Third Chances

by Dan Petrosini

  The beach was behind a low wall and still had a few hangers-on waiting for the sunset. I popped on my sunglasses as we were shown to a table on the cusp of the sand. A bartender friend, who worked the beach bar, had come through again. It seemed unlikely, but there was a bond between cops and bartenders—maybe it was they were good listeners—who oftentimes offered free drinks. Or maybe they appreciated how often we were called in to make the peace when fights broke out.

  “This is nice, Frank.”

  Score one for Luca. “Only the best for you, Mary Ann.”

  “It’s funny, I’ve never been here, and it’s one of the few places you can eat on the water.”

  “It’s kinda weird, though. you go through this giant lobby before you get outside, and it’s also a beach club, with people in their bathing suits. I like it better in the winter, when it gets darker earlier—it’s got a different vibe.”

  “But you can’t see the water.”

  “You can hear it.”

  A waiter came by, and remembering they had reasonable offerings, I asked for the wine list.

  “Wine again?”

  “I’m starting to get into it. You know that Barnet guy; he was a badass, but he gave me a couple of ideas.”

  I looked through the list. Nothing looked familiar. I looked at the right-hand column and found a Malbec for forty-two dollars.

  The server brought it out immediately. He screwed off the top, dialing down the romance a notch, and poured a splash into my glass.

  It felt like the entire restaurant was looking at me. Remembering Barnet at his store, I stuck my nose into the glass and inhaled. I gave him a thumbs-up, and the waiter filled our glasses.

  We clinked glasses. “Salute.”

  I guzzled a glass and poured another, trying to recall the way Barnett described a wine. The Malbec tasted dark, maybe deeper than blueberries?

  “You seem a little uptight, Frank.”

  She could read me like a book. I liked that, but if the two of us went anywhere, I’d never get away with anything.

  “I’m okay. Just takes me a little time to go from work to play.”

  “You didn’t have any problem at Blue Martini’s happy hour.”

  She didn’t know that I’d had a glass of wine before she got there yesterday.

  “You think anybody knows about us?”

  Vargas shrugged. “I don’t know. I never said anything.”

  As a waiter delivered a plate of giant shrimp to the next table, I said, “Me either. It’s nobody’s business anyway.”

  She raised a glass. “Amen.”

  “Do you think it’s against the department’s rules?”

  She leaned over. “I called HR—”

  “What?”

  “Take it easy. It’s a general line for applicants. They said spouses can both work for the department, but they have to be on different shifts.”

  “We’re screwed, then.”

  “We getting married?”

  The glass slipped out of my hand, spilling wine all over the tablecloth. Rushing over, a busboy laid a napkin over the purple stain.

  Mary Ann put her hand on mine. “Relax, Frank. We’ll figure this all out. Take a look at that sky. It’s so pretty.”

  The sky was taking on a reddish orange hue as the sun fell into the Gulf.

  “You know, up in Jersey, I never paid attention to the sky or sunsets.” I wasn’t sure if it was the cancer or the geography that focused things. “But down here you can’t avoid it.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I heard myself say, “Just like you.”

  Mary Ann grabbed my face between her hands and planted a kiss on my lips. Then she picked up the menu. “What are you having?”

  “Hey, put that menu down and finish what you started. Otherwise, I have to haul you in for domestic abuse.”

  ***

  Suit jacket slung over my shoulder, I was leaving to testify in an assault case when my email chimed. Leaning over, I saw the sender was the Sheriff. Plopping into my chair, I opened the email as Vargas came in.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  “Just reading an email from the Sheriff. He wants a progress update on the serial killer.”

  “We don’t really have much.”

  I shook my head instead of saying thanks for reminding me.

  Vargas said, “We’ve got to tell him something.”

  “Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I’m glad I’m due in court. You have to do it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Do me a favor. since he seems to like you better than me, when he starts in with the FBI stuff, try to buy a little time for us.”

  “Magician, I’m not.”

  “I gotta run.”

  ***

  I tend to exaggerate the negative impact lawyers have on society, but today it was justified. My slotted time to testify was one p.m. It was an estimate, just like going to an arrogant doctor’s appointment who couldn’t care less about your time. But it was four p.m. when I put my hand on the Bible, making me late for another look at a place to live.

  Airport Polling was packed, and I was so worked up that I missed the turnoff for Goodlette while talking to Vargas. Route 41 was wall-to-wall cars approaching Golden Gate. I called the agent, but she couldn’t change the time because she had to pick up her kid from baseball practice.

  It had been a year since I’d been cited for using my siren and lights in a nonemergency situation. I checked my mirrors and flipped both switches. As cars moved to the right, I snaked my way into the Golden Gate intersection, made a right, and headed for Goodlette.

  Located in a prime area, Autumn Woods was a quiet community of full-timers. The house I was seeing was too big for me, but I agreed to consider it because of the location and my shortening time line.

  I made my way to Old Banyan Way, realizing most of the houses were one-level places. How come the only one for sale was a two-story house?

  As I pulled up, the door on a white Audi SUV opened, and the agent stepped out. The perky forty-year-old looked twice at her watch before meeting me in the driveway.

