ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel)

by Susan A Fleet

  Now, she gave him the finger, and a sardonic smile.

  “Maybe I’ll find your soul mate in the can,” he said.

  “Eeeewwww!” Her cackling laugh followed him through a door with a frosted glass window and into the hall that led to the officers’ lounge, the restrooms, and Captain Roy Dupree’s office.

  He tapped on Dupree’s door and heard him call: “Come in.”

  A beefy man with a ginger-brown mustache and acne-scarred cheeks, Dupree had logged twenty-five years with NOPD, had made Captain by dint of hard work and a knack for keeping the top brass happy. But maintaining morale among the rank-and-file was important, too.

  Dupree’s eyes grew wary as Frank approached his desk. He smoothed his moustache and attempted a smile. “Hey, Frank, what’s up?”

  “Roy, I hate to bother you, but I need a couple of personal days. Thursday and Friday, be back ready to go on Monday.”

  “Look, I know you hate riding the desk, but—”

  “No, no. It’s not that, I just—”

  “Frank, the desk duty wasn’t my idea. Norris badmouthed you to the Super. I’m just following orders. Give Norris a week to cool off and you’re back on the street. You’re one of my best detectives.”

  “I appreciate that, Roy. I know it wasn’t your idea. Norris can be a pain sometimes, but he’s catching a lot of heat. It’s just a case of, you know, kick the dog.” He grinned. “Woof woof, I’m the dog.”

  Dupree laughed. “Exactly right, Frank. I knew you’d understand.”

  “The personal leave has nothing to do with the desk duty.”

  Dupree’s smile disappeared. “So? What is it, then?”

  “It’s my daughter. She’s finishing med school up in Baltimore and she has to pick her specialty.” He pulled a long face. “Roy, I need to go up there and talk to my kid.”

  “Geez, I didn’t know you had a daughter in med school.”

  “She’s the smart one in the family. Smarter than her old man.”

  Dupree laughed again, until Frank’s cellphone chimed.

  He checked the caller-ID. “Sorry, Roy. I have to take this.”

  Dupree looked at him, clearly not pleased.

  He answered, heard Rona say in a voice tinged with alarm, “Where the hell is Kenyon? I called him four times. He’s not answering his phone.”

  Aware that Dupree was listening, he said, “You got a problem?”

  “Some asshole sent me a dead bird and a nasty note. I’d call that a problem.”

  “Hold on.” He covered the phone so Rona couldn’t hear. “It’s my daughter, Roy. Mind if step out in the hall? It’ll only take a second.”

  Dupree’s mouth quirked in annoyance. “Okay, but make it quick.”

  He went out in the hall, shut the door, and said to Rona in a low voice, “Who else knows you got it?”

  “No one, but—”

  “Don’t show it to anyone. I can’t get away right now. Meet me at six o’clock.” Mindful of Norris’ admonition not to talk to her, he chose a clandestine location. “Top deck of the Lakeside Mall garage. Bring the bird and the note, and make damn sure nobody follows you.”

  He punched off and stepped back into Dupree’s office, hoping the interruption hadn’t killed his chances for the personal days.

  With a weary sigh, Dupree handed him a request form. “Get this back to me ASAP, and make sure you’re here Monday morning ready to go.”

  “You got it, Roy. Thanks a lot. I owe you one.”

  _____

  As soon as Sean left the rectory Aurora hurried to his office. She felt guilty, sneaking in here while he was out, but she was frightened. Sean, the love of her life, was wanted for murder. Sunday afternoon he had looked her in the eye and sworn he hadn’t done it. She believed him, but others might not. The federal warrant was still outstanding, Sean said.

  She opened a desk drawer and found the sketch where Sean had told her he’d hidden it. It looked a lot more lifelike than the one in the newspaper, especially with the Roman collar. She went to the antiquated copier in the corner, turned it on and waited for it to warm up, hoping it would behave. The machine broke down more often than it ran.

  When the green light came on, she lay the sketch face down on the glass and hit Start. After an interminable wait, the machine clicked and whirred and churned out a copy. She returned the original to its hiding place, took an envelope and a felt-tipped pen out of Sean’s desk, went to the kitchen and sat at the table beside the window.

