My Brother's Keeper (14 page)

He lifted another paper from the top of the pile and that's when he saw it. The blue-steel barrel and the checkered wood grip and the iron sights resting harmlessly within that bed of old newspapers, and yet seemingly emblazoned with the glow of death as if it had just been pulled from the forge and left to cool. Sixteen ounces of cold steel. Unless it was in someone's hand, it was nothing but useless metal. But metal with a history and unless he was mistaken, he'd guess a long, violent history.

It was a thirty-eight, with a little rust around the hammer and the trigger worn to a smooth, silvery finish. Lou had seen plenty of guns in his day but this one was special. Not just because it was an old revolver and nobody carried revolvers anymore, but because of the way he'd found it. It was always special when you found them like that, when you weren't looking for them, when they're lying around in a drawer or in a woman's purse or on a shelf just waiting to be found. It was the kind of gun that made the ballistics boys' mouths water.

A car door slammed somewhere on the street behind him, followed by the sound of boots coming up the driveway, the uniformed officer inside of them yawning as he made his way toward the back of the house. Another rookie with a crew cut over a shiny white scalp and blue eyes that seemed to sparkle like two blue diamonds. He didn't seem surprised by Lou's presence. Mitch must have warned him.

‘This is a crime scene, Officer. You'll need to seal off this shed and the entire backyard. Franny Patterson is in there. She's the daughter of one police officer and the sister to another. So see if you can't expedite that ambulance. There's a gun in there as well and it might have been used in a murder. If you have any of that pretty yellow tape in your trunk, you may as well get it out. You're going to need it.'

The officer looked at him with that confused expression rookies get when they're asked a question whether they know the answer or not.

‘I'll radio Lieutenant Mitchell. Let him know the situation.'

‘You do that.' Lou took a few steps down the driveway and picked up the trash can lid with the severed finger on top of it. He carried it over to the officer like a waiter with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. ‘And when your boss gets here, give him this. It's evidence, lad. And if you can find the person who did this, they'll probably make you a captain. And if Mitch wants to take credit for it, let him. He'll owe you for the rest of his life.'

Lou left him standing there, looking down at the finger, at the purple skin and the ugly black vein and the jagged shard of bone protruding from its base like a root. The ambulance had arrived and Lou kissed Franny on the forehead as the techs loaded her in. He drove away knowing the neighbors' fears were allayed now that the police had arrived and they'd have a show to watch outside if they were still restless and they'd have enough gossip to last them a lifetime.

Lou drove the darkened city streets paying little attention to the road. Occasionally, one of his front wheels would smack into a pothole and the car would shake on its frame and Lou would grip the wheel a little harder. He fought against the dull throb of sleep behind his eyes. Even at one o'clock in the morning, with the temperature hovering around thirty degrees, people were still out on the street, men with their faces hidden under knit hats and fur-trimmed hoods and puffy-down coats. They seemed to shuffle in place, sliding from one foot to the other, their suede boots unlaced and doing a dance choreographed to keep their toes from going numb. The West Philly Shuffle, Joey used to call it.

They kept their hands in their pockets to keep that same numbness from gripping their fingers.

One was indistinguishable from the other in Lou's eyes, a generic brand of city life prone to dwelling in dark corners, sleeping in the day and coming out at night, brandishing a multitude of improvised weapons primarily designed to kill cops but which they more often used against themselves.

Lou didn't know how to react to these guys anymore, driving past them in the night, walking past them in the WAWA parking lot, smelling the smoke from their cigarettes, the bottles of cheap wine and the forty-ounce quarts of beer. He didn't know if he should meet their stares the way he did as a cop or look away, avoiding eye contact as he'd been doing lately. He felt like he had no other choice since he often had his daughter with him and had given up carrying a gun. He'd hoped that the cold would've kept them off the street but he'd given up on that idea long ago. Nothing kept them off the streets. And just as he had to be out there, so did they. It wouldn't have been the same city without them and he wouldn't have been the same man.

