The Embalmer: A Steve Jobz Thriller Read online

“A trout.”

  “Yes, but it could also be a sucker, and therein lies the lesson.”

  “Explain, fly fishing philosopher.”

  I say, “I personally think we struck pay dirt. That our man was employed there.”

  “Could be Nardillo was hiding the truth.”

  “Or,” I say, “could be Nardillo had no real idea that the killer had been within his midst. Could be he never thought about it until today. Or he never put two and two together, even if he does read the papers.”

  “Maybe his goon, Walter, reads the papers for him while he has his nails and toes attended to and trades stocks with the money he makes on the disposal of dead people.”

  “You really think Walter can read?”

  We drive some more.

  “Still,” Miller says out the corner of his mouth, “Awfully strange set up those guys have over there. Funeral parlor that does a high-volume business. A director who’s more concerned with stock quotes than grieving clients. And a powerful goon by his side at all times. Like he requires protection.”

  “From whom?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “So, how do we proceed, Miller?” I say. “We break into the funeral parlor after sundown. Pull the records. Make certain we’re not being suckered?”

  “No break-ins,” he insists. “That will cost us the case if we ever find this son of a bitch and it goes to trial.”

  “Court order to search the premises?”

  “Wow, Jobz,” he says. “You really have been watching a lot of Rockford Files repeats.”

  “I have no life if you’ll recall.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, your thoughts are good ones. Just gotta grab a judge who will see things my way.”

  “Anyone in particular who’s on the take?”

  “They’re all on the take, one way or another. Remember that.”

  “Duly noted,” I say, tapping the side of my head with my index finger. “All judges, on the take.”

  It’s after five by the time Miller delivers me back to my fifty-year-old, fire engine red convertible Ford Mustang at the state offices campus in the Pine Hills district of Albany. The car is my pride and joy, even if it is a little rusted on the underside. 1960’s Ford Automotive engineers didn’t really intend for these hot little babies to do all that well in the great wintery and wet Northeast, building them, instead, to thrive in the sunshine of Malibu or Palm Beach, places like that. But I drive mine all summer long with the top down, and it makes me feel like I’m California dreaming, even if only for a few months out of the year.

  “Listen, Jobz,” Miller says as I open the door, slip out of the cruiser. “I’ll understand if you wanna call it a life on this policeman stuff. I was kinda hard on you today.”

  “Would you rather I give up? Thought you wanted me to help out. Give you a fresh perspective on the sicko perp and his motivation. We were on a roll by the end of the day with Nardillo and his sidekick, King Kong.”

  “We were, and I do,” he says, from behind the wheel. “Truly, I do. You’re the perfect combination cop and career employment specialist and employment insurance fraud expert. The kind of Renaissance man I need for thinking outside the box. But . . .”

  “But,” I repeat.

  “But, I don’t want to step on your boss’s toes. She’s the one paying you.”

  “We both work for the state,” I say. “Comes out of the same pocket, so to speak.”

  “I work for the city.”

  “Technicalities,” I add, scrunching my brow, pursing my lips.

  “Okay then,” he says. “I’ll pick you up in the morning at the docks. No reason to drive all the way out here.”

  “How do you know where I live?”

  “I’m a detective,” he says. “I know everything.”

  We exchange grins. Sardonic grins. I shut the door, and he pulls away.

  “Well, he can’t know everything,” I whisper to myself, as I approach my Mustang. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t want me around so much.”

  I have a few minutes before I’m supposed to meet Henry at the bar. I could spend that time gazing at my phone, or just sitting there thinking about the day. Or I could do the right thing and head out to see my mother.

  Good Steve: You know what you have to do, now go do it.

  Bad Steve: Go to Lanie’s Bar early, grab an extra drink or two before Henry shows up. You’ve earned it.

  With a heavy heart, I start the car, head out of the parking lot, set a course in my head for the Anne Lee Home.

