A Perfect Evil (55 page)

N
ick and Father Keller stomped their way up the steps just as Maggie came out the front door of the rectory. Immediately, Nick checked her eyes, anxious to see if she had found anything. Her quick glance and a smile for Father Keller left him without a clue.

“Are you feeling any better?” Father Keller sounded genuinely concerned.

“Much. Thank you.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t come with us,” Nick said, still feeling sick to his stomach. Who could do something like that to a defenseless dog? Then he felt ridiculous. It was obvious who had done it.

“Why? What did you find?” Maggie wanted to know.

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Would the two of you like some tea now?” Father Keller offered.

“No, thanks. We need—”

“Yes, actually,” Maggie interrupted Nick. “Perhaps that might settle my stomach. That is, if it’s not an inconvenience?”

“Of course not. Come in. I’ll see if we have some sweet rolls or perhaps doughnuts.”

They followed the priest in, and again Nick tried to catch a glimpse of Maggie’s face, unsure of her sudden enthusiasm to spend more time with the priest she despised.

“Nice to see you supporting the local merchants.” Father Keller smiled as he took her jacket.

She smiled back without an explanation and went into the living room. Nick brushed off his boots, staying on the welcome mat in the foyer. He glanced up to find Father Keller checking out Maggie’s tight jeans. Keller’s wasn’t a simple glance, but a long, self-indulgent look. Suddenly, the priest looked back at Nick, and Nick bent over his jacket’s zipper, pretending to struggle with it. Before the suspicion and anger crept into his mind, Nick reminded himself that even Father Keller was a man. And Maggie did look awfully good in jeans and that tight red sweater. Any man would have to be brain-dead not to notice.

Father Keller disappeared around the corner, and Nick joined Maggie in front of the fireplace.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Do you have Christine’s cellular?”

“I think it’s still in my jacket pocket.”

“Could you please get it?”

He stared at her, waiting for some explanation, but instead she squatted in front of the fire to warm her hands. When he came back with the phone, she was poking through the ashes with an iron poker. He stood with his back to her, as though standing guard.

“What are you doing?” It was difficult to whisper through clenched teeth.

“I could smell something earlier. It smelled like burnt rubber.”

“He’ll be back any second.”

“Whatever it was, it’s ashes now.”

“Cream, lemon, sugar?” Father Keller came around the corner with a full tray. By the time he set it on the bench in front of the window, Maggie was standing by Nick’s side.

“Lemon, please,” Maggie answered casually.

“Cream and sugar for me,” Nick said, only now noticing that his foot was tapping nervously.

“If you two will excuse me, I need to make a phone call,” Maggie said suddenly.

“There’s a phone in the office down the hall.” Father Keller pointed.

“Oh, no thanks. I’ll just use Nick’s cellular. May I?”

Nick handed her the phone, still looking for some sign as to what she was up to. She went back toward the foyer for privacy while Father Keller handed Nick a steaming cup of tea.

“Would you like a roll?” The priest offered a plate of assorted pastry.

“No, thanks.” Nick tried to keep an eye on Maggie, but she was gone.

A phone began ringing, muffled but insistent. Father Keller looked puzzled, then headed quickly for the hallway.

“What on earth are you doing, Agent O’Dell?”

Nick slammed down his cup, spilling hot liquid on his hand and the polished table. He scrambled around the corner to see Maggie with the cellular phone to her ear as she walked down the hall, stopping and listening at each door. Father Keller followed close behind, questioning her and receiving no answers.

“What exactly are you doing, Agent O’Dell?” He tried to get in front of her, but she squeezed past.

Nick jogged down the hall, his nerves raw, the adrenaline pounding again.

“What’s going on, Maggie?”

The muffled ringing of a phone continued, the sound getting closer and closer. Finally, Maggie pushed open the last door on the left, and the sound became crisp and clear.

“Whose room is this?” Maggie asked as she stood in the doorway.

Again, Father Keller seemed paralyzed. He looked confused, but also indignant.

