by Dianna Love
Chapter 24
Who should repent tonight? Choices, choices, choices.
All deserving. But he’d narrowed it down to two. Each required different...orchestration. Either way, he had the tools necessary.
His warm breath fogged the windshield. He rubbed his leather-gloved hands together, watching each scene in one of Philly’s safe little suburbs play out happy as a Hallmark card picture. Shiny cars that benchmarked success arrived at tidy houses surrounded by perfect landscaping. Kids and dogs playing in the yards ran to meet the cars as they parked.
Sitting still this long wore on his nerves. If he could cull one more sheep out of Satan’s herd early tonight, he’d have time to deal with another one before morning.
Getting away from St. Catherine’s without drawing attention was getting harder, especially now with the flurry of activity created by the pope’s visit, though that was a true blessing.
But to whip this parish into shape, he had to be more creative about his schedule, especially with Cortese.
Nothing eluded Margo Cortese, except having a life, but St. Catherine’s benefited from that.
He could work around her, maybe come up with a way to get her out of the office more often. Just for a while, until he cleaned up around St. Catherine’s. It all came down to time.
The clock’s tiny arms fought him at every turn.
People demanded a few minutes here and there, chewing away his available hours like hungry termites. He’d never complained about hard work, never would. The rewards made it all worthwhile. This was another chance to prove his value to everyone. Especially Bishop Gautier who he owed for so much.
This parish would be ready for the pope’s arrival.
But not if he didn’t punish the sinners. The ones who confessed, rushed a few Hail Marys and went right back out to commit the same sins again and again.
That’s why tonight had to be a special penance, something to make other sinners pay attention.
To fear the Lord is the beginning of freedom.
Riley Walker had been fearless in Detroit when he faced off with Satan’s soldier and won. He should understand the price of fighting a war against sinners, that some sacrifices had to be made so that the world could learn the price of being unrepentant. But if Walker’s inquisitive nature circled too close to St. Catherine’s he could become a problem. One that could be managed, as long as Walker had motivation.
The weak in spirit always needed tangible motivation.
Walker would do as instructed for the sake of the child.
Every step in the plan had been worked through with precise detail, right down to choosing that specific newsman. Walker’s news station had given out his cell number with little hesitation.
Another sign that everything I do is blessed. Because of his commitment, St. Catherine’s would thrive and become a testament to other parishes around the country. He would not accept failure from anyone, especially himself.
Reputations weren’t built on occasionally persevering.
Satan never dropped his guard or took a day off.
Besides, based on the confessions spun today at St. Catherine’s, the children of this city needed someone to defend them against dangers that hid behind friendly faces...like parents.
Children deserved their own special heaven on Earth.
Adults had a duty to protect the innocent, but few would take on the tough jobs, not if it meant getting their hands dirty.
Or bloody.
A white sedan hummed as it passed his vehicle, unobtrusively parked in a dark shadow. The sedan slowed three driveways up to turn in. The garage door opened. Lights flooded the driveway and across the car that slid into its warm nest.
And there was the dog, tail wagging, happy to see the dad.
Where was the happy homemaker standing at the door with a flour-dusted apron and a martini in hand for her husband?
Not a real homemaker, but the Feldman woman, a faithless wife who ogled the seventeen-year-old boy who did the yard work and shoveled snow while her husband worked hard all day. Worse than that, Feldman hit her kids when she couldn’t handle her frustration.
Maybe that should be part of her penance, a sound beating.
As God said, spare the rod, spoil the...sinner.
Chapter 25
What would it take to back Massey off? Riley huddled his shoulders against the damp with the temperature diving ten degrees below freezing and the black night closing in around him. He walked stiffly toward the Race Street Café.
He had one idea, one chance at turning J. T. to his side. But that hope hung by a thread tied to a child’s blanket.
Snow drifted lazily down to the sidewalk, adding to shoveled slush piles mixed with road grime from traffic along Race Street.
Christmas lights still twinkled on the second floor balcony of the stack of brick apartments on his right. A block away, the Race Street Café lived in the shadow of the Ben Franklin Bridge on the edge of the historic district some called Old City. Tourists visited the nearby U.S Mint and Betsy Ross House to find out what happened back when. But Philly’s finest wound down with a Smithwick – pronounced schmiddick – beer to talk about what had occurred today and what they could do to prevent something worse from happening tomorrow. The café served all wallets, even the Philadelphia Flyers who frequented the place.
When Riley reached the dormer-style overhang above the entrance, he pushed the door open to a blast of warm air flavored by hops and spicy wings.
J. T. Turner sat at the bar, elbow propping the hand that held his head. He nodded at whatever the old guy in a police uniform next to him was saying, then his eyes drifted away, meeting Riley’s gaze before giving a barely discernable nod.
Most of the tables still accommodated the café’s heavy dinner hour business. When three people at the end of the long bar closed their tab and walked out, Riley nabbed two of the three seats and waited as J. T. disengaged himself from the cop.
Riley ordered two drafts that arrived the same time J. T. sat down next to him.
