ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (5 page)

“
Which was?” Frank said.
Quit teasing and give us the fucking details.

Norris smirked at him. “Mario Pellegrino, Mr. Italian with chest hair and chains.”

Ignoring the jibe at his Italian heritage, Frank maintained a deadpan expression. Norris didn’t know about the Irish side of his family. They had short fuses, too, shorter than the Italians.

“
Pellegrino said they had a date,” Norris said, “but when he called around ten, she didn’t answer. He went there anyway, found the door ajar, went inside and saw the body. A message on her voice-mail lines up with his story: Mario called and said he’d pick up a pizza and be there in ten minutes. We let him go, but we’ll keep tabs on him.”

Be there in ten minutes
. The killer was there when he called, Frank thought, watching Norris paw through the paperwork strewn over his desk.

During the silence, the sound of ringing telephones in the main room bled through the glass partition into the office. Norris found what he was looking for, a police report, eyeballed it and said, “Our UNSUB left the usual message on the bathroom mirror. He’s one of those mission killers, thinks these girls are sinners. No tongue mutilation this time, though.”

“
The phone call interrupted him before he completed his ritual,” Frank said. And he knew enough about serial killers to know that incomplete meant unsatisfactory, which meant the scumbag would kill again, soon.

“
Is that your theory?” Norris hefted a three-ring binder crammed with paper and dropped it on his desk. “We got plenty of theories. What we don’t got is evidence. No leads, no witnesses, no semen, no hairs or fibers. Christ, it’s like a fucking ghost did them. Four women murdered in their apartments, no forced entry, so they either knew him or trusted him. I think we’re looking at some kind of authority figure, a cop maybe, or someone posing as one. And let’s not fall for the crap the profilers dish out: white male, mid-thirties, blah, blah, blah. Our UNSUB could be black. Sixty percent of New Orleans area residents are black.”

Frank saw Miller straighten in his chair. The NOPD Superintendent was African-American, as were many high ranking officers and a number of the rank and file, but Miller and one local FBI agent, a female, were the only African-Americans on the taskforce, a situation that many leaders in the black community cited as unfair.

Norris jutted his jaw, extended his neck and tugged at his collar with a forefinger. “Christ, we’re doing everything we can to find this guy. One of the families wants to bring in an outside consultant.”

Frank stifled a smile. That’s why Norris was so hot under the collar. He didn’t want anyone to hire some big shot former FBI agent, didn’t want a serial killer expert grabbing the spotlight. Last month an FBI analyst from the Behavioral Sciences Unit had come down to consult on the case. Frank didn’t know the man, but he had graduated from the FBI National Academy ten years ago when he was with Boston PD. His NOPD boss had cited this when recommending him for the taskforce. But ever since the FBI consultant praised some of Frank’s ideas, Norris had either disregarded his theories or disagreed with them. Insecure people did you in every time.

“
Why do you think the killer might be a cop?” Frank asked.

“
It’s the uniforms.” Norris flashed a condescending smile. “Young women tend to submit to authority figures in uniform.”

No kidding. And plenty of women hit on cops. Frank knew this from personal experience. But that didn’t mean the serial killer was a cop.

“
Could be other reasons a young woman might let somebody in,” he said. “Maybe the killer disguises himself as a woman.”

“
Like the guy in
Dressed to Kill
?” Norris said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “You’re watching too many movies, Renzi.”

“
Yeah? Well, I guess I won’t be watching any this weekend.”

He got up and left the office. Men like Norris always wanted the last word, but fuck that. Norris wanted him to sniff his dick, but he hadn’t done it yet and he didn’t plan to, not now, not ever.

_____

To work off the negative energy he power-walked the perimeter of the parking lot, arms pumping, angry thoughts churning his mind. During the second circuit he found himself wondering what Norris, a man in a too-tight collar, did in bed with his wife. Robo-sex by the rules, probably.

