Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (8 page)

“You can’t be hungry again,” Gus said in disbelief.

“No,
you
can’t be hungry again, but as for your progeny and me, we’re starving.”

“You just wolfed down a huge breakfast.”

He was accurate—I had just polished off poached eggs and a short stack of pancakes. Be that as it may, mom and baby were not quite satisfied. “And your point is what?”

“You’re serious?”

“This detective doesn’t fool around when it comes to food. I’m going to buy a bag of nuts.” Gus looked dumbfounded as I walked toward the vendor’s cart. My conscience was saying, “You don’t need this,” but the fragrance of warm, sugary pralines was wafting through my nostrils and pulling me toward the cart. It was almost as if I was under a spell and did not possess free will . . . well, not enough free will for me to turn down the pralines. I walked back to Gus, pralines in hand. I held the bag under his nose. “Do you believe how good these smell?” I popped one into my mouth. “Oh, that’s heaven.”

“You’re going to give birth to a baby sumo wrestler.”

“A sumo, you say?” I popped another praline into my mouth and crunched down.
That is so good.
“I’ll love it just the same.” I held out the bag so that Gus could share in the feast. “Eat some, Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re our only hope. The more you eat, the less I can eat.”

“I don’t want to deprive the mother of my child.”

I glared at him. “Stop waffling, Gus—you want me to eat or you don’t want me to eat, which is it?”

“Enjoy yourself,” he chuckled. “We’re just a block from yesterday’s crime scene. Maybe a little case crime will keep your mind off your stomach.”

“It’s worth a shot. Lead on McDuff,” I said while I chewed on a mouthful of roasted goodness.

The autopsy of John Doe was still a work in progress. The body was still thawing, and thus, we were still waiting for the coroner’s report. Nonetheless, I wanted to canvas the area to see if anything might fall into place.

We were back at Kowsky Plaza in the spot where John Doe had been found. The area was still blocked off with police tape, but there were no officers present. All there was to see was the slab of concrete with the ridiculous painting from the Berlin Wall. The area did not have video surveillance cameras. I was hoping for a moment of inspiration, a flicker of genius that would give me some direction in the case.

All of a sudden, I felt something brush by my leg. I looked down and saw an adorable little dog. It was standing on its hind legs, wagging its tail, and staring at my bag of pralines. It was on one of those long retractable leashes. “And who is this?”

“Sorry, sorry.” A good-looking young man with a shaved head raced over to save us from the menacing dog at the end of the leash. “Sorry,” he repeated. “She must have smelled your nuts.”

Not a problem a woman usually encounters.
“No worries,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Pumpkin,” he said. He seemed kind of bashful.

I bent over to pet the dog. “Can I give her one?”

“Oh no, please don’t. Pumpkin has a sensitive stomach.” He reached into his pocket and took out a biscuit. “You can give her one of these if you like.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Pumpkin wasn’t the first dog I’d noticed in Kowsky Plaza. Kowsky Plaza housed a very cool dog run. I decided to play a hunch while Pumpkin nibbled from my hand. “Do you walk Pumpkin here every day?”

“When the weather is good,” he said.

“What about in the morning?”

“Are you a cop or something?” the young man asked. He seemed intrigued by the possibility.

“Yes, we’re both police officers. A body was found here yesterday morning, and we’re hoping that someone might have witnessed the event.”

“Really, you’re cops? That’s so cool.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Scott. I took the police exam last month.”

“That’s fantastic,” Gus said. “How’d you do?”

“I was number fifty.”

“That’s pretty good. Upwards of a thousand take the exam every year. I’m sure that you’ll get called.” Gus turned to me. “I think he finished higher than you did, Stephanie.”

The truth was that no one finished higher than I did. I was number one the year I took the exam, but I kept it quiet—humility goes a long way in the police department. “Yeah, I think you beat me, Scott. So tell me, do you walk Pumpkin early in the morning?”

