Fifteen

The driver rolls past The Russian Tea House and I notice the place is packed. From the few tables I can see through the lace-draped windows, most of the clientele appear to be older gentlemen with a penchant for moustaches, tailored finery, and escorting much, much younger women.

“Father-daughter night at the tea house?” I ask the driver, who introduced himself as Detective Russell Shaw. Before getting in the car, I asked to see his badge just to make sure it wasn’t made of cardboard and crayon.

Dixie’s Tips #15: Just because a police officer looks like a high school hall monitor doesn’t mean that we ladies are getting older. Men use moisturizer now, too. We’re still young and gorgeous.

Shaw smiles. “I had to observe that place for three weeks last year. Every night is like that except Thursdays.”

“What happens on Thursdays?” I ask, intrigued.

“The same men come, but with their wives. There are so many mink shawls and coats that I kept worrying some PETA fanatics would show up with buckets of red paint.”

I picture it in my mind. Scantily clad vegans throwing fake blood over spouses of the Russian mob. It wouldn’t be any animal’s skin they’d have to worry about after that.

We turn left at the next intersection and head down a few blocks to where the neighborhood starts to shed some of its old-world charm in favor of modern survival. Shaw pulls to the curb and points to a nearby alley.

“Detective Sergeant Fury’s down there,” he says.

I look around at the absence of streetlights and police activity, the bars and metal shutters on the store windows, and the unnerving stillness of it all. It’s like everyone is huddled indoors in expectance of a storm. Had I missed the weather warning?

“This isn’t a crime scene?” I ask, figuring that’s the usual reason Frank calls me after the sun goes down.

“It is, but the sergeant wants it kept low-key for now.”

I study the deserted street and the yawning mouth of the dark alley. After the day I’ve had, I’m not in the mood for any more surprises.

“Er—not to sound too girly, but are you planning to escort me down there?”

Shaw flashes a smile and his teeth are like bleached corn nibblets on a summer’s day. I wonder if he tastes of salt and butter, but then quickly blink the thought away. He must be ten years my junior. But then again …

“It wouldn’t be gentlemanly not to,” he says.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

I climb out of the car and breathe in the night air. Somebody’s boiling cabbage or old socks nearby, and a neighbor has burned a frying pan of ground beef and onions. The air also carries the scent of fresh rain and soggy garbage left too long between pickups.

It makes me think it’s been too long since I left the city and went for a walk in old-growth forest where the oxygen is so thick you can almost slice off a piece and slip it into your pocket for later.

I make a mental note to do something about that soon.

“This way, Ms. Flynn,” says Shaw.

He’s slipped on a blue rain jacket with SFPD printed in yellow on the back. For some reason, the jacket makes me feel better.

I follow him into the alley.

Halfway down the brick-sided and puddle-strewn corridor, Frank is standing over a blue tarp that’s being lit by two battery-operated lights on aluminum tripods. His car blocks the far end of the alley and several long strands of crime scene tape are strewn on the ground.

I point at the discarded yellow tape. “Trying to stop the cockroaches from gawking?”

Frank’s lips twitch. “Just the media,” he says.

“Most of us stand erect now,” I say. “Evolution.”

“Hmmm. Who knew?”

“Guess the tape didn’t stick,” says Shaw. “Sorry, sir. I’ll fix that.”

“String it at each end,” says Frank. “Coroner’s on her way over. Make it look nice and official.”

I smile as I glide over to stand beside him. “I’m surprised Ruth’s not already here,” I say. “Tittle tattle says you’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

“Never listen to gossip.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t, but this was pillow talk.” I grin wickedly as Frank’s eyebrows arch upward. “My pillow,” I say teasingly, before adding, “but I was talking to myself.”

Frank’s lips practically do a rumba as he shakes his head. “We enjoy each other’s company,” he admits, “but we also need our own space. She’s still Audrey Hepburn, while I prefer John Wayne.”

“Now there’s a surprise.”

Frank snorts and nods toward the tarp. “Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?”

“For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“I want to see if you know him.”

The smile leaves my face as I read the seriousness in Frank’s. This isn’t about tipping me off to a story.

