Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  Carroll collapsed on the sofa in the center of the room. Two empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray were on the floor. A blanket was tossed over the cushions. Ben calculated he hadn’t moved much beyond that spot since he’d been notified.

  “I can come up with a couple of clean glasses.” His voice was husky but not slurred, as though the liquor had quit doing its job some time before. “But you can’t drink, can you? On duty.” He lifted the bottle again and sucked. “I’m not on duty.”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions about Anne Reasoner, Mr. Carroll.” There was a chair behind him, but Ben didn’t sit.

  “Yeah, I figured you’d get around to it. I told myself if I didn’t pass out, I’d talk to you.” He looked at the bottle that was barely three-quarters full. “Can’t seem to pass out.”

  Ed took the bottle from his fingers and set it aside. “Doesn’t help, really, does it?”

  “Something’s got to.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, then began to search the littered smoked-glass coffee table for a cigarette. Ben lit one for him. “Thanks.” He drew hard and kept most of the smoke in his lungs. “I quit two years ago,” he said, and drew again. “Didn’t gain any weight, though, because I cut out starch.”

  “You and Miss Reasoner had a relationship,” Ben began. “You were one of the last people to talk to her.”

  “Yes. Saturday night. We were supposed to go to the National. Sunday in the Park with George. Anne’s fond of musicals. I prefer straight drama myself, but—”

  “You didn’t go to the theater?” Ben interrupted.

  “I was feeling pressured. I called her to break the date and told her I wanted to let the relationship cool for a while. That’s how I said it.” He looked up, over the cigarette, and met Ben’s eyes. “It should cool for a while. It sounded reasonable.”

  “Did you have fight?”

  “A fight?” He laughed at that and choked on smoke. “No, we didn’t fight. We never fought. I don’t believe in it. There’s always a logical and reasonable solution to any problem. This was a reasonable solution, and it was for her own good.”

  “Did you see her that night, Mr. Carroll?”

  “No.” He looked around absently for the bottle, but Ed had put it out of reach. “She asked me to come over, to talk it out. She was crying. I didn’t want to have one of those tearful scenes, so I said no. I told her I thought it best if we gave it a little time. In a week or two we could have drinks after work and talk about it calmly. In a week or two.” He stared straight ahead. The ash from his cigarette fell on his knee. “She called me later.”

  “She phoned you again?” Ed balanced his notepad on his palm. “What time was that?”

  “It was 3:35. My clock radio’s right beside the bed. I was annoyed with her. I shouldn’t have been, but I was. She was high. I can always tell when she’s had a joint. She didn’t have an outrageous habit, just burned a joint now and then to ease tension, but I didn’t like it. It’s so childish, you know,” he added. “I figured she’d done it to irritate me. She told me she’d come to some decisions. She wanted me to know that she didn’t blame me. She was going to take responsibility for her own emotions, and not to worry about her causing any scenes at the office.”

  When he sat back and closed his eyes, his dark blond hair fell over his forehead. “I was relieved at that, because I worried a bit about it. She said she had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of reevaluating before we talked again. I said that was fine and I’d see her Monday. When I hung up it was 3:42. That’s seven minutes.”

  Gil Norton had seen the murderer come out of the alley sometime between four and four-thirty. Ed noted the times on his pad, then put it in his pocket.

  “You’re probably not in the mood for advice, Mr. Carroll, but you’d be better off if you went up to bed and got some sleep.”

  He focused on Ed, then looked at the litter of bottles at his feet. “I loved her. How come I didn’t know it until now?”

  Ben stepped outside and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “Christ.”

  “I don’t think Suzanne Hudson would feel like spitting in his face now.”

  “So what have we got?” Ben walked to the car and took the driver’s seat. “A selfish, self-indulgent lawyer, who doesn’t fit Norton’s description. A woman trying to pull back from a bad affair, who goes for a walk. And a psychopath who just happens to be there when she does.”

  “A psychopath who wears a cassock.”

