Matt sat quietly, while Rita looked back and forth at the two men.
“Is there a problem with that?” asked Foster.
“No, no,” replied Matt. “I just thought—”
“Don’t think,” said Foster. “That’ll only get you into trouble.” He looked at Rita, whose face had turned a medium shade of red, and smiled. Rita smiled back. “Look,” said Foster, “we’re all adults here. Rita, I don’t think it’s any secret why you’re here, am I right?”
Valdez sat up straight and took a deep breath. “Yeah, well, I’m little Miss Home Wrecker, and I’m on probation, right? So, what else is new?” Matt shifted nervously in his seat, pretending to study the various diplomas and framed awards on the wall behind the captain’s head.
“Look,” said Rita, “it takes two to tango, so let’s not put all the blame on me.”
“Forget all that bullshit,” said Foster. “It’s ancient history as far as I’m concerned. You know what’s at stake, and I trust that you’ll do the right thing. Now, Matt is my number one guy, and I figure if there’s anyone you can be safe with, it’s him. Just follow his lead, keep your nose clean and everything will work out just fine. Any questions?” Both detectives shrugged and shook their heads. “Good,” said Foster. “So, get to work.”
CHAPTER 18
After locking the door to his study, Father Pete set his coffee down alongside the new desktop computer, and pulled up a chair. He had only gotten the Gateway about six weeks ago, and was still getting used to his new “toy.” He reached down and started the computer, took a sip of coffee, and rolled out the keyboard from within its sanctuary beneath the desktop.
He clicked the mouse on the familiar AOL icon on the screen, but nothing happened. Then he remembered that he had to double click, and immediately the screen came alive. After a few seconds, the sign-on screen appeared, and he logged on, using his main screen name, GOLFNUT1. Then he entered his password, Confessor2, and waited until his home page appeared. He checked the weather report, saw that the Yankees had lost the night before to Cleveland, and noted his IBM stock was off a point.
Clicking on FAVORITE PLACES, he quickly scrolled down the growing list to the one reading Yahoo, and double-clicked on the word. Soon he was into a game room, sipping coffee and quietly amusing himself with a game of Hearts. Amazing little device, he thought.
After winning twice and finishing second in a third game, he became bored. He closed out the Yahoo screen and returned to the familiar AOL home page. He scanned the display until his attention was drawn to a box at the top, designated “People.” He clicked on the icon and scanned the list of options. He selected one marked “Chat” and opened the box.
CHAPTER 19
The killer clicked the mouse on “Find Chat Now,” then double-clicked on “Manhattan Singles.” This was his favorite room, but before entering, he changed his screen name to the one he most preferred, and again clicked on “Who’s Chatting.” Ordinarily he would just jump into the room, and ask “Anybody here from Chelsea?” That way, he knew he wouldn’t be wasting his time. Tonight, however, he had someone special in mind. He scrolled the list of colorful names. There were some 25 people in the “room.” Some had names that were obviously related to the individual’s occupation, like StockMarketMan or TheMotorDoc. Others, it seemed, were sexual in nature, like MakeMeCum4U or MaidenFormDD. At last he found the screen name he was looking for, 2Sexy4U. He double-clicked, and a box appeared with several choices. He selected one marked “Send Instant Message” and double-clicked. In less than the blink of an eye, a box appeared and he quickly began to type:
SexualGuy1: Hi!
For a moment, the word stood there by itself – all alone – just like he was. But soon it was accompanied by a reply.
2Sexy4U: Hi to U!
Before long, the message box began to explode with conversation:
SexualGuy1: So, what’s going on?
2Sexy4U: Not much, U?
SexualGuy1: Same old…same old. What are you wearing?
2Sexy4U: Bra and panties…
SexualGuy1: What color?
2Sexy4U: Black
SexualGuy1: Hmmmm…I like…
2Sexy4U: I’m glad…
The killer enjoyed the exchange. It was extremely titillating to talk so intimately with someone he didn’t even know. In the “real world” he wouldn’t have had a chance. Women rarely spoke to him in public, and, when they did, it was strictly in a detached, business-like manner. Sexual talk was out of the question. He continued typing:
SexualGuy1: Wanna play?
2Sexy4U: Sure…you wanna start?
SexualGuy1: okay…
2Sexy4U: I’m ready…
SexualGuy1: I’m kissing the back of your neck….
2Sexy4U: mmmmmmmm………
The chat session continued along those lines, all the while becoming increasingly sexual in nature. Soon he had removed his trousers and under pants, and was seated at the computer, naked from the waist down.
In just a few more minutes, the individual on the other end of the connection had, essentially, made “virtual” love to the killer, bringing him not only to a “virtual” climax, but to a real one, as well. He hoped he had done the same for “her.” After all, who really knew anything about anyone “out there,” he thought. The best part about the whole idea of cyber sex, was the fact that there were no limits whatsoever on one’s imagination.
He said his good-byes and logged off. The next time, he thought, I’ll ask her to meet me. After wiping himself with a Kleenex, he turned the computer off, got undressed, and went to bed.
