“So?” asked Foster. “What do you say? Give it a shot, alright?”
“What can I say?” shrugged Davis. “It sucks, but, sure, we’ll give it a shot.”
“Attaboy, Matt,” said Foster. “I knew you’d see it my way. Besides, if you can just get some kind of lead working, well—you know—then they’ll probably let you hang onto it.”
“Lucky me,” mumbled Davis. He pulled out his notebook, flipped through the pages and stopped. “Okay, look, I’ve got to go over to St. Jude Monday afternoon and meet with that priest who took Cindy McKenzie’s confession.”
Foster nodded his approval.
“In the meantime, how’s about getting those other two guys into my office? You know what they say: ‘Use ’em or lose ’em,’ right?”
“Right!” said Foster. He had to admit that he admired Davis. Matt was his best shot at not only keeping the investigation local, but in solving the case as well. “I’m giving you Martini and Wolinski. I hope you don’t mind?” It wasn’t really a question.
Davis winced at the mention of Adam Wolinski. He was the oldest detective in the Tenth Precinct. Foster couldn’t help but notice Matt’s discomfort.
“Hey, he’s good, Matt,” he said. “I know you don’t like working with the old guy, but Wolinski is top drawer.”
Davis shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, okay, he’s not exactly Sherlock Holmes—but, he’s a warm body and he’s got plenty of experience. And, besides,” added Foster, “he’ll give you an experienced perspective. Who knows, it just might be helpful on a case like this—”
“Yeah, yeah,” replied Matt. “Well, we’ll just see.”
Davis looked uncomfortable, and Foster sensed a need for reconciliation. “Hey, Matt,” he said.
“What?”
“At least you’ve got Rita. She ain’t exactly hard on the eyes – if you know what I mean?”
“Fuck you, boss. Try telling that to my wife.”
Davis picked up his topcoat and left the office without saying goodbye. He marched down the hall to his own cubicle, slamming the door and flopping down into the chair behind his desk. Things were really going to shit: First Valdez and her bad “rep,” and now Wolinski. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough.
A knock on Matt’s office door was followed almost immediately by a small procession that filed into his already overstuffed cubicle. First came Freitag, followed in turn by Detectives Third-Grade Rita Valdez, Frank Martini, and the aging Wolinski. A beaming Foster brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.
Matt had to admit that Rita Valdez was truly a knockout. The combination of her Italian and Puerto Rican heritage left her with the soft, sultry appearance of the former, and the fiery temperament of the latter. At thirty-nine years of age, she was “old enough to know better” and young enough to not care. She was wearing a low cut blouse beneath a conservative navy blue pants suit. Her dark brown hair was stacked loosely atop her head, and held in place with a thin red ribbon. She had deep blue eyes, which, along with her olive complexion, combined to give her a truly unique appearance. She took Davis’s breath away whenever he encountered her. Today was no exception. He wasn’t tempted, but he wasn’t blind either.
Frank Martini, on the other hand, was easy to overlook. He was around fifty years old, five-ten, overweight, and slovenly. He was, however, one of the finest detail men in the department. He excelled at the day in, day out, grunt work that everyone else found so boring. Davis was glad to have him on board. As for Wolinski…well, Wolinski was Wolinski. He was a live body.
Foster stood fidgeting by the door, and finally spoke. “Okay, everybody, listen up. You know why you’re here. We’ve got a bitch of a case here, and Matt can use all the help he can get—and you’re it, for now. So, do the best you can, and let’s get this damn case solved. Matt will—”
“Okay, boss, I’ll take it from here,” said Davis.
Foster grinned, and beat a hasty retreat through the door, scurrying back to the security of his own office. That left Davis alone with Freitag, Valdez, and the two newcomers to the case.
“Alright,” he said, looking at Martini, “Frank, I want you to re-canvass the neighbors of all three victims.”
Martini started to say something, but stopped.
