched my butt.
Men! My God. There’s a time and a place for everything, isn’t there?

“So who do you think Tillerman might be trying to reanimate?” Gus asked with a smirk. “I can’t believe how fucking crazy this guy is.”

“His family is unaccounted for; they’d be at the top of my list.”

“Don’t you think there would be a record of three murders?”

“You’d think.” I shrugged. “You and I both know there are bodies buried everywhere. There are lots of victims the police don’t know about. It wouldn’t surprise me if this goofball kept their deaths a secret. The questions are: who killed them and how did they die?”

I saw Sonellio approaching from the corner of my eye. He wore a warm-up suit, but his appearance was anything but athletic. It looked as if his stamina was at a minimum. He walked lifelessly and carried a small oxygen tank. His complexion appeared ashen. I walked over and put my arm through his. “Hi, boss, out for a stroll?”

He smiled at me but did not reply because getting around was obviously such a struggle for him. We walked back to where Gus was standing. Gus rubbed Sonellio’s shoulder, and we waited as the hole was excavated. Sonellio’s posture frightened me. He looked so feeble, as if he might fall over at any second. I pulled him close to me and with that gesture said what I wouldn’t dare say aloud.
I’m here for you, my old friend. Lean on me.

Again he was silent, but his eyes said,
thank you.

They stopped digging. My heart stumbled as a body was lifted out of the hole. It was the very last thing I expected to see: a medical examiner’s black body bag. They unzipped it and there staring up at us were the lifeless eyes of Bruce Jacoby, husband, father and murder victim. My eyes widened. I turned to Gus to express my disbelief. Just then I felt a tug on my arm. Sonellio was going down. I grabbed him to soften the fall. Gus moved quickly and prevented him from hitting his head.

Gus began to work on him. “Boss, boss, stay with us . . . boss!” My eyes met Gus’—in that glance, we understood each other’s concern. “Call an ambulance,” Gus called out to the other policemen at the scene.

Time seemed to stand still. I felt the breath catch in my lungs, and my heart began to race. My throat tightened, and then when I least expected it, I felt the baby kick.

I
walked into the pub across the street from the hospital and sat down at the bar. The bartender greeted me with the ever popular, “What’ll it be?”

“Bourbon neat and a dozen Quaaludes.”

He was reaching for a bottle of Maker’s Mark when it hit him, “What? Did you say . . .?” He angled his head. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

“The bourbon is for my boyfriend. He’ll be here in a minute. I was just kidding about the ‘ludes.”

He glanced through the pub front window across the street to the hospital. “Bad day?” the bartender asked with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to hear it. And for you?”

“Just sparkling water. The child developing in my womb gets bent out of shape when I imbibe.”

He leaned over the bar and glanced at my belly. “Congratulations! Hey, I make a killer frozen pi
ñ
a colada—virgin, of course. Let me make one for you. It’s on me.”

“Pi
ñ
a colada, you say. I don’t know—that’s an awful lot of sugar.”

“I’m telling you, it’s amazing. I used to make them for my wife when she was pregnant.”

“Okay, thanks.” I was in dire need of a brain freeze, anything to numb my mind to the painful news we had just heard. Sonellio’s cancer had spread. It was in his liver, blocking the portal vein. I didn’t know if he would live long enough to see Tillerman brought to justice. Toni had called her daughters to let them know the end was near. Sonellio’s girls were making plans to fly in from out of town.

Gus found me at the bar and sat down in front of his drink. “Are you going to be okay?”

I grabbed his arm and laid my head against it. “Jesus, Gus, I hurt all over. I want to go home and cry.”

Gus stroked my hair. “I understand.” He kissed my head. “Nothing is going to make this any easier.”

I had been there before. I remembered feeling the same way when we found out my father had run out of time. Familiarity didn’t make it any easier to deal with. I was dying on the inside all over again. The bartender put my tall and frosty pi
ñ
a colada on the bar. It looked so good that I could taste it before the straw was to my lips.

“The bartender smiled hopefully. “How is it?”

I could almost feel the capillaries in my brain freeze. “Amazing. It’s just what I needed.” Gus introduced himself. A good bartender knows when to chat and when to take a hike. He left us and moved down the bar so that we could have some sorely needed peace and quiet. We sat in silence for a while. Gus nursed his bourbon. I stared off into space. Nothing would make this day any better. We just had to slog through it.

“So why do you think Tillerman buried Mr. Jacoby? I mean why go through all the trouble of stealing a body only to discard it?”

“I don’t know.” The chemicals in my brain were out of balance. The thinking process had been temporarily suspended. “Nothing about this case makes sense to me at the moment, but keep talking, okay? I need the distraction.”

