He gave her one of his cards and reached for the bill, but she waved him off. “My treat. Jeff will put it on my account.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You’ve been really helpful and I appreciate it. I know you’re busy. Maybe I can buy you dinner sometime.”
Her dark eyes crinkled in a smile. “My pleasure, Frank. It’s not often I get to have breakfast with a homicide detective with a psych degree.”
They got into their respective cars and he followed her to the highway, lamenting the fact that he’d probably never see her again. Just his luck. He’d just met an attractive woman with a great figure, keen intelligence, and a down-to-earth sense of humor and she lived in Omaha.
He wondered what she’d be like in bed.
Then he remembered the ring.
But why wasn’t her husband there to watch her practice?
Then he thought: The main event is tomorrow. Mr. Swenson will be there to cheer her on, and after she wins the gold he’ll treat her to dinner, toast her with champagne and take her home to bed. End of story.
_____
New Orleans 12:10 P.M.
Uttering a fervent silent prayer, the sinner entered the Sweet Spot and scanned the room. The place was noisy and crowded, every table full. No Charlie. He went to the counter and called to a clerk spooning foamed milk over a café latte, “Excuse me. Has Officer Malone been in today?”
The clerk looked over and said, “Yeah, but he left a couple minutes ago. He got take-out sandwiches for him and his wife, said he had to pick up a prescription at Rite Aid. His kid is sick.”
The sinner left the café and jogged across the street to the Rite Aid Pharmacy. Please be here, he thought as the automatic door slid open. The pharmacy was even busier than the Sweet Spot, so busy he had to squeeze past customers with shopping carts on his way down an aisle to the pharmacy at the rear of the store. Five people stood in line at the counter.
Charlie wasn’t one of them. He began a methodical search, traversing the rear of the store, peering down each aisle, one after the other. No Charlie. His frustration mounted. Had Charlie been here and gone?
He rounded the corner of the next to last aisle and bumped into someone squatting in front of a vitamin display. The man looked up, annoyed. Charlie Malone, the young patrolman with the Irish mug.
“Excuse me!” he said, and then, feigning surprise, “Oh, it’s you Charlie! Goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”
Charlie grinned and straightened up from his squat. “No problem, Father. I guess you’re always in uniform, huh?”
What did he mean by that? Was Charlie implying that he skulked around without his Roman collar?
“You look tired, Charlie. Is everything okay?”
“Just a little tired, Father Tim. Davy kept us awake all night, upchucking. He’s running a fever so the doctor called in a prescription.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I’ll say an extra prayer for him. Well, I’d better be going. Father Cronin’s away so I’m busier than usual, reconciliation sessions before the two Masses this afternoon.” As if the thought had just occurred to him, he added, “Did you see that interview on TV last night?”
“Interview?” The dull-witted cop gave him a blank stare. Then the light dawned. “Oh, yeah, the witness and that columnist?”
Yes, Charlie, that miserable good-for-nothing troublemaker, Rona Jefferson.
He didn’t trust himself to speak so he nodded. In her last column, she had called him a cowardly killer, as if she equated the absolutions he granted these sinful women with the acts of some ordinary criminal.
“Rona Jefferson is really hot on the case,” Charlie said, “but she’s crazy if she thinks this killer’s a priest. The guy that woman saw could have been anybody. I mean, if this killer is smart enough to get away with murdering all these women, he’s smart enough to get hold of a priest’s outfit and fake it, don’t you think, Father?”
“Absolutely, Charlie. It would be a huge waste to collect DNA samples from every priest in the diocese. Especially since the police have nothing from the crime scenes to compare it to.”
Maintaining an innocent smile, the sinner held his breath and waited.
“Yeah, well . . .” Charlie frowned.
Come on, Charlie. Tell me what you know.
Glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot, Charlie said in a low voice, “But they do, Father. They found bits of skin under one of the victim’s fingernails and sent it out to the lab.”
His worst fears, confirmed. “They did?”
“Yeah, but we gotta catch the guy first, so we can match it up.” Charlie glanced at his wristwatch. “I gotta run. Nice to see you, Father Tim.”