“I know they were canvassed already,” said Matt. “But, find out if anybody saw anything. Go through the entire neighborhood. See if there were any unusual cars in the area, strange-acting men hanging around, regular visitors—irregular visitors—anything at all that you can find out that might help us. Wolinski, you’re with Martini.”
He looked over at Rita and sighed. Valdez didn’t help things any when she leaned across his desk, showing off her ample cleavage that swelled over the top of her revealing blouse. “And what about me?” she asked, batting her considerable eyelashes at Davis.
Matt felt a twinge of guilt as he briefly enjoyed the view, then quickly willed himself to concentrate. He had never cheated on Valerie, and he wasn’t about to start now. He cleared his throat and said, “Rita, I assume Foster filled you in on most of the details?”
“Uh huh. But, what do you want me to do, Detective?” The way she put the emphasis on ‘Detective’ caused Davis to wince. He knew that Valdez’s professional reputation was beyond reproach, and assumed she was just having a little fun. He wished he could enjoy it, but he couldn’t. Instead, he pressed ahead.
“Look, Rita, if we’re gonna be working together on this thing, just call me Matt, and let’s skip the ‘Detective’ bullshit, okay?”
“Sure thing – Lou.”
Davis rolled his eyes, a smile on his face. “Give me a break, will you, Rita?”
Rita removed herself from the top of his desk, taking the view of her breasts with her—much to Matt’s relief—and stood up straight, pulling her suit jacket closed across her blouse. That suited him just fine. He certainly didn’t need any rumors circulating around the precinct.
“Well, for starters, suppose you see if you can track down where those three bibles came from. They’re all the same, so maybe there’s something there. Start with Father Richter; hell, maybe he can save us all a lot of time.”
Rita headed out the door towards the evidence room to pick up one of the bibles. Freitag shut the door behind her, and turned toward Davis, an exasperated look spreading across his face. Wolinski and Martini took the cue and exited promptly.
“I know, I know,” said Matt. “Don’t piss her off; it’ll only make it worse, right?”
“Right,” smiled Freitag.
“Don’t worry. I can handle Rita. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page.” He turned and caught Freitag snickering.
“Isn’t that right, Chris?” asked Davis.
“Oh, yeah. Whatever you say—Lou.”
Davis couldn’t resist laughing. “Okay, let’s get moving,” he said. “I think we’ve all got plenty to keep us busy.”
The two men exited the office and hurried downstairs to the street. Martini and Wolinski climbed into the little black Dodge that had been assigned to them from the motor pool, while Freitag and Davis jumped into the Impala. Both cars sped off in opposite directions.
The funeral mass for Cindy McKenzie was uneventful. Afterwards, the killer sat unnoticed, in the rear of the church, while close friends and relatives mingled. At the conclusion of the ritual he kneeled, crossed himself, and left.
CHAPTER 29
The killer was having difficulty separating the events of his daily routine with those that filled his private hours. He hadn’t intended to kill any of those women. It just happened. How much, he rationalized, could a man take? They had only themselves to blame. How dare they not accept him? They were so shallow. They pretended to want his advice and his companionship, yet when he gave in to them, he always came up lacking. He knew what they really wanted. They weren’t any different from the whores he saw frequenting the area around the bus station at 42nd Street. They were all whore
s – just like his mother.
The simple act of just getting through his daily routine was becoming increasingly more difficult. He struggled to control his desires, and fought to maintain a hold on his anger, which was considerable. It simmered just below the surface, and, on the occasions when he gave vent to it, his rage had been so terrible that he had been unable to control it at all. The result was three dead women. Well, he thought, they deserved it. Women always disappointed him – always!
And that damn computer. It sat there like some sort of demon. And, of course, he was too weak to resist. His mother always said he was weak. Lately, he found himself drawn to the chat rooms almost every night. He would sit there like a zombie, trying desperately to be whomever or whatever the naive housewives wanted him to be. Sometimes he was a stockbroker; sometimes he worked in construction. He always pretended to be anything but what he really was. He wished he could stop chatting and just have a normal life like everyone else. But, he knew that wasn’t possible. Not any more, at least.
