Third Chances

by Dan Petrosini

  “Maybe he bet that we wouldn’t follow up on him.”

  “If that’s what he was betting on, he should have been more cooperative.”

  “How you want to proceed? Should we bring them in?”

  “I’d love to, but they’ll probably demand attorneys.”

  “For sure.”

  “Let’s go to them.”

  We headed down the hall to the parking lot. Vargas slammed into my back when I stopped short. Minister Booth was saying goodbye to the desk sergeant on his way out.

  “What the hell was he doing here?”

  Before Vargas could say anything, I got my answer from the sheriff’s secretary.

  “Glad I caught you. The sheriff wants to see you.”

  “Can it wait? We’re heading out.”

  “He said now.”

  I stared at Chester’s yellow tie as the sheriff told us to lay off the minister’s wife. It was unfair, but I’d save my fight for when I had more than a few beads of information. I didn’t mind keeping my mouth shut since we were allowed to pursue other church connections.

  ***

  It could have been an illusion, but Stokes’s muscles seemed to have shrunk like his arrogance when we showed up at his office. Stokes knew the power had shifted with his losing bet. He jumped up when he saw us.

  “Can this wait? I was about to leave.”

  I bet you were. “Nope. Sit down.”

  “But—” He fell back into his chair.

  Vargas said, “When Detective Luca asked you if you were ever in prison, you said no. Why’d you lie?”

  Stokes shrugged. “I was embarrassed. It was a long time ago. I made a mistake and paid the price.”

  I said, “What did you think, we weren’t going to check up? You think we’re stupid?”

  “No, of course not. Like I said, I don’t like talking about it.”

  “Lying to an officer is obstruction of justice. You want to go back in?”

  “Come on, man. Give me a break, I should have been honest but—”

  Vargas said, “You also claimed not to know Dick Cornwall.”

  Stokes’s shoulders sunk. “I knew him. a lot of times we ate lunch together.”

  “Why’d you lie?”

  “I was afraid. You know, with my record and knowing all the guys who got shot, that you’d look at me as a suspect.”

  “And what do you think we think now? You think you’re any less a suspect now?”

  “You got to believe me. I had nothing to do with any of that.”

  “Mr. Stokes, do you own a firearm?”

  There was that hesitation again.

  “I’m a convicted felon. It’s against the law for me to have a gun.”

  His arrogance may have receded, but his Bill Clinton word parsing was in full flower.

  I slammed a palm down. “Let’s stop with the bullshit, okay? I don’t care if you have a right to have a firearm or not. The question is, do you own one?”

  Stokes frowned as he nodded. “There’s been a couple of burglaries out where I live. I felt like I needed protection.”

  “What kind of firearm?”

  “A Bodyguard, with the laser guide thing.”

  “What color is the laser?”

  “Red.”

  For the first time he seemed to be telling the truth, unless he had other guns.

  “Where were you the night of June twenty-fifth? The night Joseph Chapman was murdered.”

  “I was here until almost ten o’clock that night.”

  Vargas said, “That’s rather late. What were you doing here at that hour?”

  “We had a healing ceremony at around seven that night.”

  Vargas said, “What time did it end?”

  “It went about an hour. We didn’t get the turnout that Minister Booth hoped for, otherwise they can drag on for hours if a lot of people want a prayer team session.”

  Most people, including Mary Ann, would think I’d be a skeptic about a healing power coming from God through a minister or priest, but the fact was my mother took me to one when I was six years old. I was constantly getting ear infections that were so bad they began to affect my speech. The kids at school were taunting me about it.

  My aunt told Mom that a priest from India, with a reputation for healing, was coming to our diocese.

  It was snowing the night of the mass. Mom bundled me up and took me to St. Mary’s in Middletown, NJ. I remember all the wheelchairs lining the aisle to the altar. Besides a couple of babies, I was the youngest there.

  I heard Vargas say, “That leaves two hours unaccounted for.”

  “We ate dinner and hung around talking.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Dick Cornwall.”

  I wish I had a twenty for every time a suspect gave an alibi that included a dead man.

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, just us.”

  I said, “What did you eat?”

  “Eat?”

  “Yeah, what did you eat?”

  “We got some Cuban food at Roma in Havana.”

  “But you said you ate here.”

  “We picked it up.”

  “You drove all the way there to do takeout?”

  “It’s no big deal. It’s not that far.”

  “How did you pay for the food?”

  “With cash. It was like fifteen bucks each.”

  “After you left the church, where did you go?”

  “Home. it was getting late.”

  “Did you see Joseph Chapman at the healing service?”

  “No, he wasn’t there.”

  “Was Minister Booth and his wife there?”

  “The minister was there but not Hannah.”

  Interesting. “I understand Mrs. Booth knew all the victims as well. Was she close with any of them?”

  “Close? What do you mean by that?”

  “That was a poor choice of words, I meant friendly.”

  “She pretty much keeps to herself, but she did have an argument with Chapman a couple of weeks ago.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t really know the particulars, but Hannah and a couple others wanted changes in the way the place was run, and I guess Chapman disagreed, but I don’t know for sure. But man, was she pissed. She was screaming at him and threw a hymn book at him.”