  The Anne Lee Home was constructed more than one hundred years ago. It was originally intended to house the widows of dead Civil War vets, but today it houses both men and women. Mostly old people who can no longer take care of themselves, but it also houses more than its fair share of infirmed individuals, of which my mother is one. Now that she’s entered into her eighties, I guess that means she qualifies as elderly also, but she hasn’t been right since two meth-crazed thugs broke into my parent’s Pine Hills house one summer night back when I was still in college and attacked them in their bed while they slept.

  Dad died from stab wounds, and my mother nearly died but recovered. Trust me when I say she’s regretted every minute of that recovery. She and my dad were close, and she could never forgive herself for surviving the attack when he had no choice but to die. She literally drove herself insane with grief and regret. Didn’t matter that dad’s murder wasn’t her fault. What mattered was that she got to live and he didn’t.

  I head down a corridor that’s tiled on both sides and dimly lit. The air smells gamey and sick, and if not for a son needing to see his mother, I would about-face and get the hell out as quickly as my feet would take me.

  When I come to a nurse’s desk set at the end of the corridor, I show my identification and sign in. The double wood doors unlock, and I’m allowed to enter into the general population portion of the facility.

  I find my mother sitting on the side of her bed, staring out the window onto the bright late afternoon. She’s dressed in her robe and pajamas, and her gray hair is pulled back tightly in a ponytail. As I slowly step across the linoleum floor, I glance at the simple room. At the single bed, the bed stand beside it that contains a picture of my mom and dad in happier times. In the picture, they’re seated at a bar in a nightclub in Las Vegas. They are middle-aged and sharply dressed in black tie and evening gown. Their smiles illustrate just how happy two people can be in a marriage that’s lasted for decades. My own marriage didn’t last a half-dozen years, and half of those were in a state of siege whereby I slept off my hangovers on the couch and my wife, if she came home at all, slept in the marriage bed all alone.

  There’s a dresser of drawers on my right, and above that, a crucifix is nailed to the wall. I recognize it as the same one that hung on the wall above my parent’s bed in their bedroom. For some reason, my mother saw fit to have it placed in a spot where she could see it before she closed her eyes every night and when she woke up in the morning and opened them back up.

  I step around the bed.

  “Beautiful day, Mom,” I say, seating myself gently beside her.

  It takes her moment, but eventually, she turns, glances at me.

  “He’s late,” she says, refocusing her attention on the scene going on outside the window. Old people walking the grounds, eating up what’s left of their clocks before the earth reclaims their bodies and Heaven their souls.

  “Who’s late, Mom?” I say. “No one’s late for anything.”

  “The driver who’s supposed to take me to the airport. He said he’d be here by now. I’m going to miss my flight.” Then, turning to me quickly. “Hey, are you my driver? Where the hell you been? You know how long it takes to get to JFK? It can take hours if there’s traffic, and there’s always traffic.”

  I place my hand on her hand. It feels like a twig covered with old skin.

  “I’m not your driver, Mom. I’m your son, Steve.”

  Sh
e looks at me strangely, like she always does whenever I tell her who I am.

  “Steve,” she says. “I knew a Steve once. Used to work for my husband at the plastic’s plant. He was a funny man. Short. Really short. Liked his beer. Talked your ear off. Nice though. Nice family. I wonder whatever happened to him. Maybe I should call him.”

  I look at my watch.

  “Have you had your dinner yet, Mom?” I ask. “Do you want me to take you to the cafeteria?”

  “I’m not eating here,” she says like I’ve insulted her intelligence. “They poison people here. Besides, I’ll have my dinner on the plane. It’s a long flight to Italy.” She smiles suddenly. “But my, oh my, they have the loveliest meals in first class. Champagne too. I just love flying Alitalia.” Her smile dissolving. “Say, you don’t have a watch on you, do you?”

  I nod, tell her the time.

  She bites down on her bottom lip.

  “Now where is that driver? We’re going to miss my flight.” Then, patting the mattress with both her hands. “And where did my cigarettes go? Did you take my cigarette, Mister? What’s your name again?”

  “It’s Steve, Mom,” I say. “And you don’t smoke anymore. Remember?”

  But it’s a stupid question. Even from me. I get up from the bed, place my hand on her shoulder, kiss her on the cheek.