As time went on, the line between reality and fantasy began to blur. Sometimes he scarcely knew who he was when he awoke, covered in perspiration from some nightmare or other. Other times when he awoke, he wasn’t sure whether he had been dreaming, or if he had awakened from a re-enactment of the actual nightmare he had perpetrated the night before.
Things were definitely getting out of control.
CHAPTER 30
Rita entered her Volkswagen Jetta and started the engine. She hated having to use her own car, but until one was available from the motor pool, she had no other option. Driving downtown toward St. Jude’s, her mind raced with the thoughts of the previous day’s farce at headquarters. She hadn’t minded the formal introduction or even the catcalls, but the little scenario in Foster’s office—well, that was another story altogether. She absolutely hated the “let’s be a good little girl” lecture by the captain, and despised the fact that she would be walking on proverbial eggshells as long as he deemed it necessary.
As she cruised down Broadway, and threaded her way through the crowded streets of Chelsea, Rita began to reconsider her position. Maybe Foster was right. After all, she really had nobody to blame but herself. The crap she purported about needing “two to tango” was just that – crap. She was the one who had initiated each encounter. They were only doing what came naturally to all men—following their dicks to the source.
No one would ever know how painful her first affair had been. Everyone thought: “sex,” but she knew differently. Bill Connor had been a wonderful man, and she had loved him deeply. Rumors around the precinct had indicated that his marriage was in trouble, but Rita had resisted—that is, until her boss had given her the opening, inviting her to accompany him to a PBA dinner when his wife was out of town. Still, she hadn’t intended for anything to happen. It just did. And then, the floodgates had opened, and all bets were off. It lasted less than two years, but in that time, Rita had a glimpse of what a deep, meaningful relationship could be like—and she liked it, and gladly paid the price for the experience.
In the end, however, it was Connor’s wife who had prevailed; and Bill being the good, decent man he really was, had broken off the relationship in spite of the love he obviously felt for Rita. After that, Valdez became reckless, going after first one, than the other, until things became a blur. But, always emptiness—a feeling of futility—had attached itself to each relationship. Now, she was paying a price that was not only very dear, but totally undeserved as well. She imagined Foster could have declined her transfer into his squad—but he didn’t. So, perhaps it showed he wasn’t such a bad guy. And, maybe, just maybe, she could finally get it right. Then, she pictured Davis, and let her imagination wander a bit.
“Fuck!” she exclaimed. “There I go again. Get a grip, girlfriend.” She smiled at her momentary lapse, and vowed to do better.
She maneuvered the small car through the crowded streets of Chelsea, and eventually found her way to St. Jude’s, slipping the car into a tight parking spot in front of the imposing structure. She shut off the engine, tossed her identification placard on the dashboard where it could be seen through the windshield, and grabbed the copy of the New Testament she had signed out of the evidence room. Her spiked heels clicked loudly as she made her way along the concrete path, leading to the side door that she assumed was the entrance to the rectory. A slightly elevated portion of the pavement caused her to trip, and while struggling to maintain her balance, she subconsciously regretted her choice of shoes for the day’s work. No more heels. She rang the bell and waited.
Presently, a rather plain-looking woman with white hair answered the door. “May I help you?” she asked. Valdez detected an Irish accent. She flashed her badge. “Detective Valdez of the Tenth Precinct. I was wondering if I could speak with Father Richter for just a moment?”
“Oh, dear, is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no, I was just hoping he might save us some time with a case we’re working on.”
“Well,” said the woman, “let me see if he’s free.”
Rita waited patiently until the woman returned. “Why don’t you come in?” she said, and motioned Rita into the vestibule. “He should only be a minute.”