“Same here, Charlie. Good luck with your son.”
Ten minutes later he drove past Jefferson’s house, a small Cajun cottage sandwiched between two others on a narrow tree-lined street. The adjacent houses had fences around them, but hers didn’t. That was a plus.
He circled the block twice and saw as many black residents as whites, outside washing cars or tending their patchy lawns. Some of the younger ones wore college T-shirts. Interesting. Disguised as a student, he’d blend right in. Especially at night, when Rona Jefferson was asleep in her cozy little cottage.
_____
Baltimore, Maryland 7: 30 P. M.
“It’s great to talk to you, Dad.” Maureen set her coffee cup in the saucer and gazed at him with a rapt expression that made his heart melt.
Why did you wait so long to call me, he wanted to say, but he smiled and reached over to touch her cheek instead. “I missed you, Mo. Let’s not wait so long between visits. We’ll do this again soon.”
After picking him up at the airport she had driven him to her favorite restaurant, and they’d been talking non-stop ever since, mostly about whether she should become a surgeon or an ob-gyn. He had hoped she would choose a less demanding specialty, but by the time they finished their Maryland crab dinners, she had convinced him she’d make a terrific orthopedic surgeon.
That’s what her supervisor thought, and how could he argue with that? There were plenty of broken bones out there: sports injuries, car accidents. People falling off horses. No, don’t go there.
Maureen looked like she had more to say, something heavy, judging by the somber look on her face. A knot formed in his stomach. He didn’t want to get into an argument and spoil their first heart-to-heart talk in ages.
“Dad,” she said, stirring her coffee, then looking up to meet his gaze. “Do you think Mom’s going to be okay?”
Mom. He didn’t want to go there either, but he didn’t know how to avoid it. “I don’t know. Has she been having problems?”
Knowing she had. Twice during the past week she’d woken him with phone calls in the middle of the night.
“Mmm, sort of.” Maureen gazed at him, all grown up, except when it came to her mother and the problems Evelyn couldn’t seem to shake. “She just doesn’t seem, I don’t know, happy, I guess.” Maureen forced a smile. “It’s not your fault, Dad. I just wish Mom could be happier, you know?”
“Me too, Mo. I always wished she could be happy, but I couldn’t seem to make it happen.” He waited a beat, then forged ahead. “You’ve had psychology courses, right? Maybe it was something that happened when she was a kid, you know? The strict upbringing and—”
“I know, Dad. The Catholic guilties and all that.” She grinned, her emerald-green eyes full of mirth, her pearly-white teeth straight and even thanks to the orthodontist. “But you’re the Italian one. Half, anyway. Italians are supposed to be wracked with guilt.”
He laughed. “So they say, but I skipped it. Plenty of time to feel guilty after I’m dead.”
“Don’t say that, Dad. I worry about you.”
“Come on, Mo, lighten up. We had a great time tonight and you’re going to show me around Baltimore tomorrow. You figured out your specialty. Let’s us be happy.”
She flashed a grin. �
�You’re right. It’s annoying how often you’re right, you know that? I’m going to hit the ladies room. Be right back.”
He watched her walk away, long legged and slender in a black mini-skirt, tossing her long chestnut-brown hair over her shoulder. With a burst of pride, he thought: That’s my kid and she’s gorgeous. She had inherited Evelyn’s green eyes and chestnut hair, but she had his long legs and athletic build, and a sunny smile that reflected her cheerful disposition.
He checked the time and punched a number into his cellphone, hoping to reach his FBI connection before Maureen came back. Any kind of luck, Special Agent Ross Dunn would be relaxing at home on a Saturday night, not out on a high-profile murder. They had met at Quantico during the criminal-psych courses he’d taken at the FBI academy. For Dunn it had been a refresher course; Frank was one of the rookies, but they’d hit it off and had maintained a friendship over the years. Dunn’s wife answered the phone.
“Hi, Beverly, it’s Frank Renzi. How you doing? How are the kids?” Ross and Beverly had twin sons. He tried to recall how old they’d be now.
“Hi, Frank. Nice to hear from you. The boys are co-captains of the high school football team this year. Want to talk to Ross? He’s right here.”
