Buffalo Noir Read online

  One day, everyone in Malloy’s was talking about a girl’s body the police found in the Tifft Farms Nature Preserve. It had turned out to be Amy Dunston, Mike’s date for junior prom.

  He hadn’t seen Amy in six years but still remembered how pretty she’d been in her pink dress with her red curls pulled up on her head. They’d kissed outside her house for hours, crushing the roses pinned to her gown. He had touched her face, running his thumb over the freckles across her nose. Amy was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen and when he finally walked her to the door, he had knots in his stomach. He wanted to see her again, wanted to see her all summer long.

  Three days later, a half ton of bricks crushed his father. Mike never spoke to Amy again, not even when he saw her at the funeral. Life had suddenly become divided into Before and After. She was from Before, when his life was good. His life After was something else. Some kind of pain that she didn’t fit into.

  And now this. The police had found her stabbed to death, her long red curls hacked off and her body dumped. He remembered touching that hair, the way it smelled like strawberries, felt like silk.

  How something like that could happen in South Buffalo was a mystery. The neighborhood was still strong, unlike other parts of the city that had declined since the steel plants closed. There was very little real crime there. It was still an Irish Catholic enclave that ran on the parish system. Kids still walked to their parish schools in their plaid uniforms. It was a throwback to simpler times. It had its domestics and bar fights, but homicide? That was a shock to the system.

  So Michael Sullivan had done the South Buffalo Irish Catholic thing to do: he drank Jameson until he couldn’t see straight and drove into a house.

  * * *

  A door slam jolted him awake.

  Hospital room. The doctor came in to tell Mike and his mother that the surgery had gone well, Erin was in the recovery room, and a Detective Flannery was there to see them.

  Patrick Flannery was well known to Mike and Margaret Sullivan. Not only had he been friends with Sully, he’d gone to grammar school with Marge and lived just two streets over.

  Flannery was short and stocky with thick flaming-red hair that stuck up at all angles, framing his round face. He wore a rumpled gray suit jacket under his heavy wool overcoat. In his left hand was a plastic bag, sealed with red evidence tape.

  “Marge, Michael. How you two holding up?”

  “What happened to my baby?”

  He shook his head. “She’s still sedated. All we know is she came home with this lodged in her back.”

  He held up the bag. A rusty metal shiv, five inches long, rested on the bottom.

  Marge reached out and touched it through the plastic.

  “It’s the shaft of an old-fashioned ice pick,” Flannery explained. “The kind with the wooden handle that our parents used when we were kids.”

  “More like the kind our grandparents used.”

  “How did that get stuck in my sister’s back?” Mike demanded.

  Flannery turned toward him. “Do you have the paper she wrote on?”

  Mike knew the detective regarded him as a failure. He and Jimmy had spent the better part of three years fishing him out of his messes, with no gratitude on Mike’s part. Three months ago, when Mike got his last DWI, Flannery told him not to call him anymore until he cleaned up his act.

  Mike handed over the yellow legal pad.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “No,” Mike said. “I don’t think she could.”

  “You called 911 right away?”

  Mike fished his phone out of his pocket. “I called 911 at 12:34 a.m.” He held the screen out for Pat.

  “Notice anything unusual before she came in? Or after?”

  “I heard a car pull up, but not in front of the house. A few doors down. Then she was fumbling with the doorknob, like she didn’t remember she had a key.”

  The detective nodded. “She was probably in shock. You never got a look at the car?”

  “No. I only saw the headlights and heard the door.”

  Flannery pulled a notebook out of his coat and jotted down a few things. “Okay, Mike. Come down to the station house, make a statement. Not today. Be here with your mother. But tomorrow for sure. Call my cell when you need a ride. You still got my number?”

  Mike tried to keep his voice even. “I know it by heart.”

  “Good.” Flannery gave Marge a long hug.

  “Do you think someone did this to her?” Marge asked, pulling away.

