ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (9 page)

“
Yes, she was.” The priest lit another cigarette and lowered his gaze to a yellow legal pad on his desk.

“
How well did you know her? Ever talk to her alone, one on one?”

“
Once or twice. I get on well with kids, boys especially. Shoot a little hoop with them, get them relaxed. Once they knew I wasn’t going to beat up on them for making a bit of mischief, they’d open up to me.”

“
Did Lynette have some kind of a problem?”

The priest doodled on the legal pad, puffing away on his cigarette.

What’s he hiding?
“What did Lynette want to talk to you about?”

Daily frowned and put out his cigarette. “We spoke in confidence.”

“
Right. And now she’s dead.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed for an instant, then widened in innocence, or an imitation thereof. Frank had seen that look on some very guilty crooks.

“
Surely you don’t think I had something to do with it?”

“
Sean, I’m trying to find out who killed her, and I need to know why she came to talk to you. Was she upset about something?”

“
You could say so, yes.”

“
What was she upset about?”

The priest set aside the legal pad and looked at him. “She wanted to get her own apartment and her parents wouldn’t let her.”

“
When was this?”

“
A couple of years ago, during her second year of college.”

“
Her parents attend St. Elizabeth’s too, don’t they? Bart and Darleen Beauregard?”

“
Yes. They’re the wealthiest family in the parish.” The priest puffed his cigarette. “They contribute very generously to St. Elizabeth’s.”

“
Why wouldn’t they let her have her own apartment?”

Daily’s mouth quirked in a frown. “They were afraid she’d get into trouble. The mother’s a bit of a fanatic when it comes to morality.”

“
About sex, you mean?”

“
Yes, and the father does her bidding. She’s the one with the money. Her father was a multi-millionaire, an oil man. He set up a foundation that donates money to local charities. When he died, Darlene inherited everything. Bart runs the foundation day to day, but Darlene calls the shots.”

“
Okay, but what did Lynette expect you to do? Convince the mother to let her get her own apartment?”

Daily looked down at his legal pad, doodling on it with a felt-tipped pen. “Lynette was pregnant.”

That stopped him. Darleen hadn’t mentioned a pregnancy when they spoke on the phone and nothing in Lynette’s file indicated that she’d born a child. “But she never had a baby.”

“
Maybe she miscarried. God was the first abortionist, you know.”

An odd comment from a priest. “Who was the father?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
Did you ask?”

“
Yes.”

“
Did you talk to her parents about it?”

Daily’s lips tightened. “No.”

“
They never spoke with you after she was murdered?”

“
No.”

He got the feeling Daily was still hiding something, but he had to get back to headquarters. He set his card on Daily’s desk. “Sorry to keep you from lunch, Sean. If you think of anything that might be helpful, call me.”

_____

Conscious of his galloping heart, Sean walked the NOPD detective to the door and returned to his office. How did Renzi know that he’d talked to Lynette? What else did Renzi know? Why had he come here to interrogate him? With trembling hands, he doodled Lynette’s name on the legal pad, recalling the day she’d sat in the same chair Renzi had.

“
I can’t have this baby,” she’d sobbed.

“
Then don’t,” he’d said. And she hadn’t.

“
Sean,” Aurora called from the kitchen. “Lunch is ready.”

He rose and went to the kitchen. She’d served him a large portion of seafood gumbo with slices of golden-brown garlic toast, his favorite meal, normally, but now the very thought of eating made him queasy.

She poured Chardonnay into their wine glasses and sat down across the table from him. “Frank seems like a nice man. What did he want?”

“
He was asking about Lynette. I told him she was pregnant.”

“
Did you tell him about that priest?”

“
No.”

Aurora gazed at him with troubled eyes. “Why not?”

“
The man’s dangerous, Aurora. If he starts investigating, he’ll find out I’m not really a priest.” If Detective Frank Renzi dug hard enough, he’d find out things even Aurora didn’t know.

“
Sean, you’ve pulled it off all these years.”

He forced down a spoonful of gumbo and smiled at the woman he loved more than anything in the world.

“
Aurora, you’re the best cook in Louisiana, I swear.”

CHAPTER 7

Wednesday 6:30 A.M.

“
What the fuck are you doing, Renzi? You think you can nose around, find some off-the-wall witness and blow my investigation?”

Frank stood by his bed, dripping wet from the shower. Just what he needed to start his day: a phone call from Norris, screaming at him. “Good morning to you too, Burke. Mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

“
The column that black bitch wrote for the
Clarion-Call
, that’s what. Christ, I got every media outlet in the country calling me.”

“
I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said, hoping to prevent Norris from transforming a brushfire into a raging inferno.

On the way to headquarters he stopped at a convenience store to buy a copy of the
Clarion-Call
. Rona’s column was on the front page,
WOMAN FOILS TONGUE KILLER
, alongside Monica’s sketch. A sick feeling invaded his gut. He scanned the first two paragraphs, an abbreviated version of Kitty’s story about the john trying to cut her tongue that ended with a jibe at Norris for failing to catch the Tongue Killer. The third paragraph was the kicker.

NOPD Detective Frank Renzi listened to her story and deemed it credible. The woman hopes it will help the police capture the killer. But will it? When asked about suspects at a recent press briefing, Norris refused to rule anyone out: “During the Baton Rouge serial killer investigation, FBI profilers pegged the killer as a white male, but a black man was later convicted of the crimes.”

He stared at the words, unable to believe Rona had put his name in her column, but there it was on page one, front and center. Seething with fury, he read the rest of the column.

