ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (10 page)

His heart pounded in fear. He shut his eyes. Opened his mouth.

She stuffed the urine-soaked underpants in his mouth.

Tears oozed from his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

“
Look at me, you little shit. You soiled your pants and you will sit on that toilet until I come and get you. Don’t you
dare
take those pants out of your mouth or I’ll get the meat cleaver and cut off your dick.”

Hours later the torture ended. Before Father came home, of course.

“
Don’t tell your father,” Nanny had warned. “Not one word.”

But now he had the power, not Nanny.

He finished the Mr. Goodbar, licked chocolate off his fingers and studied the newspaper. The sketch didn’t present much of a problem, but the prostitute did. Something had to be done.

_____

When Frank got to headquarters Miller stood outside the back door, grim-faced, sipping from a takeout coffee container. “Rona’s gone and done it now. Norris got a bug up his ass bigger than a pony.”

“
He’s not the only one. I told Rona to keep quiet and what does she do? Writes a shit bomb column and puts
my
name in it.”

“
Monica’s pissed, too. She called me a half hour ago, near hysterical. I promised her we wouldn’t tell anyone she did the sketch.” Miller opened the door. “Let’s go see The Man.”

He grabbed Miller’s arm. “Hold it. It’s me he’s after, not you.”

“
Frank, we’re in this together. I talked to Rona, you talked to Kitty. I got Monica to do the sketch. We’re partners. Let’s go.”

Moved by his partner’s loyalty, Frank followed him into the command center. No one met his gaze, everyone staring at their computer screens. They’d read the column. They knew Norris wanted his ass on a platter.

A red-faced Norris waved them into his office. The instant the door closed he said, “What the hell are you doing in here, Miller?”

“
I’m here to backup my partner.”

Norris glowered at Frank, anger radiating from him like heat from a blast furnace. “Who’s the woman?”

“
Burke, I don’t blame you for being upset—”

“
Upset! The bitch called me a racist! Christ, I never said the killer’s black, but I can’t rule it out. Those guys on the Baton Rouge serial killer taskforce looked like assholes, hunting a white guy and all along the killer was black. Who’s the mystery woman? You talked to her, right?”

“
I talked to her, yes, but I wanted to check—”

Miller stepped on his foot. “We wanted to check out her story before we told you.”

Norris looked at Miller, his eyes baleful. “Get out of here and get to work, Miller.”

“
Sir—”

“
Don’t argue! Do it!”

A muscle jumped in Miller’s jaw as he left, stony-faced.

“
Tell me her name, Renzi,” Norris said in an ominous voice. “
Now.
”

“
She’s a prostitute. The guy was a john.” Get the worst part out right away and hope for the best.

“
A prostitute! Christ, she’s after the reward! It’s no secret he cuts their tongues. She saw it on TV and made up a story.”

“
I don’t think so. She was scared, no doubt in my mind about that.”

“
I want to talk to her. Bring her down here.”

“
She won’t talk to you. She hates cops. That’s why she called Rona. And if she comes to the command center, the reporters will see her and it’ll be all over the news. If the killer hears about it, he’ll go after her.”

“
Bullshit! You don’t know he’s the killer. What’s her name?”

Kitty was a confidential informant and Frank always protected the identity of his CI’s, but if Kitty’s weirdo john was the killer, he wouldn’t need her name to remember their encounter, which meant Kitty was in danger. And Norris had the power to protect her.

“
Kitty Neves, and she needs protection. She’s afraid he’ll kill her, and now that Rona published her story, so am I. Kitty said she got the impression the guy was a priest.”

A dark flush mottled Norris’ cheeks. “You interview a prostitute, a
streetwalker
giving ten-dollar blow jobs on street corners for all you know, and you think this fairytale she told you is
credible?
”

He clenched his jaw, fighting for control. “I believed her, yes.”

“
You gave Rona the sketch, didn’t you?”

“
No, I didn’t.” Not a total lie. Rona had gotten it from Monica.

“
If I find out she got it from you, your ass is grass, Renzi. You might have been some kind of hotshot up in Boston, but down here you’re not.”

He bit back a nasty retort. Norris would never find this killer, could only follow the FBI Commandments. Obey the rules. Defer to superiors. Norris was a manager, and piss-poor one at that, issuing threats when a subordinate dared to show some initiative.

“
Think positive, Burke. Publishing the sketch might get us a break. Maybe someone will come forward with new information. The killer follows the news. This might shake things up, cause him to make a mistake.”

Rigid with outrage, Norris said, “Shake things up? I’ll give you shook up. A college kid came home shitfaced last night, lost his keys, and tried to climb in a window. The neighborhood vigilantes saw him and started shooting.”

Frank inwardly groaned. Anytime you had civilians patrolling the streets with guns, it was only a matter of time before someone got popped.

“
The kid’s in the hospital. His parents are flying in from Utah. Wait till CNN gets hold of it. Christ! Why is this Jefferson bitch beating me up about race? I never said the killer was black.” Norris’ expression morphed into a hangdog look. “The goddam paper should never have published her column. It’s inflammatory.” He jutted his jaw and stretched his neck. “What do you think? You think the killer’s black?”

First he reams me out, now he wants to pick my brains
.

“
I think it’s a longshot. All the victims are white. Most serial killers choose victims from their own ethnic group—”

“
The Baton Rouge killer didn’t.”

“
I’m not done,” Frank snapped. “I think he cases the victim’s neighborhood ahead of time. People notice a lone black male, even in racially-mixed neighborhoods. This killer plans everything, stalks the victim, brings his own tool kit, cleans up so there’s no forensic evidence.”

“
So?” Norris gave him a smug look. “What are you saying? A black guy isn’t smart enough? You’re the one who sounds like a racist.”