  “Anyone else see the fight?”

  “Minister Booth was there, and so was Nicky Santangelo.”

  “Did Mrs. Booth have arguments with any of the other victims?”

  “You’re not— no, she can’t be involved, she’s—”

  “I’m not saying anything, just asking if she had any disagreements with them.”

  “I don’t really know.”

  My pee-pee alarm buzzed again. There was pressure in my abdomen. It was time to go. Besides, we were finished with Stokes for the time being. I told him to make sure he got rid of his gun and we left.

  I knew there was a bathroom outside of the minister’s office. Before heading for it, I asked Vargas to see if the Cuban restaurant Stokes said he went to had camera surveillance.

  ***

  “You did what?”

  “When I went to the bathroom, I was sitting there and saw a hairbrush on a shelf by the sink. It had to be hers. So, I took two pieces of hair off it.”

  I took a plastic evidence bag out of my pocket and showed Vargas.

  “Frank, the sheriff told you to steer clear of her.”

  I smiled. “She was nowhere to be found.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m gonna have forensics check and see if it’s a match with the hair found on Shaun Parker.”

  “And if it is?”

  “I’ll take it to Chester.”

  “He’s going to sanction you, Frank. You ignored a direct order. Why don’t we give it to Haines?”

  “What, and let
him get the credit?”

  “There you go again with your hero complex.”

  “It’s not a complex. it’s just not fair, that’s all.”

  Vargas exhaled. “Let’s see if it matches, first.”

  “Okay. Hey, that restaurant Stokes said he went to, they have video?”

  “Yeah, I texted Boyle, told him to go down and pick it up.”

  “See if they have a parking lot feed. Stokes may not have gone in.”

  “They do. You know, Frank, sometimes I get the feeling you think I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “No, no. That’s not true. You’re a great detective.” Chemo had impacted my memory, and I was looking for ways to prove it wasn’t as bad as it really was.

  “Thanks. Don’t get all defensive on me, but you kinda zoned out there when Stokes was talking about the healing mass.”

  “It brought back a memory, that’s all.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “When I was about six, I had problems with my ears, and it started to mess with the way I talked.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “Ear infections that would never go away. I was taking all kinds of antibiotics, but nothing worked. I became resistant to them. Anyway, my aunt told my mother about a priest who’d healed a lot of people. And this priest was coming to St. Mary’s, which wasn’t far away. I didn’t really understand what it was all about, she just said he was able to channel God’s power to help people that were sick.”

  “How come you never told me?”

  “I don’t know. I kinda buried it. As I got older I guess I thought it was a little ignorant or something.”

  “I believe in God’s power. I never went to a healing mass, but I always wanted to. What happened?”

  “The night we went it was snowing like crazy and freezing. I remember my mother driving really slowly, but it didn’t stop anybody from coming. St. Mary’s was jammed. Wheelchairs lined the aisle to the altar, but other than a couple of babies crying, there was nobody my age.”

  “You must have been frightened.”

  “Churches were always spooky to me as a kid, but that night there was a festive kinda feel. People were talking and praying in groups. Then the bells rang and everyone sat down. It started off like a regular mass and with Communion, but then the priest started praying out loud and people started shouting out names of people my mom said needed help. It went on for a while, and he went up and down the aisles sprinkling holy water on us.”

  “It must have been scary for you. I wish I had've been there.”

  “You know what? It wasn’t, well, not all the time. I didn’t really know what was going on. But then the priest came off the altar and started to pray in a circle over each of the people in the wheelchairs. When I saw tears on my mother’s face, though, I did get scared. My mother grabbed my hand and waited for the priest. She spoke to him, and the next thing I know, I’m with the priest in the middle of a group of people who were praying. It sounds crazy, but I began feeling dizzy, like I was going to fall. The priest put his fingers in my ears and kept praying, and the next thing I know I was crying.”

  “What an emotional experience. What happened?”

  “We left. It had stopped snowing, which my mom said was a miracle. She kept asking if my hearing had changed. I couldn’t tell the difference. She put the radio on, and I said it seemed to be a little better because I felt bad. The rest of the ride home we said the Rosary. The next morning when I woke up my hearing was noticeably better.”

  “Really? Are you playing with me, Frank?”

  “No. I swear it’s true. From that day on my hearing was better. I had a couple of infections after that, but they went away fast with the antibiotics.”

  “Oh my God. you experienced a miracle, Frank.” Vargas gave my hand a squeeze.

  “I guess so.”

  It was a hard thing to admit. There was no real proof. The doctors said I grew out of it, but Mom was resolute it was God answering her prayers. She went to mass every day for the rest of her short life. I should have tried a healing mass for my cancer, but when I got the news I couldn’t think straight.

  Chapter 22

  My phone was vibrating; it was the real estate lady again. Her last message went on about the perfect house she’d found for me, imploring me to see it before it was snapped up by another buyer. Though prone to exaggeration, like all in sales, she was a nice lady who’d put up with my cancelations and particular preferences. She deserved a callback.