  She handed me the listing, opened the door, and told me she had to make a call. The place was empty, so there was a lot of wiggle room in the price. I had my own way of going through a house, and it always started with the dining room.

  Problem was, it had a formal living room opposite the dining room. I didn’t even need a dining room, no less a living room. It was a shame. The house had good natural light and clean lines. I tried to think of some way to use the space as I headed to the kitchen.

  The cabinets were off-white and wood, capped with cream-colored granite. It was nice, opening to a large family room. I wished the ceilings were higher, but this place had a second story.

  The master was too big by half, and a second bedroom and large study rounded out the first floor. As soon as I reached the top of the stairs and saw a second family room, I turned around and headed down. The place was too big and too expensive for me.

  I told the agent that I liked the place, which was true, and that I would consider making an offer, which wasn’t. On the ride home, I pondered the importance of tomorrow morning’s outing.

  Chapter 10

  Thankful for the cool air, I stepped out of a humid August morning and into the foyer, where the music got louder. A near capacity crowd was visible through a pair of glass doors leading to the main part of The Spirit of Fellowship Church. Slipping inside, the congregation swayed to what seemed to be Christian rock music. My foot involuntarily began tapping as I surveyed the crowd. Were there any clues to who might be the next victim?

  Scanning right, there had to be a least forty rows making up the Epistle side. I realized the floor plan resembled a cross. Dead center, in front of the alter, at the top of the cross, a man, arms raised, encouraged the singing. He was wearing a dark suit and a red tie. I squinted. was that Minist
er Gabriel Booth? Taking a step closer confirmed it. The band segued into a song that began with repeated phrases of Our Savior. It was redundant as all hell, but I found myself singing it softly.

  The music slowed and faded. It was just past eleven. The service must be over, as it kicked off at ten. Minister Booth grabbed the microphone, and the parishioners took seats. Heading left, I slipped into a pew on the Gospel side as the keyboardist began melodically tinkling the keys.

  “Brothers and sisters, we’ve celebrated the promise of eternal life, but in order to redeem the promise our Savior made, we must live as children of God. We must earn our way to salvation. There are no free passes in this life. We shouldn’t shy from speaking the Gospel and living our lives as God has told us.” Booth raised the Bible. “God has made it easy for us; he left us the instructions right here. All we have to do is follow them. Who could ask for more?” The congregation cheered.

  Really? I get the New Testament message, but the rest of the Bible? It didn’t speak to me. in fact, it was tough, if not impossible, to read. How could you get a message out of that? I tried but couldn’t line up with reading ten pages of gobbledygook to find a sentence that was supposed to be mean something.

  Booth gently set the Bible on the altar and stepped up into a pulpit. He surveyed the audience before speaking,

  “God is testing us. Every day, in every way. He gives us an unfathomable number of opportunities to demonstrate we hear his instruction. Earlier today, we heard from Ephesians 4:32, ‘And Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one other, even as God in Christ forgave you.’ God is calling us to love one another. Will we listen?”

  Booth put his hands on the pulpit. “Are we listening? I think not. We are sliding into incivility. If we do not right our ways, we will spend eternity in the blazes of hell. I beseech you to heed his message; change your ways. God is a loving God, but we will suffer his wrath if we do not repent and change.”

  A chorus of amens broke out.

  As the minister continued preaching, warning and scolding for a solid fifteen minutes, I studied his followers. It was tough to get a read. Most were dressed in clothes that would have barred entry when I was a teenager. Craning my neck, it hit me there were more men than women in attendance. That seemed unusual, as it was women who filled all the churches I’d ever been in.

  Remembering St. Mary’s Church, where I went to mass as a child, brought a wave of guilt. I’d drifted, like most adults, away from religion. Comforting myself with self-talk that I was a good person and God knew that, a pair of monitors came to life displaying rolling Bible passages.

  Minister Booth stepped down from the pulpit. He stood at the cross’s intersection and shouted, “Whether we fail or pass is up to us. Will you enter the gates of heaven or burn in hell?”

  The congregation shot out of their seats and applauded as the band broke into a catchy tune about walking with Jesus. They did the music right there. It was so different from what I was used to. The other thing different was no one rushed for the exits when the service ended. At St. Mary’s, the trickle of people leaving right after Communion would be joined by most before the final hymn even began. Here people were in no rush and hung around talking.

  There were a set of tables filled with literature outside the foyer where Booth and a woman, I suspected was his wife, chatted with parishioners as they left. Passing over leaflets titled, The Purpose of Stripping the Adulteress in Hosea, All Together for Asylum Justice, and Biblical Responses to Homosexuality. I picked up The Community is Your Family. I read it, and when I set it back down, there were still people talking with Booth. Wishing this place was more like St. Mary’s, I headed for the bathroom, hoping the ten minutes it would take me to pee would be enough to clear the place.

  My timing was perfect; Booth was shaking the hands of the last person. I went up to the minister.

  “Minister Booth, I’m Detective Luca. I’d like to come by tomorrow for a quick chat.”

