Murder Takes Time (19 page)

A CLEANSING OF THE SOUL

Wilmington—3 Years Ago

A
ngela Catrino-Ferris dragged her tired body up the hill toward the three-story brick building that housed St. Elizabeth’s. Kids of all ages rushed past her on their way home. School had started a week ago, and most of the kids were still in summer mode with a boundless supply of energy waiting to be expended. She had long ago learned the joy of walking, one of many things Rosa Sannullo taught her. A smile that accompanied any thought of Rosa lit Angie’s face.

The smile broadened as she crossed Banning Street. Sister Mary Thomas stood at the door, waving to the children as they left, the ever-present pointer in her hand in case it was needed on some of the more rambunctious ones. Angie waved to her and climbed the six steps to the landing.

“Angela, how nice to see you. How is little Rosa doing?”

Angie blushed. “She’s fine, Sister, but I’m sure you know that. You’re the only one she talks about.”

A vague smile appeared, one only nuns can produce—the kind that told nothing. It could make a person feel warm or frighten them, depending on their state of mind. Sister Mary Thomas ushered the last few kids out the door, nodding and waving to their chants of “goodbye, Sister Thomas” or “see you tomorrow, Sister Thomas.” When the last of them had gone, she turned to face Angie. “Come up to the classroom, Angela.”

Angie followed her up the stairs, amazed at how fit Sister Thomas was for her age. When they got to the second floor, they entered the first door on the right, same as it had been many years ago. The door closed behind them, and Angie broke silence. “Why did you want to see me, Sister?”

“It’s nice that you still get to the point right away.” Sister Mary Thomas set her pointer on the desk, erased the chalkboard, and pulled a desk next to the one Angie sat in. “I pass Rosa in the hall quite often. I’ve seen bruises on her too many times to blame it on accidents.”

Angie lowered her head.

Sister Thomas wrapped her hands around one of Angie’s. “Would you like to talk about it?”

She kept her head lowered. “Sister, I have wanted to talk to you for a long time, but…”

Sister Thomas waited five, perhaps ten seconds. “But?”

Tears welled in Angie’s eyes. “There are things I can’t tell anybody. Not even you.”

Sister Thomas stood, walked a bit across the room and back, mostly in small circles. “I’m not going to tell you that you can trust me. You know that. I’m not going to tell you what you need to do. You know that as well. What I will remind you of is what I taught you in my class: Embarrassment and guilt are the two most powerful deterrents to truth. They are also two of the worst reasons to avoid the truth.” Sister Thomas reversed her course and stopped in front of Angie’s desk. “Talk to me if you like, or go talk to Father Tom. Do whatever you have to…but if I see bruises on that child one more time…” Somehow the pointer had gotten back in her hand. It wagged as if it were a cobra ready to strike.

“Sister, it started just a short while ago. I think Marty realized Rosa wasn’t his daughter.”

Sister Thomas looked at her. “She
does
bear a resemblance to her father.”

Angie lowered her head, embarrassed. “Yes, Sister, I know.” She buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

Sister Thomas rubbed her shoulder, then moved the long hair from Angie’s face. “I think Father Tom is in church now. I’m sure he would be glad to hear confession or just talk.”

Angie lowered her head, nodded a few times, then hurried for the door. As she placed her hand on the knob, she turned. “Thank you.”

Nuns could do many things others couldn’t. Along with their smiles, they had perfected the art of nodding. The one she gave Angie had forty years of comfort in it. “Go on, child. Go see Father Tom.”

A
NGIE FELT LIKE RUNNING,
but she didn’t know which direction to go—see Father Tom…or run home and hide. Sister Thomas’ words pounded in her head.

Embarrassment and guilt are the two most powerful deterrents to truth.

After all, isn’t that what she’d been doing, hiding from the truth? When she exited the school, she turned right.

Church it is.

The one block that separated the back of the school from the front of the church seemed like a mile, and the barely measurable incline seemed like a mountain. Angie wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, blaming it on September heat, but suspecting nerves. Despite the obstacles, she made it. A blast of cool air hit her as she opened the door into the vestibule, stepping onto the floor that she had always found so beautiful. She hadn’t noticed the floor in so long, perhaps it was because her head was lowered today.

Seems like even shame can open up new worlds.
She crossed into the church with a few steps, treading carefully so she made no noise, and dipped her hand into the holy water to bless herself.

Father Tom was speaking with a nun at the front of the church. Angie grew anxious as she waited, but made her way down the center aisle, then she genuflected and slid into a pew about six rows back. She blessed herself, lowered her head, and prayed. Her prayers continued for a moment, until she heard the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps leaving the altar. Angie added that to the list of nuns’ special powers—perhaps they had taught ninjas long ago, or maybe even
been
ninjas; they
did
wear black robes.

She risked a look to the front. Father Tom was heading in her direction.

“Angela.” He whispered it, the way everyone does in church, but her name seemed to echo.

She did her best to lower her voice. “Father Tom, I…”

Priests didn’t have all the powers nuns did, but they had some of them, and he recognized a troubled person when he saw one. “Would you like to talk?”

“I don’t know, Father. I came—”

“For confession, then? There’s no need to wait for Saturday.”

Angie’s face lit up. She stood. “I think I would like that, Father. If you don’t mind.”

He gestured with his right arm, indicating the confessional he would use. Angie followed, spread the curtains, and knelt on the pad. She blessed herself as she said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eleven years since my last confession.”

A hesitation followed that made Angie nervous. She half expected him to come out of the box and chide her.

“Eleven years is a long time, my child. God is overjoyed to have you back.”

