Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (26 page)

“He’s not the first guy to get a little rough with me. I’m a big girl, you know.”

“Yeah, I know that you can handle yourself. It’s just—”

I smiled knowingly. “I know. It’s the baby. I’m going back behind a desk after this one’s over—just until the baby is born. I don’t like taking chances with the baby’s life and I don’t want to put you at additional risk because you’re worried about me.”

“Have you felt anymore kicking?”

I smiled and nodded. “Yup.” I had no qualms about remaining on active duty up until then, but everything changed when I felt that first kick. Lieutenant Shearson would get her way after all. I had Ma and Ricky, the most loving support system in the world, ready and waiting in the wings. I love my job and am determined to stay on the force until life or love dictates that I can’t do it anymore, but for the near-term I was going to maintain a low profile.

A text message from Ambler popped up on my cell phone.
News flash: we cross-referenced a list of the test trial meds stolen from Vicor with a list of patients on the same meds. You were right, Stephanie—Tillerman’s name popped up. He’s taking a powerful antidepressant called Repressor. We spoke with the psychiatrist who recommended him for the trial, and he said that Tillerman was severely depressed over the murder of his wife and two sons. He may be trying to bring his family back to life.

Babocci’s Cadillac screeched as it slowed down. It hit bottom as it bounced up the driveway. The door opened, and Babocci flew out. We were hot on his heels, behind him as he inserted the key into the door lock. I didn’t even have a second to tell
Gus
about Ambler’s message.

“Tommy, Tommy,” he yelled into the darkened house. He flipped on the light switch. “Tommy, you home?” He entered with determined steps. “I don’t think he’s here.” He turned and glared at us. “Do you have any idea what my kid has been through? He lost an arm and a leg defending his country, and my wife Angela died just before Christmas.”

I felt for Babocci and his son. Unfortunately there was a mass murderer on the loose, and we needed to do what we needed to do. “I wish there was another way, Giacomo, but there isn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Babocci said as he continued to walk through the house. “Like you really give a shit . . . Yo, Tommy, you here?” He opened the basement door. The three of us stood at the top of the basement staircase, looking down. “The basement is dark. He’s not home.”

“Can you give him a call on his cell phone?”
Gus
asked. “This is important.”

“Sure, what the hell,” Babocci said. He wandered toward the kitchen as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
Gus
and I waited by the basement stairs. Perhaps my senses were heightened because of the pregnancy, but I was pretty sure that I smelled the distinctive odor of formaldehyde coming from the basement. It was faint but not so faint as to be missed by a pregnant bloodhound cop.

Babocci returned a moment later. “I got his voicemail. I left him a message.”

“There’s an odd odor coming from the basement,” I said. “Do you mind if we take a look down there?”

Babocci’s eyes grew wild again. “My house smells? Holy shit! Are you kidding or what?” He sniffed the air. “He paints. You want to investigate his work? Are you some kind of art detective? Give me a break, will ya?”

“I just want to have a look around. It doesn’t smell like paint to me. It smells like formaldehyde. Can we have a look?”

“Can you have a look? No! My son’s work is very private. I’m the only one he lets down there. Painting is the only thing that makes him happy. You know what he’s got down there? He’s got paint and canvas, that’s what he’s got down there. There’s a carton of catheters down there too, because some Arab motherfucker shot off his penis and testicles after he rescued a family of Israelis. You want to see that too?”

I thought Babocci would have a stroke. “Please, Giacomo, try to settle down. I’m not trying to insult you.” The word Israelis resounded with me. All of Tillerman’s victim’s were likely Jewish. I wasn’t sure if there was a connection but the possibility of one made me push harder. “Please, Giacomo, it’s easier this way. Two minutes, and we’re in and out. You’re Nick’s friend. The last thing I want to do is call a judge for a search warrant.”

“Go!” he said with a furious hand gesture. “Don’t you dare touch his paintings. Nothing, understand?”

“We’ll respect his work,” Gus said.

