"But he's leaving you something," Kelly said, "and that's why you don't walk out."
Chloe, smoking, nodding, said, "He won't tell me what it is, but I think it's a life insurance policy, like one that he's had for years and recently made me the beneficiary? Otherwise, if he just took it out at his age, they'd turn him down."
"You think it's a lot of money."
"Well sure. He said get a good financial adviser and I could be set for life. I'm thinking it's for around five mil, if it's like enough to retire on."
"He has the policy?"
"He doesn't want Tony Jr. to know about it. He might've been the beneficiary originally-if that's what it is, insurance. But what else could it be?"
"Where's the policy?"
"In a bank deposit box."
"You have the key?"
"The box is in Montez Taylor's name."
"The guy," Kelly said, "who looks like a pimp in a business suit? You trust him?"
"What's in the box is mine, not his. Tony dies, Montez will see that I get whatever it is. Why're you making a face? Tony trusts him. He says Montez is like a son to him, even if he is colored. Tony hasn't caught up yet with being politically correct. Montez is a cool guy, mid-thirties, nice-looking. He takes Tony everywhere, all the U of M games, ten years he's been doing it. Tony says he's leaving Montez the house, since none of his kids want to live in Detroit. It's in Indian Village off Jefferson, not far from here."
"Is it worth much?"
"I'm not sure. If it was in Bloomfield Hills it would go for a couple of million, easy."
"He has servants?"
"Maids come in but they don't stay. I mentioned the houseman, Lloyd? He's not as old as Tony but he's up there. Lloyd looks like a cross between Uncle Ben on the rice box and Redd Foxx. He'll say goodnight and Tony'll call to him as he's leaving the room, 'I'm gonna get laid tonight, Lloyd.' And Lloyd goes, 'Be careful you don't hurt yourself, Mr. Paradise.'"
"Do you call him that, Mr. Paradise?"
"When I'm sucking up. Montez and Lloyd've been calling him Mr. Paradise forever. The old guy loves it."
"Can he: you know, perform?"
"Once in a while he seems to get off. His specialty is muff diving." Chloe slipped off her sunglasses as she looked at her friend the catalog model, hope in Chloe's blue eyes. "I've mentioned you to Tony. I mean that you're fun, you're smart, you're interesting-"
"Trustworthy, loyal."
"Good to your dad."
"I'll tell you what," Kelly said. "If you can put off the cheerleading till tomorrow night, and if I don't have to do it topless :"
They drove out 94 toward Detroit Metro, snow swirling in the Jetta's headlights, Kelly keeping it close to sixty, anxious to get her dad on his flight; her dad enjoying the ride, talkative, a fifth of vodka in his carry-on; her dad wearing a nylon jacket, a straw hat and sunglasses, nine o'clock at night, snowing in April, the dude barber from West Palm who drank and chased women, now wanting to know why he wasn't introduced to Chloe, and Kelly saying she wasn't around.
"What's she do?"
"Takes care of an old man."
"That don't pay. How's she afford to live with you, even going halves?"
Kelly was tired of being the nice daughter who lived with her nice friend.
"It's hers. She paid four hundred thousand for it, cash."
"Jesus, her daddy leave her money?"
"She earned it. She was an escort."
"A what?"
"A call girl. She started at four-fifty an hour, was featured in Playboy and her rate jumped to nine hundred."
"For one hour?"
"Plus tip. Three grand for all night, and she gave it up to entertain the old man."
"Jesus Christ," her dad said, with maybe ten bucks in his jeans from the six hundred she'd given him, "and you didn't introduce me?"
2
Delsa got the call from Richard Harris at home, six in the morning, barely light out, Delsa in his skivvies and a wool sweater, cold in the house, waiting for the coffee to perk. Harris said the firemen had to secure the place before anybody could go inside. Mostly smoke and water damage, windows broken.
Delsa said, "Who's dead?"
"Three guys in the basement we saw through the window. You go in this pen around back, all mud and dog shit. A pit bull in there's shaking he's so scared. A pit bull. There's a dog treadmill in the living room, a big-screen TV, PlayStation, X-Box, coloring book and crayons, and this rig called a Love Swing, still in the box. You know what I'm talking about?"
"I've heard of it," Delsa said.
"I'll bring the instructions, show how it works."
"Just the three guys in the house?"
"Yeah, but they don't live here. It's an old duplex two blocks west of Tiger Stadium, an empty building on the corner and then this house. The woman in the other half is Rosella Munson, thirty-four, medium dark, chunky. She says the guy rents the burnt-out flat goes by the name Orlando. Mid-twenties, slim, light shade, wears his hair in rows. Lives here with his girlfriend Tenisha."
"Kids?"
"No, but Rosella's got three, none over seven years old. She called the fire department around four A.M. and got her kids out. Now she's back in there packing to move."
"The guys in the basement," Delsa said, "what are they?"
"I thought at first they brothers. See, the fire was started down there, so parts of 'em are burnt good, other parts just blistered. You know, like the skin's peeling? But they got tats on 'em make 'em Mexican, some southwest gang. I asked Rosella did she see them. No, she minds her business, but let me know this Orlando sells weed. Meaning what we could have here's a busted deal."
It didn't sound right. Delsa took time to pour a cup of coffee. "They were shot?"
"Stripped and popped in the back of the head, all three. But one of 'em had a chain saw taken to him, the chain saw still in the basement, scorched but brand-new, the box sitting there. The tech says there's human tissue in the teeth of the saw. No shit. Cut a man into five pieces, I imagine so. But why didn't they finish the job, do the other two?"
Delsa said, "Would you want to? You're covered with the guy's blood? I think after doing the one somebody said fuck it. But was it Orlando? He's selling weed, or he's buying from his source. There's a disagreement. He takes the three guys down to the basement-by himself? Makes them strip, shoots them and then sets his own house on fire. What's wrong with that?"
"I see what you mean," Harris said.
"Get next to the neighbor," Delsa said, "Rosella Munson. Get her to tell you about the girlfriend, Tenisha. Maybe they like to have coffee. Maybe Tenisha had the kids over to play video games and color-you say there's a coloring book. Richard, get us Tenisha quick as you can."
"Hold on," Harris said. He was back in less than a minute saying, "Two guys from Six just arrived and Manny Reyes from Violent Crimes."
"Manny might be able to I.D. the three guys," Delsa said. "What've you got for time of death?"
Harris said, "The three panchos, late last night, they're in and out of rigor, removal service is on the way. Frank, the M.E. death investigator-was Val Trabucci-took his pictures and then laid the dismembered guy back together. I said, 'What you doing that for?' Val goes, 'Make sure the parts match.' Hey shit, huh?"
Frank Delsa, thirty-eight, acting lieutenant of Squad Seven, Homicide Section, Detroit Police Department, had been living by himself in this house on the far east side since his wife's death: now almost a year alone after nine years with Maureen, no children, Maureen herself with the Detroit Police, lieutenant in charge of the Sex Crimes unit. Married nine years when they decided they'd better start a family if they were going to have one, Maureen, already forty, three years older than Frank, went to see her doctor and was told she had cancer of the uterus. The hardest time for Frank was coming home, walking into the silence of the house.