“I can’t, Dad. I don’t get much time off, and when I do, I go to the riding rink.”
He scratched his jaw, wanted to say: You’d rather spend time with horses than with your father. But he didn’t. Hell, he wasn’t going to beg.
“How about dessert?” said Gum Girl, sending a clear invitation with her flirty eyes. Pop! went the gum. He almost laughed. He was horny as hell, but a gum chewer? She couldn’t be over twenty-five, probably listened to Garth Brooks, didn’t know Billie Holliday from Billy the Kid. If they wound up in bed, what would they talk about afterwards?
“Dad? Listen, I have to go get my laundry out of the dryer.”
“Mo, hold on a second.” He covered the phone with his hand and said to the waitress, “No dessert, thanks, just the check.” A headache was building behind his eyes. He got back on the phone. “Sorry, Mo, I’m in a restaurant, got interrupted.”
“Have you talked to Mom lately?”
Mom. The bone of contention. “Yeah, she called me last night.”
In fact, Evelyn had jolted him awake at two A.M. It had taken him twenty minutes to calm her fears and convince her some rapist wasn’t about to climb in a window and attack her.
“We’ve got Key Lime pie,” said Gum Girl, putting her hand on her hip, smiling at him. “It’s the best in town. Our pastry chef makes it.”
“Maybe you could call her sometimes, Dad.”
“Mo, hold on, okay?” His gut roiled with acid. He counted to five and said to the waitress, “I don’t want dessert. I don’t want Key Lime pie. What I want is the check, got that?”
“Whatever,” said Gum Girl, her eyes suddenly frosty. She slapped his check on the table, flounced down the aisle to the booth by the jukebox and began talking to Ponytail.
“Sorry, Mo. The waitress wanted to sell me some pie and—”
“Dad, if I don’t go get my laundry they’ll dump it on the floor. I really have to go. But thanks for calling.”
Meaning: Go fuck yourself.
“Right,” he said, “talk to you later.”
He punched off, hurt and disappointed and, he had to admit, angry. Maureen had no right to blame him for the divorce. She had no idea what the problems were. Evelyn had wrapped it in a neat package: adultery. As if that explained everything.
He drove home to his apartment, his heart a lump of lead in his chest. But he couldn’t stay angry at Maureen. She was the innocent bystander. He dropped his keys on the coffee table and wandered to the bookcases on the wall opposite the sofa. Bracketed by freestanding stereo speakers, they held his books and his ridiculously large CD collection. Before moving to New Orleans, he’d converted his vinyl to CDs but kept the record jackets. Jammed into the bottom shelves of two bookcases, they reflected his music preferences: jazz instrumentals, except for Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, a few oldies by Frank Sinatra and several classical recordings.
Other shelves held paperback thrillers, books on jazz, biographies of jazz players, and hardcover tomes on criminal psychology, but his most cherished possessions—photographs—stood on top of the shelves: Maureen at ten, atop a chestnut mare, beaming with joy at her first riding lesson; another six years later when she won the riding competition for her age group. His favorite: Maureen with her arm around him at her college graduation, both of them beaming, thrilled that she’d been accepted to John’s Hopkins med school. Taken one month before Evelyn filed for divorce.
His computer and file cabinets were in the spare room upstairs, along with an extra bed in case Maureen came to visit. Maybe someday they would regain the closeness they’d shared for twenty years. But judging from tonight’s conversation, it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. That left work.
He got on the phone and called Kenyon Miller.
“Hey Frank, what’s up? No date on a Saturday night?”
“Nah, I’m saving myself for the right woman.” After Miller’s guffaw died away, he said, “Do you know a Catholic priest named Sean Daily?”
“I know the name, not much else. Why?”
“He was Lynette Beauregard’s parish priest and I want to talk to him. He’s at St. Elizabeth’s near South Carrolton.”
“I think Charlie Malone goes to St. Elizabeth’s. He’s a rookie, just joined NOPD last year. I’ll dig up his number if you want.”
“That’d be great. Did you get a sketch artist to work with Kitty?”