Looking about the sparsely decorated anteroom, Rita reflected upon the life of religious personnel—if, indeed, that was a term that could be used in such a context. It was probably a lot like these surroundings: plain, even barren—certainly not a life for her. A quiet cough roused her from her reverie. She turned and saw a strikingly handsome older man, standing quietly with his hands at his sides, dressed in navy slacks and a tan turtle neck sweater. Very interesting. He couldn’t be Richter, could he?
As if on cue, the man extended his hand and answered the question for her. “Father Richter,” he said. “And you are?”
“I’m sorry. I’m Detective Valdez,” she replied, shaking his outstretched hand. “Lieutenant Davis asked me to stop by and ask you a question about the case we’ve been working on.” She flashed her identification, and the priest scrutinized it briefly, before nodding his approval.
“Well, Miss Valdez, I’ll be happy to help,” he said. “Would you like a cup of coffee—or some tea, perhaps?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—but thank you.” She handed him the New Testament. “We found copies like this at all three crime scenes, and we were wondering if you knew where they might have come from?”
Richter studied the book, riffling the pages gently, almost lovingly, and handed it back to Valdez. “Could be any place. In fact, they could even be from here. We get them from a religious publishing house somewhere in the Midwest. All the Catholic churches use them.” He turned and pointed to a collection of books stacked on a countertop in the corner of the vestibule. “You see, we have a veritable stockpile of them. I wish I could be more helpful.”
Valdez reached into her purse and extracted one of her old business cards. She had crossed out the outdated information on a stack of them, and hastily replaced it with her new precinct address and phone number. She didn’t like using them, but they’d just have to do until her new cards were ready. She apologized for the card’s condition, and gave it to Richter, who studied it for a moment before stashing it in his pants pocket. “If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me,” she said.
“It would be my pleasure,” said Richter. Something about the remark made Rita smile; it was probably because she never connected pleasure with clergy. She extended her hand once more, and Richter took it graciously in his and bid her good day. She walked out the door and down the sidewalk to the Jetta. Before entering the car, she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw Richter standing in the rectory doorway. Without thinking, she waved, and the priest smiled and waved back. Nice guy, she thought, and drove off.
CHAPTER 31
Valerie moved efficiently about the narrow kitchen as she prepared dinner for Matt and herself. Although the cooking area was barely adequate, Vale
rie was proud of how she had organized it. Everything was right at her fingertips. The sun was nearly gone as she paused to look out the little window at the end of the galley. The view of the city, silhouetted by the receding sunset always brought her pleasure. Unlike a painting, this picture changed daily. Tonight, the glow behind the buildings had a reddish—nearly pink—cast to it. What is it they say about a red sky at night? Sailor’s delight – that’s it!
The meatloaf was just about done, so she called Matt to the table. It was his favorite dish, and she always served it the same way: with freshly made mashed potatoes, frozen peas (better than canned), steamed carrots, and homemade gravy. Valerie had prepared it in the hope that it might take her husband’s mind off his work, if only for an hour or so. She turned from the kitchen to the table, hot platter in hand, and was surprised to find her husband missing.
“Matt!” she shouted. “Come on, honey. It’s going to get cold.”
“I’ll be right there,” he answered from the living room.
As he wandered into the dining area, he was engrossed in reading the autopsy report he carried in his hand.
Valerie frowned. “Matt, for God’s sake. Can’t we just eat dinner alone?”
“Huh?” he asked. His face showed not a trace of comprehension.
Valerie pointed at the report in his hand.
“Oh,” he replied. “I’m sorry.” He placed the papers on the floor next to his chair and sat down. They ate in relative silence, punctuated only by the sounds of knives and forks scraping the ancient dinnerware. A dinner that had been planned as special had suddenly become very ordinary—just another supper.
But, Valerie wasn’t giving up without a fight. When they were done, she quickly cleared the table and placed the dishes alongside the sink. Turning to her husband, she said, “Honey? Why don’t you put on a little music?” She looked at him with a little twinkle in her eye. “Maybe we could dance?”
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 9