  “It’s possible someone dropped it or meant to throw it out and it froze in the ice. Then she came along and fell on it just right. But I’d like to know where the wood handle is. I don’t think she could have walked very far with this thing stuck in her. I checked your yard and around your house. No blood.”

  “She was wearing a heavy coat,” Mike offered.

  “I’ll stop by your place and grab that.”

  “It’s still on the front hall floor.” Mike detached his house key from his ring and handed it to Pat.

  “I’ll get the photographer and evidence in with me to document the scene while I’m there. I’ll leave the key when I’m done.”

  Mike said nothing.

  Marge leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Pat. For everything.”

  “You just get Erin better.” Flannery gave a nod and left.

  * * *

  Mike stayed in the nurses’ lounge. He knew the word must be out that he was in the bar drinking whiskey right before Erin got hurt. The latest in his list of fuck-ups. Drunk again when his sister needed him.

  He stretched back out on the floral couch. It was about six inches too short to accommodate his long frame. His work boots hung over the side and he still smelled like cheese. If Sully could see his son now. Useless. A disgrace.

  In the midst of his self-pity, a thought kept forming at the back of his head. Something about last night. He wished he had a shot to steady himself. In the army he’d stuck to beer, a lot of it, but back at home in the Irish heritage district of Buffalo he’d reunited with his old friend whiskey. It made the cheese smell better.

  He patted his flannel shirt until he came up with his pack of smokes. He knew smoking was off-limits in the hospital, but he couldn’t hold out any longer. He lit up and eased his head into the cushions. It had been cold yesterday. Erin had told him before he left for work that she was going to Casey’s house to watch movies. Casey Keane lived on Red Jacket, close to the hospital. Erin had gone around four, when it was still light out. He’d left a few minutes later, to work a half shift from five until eleven. She should have been home when he got there. Casey’s mom would never have let her walk home alone in the dark, but he felt sure that it was not Mrs. Keane who dropped his sister off.

  He got up, pulling his coat on. His sister’s blood had stained the front.

  * * *

  Casey’s house was only a two-minute walk from the intersection of Abbott and Red Jacket. The snow and the wind had picked up since last night, obscuring the sun. It was now ten a.m. and the bluehairs were driving slowly past him on their way to Mass. He picked his way across the icy sidewalks, dangerous enough to fall on. Throw an ice pick into the mix and things could definitely get deadly.

  Casey Keane lived in a huge green-and-white double right on the corner. Her grandmother lived in the upstairs flat and Casey’s family occupied the lower one. Casey’s older brother Wayne was shoveling the driveway when Mike walked up. Wayne was trying to get it down to the pavement, losing the battle with each flake of snow that fell.

  Mike stepped up and they shook hands. Wayne looked surprised to see him. He’d been a year behind Mike at Bishop Timon.

  “Sorry to hear about your sister. Do they know what happened?”

  “Not yet. Doctors say she’s doing good, though. Is Casey home?”

  “Yeah, she’s with my mom. She’s all upset.”

  Mike went to the side door and rang the bell. It oc
curred to him that no one used the front door in South Buffalo. Always the side.

  Casey’s mom greeted him. He knocked his work boots against the door frame and stepped into the side hall. He told her what the doctors said but didn’t mention the spike.

  Mrs. Keane was built like his own mother, sturdy with graying brown hair and a smattering of tan freckles across her nose. “I asked Casey if anything was wrong when they left Bridget’s last night and she said everything seemed fine.”

  “Bridget?”

  “Bridget. They went over her house to watch movies.”

  Mike nodded. It was odd. Bill Donavan had been at Malloy’s last night bragging that his wife and Bridget were in Pittsburgh visiting her brother and he had free rein to enjoy the holiday spirit. “Can I talk to Casey myself?”

  She led him back through the living room, past the bathroom to the back bedrooms, pausing in front of a white door decorated with green shamrocks. “Casey!” she shrieked.

