ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (24 page)

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?”

“
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.”

Gregory smiled. “You don’t have to convince me, Rona. I’m inclined to run it on the front page tomorrow with your column, but I need to consult our legal team first.”

“
Of course,” she said with a brisk nod. “This will ruffle some feathers and we want to be on solid legal ground.”

Amusement glinted in Gregory’s eyes. “Should I inform Special Agent Norris about your receipt of this unsolicited sketch of the killer?”

That would be the kiss of death for the column she planned to write. “Don’t you think it’s best to run it first? Norris censors the news every chance he gets. The New Orleans community has a
right
to this information.”

“
I agree. But the final decision rests with the legal eagles.”

“
Understood. But regardless of the decision, my next column will
demand
that every white priest in the area give a DNA sample to the police.”

CHAPTER 16

Omaha, Nebraska 10:45 A. M.

Frank rented a budget-sized Chevy at the airport and asked the rental agent for directions to Wahoo. The man told him it was forty miles west of the airport. “Take Highway 92. You can’t miss it.”

The car radio blared out bible-thumping preachers and conservative talk shows so he shut it off. That left him alone with his thoughts. The prospect of spending time with Maureen made his heart sing. He hadn’t seen her since Christmas when Evelyn had grudgingly allowed him a two hour visit in the house he’d once owned. Recalling how Maureen’s face lit up when she opened his present, two pairs of soft, pliant calfskin riding gloves, he smiled.

Then, darker memories intruded: the Saturday morning four years ago when he entered the kitchen of his modest ranch house in a suburb of Boston, half-awake, needing a jolt of caffeine, got a jolt from Evelyn instead.

“
I saw a lawyer yesterday, Frank. Adultery is grounds for divorce.”

Bam. Accusing him of screwing around. Not in his mind he wasn’t. He’d been as faithful to Gina for the past nine years as he’d been to Janine the previous ten. But he couldn’t very well say this to Evelyn.

“
What’s his name? The lawyer.”

“
Her name. Annette Mitchell. I told her about Gina.”

Another hand-grenade, but he said nothing.
Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
He took a Sam Adams out of the refrigerator and popped the cap. He couldn’t understand why she was so angry. What did she think he’d been doing for the last twenty years, jerking off in the shower? He figured she was happy enough to look the other way, until her friend Myrna saw him with Gina in a restaurant one night and told Evelyn.

Which meant Evelyn had to do something or lose face. So he stood there drinking his beer, thinking: It’s not Evelyn’s fault. It’s her Catholic upbringing, the bipolar disorder and the Prozac. In his own way, he loved her. She was the mother of his child, and he had gone out of his way to be discreet, never meeting his lover within ten miles of any location Evelyn or any of their friends frequented. Or so he thought.

“
What about Maureen? Did you tell her?”

Evelyn gave him her tight pinched look. “Please have your things out of the house by Monday. The lawyer will be in touch with you.” Then, without another word, Evelyn had picked up her purse and walked out the door.

He glanced out the window at a red farm house and a big red barn with a silver silo, full of hay probably, for the cows grazing in a field near the barn. The bucolic scene hinted at a happy family pulling together to tend the family farm, unlike his family, which had disintegrated in bitter acrimony.

Setting his gaze on the endless flat road ahead, he nudged the accelerator. Paying the mortgage on a house that was no longer his didn’t gall him half as much as having Maureen think he’d been screwing around like some tom cat. Or the disapproval in the eyes of Salvatore Renzi, firstborn son of Sicilian immigrants, staunch Catholic and respected Appellate Court judge. Frank didn’t consider trying to explain. No appeal in the world would erase his father’s condemnation.