  Ben stuck the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. “You think he’s a priest?”

  Instead of answering, Ed sat back and stared at the sky through the windshield. “How many sort of tall, dark-haired priests you figure there are in the city?” Ed took out a plastic bag of trail mix.

  “Enough to keep us busy for six months. We haven’t got six months.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to Logan again.”

  “Yeah.” He dipped his fingers into the plastic bag Ed offered without thinking. “How about this? A former priest, one who dropped out because of some Church-oriented tragedy. Logan might be able to get us a few names.”

  “Another crumb. In her report, Dr. Court says he’s cracking, that this last murder probably left him disabled for a couple of days.”

  “I read it. What the hell is this? Bark and twigs?” Ben twisted the key and pulled out from the curb.

  “Raisins, almonds, some granola. You ought to call her, Ben.”

  “I’ll handle my personal life, partner.” He turned the corner and went a block before he swore. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. You know, I saw this special. It pointed out that in current society, men really have it made. Women have taken the pressure off them to be the sole support—the Mr. Macho who has to handle all the problems and bring home the bacon. Women are generally waiting longer to look for marriage if they look for marriage at all, which leaves men with more choices. Today’s woman isn’t looking for Prince Charming on a white charger. The funny thing is, a lot of men are still threatened by strength and independence.” He plucked out a raisin. “Pretty amazing.”

  “Kiss ass.”

  “Dr. Court strikes me as being pretty independent.”

  “Good for her. Who wants a woman who hangs all over you?”

  “Bunny didn’t hang exactly,” Ed remembered. “She sort of draped.”

  “Bunny was comic relief,” Ben muttered. And Bunny had been one of his standard three-month affairs where you meet, share a few dinners, have a few laughs, bounce around in the sheets, and call it quits before anyone gets any ideas. He thought of Tess leaning back against his windowsill and laughing. “Look, when you’re in our business you need a woman who doesn’t make you think all the time. Who doesn’t make you think about her all the time.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” Ed leaned back. “But I figure you’re smart enough to see it for yourself.”

  Ben made the turn toward Catholic University. “Let’s hit Logan before we go back in.”

  At five P.M. all the detectives assigned to the Priest homicides but Bigsby were spread out in the conference room. Harris had a copy of all the reports in front of him, but went over each point by point. They traced Anne Reasoner’s movements on the final night of her life.

  At 5:05 P.M. she had left her regular beauty salon, where she’d had a trim, color touch-up, blow-dry, and manicure. She’d been in excellent spirits and had tipped her operator ten dollars. At five-fifteen she had picked up her dry cleaning. One gray suit, with vest, two linen blouses, and a pair of gabardine slacks. At approximately five-thirty she had arrived home. Her next-door neighbor had spoken to her in the hall. Anne had mentioned going to the theater that evening. She’d carried fresh flowers.

  At seven-fifteen John Carroll had called her and broken their date and their relationship. They had spoken for roughly fifteen minutes.

  At eight-thirty Anne Reasoner had called Suzanne Hudson. She’d been upset, tearful. They had talk
ed for nearly an hour.

  Around midnight the next-door neighbor had heard Reasoner’s television. She’d noticed it because she was coming in for the evening herself and hadn’t expected Reasoner to be home.

  At 3:35 Reasoner had phoned Carroll. Two roaches of marijauna had been found beside the phone. They had talked until 3:42. None of the neighbors heard Reasoner leave the building.

  Sometime between four and four-thirty A.M. Gil Norton had seen a man dressed as a priest exit the alley two blocks from Reasoner’s apartment. At 4:36 Norton attracted the attention of two patrolmen and reported the body.

  “Those are the facts,” Harris said. Behind him was a map of the city with the murder sights flagged with blue pins. “From the map we can see that he’s confined himself to an area less than seven square miles. All the murders have occurred between one and five A.M. There is no sexual assault, no robbery. From the pattern Monsignor Logan established, we expect him to hit again on December eighth. Street patrols will be working double shifts from now until then.