CHAPTER 20
7:00 p.m., Thursday, March 30
Except for an elderly couple, praying quietly in the front row, the church was empty. Votive candles flickered erratically, casting shimmering shadows that moved like dancers on the smooth, plaster walls behind. There was a faint smell of incense, a reminder of the church’s ancient ties to the past. It was early evening. The stained glass windows admitted no light, but glowed from the reflected light within.
One of the narrow, bronze-sheathed doors at the rear of the building opened slowly. Cindy McKenzie—screen name: 2Sexy4U—entered the vestibule, and peered through the darkness into the church beyond. Satisfied, that there was no one there who would recognize her, she paused, dipped her fingers into the font of holy water, and crossed herself. She quietly seated herself in a pew located near the rear of the church.
St. Jude was one of the oldest Catholic churches in Manhattan, dating back to the late 19th Century. There were high ceilings, supported by wide marble columns, which, if located in a ballpark, would have been considered obstructions. For Cindy, who deliberately chose to sit behind them, they provided protection from prying eyes. She was dressed modestly in a red pullover sweater, black polyester skirt, and black flats, run over at the heels. A dingy tan raincoat and a requisite kerchief, that covered her mousy brown hair, completed her outfit.
After praying silently for a few moments, she stepped out into the aisle, and moved to the confessional booth, located against the right wall of the church. She pulled aside the velvet curtain that covered the entrance to the confessional, entered, and kneeled on the padded rest. As she crossed herself, the cover of the small, woven-mesh window that separated penitent from priest slid open in response; a masculine cough indicated it was time to make her confession.
“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” she began. The words seemed uncomfortable on her tongue, but she forced herself to continue. “It has been ten years since my last confession. I have been—”
“Ten years?” asked the priest, incredulously.
“Yes, but—”
“No, no, my dear,” said the priest. “There’s no need to explain. Please, continue.”
“I have been unfaithful to my Lord. I have not attended mass, and I have sinned grievously in thought and in deed.”
“And what is the nature of your sin?”
“Well, I
love my husband, but—” she hesitated.
“What is it?” encouraged the priest.
“I don’t know how—”
“Just say it, my dear.”
“Well,” she began again, “I’ve had impure thoughts about another man—”
“And?” said the priest. His curiosity had been peaked.
“—and I’ve been going on the Internet and—”
The priest chuckled aloud. “I don’t really think that going on the Internet is a sin. Do you?”
“No, it’s not just that…I…well…I’ve been chatting and—”
“My dear,” laughed the priest. “I don’t believe chatting is a sin, either. I do it myself on occasion.”
There was no response.
“Are you chatting with other men? Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Yes…and…well—there’s more.” The young woman was obviously embarrassed.
“If you’d rather not—” he began.
“No!” she exclaimed, much too loudly. Her voice grew more restrained. “I mean…no. But, I need to get this off my conscience. I’ve—well, I’ve been having—cyber sex.” She breathed a sigh of relief, for it had taken a good deal of courage to say the words. Then, embarrassed, she added, “I mean—oh, my God—you probably don’t even know what I’m—”
“What? What you’re talking about?” asked the priest.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“We’re not exactly in the Dark Ages here,” he said. “Yes, I understand.” There was a long silence. “How many times has this happened?”
“Five—maybe six—times,” she whispered.
The priest waited for more details, but none were forthcoming.
“With the same man?” he asked, unsure of where to go with his questioning.
“Yes,” replied Cindy.
Another awkward silence followed, and then she spoke again. This time, the words she said caught the priest by surprise. “The thing is” she said, “I want to meet him.”
“Excuse me?” said the priest.
“I said I want to meet him,” repeated Cindy.
The priest was quiet for a moment.
“Father?” said Cindy. “Do you—”
“That would be a mistake,” he said.
“You’re right, of course,” she agreed, unconvincingly.
“Is there anything else?” asked the priest.
“No,” came the terse reply.
“Very well. For your penance, I want you to say ten Our Fathers and twenty Hail Marys.”
“Yes, Father,” she answered.
“And, young lady—” started the priest.
“Yes, Father?”
“We’d like to see you at Confession more than once every ten years.” It came out as a command, rather than a suggestion.
The words stung the young woman like a slap in the face. “Yes, Father,” she answered quietly. “Is there anything else, Father?”
“Why, yes, your Act of Contrition, of course. God bless you, my child.”
Cindy McKenzie struggled with the familiar words of repentance, “Oh My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and—”
When she had finished, the priest spoke briefly in Latin, and finally said, “Go in peace, my child.”
The door to the window slid shut with a bang, and Cindy hastily exited the confessional, moved to a nearby pew, kneeled, and crossed herself. She began praying almost immediately, eager to be relieved of her burden.
When Confession was over, Father Pete moved silently about the church, turning off the lights one by one. Finally, he kneeled at the altar and crossed himself. He remained in that rigid posture for several minutes, then rose and left the church. His mind was filled with many confusing thoughts.
