ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (31 page)

“
God strike me dead if I do, Rona,” Sam had declared.

Thus, when her house went up in flames she had been sound asleep in her cozy room at Emma’s Bed & Breakfast, had woken at dawn, turned on the TV and stared, astonished, at her face on the screen, a file photo from the
Clarion-Call
. Her astonishment turned to rage as she watched footage of the flames consuming her house. Her rage escalated when a pert blue-eyed CNN analyst said: “The firebombing may be retaliation for Rona Jefferson’s outspoken columns. The African-American reporter has alienated many New Orleans area residents, first by insisting the Tongue Killer is white, then by asserting that he’s a priest, an allegation that enraged many Catholics.”

Recalling these comments, Rona smiled. She didn’t give a damn about disaffected Catholics, didn’t care how many whites she alienated. Black folks loved her. She focused on the TV set as a minister concluded his remarks. Growing up in Texas, she’d heard enough pious platitudes from preachers to last a lifetime, though she knew the man meant well. Unlike the gray-haired man stepping to the microphone, nostrils flaring in disdain as he stared down the mob of reporters and residents. Archbishop Brendan Quinn.

She upped the volume. She didn’t want to miss a word he said.

“
Due to recent scurrilous accusations and crackpot demands by irresponsible reporters, I felt it incumbent upon me to speak here today.”

Quinn’s lips widened, a cross between a self-satisfied smile and a sneer, Rona thought, as though his jockstrap was too tight but he was enjoying it.

“
Accusations against my fellow priests pain me as much as if I had been accused myself. Thus I must advise every priest in the diocese: Do not be coerced by public opinion. Do not bow down to law enforcement. No one can usurp the authority of the Roman Catholic Church. In due time, I shall issue a statement concerning these outrageous allegations.”

Rona gritted her teeth. His message was loud and clear: Don’t mess with Archbishop Quinn. Hers would be equally clear. Earlier she’d called Michael Gregory, had been gratified to hear genuine relief in her editor’s voice when he learned she was safe. Without revealing her location, she told him she had her laptop and would continue to write her columns. “I will not allow some racist to shut me up!”

“
Damn straight,” Michael had replied. “We can’t allow anyone to infringe upon your the First Amendment rights. Send your column ASAP!”

Recalling his enthusiasm, she opened her laptop. Michael wanted to sell papers, and her column was sure to do it.

Scurrilous accusations
.
Crackpot demands
.
Do not bow down to law enforcement
.

Spurred by the fury Quinn’s words inspired, she typed: How many women must die before this gutless murderer is caught? The Tongue Killer hides behind a priest’s collar, a cowardly white man who preys on innocent young women. Archbishop Quinn must order every white priest in the New Orleans Archdiocese to give a DNA sample to police at once.

She scanned the copy and transmitted it to her editor. The gutless creep could threaten her and firebomb her house, but he couldn’t shut her up.

_____

Frank entered the Twin Oaks café at ten past six, spotted Miller at the bar and slid onto the adjacent stool. “No fair, you got a head start.”

“
Believe me, I earned it.” Miller signaled the barmaid, pointed at his beer and held up two fingers, then pulled a face. “Meeting with Norris all day, everybody helping the man figure out how to placate the media and keep folks calm. Man, I never saw him so pissed. Did you catch the briefing?”

“
Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He nodded to the barmaid as she delivered two bottles of Coors, collected Miller’s empty and moved down the bar to tend other customers.

“
So, how’d you earn your beer? Hard day of desk duty?”

“
Nope. I’ve been out looking for a missing eighteen year old girl.”

Miller frowned. “You think the Tongue Killer got another one?”

“
No.” He gave Miller a short version of Dupree’s saga of Danny Sampson. “I talked to the father. He’s no great parent, but he’s worried. I think she’s a screwed up adolescent, had a fight with Dad and split.”

“
Back to California?”

“
If she did, it wasn’t on a plane or a train or a bus, nothing on her credit card since Friday, the day before she disappeared. She could be smarter than Daddy thinks.”