  The door cracked open. Casey pulled out her earbuds. “What, Mom?”

  “Erin’s brother wants to talk to you, sweetie. He says she’s going to be all right. I’m headed to the hospital to see Marge. Walk him out when you two are done.”

  “Okay, Ma.”

  As soon as Mrs. Keane left, Mike’s eyes narrowed on the sixteen-year-old girl in front of him. Casey backed up into her room and Mike followed, closing the door behind him. Tears started welling up in her eyes.

  “Where were you last night?” he asked in a low voice.

  Casey spotted the bloodstains on the front of his jacket. “We were at Bridget Donavan’s house . . .”

  “Bullshit. Bridget isn’t even in Buffalo.”

  Tears ran freely down her cheeks. “Please, please don’t tell my mom.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your mom. My sister is in the hospital with a hole in her back and I want to know where the hell you two really were last night.”

  Casey had had a mad crush on Mike when she was younger. She had mooned over his blond hair and grass-green eyes. But his angelic appearance had taken a turn after his nose was broken twice. The chip in his tooth from hitting the house twisted his toothpaste smile into a convict’s grin. “Liam Fitzgerald had a party at his apartment last night. We went there.”

  Liam was twenty-one and had an upper apartment off Seneca Street. It was notorious around the neighborhood for underage drinking and drugs.

  “How did you get home?”

  “We walked there through the park . . .”

  “How did you and Erin get home?” He was now up in her face, his breath reeking of cigarettes washing over her mouth and nose.

  “Kyle Cuddihy drove me home around eleven. Erin stayed. She was talking to some guy. She said she had a ride.”

  He grabbed her shoulders. “Who?”

  “I don’t know!” she sobbed. “He was older, maybe your age. I never saw him before.”

  Mike released her. “You left your friend at a drinking party with some fucking stranger?”

  “I know. I know.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not even I would do that, Casey, and I’m a total fuck-up.”

  She crumpled onto her bed. Mike’s phone vibrated in his back pocket with a text from his mom saying Erin was awake.

  “You better tell your mother the truth or Detective Flannery will when he gets here.”

  “Oh please, Mike, no . . .”

  He opened the shamrock door and let it slam behind him.

  Wayne must have given up on the driveway because he was nowhere to be found and the driveway looked even worse than before. Mike returned to the hospital. The snow was heavier now. Fat flakes squashed against his face, held for an instant.

  * * *

  At the ICU, Mike’s mom sat slumped in a chair across from Erin’s bed. She was still wearing her scrubs. Nurses rushed back and forth between the rooms in time to the sound of alarms going off. Erin’s room was quiet by comparison. The nurses all knew Mike and let him pass in silence.

  Erin lay on the bed with an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. Tubes were sticking out of her arm, hooked up to monitors and IVs. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes feathered against her cheeks. She looked younger than her sixteen years. Her blond hair fanned out around her face, which was so pale it shocked him.

  His mother held a finger to her lips and whispered, “She’s asleep.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “It’s hard for her to talk. She said she walked home and fell on the ice.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Mike. It could have happened. The ice pick could have been frozen upright and she could have fallen on it.”

  “You believe that?”

  “What else could it be? Why would she lie?” Marge had dark circles under both eyes. She sighed and stood up. “I’m going to get a coffee. I want someone to be here when she wakes up again.”

  “Go ahead, Mom. I got it.”

  She put a hand against the side of his face and smiled weakly, “You’re a good boy, Michael. Even if you don’t know it.”

  As she disappeared down the hall, Mike stood for a minute listening to the heart monitors and breathing machine. Finally he said, “I know you’re awake, Erin.”

  With one hand she held the oxygen mask away from her mouth. “Hi, Mike.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “It hurts to breathe.” Now he was over her bed, stroking her hair. They had the same color eyes, their father’s eyes.

  “I was just at Casey’s,” he said gently. “I know about the party.”

  “Don’t tell Mom.” It came out raspy, pleading and desperate.