  According to Sean, Frank Renzi was the only one that knew about the sketch. Frank seemed like a nice man, but still . . . . Using Sean’s felt-tipped pen, she added tiny wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and darkened the hair. Now it wasn’t an exact copy of Sean’s. If she sent one that looked a bit different to Rona Jefferson, no one could blame Sean.

  Sean said Krauthammer had threatened him, hinting he might tell the Archbishop about their relationship. Did the sketch really look like him, she wondered. The no-good priest probably murdered those girls, too. Maybe she should put his name on the sketch. It would serve him right.

  _____

  Iron-gray clouds loomed over the Lakeside Mall at six o’clock when Frank drove up to the roof of the parking garage. Rona’s lime-green Neon stood at the end of a row, vacant. He parked beside it, got out and leaned against his car, facing a Dillard’s entrance. His shirt clung to his back from the relentless heat and humidity. Maybe the storm would bring cooler air.

  Rona pushed through a glass door onto the landing outside Dillard’s and descended the stairs, dressed in business attire, a turquoise blouse and gray slacks. She paused to light a cigarette, puffing it as she snaked through two rows of parked cars to meet him. Not happy, judging by her expression.

  After a curt greeting, she unlocked her car and gestured for him to get in. The interior stank of stale cigarettes and fried food, crumpled Burger King wrappers on the console between the seats. She cranked the engine, turned the A/C on high and cool air blasted through the vents.

  “It’s back there.” She jerked a thumb at a trash bag on the back seat.

  He put on latex gloves, pulled the trash bag onto his lap and took out a long white florist’s box, the type used to hold long-stemmed roses.

  “Who delivered it?”

  She gazed at him, her large dark eyes grim and resentful. “I don’t know. Someone left it with the Clarion-Call security guard. Sam gave it to me when I left last night. He’s the night man. I didn’t open it till I got home.”

  Frank examined the box. No name on the glossy white exterior. Taking care not to smudge any fingerprints, he removed the cover. A note sat atop green tissue paper, cut-out letters pasted onto a sheet of unlined white paper.

  RONA JEFFERSON is a SINNER and a LIAR

  The TONGUE KILLER is not a priest

  He is the BLACK KNIGHT

  No one can stop his BLACK MAGIC

  BLACKBIRD sings BLACKBIRD dies

  He analyzed the wording. Sinner, like the message on each victim’s mirror. The Tongue Killer is not a priest. An emphatic denial of Rona’s killer-priest theory. Was Black Knight a reference to race?

  The last line was crystal clear: Blackbird sings, blackbird dies

  “Blackbird,” Rona said angrily. “Get it?”

  It was a blackbird all right, extra large with gobs of dried blood on its feathers. He didn’t need a forensic pathologist to tell him there was a bullet in its gut. “Rona, we have to give this to Norris.”

  She plucked the note from his hand, killed the engine and opened her door. “Okay, you’ve seen the damn thing. Let’s get some air.”

  He got out and leaned against the hood of the Neon, hearing the sound of distant thunder. Off to the southwest, lightning zigzagged across an ominous dark sky. After a moment Rona joined him, clutching the note in her hand. Her eyes were squinty and a muscle jumped in her jaw.

  “Norris needs to see the note.” He reached for it, but she backed away in a nervous shuffle
, taking jerky puffs on her cigarette. She dropped the butt on the cement and squashed it under her shoe.

  “No way. Did you read the damn thing? Black magic? Black knight? Dead blackbird? This just feeds into Norris’ black-killer theory.”

  “I don’t think the killer’s black.”

  “You think the killer sent it.” Her face was a dark, stubborn mask.

  “Don’t you?” he said, and flinched at a loud clap of thunder.

  “You think Norris is the only one in town that hates niggazzzz? Drive around and count the Confederate flags outside the houses. This isn’t the first hate mail I’ve gotten and it won’t be the last.”

  “Rona, the killer sent it and you know it. He cut the letters out of a newspaper. The forensic techs might be able to lift prints off the note—”

  “And they might not! Didn’t find any prints at the murder scenes, did they?” She set her jaw. “I’m not giving it to that redneck racist.”

