“Yeah, well, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn.” Davis’s voice trailed off.
Freitag looked puzzled. “What?”
“Never mind,” muttered Davis. This was going to be like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle wearing a blindfold, he thought.
CHAPTER 50
Several days after the incident with Ken, Rita was enjoying a rare day off, puttering around her apartment, and generally relaxing—doing nothing—when she heard a knock on her neighbor’s door. Without hesitating, she opened her own door and peeked out. She was just in time to see a new grocery deliveryman entering Mrs. Kelly’s apartment. She waited a while until the man left, and then walked the short distance to her neighbor’s door and knocked softly. Mrs. Kelly opened the door almost immediately.
“Oh, hi Rita,” she said. “Have you heard the news?”
“What news?” asked Rita. “I was just going to ask what happened to Ken?”
“That’s what the news is all about,” replied the old woman. “He’s been arrested.”
“What?!”
“Who would have ever thought that nice man was a rapist,” sighed Mrs. Kelly. “I always thought he was so nice,” she said. “He was a Vietnam veteran, you know.”
“When did all this happen?” asked Rita.
“Yesterday afternoon, around two—at least that’s the way I heard it from the new man; I think he said his name is Roy. I would have thought you would’ve heard about it.”
“Yeah, well it’s a small world, Mrs. Kelly, but not that small. Did they say where it happened? The rape, I mean.”
“Well, I don’t think he actually got to that part. Thank god. They say he was trying to tie her up when she got loose, ran out into the street, and flagged down a police car. It was up in the Bronx somewhere. But, I think he lives down in Chelsea. At least, that’s what I heard.”
Rita turned and rushed out of the apartment. “Thanks, Mrs. Kelly,” she called over her shoulder. She hurried back to her apartment to call Freitag.
“Apparently he met this woman on the Internet – in one of those chat rooms,” said Matt. “I can’t believe these women take chances like that. Imagine meeting a total stranger – just because he wrote nice things on a computer screen? That’s just nuts.”
Freitag, who knew a little about Rita’s Internet adventures, tried not to smile as he said, “Well, it’s not that crazy.” Rita blushed openly, and Matt couldn’t help noticing.
“What’s with you, Rita?”
“You mean Chris didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I know the guy,” said Rita. “He’s my grocery deliveryman.”
“Tell him the rest,” prodded Freitag.
“Oh, Matt, I feel like such a fool.”
“Rita, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, remember I told you I had finally gotten online?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Well, he was the one who helped me—this Ken. He showed me how to get online, and how to get into those chat rooms. He even helped me pick out a screen name.
“And that would be what?”
“For me to know and you to find out,” teased Rita. “Anyway, the creep used it to locate me in a chat room, and then kind of made a pass at me; got pretty gross actually, and I told him not to contact me anymore.”
“So, why didn’t you tell someone?” asked Matt.
“I was too embarrassed,” replied Rita. “Besides, I didn’t think any harm had been done, and I figured I had put the fear of god into him. Obviously, he didn’t take me seriously enough.”
“Well, maybe he’s our guy,” said Matt. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Not really,” replied Rita. “But, now that you mention it, it could make sense.”
“Yeah, well we need to interview him,” said Matt. “Check out his fingerprints, get a sample of his DNA. Christ, wouldn’t it be something if he’s the one we’ve been looking for all this time.”
Rita felt a chill go down her spine.
CHAPTER 51
“Chris, why don’t you take a ride over to Chelsea,” said Matt. “Ask around the neighborhood about this Callahan character. See what you can find out. Maybe talk to Father Pete over at St. Jude. See if he belonged to the church. If he did, maybe he knew the other women.”
“You really think this might be the guy?” asked Chris.
“Hey, stranger things have happened,” said Matt. “Remember that one guy who worked at the day care center? Actually volunteered to take those little boys home to—quote–unquote—save the mothers the bother. He molested five of them before anyone caught wise. What was he, sixty-five? Who would have ever suspected? To answer your question: yeah, maybe.”