She couldn’t speak; the words stuck in her throat.

“Go on, my child. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“Father, I…I have sinned.”

He waited. “Everyone sins. Even priests.”

“I married a man I did not love…because of a child.”

“You were pregnant?”

“Yes, Father.”

“While that is not…condoned by the church, it is not the most grievous sin.”

“My husband sometimes beats our daughter. I have thrown him out, Father, but still…when he sees her…”

She sat through silence. For the first time she realized that a priest didn’t have a handbook of answers back there, that for more serious things, a priest might have to think before they spoke. She prayed he thought this through right.

“There are several ways to deal with that. He needs counseling, and she should get some as well. But, regardless tell him if he does it again you are going to the police. And make certain that you do, Angela.”

She gulped. She had never had a priest call her by name in the confessional. Angie felt like finding a place to hide—forever.

“Does he hit
you
?”

“Never.” The shame struck her. Maybe he should be hitting
her,
instead of Rosa.

“Why does he hit her?”

“I don’t know. I…” She shook her head, the tears that had dried resurfacing. “Yes I do know, Father. She’s not his child. He knows it, and he takes it out on her.” Angie paused. “He’s a good man, Father, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

“He never hit her until I told him the child wasn’t his. It’s my fault.” More silence. Angie felt like running through those curtains, out the door, down the block, and all the way home. She wondered if Father Tom had ever experienced a person as foul as she was.

“I’m proud of you for coming here. Go home to your family. Convince him to see someone, and make sure you protect your daughter.”

“I will, Father. Thank you.” She wasn’t smiling, but she already felt better, and there was no shame this time when he called her by name.

“Oh, and Angela, say a rosary before you leave.”

“Yes, Father. Thank you.” She blessed herself as she stood, barely able to contain her relief. Why hadn’t she done this years ago?

She opened her purse, took a rosary from a small pocket on the side, then knelt in the pew closest to the altar; somehow it made her feel closer to God. She mouthed the prayers as she counted the beads, each one relieving another burden from her heart. After finishing, she hurried from the church to get home. Tonight she would cook Rosa’s favorite meal. She had to hurry, though, because right now she had the courage to tell her. If it waited too long, she might not. The truth was sometimes a horrible thing.

CHAPTER 29

WHERE IS THE EVIDENCE?

Brooklyn—Current Day

L
ou Mazzetti climbed the stairs one at a time, each one a struggle. His right hand gripped the rail and each time he lifted his foot, he tugged himself forward and up.

Frankie stood at the top of the steps, laughing. “Slow going, Lou?”

“Screw you, Donovan. They ought to put detectives on the first floor.”

“The higher the floor, the greater the power.”

“Fuck power. I just want to get to work without having a heart attack.” He stopped at the top, panting.

“Quit smoking, and you won’t have to worry.”

“You won’t laugh so much when you have to carry me up these steps.”

“When that time comes, I’m getting a new partner. Won’t even think twice about it.”

“I thought you were aiming for one anyway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You’re handing out descriptions of people to the waitresses at the diner as if we had a suspect.” He pointed an accusing finger at Frankie. “You’re still not sharing what you know, and it’s pissing me off.”

“I’m going to get coffee,” Frankie said. “You coming?”

Mazzetti made his way into the door where Carol sat guard. “Hold Donovan’s calls, Carol. He’ll be busy all day, getting his ass kicked by me.”

After getting coffee, and making his morning rounds to say hi to everyone, Lou Mazzetti walked to the war room. The table, once covered with files, pictures, and notes, was cleared. Everything had been transferred to a large wall-to-wall poster board. Lou stared. A new chart showed the three people they talked to yesterday who “thought” they remembered a man in his thirties, medium height, dark hair, dark complexion.

“All that legwork and we didn’t get shit.”

Frankie closed the door behind Mazzetti. “About yesterday, I—”

Lou waved his hand at him. “Forget about it. Just tell me what we’ve got here.”

Donovan smiled. “We’re catching shit. For some reason, Nino’s murder got the chief’s attention.”

“Anybody tell the chief this was just another guinea hoodlum?”

“Need I remind you that you’re a guinea?”

“Don’t exclude yourself; you’re just a dago hiding behind an Irish name. The difference is, we’re not hoodlums.”

We’re not hoodlums.
Lou’s statement hit Frankie hard. If he wasn’t a hoodlum, he’d better start acting like a cop and go after whoever the hell was doing these killings.

“No matter. The chief’s putting pressure on us.”

“Let’s get to work then,” Lou said, and as they reviewed the evidence, a call came in. Lou picked up the phone. “Mazzetti.”

“Where’s Donovan?”

He handed the phone to Frankie. “Kate.”

“Hey, Kate.”

“Got a new lead for you, Detective. A good one.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It’s you.”

There was silence while he waited for the rest. When it didn’t come, he continued. “Me what?”

“A positive match on your DNA at the crime scenes for Renzo and Nino.”

“Funny, Kate. Now what did you want?”

“This is no shit. It’s taking a while to process this much DNA, but we got your evidence, and it’s not from innocent contamination. We have hairs found
under
the blood. Hairs that could
not
have come off you during the investigation.”

Frankie turned his head away from Lou and lowered his voice. “I’m sure there is a way to explain it. Figure it out.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I’m not covering up anything. And one more thing…”

“What?” A little hint of annoyance tainted his voice.

“The Renzo scene…you weren’t there. Remember? You weren’t called in until Nino.”

Frankie didn’t say anything, but his mind churned.

“So how did it get there?” Kate asked. “Tell me how
your
DNA got
under
the blood of Renzo Ciccarelli when you weren’t on the investigation.”