by Lisa Jackson
Damn, the hallway reeked of Mrs. Rubino’s old-world spaghetti sauce, meaning there was enough essence of garlic to keep even the toughest vampire at bay. And her television was cranked to the max, the noise from one of her favorite late-night game shows echoing down the corridor. Mrs. Rubino, nearly deaf and overly friendly to the point of being downright nosy, was Gracie’s only neighbor on this side of the building. The maintenance room, elevator, and stairway to the upper floors separated the two units.
Gracie didn’t apologize for the odor and knew that it would stop at her doorway. She always made sure her rooms smelled of vanilla and musk, the scents of the candles and incense she burned in her tiny quarters.
Quickly, she unlocked her door and stepped inside.
The john followed after her, and as she lit the candles, she heard him shrug off his jacket.
“I get paid in advance,” she said gently, touching the end of her lighter to the charred wick of a tall, fragrant taper.
“I know.” His voice was low, nearly melodic, and she felt rather than saw him withdraw his wallet, open it, and leave the money on the small kitchen table near the window. Then she heard the venetian blinds snap shut.
She set down the lighter. The ambiance was lost on so many of her johns, but she liked the soft light and warm scents. Shrugging out of her jacket, she turned and her heart nearly stopped when she saw the clerical collar that had been hidden under his coat.
“You’re a . . . priest?” she asked, though it didn’t matter. Men of God were still men, and the john might not even be a priest. How many “doctors” had she met who didn’t know one end of a stethoscope from the other?
He didn’t reply, just removed his clothes, taking off his pants and folding them, doing the same with his shirt and collar. Candlelight showed off his muscles, hard and sinewy, a strong man and handsome, though she couldn’t see his eyes through his dark glasses.
He could have been a male model, she thought, but for the wicked scar on one leg, a jagged, red gash that seemed to pulse. She tried not to think of what might have caused it. A horrid motorcycle accident?
Maybe something worse.
Shuddering inwardly, she caught a glimpse of the bill he’d tucked under the empty vase on the table. A C-note . . . but it was off—Ben Franklin’s eyes blackened. Her skin crawled a little; then she told herself to get over it. So the hundred-dollar bill was marred? So what? It would spend as easily as a crisp new one. And it would make a good dent in the rent she owed, get Harold off her back.
She turned her attention to the job at hand.
His cock hung limp.
“Wear this,” he said, and as he walked closer to her, she caught a glimpse of something sparkling in the candlelight, little glass beads oozing through the fingers of his right hand.
A rosary?
What was this?
Did he expect her to kneel and pray with him?
Talk about kinky!
“You haven’t said what you want,” she told him. He was close enough to kiss her now, to yank off her tube top or push her skirt over her hips.
If he wanted to.
“Submission,” he said softly, and leaned forward, nuzzling her neck. “Total and complete submission.”
“Whatever you want,” she whispered back, smiling, her hands reaching upward to circle his neck, her breasts pushing through the flimsy knit fabric of her top to rub suggestively against the hair that was thick upon his chest. “Everything’s for sale . . . even submission.”
“I thought so.” His smile twisted a bit as he walked her backward through the open bedroom door.
Was there something in his hands? She’d felt something . . . more than the rosary.
“Take off your clothes.”
“No prob.” At least he was getting down to business. She did a quick little striptease for him, hoping to see some life come to his dick, but the damn thing didn’t so much as twitch, not even when she held her breasts in her hands, letting her nipples peek through her fingers.
Wouldn’t you know?
“You look good,” she cooed, working on his male ego.
He didn’t respond, just set a small radio on the bed and turned it on, back to the talk show that had been playing in the car. Then, almost methodically, as if it were a ritual, he slid the rosary over her head and let it dangle against her breasts, the beads warm from holding them in his hand.
To get the show going, she let him kiss her. And fondle her a little roughly.
As they fell onto the faded quilt on her old mattress, she tried to ramp up the heat, licking him, purring against him, rubbing all those places she knew usually guaranteed an immediate and hard reaction.
Not this time.
Oh, great. She’d really have to work for her money tonight. Wouldn’t you know. But at least the guy was good-looking. She reached up to remove his glasses, and he caught her wrist.
“Don’t touch them!”
“Oh, wow. Okay.”