  He shook his head. “No promises. Not this time.”

  “Please, just don’t tell her now.” She coughed and let the mask fall back on her face. She took some slow, shaky breaths and pulled it back again. “I’ll tell you, but don’t tell her yet, okay?”

  “Okay,” he lied.

  “There was this older guy at the party. I think his name was Brandon or Brendon. I never saw him before.” She stopped and took another couple of pulls off her mask. “He was really nice and really cute. Casey wanted to leave with Kyle, and Brendon said he’d drive me home. I said okay but that I had to get home before you. So we left and got into his car. It was red, a two-door.”

  She started to cough again and it hurt her. Mike held her hand while she tried to catch her breath. The pain knotted up her face as she breathed in and out, in and out. When she finally managed to get her wind, she went on: “He took me through Cazenovia Park. At first I thought he was just cutting through from Seneca to Abbott Road, but then he started going down all these dark streets. Then he just stops. He says, Something’s wrong with the engine. And he gets out and pops the hood up. He looks under the hood then calls back to me and tells me to hold it up for him, he needs to get something out of his tool box to fix the car. So I get out and I start holding up the hood, even though it’s freezing and snowy. He goes around to the back of the car and gets something out of the trunk. Then all of a sudden he punches me in the back as hard as he can. I was so shocked I dropped the hood and started to run. He came running after me, yelling that he was sorry and didn’t know why he did that. I had to stop because I couldn’t breathe. He grabbed me and was crying, saying he didn’t know why and that he’d drive me home as long as I promised not to tell anyone . . .” She gasped a little, hiccupping as she struggled to talk.

  “And it was so cold and I was scared and couldn’t breathe so I got back into his car. He drove me home and cried the whole way, reminding me I promised not to tell anyone what happened. I was so scared because he knew where I lived. And I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know he stuck me with anything. He pulled in front of the Glazers’ house and let me out. I don’t know how I made it home. I don’t remember.”

  She slipped the mask back over her mouth. The window next to her bed was shaking from the howling wind. Mike glanced up at the television mou
nted on the wall. A scrolling ticker announced a winter storm warning.

  He turned back to his sister. “What did this guy look like?”

  “Your age, I guess. Dark hair. Not as tall as you, but tall. He was really good looking and he seemed so . . . so . . . He seemed so nice.” The tears came again.

  Mike considered her story. Liam Fitzgerald might know who the guy was. But the truth was that his apartment had become a kind of speakeasy for underage girls and potheads. He’d gone there a couple times himself since he’d been home, before he lost his car. The thought of his little sister in a place like that made him want to burn it to the ground.

  “The car,” Mike said suddenly, latching onto something. “Why did you have to hold the hood open? Why didn’t it stay open on its own?”

  “It was an old car, from the sixties or whatever. The kind guys like to restore. And it was loud—on-purpose loud, not bad-muffler loud.”

  That was when it clicked, what he couldn’t remember that morning. Mike didn’t just see the headlights, he heard the car.

  A souped-up car.

  A red classic, driven in the Buffalo winter by a guy his age named Brendan or Brandon.

  Brandon Gates.

  Brandon had been a year behind Mike at Bishop Timon. His nickname had been Movie Star because he was so pretty. He’d been captain of the baseball team and class president, dated the hottest girl at Mount Mercy Academy. He’d strut around the halls, even as a freshman, cocky as hell. He ended up getting a full ride to some big-name college and everyone said he was going to play in the majors. He was going to be the next Warren Spahn. Then something happened his freshman year and he came home. He lived in his mother’s house, not far from the Sullivans. No one ever saw him outside. Mike had seen the red car drive by the taverns late at night, cruising the neighborhood. People said he worked on the car all day and only took it out after his mother fell asleep. The neighborhood had all kinds of theories on what had turned him into a hermit. Some said drugs. Some said it was a bad situation with a girl. No one knew for sure.