She began using the blow dryer on her hair. Taking a pick, she ran it through her still damp locks to loosen up the curls, then sprayed the results. A little lipstick and eye shadow finished her from the neck up. She removed the cap from the bottle of Tresor perfume, and ran it to along the sides of her neck, then the insides of her wrists. Next, she brushed it against her breasts, along her belly, and the insides of her thighs. Finally, she lowered it to gently caress the lips of her vagina, sending a shower of sparks through her body.
No bra tonight, she thought, as she slipped a light pink, cotton sweater overhead. The fabric felt rough against her skin, and caused her nipples to become erect. Hope you like ’em, boys. In a way, she felt a little guilty dressing this way. After all, it wasn’t really sex she was after, but marriage and a family. But she couldn’t very well wear a sign, advertising: “No sex! Long-term relationship wanted,” could she? She grabbed a pair of black thong panties from her overstuffed underwear drawer and stepped into them. Then came a pair of skintight jeans, black leather pumps, and a matching belt with a large gold buckle. She was ready to roll.
She pulled a long, black leather coat from the hall closet, grabbed her shoulder bag from the top of the kitchen counter, flipped a few light switches, and exited the apartment. She stopped outside the door, turned around, and checked her purse for her keys. She carefully secured the door handle lock, then the heavier deadbolt above. Returning the keys to her handbag, she was startled by a noise at the bottom of the stairs. She turned and stared down at the dimly lit landing.
The entryway was rather dimly lit, and Rita could just make out the outline of someone standing in the shadows.
“Hello,” she said, almost in a whisper.
There was no answer—nothing.
“Who’s there?” she added, a bit louder, but still sounding meek.
Silence.
Shit, she thought, I hate this damned city. She reached in her purse and extracted the .38 snub-nosed Smith and Wesson service revolver she was required to carry. She undid the safety. Okay, wise ass; see how you like this.
Feeling more secure with the loaded firearm in her hand, she shouted down the stairs, “Hey, asshole! I’ve got a gun. Now move into the light, where I can see you.”
Slowly, the figure stepped out of the shadows and into the dim light cast by the overhead fixture at the foot of the stairs. It was Jan. She looked up at Rita, smiling sheepishly. “Hey! Take it easy,” she said. “I was only fooling.”
“Not funny, Jan,” said Rita, engaging the safety, and lowering the gun to her side. “You could have gotten your ass shot off.”
Realizing she had acted foolishly, Jan fumbled an apology. “Sorry, Rita,” she said. “I guess that wasn’t too smart, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.” Rita placed the pistol back in her bag.
“I’m really sorry,” said Jan. She slowly climbed the stairway, stopping several stairs short of where Rita stood on the landing, reluctant to come any closer. “Forgive me?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” sighed Rita, “It’s okay. Honest.” She reached out and patted Jan lightly on her shoulder. The girl smiled, feeling the tension leave her body.
“What do you say we take a cab?” said Rita.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” answered Jan. “What the hell; I’ll buy.”
“And I’ll let you,” laughed Rita.
The two women walked slowly down the stairs, exited the apartment building, and hailed a passing taxi.
Friday nights on the Upper East Side of Manhattan have a Mardi gras air about them; with crowds of young people everywhere, all seeking partners. Nearly every building houses either a bar or a restaurant, each sporting bright lights and plenty of patrons. The gaudy establishments literally overflow with singles hoping to meet that “special someone.” Mixed among the many bachelors and unmarried women are individual spouses wishing that they, too, were unattached – each of them having decided that their “special someone” wasn’t so special anymore.
Joe Carey was a one of those “single wanna be’s.” Like Rita, he was also thirty-nine. He was a transplanted Texan, who was doing his best to ward off the inevitable “Big Four Oh.” His marriage of fourteen years had grown stale, and he regularly prowled the singles scene seeking to rekindle the fire missing in his ample belly. He had posted himself strategically by the front door of the bar, waiting in ambush for a suitable candidate to help him through the night.