  I’d really settled into Mary Ann’s cabana. It was small, but that negative was a plus. Cleaning took minutes, and there was no place to collect stuff. Maybe there was something to this minimalist way of living. With a half-sized fridge, I never had to throw any food out.

  It was carefree living, and the costs were low. Plus, there was no maintenance to suck up whatever free time I had. No guilt trips for spending a day on the sand instead of painting something.

  The idea of parting with my savings and being hamstrung with a mortgage and a list of things to do lost its appeal. Why not invest the money in the stock market instead? Weren’t there tons of millionaires who made their fortunes on Wall Street? My savings should be growing instead of trying to fill the money pit known as a house.

  “Marilyn, it’s Frank Luca. All’s good, but I’ve been swamped. I’m sure you’ve seen the news about the serial killer. Yeah, I’m the lead on the case.” Though who knew for how long. “In Pelican Perch? Sounds really nice. What are the HOA fees like in there? Okay, your message said they were motivated sellers. Just how motivated are they? Did they move out? If they’re moving next week, the pressure is going to build. Think we should wait a week or two?”

  I hated when an agent said there were other buyers looking at the home. In a vibrant market, you’d expect that. “Let me get back to you after I get done here, and I’ll see what my week looks like.”

  It was a three-bedroom home that, if the agent was truthful, did sound like something for me. Good location, new kitchen, and baths. I’d have to rip out the carpets, maybe put some hardwood in, but that was about it. It was priced right, at $635,000, after a fifty-grand reduction. Still, it was a lot of money to spend, and there was the five hundred dollar a month association fee to pay. Did I really need to move? Things were going pretty good with Mary Ann, and I had some space to myself. Why would I want to saddle myself with a house?

  Chapter 23

  Vargas popped in the surveillance DVD from the Cuban restaurant and scrolled to an eight o’clock time stamp.

  I said, “I’m starting to feel like we’re on the wrong track with Stokes. He could’ve been with Cornwall at the restaurant and killed him after they ate. This doesn’t help us.”

  “Let’s look this over before we jump to any conclusions.”

  “Come on, Vargas, you know jumping to conclusions is an Olympic sport with me.”

  “That’s Cornwall at the counter now. It’s eight twenty-six.”

  The video feed was clear. “Yeah, that’s him, but where’s Stokes?”

  “He’s paying in cash, like Stokes said. And there’s two bags.”

  As Cornwall exited, Vargas switched DVDs. The outdoor footage was dark and grainy. Vargas slowed it down, and we saw Cornwall leave the restaurant, walking toward a reddish-colored compact that was to the far right of the entrance.

  “Cornwall had a Ford Focus, didn’t he?”

  “I think so.” I pawed through the case file. “Yeah, a 2012 red Focus.”

  He opened the door and put the bags on the rear seat, then got into the driver’s seat.

  “I can’t tell if anyone’s in the passenger seat.”

  “Maybe when he backs out we’ll get a view.”

  The car backed up and left the lot without a clue as to whether he was alone or not.

  “Told you it was a waste of time. I can’t believe the church doesn’t have cameras.”


  “It’s a church, Frank. God looks after it.”

  “Really? Well then, can you explain how the crucifix at Ave Maria disappeared?”

  Vargas spoke in a whisper, “Ascension.”

  “Ascension. You really believe that?”

  “Your hearing’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not even going there. I’m going to see Stokes. You coming?”

  Vargas checked her watch. “I’m due in court at eleven.”

  “McCuskey trial?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll text you then.”

  “Okay, and remember to stay away from Hannah.”

  “What’s the matter, you jealous?”

  ***

  Every time a quick rainstorm passed through, I checked my watch. Maybe it had to do with the misconception it rained at three o’clock every summer day. Noting it was only ten forty-five, I pulled into the church’s parking lot. The sun was out in full force and steam was rising from the pavement as I walked toward the church’s office doorway.

  When told Stokes was out with a stomach virus, I asked to see Nick Santangelo.

  Santangelo’s office was one of four that lined a hallway that ended with the minister’s office. Santangelo’s desk was filled with picture frames, and his credenza had a large candle burning, emitting a spicy scent.

  Wearing a smile and a white shirt, Santangelo maneuvered around a stack of cartons containing Bibles, to greet me.

  “Detective—”

  “Luca, Frank Luca.”

  “Good to see you again. How’s the investigation going?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about an argument between Hannah Booth and Joseph Chapman.”

  Santangelo’s face crumpled into a frown. “If you’re suggesting that a simple disagreement led Mrs. Booth to murder Joe, you're way off track.”

  Dismissing the possibility out of hand showed how ignorant he was of the world I worked in. I guess he never read the papers either. “I’m not suggesting anything. Mr. Stokes claimed that both you and Minister Booth were present when an argument between Mrs. Booth and Chapman broke out. Is that true?”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t a big deal, Detective. There are a lot of disagreements in any organization.”