He got in the Crown Vic and told himself to cool it. He couldn’t afford to alienate Norris. He needed this job, needed the money to pay Evelyn’s alimony and Maureen’s tuition, not to mention his own expenses. Even under the best of circumstances he hated taking orders. As a taskforce member, he was a tiny cog in a big machine. He wanted to drive the machine.

Unfortunately, Norris was in the driver’s seat. But why?

Cui bono?
Who benefits? A question he’d often heard posed by his father, the Honorable Judge Salvatore Renzi, while seated on the bench of the Massachusetts State Court of Appeals.

The benefit to Norris was a no-brainer: make a big splash and advance his career. The picture in his office said it all: a big golf trophy for Mr. Big Shot. For Norris, catching the sick fuck that got off on killing and mutilating women was a career move, not a passion. But Norris was a sprinter, with no stomach for a long investigation. Now that they had a fourth victim Norris was desperate to nail the killer.

The more complicated question: Why put Norris in charge of the taskforce? First and foremost: to deal with the media. Turn on the cameras and Norris was Elliot Ness, fighter for justice, defender of women, community savior. Second, Norris followed the Ten Commandments of Law Enforcement: kick ass when you can, kiss ass when you can’t, and always play by the rules, a strategy that had won him the job of Assistant SAC in Atlanta.

The third, and perhaps the most telling, reason: Norris surrounded himself with experts to plug the gaps in his knowledge. That was what this meeting had been about, Frank realized as Miller opened the car door. Norris had called him into his office to pick his brains and hear his theories, masking his true goal by having Miller in attendance.

Miller winked at him and cranked the engine. “Wanna go catch a movie? I hear there’s a great thriller playing.”

“
The one where the killer’s a bad-ass black dude?”

Miller uttered a mirthless chuckle and drove out of the parking lot. “Norris can be a real prick, can’t he?”

“
You think he’s a racist?”

“
Nothing overt,” Miller said as he jumped a yellow light and drove up a ramp to the I-10. “But I get certain vibes from time to time.”

“
He’ll never solve this case. He’s got no creativity, no gut-instinct. This killer is intelligent and well-organized. The sinner-message he leaves on the mirror is pure smoke screen. He’s no mission-killer, he’s a sexual predator, gets his jollies by terrorizing women.”

“
Folks are scared shitless, that’s for sure.”

“
All the victims were Catholic, right?”

“
Yeah.” Miller looked over, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“
Did anybody interview their parish priests?”

“
NOPD didn’t, but the feds on the taskforce might have. If they did, the transcripts are in the murder book.” Miller shot him a grin. “Not that Norris is gonna let us local twerps read it.”

Frank clenched his jaw. “Norris is an idiot. We have to find this guy pronto. He didn’t complete his ritual with Dawn Andrews, which means he’s pissed off and frustrated. He’ll do another one soon.”

CHAPTER 4

Saturday 7:25 A.M.

Father Sean Daily slipped out the rear door of St. Elizabeth’s Church and strode down a cement walk to the rectory after finishing the early Mass in record time. Two more Masses this afternoon, and after today how many, he wondered as he entered the two-story cottage he’d called home for fourteen years. Other than a small pot belly, he was relatively fit for a man of sixty-two, but that didn’t count for much after last week’s news.

The rich aroma of coffee drew him down a cool dark hall to the kitchen, a cheerful room with tall windows that glinted in the morning sun. Aurora stood at the counter buttering toast, his housekeeper for thirty years, accompanying him from one parish to the next. St. Elizabeth’s was his third, and probably his last.

“
Six people at the early Mass,” he said, taking his customary seat at the small antique-maple table by the window. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“
Because you’re a comfort to them.”

She came to the table and patted his shoulder. A handsome woman with a gentle smile, warm brown eyes and an olive complexion, she wore her silvery-gray hair short in a feathery fringe around her face.

“
They’re old and hard of hearing. I doubt they even hear me.” He took a crumpled pack of Best Buys out of his pocket and lit a cigarette.