CHAPTER 21
8:28 p.m., Saturday, April 1
It was getting late. If he didn’t make his move soon, he’d miss his chance. He had been online with Cindy since quarter to eight. Cindy’s husband was a Merchant Marine, and was often out of town for prolonged periods. Cindy, a teacher, had taken up chatting to fill the void left by his absence. It wasn’t something she was proud of; in fact, she was hoping to quit – but not quite yet. She thought briefly of her recent confession, then dismissed the thought of it. She could always go again; that was what being a Catholic was all about, wasn’t it?
The killer stared at the flickering image on his screen. He was getting good at this. He typed some more:
SexualGuy1: So…uh…Cindy…when are we going to get together?
2Sexy4U: I don’t know…how about tomorrow night?
SexualGuy1: You’re kidding. Really?
2Sexy4U: Well, my husband’s not due back ’til next Wednesday…
She had already told him where she lived, so it would only be a short walk from his residence to hers. Why not? She sounded really hot. Maybe he could really turn her on. Not like that other one. What was her name? Marlene? Maureen? It was something like that. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d fixed her ass. He’d fixed her good, the bitch. Hope her husband got a good surprise, he thought.
2Sexy4U: Hey!!! Are you still there?
SexualGuy1: Yeah…I’m still here…what’s up?
2Sexy4U: Well…how about it? Do you want to come over?
She really wants it, he thought. Well, I’m just the one to give it to her.
SexualGuy1: Sure, baby…what time?
2Sexy4U: How about 9?
SexualGuy1: Sure. What’s the apartment number?
2Sexy4U: It’s 3B…just ring the bell downstairs, and I’ll let you in. Try not to make
2 much noise, ok?
SexualGuy1: Sure! NP…see you at 9!!!
I won’t make a sound, he thought. But, I’ll make sure that she makes plenty of noise. It’ll be a great April Fools Day.
CHAPTER 22
5:45 a.m., Sunday, April 2
It had been several weeks since the Spiros murder, and Davis and his men had been working almost uninterrupted, around the clock. With no real leads other than the fingerprints, hearts, and bibles, and with no particular direction in which to go, Matt decided he needed a break—or, at least, Valerie did. The previous night, at her urging, they had decided to make a trip to the Catskills to do some early-season trout fishing. It would be the day after the actual Opening Day in New York State (a day he normally avoided), and he had initially resisted fishing so close to that dreaded date. But, Val had insisted that a little diversion would be good for him, and he couldn’t disagree. So, it was set. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ventured out on the initial day of the season. One look at his fly fishing calendar, which showed that it was time for a Quill Gordon Mayfly hatch, and he had known it was the right thing to do. He hadn’t fished a full-blown Quill Gordon hatch in nearly ten years.
Now, in the early Sunday morning hours before dawn, Matt and Valerie were busily preparing for a rarity—a day off—together. Matt scrambled around the spare bedroom, gathering up rods, reels, waders, and other specialized equipment. The water in the Beaverkill River would be cold. After all, it was only the second day of the season. He’d better bring his thermal underwear and neoprene gloves, he thought, with a shiver. He located them, and packed both items into a duffel bag. Then, he found his fly boxes and checked the contents to be sure he had the right flies.
“Shit,” he muttered aloud, “no Quill Gordons.” He’d have to purchase some size 14’s when they got to Roscoe. Early season fly-fishing was a crapshoot to begin with; no point in going out unarmed. Hell, the best fishing didn’t start for another month. But, at least we’ll be together, he reflected. Matt and Valerie both worked shifts: she at the hospital, he at the disposal of the NYPD. Days off together were hard to come by.
Valerie moved efficiently about the kitchen, preparing lunch. She had fried up some chicken the previous night. She carefully wrapped the crispy breasts and legs in plastic wrap, before packing them into the Styrofoam cooler. She slid a container of German-sty
le potato salad into the far corner of the chest, and placed a bunch of red grapes on top it. She added a jar of sweet gherkin pickles (Matt’s favorite), the chicken, and a flat ice pack from the freezer, and closed the lid. Then, she filled a paper bag with plastic spoons, napkins, and little disposable shakers of salt and pepper, and set them next to the cooler.
“Don’t forget the thermos for your coffee,” Matt reminded her, as he strolled into the kitchen.
“Thank you, dear,” replied his wife, theatrically.
“We’ll stop at the diner and get it filled when we get to Roscoe.”
“Oh really? You mean like we always do?” she replied in the smart-ass tone of voice that drove Matt crazy. It was a little game that they played.
“I’ll go get the car,” said Matt. He grabbed his gear and hurried downstairs, car keys rattling in his hand. He crossed the street and entered the parking garage that housed the Jeep. It was nearly impossible to find a parking space on the crowded streets of Manhattan, and despite the hefty monthly rent, Davis truly cherished his long-held spot within the underground parking lot. He pulled the old Jeep Wagoneer to the front of the building, and double-parked while he waited for Valerie. Five minutes later, she emerged from the lobby, carrying the cooler and a folding chair, wearing a frown.
“Shit,” muttered Matt. “I should have helped her with the cooler.”
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 6