“Father Keller, would you please get the phone,” she asked politely, leaning against the doorjamb, careful not to enter. “It sounds as if it’s in one of those drawers.”

The priest still didn’t move, staring into the room. The ringing grated on Nick’s nerves. Then Nick realized that Maggie had called the number. He saw Christine’s cellular phone in Maggie’s hand, the buttons lit up and blinking with each ring of the hidden phone.

“Father Keller, please get the phone,” she instructed again.

“This is Ray’s room. I don’t believe it’s proper for me to go through his things.”

“Just get the phone, please. It’s a small, black flip-style.”

He stared at her, then finally went into the room, slowly and hesitantly. Within seconds the ringing stopped. He came back out and handed her the small black cellular phone. She tossed it to Nick.

“Where is Mr. Howard, Father Keller? He needs to come down to the sheriff’s department with us to answer some questions.”

“He’s probably cleaning the church. I’ll go get him.”

Nick waited until Father Keller was out of sight.

“What’s going on, Maggie? Why are you suddenly convinced we need to question Howard? And what’s with calling his cell phone? How the hell did you even know his number?”

“I didn’t dial his number, Nick. I dialed
my
cellular phone number. That’s not his phone. It’s mine. It’s the one I lost in the river.”

C
hristine squirmed to get comfortable in the swivel chair, drawing groans from the redheaded woman with the palette of makeup. As if out of punishment, the woman swabbed even more blush on Christine’s cheeks.

“We’re on in ten minutes,” said the tall man with the headset strapped to his bald head.

Christine thought he was talking to her and nodded, then realized he was talking into the mouthpiece of the headset. He bent over her to snap a tiny microphone onto her collar, and she couldn’t help noticing the reflection on his shiny head. The bright lights blinded her, their heat stifling and adding to the cockroaches in her stomach. Her palms were sweaty. Certainly it was only a matter of time before her face began to melt into pools of plum-glow blush, soft-beige foundation and lush-black mascara.

A woman sat in the chair opposite her. She ignored Christine while she riffled through the papers just handed to her. She swatted away the bald man’s hand and grabbed the microphone to pin it on herself.

“I hope you got that fucking TelePrompTer fixed, because I’m not using these.” She threw the handful of papers across the stage, and a frantic stagehand scrambled around the floor, scooping them up.

“It’s fixed,” the man patiently reassured her.

“I need water. There’s no water on the side stand.”

The same stagehand scurried over with a disposable cup.

“A real glass.” She almost knocked it out of the girl’s hand. “I need a real glass and a pitcher. For Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to ask?”

Suddenly, Christine realized the woman was Darcy McManus, the evening anchor for the station. Perhaps she wasn’t used to doing the morning news show. Perhaps she wasn’t used to mornings. In the harsh lighting, McManus’s skin looked weathered with crinkled lines at the eyes and mouth. Her usual shiny, black hair looked stiff and unnatural. The startling shade of red lipstick looked brash against her white skin until the redheaded makeup artist swabbed on a thick layer of artificial tan.

“One minute, people,” the headset man called out.

McManus dismissed the makeup woman with a wave of her hand. She stood up, smoothed out her too-short skirt, straightened her jacket, checked her face in a pocket mirror, then sat back down. Just then, Christine realized she’d been staring at the woman the entire time. The countdown brought her back to reality, out of her trance. She wondered why in the world she had agreed to do this interview.

“Three, two, one…”

“Good morning,” McManus said into the camera, her entire face transformed into a friendly smile. “We have a special guest with us today on
Good Morning Omaha.
Christine Hamilton is the reporter for the
Omaha Journal
who has been covering the Sarpy County serial killings. Good morning, Christine.” McManus acknowledged Christine for the first time.

“Good morning.” Suddenly, lights and cameras were real and all focused on her. Christine tried not to think about it. Ramsey had told her earlier that even ABC’s network news would be broadcasting the segment live. That was, no doubt, why McManus was here instead of the show’s regular host.