“
Sean, you’re supposed to quit. You know what the doctor said.”

Of course he knew what the doctor said. Advanced prostate cancer. Limited treatment options. He refused to think about it. He had too many other worries, like the letter from New Hampshire that arrived last week. He’d almost thrown it away, but curiosity got the better of him. After reading the letter, he wished he
had
thrown it away.

Aurora set mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of toast on the table. “I think you should go to Houston for a second opinion. Another doctor—”

“
You worry too much, Aurora.” He flashed the smile he used to charm his elderly parishioners, the wide Irish grin he used to persuade the few remaining wealthy families to contribute more generously to the church. “Whatever happens, happens.”

“
Don’t be saying it’s in God’s hands. You must take better care of yourself.”

“
You take care of me just fine.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she spread strawberry jam on her toast. “All well and good, but you’re killing yourself with those cigarettes. The doctor said so.”

He snubbed out the cigarette and reached for the newspaper, the stark front-page headline leaping out at him: NO LEADS IN FOURTH MURDER. A nasty business, best ignored. He located the puzzle page, took out a pencil and began the crossword.

“
What’s your schedule today?”

“
I’ve got a meeting with the deacons after lunch, a planning session for the annual fund-raiser.”

“
Money problems. Will they ever cease?”

“
Not unless we hit the lottery.” He watched her leave the table to fill a pitcher with cream, moving with a lithe grace, maintaining a trim figure at fifty-seven. Lord knows how. She was a fantastic cook: homemade jams, rich Cajun sauces, and the best seafood gumbo he’d ever tasted. Born and raised on the bayou, she came from Cajun-French stock, though her chiseled face hinted at Choctaw ancestors.

He thought her the most beautiful women he’d ever known.

“
I need to review the financial statements,” he said, doodling dollar signs in the margin of the newspaper. “And visit Alphonse Landry in the hospital.” Seventy percent of his parishioners were seniors. The younger families had moved to the suburbs, and the elderly were dying off like Alphonse, eighty-two and in the last stages of cancer.

“
Do you think they’ll ever catch this horrible killer?”

He set aside the crossword. With no close friends and no family, Aurora needed to talk. He was her closest companion, and after thirty years they shared a deep bond.

“
I hope they catch the bastard, put him in jail and lose the key.”

Aurora’s eyes widened. “Sean!”

“
Well? I do. He’s a sick bastard.” He tapped the photographs on the front page of the
Times-Picayune
. “These girls were just starting out in life. They never had a chance.”

“
You’re thinking about Lynette,” Aurora said softly.

“
Of course. How could I not?” He massaged his eyes, visualizing the troubled young woman who’d poured her heart out to him. Her family had a lot of money, but that didn’t guarantee happiness. Or a peaceful family life.

“
It says in the paper her parents might hire one of those retired FBI profilers to find the killer.”

FBI. His heart thumped his chest.

“
Sean, I think you should tell the police about that young priest, the one you saw talking to Lynette at the mall the day before she was murdered.”

“
It’s no crime to talk to a girl at a mall.”

“
I know, but you said he made a nasty comment to you about—”

“
Let sleeping dogs lie, Aurora.” He pushed back his chair. “I’d best get to work on the parish financial statements.”

Aurora gave him a puzzled look as he left the table. Secrets, he thought with a pang of guilt as he entered his office and went to his desk. His yellow legal pad lay on top of the desk, full of doodles: swirls and circles and dollar signs. He tore off the top sheet and threw it in the wastebasket.

July had been a bad month. First, the cancer diagnosis. Then the letter from New Hampshire. He had no idea what to do about it. The parish financial outlook was grim. He didn’t know what to do about that either. And if the Beauregards hired some FBI agent to find Lynette’s killer, the agent would come to St. Elizabeth’s and ask him a lot of questions, questions he didn’t want to answer. Worse, if some FBI agent dug into his past, he might find out Sean Daily wasn’t the man he pretended to be.