The light snow had stopped but the temperature was still dropping and the road ahead of him sparkled as if it were made of glass. The small car was buffeted by a sharp gust of wind. It made him wish he was still driving the old Thunderbird. That car would go through anything, never missed a beat. It was time to get it out of storage, he thought, out from under the tarp in Joey's garage and back on the road. To hell with the gas it burned and the exhaust fumes and the tinted windows. The car had balls and Lou had been feeling lately like he needed to get that back, a set of balls.

He let his thoughts wander to Franny Patterson, how he wished he'd found her sitting pretty in Haggerty's house in Torresdale, sipping tea with the mother-in-law she hated, both of them waiting for Brian to get home from the bar, wondering if he'd get home at all. Not that either of them cared all that much. Judging from what Joey said Brian Haggerty seemed to skate through life unscathed, even while tragedy struck all around him. He didn't give a shit about anyone and no one gave a shit about him. It was a hell of a way to live.

Everyone sort of assumed he'd hook up with one of his new young dancers, one who hadn't learned the ropes yet, who hadn't learned that after a few rounds in bed with Brian Haggerty she might not look quite so pretty anymore. The bruises on her arms would turn from red to blue to purple and to black and eventually disappear entirely but there would be no question about how they got there. And they could be put there again. She might even lose a tooth and if she was smarter than the average stripper, she'd take pictures and show them to Haggerty and make plenty of copies and convince him to buy her a new set of teeth and a pair of breasts to go with them.

But if she had that hint of desperation about her that was common in the trade or the smell of fear, she'd let Haggerty continue to beat the shit out of her, thinking it was a good career move, thinking she could get ahead in a business where there was no getting ahead. And soon enough she'd be working for some low-rent pimp in Kensington and spending her leisure time sucking on a crack pipe.

Franny Patterson up in the big house, he thought, but not anymore. And during her last days there she'd probably stopped caring what the hell Haggerty did or who he was with as long as it wasn't her shaking her tits up on that stage at the Arramingo Club. And now with her brother dead and her fighting for her life, Lou wondered if Franny Patterson still thought it was all worth it.

Lou twisted in the seat and reached for the cell phone on his belt. He held it at arm's length, scrolling through contacts as he jumped onto the ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway. The luminous screen glowed in his hand, a picture of Maggie on its face with her tongue sticking out and her glasses sliding down her nose. Lou had taken the picture himself. She'd been hugging an enormous purple gorilla with a big white belly, a stuffed animal he'd won for her that summer at the Allentown fair. He'd won it throwing baseballs while Maggie cheered in the background. The stand had advertised a full-size cardboard cutout of Steve Carlton in a Phillies uniform standing next to a table with five milk bottles stacked like a pyramid. But the milk bottles were made of thick plastic and they were filled with concrete and they were heavier than bowling pins. The three balls they'd given him were filled with sawdust. He threw them as if his life depended on it.

He put the phone against his ear and listened to it ring. An eighteen-wheeler roared past him, a garbage scowl carrying ten tons of municipal waste to a landfill in Jersey. When the roaring stopped Maggie's voice was on the line, the tremble still audible as she repeated his name.

‘Dad? Dad, is that you?'

‘Yeah, kid. It's me.'

‘Sounded like you were in an accident or something.'

‘One of those big trucks just about blew my doors off.'

‘I hate those trucks. I stay as far away from them as I can. I think those guys are half-asleep most of the time.'

‘They're just in a hurry to get where they're going.'

‘Aren't we all.'

‘How are you making out?'

‘Pretty good. I'm playing poker with Joey. He's letting me take his money.'

‘OK. Try to get some sleep. I'm going to be late.'

‘Joey wants to know if you found anything over at Jimmy's.' Lou could hear Joey reciting his list of questions in the background. ‘And did you get down to the Arramingo Club yet?'

‘Tell Joey I'll talk to him later.'

‘He heard ya.'

‘And I'll talk to you later, too.'

‘OK. Good night.'