“No. I just take care of her during the day. Her owner walks her in the morning.”

All right, it was worth a shot. I had the right idea but the wrong dog walker. I would ask to have officers assigned to interview dog owners in the early morning when there was a chance one of them saw John Doe being deposited at the base of the ugly Berlin wall.

“Sorry,” Scott continued.” He seemed genuinely disappointed. “I’ve been walking dogs in this area since before it was renamed. It’s always nice and quiet here—hardly any traffic.”

Hardly any traffic—hence, a good location for the disposal of a body.
I turned to Gus. “Did you know this park was renamed?”

“No,” Gus said. “What was it called originally?”

Scott’s eyes gleamed. “They used to call this Pumphouse Park. It was built over the old World Trade Center pumping station.”

“Pumping station?” Gus asked.

“It was part of the cooling system for the towers. Chilled water from the Hudson River was originally used to cool the World Trade Center.”

Chilled water? Cold enough to freeze a body?
I turned to Gus and saw that we were on the same page. Scott saw from our expressions that his contribution had helped us in some manner. Poor Pumpkin had finished her biscuit and was tugging on the end of her leash. I handed Scott a business card. “Let me know if you get a call from NYPD, Scott. I have the feeling you’d make a really good cop.”

“As
you can see, Roger, some of the equipment is pretty worn out.” Brynn Francis was the manager of the DPP Gym—a no frills gym, which was frequented by serious body builders. DPP was a bodybuilder’s term. It stood for:
discipline, persistence,
and
patience
. She was giving a tour to Roger Gout, the new Staten Island regional manager.

Gout took a closer look at the weight machine, despite the fact that there was absolutely no budget for new gym equipment. He rubbed the rusted metal with his fingers. “Yeah, looks pretty old. Have you asked for a replacement machine?”

“Almost every day for the past six months. What’s going on over at corporate?” Brynn asked.

“It’s no secret, Brynn; we’re hoping for a takeover. Bare bones gyms like this are a thing of the past. We need an infusion of money so that we can remodel all the facilities, upgrade our clientele, and raise membership fees. Just how long do you think we can go on charging ten bucks a month?”

“Anyone looking at us?”

“We’re hoping for a deal with Solstice Zone. They’re loaded with cash.”

“Not Solstice, that’s a pansy-ass gym.”

“A pansy-ass gym beats an out-of-business gym any day of the week. You’re one of the lucky ones. You’ve got a ton of square footage here, which is what Solstice looks for. They’ll put in a sauna, a track, and a pool . . . a childcare center for the working parents too. A lot of the smaller locations will probably get shut down.” Gout turned suddenly at the sound of weights crashing to the floor. “What the hell is that?”

Brynn chuckled. “That’s Tillerman.” She pointed to the far end of the gym where a solitary bodybuilder stood over a massive barbell. “He’s here every day.”

Gout’s eyes widened while he assessed Tillerman’s size. “Christ, that guy’s an animal. Is he a pro?”

“Tillerman, a pro? No. He just loves to work out. He’ll be here all day. When he’s done with the weight-training, he’ll run on the treadmill for two hours.”

“Did I say animal? What I meant to say is beast. That guy is a beast.”

“That’s the kind of clientele we draw: construction workers, pro bodybuilders, and sanitation workers—guys who have their afternoons free. We even have a couple of members who are legitimate wise guys.”

Gout stared at Brynn. “You mean wise guys as in mobsters?”

Brynn shrugged. “It’s Staten Island, isn’t it?”

“Really, you’ve got mobsters working out here as big as this guy?” Gout seemed to shudder at the thought.

“Almost. Although Tillerman is probably the biggest guy in the gym. He’s got limitless energy—he’s a real specimen.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s got some kind of night security job—works all night and works out all day long. I haven’t figured out when he sleeps. I’ll introduce you. You’re the new regional manager, you should meet some of the regular members.”