  “We know that he is a man of average or above average height, that he has dark hair and dresses as a priest. From Dr. Court’s psychiatric profile and reports, we know that he is psychopathic, possibly schizophrenic, with religious delusions. He kills only young, blond women, who apparently symbolize an actual person who is or was in his life.

  “Dr. Court feels that due to the break in pattern of the murder, and the disorder of the printing on the note left on the body, that he is nearing a crisis in his psychosis. The last murder may have cost him more than he can afford.”

  He dropped the file on the table, thinking it was more than any of them could afford. “It’s her opinion that he would have had a physical reaction, headaches, nausea, that would have debilitated him. If he is still able to function on a normal level for periods of time, it’s placing an enormous strain on him. She believes it would show in fatigue, loss of appetite, inattention.”

  He paused a moment, to make certain everyone in the room was taking it in. The room was separated from the squad room by windows and venetian blinds that were yellowing with age. Beyond them could be heard the steady hum of activity, phones, footsteps, voices.

  There was a coffee machine in the corner and a jumbo-sized plastic cup for cops with a conscience to drop in twenty-five cents a shot. Harris walked over to it, poured a cup, and added a spoonful of the powdered cream he detested. He drank and looked at his staff.

  They were restless, overworked, and frustrated. If they didn’t start cutting down to an eight-hour day, he was going to lose some of them to the flu. Lowenstein and Roderick were already popping decongestants. He couldn’t afford to have them off sick, and he couldn’t afford to pamper them. “We have in this room over sixty years of police experience. It’s time we put those sixty-odd years on the line and catch one sick religious fanatic who probably can’t keep his breakfast down in the morning anymore.”

  “Ed and I talked to Logan again.” Ben pushed aside his plastic cup of coffee. “Since the guy dresses like a priest, we thought we’d start treating him like one. As a psychiatrist, Logan talks to and treats fellow priests who are having any kind of emotional problems. He’s not going to give us a list of his patients, but he’s going through his files, checking for anything—anyone who might fit. Then there’s a matter of the confessional.”

  He stopped for a moment. Confession was part of the Catholic ritual that had always given him a problem. He could remember well kneeling in that dark little room with the screened panel, confessing, repenting, atoning. Go and sin no more. But, of course, he had.

  “A priest has to confess to somebody, and it has to be another priest. If Dr. Court’s right, and he’s beginning to think of what he’s done as a sin, he’s going to have to confess.”

  “So we start interviewing priests,” Lowenstein put in. “Look, obviously I don’t know a lot about Catholics, but isn’t there something about the sanctity of the confessional?”

  “We probably wouldn’t get a priest to finger anyone who came to him in the confessional,” Ben agreed. “But maybe we’d get another location. Chances are he’d stick with his own parish. Tess—Dr. Court—said he probably attended church regularly. We might be able to find out what church. If he’s a priest, or was one, he’d probably be drawn to his own church.” He rose and went to the map. “This area,” he said, circling the blue flags, “includes two parishes. I’m betting he’s been to one or both of these churches, maybe standing on the altar.”

  “You figure he’s going to show up on Sunday,” Roderick put in. He clamped his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose to relieve some pressure. “Especially if Dr. Court was right and he was too sick to make it last week. He’ll need the support of the ceremony.”

  “I think so. Masses run Saturday evening too.”

  “I thought that was our province,” Lowenstein commented.

  “Catholics are flexible.” Ben dipped his hands in his pockets. “And they like to sleep late on Sunday like everybody else. The thing is, I’m betting this guy is a traditionalist. Sunday morning is for mass, the mass should still be said in Latin, and you don’t eat meat on Friday. Church rules. I think Court’s got something when she says the guy’s obsessed with Church rules.”

  “So we cover the two churches on Sunday. In the meantime, we’ve got a couple of days to interview priests.” Harris looked at each of his detectives. “Lowenstein, you and Roderick take one parish, Jackson and Paris the other. Bigsby will—where the hell is Bigsby?”