“I mean it.” His voice was rough, and for the first time she felt his cock twitch.
“I said okay.”
Wow, this was getting a little weird. Better get him off and fast, then kick him the hell out. She began kissing him again, working her magic, but he pulled back and stared down at her through the shaded lenses. “You’re a whore,” he said.
She played along. Whatever fantasy turned him on. “And you like whores, don’t you, Father?”
“I detest them.” His dick was actually coming to life.
“So you want to punish me?” she asked. God, was the guy into spanking? Well, she could handle a little of that. She rolled over, pushing her ass into the air; then she looked over her shoulder coquettishly, through a veil of wild red curls. “Have I been bad?” she asked, playing into his fantasy. “Have I sinned? Do I need a spanking?” She let her lips roll into a pout.
His mouth curved into a wicked smile. He slapped her hard, right on the ass.
She yelped.
“A spanking is just the start,” he said, pulling the rosary tight, the beads sharper than she’d expected as they cut into her throat.
“Hey!” she tried to scream, but her voice was silent. Only little gurgling noises erupted, and he was pinning her down, his weight pushing her into the mattress, her face forced into the pillows.
Panic tore through her.
She struggled. Kicking upward. Trying to push him off. Feeling his erection grow stiffer, harder, fatter the more she fought.
Oh, God, he was a freak, a murderous freak!
Her lungs were on fire, her strength fading, his breathing rough against her ear, the radio whispering into the room that grew darker by the instant.
NO! NO! NO!
Gracie thought of her brother in Minnesota, the last time she’d seen her mother, and then wondered why she’d trusted this sick priest.
God help me, she thought.
And then there was nothing.
CHAPTER 27
“Your boy’s lawyered up,” Brinkman said as Montoya walked into the lunchroom the next day. It was not the news Montoya wanted to hear this early in the morning, never the type of news to be received from the guy who put the “dick” in detective.
Irritated, Montoya moved away from Brinkman, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor, which was shiny from the previous night’s cleaning. The lingering odor of some pine-scented cleaner mingled with the aroma of brewing coffee.
Several cops were grabbing their morning cups; a few others leaned over the tables cluttered with newspapers and magazines. While sipping from their steaming mugs, they scanned headlines and exchanged barbs before heading to their desks. On one of the round tables, a box of cupcakes lay open, crumbs and wadded, used cupcake papers surrounding half a dozen remaining cakes decorated with white frosting and chocolate sprinkles.
When Montoya didn’t respond, Brinkman added, “You know, the priest. Seems as if his daddy is some hotshot attorney.”
Montoya remembered Fran
k’s old man. Tall, lanky, always well dressed in a suit or polo shirt and slacks with a perfect crease down each leg. Even if he was just going to one of his kids’ basketball practices or a football scrimmage, Raymond “Buzz” O’Toole looked the part of the successful attorney. A scratch golfer with a taste for scotch, he’d been disappointed when his son had preferred soccer to football.
Montoya imagined that Buzz was nearly apoplectic that his son, a man of God, was involved in a sordid scandal.
Montoya said, “I thought Buzz O’Toole was an estate attorney. Never touched criminal stuff.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got friends in low places.” Brinkman scowled at the near-empty coffeepot. “Someone over at that firm where your brother-in-law used to work.”
Technically, Cole Dennis was Abby’s brother-in-law, not his, but Montoya wasn’t in the mood to split hairs. Especially with Brinkman, who was always looking to bring up something uncomfortable.
What a jerk.
“The upshot is that I talked to the attorney, who’s claiming his client’s innocence because good ol’ Father Frank has B-positive blood.”
“Then he’s not the baby’s father.”
Montoya felt a flash of relief. He’d found it impossible to believe that Frank O’Toole had killed anyone. At least not the Frank O’Toole he remembered.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do her,” Brinkman said. “And I’m not talkin’ in the biblical sense; we know he did that. But he could have found out she was bangin’ someone else and went off. Killed her.”
“After making sure she was wearing a wedding dress?”
“Whatever turns him on.” Brinkman’s smile was smarmy.
“Nah. Too premeditated.”
“Ya never know. Just a theory.”
“We need facts,” Montoya said.