  Chapter 11

  Minister Booth was in his office with a parishioner when his secretary told him I was waiting. Five minutes later the minister came out, his hand on an older woman’s shoulder. He told her not to worry, that he’d get back to her as she left.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Detective. But that poor woman, she came in unexpectedly, and it’s my duty to help when asked.”

  We shook hands. “No problem. Good to see you.”

  “Come, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  I didn’t want to start off saying I had to watch my fluids intake.

  “Thanks. I’m fine.”

  “I’m sure you’re busy, but would you mind if I grabbed a cup of coffee?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t like one?”

  “No thanks.”

  My initial read was that Gabriel Booth was about as unguarded a person as I’d ever met. It could be an act. I cautioned myself not to be misled by his position as a minister and scanned the room. A red-and-blue sign proclaiming, The Bible - God’s Instruction Manual for Life, dominated the room.

  The furniture was older and modest. Booth had a simple desk with a picture of his blond wife next to a worn Bible. There were two diplomas hanging on a wall. One from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, and the other from Northern Seminary. Below the pigskins, a burning candle, with a vanilla scent, was centered on a drawer-less wooden table.

  Coffee cup in hand and apologies flowing, Booth closed the door to his office and sat down.

  “I’m still uncertain why you wanted to see me.”

  I exhaled. “I’m sure you’re aware of the, so-called, Aquatic Assassin. Well, two of his victims apparently came to your church.”

  Booth set his cup down as the color drained out of his face. “I heard that one of our newer members, Brett Tinder, I believe his name was, had been murdered.”

  “Yes, that’s him. There’s a second man, Dick Cornwall, who we believe was murdered by the same killer and who we believe attended your church.”

  Booth scrunched his face. “Cornwall? I don’t believe I’ve met him.” He stood. “Hold on, let me have Miriam check the records.”

  Returning, Booth said, “Dick Cornwall was a new member. He formally registered just a month ago. I’m not sure why I can’t recall him. I usually meet the new members.”

  That was an interesting admission. I wasn’t sure there was something behind that, and asked, “Did you have a funeral service for him?”

  “No. I would have presided over it, and though my memory is not what it once was, I’d remember that.”

  “Can I have some background on your church? It might provide a clue to the murders.”

  Booth tucked his chin in. “You think there’s a connection between these murders and my church?”

  “We’re looking at every possible angle, and the fact that two of your members, both with criminal backgrounds, were targeted, is tough to ignore.”

  Booth straightened his shoulders. “Detective, many of our members have lived lives that led them astray. But that doesn’t mean we should give up on them. Everyone can be redeemed. everyone can change, be born again into a new life, one where God is at the center.”

  I wanted to cite recidivism rates that’d show the minister that change, if it happened, was an uphill climb.

  “It’s my understanding that—”

  The door opened and a large, well-proportioned woman, whose blond hair was piled on the top of her head, entered gingerly. She was wearing a drab, loose-fitting dress that couldn’t hide a certain sexiness.

  “Hi, Hannah. Detective, this is my wife, Hannah.”

  I got up to shake her hand, but she didn’t offer one. A calculation was taking place behind her eyes, and it wasn’t until she forced a smile that I realized her blue eyes were stunning.

  The Minister asked her, “How’s your back?”

  “The same. What’s going o
n?”

  “Detective Luca is investigating the serial killer. It seems the last victim was also a member, a poor soul named Dick Cornwall.”

  She showed zero emotion and didn’t move closer to her husband, which I found odd. Usually a spouse moves nearer in a show of support. I didn’t think Booth was involved, but it would be nice to see.

  I asked, “Did you know Brett Tinder and Dick Cornwall, Mrs. Booth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you know them?”

  “Through the church.”

  Did she have legal training? I didn’t like this woman and couldn’t imagine having dinner with her every night like the minister did. He really was a man of God.

  With limited time, I turned my attention back to Gabriel Booth. “I wanted to ask about the church’s reputation. I understand you’re known to do a lot of work with drug addicts and former inmates.”

  Miss Congeniality said, “‘Peter asked, Lord, how many times will my brother sin against me and I forgive him? As many as seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I do not say seven times but seventy times seven.’”

  The minister said, “As Hannah quotes Matthew 18:21, God demands that we forgive those who go astray, asking us to extend ourselves to them, help them overcome Satan.”

  I felt myself nodding. “I understand, but on a practical level, what do you do at the church?”

  “First and foremost is to welcome all. We don’t care about what you did in the past. We want to help you live your life the way God intended.”

  “Do you operate specific programs to address, say, the particular needs of recovering addicts?”

  “We don’t profess to have the medical or psychological expertise that comes from outside sources, but we know those programs are more likely to succeed when supplemented by the love and support we freely offer. What we have is a buddy system mirrored on the one at Alcoholics Anonymous. Oftentimes, when one loses their way, their families and friends abandon them. We try to fill that void with someone who has overcome similar struggles. Someone who understands their particular situation.”

  A solid plan, and I was rooting for this guy to change the world, but in the meantime, my job was safe. I asked, “Can you check on whether Joseph Chapman was a member here?”