“Yeah, Monica said she could do it Monday afternoon at one. I didn’t tell her it’s related to the serial killer case.”
Frank fingered the jagged scar on his chin. On his sixth birthday the kid next door had dared him to ride his new bike down a steep hill no-hands, a thrilling trip that ended when the bike hit the curb and pitched him headfirst into a stone wall. The doctor that sewed up his chin had told him he was lucky he didn’t break his jaw. Living dangerously, then and now. They were skating on thin ice, not telling Norris about Kitty.
“You think Rona will keep her mouth shut?” he asked.
“She’s got a rep, you know, super-intense, won’t take no for an answer, but as far as I know she’s a straight shooter.”
“I hope so,” he said. “If she burns us, we’re in trouble.”
CHAPTER 5
Sunday night at eight-thirty, carrying his tools in a satchel, the sinner walked three blocks to Patti’s apartment, anticipating his little Iowa farm girl’s eager welcome, and her confession, a long litany of sexual sins. Somewhere off in the distance a dog barked, yap-yap-yap, agitating the steamy night air. A pale yellow moon shone down on her ugly cement-block building, and lights glowed behind a curtain in the first floor apartment.
Silent and stealthy, he crept up to the third floor and tapped on her door, his pulse pounding, his groin throbbing with desire.
The door swung open two inches, halted by a safety chain, and Patti peered through the crack. “Hi, Father John, just a minute.”
The door closed, a chain rattled, and the door swung open, emitting cool air and the faint odor of fried fish. And the awesome sight of Patti’s bosom, straining the pearl buttons on her blouse. Baring her buck teeth in an apologetic smile, she waved him inside. “You can’t be too careful these days, Father John, not with a serial killer on the loose.”
The insatiable ache in his groin became a pounding need. Encased in a surgical glove, his right hand tightened around the cylinder of mace. While Patti fussed with the door locks, he watched a pair of goldfish swim circles in a glass globe on top of her bookcase. How sweet. His Iowa farm girl liked little creatures. Then he saw the paperback novel beside the goldfish bowl, a man and a woman locked in a sinful embrace on the cover.
Patti had been studying, learning new ways to seduce men.
The instant she turned away from the door he sprayed her with the mace. She doubled over in a spasm of coughing, hands to her face, choking, then gasping for breath. He set his satchel on the floor, bent down to open it and took out the plastic handcuffs. Without warning, she attacked him, slamming her knee into the groin. The pain shocked him, radiating upward into his gut, a crimson haze of agony that almost made him vomit.
How dare she? Furious, he punched her mouth.
She fell to the floor, and her head hit the bookcase with a dull thump. She lay there, stunned, moaning and licking her bloodied lip.
Needles of pain stung the fingers of his right hand, where drops of blood oozed from cuts on his knuckles. Her buck teeth had punctured the surgical glove. He knelt beside the satchel, searching for a new pair of gloves, half-turned when he saw motion out of the corner of his eye.
She lunged at him, beating him with her fists. “Get out of here, you monster!”
He scuttled away. How could this dumpy little farm girl could put up such a fight? Her fierce resistance threw him into a panic. He needed a weapon. The goose-necked lamp on the table by the couch? No, too far away. Closer by on the bookcase were two brass bookends in the shape of horse heads. He reached out and grabbed the one beside a book whose title,
he realized in a sudden flash of insight, was Tai Kwon Do.
Patti was on her hands and knees, wheezing, struggling to her feet. His heart pounded as if it would burst. He clubbed her with the brass bookend, striking the side of her head as hard as he could. She collapsed on the rug and began to moan, lowing softly like a cow. Her eyes were open but unfocussed, with a glazed look in them.
Breathing in ragged gasps, he wiped his sweaty forehead on his shirtsleeve, conscious now of the disgusting odor of fried fish. His stomach roiled and bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard. Concentrate! Focus!
He would not allow this little slut to defeat him. He removed pre-cut strips of duct tape from the satchel and slapped them over her mouth. Oddly, that seemed to revive her. She screamed, but the tape muffled the sound. He straddled her, placing his knees on either side of her waist.
