ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (28 page)

“
Dad,” she said, stirring her coffee, then looking up to meet his gaze. “Do you think Mom’s going to be okay?”

Mom. He didn’t want to go there either, but he didn’t know how to avoid it. “I don’t know. Has she been having problems?”

Knowing she had. Twice during the past week she’d woken him with phone calls in the middle of the night.

“
Mmm, sort of.” Maureen gazed at him, all grown up, except when it came to her mother and the problems Evelyn couldn’t seem to shake. “She just doesn’t seem, I don’t know,
happy,
I guess.” Maureen forced a smile. “It’s not your fault, Dad. I just wish Mom could be happier, you know?”

“
Me too, Mo. I always wished she could be happy, but I couldn’t seem to make it happen.” He waited a beat, then forged ahead. “You’ve had psychology courses, right? Maybe it was something that happened when she was a kid, you know? The strict upbringing and—”

“
I know, Dad. The Catholic guilties and all that.” She grinned, her emerald-green eyes full of mirth, her pearly-white teeth straight and even thanks to the orthodontist. “But you’re the Italian one. Half, anyway. Italians are supposed to be wracked with guilt.”

He laughed. “So they say, but I skipped it. Plenty of time to feel guilty after I’m dead.”

“
Don’t say that, Dad. I worry about you.”

“
Come on, Mo, lighten up. We had a great time tonight and you’re going to show me around Baltimore tomorrow. You figured out your specialty. Let’s
us
be happy.”

She flashed a grin. “You’re right. It’s annoying how often you’re right, you know that? I’m going to hit the ladies room. Be right back.”

He watched her walk away, long legged and slender in a black mini-skirt, tossing her long chestnut-brown hair over her shoulder. With a burst of pride, he thought: That’s my kid and she’s gorgeous. She had inherited Evelyn’s green eyes and chestnut hair, but she had his long legs and athletic build, and a sunny smile that reflected her cheerful disposition.

He checked the time and punched a number into his cellphone, hoping to reach his FBI connection before Maureen came back. Any kind of luck, Special Agent Ross Dunn would be relaxing at home on a Saturday night, not out on a high-profile murder. They had met at Quantico during the criminal-psych courses he’d taken at the FBI academy. For Dunn it had been a refresher course; Frank was one of the rookies, but they’d hit it off and had maintained a friendship over the years. Dunn’s wife answered the phone.

“
Hi, Beverly, it’s Frank Renzi. How you doing? How are the kids?” Ross and Beverly had twin sons. He tried to recall how old they’d be now.

“
Hi, Frank. Nice to hear from you. The boys are co-captains of the high school football team this year. Want to talk to Ross? He’s right here.”

Moments later Ross said, “Hey, Frank, are you in town?”

“
Yes, visiting my daughter. She’s at Johns Hopkins.”

“
Wow, they grow up fast, don’t they?”

“
Yeah, it’s scary. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Ross chuckled. “I should have known this wasn’t a social call. I’ll help if I can. What’s up?”

“
I know it’s not your jurisdiction, but are you tight with any of the homicide detectives on the D.C. police force?”

“
Yes, as a matter of fact. Lieutenant Paul McGuire. He’s an old-timer, must be about ready to retire. Paul’s a topnotch detective, helped me out a bunch of times. Why?”

“
I need someone to check out some old case files.”

“
Well, Paul’s your man. You working those New Orleans murders?”

“
Sort of.” No need to mention he was now working them without the sanction of Special Agent Burke Norris.

“
I catch the reports on the national news, but I wasn’t sure if you were on the case. Sounds like a doozy. How do you like working for Norris?”

Frank grinned. “Not much, now that you mention it.”

“
Yeah, well, dealing with an anal retentive always sucks.” Ross barked a laugh and quickly added, “That’s off the record, of course.”

“
Of course.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Actually, Norris booted me off the taskforce last week. I’m working the case on my own.”

“
Hoo-ah! Well, good luck. Stay out of his way and fly below the radar.”

“
I sure will. Thanks for the contact, Ross. I’ll call McGuire first thing tomorrow. Next time I’m up here let’s have a beer and catch up on things.”