“Yeah, I remember that creep like it was yesterday. Well, anyway, I’d better get moving. Talk to you later.”
“Okay,” said Matt. “Valdez and I will take a little ride up to the Bronx, talk to this Callahan creep. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky?”
Freitag knocked on a few doors in the apartment building Callahan called home. No one seemed to have a bad word to say about the Vietnam vet turned attempted rapist. All were agreed, “he would never do anything like that. They must have the wrong man.”
Eventually, Chris found his way over to St. Jude. He rang the bell at the side door to the rectory and waited. Mrs. Flynn opened the door and invited him inside. Apparently, the good father was off playing golf.
“Would you mind if I just left my card?” asked Freitag. “Maybe he could give me a call when he returns?”
“No, no, that would be fine,” said Mrs. Flynn. “Why don’t you just leave it on the desk in his study?” She pointed down a carpeted hallway. “It’s at the end of the hall.”
Chris walked quietly down the dimly lit corridor, and entered the richly appointed office of the monsignor. He made a mental note that the church must be doing quite well, if the quality of the furnishings that filled the cleric’s private retreat were any indication.
Being naturally curious, Freitag couldn’t help but notice the fairly expensive computer and accompanying flat screen monitor that occupied a prominent place on the priest’s enormous desk. Sure beats the hell out of the one I have at home. He also noted that a phone line was connected to the PC, indicating that Father Pete was probably an Internet user himself. Guess everybody’s online these days – even the local padre. He reached into his pocket and extracted one of his business cards from a rubber-banded stack he carried. He placed it carefully next to the phone at the far right side of the desk where Richter would be sure to find it. What he didn’t realize was that the card he had selected was the one Rita had written her email address and screen name upon, the night they had celebrated at Malone’s.
Then, feeling somewhat uncomfortable at being in someone else’s personal space, Freitag tiptoed out the way he had come in, closing the heavy oak door behind him. “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn,” shouted Chris, to the housekeeper, who was busy in the far recesses of the kitchen.
“You’re welcome, Detective,” she said. “I’ll tell Father Pete you were here.”
CHAPTER 52
Father Pete arrived back at St. Jude around four-thirty in the afternoon. He had barely edged out his regular playing partner in a game of five-dollar Nassau, and the effort had left him drained.
“Mrs. Flynn,” he called from his study. “Would you bring me a cup of tea, please?”
“Certainly, Father, I’ll be just a minute. Oh, Father Pete, one of those detectives was here to see you. He left his card on your desk.”
“What did he want? Did he say?” asked Richter.
“Nope. Just said he had a couple of questions for you,” replied Mrs. Flynn. “Here’s your tea—one teaspoon sugar, one squeeze of lemon—just the way you like it. Did you find the card?”
Richter scanned the top of his desk until his eyes spotted the plain, white paper rectangle. “Yes, it’s right here,” he said, picking it up. He saw th
at it was Freitag’s card and not Matt’s, and then turned it over. Hmm, what have we here? He read the writing on the backside of the card: “[email protected]” and “Sexy39” in parenthesis. Hmm, guess Detective Freitag must be getting a little on the side. He clucked his tongue in the hollow of his cheek. Shame on you, Chris, he chided the absent detective.
Then, Richter took another look at the card, and something registered in his memory. Valdez, he thought; wasn’t that the name of the female detective that was with the other two when they all first met? What was her first name? Rena? No, Rita. That’s it! Immediately, a mental picture of Valdez formed in the priest’s mind. Hmm, she certainly was a sexy one. The thought made him smile. Bet the brass wouldn’t think too highly of that kind of hanky panky.
Father Pete picked up the phone and dialed Freitag’s direct line.
“Detective Freitag,” said Chris, answering the phone on the second ring. “How may I help you?” He hated saying the “canned” line, but that was how Captain Foster insisted that all his detectives answer the phone – strictly by the book.
“Yes, Detective Freitag, it’s Father Richter…uh…Father Pete—over at St. Jude. I understand you dropped by this afternoon.”