Her hate-filled eyes settled on his face. She raised her hands, fingers forming into claws, and raked his neck with her nails. Enraged, he grabbed the bookend and slammed it down on her head. Her hands flopped to the floor like a pair of dead fish. She lay motionless, eyes closed, blood oozing from her lip, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Still alive.
The telephone rang, shattering the silence.
Someone had heard the noise. His heart raced out of control, hammering his chest. He counted the rings . . . six, seven. Then, silence.
His shoulders sagged in relief. He wanted to run away, wanted to leave this revolting apartment that stank of fish and escape this deceitful little slut. But he couldn’t. She had seen his face. With grim determination, he bound her wrists together with the plastic handcuffs, pulled off her Nikes and her knee-highs, then her jeans, and bound her ankles with the plastic cuffs.
His legs felt like jelly as he struggled to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he grasped her ankles and dragged her into the hall. Her head thumped off the carpet onto the wood floor. He hauled her down the hall to a bedroom with hideously striped wallpaper. A maple dresser stood against one wall, a narrow bed covered with a white sheet against the other. A red-plastic milk crate served as a bedside table. The digital alarm clock on the crate said: 8:54.
He stared at it, amazed. Patti had fought him for twenty minutes. But he had prevailed. Now he would make her confess her sins and administer her punishment. With a mighty heave he hoisted her small but compact body onto the bed, grunting from the effort. She lay motionless, eyes closed, her breathing shallow as he bound her wrists and ankles to the bed frame.
He returned to the living room to retrieve his tools. The goose-neck lamp lay on the floor, knocked over in the struggle he supposed. He hadn’t noticed. With his gloved hand, he set the lamp on the end table, grabbed the satchel and returned to the bedroom. His groin stirred with excitement as he took out the shears. At this point, he usually cut off their underwear, but Patti was in a stupor. That wouldn’t do. She had to be awake for her confession. He wanted to see the repentance in her eyes, and the terror.
His groin stirred in anticipation. He went across the hall to her bathroom, ran cold water in the sink and let it flow over his throbbing knuckles. After the initial sting, the chill soothed the pain. He dried his gloved hands with a hand towel and used it to mop the reddish-brown blood stains off the sink. Then he soaked the towel in cold water and returned to the bedroom.
He dripped cold water on Patti’s face, and her eyes snapped open, hazel eyes, alert and angry. “Time for you to confess your sins, Patti.”
She made angry sounds in her throat, as if she were shouting.
He picked up the garden shears. Should he cut off her panties or her bra to expose her breasts? Such thoughts usually brought an instant erection, but now he felt nothing, his cock hung limp and useless inside his trousers. He couldn’t even masturbate. How could he expose himself to those baleful eyes, staring at him with such loathing.
“Lmmmgo!” she screamed through the duct tape, eyes blazing with fury.
Why wouldn’t she follow the script?
Infuriated, he grabbed a pillow and jammed it down on her face. Her body bucked and heaved so violently he almost fell off the bed. He put his knee on the pillow and ground it against her nose and mouth to punish her.
But not over her eyes. He loved watching their eyes.
She glared at him, red-faced, straining against the plastic ropes that bound her wrists. He pressed harder, watching the expression in her eyes change: fury and anger at first, then fear and desperation. The digits on her bedside clock clicked: one minute, then two, then three. Her body went limp, but he didn’t trust her. She had fooled him once, pretending to be a helpless Iowa farm girl. She wouldn’t fool him again.
Four minutes later he tossed the pillow on the floor. Like a zombie, he completed his chores, removing all evidence of his presence, dropping the bookend and the towel into his satchel. On the bathroom mirror, he printed his message in coral-pink lipstick and returned to the bedroom.
Patti’s face was cyanic-red, twisted in a grotesque grimace.
Dispassionate and methodical, he ripped the tape off her mouth, pulled out her tongue, and cut off the tip. Dropped it in the jar of alcohol. Screwed on the lid. Placed the jar in his satchel.
But he took no pleasure in it. This Absolution had brought no satisfaction, no spasm of release. Patti had defeated him. Unacceptable.
