A light spring breeze threatened to lift the Yankees cap from Rita’s head as she stepped down off the Number 23 bus at the corner of Seventh Avenue. With her free right hand, she pressed the hat close to her head; her purse secured in her left. She scurried down the three short blocks along the avenue to West 20th; waiting impatiently at each intersection for the crossing sign to show a little green “pedestrian.” It seemed odd, meeting someone here, so close to the precinct headquarters. She smiled to herself as she passed the ancient building. Perhaps, someday, she thought, she could think of it as just a place where others worked.
Manny’s Mexican Restaurant was one of the many indistinct eateries that decorated the lower Manhattan landscape like culinary shrubs, each one forgettable in its own right. In fact, the best thing that could be said about Manny’s was that it was convenient to the job, and Bob, the bartender made a wicked frozen Margarita.
A flourish of trumpets, emanating from a small mariachi band—complete with towering sombreros—greeted Rita as she entered the restaurant. The lighting in Manny’s was one step above movie-theater dark, and she had to squint in order to see. Gradually, she maneuvered her way to the rear of the restaurant, and was pleased to find an empty seat near the end of the bar. The mariachi band stopped playing; apparently it was break time. The bartender finished wiping the glass he was holding, and meandered over to Rita.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Hey, Bob, it’s me, Rita,” she laughed. Then, to further identify herself, she doffed the hat. “See?”
The portly bartender smiled when he realized who it was. “What are you doin’? Working undercover tonight, Rita?”
“Nah. I’m meeting a guy I met on the Internet,” said Valdez. “We’re both supposed to wear Yankee hats so we’ll know who we are. Have you seen anybody else with a baseball hat on?”
“I dunno,” replied the bartender. “I just came on a few minutes ago.” He smiled and looked down at his hands. “I’ve been cutting limes for the last ten minutes. Here, smell.” He held a large hand out for Rita to inspect.
Rita backed away instinctively. “Thanks,” she said. “I think I’ll pass.”
Just then, the back door opened. “Looks like your date just came in,” said Bob, nodding toward the rear of the bar.
Rita turned and looked at the fellow wearing the Yankees cap making his way toward her. An odd look crossed her face. The bartender noticed and inquired, “Anything wrong, Rita?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, somewhat distantly.
The stranger approached the two, slid onto the stool adjacent to Rita’s, and removed his cap. Reflexively, Rita removed her own, and stared in disbelief, with her mouth agape. I know him.
The man stared back at her. Then he smiled. “Is that you, Miss Valdez,” he asked. “You’re ‘Sexy39’?”
The bartender looked at the couple, each one staring at the other as if they’d seen a ghost, and then walked away shaking his head.
CHAPTER 62
7:20 p.m.
Davis picked up the telephone then put it down. He hesitated, then picked it up again, and dialed. He needed to get a picture of Richter, and Archbishop Romero could probably provide one without alerting the suspect priest. Matt dreaded this conversation, and began rehearsing it in his head as he waited for an answer. Archbishop Romero, this is Detective Davis, 10th Precinct. No, no, he thought, too cold. He tried another tack. Hello Archbishop, this is Matt Davis down at the Tenth Precinct. Who was he kidding? That’s way too familiar.
The archbishop picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Archbishop Romero, this is Detective Davis, Tenth Precinct,” said Matt, falling back on precedent. The cleric hesitated, unsure as to why the policeman would be calling at this hour of the day.
“Archbishop, are you there?” said Matt.
“Uh, yes, Detective. I’m here. What is it?” inquired Romero, a bit more abruptly than he intended.
“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, sir, but something has come up and—”
“No, no, it’s me who’s sorry,” the cleric apologized. “I didn’t mean to be so unfriendly. It’s just that you caught me a bit by surprise. It’s no bother at all, I assure you. But, what’s wrong?”
“Well, sir, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” said Matt.
“Not another murder?”
“No sir, thank God, not that. But, well, sir, I’m sorry to say that we believe we have a suspect.” Davis breathed a sigh of relief.
“So, that’s good news, right?” asked the archbishop.
“I’m afraid not, your holiness—“
“But, you said you had a suspect. I’m confused,” said Romero.
“Well, sir, we do have a suspect.” Davis took a deep breath. “I hate to have to say this—but we believe it may be Father Richter down at St. Jude, and we—”
“I’m sorry, but did you say Father Richter?” said Romero.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I did,” said Matt. “It’s a long story, but we believe he may be the man we’re looking for.” There, he thought, the ice was broken. There was no turning back.
“But—”
“Would you possibly have a photograph of him that we could borrow?” asked Matt.
“Well,” said the archbishop. “I don’t know if—”
“I know it’s hard to understand,” said Davis. “But, believe me, I wouldn’t call if we weren’t sure.”
There was a prolonged silence. The archbishop was obviously having trouble digesting the news. Matt pressed on. “About that picture,” he began.
“Yes, yes, by all means,” replied Romero. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d really like to get it tonight,” said Matt. Then, realizing he might be pressing a bit, he added, “That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“No, no. But, I’ll need a little time,” said the archbishop.
