ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (39 page)

“
Dana, there are evil people in the world, and they hurt a lot of innocent people.” She nodded, but she still didn’t get it, he could tell. He pushed back his chair. “Let’s go out on the balcony and get some air.”

They took their wine outside and he leaned over the railing, staring down at the swirling current. A tugboat chugged past headed downriver, and twinkling lights on the opposite bank lit up the town of Algiers. Upriver, lights dipped and swooped on the spans of the Crescent City Connection, the bridge that joined the east and west banks of the river.

He gulped some wine. “One reason I left Boston was to get away from Evelyn. The other was work related.”

Dana nodded, gazing at him with somber eyes. “What happened?”

“
I was lead detective on a homicide bust at one of the housing projects, and it turned into a major league fuckup.”

He closed his eyes, seeing it happen in excruciating slow motion. “My partner and I charge into the apartment, scream ‘Police!’ and this gangbanger pulls a gun on us. Jack shoots him. Bam-bam-bam, three to the chest, blows him away. Four or five seconds go by. Everything’s quiet. The ‘banger’s on the floor, bleeding.”

He could still smell the burnt cordite, could still feel the clammy sweat on his back. “Jack looks at me and I can tell he’s shook up. We’re in the living room near a hallway. All of a sudden a door opens at the far end of the hall and another ‘banger steps out with a semi-automatic and starts firing.”

His gut twisted. “This little girl steps out of a bathroom halfway down the hall. I don’t know why. She had to hear the shots. It was fuckin bedlam. Jack and I were already shooting and the girl went down. I don’t know to this day if it was me or Jack that shot her. They couldn’t tell whose ammo it was. And this motherfucker with the gun keeps coming, steps over girl’s body like it’s a rag doll.”

“
You had to shoot, Frank. It was self defense. If you’d waited a split second, you and Jack could have been killed.”

“
She died because I didn’t know she was there.” He tapped his chest. “I was in charge. I should have made sure no one else was in the apartment.”

“
There’s no way you could have known, Frank. These things
happen
.”

She spoke with great conviction, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He looked down at the watery darkness, his stomach roiling with acid.

Dana handed him a cigarette. He touched it to the flame she held out, took a deep drag and blew a stream of smoke over the water.

“
She was beautiful, the little girl. Just as beautiful as Maureen when she was eleven.” His eyes filled with tears. “I felt like I’d killed my own kid.”

_____

As they strolled down Royal Street toward the Hotel Monteleone, Dana squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you told me about the little girl. Maybe that’s why you’re so driven. There are dozens of cops and FBI agents hunting this serial killer. Why is it so personal with you?”

Because Kitty trusted me and I didn’t protect her and the bastard killed her.

But he didn’t want to talk about it. “A couple weeks ago I met an old man who’s masquerading as a priest. He’s been on the run for thirty years.”

Dana burst out laughing. “Sorry, Frank, but that is too funny. Hiding out as a priest?”

Funny? Not really, not with Tim Krauthammer roaming the streets.

“
How did you find out he wasn’t a priest?”

“
He knew one of the victims. When I interviewed him, I got weird vibes, but nothing concrete. Eventually he told me he’s wanted for murder in New Hampshire. He swears he didn’t do it, and I tend to believe him.”

“
That’s quite a tribute to you. He must trust you a lot.”

“
Maybe, but I’ve got decisions to make. There’s a federal warrant outstanding. If he goes to prison he could die there.”

The hotel doorman saw them coming and swung open the door.

“
Want to come up for a nightcap?” Dana said.

The Cockpit security videos were in the glove box of his car, but it was after eleven and he was in no mood to go home and work. Dana was leaving in three days and he wanted her badly, more than he’d wanted any woman in recent memory. A tough dilemma. As usual, work prevailed.

“
Thanks, but I’ve got work to do. Come on, I’ll walk you inside.”

She stopped at the elevators in the lobby, but he leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Not those. Follow me.”