I flipped on the lights and started down the stairs. Gus and Babocci followed me.

The basement was a large, cavernous room. Tom Babocci was a prolific painter. Completed canvases were hung on the basement walls and several were leaning against the base of the wall. The focal point of his work was a large glass painting of a weathered house standing at the water’s edge. “Your son is very talented, Giacomo. His work is beautiful.” Tom’s work was truly compelling. As I looked at the different canvases, I noticed that he painted in a variety of styles. I saw abstract human forms and landscapes—he seemed to have a very active imagination.

The odor of formaldehyde grew stronger as I approached the large glass painting. “Don’t go near that,” Babocci warned. “It’s glass.”

I’m pregnant, not clumsy!
The glass panel was set into a metal frame, which was affixed to support columns on either side. “It looks pretty sturdy to me.” I could see that Babocci was unhappy, but it didn’t keep me from taking a closer look. The colors in the painting were rich shades of blue and white that drew my interest. As I got closer, I could see that the paint had not been applied with brush strokes but rather by the application of small dots. The windows in the painted house looked incredibly natural. The window frames were dark blue. The windows themselves had a sparse application of blue pinpoints. The area behind the painting was pitch black. The glass itself was transparent, and it made the painted windows look like the windows of an actual darkened house.

“You’re too close,” Babocci called out, but I was completely drawn to the painting, by its colors and technique. I could not back away. As I stared at the windows, a thought popped into my head. I illuminated my searchlight and peered through one of the windows in the painting, as I would if I were looking through the window of a real house. I put my eye up to the glass and looked through it. The body of a massive man had been positioned on a sofa—There was only one person it could be. He was wearing a white cloak. Michael Tillerman’s angry, tormented mind had finally found peace . . . and he was seated with his family.

Thunder
boomed so loudly that the windows in my apartment rattled. It awoke me, and in those scant seconds between slumber and consciousness all the events of the past few hours flooded back into my mind. It was as if I were still in Babocci’s basement, holding my searchlight on the large painting, and peering through the window of the house that had been painted upon it. The body of Michael Tillerman had been positioned on the end of a sofa. Sitting next to him were the bodies of his wife Barbara and his two children Mark and Stephen. They had all been mummified.

The moments that followed the discovery were still excruciatingly vivid. Giacomo Babocci had insisted that he stay to watch the NYPD tactical team unbolt the large glass panel from where it had been affixed to the support columns of the foundation. He had been forced to endure the gruesome reality that a family had been murdered and deposited in the basement of his house. How long had the bodies been there? Who killed Tillerman’s wife and children? Who had killed Tillerman? At the moment, all fingers were pointed to Tom Babocci, the war hero who had rescued an Israeli family and lost his arm, leg, and manhood in the process. Was it any wonder he had lost his mind? The army had taken more than his limbs—it had taken his sanity. It had taken his life and any hope of having a normal future.

I could see Giacomo Babocci’s tortured and miserable face as if he were standing in front of me. I could see the tears running down his cheeks. I could see his red eyes and the painful reality he was unable to accept—his son was a murderer. His son was twisted. “How could I not know?” he said. “Tommy,” he cried. “How could you?” He listened to me make the phone calls to the FBI and police department. He listened when I gave the instructions to switch the manhunt from Michael Tillerman to his son. Babocci tried to reach his son on the phone but was unsuccessful with several attempts. Wherever Tom Babocci was, he did not want to be found.

It was about four in the morning. I had been asleep about ninety-minutes, about one complete cycle. I toyed with the idea of going back to sleep but knew better. My mind was racing, and my heart was beating quickly. I looked down at Gus. He was sound asleep. The phone rang. I grabbed my cell phone and sprang from the bed. I answered and pulled the bedroom door closed behind me so that I wouldn’t wake him. I recognized the name on the display. It was Toni Sonellio. The boss was either gone or just moments away from the end. “Hi, Toni,” I said apprehensively.