  He spread his hands in a disarming gesture. “Show me the note, okay? I don’t need to hold it. Just show it to me.” Just come close enough for me to grab it.

  She held it out an arm’s length away, tantalizingly beyond reach.

  “The note is evidence, Rona. We have to give it to Norris.”

  She backed away, scowling, ready to bolt if he made a move.

  “No. He’ll just give it to the media to prove his black-killer theory.”

  She took a cigarette and a Bic lighter out of her pants pocket. Her hand was trembling. She was scared, he realized, convinced, as he was, that the killer had murdered Kitty to shut her up, thinking she might be next.

  “Take it easy, Rona.”

  She backed away, put the cigarette between her lips and flicked the lighter. Expecting her to light the cigarette, he let down his guard, got the shock of his life when she touched the flame to the note and darted behind his car, waving the note to fan the orange-red flames.

  Within seconds the note burned to within an inch of her fingers, edges curling as the flames devoured them and turned them to gray ash. She let the ash flutter to the cement, ground it to dust with her foot and came toward him, her eyes shiny with tears. Her thin frame shuddered. Hugging her arms to her chest, she sagged against the front fender of his car.

  “I understand how you feel about Norris, but this killer is fucking with you, Rona. He’s playing mind games.”

  A sob caught in her throat and she blinked back tears.

  “Norris and I disagree on a lot of things,” he said. The understatement of the century. “The note and the bird give me all the more reason to believe Kitty’s story. When you went public with the killer-priest theory, you hit a nerve. The note is just a smokescreen.”

  Two young women came out of Dillard’s, descended the stairs and approached them, hurrying as a few raindrops spattered the cement. Fearing they might recognize Rona, he stepped in front of her and stood with his back to the women until an engine roared and a dark-green SUV drove off.

  Rona lit a cigarette. “You gonna tell Norris I burned it?”

  Good question. If Norris found out she’d burned the note, he would charge her with evidence tampering and crucify Frank Renzi for letting her do it. Another rules violation, one he wasn’t about to admit to Rona.

  “You could be in danger,” he said. “Have you got a friend you can bunk with for a while?”

  “I’ll be okay.” She squared her shoulders, but he saw fear in her eyes.

  “Do you live by yourself?”

  “Yeah, but my neighborhood’s tight. I have friends there.”

  “Okay, but find another topic for your columns, okay?”

  “Fuck that! I’m not gonna let Norris convict another innocent black man for these murders.”

  Another innocent black man. Suddenly, everything clicked. This wasn’t about race; it was about Rona’s father, a black man who’d been executed for a murder he didn’t commit. When DNA evidence later proved another man had done the deed, Rona had begun her crusade. But protecting innocent black men from a racially biased justice system was only a secondary goal. Rona was still trying to save her father, a mission that could never succeed. A mission that could get her killed.

  “I still think you should check into a hotel.”

  “Let some asshole force me out of my own house? No way. Besides, I feel safe there. We’ve got patrols guarding the neighborhood.”

  Lightning flashed, followed by a loud thunderclap, and fat raindrops splattered the concrete. He went to the passenger door of her Neon. “Rona, he killed Kitty. You could be next. I’m giving the bird to Norris.”

  “No you’re not,” she said, smirking when he tried the door and found it locked. “Norris wouldn’t do anything with it anyway. If anyone starts talking about me getting a threatening note and a dead blackbird, it’s on you, Frank. I’ll blast you in my column.”

  Not what he needed. And she was right. If the reporters got wind of this, they’d be on it like wolves on a gopher, turn it into a circus. He didn’t want to be responsible for that, didn’t need more grief from Rona, either.

  “Norris won’t hear about it from me. He threw me off the taskforce, got my boss to put me on desk duty.”

  Rona’s eyes widened. “Damn! I’m sorry, Frank. You’re a good cop.” She frowned. “What about Kenyon? Is he off the case, too?”

  “No, but he’s got a minder. Special Agent Costanza Rojas.” Miller kept his cellphone on Vibrate when Rojas was with him. Frank left messages on his voice-mail and Miller called back when he wasn’t with her, usually from the men’s room.