Matt looked at his watch, which showed seven-twenty. “Would a half hour be okay?” he asked.
“Yes, that would be fine,” answered Romero.
“Good,” said Matt. “I’ll explain everything when I see you.”
Davis hung up the phone, and stood up behind his desk. Suddenly he was very tired. He sat back down, and hunched over the wooden surface, his head in his hands. He stayed in that position for several minutes, until Freitag’s voice roused him from his reverie.
“Matt? Are you awake?”
Davis rubbed his eyes and sat up erect, stretching his arms above his head. “Yeah, yeah, I’m just a little tired,” he answered. “I got in touch with Romero. He’ll have a picture for us in half an hour.”
“Should I call the others?” asked Chris.
“Nah. Let’s not get everybody all excited yet. I want to see what happens when we start showing the picture around.”
“Good idea,” replied Freitag.
“We better get going,” said Matt.
The two men exited the building and headed for the archbishop’s office.
The ride over to the archdiocese took about ten minutes. Along the way, Chris could hardly contain his enthusiasm. Davis concentrated on driving, while his partner chattered away.
“The way I see it,” said Freitag. “It makes perfectly good sense. You know how screwed up all these priests are.” He talked about the subject as off-handedly as if he were discussing a baseball game. Davis maneuvered the car through the cross-town traffic with a skill born of nearly twenty years on the job. He answered his partner with a nod. Freitag continued. “I mean, it would explain the bibles and—”
“Chris,” said Matt. “I just played golf with this guy. I know it fits, but I just don’t get it.”
“Hey,” said Chris. “Bundy was a doctor, wasn’t he?” Then, unsure of his assertion, quickly added, “Or something like that. The point is—”
“What is the point?” asked Davis. He was trying to get a handle on this, and his partner’s observations weren’t making thi
ngs any easier for him.
“All I’m saying is that, why couldn’t it be him?”
Another nod from his partner told Freitag that Matt wasn’t in the mood for this discussion. Chris stopped talking and gazed out the window in silence. Five minutes later they approached the archdiocese. Matt clicked on the flashers, and double-parked alongside a white Cadillac.
“Let’s go,” he said, hurrying from the car. “I want to get this over with.”
Freitag followed his partner at a distance as the pair hurried toward the ornate entrance to the edifice. A white-haired priest who showed the pair to the archbishop’s office answered the doorbell’s ring almost immediately. Romero wore a grim look on his face as he greeted the two detectives. “Detective Davis,” he acknowledged.
“Archbishop,” replied Matt.
Davis wasted no time in getting right to the point. “I know it’s late, sir, and we don’t want to take up much of your time. So, do you have the picture?” asked Matt.
“Please, detective, first things first,” said Romero. He raised his right hand like a crossing guard. “You promised to explain.”
With a flourish of his other hand, he motioned the two detectives to a small table with several chairs around it. “Please, gentlemen, sit down.”
Freitag did as he was requested, and seated himself. Davis remained erect.
“I know this is hard to believe,” began Matt, “but, it all makes perfect sense.”
“Please, detective,” insisted Romero, “please sit down.”
Reluctantly, Matt seated himself, and continued. “You see, at each of the murder scenes, we found many sets of fingerprints.” The archbishop sat quietly, listening in stony silence.
“And,” he went on, “each time, all of the prints were accounted for—except for one set at each scene—those that we traced back to a Jack Curran.”
Romero looked puzzled. “But, what does that have to do with Father Richter?”
“Curran is Richter,” said Davis. “He changed his name when he became a priest.”
“And you think—”
“Yes, Father, we think that Monsignor Richter had the opportunity and the means to—”
This time it was the archbishop’s turn to interrupt. “To what? To murder?”
“Yes,” answered Matt.
“But why?” asked Romero.
“That’s the only thing we haven’t figured out yet,” answered Davis. “We know he was orphaned as a very young boy. We also know he got into some trouble in college. In fact, that’s how we found him.”
“What do you mean?” asked Romero.
“Well, when we ran a trace on the fingerprints, it turns out that he had beaten up his girlfriend back when he was a student at a college in Pennsylvania. There was a pre-trial intervention, and the records should have been expunged—”
“Then how—”
“But, there was some kind of screw up and…” Matt stopped, realized his mistake in using the vernacular, and corrected himself. “Excuse me, Father,” he smiled. “There was a foul up, and somehow the records remained on file. Otherwise we probably never would have found out.”
“I see,” said the archbishop, the sad facts finally sinking home.
“Anyway, everything fits,” said Matt. “Even the fact that Father Richter is left-handed.”
“That’s right,” interrupted Freitag. “Forensics says the killer is a lefty. Richter’s the one, alright.”
Davis gave his partner a look that said: Knock it off.
“What I mean,” said Chris, “is that it certainly looks that way. That’s all.”
Romero stood and walked over to his desk. “Here,” he said, sadly. “Here’s the picture. I’m afraid it’s not exactly the most flattering of pictures. I think it was taken about ten years ago. Do you think it will be sufficient?”