“
My
point
is this. The killer gets to know his victims first. There’s more tolerance of racially mixed couples these days, but a black man with a white woman is still conspicuous. I think the odds that our killer is black are pretty slim, less than ten percent.”

“
Well, I’m not going to rule out the black guys and wind up looking stupid later. Christ, what a cluster fuck! We got vigilantes patrolling neighborhoods, five victims and all the families bitching to the media, fucking reporters put ‘em on TV every chance they get.”

Frank gritted his teeth. Norris was more interested in saving face and preserving his image than he was in catching the killer.

“
And now,” Norris said, aiming a forefinger at him, “I got you acting like John fucking Wayne, making a splash in the newspaper. You better watch your ass, Renzi, or you’ll be out of a job. Next time you get a tip, tell me, right away. Get the prostitute down here so I can question her. And stop talking to that goddamn reporter!”

_____

Father Sean Daily sat in his office, hunched over the sketch in the
Clarion-Call,
tracing the lines that defined the face with a black felt-tipped pen. Aurora was in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes. She wanted to talk about the column, but he didn’t, not when some woman was saying the killer was a priest, some poor unfortunate short on brains probably, a prostitute perhaps, who’d taken to the streets to avoid the grinding poverty that came with a welfare check, concocting a story to get the reward money.

He lit a Best Buy and blew a stream of smoke. Only once in his life had he been with a prostitute. Two weeks on the run and desperate for the solace of a woman’s arms, he’d spent a half hour with a whore he met at a smoky dive in Cleveland. The encounter had relieved his sexual needs but had brought him no comfort.

He set the cigarette in the ashtray, studied the sketch, then dotted the brows with tiny strokes and cross-hatched the hair to darken the buzz cut. Last night he’d hardly slept, worrying about what Detective Renzi would do. If Renzi told Lynette’s mother about the pregnancy, she would ask how he knew, and if Renzi revealed who’d told him, Darlene Beauregard would descend upon him like the furies of hell. She might even stop contributing to St. Elizabeth’s, money that was desperately needed.

Lost in thought, he resumed his doodles, darkening the eyes and outlining the lips on the tight, unsmiling mouth in the sketch. He couldn’t understand why Renzi had come here, questioning him about Lynette. What if Renzi made him tell the agents on the taskforce about Lynette’s pregnancy?

His stomach clenched and bile rose in his throat. He tried to calm himself, tried to think it through rationally. Lynette’s pregnancy had nothing to do with her murder. Renzi had no interest in Father Sean Daily; Detective Renzi wanted to catch Lynette’s killer. It was as simple as that.

His gaze settled on the composite sketch. His mindless doodles had transformed the generic face in the newspaper into a much clearer portrait. He sketched in the outline of a shirt. On impulse, he added a Roman collar, crosshatched the shirt to darken it and studied the face.

Dark eyes, an angry mouth, thick dark brows. He held the newspaper out at arm’s length. It looked a bit like Father Tim.

Two years ago at a convocation the newly ordained priest had introduced himself, Timothy Krauthammer, assigned to St. Margaret’s parish in Metairie. When Sean said the girls must be thrilled to have such a handsome young priest, Krauthammer had flushed beet-red and stammered, “Y-y-you t-t-talk like a dirty old man.”

At last year’s convocation, Krauthammer had spoken to him again, this time about the first victim, saying the girl should have dressed more modestly instead of wearing such provocative clothes. Sean squinted at the sketch.

It really did look like Father Tim, the man he’d seen talking to Lynette the day before she was murdered. Ridiculous, of course. The young priest might be a judgmental little prick, but he wasn’t a killer.

_____

At one-thirty the sinner parked outside The Sweet Spot, a local café featuring specialty coffees, overstuffed sandwiches and delicious homemade pies. Not that he’d come here for food. He hadn’t even been able to eat breakfast. How could he with Father Cronin ranting about the column in the
Clarion-Call
, saying, “That woman should never have brought the man to her house. She was asking for trouble.”

She’s a prostitute
! he’d wanted to scream. He hadn’t, of course.

The column didn’t name the woman, but he remembered her. She didn’t know his name, but she could identify him. His stomach churned as he entered the cafe. He went to the counter, got a latte and wandered over to a policeman sitting by a window, eating a sandwich. Officer Charlie Malone was a gung-ho rookie cop, a big brawny Irish kid, twenty-two, with peach fuzz on his cheeks. Charlie smiled and gestured at the opposite chair.

“
How you doing, Father Tim? Have a seat.”

“
Not bad, Charlie. How about you?” In a voice tinged with sorrow, he added, “Terrible about those girls, isn’t it?”

“
It sure is, Father. We gotta get this guy. Folks are scared to death.”

The sinner blew on his latte and took a careful sip. “Interesting column in the
Clarion-Call
today. Who’s the woman, I wonder?”

Charlie glanced at the people at nearby tables and lowered his voice. “Lots of rumors floating around, Father. I hear she’s a prostitute.”

“
Really? Well, we mustn’t judge her. It’s a dangerous life, but God kept her safe.” He gazed at Charlie over the rim of his mug. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“
Hard to say. Could be she’s angling for the reward money, but you never know. They’ll find out more after they interview her.”

After they interview her
. They hadn’t yet, but they would. Dangerous. He didn’t know her name, but he could find her easily enough. They’d met in the French Quarter and the route to her house was seared into his memory.

Charlie gazed at him, frowning as if he were considering something.

Come on, Charlie, tell me what you know. You’re dying to impress me.

“
Keep this under your hat, okay Father?” Charlie whispered, leaning closer. “That detective Rona Jefferson mentioned in her column, Frank Renzi? He called me, looking for information.”