The other sinful sluts out there wouldn’t know she had defeated him, but still . . . Maybe he’d add a new twist to scare them. After completing the task, he went to the door, undid the security chain and cracked open the door, ears tuned to the slightest sound. He heard nothing.
Leaving the door ajar, he hurried down the stairs.
But when he reached the bottom step he heard a door-chain rattle.
His heart jolted. In a burst of speed, he hurried down the narrow cement walkway toward the sidewalk.
“Father?” a woman’s voice called. “Is something wrong?”
Don’t turn around you idiot! screamed the voice in his mind. Keep going!
He lengthened his stride, almost to the sidewalk now, clenching his fists, flinching as pain stabbed the knuckles of his right hand.
“Father?” the voice called again.
Clutching the satchel in his left hand, his unwounded hand, he reached the sidewalk and ran, not daring to turn and see if the woman followed. The sidewalk ahead was deserted. But the woman had seen him. And his Roman collar. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have called him Father.
But had she seen his face?
Stupid! You made too many mistakes.
Damn Patti to hell!
This Absolution had been a disaster from start to finish.
CHAPTER 6
Monday 1:15 P.M.
“Thanks for helping out on such short notice,” Frank said, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, already sweating as they stood on the sidewalk outside Kitty’s house. “When can you get the sketch to me?”
Monica brushed strands of frizzy carrot-red hair away from her face. “By tomorrow for sure. Once I add the finishing touches I’ll fax it to you.” She turned toward her car. “Should I fax a copy to Detective Miller?”
Frank glanced at Rona, standing beside him, hoping she wouldn’t ask for a copy too. Miller was covering their assignment—re-interview Dawn Andrews’ coworkers at Hollywood Video—until Frank got there.
“No need to do that,” he said, “I’ll see that he gets a copy.”
Rona thrust a business card at Monica. “Can you fax me a copy?”
“Sure, no problem.” Monica took the card and climbed into her car.
Seething with anger, he waited until Monica drove away, then said, “None of this is for publication, Rona, and that includes the sketch.”
“Are you going to give it to Norris?”
“Not yet. We don’t know this guy is the killer.”
“Bullshit. Norris can’t wait to arrest another black man and convict him of these murders. You want them to railroad another innocent black man like t
hey did my father?”
“Rona, you saw the composite Monica did. It’s worthless, and so is Kitty’s description of the john. Besides, I have to check Kitty’s story, and I haven’t had time. We’re flat out on this fourth murder.”
Rona gave him an icy smile. “Okay, Frank, suit yourself.”
Ruing his involvement with her, he got a bad feeling in his gut as she climbed into her Neon and drove off. He should have heeded Miller’s words: Get a reporter on your ass, nothing but trouble ahead.
His cellphone chimed. He punched on and heard Miller say, “He got another one. They found her an hour ago, posed in bed, tongue cut. Better get your ass over here. Got a new wrinkle this time, not that Norris will be talking about it in his press briefing. The killer left a message on the body.”
“What did it say?”
“Catch me if you can. Norris went ballistic when he heard.”
“I’ll bet he did. Who’s the woman?”
“Patti Cole, lives in Metairie near the Best Buy on Vets Boulevard.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
_____
A traffic jam on the I-10 delayed him and it was almost two when he arrived at Patti Cole’s apartment in his Mazda 626, the car he’d driven down from Boston that now had more than 95,000 miles on it. Miller was waiting for him in the Crown Vic, as jazzed as a racehorse in the starting gate.
“The forensics team found blood under her fingernails. Get the DNA analysis, run it through CODIS, we’ll nail the son of a bitch!”
Frank knew the feeling, the euphoric rush cops got when a lead surfaced on a tough case. But a DNA sample was useless if they didn’t get a hit on CODIS, the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System that collected DNA profiles of criminals from police agencies nationwide. Or match it to a suspect. Sometimes nailing a killer boiled down to luck. Or a gut feeling.
“She fought him,” he said, imagining how helpless she must have felt, her growing desperation. “That’s not in his script so he’s angry. Two vics in a row didn’t go the way he wanted. He’ll do another one soon.”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 5