  “He said he had a lead on the amices, Captain.” Roderick rose and poured a cup of ice water, knowing there was too much coffee in his system already. “Look, I don’t want to throw a wrench in the works, but suppose he does show up during one of the masses on Sunday. What makes any of us think we can pick him out of the congregation? The guy isn’t a freak, he isn’t going to come in speaking in tongues or frothing at the mouth. Dr. Court points out that he’s just like anyone else except for the fact that he’s troubled.”

  “It’s all we’ve got,” Ben stated, annoyed at having his own doubts stated by someone else. “We’ve got to go with whatever advantage we have; at the moment it’s location. We check out the men who come alone. Court also thinks he’s a loner, so he’s not going to come in with the wife and kids. Logan takes it one step further and sees him as devout. A lot of people come to mass and nod off or at least space out. He wouldn’t do either.”

  “Spending the day in church gives us the opportunity to try something else.” Ed finished a note then looked up. “Pray.”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Lowenstein said under her breath as Bigsby swung into the room.

  “I’ve got something.” He held a yellow pad in his hand, and his red and watery eyes were bulging. He’d been spending his nights with Nyquil and a hot-water bottle. “One dozen white silk amices, invoice number 52346-A, ordered on June fifteenth from O’Donnely’s Religious Suppliers, Boston, Massachusetts. Delivery July thirty-first, Reverend Francis Moore. The address is a post office in Georgetown.”

  “How’d he pay for it?” Harris’s voice was calm as he worked through the next steps.

  “Money order.”

  “Track it down. I want a copy of the invoice.”

  “It’s on its way.”

  “Lowenstein, get to the post office.” He checked his watch and nearly swore in frustration. “Be there when it opens in the morning. Find out if he still has the box. Get a description.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want to know if there’s a priest in the city whose name is Francis Moore.”

  “There’d be a list of all the priests in the Archdiocese. We should be able to get it from their main office.”

  Harris nodded at Ben. “Check it out. Then check out the rest of the Francis Moores.”

  He couldn’t argue with basic police work, but Ben’s instincts told him to concentrate on the area of the murders. He was there. Ben was sure of it. And now ma
ybe they had his name.

  Back in the squad room the detectives hit the phones.

  An hour later Ben hung up and looked at Ed over the rubble on top of his desk. “We got one Father Francis Moore in the Archdiocese. Been here two-and-a-half years. He’s thirty-seven.”

  “And?”

  “He’s black.” Ben reached for his cigarettes and found the pack empty. “We check him out anyway. What have you got?”

  “I’ve got seven.” Ed looked down at his neatly detailed list. Someone sneezed behind him and he winced. The flu was going through the station like brushfire. “A high school teacher, a lawyer, a clerk at Sears, a currently unemployed, a bartender, a flight attendant, and a maintenance worker. He’s an ex-con. Attempted rape.”

  Ben checked his watch. He’d been on duty just over ten hours. “Let’s go.”

  The rectory made him uncomfortable. The scent of fresh flowers competed with the scent of polished wood. They waited in a parlor with an old, comfortable sofa, two wing chairs, and a statue of a blue-robed Jesus with one hand raised in benediction. There were two copies of Catholic Digest on the coffee table.

  “Makes me feel like I should’ve polished my shoes,” Ed murmured.

  Both men were conscious of the guns under their jackets, and didn’t sit. From somewhere down the hall a door opened long enough to let out a few strains of Strauss. The door closed again and the waltz was replaced by footsteps. The detectives looked over as Reverend Francis Moore walked in.

  He was tall and built like a fullback. His skin was the color of glossy mahogany and his hair was clipped close around a round face. Against the black of his priest’s robe was a white sling. His right arm was in a plaster cast riddled with signatures.

  “Good evening.” He smiled, apparently more curious than pleased to have visitors. “I apologize for not shaking hands.”

  “Looks like you’ve had some trouble.” Ed could almost feel his partner’s disappointment. Even if Gil Norton had been off on the description, there was no getting around that cast.