“
Anytime, Frank. Just give me a call.”

CHAPTER 18

Monday 1:10 A.M.

Leroy Carter squirmed in his seat, trying to get comfortable as his partner, Shona Washington, swung the NOPD patrol car into the 24-hour Rite Aid parking lot. The upholstery on the passenger seat was torn and the springs were poking his butt. Last week, his doctor had told him to lose forty pounds, said he was packing too much weight on his five-foot-ten frame. At forty-two, Leroy was more worried about the prostate exam and the dreaded finger up the ass, but the doctor had issued a stern warning: Watch your diet, Leroy, too many black folks with diabetes nowadays.

As they drove through the Rite Aid lot Leroy eyeballed the cars, but saw nothing suspicious, no getaway driver waiting for a ‘banger inside. In the log book he checked off the pharmacy and noted the time. Ten past one. He wondered what his wife was doing. Aleesha was a bank teller, sat on her butt all day, came home frisky, wanting to get it on three or four times a week. Problem was his pecker wasn’t working so good, a detail he had not shared with the doctor. Aleesha liked to party, and what with him working overnights, no telling where she was or what she was doing. Or with whom.

He glanced at Shona, sucking up Diet Coke, reaching into a Doritos bag to pull out a fistful. They’d been partners for two years, got along fine alternating chores, Shona driving tonight while he kept the log. Most nights they stayed out of each other’s way, riding in comfortable silence, thinking their private thoughts. Shona was thirty-four, raising five-year-old twin boys by herself, having refused to marry the lowlife that knocked her up. She was built close to the ground, short powerful legs, and an ace on the firing range. Leroy trusted her to watch his back. Any domestic dispute calls he let her do the talking. Shona was great at calming folks down. He just wanted to punch the guy out, which, of course, was against regulations.

“
Want some?” Shona held out the Doritos bag.

“
No thanks. I’ll grab a donut at Krispy Crème.” His bladder felt uncomfortably full, seemed like he had to take a piss all the time these days. “Don’t forget the extra drive-bys.”

“
Right. Want me to swing by the Jefferson house now?”

“
Let’s hit Krispy Crème first. I gotta take a leak.”

_____

Midway through their neighborhood patrol Randy Hayes and Ben McIver rounded a corner and trudged up Annunciation Street. A pint-sized redhead with a bantam-rooster attitude, Randy compensated for his size by pumping iron, took pride in his ability to make the Confederate flag tattoo on his bicep ripple when he flexed his muscles. On patrol, he carried a Winchester 12-gauge shotgun. Randy owned a towing business. His wife stayed home where she belonged, caring for their two daughters.

Ben McIver lived next door with his wife, though the couples didn’t socialize. Both men were twenty-six but the similarities ended there. Ben was six inches taller and wore wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses. He couldn’t decide on a career. His current venture was woodworking, his current dilemma the sexual fantasies that filled his mind when he watched the male body-builders at the gym. Randy wasn’t one of them.

“
Can’t wait to check out the babe’s house on the corner,” Randy said gleefully. “Maybe the shades’ll be up like last night. Man, I love watching that bitch in her underwear.”

“
Uh-huh,” Ben said without enthusiasm, gripping his baseball bat. He hated guns. He’d joined the crime-watch patrol a month ago, hadn’t seen any criminals yet and doubted he ever would. He’d volunteered to placate his wife, who had an overactive imagination. The nightly patrols also allowed him to avoid her frequent sexual demands.

Earlier, a thunderstorm had blown through. At midnight the rain had stopped, but streetlights illuminated puddles on the sidewalks. As they neared the end of the block Ben saw someone turn the corner and walk toward them on the opposite sidewalk. He nudged Randy. “Looks like Joe College is coming home late from a party.”

Randy squinted at the kid in the UNO sweatshirt and the Texas Rangers baseball cap. “What’s in the Walgreen’s bag, I wonder. Can’t be rubbers. The bag’s too big.” Randy cackled at his own joke.

Across the street, Joe College walked purposefully, head down, ignoring them. As they passed him, Ben was relieved to see that the kid was white. He was no racist, but he knew for a fact that more black kids committed violent crimes than white ones.