‘Good night, kid.'

He snapped the phone shut and let it rest against his thigh. Another few trucks rumbled past, the trailer of the last one fishtailing over the broken white line as the road merged from four lanes into three. He passed the exit for the zoo and he could see the Art Museum lit up like a monument across the river. He passed the 30th Street Station and veered south, coming up on the right side of all those trucks hugging the guard rail in the left lane. The Philadelphia skyline looked ominous through his side window, everything dark except for the statue of William Penn standing guard in the spotlight atop City Hall, asleep at his post. Lou still had the phone against his leg when it began to vibrate.

‘What's up, Mitch?'

‘I got the little present you left me.'

‘Merry Christmas.'

‘Thanks. What the hell are you getting me into, Lou? A straight-up shooting, I can deal with. I don't like it but I can deal with it. But when body parts start showing up that's getting bizarre, even for me.'

‘It looks like the Pattersons pissed off the wrong person.'

‘Yeah, maybe. And maybe Jimmy was doing a favor for his little sister. And maybe you're doing a favor for her, too. You just better be careful.'

‘Careful is my middle name.'

‘The surgeons are going to have a field day with your girlfriend. That finger didn't just fall off.'

‘I figured as much.'

‘And I got a man going over that shed with a fine-tooth comb. We should know a lot more once he's done.'

‘This is a nasty business, Mitch. Something's not right. Jimmy was shot. Franny was stabbed. That finger looked like it was snipped off. It doesn't add up.'

‘Even killers need a little variety in their life.' Lou was quiet and Mitch went on. ‘Hey, listen, Lou. I'm already feeling the pressure from upstairs. I can't let this go on much longer. You know what I'm saying.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Every time some broad nicks herself shaving or takes off a piece of skin making a salad, the boys upstairs want to make it into a sex crime. What you got, though, is a crime of passion and considering the history of the Haggerty family in this town, the chief inspector will be salivating at the prospect of wrapping it up with one high-profile arrest. Am I making myself clear?'

‘Sounds like I don't have much time.'

‘Time for what?'

‘To find out the truth.'

‘Bullshit. You know how it works.'

‘Yeah. Another long night.'

‘They're all long nights, Lou.'

THIRTEEN

O
regon Avenue was a street that burned with activity and the later it got, the hotter it burned. Young people wandered from club to club, mingling on the street. Their voices mixed with traffic sounds, creating a hum like a swarm of bees. Jets circled overhead, waiting to land at the airport nearby. The night air always seemed charged from the friction of all those warm bodies bouncing off each other. Cars circled the block slowly, their polished skin gleaming under the street lights, reflecting the neon in streaks of bold color. And at the heart of all that warm circulating blood was the Arramingo Club.

It was small compared to some of the other clubs springing up on the waterfront. But there were still nights when they'd line up outside, waiting for hours sometimes. It wasn't just about size or location. It was about what was happening inside. It was about the girls. And Brian Haggerty knew how to pick 'em.

The Arramingo Club was a perfectly square building with white marble columns and white-washed concrete. Between the pillars were a series of shallow porticos cut into the concrete just above eye level. Inside the porticos, carved stone statues stood like sentries, life-size stone replicas of men and women, their perfect bodies angled to hide those parts that are best kept hidden. Their faces were chiseled and strong, their lips and chins and noses like Roman gods. But their eyes were blank, empty orbits of polished stone, staring blindly down from their pedestals at the mass of human traffic parading on the street before them.

The Arramingo Club hadn't always been on Oregon Avenue and it hadn't always been the jewel it was now. It hadn't always sat on the waterfront with a deck overlooking the harbor, where dinner was served by women in short black cocktail dresses and high-heeled shoes and sheer black stockings with a line crawling up the back of their legs. And the fare hadn't always included a view of ships floating slowly down the river, passenger ships and freighters sailing under the Burlington-Bristol Bridge, a drawbridge with its mouth agape like some medieval fortress. And it wasn't just food the clientele had an appetite for, then or now.