Sacred Sins (19 page)

“They had a relationship,” Ben prompted.

“If you can call it that. She didn't even tell her parents about him. No one knew but me.” She rubbed her eyes. Mascara had been clumped on her lashes and came off in flakes. “She was so happy at first. I guess I was happy for her, but I didn't like the fact that she was… well, so controlled by him. Little things, you know. If he liked Italian food, she did. If he was into French movies, so was she.”

Suzanne struggled against the bitterness and grief for a moment. Her free hand began to clamp and un-clamp over the lapel of her robe. “She wanted to get married. She needed to marry him. All she could think of was bringing their relationship out and registering at Bloomingdale's. He kept putting her off, not saying no, just not yet. Not yet. Anyway, she was sinking pretty low emotionally. She made some demands on him, and he dumped her. Just like that. He didn't even have the guts to say it to her face. He called her.”

“When did this happen?”

Suzanne didn't answer Ben for several seconds. She stared blankly at the television screen. A woman spun the wheel and hit Bankrupt. Tough break.

“The night she was killed. She called me that same night, saying she didn't know what she was going to do, how she was going to handle it. It hit her hard. He wasn't just another guy, he was it for Anne. I asked her if she wanted me to come over, but she said she wanted to be alone. I should have gone.” She screwed her eyes closed. “I should have gotten in my car and gone over. We could've gotten drunk or high or ordered pizza. Instead she went out walking alone.”

Ben said nothing as she wept quietly. Tess would know what to say. The thought came from nowhere and infuriated him. “Ms. Hudson.” Ben gave her a moment,
then continued. “Do you know if anyone had been bothering her? Had she noticed anyone around the apartment, around the office? Anyone who made her uneasy?”

“She didn't notice anyone but John. She'd have told me.” She let out a long breath and rubbed the back of her hand under her eyes. “We'd even talked about this maniac a couple of times, talked about being extra careful until he was caught. She went out because she wasn't thinking. Or maybe because she had too much to think about. She'd have pulled herself out—Anne was tough. She just never had the chance.”

They left her on the couch staring at the Wheel and went to see John Carroll.

He had a duplex in a part of town that catered to young professionals. There was a gourmet market around the corner, a liquor store that would carry obscure brands, and a shop specializing in athletic wear, all tucked within reasonable walking distance of the residential area. A dark blue Mercedes sedan was parked in his driveway.

He answered the door after the third knock. He was wearing an undershirt and jogging pants and carrying a fifth of Chevas Regal. There was little resemblance to the young, successful lawyer on his way up. Three days' worth of beard shadowed his chin. His eyes were swollen and the skin had folded into pockets that drooped beneath. He smelled like a vagrant who had crawled into an alley on Fourteenth to sleep it off. He took a cursory look at the badges, hefted the bottle for another swig, and turned away, leaving the door open. Ed closed it.

The duplex had wide-planked oak floors partially covered with a couple of Aubussons. In the living area the sofa was long and low; the upholstery on it and the chairs ran to masculine colors, grays and blues. State-of-the-art electronic equipment was displayed on one
wall. Along another was a collection of toys—antique slots, banks, trains.

Carroll collapsed on the sofa in the center of the room. Two empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray were on the floor. A blanket was tossed over the cushions. Ben calculated he hadn't moved much beyond that spot since he'd been notified.

“I can come up with a couple of clean glasses.” His voice was husky but not slurred, as though the liquor had quit doing its job some time before. “But you can't drink, can you? On duty.” He lifted the bottle again and sucked. “I'm not on duty.”

“We'd like to ask you some questions about Anne Reasoner, Mr. Carroll.” There was a chair behind him, but Ben didn't sit.

“Yeah, I figured you'd get around to it. I told myself if I didn't pass out, I'd talk to you.” He looked at the bottle that was barely three-quarters full. “Can't seem to pass out.”

Ed took the bottle from his fingers and set it aside. “Doesn't help, really, does it?”

“Something's got to.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, then began to search the littered smoked-glass coffee table for a cigarette. Ben lit one for him. “Thanks.” He drew hard and kept most of the smoke in his lungs. “I quit two years ago,” he said, and drew again. “Didn't gain any weight, though, because I cut out starch.”

“You and Miss Reasoner had a relationship,” Ben began. “You were one of the last people to talk to her.”

“Yes. Saturday night. We were supposed to go to the National.
Sunday in the Park with George.
Anne's fond of musicals. I prefer straight drama myself, but—”

“You didn't go to the theater?” Ben interrupted.

“I was feeling pressured. I called her to break the
date and told her I wanted to let the relationship cool for a while. That's how I said it.” He looked up, over the cigarette, and met Ben's eyes. “It should cool for a while. It sounded reasonable.”

“Did you have fight?”

“A fight?” He laughed at that and choked on smoke. “No, we didn't fight. We never fought. I don't believe in it. There's always a logical and reasonable solution to any problem. This was a reasonable solution, and it was for her own good.”

“Did you see her that night, Mr. Carroll?”

“No.” He looked around absently for the bottle, but Ed had put it out of reach. “She asked me to come over, to talk it out. She was crying. I didn't want to have one of those tearful scenes, so I said no. I told her I thought it best if we gave it a little time. In a week or two we could have drinks after work and talk about it calmly. In a week or two.” He stared straight ahead. The ash from his cigarette fell on his knee. “She called me later.”

“She phoned you again?” Ed balanced his notepad on his palm. “What time was that?”