“
How come he’s going up Rona Jefferson’s walk?” Randy said.

Ben turned, saw Joe College walk along the side of Rona’s house and disappear. Then he heard the tinkling sound of shattering glass. Moments later flame erupted inside the house, orange-red fingers of fire clearly visible through the windows.

“
Hey!” Randy yelled, and started running. “Hey, you!” Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Ben! Go round the block and cut him off!”

A jolt of fear stabbed Ben’s chest, but he followed orders and ran. Jesus, some college kid had just thrown a Molotov cocktail through Rona Jefferson’s window!

_____

Inside the house behind Rona’s, two women lay awake in a double bed. A paroxysm of coughing wracked Dorothy Warner. She was forty-eight and all forty-eight years were etched on her sallow, pock-marked face. She’d quit high school at sixteen and trouble had dogged her ever since. In her twenties she endured a series of abusive men, turned to drugs and spent much of her thirties and forties in and out of prison, where she managed to find stronger women to protect her.

After her release five years ago she’d latched onto Nadine Brown, a petite woman with milk-chocolate skin, a round angelic face, and a sweet smile. Nadine worked at an oil refinery and paid the mortgage on the house. Last week Dorothy had lost her job clerking at Dollar-Mart. Too many sick days, the manager said. Dorothy smoked two packs a day. That cost a bundle, so she’d stopped taking her meds.

Wracked by another coughing spell, she sat up.

Nadine rubbed her back. “Want me to get you some water, Dottie?”

“
That might help—”

Frantic barking in the backyard silenced her. Kansas, her golden retriever, wouldn’t harm a flea, but he was a great watchdog. At the slightest noise he uttered a deep-throated bark loud enough to terrify any burglar. She adored him, had rescued him in Tulsa, an earlier stop in her aimless travels.

“
Stay here, Nadine. I’ll go see what Kansas is fussing about.”

But as she swung her legs over the side of the bed an anguished yelp came from the backyard. “Damn it to hell!”

She grabbed her Browning nine-millimeter off the nightstand. Growing up in Texas, she’d learned all about guns from her daddy. In fact, she still drove to a deserted area near the I-10 once a week for target practice.

“
Be careful, Dottie,” Nadine called as she left the bedroom.

Careful is exactly what I intend to be, Dorothy thought. Some guy out there killing women, I ain’t gonna be next. The house was a shotgun, so named because a person at the front door could fire a shot out the back door without striking an intervening wall. She crept down the dark center hall, jacking a shell into the chamber of the Browning as she went. Inside the dark kitchen, she eased open the back door. Kansas was yelping piteously.

“
Kansas,” she crooned, “come here, baby.”

_____

Randy vaulted the wooden fence behind Rona’s cottage one-handed, gripping the Winchester with the other. Some cocksucker had torched a house on his watch, and damned if he’d let the fucker get away with it. He landed on his feet, staggered a step, and swung the shotgun into firing position. Where the hell was the motherfucker?

He heard a vicious snarl, glimpsed a large dog leaping at him and pulled the trigger. The dog yelped and fell to the ground. Flames from the Jefferson house cast an eerie glow over the yard. He’d hit the goddamn dog square in the chest, Randy noted with satisfaction.

“
You sum’bitch!”

Randy whirled, trying to locate the voice, shotgun at the ready. The house was twenty yards away, dark as pitch. He heard a shot, then another, two quick muzzle flashes, felt burning pain as the slug slammed into his chest. He’d been shot! Unable to believe it, he sank to the ground.

Another shot ripped into his forehead, and everything went black.

In a final reflexive action, his finger pulled the trigger. The slug blasted out of the Winchester and soared into the sky.

_____

Spurred by Randy’s command, Ben pursued the culprit with all the speed he could muster, long legs pumping like pistons. As he rounded the corner one block north of Rona’s house, he saw the kid in the Rangers baseball cap race across the street and disappear between two houses. Moments ago he’d heard gunshots. That scared him, but the shots had come from behind him, not from the kid he was chasing.