Bending down, I take a deep breath and reach for the corner of the tarp.

“Prepare yourself,” says Frank. “It ain’t nowhere near pretty.”

I’ve developed a fairly strong stomach from covering grizzly crime scenes over the last decade or so. Admittedly, the first few haunted my dreams—especially the burnings and the smell, each stage of decomposition so different—but over time even olfactory memory can fade.

I lift the tarp and make a noise halfway between a squeal and a gasp.

“Jeez, Frank, what the hell is that?”

“Look at his wrists.”

I lift the tarp higher and look down at the body’s wrists. His arms end in bloody stumps. I return to the deformed head and see that what I first thought was some kind of alien sea creature bursting out of his stretched mouth is actually both of his hands, bound together with twine and stuffed, wrist first, down his throat. Bloodless blue fingers crawl out of his mouth, while the force needed to lodge them there has broken and distended the man’s jaw.

“He was holding this in his fingers.”

I drop the tarp and turn to see Frank holding a plastic evidence bag containing one of my business cards. Disturbingly, a circular burn has removed most of the picture of my face.

“He was really holding that?” I ask.

“It was sticking out between his fingers. We were meant to see it.”

“And the body was here?” I ask. “Just lying in the open? Not stuffed in a dumpster or anything?”

Franks nods.

“How did you discover it?” I ask.

“Anonymous tip.”

“Convenient.”

“Do you know him?” Franks asks.

Despite my repulsion, I lift the tarp again to exam the body in more detail. Even in its altered state, it’s not an easy face to forget. And if I look past the crisscross of scars and melted lip, the stench of rot wafting from his black fingertips is a dead giveaway.

“How do you know him?” Frank asks, reading my body language.

“He tried to kill me.”

“What?” Frank’s voice is tight, angry. “When?”

“This afternoon,” I say. “After … ” I pause and wince.

“After you went to meet Krasnyi Lebed?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I know you told me not to, but—”

“Start from the beginning,” Frank growls.

“But just so we’re clear: you know I didn’t do this, right?”

Frank’s eyes crinkle. “It doesn’t fit your usual MO.”

“Maybe we could go for a drink,” I say as a shiver runs through me. “The Dog House or—”

“I need to wait for Ruth. Tell me here.”

I stand and wrap my arms across my chest in a self-comforting hug. The night is colder than I’m dressed for, and I suddenly feel so incredibly tired. I wish I smoked cigarettes just for something to do with my hands.

“You don’t have a cigar do you?” I ask.

Occasionally, Frank and I smoke a cigar while strolling homeward after a late evening of beers and bullshit at the Dog House. Frank introduced me to this brand from the Dominican Republic called Macanudo Maduro that is dark leafed, wet, and smooth with subtle caramel undertones.

No wonder I have trouble getting a date.

“Quit stallin’,” says Frank.

I sigh and tell him the whole story, ending with the Good Samaritan who came to my rescue by cracking the Russian’s skull with a piece of lumber. I pull my collar to one side to show him the bruising.

“These marks will match his fingers,” I say.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I know, but I was just relieved to get away. Who knew he’d end up dead in an alley?”

“And the guy who stepped in to help you?”

“Took off before I did. I have no idea who he was.”

“Cutting off the hands is a message,” says Frank. “I’m just not sure who it’s directed at.”

“But whoever killed him wanted me to know about it?” I say. “That’s why he left my card.”

“Yeah, but if the message is meant to let you know that this guy won’t be laying his hands on anyone else, then why burn your face off the card?”

I wince. “That is unsettling.”

“It could be both an apology and a warning in one, but I’ve never seen the like.”

The young detective returns from stringing a line of tape across both entrances to the alley and says, “Coroner just pulled up.”

Frank tilts his chin toward me. “You need Ruth to take a look at those bruises?”

I shake off the suggestion. “I’m fine. Nothing a bath and a good mattress can’t fix.”

“Go home, then. I’ll be in touch when I know more. And if you think of anything else—”

“I’ll call. Promise.”

“You better.” He turns to Shaw. “Take her home and then come straight back. It’s time to get this circus started.”