  “I’ve got to go now, Mom,” I lie. “I’ll try and come back tomorrow.”

  “Will you buy me some cigarettes?” she says. “I want to bring them with me to the airport.”

  “Sure thing, Mom. I’ll grab you a pack of smokes for the ride.”

  Turning, I head out into the corridor and make my way back through the security doors.

  Bad Steve: You’ve done your duty for the month, pal. You don’t have to come back for a while now. She hasn’t got a clue who you are anyway.

  Good Steve: That’s a start. Make sure you’re good to your word and come back tomorrow. She might not show it, but Mom loves it when you visit her.

  “Kiss my ass, Good Steve,” I whisper, as I throw open the facility doors, make my way back out to my car.

  Minutes later I’m trying to be heard over the din of a crowded happy hour bar.

  “I swear to God, Henry, he treats me like he’s my long-lost father. Or big brother anyway.”

  I’m elbowed up to Lanie’s horseshoe-shaped bar with my boss at the Insurance Fraud Agency. She’s drinking a strawberry daiquiri that’s topped with Ready Whip, and I’m drinking beer out of a bottle. It’s hot and steamy out, and the beer is cold and going down nicely. Or maybe it tastes so good because of the day I’ve had being around all that death.

  She leans into her drink, wraps her thick, luscious, red-lipstick-painted lips around the straw and sucks up a decent amount of daiquiri. When she releases the straw, she gives me a look with her big brown wide eyes. She might possess a full-sized booty, but to her credit, Henry can be really sexy.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Jobz,” she swears. “You best get that one-track mind of yours out of the gutter.”

  “Hey,” I say, “I can’t help it if God blessed you with perfect lips for sucking . . . the umm, straw on a frozen daiquiri.”

  She smiles, the rum beginning to do its trick on her nervous system.

  “The good Lord did bless me, didn’t he? Too bad you ain’t my current and present boyfriend. Not that I’m interested in a current and present boyfriend.”

  I drink some beer.

  “So, you were saying,” she goes on. “You telling me this Detective Miller wants to keep you on the job for another day?”

  “It’s like I said. He’s trying to teach me things, and in turn, he tells me I’m assisting him in learning what might motivate the killer.” In my head, I’m seeing the photos of Miller and his wife hanging on his office wall. “He’s lonely, I think. A lonely cop.”

  “And if you find out what’s motivating the killer, you might be able to narrow down his identity.” It’s a question.

  “I guess that’s the logic behind it. Right now, it could be any one of a thousand men—or women mind you—who have been let go from their mortician jobs in New York State and who are now collecting unemployment or have collected within recent months.” Another drink of beer. “Correction, we might have, in fact, narrowed the search down to one man.”

  “So, which is it then, Jobz? You sitting on a thousand possibilities or just one?”

  I tell her quickly about our visit the Comer-Gannon commercial funeral parlor and the two mafia guys who run it.

  “So, this Nardillo guy looked to you like he knew something about the killer. Like he might have even employed him at one time.” Another question.

  “That’s what it looked like to me and Miller, judging by the guy’s expression. But in the end, he denied knowing anyone on the inside of his facility who fit that kind of a bill.”

  She looks at me with a blank stare that means her brain is calculating something.

  She says, “You know, I think it’s possible I knew someone at some point in my life who worked for that place. Or a place like it anyway.”

  “And?”

  Shakes her head.

  “Can’t remember. Could have been an old boyfriend.”

  “Lots of those.”

  “Watch your mouth, or I’ll spank you.”

  “Don’t get me all hot and bothered.”

  She squeezes my thigh.

  “So then,” she says, “I’m guessing it’s more than likely this fella, if the mortician murderer is actually a fella, lives in Albany. Or one of the surrounding cities. Troy, Cohoes, Schenectady. Etcetera.”

  “We look at it that way, which I guess we should, the list is narrowed by three-quarters, if not more. That is, we end up discounting Nardillo and his operation.”

  “So, what’s that cute Detective Miller’s theory thus far, and how close is he to finding the son of a bitch? The no bullshit assessment, Jobz.”