J. T. lifted the beer, drank a long swallow then set the glass down and turned to Riley, who hadn’t touched his. “Just got off the phone with Massey. Again. The only reason you aren’t wearing cuffs is because I convinced her to wait until I had a chance to interrogate you. At least until tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“Wasn’t easy after I told her about your latest phone call.”
Maybe she’d back off if a lead came from the last call. “Any luck tracing it?”
“Another two bit payphone.”
“Figures. What’d Massey say?”
“She wanted to put you and your phone somewhere you can be monitored. I told her the killer might be watching you. She finally gave in and said she doesn’t want to hear anything else tonight unless we break the case. So you better have something worth me buying you a short reprieve.”
One night. Not much, but a start. “Does she really think I didn’t tell her everything I heard on that call?”
J. T. eyed him with the precision of an investigator who had seen and heard it all. “Don’t know, but you’re going to have to explain that time gap between getting the call from the killer and you calling 9-1-1. That doesn’t match your statement. Minutes are a big deal in this type of case.”
“I know that.” Riley caught J. T.’s suspicion. The last person he wanted against him was J.T. Turner. And right now, J.T. was thinking he’d been played. “I gave you the time I got the call and told you I called as soon as I hung up. I didn’t – ”
“Cut the bullshit, Walker.” J. T. leaned his head down and spoke low, just for Riley’s ears. “I won’t tolerate jeopardizing one of my cases just because you did that television special on the PD. Everyone on the force appreciates the funding for more equipment, but at the end of the day we’re cops. So don’t screw with me on this case. I don’t give a fuck about WNUZ or your story.”
Riley ground his molars so hard he could taste e
namel. “I’m getting damned tired of being treated like the bad guy here. Not my fault Sally Stanton was killed or that her kid is missing, but I’m trying to help and all I’m getting is a hard time.”
He took a breath, chugged a drink of beer and set the glass down hard. What the hell? Might as well stop dancing around the real issue. He knew what Massey had been digging at earlier today and what J. T. was thinking. “I am not going to ask this killer for an interview. I’ve got as much at stake as anyone else.”
“Not as much as that little boy.”
True.
J. T.’s jaw muscle twitched. “What the hell do you think you’re doing to help this kid? Give me one reason to keep Massey off your ass.”
Riley’s grip on the mug tightened at the constant lack of faith in his intentions. He’d never live down Detroit. But he gave J. T. and the other cops more credit than everyone else. While newsies and City Hall postured, Philly PD faced these problems every waking minute. Riley looked at it from J. T.’s perspective.
Just a matter of point of view, as Baby G had said.
He stared past J. T.’s shoulder for a few seconds, at tables of diners in animated discussions. What would it be like to be normal again? To not spend every waking minute wondering what he could have done differently last year? He cut his eyes at the detective who nursed his beer, waiting.
Riley knew only one reason J. T. might give him a break and help with Massey. He’d have to explain the gap in time between the killer’s call and dialing 9-1-1. He’d rather take a beating than expose his emotional state to anyone, but he’d put himself through far worse to help Enrique.
Swallowing a slug of beer first, Riley wiped his mouth and opened the wound. “When I took the call this morning, I had no idea who he was and still don’t, but ten seconds into that call I knew he was a killer. Had to be. I – ” He could do this. “ – lost touch with reality for a bit. Didn’t think it had been more than a minute, but must have been longer than I realized.”
There were questions in J. T.’s eyes, but he was patient as an owl watching a mouse scurrying toward him.
“I froze.” Riley continued staring at the dull bar surface. Perspiration beaded along his neck. “Couldn’t believe another killer was calling me. Felt like a bad flashback.” He lifted his gaze to J. T.’s face. “There’s always a case...that wakes you up in the middle of the night, the one that haunts you. Never known a detective who didn’t have one.”
J. T. pulled back and propped an elbow on the bar to support his head, but still said nothing.
“Detroit’s my nightmare. I’ll never get that child back.” Just saying that out loud hurt his soul. “Whether you or anyone else wants to believe this or not, I wasn’t going after a story in Detroit. If you don’t believe me, call the detective of record. I’d never do anything to interfere with finding a child and if you’ll let me...I want to help you find Enrique.”
Then Riley would go back to work, if he still had a job, and pick up where he left off, clocking a hundred hours a week to avoid sleeping. But he couldn’t continue even that empty existence until this child was found.
Not after missing that sound in the background of the first phone call. And especially not after the killer had put the responsibility for Enrique’s welfare in Riley’s hands.
Seconds ticked so slowly while he waited, Riley could almost feel each movement on his watch.
“Okay, for now, but I’m not agreeing to anything.” J. T. sounded ready to talk.
Riley could work with that. “I’ve got some ideas and some information from Sally’s neighbors. I think the killer went to Philomena House last night.”
J. T. sat up. “What were you doing there?”
“I was asked to meet a source there who found out about something your men missed.” This was where J. T. had to make a decision to accuse Riley of interfering or accept that he might be a valuable resource.
Scratching his head, J. T. scowled. He tapped his fingers on the bar. “Okay, what?”