Matt looked at the picture. Although it showed Richter a bit younger than he currently appeared, it would probably do. “It’s fine, Father,” said Matt, accepting the photograph from Romero’s outstretched hand. “I wish I were wrong on this one. I actually enjoyed his company.”
“There are many mysteries to His way,” said the archbishop. “We shall see what we shall see.”
Davis patted the archbishop tenderly on the shoulder. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I wish it were someone else. I really do.”
Freitag lowered his eyes as he mumbled a quick goodbye to the archbishop. Together, he and Davis exited the office, leaving the forlorn archbishop standing silently in the middle of the room.
CHAPTER 63
8:07 p.m.
Rita stared at the man in the light tan jacket. The lighting barely illuminated his face, so she moved slightly closer to get a better look. Suddenly, it dawned on her. It was Father Pete.
“Oh, my God—Father Pete,” a look of astonishment crossing her face, “is that you?”
“I’m afraid it is,” he answered sheepishly, “and I’m more than a little embarrassed.”
Valdez shook her head back and forth. “No, no,” she said. “I’m the one who should be embarrassed. I thought you were…well…never mind.”
“I won’t tell, if you won’t tell,” quipped Richter. “But, seriously – you won’t say anything to anyone, will you?”
“I won’t tell a soul,” replied Rita. “Get it? A soul?” Richter frowned. “Okay – my bad,” she said. “So, now what?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, Miss Valdez, but I could really use a drink.”
Rita reflected on Father Pete’s offer. Why not? After all, he was only a man—and not a bad looking one at that. Take away the title, remove the collar, and beneath the clerical facade beat the heart of a red-blooded male, cloistered, perhaps, but a man nevertheless. She had always wondered what religious types did after dark, and now she knew—or, at least she knew what this one did. Rita decided to go wherever the evening took her. Besides, she reasoned, this man certainly wasn’t a killer—a little horny perhaps—but definitely not a threat to her.
Richter shuffled uncomfortably on the stool. Then, as if suddenly remembering why they were there, he blurted out, “So, how about a frozen Margarita?”
“I think I could really use one,” admitted Rita. She smiled warmly, and Father Pete relaxed a bit. God, she’s gorgeous, he thought.
“So, you’ve really got that computer thing going, huh, Miss Valdez?” He was obviously uncomfortable with what to call her.
“Father Pete,” she said, “Why don’t you just call me Rita. Never mind that Miss Valdez stuff. Okay?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. This was probably the most awkward situation in which Rita had ever found herself.
“Look,” said Richter, “this is probably a big mistake. Why don’t we just have that Margarita, and then I’ll see you home?”
They both turned toward the bartender, who, as if possessing a talent for reading peoples’ minds, moved toward them, ready to take their drink order. “Two frozen Margaritas,” said Father Pete.
“So, Rita, have you done this before?” he asked.
“You mean, meet with a stranger for a drink?”
Richter nodded.
“Well, to tell you the truth, no,” she replied. “At least, not for a very long time.”
The drinks arrived, and Richter took one and handed it to Rita. “So, what shall we toast to?” he asked, raising his glass.
“To silly blind dates!” said Rita.
“Better yet,” added Richter, “to the Internet!”
The mariachi band was starting to play again—a slow, sensuous melody that begged to be danced to. The couple sat quietly. Richter broke the awkward silence. “How about just one dance?” he asked.
Why not? The poor bastard probably hasn’t danced since high school. She stood, and extended her hand. “Okay, but just one,” she said. Richter took her hand in his, and gently guided Rita to the dance floor; she noticed his hands were sweating. “Don’t worry,” she said with a smile, “I won
’t bite. You can dance, can’t you?”
“Well, it has been a long time,” replied Richter.
Soon, they were dancing, the earlier awkwardness replaced by a growing familiarity. Bob, the bartender, watched them move around the dance floor, and thought they made a nice couple.
CHAPTER 64
7:41 p.m.
Davis held the photograph of the suspect loosely at his side, as he and Chris made their way to the car. Once inside, Chris tapped his fingers impatiently on the dashboard, waiting for his partner to speak.
“I doubt that we’re going to get an ID,” said Davis. “The only one who saw anything was that old lady next door to the Caruso apartment, and I really doubt that she’s credible. I say we pick up Richter now, and worry about the ID’s tomorrow.” Freitag knew his partner had good instincts. Besides the obvious evidence of the fingerprints, there was no doubting that Richter certainly had opportunity. After all, who wouldn’t let their neighborhood priest in?
“Oh, what the hell,” said Davis, glancing at his watch, “let’s show her the picture.”
“You got it!” said Chris.
In the first two minutes of the interview, the detectives learned the following: Mrs. Milam was a widow; had four children, and thirteen grandchildren; enjoyed Mahjong once a week; had recently lost twenty seven pounds; and hoped that she could help them “find that terrible man.”
Finally, Freitag had had enough. He placed his hand firmly on her somewhat flabby upper arm, and thrust the photograph in front of her face. “So, what do you think? Does this look like the man?” he asked.
The woman studied the picture carefully, all the while opening and closing her free hand nervously at her side. She frowned.
“What’s wrong?” asked Davis.
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 22