“Uh okay,” Gout said hesitantly. “He’s not crazy, is he?”

“
Everyone
in here is a little over the edge. Normal people don’t work their bodies this hard. Just don’t ask personal questions; he doesn’t respond well.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Come on, follow me.”

It took Gout a moment to get his feet going. It was the motion of Brynn’s rear end in skintight Lycra workout pants that provided the necessary catalyst.

Tillerman was on his fifth set of a twenty-five-rep superset when Brynn and Gout approached. He ignored them completely until he had completed the set. He allowed the barbell to crash to the floor when he was done. The entire gym shook.

“Well, I guess the foundation is solid,” Gout chuckled and then offered his hand to Tillerman. “Roger Gout, I’m the new regional manager.”

“Gout?” Tillerman asked. “Isn’t that a foot condition?”

Brynn laughed. “Mike, this is my new boss. Say hello, will you?”

The veins on Tillerman’s arms were as thick as marine ropes. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts. He took Gout’s hand, engulfing it in his own. “This gym is a shithouse, Mr. Gout. Everything is covered in rust.”

“We’re working on that, Mike. We’re going to replace everything. We’ll bring in all brand new state-of-the-art equipment.”

“Don’t change anything!” Tillerman said. “I like rust. I’d feel bad about smashing up new equipment.”

“How big do you want to get? You’re already huge,” Gout said.

“I work out until I’m tired.” Tillerman said. “It’s the only way I can sleep.”

“Really? Why don’t you talk to a doctor about that?” Gout said.

Tillerman’s eyes glazed over. “I’ve already talked to a doctor.” He squatted, lifted the massive barbell and hoisted it over his head.
My family is dead.
“He wasn’t any help.” Tillerman began to count reps as he pushed the barbell over his head, over and over again.
Doctors can’t bring back the dead.
“Eleven, twelve . . .”

“Medication didn’t help?” Gout asked.

“No. Eighteen, nineteen . . .”

Brynn was a small girl with an expertly crafted, athletic body. She had seen Tillerman work out a hundred times before, but the intensity with which he pressed the weights today frightened her. She stepped back and motioned for Gout to do the same. “Watch your form, Mike. You don’t want to strain yourself.”

The word strain did not have a place in Tillerman’s vocabulary. His libido was driven by pure rage and a neurochemical cocktail that allowed him to push himself well beyond normal human limits. His pace quickened with every repetition. He drove the weights harder and faster. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . .”

“That’s enough, Mike. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Tillerman was oblivious to the warning. “Thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”

The expression on Gout’s face read,
He’s nuts!

“Mike stop, you’re killing yourself,” Brynn warned.

“Thirty-six, thirty-seven . . .” The machine finally began to slow, and then without warning, Tillerman cast the huge barbell away. The weights crashed to the floor with such force that Brynn lost her balance from the vibration. Tillerman bent over and clutched his stomach. He panted like a racehorse that had been ridden too hard.

Brynn ran to the front counter and returned with a bottle of water. “Here, Mike. Drink!”

Tillerman squeezed the sports bottle until it was empty—twenty-four ounces of water disappeared down his throat. He crushed the plastic bottle as if he were crumpling a tissue.

“You’re only human, Mike. You can’t do that,” Brynn said.

“I can do it,” Tillerman said. “I must do it.”
I miss my family.
He looked Brynn in the eye. “I’m already doing it.” He sucked in enough air to create a vacuum in the gym, exhaled, and walked away.

Gus
and I were waiting for a representative of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey to join us so that we could take a tour of the old World Trade Center pumping station, which we had learned was located right below Kowsky Plaza, a.k.a. Pumphouse Park.

New York may have had top billing, but the Port Authority offices were located in Jersey City, New Jersey. I checked my watch. “What do you think is keeping him? It’s only a twenty-minute ride.”

“It’s never easy getting through the Holland Tunnel—it doesn’t matter what time of day it is; it’s always congested.”