  “Not close, far as I can tell. But he’s closer now that he has my input and our records. Or so he tells me. I find it hard to believe a seasoned detective like him hasn’t been able to find the creep on his own. Especially when he has an idea of some important specifics. Like what kind of ride the guy uses, for instance.”

  “So,” she says, drinking more of the daiquiri. “What kind of ride does the sicko drive?”

  “Miller believes it’s a van. But not just any van. One of those cargo vans that’s got a taller than normal ceiling. Something an artist or even a wedding cake baker might use.”

  “So, the cake doesn’t get ruined in the process of transportation. Am I right?”

  “Correct, boss lady. You’re smart . . . for a girl.”

  “I truly am gonna smack you, Jobz.”

  “Oh baby, do your worst.”

  She raises her hand like she’s going to smack me upside the head. In the meantime, I drink some more beer.

  “What’s the theory so far? Or aren’t you allowed to speak of it in public, Mr. Cloak and Dagger?”

  “I can talk to my boss since you’re the one who’s lending me out to the APD.”

  The entrance door opens then, and a man enters. I recognize him right away. I work with him. It’s Herman, the guy who’s always showing me pictures of his online dating conquests. He’s wearing his light cream colored blazer and blue shirt, his doughy belly protruding against the button. Somebody is right on his tail. It’s Lu. If not for the Chinese eyes, Lu Chin would be the short version of Herman.

  “Don’t look now,” I say, under my breath. “It’s Herman and his trusty sidekick.”

  “Don’t look at them,” Henrietta Insists. “Maybe if we don’t look at them, they won’t see us. You know, like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.”

  I make out the sound of footsteps approaching us, and I know it’s too late. Herman and Lu have made us.

  “Why look who’s here,” he says, bright eyed.

  I give him one of those sweet-and-sour looks like I’m glad t
o see him, but not really.

  “Herman,” I say, “how’s it hanging?” Then, “Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “Herman and I have dates,” Lu says grinning. Lu’s voice is highly tuned for a man. He’s also kind of loud. It makes for an annoying combination.

  “You should try it sometime, Jobzy,” Herman adds. “You know, like dipping your stick once in a little while.”

  I just might kill him . . . right here . . . right on the spot.

  He smiles beneath his cancer mustache, his brown eyes wet and bloodshot, his receding hair disheveled.

  “I’m doing just fine, Herman,” I attest.

  “Henry,” Herman says, “thanks for the time off this afternoon. Needed to get some errands done that I’ve been putting off forever. Like a haircut for instance.” He pats the top of his head like he’s impressed with it.

  Henrietta nods.

  “Don’t mention it,” she says, her voice entirely devoid of enthusiasm. She immediately goes back to drinking her drink, so as not to engage in any further conversation. Can’t say I blame her.

  But Herman leans down so that his mouth is only an inch or two from my right ear. So close I can feel his warm, sour breath on my ear lobe.

  “I’ve got some new pics,” he whispers. “You wanna see them? Primo fucking trim, Jobzy. Primo . . . fucking . . . trim.”

  I shake my head, cock my head over the opposite shoulder so that it’s not pressed up against his mouth. God knows where it’s been.

  “Not now, Herm,” I say, wide-eyed. But what I want to say is, I’m sitting beside our boss, for Christ sakes. What are you thinking?

  But then the door opens again, and two women walk in. The first is a short brunette, a bit on the heavier side, but not put together all that badly. She’s wearing a dark, but light-weight, business suit and black high heels. The second is a skinny and equally short redhead.

  Herman stands up straight. Lu’s face turns visibly red. Like this is his first date ever.

  “I think our dates have arrived,” Herman says. Then, placing his pale hand on Lu’s shoulder. “Showtime has arrived, my Short Round Asian friend.”

  Both men approach the women like hungry wolves approaching little lambs. Herman speaks something to the chubby brunette. She smiles, holds out her hand for him, which he takes hold of. Lu says something to the skinny redhead, and together the two couples retreat to the far end of the bar, taking the four vacant stools on the corner.