Figuring it would be deserted at this hour, he led her around the corner to an alcove with another elevator, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She pulled him close, melding her body to his, kissing him with a fierce passion, her lips moist and open. He wanted to go up to her room and take her to bed and make love to her for three hours. Wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight anyway. He released her and stepped back.

“
Mmmm-good,” she said, gazing up at him with her sexy smile.

He caressed her cheek. “Better than good, but I have to go home and watch a security video. How about lunch tomorrow?”

“
You’re an interesting man, Frank Renzi. Thanks for making this an enjoyable day. Lunch tomorrow sounds perfect.” She hit the call button.

“
I’ve got a question for you,” he said. “So far all the Tongue Killer victims have been women.”

“
Six, right? Young white women?”

“
Seven. I think he killed a prostitute, too, and he tried to kill a local columnist. She keeps insisting the killer is a priest, and she wants every priest in the diocese give us a DNA sample. Tim Krauthammer is a priest.”

Dana looked at him, unsmiling. “You’re convinced he’s the killer?”

Yes, Dana, Tim is the killer, even if you don’t want to believe it.

“
Well, I can’t prove it. That’s why I haven’t told the taskforce chief. I’m afraid he won’t buy my theory.” He grinned. “Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t like being afraid of anything.”

A bell pinged and the elevator door slid open. He touched her arm.

“
Dana, Tim tortured those squirrels. I think he killed these women. Set aside your preconceptions. Do you think he’d kill a man?”

A haunted look appeared in her eyes. “I hate to say it, but if Tim hated someone, it wouldn’t matter if it was a man or a woman. He’d hurt them.”

_____

Twenty minutes later Frank was in his living room watching the Cockpit security video. The poor quality of the image was frustrating, but Lisa’s face was easily recognizable. Dressed in a loose-fitting blouse and a long skirt, she looked like a lost soul, and her feeble attempt at a disguise, a broad-brimmed straw hat, was an utter failure.

Her companion was less distinct, because of the dim lighting.

He rewound the video, hit Play and stared at the screen. The man’s face was in shadow and partially obscured by a post. About all he could tell for sure: the guy had pale skin and he appeared to be taller than Lisa.

He got on the phone and called the Cockpit. It rang ten times before a woman’s voice, muddled by noise, said, “Cockpit . . . help you?”

“
Frank Renzi. Is this Yvonne?”

“
Yes,” she said, shouting over whoops in the background. “Who’d you say you were?”

“
Detective Renzi. NOPD. We talked earlier today.”

“
Oh yeah, right. Sorry. It’s very noisy in here.”

“
I watched the security videos. Is the girl there now by any chance?”

“
No. She didn’t come in tonight.”

He tried to quell his disappointment. “Well, if she does come in, call me, okay? No matter what time it is.”

Yvonne said she would, but right now she had to go.

He checked the time. 1:15 A.M. No point waking Captain Dupree at this hour. He’d show him the video first thing tomorrow. Any kind of luck, the computer enhancements would help them identify the guy with Lisa.

CHAPTER 25

Thursday 7:00 A.M.

Hunched over the yellow legal pad on his desk, Sean tried to focus on his Sunday homily, but his fears about federal warrants and prisons kept intruding, fears and a deep yearning for the son he hadn’t known existed until last month. Ralph Peterson, the grown man he’d never met, living in New Hampshire near his terminally ill mother, Mary Sweeney. Mary Peterson now.

He set aside the felt-tipped pen and studied his legal pad. Not one word about a homily, just his absentminded doodles: FRANK RENZI printed in block letters over and over on one line, RALPH PETERSON on another.

A sharp pain roiled his gut. Last night at dinner he’d seen Aurora watching him with a concerned expression. The pains came more often these days. Maybe he didn’t hide them as well as he thought.