“
She could be dead,” Miller countered.

“
I don’t think so. I think she’s an unhappy kid trying to get Daddy’s attention. I spent the day in the Quarter showing her picture, got nothing. Tomorrow I’ll hit the Garden District. That’s where they were staying.”

Miller nodded at the television where footage of Rona’s house in flames danced on the screen, the same clip replayed endlessly, stoking bonfires of discontent among area residents, some of them supportive of neighborhood patrols, others against.

“
The State Police cadaver dogs didn’t find Rona,” Miller said. “No one knows where the hell she is.”

Frank nodded. He’d left three messages on her voicemail, none of which had been returned. But that wasn’t why he’d asked Miller to meet him. It was time to mend fences. “It’s great to get off the desk, but I’d rather be investigating Father Timothy Krauthammer than chasing a missing teenager.”

Miller looked at him, his expression tinged with resentment. “I was wondering when you were going to tell me about it.”

“
I didn’t want to tell you before, in case it didn’t pan out.”

“
So? Did it?” Miller’s eyes remained cool and distant.

“
My gut says he’s our guy, but that’s not enough. I talked to his father and the psychotherapist that treated him in high school.”

“
He was seeing a shrink when he was in high school?”

“
Yes. Then he went to Georgetown University. I’ve got a D.C. detective checking the cold case files for the years he was there.”

“
Be great if you could get a sample of the guy’s DNA.”

Frank grinned. “Yes it would, wiseguy. Got any suggestions?”

“
Break into the rectory and steal his toothbrush?” Miller’s eyes twinkled with mischief now.

“
Yeah, and wind up in jail. Besides, even if we got a match the judge would throw it out. I got a better idea. I’m going to invite Father Tim down to the station for an interview, see if I can rattle him. Want to join me?”

Miller flashed a broad grin. “Just tell me when, partner.”

_____

Unable to face another dinner alone with Monsignor Goretti, the sinner phoned the rectory and instructed Sister Mary Joseph to tell the Monsignor that he would be dining with a parishioner. He needed to think, needed to silence the incessant voice in his head. For more than an hour he drove aimlessly, trying to sort out his chaotic thoughts. A mile from the airport he passed a seedy bar on Airline Drive: THE COCKPIT.

Lured by a flashing red-neon sign—KWIK-KOOL-KONVENIENT—he made a U-turn and pulled into the parking lot. Did airline pilots stop here for a kwik kool one, he wondered as he parked Father Cronin’s Honda between a black F150 pickup and a battered blue Buick. Should he go in, or not?

His last visit to a bar had been disastrous: THE PUSSYCAT where he’d met the prostitute. He almost drove away. He didn’t want to be with anyone, but he didn’t want to be alone with his turbulent thoughts either. Drawn by an aching need, he entered the squat brick-front tavern and stood by a cigarette machine and a coin-operated peanut dispenser, eyeing the neon beer signs: MICHELOB ULTRA in red, HEINEKEN in green. A Corona Light banner hung from the ceiling, each letter on a different colored square of fabric.

He stepped into a dim-lit room that smelled of stale beer. He hated beer. Perched on stools at a bar-height table, two bleached-blondes in skimpy skirts and halter tops were watching a game show on television. Two men sat at the bar separated by several stools, a young guy in an olive-green camo shirt and an older man nursing a beer. The sinner walked past them and claimed the stool at the far end of the bar beside a square post.

A sign taped to the mirror behind the bar said: Cash Only, No Credit Cards. Below the mirror two shelves held a dazzling array of liquor bottles. He didn’t want beer, or liquor for that matter. He needed to think. But ordering soda in a place like this would attract attention.

The bartender, a coffee-skinned Latina with dark eyes and a pleasant smile, meandered down the bar. Her lemon-yellow T-shirt had THE COCKPIT stenciled on it in black letters. “What’s yours?” she asked, smiling at him.