She said just two words, “Come now.”

It took a moment until the knot in my throat relaxed enough for me to speak. “We’ll be right there.” I sighed and walked back into the bedroom to wake Gus.

Toni
was asleep in the chair next to her husband’s bed when Gus and I arrived at the hospital. The boss was perfectly still in his hospital bed. The sound of his wheezing and the beat of the heart monitor told me that he was still alive. We tiptoed into the room. I knew that Toni was exhausted and wanted desperately not to disturb her, but she sensed our presence and woke up. We were in each other’s arms, crying and trying to share a little strength with each other. I could only remember hurting this badly when my father died. Toni looked at her husband. “I’m sure he knows that you’re here.”

“I know.”

“My daughters are on the way. I hope—” Her voice trailed off, smothered by emotion.

“It will be all right,” Gus said. He looked past her to me. His expression showed that he felt helpless. We were all helpless. Only God knew if he would hold on long enough to say goodbye to his children.

“Gus, why don’t you take Toni downstairs for some coffee. I’ll wait here.”

“I’m okay,” Toni said, but I could see that she was emotionally exhausted and needed to take a break.

I put my hand on her arm. “If I know the boss, he’ll tough it out until his daughters get here. I’ll call if you need to hurry back.”

“Are you sure?” Toni asked.

I nodded.

Gus put his arm around her waist. “Come on, Toni, Stephanie’s kicking us out.” He smiled at me sadly as he directed her out the door. He knew that there was more to my request than just giving Toni a short break—I needed a few minutes to say goodbye.

As I looked out the hospital window at the sobering morning sky, I wondered why God would allow this to happen. I was losing all of the great men in my life, one by one: first my dad and now Sonellio. He had always meant so much to me. He was like the uncle I never had, one of my father’s contemporaries, and a guiding force in my life.

I swallowed, hoping the pop in my ears would block out the monotonous beep of the heart monitor. It was early in the morning, so damn early, not quite six.
Too early to lose him
, I told myself.
Please give us the day, just one more day. I’m not ready.
I turned from the window to drink him in, perhaps for the last time, and hope for a miracle. His face was pale. Each breath was so tentative that I was uncertain another would follow.

I folded my arms over my belly as if to protect the new life within from the influence of death. “He’s a good man,” I whispered, “a really good man.” A few tears began to drizzle down my cheek.

The baby kicked.

“Don’t be upset, there’s nothing we can do.”

The baby kicked again as if to challenge me.

“Settle down.” I rubbed my belly in a soothing manner. “You’re just like your father, always looking for attention.”

God takes with one hand and gives back with the other, one life ebbing away and a new one about to arrive.
Anyone in my position would have entertained the same thought.

“What’s that you say, I’m being morose? You know you’re very precocious for a fetus.”

The baby kicked twice in rapid succession.

“Anyway, I’m sorry if I’m sad. I can’t help it. I love him a lot.”

I heard the floor creak. I was still a little on edge from the events that had just transpired. To say there were loose ends in our investigation was an understatement. A murderer was still at large. I usually have my emotions under control, but with all of my hormones whirling around like spirits in a cocktail shaker . . . I turned and looked through the doorway into the hospital corridor. All was quiet.

Sonellio moaned. His desperate sound drew my attention. I stroked his cheek. “Nothing to worry about, boss, everything will be all right.”

Thinking back, Sonellio had always been around. My father had worked for him when he was on the job. He had always been there for me after dad passed.

“Hey, stop kicking,” I scolded the baby playfully. “I’m going to miss him. I’m sorry.” He became my boss after I made the cut and became a detective. He was a good, salt-of-the-earth, church-going, Italian boy with great morals. But Sonellio had smoked heavily. It was a solitary chink in the armor of a noble man, a weakness that was going to put him into the ground. Lung cancer. It could have all been prevented. It was difficult to remember him as the healthy, younger man I had once known.
To see him now, so gaunt; you would never believe it was the same person.