Deadly Blessings (26 page)

The key to this man’s soul was his eyes. He
told the story entirely deadpan, but his eyes blazed with
anger.

I was speechless.

William looked at me with an expression of
anticipation. “Bet you didn’t know I was a lech, huh?”

“
But you’re
not.”

He leaned forward again, his head canting
slightly. “How do you know? Maybe I am.”

I held his gaze. “No.” I said. “You’re
not.”

He blinked an acknowledgment and sat back in
his chair. “Thank you.”

“
And so they fired you? But
it was her word against yours, right? You’d been there for a long
time. How could management take her claims seriously if they knew
you?”

“
Management had a
responsibility to investigate her claims. And as much as it burned
me to cooperate in the farce, I understood their position and
complied. But the feature was gone. They couldn’t start a whole new
series under the sword of Damocles. Their hands were tied. That’s
the beauty of all this. They did know better. All the players in
this little drama knew the truth. But they decided that promoting
me wouldn’t be in the paper’s best interests at this
time.”

“
So you left?”

“
So I left. Right away.
Chloe immediately dropped the lawsuit. Surprise. Surprise. I took a
few months off, traveled a bit, wore down my retirement savings and
rainy day money because it felt damn good to do it, and then I
wound up here.”

I nodded. And completely understood.

“
The reason I’m telling you
all this now,” he said, reading my next question off my face,
perhaps, “is because—having had a sexual harassment suit slapped on
me—I’m a little uncomfortable with this undercover assignment with
prostitutes.”

“
Geez,” I said, running a
hand through my hair, gripping it atop my head. I let go almost
immediately when I realized how attractive that must look. “We’ll
get someone else. That’s not a problem.”

“
No. I’ll do it. At this
point it would be tough to bring someone up to speed who could get
the information we’re looking for. I’m up for it.” He leaned
forward. “It’s just that I thought you ought to know.”

I was shaking my head, trying to come up
with other ways to handle the situation. He interrupted me.

“
Listen, I’ve already
talked to the film crew and they’re going to digitalize my
appearance so that if we broadcast the tape, I’ll be completely
unrecognizable.”

I leaned forward on my forearms in a clear
spot on my desk. My hands were crossed one over the other in body
language that meant I was “serious.” “William,” I said.

“
You know, you can call me
Will.”

I gave a tiny sigh of impatience for the
interruption. “Will,” I shot a smile at that, “there’s no
need—”

He placed his hands over mine. Their warm
weight sent an immediate rush of blood up into my chest. “Yes,
there is. I want to do this. If I let her stop me, then she’s won,
again. I just wanted to let you know. I thought you deserved to
know.”

For one more heartbeat maybe two, we stayed
connected, hands and eyes, until he pulled away. I sat back
too.

He asked me, “Do you remember the other day
when you stopped by my office?”

I remembered. Right after Matthew’s funeral.
“Sure.”

“
I’d just gotten off the
phone with Bernie about five minutes before you came
by.”

“
And?”

The amusement in his face this time was
tinged with sadness. “They’re bringing out that new Sunday section
again. Next issue. And guess who’s the new features editor?”

* * * * *

The front door creaked.

It never creaked. Not when it was
closed.

I’d been home for at least ten minutes, my
jacket thrown over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and I
headed to my room to change out of my work clothes into jeans. Just
as I pulled my long-sleeve gray T-shirt over my head, I heard
it.

This was the house I grew up in. I knew
every regular noise: the groan of the octopus-like furnace in the
basement, the blast of the fire as the gas came on, the click-hum
of the refrigerator that was as old as I was, and the rattling
sound of the windows when a sturdy breeze hit. This noise was
different, and though quiet, it stood out like a misplayed chord in
a familiar melody.

A definite creak. And I realized with alarm,
that it was the sound of my front door opening.

Two seconds earlier, my bare feet
appreciated the cool varnished wood beneath them. Now, they just
felt cold. And no light coming from outside my window made the
house seem dark. Very dark.

For a moment I was frozen
in place. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. But
somewhere in the depths of my brain, I remembered I brought my
purse in the room with me, and I dug out my cell phone to call
9-1-1.

Then stopped. For crying out loud, I was
about to call to report a noise. That wouldn’t exactly bring the
fleet flying over.

I listened again, but heard no footsteps. My
house was old enough to broadcast any movement with a cacophony of
wood squeaks. Unless an intruder could make himself weightless, I
had to believe there wasn’t anyone was in the house with me.
Yet.

Trying to calm the frantic
beating of my heart by taking a few deep breaths, I wandered around
the corner of my door, cell phone in hand, 9-1-1 keyed in. All I
needed to do was hit “send.” As I came around the corner, and all
was clear, I realized that I’d be better off dialing from my home
phone. At the very least, they’d have my address if I suddenly got
disconnected.

I tiptoed to the kitchen, grabbed the
portable phone, and cursed myself for not having programmed it to
speed dial in an emergency. I’d do that right after this, I
promised myself.

The front door
was
open. Wide open. It
moved with minuscule swings as air pressure coming through the
aluminum screen door pushed it back and forth, as though on an
invisible string. I inched toward it, making plenty of squeaks
myself, questioning how this could happen. I rarely used my front
door, except to check the mail. And I never forgot to set the
deadbolt.

Closer now, I saw the marks. Deep grooved
scratches at both the doorknob and deadbolt levels. Someone had
pried my door open. Today.

I dialed 9-1-1 in a
hurry.

Two officers arrived minutes after my call.
I was surprised at the speed, actually, because I’d told the female
dispatcher that though it appeared my home had been broken into, I
didn’t believe anyone was inside. Still, they showed up, one coming
directly to the front door and the other walking around the back of
my house before joining us.