“Oh, yes, Father, thanks for getting back to me. I just had a few questions about someone who was arrested yesterday from your neighborhood. I know it’s a long shot, but I was hoping you might know him. His name’s Ken Callahan. Ring a bell?”
Richter was silent for a moment before replying, “Callahan, you say? Ken Callahan?”
“Yeah, he was arrested up in the Bronx. Do you know him?”
“Yes, Chris, I believe so. In fact, I’m sure I do. Not too bright a fellow, I’m afraid. Got pretty messed up in Vietnam. I think he delivers groceries or something. What’s he supposed to have done?”
“Attempted rape. Seems he meets women online in chat rooms, then pays them a visit in person, hoping to get lucky.”
“Lucky?” asked Richter.
“Yeah, you know. He figures if they hit it off online, they’ll be willing to have sex with him in person. Apparently, this one didn’t fall for his line, so he tried to rape her.”
“Good God!” said Richter. “What did he do, tie her up or something?”
“Funny you should ask,” replied Chris. “That’s exactly what he did.”
Richter paused, then continued. “So, what did you want to ask me?” he said.
“Well, I was wondering what you might know about him. We’re thinking he might be connected with those murders we’ve been investigating.”
“I see.”
“Is he a member of your church?”
“Yes, he is,” answered Father Pete. “In fact, he has been quite active in our veterans group – until recently, that is – haven’t seen too much of him lately. You say he meets women online – in chat rooms?”
“Yep, that seems to have been his MO. He even hit on one of the girls in our precinct,” said Chris.
“Oh, really?” said Richter, thinking immediately of Valdez. “Which one?” asked Richter, a touch of humor in his voice. “Never mind,” he added, “I’m joking, of course.”
“Of course,” replied Freitag, not at all happy with the priest’s attempt at humor.
Richter sensed Freitag’s displeasure, and quickly continued. “But, seriously, Chris, what else would you like to know about our friend, Mr. Callahan?”
“Well, do you know whether or not he knew any of the victims?”
Richter hesitated, and Chris took this as a sign that, indeed, Callahan had known the murdered women. “He did, didn’t he?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t say for sure,” answered Father Pete. “But, I would imagine he did. We are a fairly sociable church, after all. My guess is that he probably did. Anything else, Chris?”
“No, but if you wouldn’t mind asking around a little; maybe some other women in your church were approached by this guy. Maybe they could tell us something we need to know.”
“Well,” said the priest. “I’ll certainly keep my ears open. Thank goodness he’s off the streets. Hopefully there won’t be any more of those horrible murders now. But, I guess that might be too much to ask.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Chris. “Well, anyway, thanks Father Pete. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, we will,” said Richter. “Have a good evening.” He hung up the phone, and sat quietly at his desk, studying the card Freitag had left him, turning it over and over. Hmmm—Sexy 39—very interesting, Miss Valdez—very interesting.
CHAPTER 53
1:05 p.m., Wednesday, May 17
“Shit,” cursed Matt, under his breath. I’m never gonna get there on time.
“Shit! Fuck!” he shouted again, this time out loud, and hoped no one could hear him. He rarely cursed, and never in public, but the present situation virtually demanded it. He couldn’t find his golf shoes, and he was due to meet Father Richter in less than an hour. Finding his cracked, vinyl golf bag, filled with mismatched clubs, had been relatively easy. However, locating his ancient pair of spikes was proving to be a much more daunting task.
The humidity of the apartment house basement clung to his skin like a damp towel in a steam bath. He was wearing a pair of outdated plaid golf slacks that he had bought for an outing back in the seventies. The faded, short-sleeved Banlon golf shirt wasn’t much newer, and, like the pants was a bit too tight for comfort. As he continued to probe the contents of the chicken-wire storage cubicle, he was struck by how much useless crap he retained in his possession. Where would one possibly use a croquet set? Didn’t lava lamps go out of style in the late sixties?