“It was 3:35. My clock radio's right beside the bed. I was annoyed with her. I shouldn't have been, but I was. She was high. I can always tell when she's had a joint. She didn't have an outrageous habit, just burned a joint now and then to ease tension, but I didn't like it. It's so childish, you know,” he added. “I figured she'd done it to irritate me. She told me she'd come to some decisions. She wanted me to know that she didn't blame me. She was going to take responsibility for her own emotions, and not to worry about her causing any scenes at the office.”

When he sat back and closed his eyes, his dark blond hair fell over his forehead. “I was relieved at that, because I worried a bit about it. She said she had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of reevaluating before we talked
again. I said that was fine and I'd see her Monday. When I hung up it was 3:42. That's seven minutes.”

Gil Norton had seen the murderer come out of the alley sometime between four and four-thirty. Ed noted the times on his pad, then put it in his pocket.

“You're probably not in the mood for advice, Mr. Carroll, but you'd be better off if you went up to bed and got some sleep.”

He focused on Ed, then looked at the litter of bottles at his feet. “I loved her. How come I didn't know it until now?”

B
EN
stepped outside and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “Christ.”

“I don't think Suzanne Hudson would feel like spitting in his face now.”

“So what have we got?” Ben walked to the car and took the driver's seat. “A selfish, self-indulgent lawyer, who doesn't fit Norton's description. A woman trying to pull back from a bad affair, who goes for a walk. And a psychopath who just happens to be there when she does.”

“A psychopath who wears a cassock.”

Ben stuck the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. “You think he's a priest?”

Instead of answering, Ed sat back and stared at the sky through the windshield. “How many sort of tall, dark-haired priests you figure there are in the city?” Ed took out a plastic bag of trail mix.

“Enough to keep us busy for six months. We haven't got six months.”

“It wouldn't hurt to talk to Logan again.”

“Yeah.” He dipped his fingers into the plastic bag Ed offered without thinking. “How about this? A former priest, one who dropped out because of some
Church-oriented tragedy. Logan might be able to get us a few names.”

“Another crumb. In her report, Dr. Court says he's cracking, that this last murder probably left him disabled for a couple of days.”

“I read it. What the hell is this? Bark and twigs?” Ben twisted the key and pulled out from the curb.

“Raisins, almonds, some granola. You ought to call her, Ben.”

“I'll handle my personal life, partner.” He turned the corner and went a block before he swore. “Sorry.”

“No problem. You know, I saw this special. It pointed out that in current society, men really have it made. Women have taken the pressure off them to be the sole support—the Mr. Macho who has to handle all the problems and bring home the bacon. Women are generally waiting longer to look for marriage if they look for marriage at all, which leaves men with more choices. Today's woman isn't looking for Prince Charming on a white charger. The funny thing is, a lot of men are still threatened by strength and independence.” He plucked out a raisin. “Pretty amazing.”

“Kiss ass.”

“Dr. Court strikes me as being pretty independent.”

“Good for her. Who wants a woman who hangs all over you?”

“Bunny didn't hang exactly,” Ed remembered. “She sort of draped.”

“Bunny was comic relief,” Ben muttered. And Bunny had been one of his standard three-month affairs where you meet, share a few dinners, have a few laughs, bounce around in the sheets, and call it quits before anyone gets any ideas. He thought of Tess leaning back against his windowsill and laughing. “Look, when you're in our business you need a woman who doesn't make you
think all the time. Who doesn't make you think about her all the time.”

“You're making a mistake.” Ed leaned back. “But I figure you're smart enough to see it for yourself.”

Ben made the turn toward Catholic University. “Let's hit Logan before we go back in.”

A
T
five
P.M.
all the detectives assigned to the Priest homicides but Bigsby were spread out in the conference room. Harris had a copy of all the reports in front of him, but went over each point by point. They traced Anne Reasoner's movements on the final night of her life.

At 5:05
P.M.
she had left her regular beauty salon, where she'd had a trim, color touch-up, blow-dry, and manicure. She'd been in excellent spirits and had tipped her operator ten dollars. At five-fifteen she had picked up her dry cleaning. One gray suit, with vest, two linen blouses, and a pair of gabardine slacks. At approximately five-thirty she had arrived home. Her next-door neighbor had spoken to her in the hall. Anne had mentioned going to the theater that evening. She'd carried fresh flowers.

At seven-fifteen John Carroll had called her and broken their date and their relationship. They had spoken for roughly fifteen minutes.

At eight-thirty Anne Reasoner had called Suzanne Hudson. She'd been upset, tearful. They had talked for nearly an hour.

Around midnight the next-door neighbor had heard Reasoner's television. She'd noticed it because she was coming in for the evening herself and hadn't expected Reasoner to be home.

At 3:35 Reasoner had phoned Carroll. Two roaches
of marijauna had been found beside the phone. They had talked until 3:42. None of the neighbors heard Reasoner leave the building.

Sometime between four and four-thirty A.M. Gil Norton had seen a man dressed as a priest exit the alley two blocks from Reasoner's apartment. At 4:36 Norton attracted the attention of two patrolmen and reported the body.

“Those are the facts,” Harris said. Behind him was a map of the city with the murder sights flagged with blue pins. “From the map we can see that he's confined himself to an area less than seven square miles. All the murders have occurred between one and five A.M. There is no sexual assault, no robbery. From the pattern Monsignor Logan established, we expect him to hit again on December eighth. Street patrols will be working double shifts from now until then.