  “So that’s why he didn’t call me back.”

  Frank grinned. “How come I’m always your second choice?”

  Her eyes shifted, avoiding his gaze.

  “Rona, this killer is ruthless. Yesterday I read Kitty’s autopsy report. The killer knocked her out, shoved an ice pick or something into her ear canal and pierced her brain. Not a nice way to go. I want you to check into a hotel. And I still think you should give the bird to Norris.”

  She raised her chin, stubborn to the end. “The bird goes in my freezer. Anything happens to me, tell them where to find it. Tell Norris to collect DNA from every white priest. That’s what will find your killer.”

  Frank shrugged. He was in no position to tell Norris anything.

  Rain began falling in earnest. Soon it would be a deluge. He opened his car door. “Rona, if you get any more threats, call me.”

  She met his gaze. “Thanks for understanding, Frank.”

  He nodded gravely. “No problem. Take care of yourself.”

  _____

  Thursday morning at ten past six, Frank huddled beside a window inside the gate area at Louis Armstrong Airport and jammed his cellphone against his ear to blot out the PA system announcements.

  “Sorry to call you so early, Kenyon, but someone sent Rona a dead blackbird, gut-shot.”

  “Jesus!”

  “And a threatening note. Blackbird sings, blackbird dies.”

  “Fuck all!”

  “Rona thinks it came from some racist that doesn’t like her columns.” In the background he heard the sound of young voices, Miller’s kids getting ready for school.

  “Being pigheaded, as usual. How’d she get it?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping you can find out. It came in a florist box, delivered to the Clarion-Call. The security guard gave it to her when she left Tuesday night. Can you talk to the guard?”

  “Yeah . . . ?” Miller said, his voice rising in an unspoken question: Why don’t you talk to him?

  He drank some bottled water. The odor of popcorn from a nearby pushcart vendor was making him queasy. “I’m about to get on a plane. Rona burned the note. She didn’t want Norris to see it. She won’t show him the bird either, and I’m not going to tell him about it. He’ll crucify me if he finds out I talked to her. I told her to check into a hotel, but she won’t, and I’m worried about her. Can you get some extra patrols on her house?”<
br />
  “I know the guy that runs her district pretty well. I’ll give him a call.” A short chuckle. “When Agent Rojas isn’t around.”

  Frank grinned. “From the men’s room?”

  “Safest place these days. So, uh, where you going?”

  “I took a couple personal days, be back Monday. I told Dupree I had to go to Baltimore to talk to my daughter. That’s where I’ll be on Saturday. But I’m flying to Omaha first to check out a possible suspect.”

  Dead silence. Then, “Where’d you dig up a suspect?”

  “Remember that priest, Father Daily?”

  “He’s a suspect?” Miller’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “No, not him. He tipped me off about this other priest, a young white guy. Melody Johnson was in his parish.”

  “I’ll be damned! A priest?”

  “Don’t get too excited, not yet, anyway. I talked to him yesterday. He might be hinky, but I’m not sure. I want to nose around his hometown.” He glanced at his gate. The boarding line had dwindled to three passengers. “Gotta go, Kenyon, my plane’s boarding.”

  “You got it, man. I’ll take care of those other things.”

  Amused, he punched off and hurried toward the boarding agent. Miller was in espionage mode: phone messages, call-backs from men’s rooms, cryptic comments in the presence of others. But Miller had good reason to worry. Norris wielded power with an iron fist, had only to say the word and Miller would be off the taskforce, too.

  _____

  Rona’s heart pounded as she entered her editor’s office and approached his desk. A deceptively small man with a receding hairline, Michael Gregory had a café au lait complexion, a sharp mind, and a shrewd ability to assess what his readers, eighty percent of whom were black, wanted.

  “I got this in the mail this morning.” She showed him the sketch with the Roman collar and was gratified by his shocked expression.

  He studied it for several seconds, then looked at her. “Who sent it?”

  “Someone who recognized the killer, I presume. Someone who believes the Tongue Killer is a white priest.”