Moments later Ross said, “Hey, Frank, are you in town?”
“Yes, visiting my daughter. She’s at Johns Hopkins.”
“Wow, they grow up fast, don’t they?”
“Yeah, it’s scary. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Ross chuckled. “I should have known this wasn’t a social call. I’ll help if I can. What’s up?”
“I know it’s not your jurisdiction, but are you tight with any of the homicide detectives on the D.C. police force?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Lieutenant Paul McGuire. He’s an old-timer, must be about ready to retire. Paul’s a topnotch detective, helped me out a bunch of times. Why?”
“I need someone to check out some old case files.”
“Well, Paul’s your man. You working those New Orleans murders?”
“Sort of.” No need to mention he was now working them without the sanction of Special Agent Burke Norris.
“I catch the reports on the national news, but I wasn’t sure if you were on the case. Sounds like a doozy. How do you like working for Norris?”
Frank grinned. “Not much, now that you mention it.”
“Yeah, well, dealing with an anal retentive always sucks.” Ross barked a laugh and quickly added, “That’s off the record, of course.”
“Of course.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Actually, Norris booted me off the taskforce last week. I’m working the case on my own.”
“Hoo-ah! Well, good luck. Stay out of his way and fly below the radar.”
“I sure will. Thanks for the contact, Ross. I’ll call McGuire first thing tomorrow. Next time I’m up here let’s have a beer and catch up on things.”
“Anytime, Frank. Just give me a call.”
CHAPTER 18
Monday 1:10 A.M.
Leroy Carter squirmed in his seat, trying to get comfortable as his partner, Shona Washington, swung the NOPD patrol car into the 24-hour Rite Aid parking lot. The upholstery on the passenger seat was torn and the springs were poking his butt. Last week, his doctor had told him to lose forty pounds, said he was packing too much weight on his five-foot-ten frame. At forty-two, Leroy was more worried about the prostate exam and the dreaded finger up the ass, but the doctor had issued a stern warning: Watch your diet, Leroy, too many black folks with diabetes nowadays.
As they drove through the Rite Aid lot Leroy eyeballed the cars, but saw nothing suspicious, no getaway driver waiting for a ‘banger inside. In the log book he checked off the pharmacy and noted the time. Ten past one. He wondered what his wife was doing. Aleesha was a bank teller, sat on her butt all day, came home frisky, wanting to get it on three or four times a week. Problem was his pecker wasn’t working so good, a detail he had not shared with the doctor. Aleesha liked to party, and what with him working overnights, no telling where she was or what she was doing. Or with whom.
He glanced at Shona, sucking up Diet Coke, reaching into a Doritos bag to pull out a fistful. They’d been partners for two years, got along fine alternating chores, Shona driving tonight while he kept the log. Most nights they stayed out of each other’s way, riding in comfortable silence, thinking their private thoughts. Shona was thirty-four, raising five-year-old twin boys by herself, having refused to marry the lowlife that knocked her up. She was built close to the ground, short powerful legs, and an ace on the firing range. Leroy trusted her to watch his back. Any domestic dispute calls he let her do the talking. Shona was great at calming folks down. He just wanted to punch the guy out, which, of course, was against regulations.
“Want some?” Shona held out the Doritos bag.
“No thanks. I’ll grab a donut at Krispy Crème.” His bladder felt uncomfortably full, seemed like he had to take a piss all the time these days. “Don’t forget the extra drive-bys.”
“Right. Want me to swing by the Jefferson house now?”
“Let’s hit Krispy Crème first. I gotta take a leak.”
_____
Midway through their neighborhood patrol Randy Hayes and Ben McIver rounded a corner and trudged up Annunciation Street. A pint-sized redhead with a bantam-rooster attitude, Randy compensated for his size by pumping iron, took pride in his ability to make the Confederate flag tattoo on his bicep ripple when he flexed his muscles. On patrol, he carried a Winchester 12-gauge shotgun. Randy owned a towing business. His wife stayed home where she belonged, caring for their two daughters.