The doorbell rang. Who was ringing his doorbell at this hour, he wondered. Normally Aurora would answer it, but five minutes ago his dear sweet Aurora, the love of his life, had gone out to do errands. With a heavy sigh, he rose from his desk. As he left the office a luscious aroma wafted out at him from the kitchen, Aurora’s fresh-baked blueberry muffins.

He wandered down the hall to the front door. Maybe it was Frank. They hadn’t spoken since Monday when Frank had called, asking about the sketch in the
Clarion-Call,
but he’d said nothing about the federal warrant. Maybe Frank wouldn’t turn him in. Maybe he wouldn’t go to prison.

But that didn’t mean he would ever see Ralph.

Lost in thought, he opened the front door.

Father Timothy Krauthammer barged inside, slammed the door shut and turned on him. “I told you to get Renzi off my back!”

The ferocity of his wrath and the feral look in his eyes made Sean back up a step. And why was this judgmental young priest coming to see him dressed in brown slacks and a polo shirt?

Eyes full of menace, Krauthammer stepped toward him. “You told Renzi that I threatened you. That’s why he wants to question me again.”

Befuddled, Sean could only stare at him, open-mouthed.

“
You and your detective pal want to pin these murders on me. Everyone knows you’re screwing your housekeeper. When I threatened to tell the Archbishop, you decided to blackmail me.” Krauthammer thrust a copy of the
Clarion-Call
at him, the one with the altered sketch.

“
Detective pal? Blackmail?” Incredulous, he stared at those dark simian eyes, so filled with hate. If anyone was a blackmailer it was Krauthammer. Anger burned his chest. Thirty years ago he’d have decked the bastard, but his lean-mean fighting trim was a distant memory.

Krauthammer took another step toward him, eyes gleaming with malevolence. “You doctored the sketch to make it look like me and gave it to Renzi, and he sent it to the newspaper. You did it to save your own skin. You never went to St. Paul’s Seminary. There’s no record of any Sean Daily ever being there. You were never ordained. You’re not even a priest.”

His knees buckled from the shock. He gripped the banister to steady himself. He’d been a fool to think he could get away with it, but the fact that this self-righteous bastard had discovered it was a bitter pill to swallow.

“
Lord help me,” he muttered. Frank had said to call if Father Tim made any more threats, but the phone was in his office.

Just as the thought entered his mind the telephone rang.

He turned to go down the hall, but Krauthammer lunged at him. He saw the garden shears an instant too late. They struck his temple and agonizing pain engulfed him. Then the light in the hallway dimmed. No, it wasn’t the light, it was his eyes. He couldn’t focus them. Dazed, he held up his hands to ward off another blow, opened his mouth to cry for help, but the words died in his throat when Krauthammer hit him again.

A black haze swam before his eyes, then darkness.

_____

Gasping for breath and consumed by a hatred so fierce he thought he would explode, the sinner stared at the man who had caused so much trouble. Daily’s eyes were shut, but he was still breathing, chest heaving with the effort. The meddlesome old man didn’t deserve to live.

His fingers tightened on the shears. Encased in hard rubber, the metal handles made a perfect club. Taking deliberate aim, he swung hard and heard the crunch of breaking bone. He wanted to smash the old man’s head and watch his brains dribble out like seeds from a cantaloupe.

He raised his arm to hit him again.

Don’t do it
, said the voice.
Didn’t you hear the telephone?

Right, the ringing telephone, a sound momentarily eclipsed by his rage. Now there was only silence. He rushed down the hall to Daily’s office. Beside a smelly ashtray full of cigarette butts, a yellow legal pad lay on the desk. He stared at it, unable to believe his eyes. All the evidence he needed lay there in plain sight, Frank Renzi’s name written over and over, proof positive that Daily and Renzi were in cahoots. But who was Ralph Peterson?

In the silence the telephone shrilled again. His heart hammered his chest. A half hour ago he had parked Father Cronin’s Honda down the street from the rectory. Ten minutes ago he had seen the housekeeper drive away.