“I understand that this morning you’re joining us not as a reporter, but now as a concerned mother. Can you tell us about that, Christine?”

She was intrigued by McManus, the convincing concern manufactured at a moment’s notice. Christine remembered that McManus’s career began as a Miss America, which spiraled her to broadcast news, skipping the field reporting and landing top anchor positions in medium-size markets like Omaha. Christine had to admit, the woman was good. Even as she appeared to be looking at Christine with that genuine, contrived concern, her eyes actually looked just over Christine’s shoulder to the TelePrompTer. Suddenly, Christine realized McManus was waiting for her response, the impatience starting to reveal itself in the pursed lips.

“We think that my son, Timmy, may have been taken yesterday afternoon.” Despite all the distractions, her lip quivered, and Christine resisted the urge to bite down and stop it.

“Oh, how awful.” McManus leaned forward and patted Christine’s folded hands, missing on the third pat and touching her knee instead. McManus snatched her hand back, and Christine wanted to turn to see if the TelePrompTer included gestures. “And the authorities think it’s the same man who brutally murdered Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner?”

“We don’t know that for sure, but yes, there’s a good possibility.”

“You’re divorced and raising Timmy all by yourself, aren’t you, Christine?”

The question surprised her. “Yes, I am.”

“Both Laura Alverez and Michelle Tanner were single mothers, as well, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“Do you think perhaps the killer is trying to say something by choosing boys who are being raised by their mothers?”

Christine hesitated. “I have no idea.”

“Is your husband involved in raising Timmy?”

“Not very much, no.” She restricted the impatience to her hands wringing in her lap.

“Isn’t it true that you and Timmy haven’t seen your husband since he left you for another woman?”

“He didn’t leave me. We got a divorce.” The impatience bordered on anger. How would any of this help find Timmy?

“Is it possible your husband may have taken Timmy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so, but there may be a possibility, isn’t there?”

“It’s unlikely.” The lights seemed brighter, scorching hot. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back.

“Has the sheriff’s department contacted your ex-husband?”

“Of course we would contact him if we knew how or where to… Look, don’t you think I would much rather believe that Timmy is with his father than with some madman who carves up little boys?”

“You’re upset. Perhaps we should take a few minutes.” McManus leaned forward again, her brow creased with concern, but this time her hands reached over and poured a glass of water. “We all understand how difficult this must be for you, Christine.” She handed her the glass.

“No, you don’t.” Christine ignored the offer, and McManus became flustered.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t possibly understand. Even I didn’t understand. I just wanted the story, like you.”

McManus looked around for the stage director, trying to appear casual while frustration clouded her cool exterior. The thin painted lips were pursed tightly over white, even teeth.

“I’m sure you’re under a lot of stress, Christine. And this must also be stressful. Let’s take a commercial break and give you a chance to pull yourself together.”

McManus kept the smile until the camera lights dimmed and the stage director motioned to her. Then the anger erupted on her face with a scowl that cut new lines in her makeup. But the anger was directed at the tall, bald man and not Christine. In fact, Christine became invisible again.

“Where the hell are we going with this? I need something I can work with.”

“Do I have time to go to the restroom?” Christine asked the stage director, and he nodded. She unsnapped the microphone and laid it next to the rejected glass of water.

McManus looked up at her and manufactured a curt smile.

“Don’t take too long, honey. This isn’t like your newspaper. We can’t just stop the presses. We’re live.” She reached for the glass and drank in delicate sips so as not to mess up her lipstick.

Christine wondered if McManus even knew Timmy’s name without the help of the TelePrompTer. The high-priced anchor didn’t care about Timmy or Danny or Matthew. Dear God, how close had she come to being just like Darcy McManus?

Christine made her way backstage, carefully avoiding and stepping over all the cables and cords. As soon as she was out of the bright lights, her body felt a rush of cool air. She could breathe again. She marched down the narrow hallway, dodging stagehands and finding her way past the dressing rooms, past the restrooms and, finally, escaping out the gray metal door marked Exit.