ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel)

by Susan A Fleet

  “Why do you think the killer might be a cop?” Frank asked.

  “It’s the uniforms.” Norris flashed a condescending smile. “Young women tend to submit to authority figures in uniform.”

  No kidding. And plenty of women hit on cops. Frank knew this from personal experience. But that didn’t mean the serial killer was a cop.

  “Could be other reasons a young woman might let somebody in,” he said. “Maybe the killer disguises himself as a woman.”

  “Like the guy in Dressed to Kill?” Norris said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “You’re watching too many movies, Renzi.”

  “Yeah? Well, I guess I won’t be watching any this weekend.”

  He got up and left the office. Men like Norris always wanted the last word, but fuck that. Norris wanted him to sniff his dick, but he hadn’t done it yet and he didn’t plan to, not now, not ever.

  _____

  To work off the negative energy he power-walked the perimeter of the parking lot, arms pumping, angry thoughts churning his mind. During the second circuit he found himself wondering what Norris, a man in a too-tight collar, did in bed with his wife. Robo-sex by the rules, probably.

  He got in the Crown Vic and told himself to cool it. He couldn’t afford to alienate Norris. He needed this job, needed the money to pay Evelyn’s alimony and Maureen’s tuition, not to mention his own expenses. Even under the best of circumstances he hated taking orders. As a taskforce member, he was a tiny cog in a big machine. He wanted to drive the machine.

  Unfortunately, Norris was in the driver’s seat. But why?

  Cui bono? Who benefits? A question he’d often heard posed by his father, the Honorable Judge Salvatore Renzi, while seated on the bench of the Massachusetts State Court of Appeals.

  The benefit to Norris was a no-brainer: make a big splash and advance his career. The picture in his office said it all: a big golf trophy for Mr. Big Shot. For Norris, catching the sick fuck that got off on killing and mutilating women was a career move, not a passion. But Norris was a sprinter, with no stomach for a long investigation. Now that they had a fourth victim Norris was desperate to nail the killer.

  The more complicated question: Why put Norris in charge of the taskforce? First and foremost: to deal with the media. Turn on the cameras and Norris was Elliot Ness, fighter for justice, defender of women, community savior. Second, Norris followed the Ten Commandments of Law Enforcement: kick ass when you can, kiss ass when you can’t, and always play by the rules, a strategy that had won him the job of Assistant SAC in Atlanta.

  The third, and perhaps the most telling, reason: Norris surrounded himself with experts to plug the gaps in his knowledge. That was what this meeting had been about, Frank realized as Miller opened the car door. Norris had called him into his office to pick his brains and hear his theories, masking his true goal by having Miller in attendance.

  Miller winked at him and cranked the engine. “Wanna go catch a movie? I hear there’s a great thriller playing.”

  “The one where the killer’s a bad-ass black dude?”

  Miller uttered a mirthless chuckle and drove out of the parking lot. “Norris can be a real prick, can’t he?”

  “You think he’s a racist?”

  “Nothing overt,” Miller said as he jumped a yellow light and drove up a ramp to the I-10. “But I get certain vibes from time to time.”

  “He’ll never solve this case. He’s got no creativity, no gut-instinct. This killer is intelligent and well-organized. The sinner-message he leaves on the mirror is pure smoke screen. He’s no mission-killer, he’s a sexual predator, gets his jollies by terrorizing women.”

  “Folks are scared shitless, that’s for sure.”

  “All the victims were Catholic, right?”

  “Yeah.” Miller looked over, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

  “Did anybody interview their parish priests?”

  “NOPD didn’t, but the feds on the taskforce might have. If they did, the transcripts are in the murder book.” Miller shot him a grin. “Not that Norris is gonna let us local twerps read it.”

  Frank clenched his jaw. “Norris is an idiot. We have to find this guy pronto. He didn’t complete his ritual with Dawn Andrews, which means he’s pissed off and frustrated. He’ll do another one soon.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Saturday 7:25 A.M.