Officer Cross, a tall black man wearing a
navy blue winter uniform jacket, stood in the center of my living
room. “What’s been taken?”

I had to give both officers credit, I
thought later. They were extremely gracious as I walked through the
house with them. Nothing appeared to be missing. Not the TV, not my
VCR, not my laptop. Nothing. Not even a gold earring off my
dresser.

They followed me from room to room, down to
the basement, and around the perimeter of the house as I checked
everything. I was apologetic, almost disappointed, that nothing
appeared to have been disturbed other than the front door.

Both men took a close look
at the scratches by the lock. They exchanged a look and asked me if
the marks were new. I assured them that they were.

Despite the fact that I could tell they were
convinced I’d simply neglected to shut my door completely, they
were professional and courteous. And free with advice. My deadbolt,
they informed me, was not very high quality, but they gave me the
brand name of another type that was. And suggested I have them
installed both front and back. My back door was accessed by a long,
round key into a old-fashioned keyhole—the kind people usually try
to peep through. Once inside, I had a bolt I could throw, but
seeing it through their eyes now, I was embarrassed. A quick hip
hit against the door, and even my arthritic neighbor lady would be
able to break past that wimpy barrier.

“
My guess is whoever broke
in was frightened away. They probably just got in the door and
heard you coming in through the back and ran off,” Officer Cross
said, shrugging.

His partner, a middle-aged white man with
dark hair, brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow that made him look
like Fred Flintstone, nodded in agreement as he inspected the
scratches once again. I felt foolish and paranoid for having called
them. About to apologize, I wondered if he’d read my mind when he
said, “You did right calling us. You can never be too careful.”

Officer Cross added, “You know I thought I
saw movement down by the alley when we drove up, anyway. Coulda
been the guy getting away.”

The other officer, Ellis, turned to me. “You
live here alone?”

I nodded.

They exchanged a look again. I wondered if
they thought they’d be making more trips here in the future. That I
might be the type who jumped at every little indistinguishable
sound. I hoped not.

“
What do you do for a
living?” Officer Cross asked. He’d already snapped his notebook
closed, so I guessed he was just making conversation at this
point.

“
I work
for
Midwest Focus
NewsMagazine
. I’m a
researcher.”

Ellis raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Do
you know Gabriela Van Doren?”

I nodded.

“
She’s something,” he said
with gusto. “Man, that woman’s a babe. Smart too. I like those
smart ones.” He shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes that
made me not want to try and imagine what was going on in his mind.
“She’s gotta be something in real life too, huh? Is she as gorgeous
in person as she is onscreen?”

“
I’m not the best judge of
gorgeous women,” I said, smiling.

“
Oh yeah,” he said, “But
she is smart, isn’t she?”

I opened my mouth, and caught the snide
Gabriela-bashing reply before it hit my tongue. Why ruin this guy’s
impression of our anchor? “She’s a major asset to our station,” I
said.

“
I thought so.” He grinned.
“Maybe you can get an autographed picture sent to me?”

I smiled and said I’d do what I could.

Officer Cross looked around again, offering,
“There’s a chance too, that whoever broke in here was looking for
something specific.”

“
Like what?” I
asked.

“
Don’t know. You’d be a
better judge of that than we would. Maybe something to do with your
work. And maybe they looked around but didn’t find it.” He gave a
grimace, “Although usually, when a guy’s looking for something,
they toss the premises. And your place looks—lived in—but not
disturbed.”

I got the distinct impression that I’d
wasted their time, but they were trying to not make me feel like
such an idiot. I appreciated the gesture, and as I saw them out,
Officer Ellis reminded me, “It wouldn’t hurt to get those locks
changed, you know. The quicker the better.”

Five minutes after they left, I hauled out
the yellow pages and left messages with several different
locksmiths’ answering services.

Which is why, when the phone rang twenty
minutes later, having just shoved an Oreo cookie in my mouth, I
never expected it to be Father Bruno.

It took a couple of beats for me to switch
my brain trajectory and I stutter-stepped my first words, trying
without much success, to mask my bewilderment.

“
Father Bruno. How are
you?”

While we exchanged pleasantries in polite
pretense, faking the tone of voice the people do when they’re happy
to hear from one another, my mind raced. I knew I gave him this
number, and my address, but I didn’t expect him to do more than
shove the information into his desk to be tossed out some day when
he forgot who that Szatjemski chick was.

A protracted silence fell over the line
after we exhausted scintillating observations about the weather. I
waited. After all, he made the call, he must have had a reason.

I expected him to ask how Sophie was doing.
Instead, he cleared his throat and went a different direction. “You
were baptized at Good Shepherd Church in the fall of …” I heard
paper shuffling, and then he named the year. The right year.
“That’s correct?”

“
Yeah,” I answered, too
stunned by curiosity to even consider anything but answering
truthfully.

“
Would you be free for a
brief meeting say, sometime tomorrow?” he asked.

“
Tomorrow?”

“
If you can carve a
half-hour or so out of your busy schedule?”

I massaged my eyebrows, then pinched the
bridge of my nose. His question about my baptism had thrown me.
“What about?”

A noise came over the line—lip-smacking.
“Just a half-hour of your time.”

“
Well … let me check my
calendar.” I stalled, trying to figure out what was up. But who was
I kidding; of course I’d meet him. “Sure,” I said. “I can come by
the rectory …” I felt the gears click into place as my brain
finally engaged itself. “Or, how about if we meet for lunch
somewhere? My treat.” I had no idea what was up, but all I could
think about was avoiding that dreary room at the rectory, and
keeping my distance from Emil. Particularly if I hoped to glean any
information from Father Bruno about the little pervert.