Finally, after more searching and cursing, Davis located the shoes, stuffed inside an old athletic bag. The canvas and the footwear smelled the same—musty! Probably just like his golf game, he thought. He grabbed the bag of clubs, and the shoes, turned out the light, locked the cage, and left the basement. Minutes later he was headed up the Harlem River Drive on his way to meet Father Pete.
As he drove the ten-or-so miles to Van Cortland Park, he debated the wisdom of playing golf while a serial killer still roamed the streets. Screw it, he thought. He had so many days owed to him that he’d never use them all. Besides, maybe taking a break would clear his head—help him think better. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself.
Van Cortland Park Golf Course is the oldest public golf course in the United States, having been founded in 1895. It’s located in the Bronx, and doubles as a venue for cross-country skiing in the winter season. Most residents of this northernmost borough of New York City have never seen a ski slope, let alone tried their hands at the overland version of the sport. They glide along its gentle slopes, and, for the most part, feel safe in the park as long as they have a means of escape strapped to their feet. Those who frequent the links during the golf season feel equally secure, armed with steel golf clubs that can double as weapons if needed.
Matt brought the Chevrolet to a halt on a spot in the gravel parking lot, and slammed the transmission into park. Sitting on the edge of the generous trunk, he removed his black work shoes and stepped into his golf shoes, making a mental note to put them where he could find them next time. He grabbed the golf bag and slid its tattered shoulder strap over his head. When he looked up, he was surprised to see Father Pete standing beside him. At first, Matt didn’t recognize him. The priest was dressed in an elegant pair of pleated beige slacks, a brown alligator-skin belt, and a navy short-sleeved shirt. He wore brown and white saddle-style golf shoes, with tassels decorating the uppers. The outfit looked as if it had cost a small fortune. In contrast, Matt’s apparel appeared amateurish and cheap. He reached out his hand and smiled. “Where’d you come from?” he asked, jokingly.
Father Pete pointed to the electric cart he had driven into the lot. He was strictly all business. “All set?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” replied Matt.
“Good. Put your bag on the cart, and let’s get going.”<
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The huge old clubhouse loomed majestically in front of them. It was over a hundred years old, and its colorful men’s dressing room had served as the set for the famous locker room scene in the movie Wall Street. It had character. So, too, it turned out, did the golf course. Playing to 6,100 yards, from the tips, the municipal layout boasted a par-five hole that measured over six hundred yards, and a par-three that spanned more than two hundred in length.
Davis tossed a wooden tee into the air at the first hole and was relieved when it pointed to the priest, indicating it was his turn to tee off first. Matt stood off to one side and watched as Father Pete went through a series of stretching exercises. He was surprised by the priest’s agility, and marveled at the obvious athleticism of the man.
Father Pete used the ball to press the tee into the teeing ground, precisely measuring its height against the face of his driver. Then, he stepped away and took several graceful practice swings. Immediately, Davis was struck by something odd about the priest’s form. What was it that looked so different? He couldn’t quite figure it out. Then, he smiled and realized the obvious. Richter was left-handed.
Davis watched as his playing partner stepped behind the ball and sighted over it to an imaginary target down the first fairway. Then, Richter moved to the right side of the ball and took his stance. Without hesitation, he made a slight press forward with his left knee, and initiated a graceful back swing. Then, easily transferring his weight forward, again, he made a smooth, but powerful forward swing that sent the ball flying on a high trajectory down the middle of the fairway. His follow through was high and professional looking. The ball landed softly around two hundred and forty five yards away. It was no wonder Richter’s handicap was a four, thought Matt.
Now, it was the detective’s turn. Father Pete stood quietly to the side, waiting for Davis to hit. Like most “hackers,” Matt had no defined warm-up routine, nor did he have a plan of attack. He stuck the wooden tee into the ground, placed a faded ball atop it, and took his stance. He wiggled the club head back and forth (as he had seen the professionals do many times). Then, he took a short, choppy back swing, and followed with a lunging forward swing that sent the ball bouncing weakly about a hundred yards down the fairway.
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 18