  Father Sean Daily slipped out the rear door of St. Elizabeth’s Church and strode down a cement walk to the rectory after finishing the early Mass in record time. Two more Masses this afternoon, and after today how many, he wondered as he entered the two-story cottage he’d called home for fourteen years. Other than a small pot belly, he was relatively fit for a man of sixty-two, but that didn’t count for much after last week’s news.

  The rich aroma of coffee drew him down a cool dark hall to the kitchen, a cheerful room with tall windows that glinted in the morning sun. Aurora stood at the counter buttering toast, his housekeeper for thirty years, accompanying him from one parish to the next. St. Elizabeth’s was his third, and probably his last.

  “Six people at the early Mass,” he said, taking his customary seat at the small antique-maple table by the window. “I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Because you’re a comfort to them.”

  She came to the table and patted his shoulder. A handsome woman with a gentle smile, warm brown eyes and an olive complexion, she wore her silvery-gray hair short in a feathery fringe around her face.

  “They’re old and hard of hearing. I doubt they even hear me.” He took a crumpled pack of Best Buys out of his pocket and lit a cigarette.

  “Sean, you’re supposed to quit. You know what the doctor said.”

  Of course he knew what the doctor said. Advanced prostate cancer. Limited treatment options. He refused to think about it. He had too many other worries, like the letter from New Hampshire that arrived last week. He’d almost thrown it away, but curiosity got the better of him. After reading the letter, he wished he had thrown it away.

  Aurora set mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of toast on the table. “I think you should go to Houston for a second opinion. Another doctor—”

  “You worry too much, Aurora.” He flashed the smile he used to charm his elderly parishioners, the wide Irish grin he used to persuade the few remaining wealthy families to contribute more generously to the church. “Whatever happens, happens.”

  “Don’t be saying it’s in God’s hands. You must take better care of yourself.”

  “You take care of me just fine.”

  A smile tugged at her lips as she spread strawberry jam on her toast. “All well and good, but you’re killing yourself with those cigarettes. The doctor said so.”

  He snubbed out the cigarette and reached for the newspaper, the stark front-page headline leaping out at him: NO LEADS IN FOURTH MURDER. A nasty business, best ignored. He located the puzzle page, took out a pencil and began the crossword.

  “What’s your schedule today?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with the deacons after lunch, a planning session for the annual fund-raiser.”

  “Money problems. Will they ever cease?”

  “Not unless we hit the lottery.” He watched her leave the table to fill a pitcher with cream, moving with a lithe grace, maintaining a trim figure at fifty-seven. Lord knows how. She was a fantastic cook: homemade jams, rich Cajun sauces, and the best seafood gumbo he’d ever tasted. Born and raised on the bayou, she came from Cajun-French stock, though her chiseled face hinted at Choctaw ancestors.

  He thought her the most beautiful women he’d ever known.

  “I need to review the financial statements,” he said, doodling dollar signs in the margin of the newspaper. “And visit Alphonse Landry in the hospital.” Seventy percent of his parishioners were seniors. The younger families had moved to the suburbs, and the elderly were dying off like Alphonse, eighty-two and in the last stages of cancer.

  “Do you think they’ll ever catch this horrible killer?�
�

  He set aside the crossword. With no close friends and no family, Aurora needed to talk. He was her closest companion, and after thirty years they shared a deep bond.

  “I hope they catch the bastard, put him in jail and lose the key.”

  Aurora’s eyes widened. “Sean!”

  “Well? I do. He’s a sick bastard.” He tapped the photographs on the front page of the Times-Picayune. “These girls were just starting out in life. They never had a chance.”

  “You’re thinking about Lynette,” Aurora said softly.

  “Of course. How could I not?” He massaged his eyes, visualizing the troubled young woman who’d poured her heart out to him. Her family had a lot of money, but that didn’t guarantee happiness. Or a peaceful family life.

  “It says in the paper her parents might hire one of those retired FBI profilers to find the killer.”

