Jack Paris’s past. He has borne witness to too much inhumanity to bank on a benevolent God these days.
Just as Paris is about to try and reconcile all of this with his strict Catholic upbringing for the millionth time, a shadow darkens his table.
It is Jeremiah Cross.
Again.
Behind Cross stands a woman-a brunette with a long, swanlike neck, round oversized sunglasses, short black jacket. Paris sees her only in profile for a moment before she proceeds to the register to pay the check. Cross, wearing a dark overcoat and paisley silk scarf, approaches. “We meet again, detective.”
“Lucky us,” Paris replies.
Cross deliberately puts on his leather gloves, stalling, clearly as misdirection, as prelude to something. After the ritual, he says, “I was wondering if you were aware of the fact that the Geauga County prosecutor’s office is looking into new evidence regarding the Sarah Weiss so-called suicide.”
Paris sips his coffee. “Well, as you know, counselor, Cleveland is in Cuyahoga County. I’m not at all certain why this would concern me.”
“It seems there may have been a second car on the hill where Sarah Weiss burned to death that night.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. A little yellow car. You don’t drive a little yellow car, do you, detective?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You?”
“No,” Cross replies. “I drive a black Lexus, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m stunned.”
Cross takes a step forward. “But it gets one to thinking, you know?”
“Thinking, too?” Paris asks. “Thinking’s extra in your line of work, isn’t it?”
Cross ignores the shot, places his hands, knuckles down, on Paris’s table. One glance from Paris apparently makes him rethink and withdraw.
“Consider this scenario,” Cross begins, lowering his voice. “A veteran cop eats a bullet doing a dirty deal. The innocent woman the cops try to hang the murder on is acquitted. A year and a half or so pass, the press and public move on. But not the cops. One Friday night, a couple of the boys from the unit start slamming the Buds back at the Caprice, then the Wild Turkey. Around midnight they decide to take a drive out to Russell Township-off a street called Hemlock Point no less-and pay back the woman who dusted their pal. What do you think?”
“I think it’d make a great movie of the week,” Paris says. “I’m seeing Judd Nelson in your part.”
“It is a compelling story, isn’t it?”
“I see it a little differently.”
“How’s that?”
“I see a peacock defense attorney who falls hard for his sexy client, gets her off by smearing the victim. After the trial, the sexy client rebuffs the advances of this perfumed rustic and, on the aforementioned Friday night, he downs a bottle of absinthe or Campari or aquavit or whatever perfumed rustics drink these days, drives out to Russell Township, flicks his Bic, et cetera, et cetera. Compelling, yes?”
Jeremiah Cross stares at Paris, trumped for the moment, then notices that Paris has begun to tap his coffee spoon on something sitting on the table. A police-issue handcuff case. Cross smiles, holding up his hands, wrists together, arrestee-style, revealing a gold Patek Philippe watch, white French cuffs. “I never mix stainless steel and gold, myself, detective.” He turns to leave, stops, adds: “Only a rustic would do that.”
With this, Cross lingers for the proper amount of time, exchanging resolve with Paris, then heads to the door. Without a final glance, he and the woman exit.
It takes Paris a few moments to return his blood pressure to normal. Why does this guy bug the shit out of him? But he knows the answer to that, a basic premise that has driven him for years. The belief-the conviction-that you do not have to destroy someone’s family to exact justice.
Jeremiah Cross had all but destroyed Michael Ryan’s family.
Paris tries to return to the information on Santeria but finds his mind drifting to a hill in Russell Township, to the image of a burning automobile carcass lighting the night sky. His cop-mind now adds a small yellow car to the scene-lights off, engine humming, two unseen eyes behind a dark windshield, watching the manic ballet of red and orange flames, the thick black smoke curling skyward.
Before he can let the scene take hold of his mood, Paris sees Mercedes Cruz loping toward the back of the restaurant, smiling broadly, dressed, it appears, for arctic exploration.
“Good afternoon, Detective Paris,” she says brightly, removing her huge parka, ski vest, wool cardigan, scarf, gloves, muffler, earmuffs, and hat. Today, Paris notices, the barrette keeping her sweat-dampened hair to the side is a red reindeer. Her dress is blue denim, shapeless. Her glasses are completely fogged over.
“Good afternoon,” Paris says. He motions to the waitress.
Mercedes wipes her glasses with a napkin, looks at some of the material on the table. “Santeria, eh?” she asks, rolling the r perfectly. She slips into the booth, orders coffee, sunny-side-up eggs and cinnamon toast. She takes out her spiral notebook and pen. “What is your interest in Santeria?”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record,” Mercedes repeats, hand over heart. She drops her pen into her bag.
Paris studies her earnest face for a few moments. He couldn’t give her too many details of the investigation into Willis Walker’s murder but decides he will trust her about the record. “It may be involved in a homicide I’m working on.”
“I see.”
“Are you a… um…”
“Am I a follower?”
“Okay. Are you?” Paris asks.
Mercedes laughs. “No, far from it. I’m a Catholic girl, detective. Twelve years of nuns at St. Augustine’s, four more with the Jesuits at Marquette. Skirts an inch from the floor when kneeling, confession every Saturday, communion every Sunday.”
Paris smiles with the recollection of his own youth and the dreaded confessional. Father O’Hern and his booming baritone, bellowing Paris’s sins for half the church to hear. “Catholic Youth Organization, too?”
“Oh yeah. I was the talent coordinator for CYO dances for three years. Got the Raspberries once.”
“Impressive.”
Mercedes’s food arrives. She begins a ritual of making two half-sandwiches of the cinnamon toast and eggs- including a carefully placed dollop of ketchup on each slice-then meticulously stacking them on top of each other. A fried-egg-ketchup-and-cinnamon club sandwich, Paris thinks. That’s a new one. She tucks into the drippy yellow- and-red concoction like a long-haul trucker after a three-day speed run.
“Anyway,” Mercedes continues, wiping her lips, “with that resume, I guess I’m about as far from a santero as a gal can be, eh?”
A santero, Paris had learned no more than a few minutes earlier, is a type of Santerian priest. “I’d say so.”
“But I do know that there is a popular botanica on Fulton Road,” Mercedes says. “Right near St. Rocco’s.”
“A botanica?”
“A botanica is a place to buy charms, herbs, potions. Most of the items are for followers of Santeria, but sometimes I think they get-how shall I say-more diverse requests for materials.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not really sure. Like I said, I still carry a St. Christopher medal, okay? That’s how Catholic I am. I have a few friends in the old neighborhood who dabble in Santeria. What I’ve told you is about all I know about it.”
“Have you ever heard of Palo Mayombe?”
“No. Sorry.”
Paris thinks for a moment. “So, if somebody was into the darker ends of Santeria, they might frequent this botanica?”
“Or one like it. Like Catholicism, Santeria is full of ceremony. Ceremony needs props. There’s always an ad or two for botanicas in my newspaper.”
Mercedes rummages in her bag, produces a copy of Mondo Latino. She opens it to the center, then taps a