Ben McIver lived next door with his wife, though the couples didn’t socialize. Both men were twenty-six but the similarities ended there. Ben was six inches taller and wore wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses. He couldn’t decide on a career. His current venture was woodworking, his current dilemma the sexual fantasies that filled his mind when he watched the male body-builders at the gym. Randy wasn’t one of them.
“Can’t wait to check out the babe’s house on the corner,” Randy said gleefully. “Maybe the shades’ll be up like last night. Man, I love watching that bitch in her underwear.”
“Uh-huh,” Ben said without enthusiasm, gripping his baseball bat. He hated guns. He’d joined the crime-watch patrol a month ago, hadn’t seen any criminals yet and doubted he ever would. He’d volunteered to placate his wife, who had an overactive imagination. The nightly patrols also allowed him to avoid her frequent sexual demands.
Earlier, a thunderstorm had blown through. At midnight the rain had stopped, but streetlights illuminated puddles on the sidewalks. As they neared the end of the block Ben saw someone turn the corner and walk toward them on the opposite sidewalk. He nudged Randy. “Looks like Joe College is coming home late from a party.”
Randy squinted at the kid in the UNO sweatshirt and the Texas Rangers baseball cap. “What’s in the Walgreen’s bag, I wonder. Can’t be rubbers. The bag’s too big.” Randy cackled at his own joke.
Across the street, Joe College walked purposefully, head down, ignoring them. As they passed him, Ben was relieved to see that the kid was white. He was no racist, but he knew for a fact that more black kids committed violent crimes than white ones.
“How come he’s going up Rona Jefferson’s walk?” Randy said.
Ben turned, saw Joe College walk along the side of Rona’s house and disappear. Then he heard the tinkling sound of shattering glass. Moments later flame erupted inside the house, orange-red fingers of fire clearly visible through the windows.
“Hey!” Randy yelled, and started running. “Hey, you!” Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Ben! Go round the block and cut him off!”
A jolt of fear stabbed Ben’s chest, but he followed orders and ran. Jesus, some college kid had just thrown a Molotov cocktail through Rona Jefferson’s window!
_____
Inside the house behind Rona’s, two women lay awake in a
double bed. A paroxysm of coughing wracked Dorothy Warner. She was forty-eight and all forty-eight years were etched on her sallow, pock-marked face. She’d quit high school at sixteen and trouble had dogged her ever since. In her twenties she endured a series of abusive men, turned to drugs and spent much of her thirties and forties in and out of prison, where she managed to find stronger women to protect her.
After her release five years ago she’d latched onto Nadine Brown, a petite woman with milk-chocolate skin, a round angelic face, and a sweet smile. Nadine worked at an oil refinery and paid the mortgage on the house. Last week Dorothy had lost her job clerking at Dollar-Mart. Too many sick days, the manager said. Dorothy smoked two packs a day. That cost a bundle, so she’d stopped taking her meds.
Wracked by another coughing spell, she sat up.
Nadine rubbed her back. “Want me to get you some water, Dottie?”
“That might help—”
Frantic barking in the backyard silenced her. Kansas, her golden retriever, wouldn’t harm a flea, but he was a great watchdog. At the slightest noise he uttered a deep-throated bark loud enough to terrify any burglar. She adored him, had rescued him in Tulsa, an earlier stop in her aimless travels.
“Stay here, Nadine. I’ll go see what Kansas is fussing about.”
But as she swung her legs over the side of the bed an anguished yelp came from the backyard. “Damn it to hell!”
She grabbed her Browning nine-millimeter off the nightstand. Growing up in Texas, she’d learned all about guns from her daddy. In fact, she still drove to a deserted area near the I-10 once a week for target practice.
“Be careful, Dottie,” Nadine called as she left the bedroom.
Careful is exactly what I intend to be, Dorothy thought. Some guy out there killing women, I ain’t gonna be next. The house was a shotgun, so named because a person at the front door could fire a shot out the back door without striking an intervening wall. She crept down the dark center hall, jacking a shell into the chamber of the Browning as she went. Inside the dark kitchen, she eased open the back door. Kansas was yelping piteously.
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 20