  FBI. His heart thumped his chest.

  “Sean, I think you should tell the police about that young priest, the one you saw talking to Lynette at the mall the day before she was murdered.”

  “It’s no crime to talk to a girl at a mall.”

  “I know, but you said he made a nasty comment to you about—”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie, Aurora.” He pushed back his chair. “I’d best get to work on the parish financial statements.”

  Aurora gave him a puzzled look as he left the table. Secrets, he thought with a pang of guilt as he entered his office and went to his desk. His yellow legal pad lay on top of the desk, full of doodles: swirls and circles and dollar signs. He tore off the top sheet and threw it in the wastebasket.

  July had been a bad month. First, the cancer diagnosis. Then the letter from New Hampshire. He had no idea what to do about it. The parish financial outlook was grim. He didn’t know what to do about that either. And if the Beauregards hired some FBI agent to find Lynette’s killer, the agent would come to St. Elizabeth’s and ask him a lot of questions, questions he didn’t want to answer. Worse, if some FBI agent dug into his past, he might find out Sean Daily wasn’t the man he pretended to be.

  _____

  This time when the sinner marched up to the hostess station, Roxy greeted him with a smile. He didn’t smile back. Why give her another opportunity to reject him? “I’d like the booth down there,” he said, pointing with his finger. “The one you gave me last time, beside the restroom.”

  Her smile faded to a sulky pout. “No problem, sir.”

  He followed her down the aisle, scanning the crowded restaurant. His groin ached with a fierce and desperate longing, but he saw no sign of Patti. What if she wasn’t here? God had presented him with another sinner. Completing the mission was his responsibility.

  He slid into the booth facing the service bar and saw a waitress come out of the kitchen. Was it Patti? No. The woman was taller than Patti. With unseeing eyes, he stared at the menu, his mind racing with dire possibilities. What if Patti was sick? What if she’d found a better paying job and quit?

  This morning he’d made himself do three dozen pushups, resisting the impulse to watch the news which was sure to be full of stories about Dawn. To no avail. Unable to resist, he had gone out and located Patti’s apartment, an ugly cement-block structure with no off-street parking. He left his car three blocks away and walked to her apartment, acting as if he knew exactly where he was going, which he did, climbing the stairs to the second floor, then to the third. He noted the time and returned to his car, avoiding eye contact with people along the way. The return trip had taken five minutes. If necessary, he could probably do it in two at a dead run.

  He set aside the menu and rubbed his eyes. The shameful urge had returned, invading his mind every waking moment, rendering him incapable of the simplest task. If Patti wasn’t here, how could he prepare for her Absolution? If only God would send him a sign . . .

  His heart surged as Patti hustled down the aisle, balancing two bottles of Abita beer on a tray. She stopped at the booth opposite his, took the couple’s order and turned to face him. Her mouth sagged open when she saw his Roman collar and short-sleeved black shirt.

  Sweat dampened his armpits. “Hi Patti, how are you today?”

  “I didn’t know you were a priest.” She seemed flustered, staring at him, wide-eyed, her face flushed. “Last time you were here you didn’t . . .”

  He smiled to ease her discomfort. “Sometimes I wear civvies.”

  “Gee, I would never have guessed you were a priest.” She giggled, covering her mouth to hide her buck teeth. “I mean, you look so young.”

  She seemed disappointed, which rather pleased him. If he was a priest, she couldn’t fantasize about seducing him. Well, she could, but she would feel guilty about it.

  “I came in so we could talk, Patti. About your situation.”

  After a nervous glance around the crowded restaurant, she said, “Uhh, that’s nice, but we’re real busy on Saturdays.”

  “Okay, tell you what, let’s talk after you get off work. Are you working late tonight?”

  “Till midnight. What did you want to talk about, Father?”

  Your sinful ways, Patti. I want you to tell me about all those men you tempted.