That sounded like an opening to collaborate.
Riley relaxed his grip on the mug and leaned in, keeping his voice down. He shared his conversation with Titia.
J. T.’s curse turned a couple of heads further down the bar. He shook his head. “What’s that bastard going to do with the kid’s blanket?”
“I don’t know for sure, but the one in Detroit stole something important to every child he kidnapped...then he buried the keepsake with the child.” Riley had spent some time on the Internet searching for any past cases that were similar, but had come up with zero. He did find a picture of the Diego blanket Miss Betty had described to him as Enrique’s, printed with the words, “To the rescue, my friends!”
To the rescue, my friends.
“What else you got?” Turner stared at his beer, eyes glazed with frustration.
“I got a press release from St. Catherine’s – ”
“What the fuck were you bothering them for?”
Riley leaned back now, studying J. T. “I seem to be the only person not walking on eggshells around St. Catherine’s. What’s the problem with just asking questions?”
“You weren’t here during the whole media storm they went through over a deacon embezzling money. By the time the bishop brought in an auditor and proved a deacon had been the only person who acted criminally, the media had turned that little church into a den of scam artists. Television and newspaper PR departments worked overtime to backpedal.”
WNUZ would have been in the middle of that debacle if not for a board member telling them to stand down. “That’s last year’s news.”
The detective shook his head in warning. “Pointing a negative spotlight at St. Catherine’s – without good cause, which means hard evidence – is not going to help any of us.”
“So you don’t want to hear what I have?”
“I want to hear it, but I want you to understand how sensitive the city is to picking on this church. Bishop Gautier didn’t just clear the church’s part in the embezzlement, he brought in Monsignor Dornan who has a spotless reputation. Dornan’s known for cleaning up a mess. His presence alone is all the proof this city needed to believe in the church and start donating again.”
“What’re you saying? Dornan and that church are untouchable?” Riley didn’t believe anyone was above questioning when a murder had happened and a child was missing.
“No one is above the law. No one.” J. T. narrowed his eyes, not pleased with the insinuation that Dornan was above being poked at with questions.
But the monsignor was over St. Catherine’s, which meant he was over Philomena House.
Riley lifted a hand in apology. “I wasn’t insinuating that you’d let anyone slide who you suspected of a crime and I’m not insinuating anyone at the church is involved. What’s the worst that will happen if they answer a few questions?”
That lowered J. T.’s ruffled feathers. “It’s not that simple. If I show up at St. Catherine’s asking about these murders, someone will talk and it’ll hit the news no matter if you keep a lid on it. Dornan’s got the ears and backing of powerful men in this city – Catholic and otherwise. After what happened last year everyone’s over-sensitive about that group, but if Dornan thinks anyone is attacking something under his thumb he’ll hand you more trouble than you can handle.”
“I’m not attacking St. Catherine’s.” Yet. Riley shrugged, offering a relaxed attitude. “But they’re attached to Philomena House where two people have been murdered in the last ten days.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“When I talked to their Chief of Staff Cortese today, she – ” Riley noted J. T.’s slight eyebrow lift in surprise. “ – couldn’t get me out of there fast enough.”
J. T. laughed sarcastically. “I should be surprised at that?”
“Point is that I’ve never had a church or anyone who needed donations not jump on the chance for free media exposure. I heard banging upstairs and there were cons
truction trucks out back, so I asked about the construction going on. She said it was a new youth center then hustled me out the door. Why didn’t she jump on that opening to ask me to do a special on the program?”
That sent J. T.’s stare into deep-thinking infinity. “Odd, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“She pushed me out the door after I asked about the last killing at Philomena and suggested there might be a connection with the Stanton murder. I could tell by her face she didn’t like that idea. Why not? Wouldn’t they want to stop the killings if there’s a connection?”
“That’s a reach, Walker.”
“Maybe, but both bodies were shot with a small caliber weapon and both bodies were moved after killing.”
“Not that unusual.”
“Both people had a child under the age of six.”
“Still not that unusual.”
But Riley could tell the seed was trying to take root in J. T.’s mind.
The detective held his thoughts closer than a gambler with a royal flush. “I’ll put the Diego blanket description out with my men and talk to the profiler to see if this fits any profile, but the guy who killed Stanton could be Enrique’s father.”
“No. When I talked to Miss Betty, she told me Enrique was the product of a rape and the guy was caught a year after Sally gave birth.” Riley seethed at what some animals would do to a woman, an innocent one who was mentally challenged to boot. “The bastard deserved more than prison time. They should’ve strung him up like a bull and neutered him without anesthesia.”
J. T. flinched at the image then turned his mug around, hesitating about something. “You realize Enrique’s probably dead by now, right?”
“No, I don’t realize that.” Riley refused to even consider the possibility even with all the statistics that backed it. “Not after talking to the killer today. He wants something from me and knows I want the kid back. Without Enrique, he has nothing to trade.”
“Maybe, but he may just be leading you on until he runs out of options.”
“We’ll see, but I’m moving ahead based on Enrique being alive.”