Around eight-thirty, the taxi bearing Rita and Jan pulled to the curb in front of O’Hearly’s Irish Pub, located on Third Avenue, between 82nd and 83d Streets. True to her word, Jan paid the fare, even tipping the Indian driver seventy-five cents (a generous amount for her). The two women giggled loudly as they made their way toward the bar. Jan’s long blond hair and skin-tight leather pants attracted most of the stares, and that suited Rita just fine. The two women couldn’t have had more different taste in men.
Their laughter caught the attention of the lanky, longhaired stranger who stood by the open door. He watched closely as the pair exited the taxi, smiling to himself as they passed him on their way inside. He paid particular attention to Rita, and decided she was perfect. He liked her dark hair and complexion. Besides, his wife was a blond, like the other one, and he’d had enough of her type to last a lifetime. He waited until they had seated themselves at the bar and ordered their drinks, before approaching them. Casually, he walked over and pressed himself against the ancient mahogany structure, standing immediately to the left of Jan. Ignoring the women, he hailed the passing bartender, and ordered a gin and tonic. When he had his drink, he faced the two women, and raised his glass in a mock toast. Concentrating on Rita, he drawled, “Here’s to y’all.”
Jan assessed the man’s rugged good looks; decided she liked them and his accent, and raised her glass of white wine in response. Already bored, Rita blew a sigh, and turned her attention to the TV that was located in the upper corner of the bar. The Mets were playing the Yankees in an inter-league game, and trailing badly after only two innings, 7-1. If the present score was any indication, it might be a long night for the boys from Flushing.
“Come on, you bums,” said Rita, rooting on the home team. “Let’s score some runs.” She hated the Yankees. The only team she hated more was the Atlanta Braves.
“Mets fan?” asked Joe. He was looking past Jan, his question obviously directed at Rita, who stood with her back to him, facing the TV. When she didn’t respond, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and repeated the question. “I said, are y’all a Mets fan?”
Rita turned around, looked down at his hand, which was resting on her shoulder, and grimaced. “Nope. Just can’t stand the Yankees.”
“Me neither,” answered Joe. He had made no effort to remove his hand, and in fact was giving her an uninvited massage. Rita decided that he was trying a bit too hard to suit her tastes.
“Oh, really?” she said, removing the offending hand from her shoulder. “And what team do you root for?”
“Texas Rangers,” he drawled. His accent made the word sound more like “Range-uhs.”
“Cute,” said Rita. “And what are you, a cowboy?” She deliberately looked past him and laughed out loud towards Jan, who reflected her amusement.
“Well, not exactly,” replied the stranger. “But, I am from Texas.”
“That’s nice,” she replied. “And what brings you to New York?” She exaggerated her own accent, pronouncing the last word “Yawk.”
“The usual,” he replied, with a laugh. “Work. I’m an engineer with Con Edison.”
“Ah ha,” said Rita. “‘Dig we must’, huh?”
“Well, you could say that, except that I mostly spend my time in an office.”
“You mean when you’re not bothering strange women in bars?” Rita had already decided she wasn’t interested in this one, and wanted to send a message.
“Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Joe Carey,” he said.
“Can I buy you ladies a drink?”
“I’m fine,” said Rita. She glanced back at Jan, hoping for support, but received an icy stare instead. Reacting quickly, Rita added, “But maybe my friend would like one. How about it, Jan?”
Jan smiled her appreciation. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll have a white wine and seltzer on the rocks…and thanks. By the way, I’m Jan.”
Realizing that pursuing Rita was a losing cause, Joe turned his attention away from her and concentrated instead on her enthusiastic companion. He extended his hand, and Jan eagerly accepted it.
“Pleased to meet you, Jan,” he said.