  “Your financial situation. You need money for nursing school and my dad—” The word stuck in his throat. Never in his life had he called that monster “dad.” He began again. “I know some businessmen, Patti, and I think I can help you find a better job.”

  “Well . . .” She shifted her feet and tucked her bottom lip under her snow-plow front teeth.

  “Are you working late tomorrow?” His groin throbbed with a pounding erection. Please don’t be working late tomorrow.

  “Uh, not tomorrow. I’m off at seven on Sundays.”

  “Perfect. Let’s meet tomorrow night. Eight-thirty, say?”

  “But I don’t have a car and the buses—”

  “No problem. I make house calls.”

  “Oh. Okay, Father . . . ?” She looked at him expectantly.

  Elation surged through his body, a swift infusion of heat that stiffened his erection. He smiled, gazing at her with wide-eyed innocence.

  “My friends call me Father John.”

  She recited her address and added apologetically, “I hope you don’t mind the stairs, Father John. I live on the third floor.”

  _____

  To the tune of Sinead O’Connor’s plaintive voice, Frank finished his corned beef and cabbage dinner. Irish comfort food, his mother called it. He ate at the Hibernia Diner at least once a week, sitting alone in a window booth with shamrock-green plastic seats.

  With no woman to confide in, he had to settle for corned beef, not bad, but not as good as his mother’s. Colleen Sullivan Renzi, dead five years now, and he still missed her. She had always been his emotional anchor, never judging or telling him what to do, the perfect sounding board.

  Sinead finished singing and Irish fiddle music erupted from the speakers as a young guy with a ponytail fed quarters into a jukebox at the far end of the room. The diner was built like a railroad car, the entry door bisecting a row of booths overlooking the parking lot, all but two—his and Ponytail’s—empty now that the dinner rush was over. Along the counter to his left, two older men in plaid shirts were gabbing over coffee and pecan pie.

  He drank some Harp ale and took out his notepad. Earlier he had phoned the third victim’s parents to obtain the name of her parish priest. When he identified himself, Lynette Beauregard’s mother asked if he’d found her daughter’s killer. When he said he hadn’t, her initial euphoria morphed into tears. After giving him the priest’s name, Father Sean Daily, she had begged him to find the killer, a heartbroken woman, grieving for a daughter who’d been murdered one week shy of her twenty-first birthday.

  His daughter was only three years older, living alone in a strange city. What would he do if Maureen were murdered? His throat constricted. For twenty years they’d been as close as a father and daughter could be, but after Evelyn filed for divor
ce and dropped the adultery bombshell, a chasm deeper than the Grand Canyon had opened between them.

  He couldn’t begin to count the times he’d heard grief-stricken parents tell him they never got the chance to tell their kids they loved them: gunshot victims, car crashes, drug overdoses, it didn’t matter. Every parent wanted to say a last goodbye to the kid they loved more than anything in the world.

  On impulse, he took out his cellphone, punched in Maureen’s number and waited, hoping he wouldn’t get her machine. He didn’t want to leave a message. The last time he did—a month ago—she hadn’t called back.

  His pulse quickened when she answered. “Hey Mo, how you doing?” he said, picturing her long chestnut-brown hair and her emerald-green eyes.

  “Oh hi, Dad. I’m okay, how are you?” she said, her tone distant.

  “Ah, the usual. You know, busy, but I was thinking about you and decided to call you on the spur of the moment,” he finished lamely. Why was he apologizing for calling her?

  “Mmm, well, I’m pretty busy too.” The line crackled with silence.

  He drained the last of his Harp ale. “I miss you, Mo, haven’t seen you since Christmas. How about coming down for a weekend? I’ll pay your airfare.” He put his heart and soul into it, hoping she’d agree.

  More silence. He realized someone was standing beside his booth, his waitress, a young woman with a curvy figure and long brown hair.

  “How about another Harp?” she said, chewing gum, gazing at him, her eyes bright with interest. She angled her jaw, snapped the gum.

  He shook his head and motioned for the check.