All the victims are white, and police believe the killer sexually assaults them. By promoting his black-killer theory, Norris taps into an ugly racial stereotype: black men attack white women. This rubs salt in old wounds. Norris has already held three black men overnight for questioning, but, lacking evidence to charge them with any crime, he was forced to release them. Must every black man in the area look over his shoulder, fearing the police will arrest him?

The woman described her attacker as a young white male, and she believes he may have been a priest. A sketch artist helped her produce his likeness. [See graphic] Find the man in the sketch, Agent Norris, and arrest him. Only then will the women in this city feel safe.

He flung the paper on the passenger seat in disgust. Rona had used his name to lend credence to a sensational story, a story that advanced her racial agenda. Worse, she had published the sketch. The one positive: she hadn’t named Kitty. He dialed Rona’s extension at the
Clarion-Call
. Shunted onto voice mail, he left a terse message: “Frank Renzi. Call my cellphone ASAP.”

A headache pounded his temples. Now he had to go and placate Norris, if indeed that was possible, a delightful encounter, sort of like dancing with killer bees. Maybe if he was really careful, he wouldn’t get stung.

_____

After the early Mass the sinner escaped a tedious conversation with an elderly parishioner and returned to the rectory. The moment he stepped inside he heard Monsignor Goretti and Father Cronin in the parlor. It wasn’t difficult. Both men were hard of hearing and tended to shout even in normal conversation. And this was no normal conversation.

“
How dare they?” the Monsignor shouted in an angry voice. ”Ever since The Scandal they accuse us priests of everything under the sun!”

Monsignor Goretti always referred to the pedophile priest litigation that had recently rocked the Catholic Church as The Scandal.

“
Exactly!” Father Cronin said. “It’s preposterous! Printing that sketch in the newspaper and saying the Tongue Killer is a priest!”

A sketch? In the newspaper? His heart jolted. He tiptoed past the parlor door. If he could get to his room to watch the news …

“
Father Tim! Come here and take a look at this.”

The Monsignor had the antenna of a bat, homing in on him wherever he was. His heart pounded. What if the sketch looked like him? What would he say? Once Monsignor latched onto an idea he was relentless.

Sweat dampened his armpits, but he feigned a carefree smile and entered the parlor. Father Cronin fixed him with a frigid stare. Monsignor Goretti thrust a copy of the
Clarion-Call
at him and said, “Does this look like anyone you know?”

His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe, and his left eyelid twitched in uncontrollable spasms. Willing the nervous tick to stop, he took the newspaper, too terrified to look at it.

I told you to stop
, said the voice.
They’re going to catch you!

With a supreme effort, he feigned an expression of calm serenity and studied the sketch. And almost laughed aloud. The face in the sketch looked nothing like him, hair in a buzz cut like a Marine recruit, eyes that were pale, not dark like his. He handed it back to the Monsignor.

“
Looks like the guy on
Rifleman
to me. Remember that old TV show? Chuck Connors, wasn’t it?”

The Monsignor burbled a happy laugh. “Exactly right, Father Tim.”

“
They’re saying the killer is a priest?”

“
May they rot in Hell for such blasphemy,” Father Cronin shouted. “May they suffer fire and brimstone for eternity!”

The sinner nodded his enthusiastic agreement. Desperate to escape, he cast about for a way to make a quick exit. Bending down on one knee, he unlaced his shoe. “These new shoes are too tight. I think I’ve got a blister.”

“
Don’t let it fester,” the Monsignor warned. “Put a band aid on it.”

“
Right away, Monsignor.” He turned as if to leave, hesitated, and turned back. “Are you done with the newspaper?”

Monsignor thrust the paper at him. “Here, get it out of my sight.”

He rushed down the hall to his room, locked the door and read the column. The prostitute had told them he was a priest! But how did she know? He had worn civilian clothes that night. The NOPD detective must have arranged for her to do the sketch. Renzi was probably behind the priest theory, too, a theory that would make his mission infinitely more difficult.

He took a Mr. Goodbar out of the top drawer of his bureau, ripped off the wrapper and took a large bite. But the chocolate failed to sooth him. The sweet taste brought only memories of Nanny, none of them sweet. Nanny had moved in after Mother died. His memory of Mother was hazy: a woman with a vague vanilla-scent and a pale oval face. But he would never forget Nanny and her rapacious blue eyes, and her cruelties.

As a five-year-old, his innocent request for a drink of water had interrupted her favorite soap opera. “Stop pestering me! Get it yourself!”

“
I c-c-can’t reach—”

With a look of pure fury, she grabbed him by the neck, shoved him into the coat closet, shut the door and locked it. He could still remember the ominous click of the lock, the darkness closing in on him in that coffin-like space, the odor of rubber from the winter boots on the floor.

“
L-l-let me out!” he wailed.

“
Shut up you little creep or I’ll leave you in there all day!”

His wail became a whimper. All day. In this closet. Alone in the dark. Overcome with terror, he wet himself. Sobbing, he sat in the darkness in his smelly wet clothes for what seemed like forever. Forever in hell.

The worst was yet to come.

When Nanny finally unlocked the door and dragged him out of the closet, her nostrils flared. “What’s that smell? You pissed your pants! Take them off, you worthless little shit!”

Expose himself to this monster? He covered his crotch with his hands.

“
Take. Them. Off.” Her pale-blue eyes were shards of ice.

Disobey and he was dead. He took them off. Holding his underpants between her thumb and forefinger, she dragged him to the bathroom and sat him on the toilet. “Open your mouth,” she commanded.