Rita finished her drink, stood up and said, “I’m gonna hit the ladies’ room.” She winked at Jan behind the man’s back and waved good-bye, making the traditional good luck sign before leaving Jan on her own. Weaving through the crowd, she made her way toward the back of the bar. After using the ladies’ room, Rita returned to the crowded floor of the bar. As she looked towards the front of the bar, Rita saw Jan and “the Con Edison man” leaving through the front door.
Con Edison, my ass. More like Con Man!
Two hours and three drinks later, the Yankees had beaten the Mets, 13-3, and Rita had rebuffed a half dozen potential “leading men.” She decided she’d had enough action for one night, and took a taxi home to her Chelsea apartment on 23rd Street. She checked her handbag as she entered the building, reassured by the weight of her Smith and Wesson nestled inside. As she entered the hallway, she glanced back over her shoulder and was surprised to see a man standing across the street smoking a cigarette. She glanced at her watch. It was only ten-forty five. Not really that late, she thought, but still...what was he doing there?
For a second, she was afraid. Then, looking again, she recognized the man as Ken Callahan, the delivery clerk from the neighborhood market. She breathed a sigh of relief. What’s the matter with me? I’m starting to imagine things. It was the damn case. It was getting to her.
Ken was a Vietnam vet on a disability pension, who supplemented his meager Army income by delivering groceries on a three-wheeled bicycle that was fitted with a basket. He was polite but a bit shy, probably because of the burn scars that covered most of one side of his face. If anyone was harmless, she thought, he certainly was. In spite of the scars, he really wasn’t that bad looking.
Relieved, Rita waved at the man. “Hi Ken,” she said, feeling a little guilty.
“Hi, Miss Valdez,” he replied. He flipped his cigarette into the gutter, and started to cross the street.
Rita smiled. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Ah, not much. Just enjoying the nice weather.”
The two exchanged small talk for several minutes, and finally Rita said goodnight and went inside. Poor man. He probably got nailed with Napalm or something in ’Nam. What a shame. No wonder people hated the Vietnam War, she thought.
Rita let herself into her apartment, and made sure to double lock the door. Can’t be too careful. She hung her coat in the closet, and as she did, noticed the lingering aroma of cigarette smoke that clung to the garment. It obscured the natural scent of the leather, and she shook her head in disgust, thinking just how much she hated the bar scene.
“Today, the bar scene, tomorrow the Internet!” she announced to the walls.
She passed her answering machine and noticed the light flashing on and off, indicating a new message. She pressed the button marked “play,” and heard the sound of a woman’s voice. The sound was barely audible, and she had to turn the volume all the way up before she recognized the voice as belonging to Jan.
“Hey, it’s me,” Jan whispered. “I’ve got ‘Tex’ at my apartment. He’s in the john. God, Rita, he’s fantastic. You really blew it, but thanks. Anyway, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Rita erased the message and frowned. One of these days her friend was going to pick up the wrong guy. She didn’t want to think about it. She undressed, took a quick shower to remove the smoke from her body, brushed her teeth, and slipped into bed. She quickly drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 34
Monday, April 17
It was precisely four o’clock in the afternoon. Father Pete greeted Davis, Freitag, and Valdez at the door to the rectory and led them into his office. He was accompanied by a young, boyish-looking priest, whom he introduced to the two detectives as Father Anthony.
“Father Anthony,” began Davis. “Did you hear a confession by Mrs. McKenzie on March 30th—a few weeks ago—on a Thursday evening?” His question apparently caught the young priest slightly off guard.
“Well, I…I…” he stammered. His face flushed and he looked at Father Pete for assistance. Matt watched as the two clergymen exchanged knowing looks.
“Uh, Matt,” said Father Pete, “Father Anthony couldn’t tell you even if he wanted to. In fact, there’s not even any way he can be sure it was her confession he may have heard.”
“Well,” said Davis. “Perhaps I should rephrase the question.” He began again, “Father Anthony, did you hear a young woman’s confession on that particular Thursday night?”
“I heard the confessions of a number of people. But—”
“Yes, but how many of them were young women?” asked Matt. He was growing mildly impatient.