“
Could I have a B-B-Bloody Mary without vodka, please?” An embarrassment of color flooded his face.

“
Virgin Mary, coming right up.” The woman scooped ice into a plastic tumbler, poured thick red liquid from a plastic bottle, squeezed in a lime and added a celery stalk. Relieved that she hadn’t noticed his stammer, he studied the other men at the bar. The older man was drinking beer from a plastic cup, watching the game show. The guy in the camo shirt held a mixed drink, watching the two sluts with the painted lips as they sucked on their cigarettes.

The barmaid set his drink in front of him. “That’s three dollars, sir.”

He paid her and checked Mickey, whose white-gloved hands pointed at seven-twenty. Big black ears, laughing eyes and a wide toothy smile, a replica of the watch Father had given him on his sixth birthday. He would never forget his excitement. Father had given him the perfect gift! Father really did love him. The next day Nanny told him Father’s secretary had bought it, flashing her triumphant Nanny-smile, knowing this would hurt. It did, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing. Later, he went down to Father’s workbench in the cellar and smashed the watch with a hammer, obliterating Mickey’s happy face, an act that brought him no satisfaction. Father never even noticed, had never mentioned the watch again.

“
Do you mind if I sit here?” asked a soft voice.

Startled, he turned. He hated people sneaking up on him. The girl wore a straw hat with a wide floppy brim that hid most of her face, but he could see her eyes, dark brown, like his father’s. Already, he hated her.

“
You look like a nice normal kind of guy.” She gestured at Camo Shirt five stools down. “If I sit here with you that creep won’t bother me.”

He faked a smile and said, “Be my guest.”

“
Thanks.” She slipped onto the adjacent stool, modestly dressed in a loose-fitting white blouse and a navy-blue skirt that fell to her ankles. It looked like a school uniform. She seemed far too young to be here by herself. He studied himself in the mirror behind the bar, trying to see what she saw: an average guy in an open-necked polo shirt. A bland ordinary face, not at all predatory-looking, dark hair neatly combed, and, of course, no ring.

“
What are you drinking?” she asked, pointing to his glass.

He hesitated and said, “A Bloody Mary.”

“
How is it?”

Much too spicy. After the first swallow he hadn’t touched it.

“
It’s very good,” he said.

She smiled and said to the barmaid, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The woman nodded. “Virgin Mary, coming right up.”

“
What?” the girl said, but the barmaid was already mixing and pouring. The girl turned to him and said, “Virgin Mary?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. No stammering.

“
A Virgin Mary,” she said tonelessly. “Perfect. A Virgin Mary for Virgin Marie.”

“
That’s your name? Marie?”

She nodded, her eyes full of tears. Terrified that she might cry, he blurted, “Nice to meet you.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

The barmaid delivered two Virgin Mary’s, though he hadn’t asked for another. He gave her a ten and said, “Keep the change.”

The barmaid smiled and as she walked away a news jingle drew his attention to the television set mounted above the bar.

“
Do you live around here?” asked the girl whose name was Marie.

“
Yeah, sort of,” he said, affecting teen-style speech. “Do you?”

“
Yeah, sort of.” And after a pause. “Are you lonely?”

She’s a hooker, he thought. How disgusting. But then he looked into her eyes and found only sadness. Was he lonely? He thought about it.

“
We’re all lonely, aren’t we?” he said.

This brought a shy smile and a nod. She turned her head to look at the man on the TV screen, an older man in a flamboyant pink shirt, his dark hair slicked into a pompadour. Deep lines etched the corners of his mouth. He appeared distraught as he stared into the camera and said, “If anyone has information about my daughter, please contact the police. I love my little girl and I miss her so much. You’re the most important thing in my life, Lisa. Please come home.”

“
Liar,” muttered the girl.

“
Pardon?” the sinner said.

“
He’s a liar.” She paused for a moment. “Just like my father.”

Intrigued, he said, “Your father’s a liar?”

“
They’re all liars.” Her mud-brown eyes were flat and expressionless.