“Sure,” Gus said. “The ME’s office said that the body did not appear to be tampered with.”

“Even stranger, don’t you think?”

Gus shrugged and signaled for a refill. My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the caller’s number and was tempted to let it go to voicemail. It rang three times . . . four, five, “Detective Chalice. How can I help you?”

“Detective Chalice, it’s Cathy, the waitress from the diner. Do you remember me?”

My mind filled with the vision of an elderly man bent over a cup of soup. I actually imagined that I could hear him slurping. “Yes, Cathy, how can I help you?”

“I think that you’re still looking for Michael Tillerman, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we are. Why?”

“Well, I remembered something. I don’t know if it’s important but I figured it couldn’t do any harm to let you know.”

“You were right to call, Cathy. What did you remember?”

“Tillerman used to hang around with some disabled guy. I’m not sure about his name but I think his father owns that Italian gentlemen’s club, Café Baci.”

Baci? Why does that sound familiar?
I remembered the delicious tiramisu and the name of the man I’d met at Sonellio's home, Giacomo Babocci. I didn’t know that he had a disabled son. “How was this man disabled?” I asked.

“He has an artificial arm and leg. I’m not sure, but I think he’s a war veteran. I used to see the two of them building stuff in Tillerman’s garage. Does that help?”

“It definitely does. Thank you, Cathy. Is this your cell phone number? I want to make a note of your contact information.”

“Yes.”

I thanked her again and hung up.

“What was that?” Gus asked. He had a disconcerted look on his face, and I could see that the bourbon had hit him right between the eyes.

“Hand me the car keys, handsome.” “I’ll explain along the way.”

Café
Baci was located on a commercial street along with other neighborhood shops, centered between a shoe repair store and a dry cleaner. Each and every patron went silent when I walked through the door of the café. I had forgotten that the establishment was for men only, but none of that mattered. The sexist, old-world patrons would just have to deal with the fact that a pregnant law enforcement officer was desecrating their sacred gentlemen’s club.

A waiter tried to keep me from entering the club, but I had my shield in his face and Gus Lido at my back. “I’m sorry,” the waiter said. “This
ristorante
is for gentlemen only.”

“I need to see Mr. Babocci immediately. Police business. Tell him Detective Chalice is here to see him.”

The waiter seemed to panic. “Oh my God. Please wait right here. I’ll get him.” He turned and walked through the swinging kitchen door.

Babocci walked out within a minute. He pulled on his jacket as he crossed the restaurant floor. He gestured to the door. “Outside, detectives  . . . please.” These old Italians take their traditions very seriously. It wouldn’t surprise me if Babocci had a priest come over to exorcise the place after I was gone. We followed him outside and away from the restaurant. We were standing in front of the dry cleaning store next door. “Is this about Nick?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid that Nick’s taken a turn for the worse. He’s back in the hospital, but that’s not why we’re here.”

“Then what?” he said impatiently. “Can’t you see that I’ve got a business to run?”

I ran a check on Babocci’s son on the ride over from the hospital and learned that his son Tommaso had been released from the army on a medical discharge. “We have reason to believe that your son Tommaso may have had a personal relationship with Michael Tillerman. We need to speak with him immediately.”

Babocci’s eyes filled with rage. “What? Are you kidding me? You think my son Tom knows this animal? That’s fucking ridiculous. He was out with me trying to find Tillerman the other night.
Madonna
,” he swore and bit his clenched fist in anger. “Why if you didn’t know Nick, I’d—”

Gus
stepped between us. “I’m Detective Lido and you’d what?” he yelled. “Where the fuck do you get off talking to a police officer like that?”
Gus
was just being protective—okay, overly protective—but you could understand his reason.

“Is he inside, Giacomo? I need to talk with him now.”

Babocci was hot enough to explode. His chest was heaving, and his face was blood red. “No. He’s not here.” It took him a second before he offered more information. “Follow me. He’s probably home.” He walked back to the café and whispered to one of the waiters. He didn’t look at us as he crossed the boulevard and got into his car.

Babocci
drove his Cadillac as if it were stolen. We followed him as he flew down one street after another, through stop signs and red lights. I guess he figured the police escort gave him carte blanche to break every traffic law on the books—I was certain that he would wear out a set of tires by the time he arrived home.

“Thanks for having my back, Gus.” I smiled at him. “I guess that you didn’t like him roughing up the mother of your child.”

Gus
shook his head. “I understand the guy is old school, but he showed a total lack of respect. You didn’t accuse his son of child molesting. I think it was pretty clear. We need to speak to his kid because he might have information that will help us to apprehend a coldblooded murderer.”