“Well—I was going to say—only two of them were young women.” He coughed nervously, then continued. “Anyway, I—”
“—Do you suppose one of them was Mrs. McKenzie?”
“I imagine so. But, Detective—”
“—and what did she say?” asked Davis, impatiently.
Father Pete stepped between the two men, shaking his head. “Matt, please. Let’s be fair. You know we can’t divulge a person’s confession—not even to solve a murder.”
“Sorry, Father Pete. I had to try.”
Freitag spoke up. “Father Anthony, was the young woman a ‘regular customer’ so to speak?”
Davis gave his partner a dirty look. “I apologize for my partner’s insensitivity, Father. Let me rephrase his question. Did the woman’s voice sound familiar?”
“No. In fact, she said she hadn’t made a confession in over ten years. I remember specifically, because it was very unusual.”
The two detectives looked at each other, then back at the young priest.
“I thought you couldn’t reveal somebody’s confession?” asked Davis.
Father Pete smiled and said, “Yes, Matt. That’s true. But, technically, what Father Anthony just told you was not part of the young woman’s confession. Besides, we are trying to help you. If you know what I mean.” The older priest winked demurely.
“Well, we certainly appreciate it,” replied Matt.
He addressed the young priest again. “You see, Father Anthony, it appears that the first two victims were both cheating on their husbands—”
“I see,” said the priest.
“One was having an ongoing affair,” said Matt. “And the other appears to have been quite promiscuous. We don’t necessarily think that there’s a definite connection there, but if all three were cheating, well, you see, then maybe we might be on to something.”
Father Anthony shifted from one foot to the other. He looked extremely uncomfortable. Davis looked at Father Pete. The priest rubbed his cheek slowly with the palm of his hand, then whispered into his young colleague’s ear. Father Anthony’s face tightened at first, then relaxed. He nodded, as if in some kind of agreement with his mentor.
Father Pete spoke. “Perhaps, Matt, I might offer a suggestion.”
“Fire away, Father Pete,” he said.
The elder priest moved closer to Davis and whispered into his ear, just as he had done with Father Anthony. Then he moved back and said aloud, “Would that be alright, Matt?”
“Yes,” said Davis. “I think that would work okay. Let’s try it.”
Freitag stood quietly watching the charade, wondering just what in the hell was going on. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Fath
er Anthony, are you happy here at St. Jude’s?” The priest nodded in the affirmative, a quizzical look spreading across his face.
“Good,” said Davis. “Do you root for the Mets?”
This time the priest shook his side to side in denial.
Davis frowned, in mock disapproval. Then he continued. “Father Anthony, did you hear any confessions last Saturday evening?”
Again the priest shook his head, only up and down, in a positive response.
Freitag smiled. He was catching on to the game. If the priest didn’t say anything, he wouldn’t be guilty of violating his vow of confidence. Of course, at this rate, he thought, it might take a week to get anything meaningful out of the young priest.
“Now, Father Anthony, did this young woman confess to adultery?”
Father Anthony hesitated, looked at Father Pete, then turned back to Davis. “You know, detective, it’s gets very confusing in the confessional sometimes. I do recall one woman confessing to adultery—”
“Yes?”
“—and another woman confessing to having violated her Lenten vows. But, I honestly can’t remember which was which. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“That’s alright, Father. My mistake for asking.” Davis glanced at his watch, noted the time, and extended his hand toward Father Anthony. The young priest smiled and accepted the detective’s hand, and shook it vigorously.
“You’ve been most helpful, Father Anthony. Thank you.”
Father Anthony then quickly left the room. Father Richter turned to the two detectives and said, “Perhaps the three of you will join me for some tea or a cup of hot chocolate?”
Davis whispered something in Freitag’s ear, then turned back to the priest.
“Detective Freitag and Miss Valdez have got a little errand they have to run, but I’ll be glad to join you for a couple of minutes.” Chris, Rita, I’ll need you back here in about a half hour, okay?”
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 11