“I gave you some. You don’t even have to wait for DNA to start lookin’ for another guy as the kid’s father. Man, nuns weren’t this hot when I was growin’ up. I had to get off on the girls in their uniforms—y’know, with the knee socks and pleated skirts—”
“Oh, God, please, stop now,” one of the female officers said. She cast Brinkman a pained look as she placed a sack lunch in the refrigerator. “Let’s be grown-ups.”
Montoya agreed. He didn’t have time for Brinkman’s sexual fantasies. He had his own to deal with. Last night, he’d been able to patch things up with Abby, which had included the kind of lovemaking session they’d shared before the baby had been born. If he let himself, he could get a hard-on just thinking about it, so he didn’t. At least he’d woken up in a decent mood, one Brinkman seemed intent on ruining.
“Back to O’Toole,” he said, interrupting Brinkman’s sleazy train of thought.
“I’m just sayin’, we have to get his attorney involved.” Edging over to the near-empty box of cupcakes, Brinkman added, “Pain in the ass,” before snagging one of the treats. He crossed to the coffeepot, picked it up, and scowled. To the few cops still hanging out in the lunchroom, he said, “If anyone else wants a cup of Joe, they’re SOL.” Even though he obviously hoped someone would take the bull by the horns and brew another pot, no one jumped up to take over.
Lynn Zaroster, one of the youngest female detectives, walked into the kitchen at that moment and saw Brinkman holding up the empty pot. He offered her a wink and smile.
Charming.
She wasn’t buying it. “Oh, yeah, zero in on the woman because all this kitchen stuff is women’s work, right? Give me a break, Brinkman!”
“Hey, I’m just talking about making a fuckin’ pot of coffee.”
“Got it.” Lynn did a quick one-eighty out of the lunchroom, her short, black curls swirling indignantly behind her.
“It’s not about being a woman. It’s because you’re better at it than I am,” Brinkman called after her.
“Yeah, right.”
The female cop who had taken on Brinkman earlier sent him a look guaranteed to send his soul straight to hell and then walked out of the lunchroom.
Louis Brounier, who had observed the whole exchange, shook his head as he stood and gathered his paper. A big, burly African American with a fleshy face and silver hair, Brounier couldn’t move as fast as he once had, but his dark eyes caught everything, including Brinkman’s ridiculous self-imposed predicament. “Ya know, Brinkman, you might have to break down and make your own coffee.”
“Bite me, Brounier.”
“You wish.”
“Look, I got a case to solve,” Brinkman complained.
“Just one? Lucky you.”
“You know, Brounier, you can be a real douche bag.”
“I’m just saying we’re all busy.” Brounier tucked his newspaper under his arm and sauntered out of the lunchroom, muttering, “Pansy ass,” under his breath.
Brinkman called out, “I heard that!”
“Good.”
Brinkman snagged a second cupcake and motioned toward the box. “What’s the occasion anyway?”
“Peggy’s, in Missing Persons, birthday,” Del Albright said out of the corner of his mouth. He was leaning against the counter, perusing the Sports page. “Rita brought ’em in. You might want to save one for Peg.”
“Why?” Brinkman bit off half the cupcake and said around a mouthful, “She’s always on a diet.”
Montoya had had enough. He left the conversation behind and went to his desk to start reviewing files and double-checking the timeline for the last hours of Camille Renard’s life.
Her last twenty-fours hadn’t been that out of the ordinary. She’d spent most of her day at the convent, only going out for about six hours to where she worked in the orphanage in the preschool.
If she’d hooked up with O’Toole or any other man, she’d been discreet.
And she’d never sent the letter tucked inside her mattress. The lab was still processing that kinky bit of unsent correspondence. There had been a desperate, almost pleading tone in her demands for sexual favors.
Why the hell was she a nun? Montoya believed there might be some unfulfilled sexual needs in most members of the clergy. Hell, celibacy was a bitch. Abstinence nearly impossible.
People were sexual creatures.
To take a vow of celibacy, one’s convictions had to be so much stronger than natural animal attraction. He really believed most members of the Catholic clergy pulled it off. But there were a few who couldn’t.
Sister Camille was obviously one.
And she knew it, was thinking of leaving the order.
“Too late,” he whispered, caught up in the enigma that was Camille Renard.
He took a few calls while he waited for the autopsy report, but in the back of his mind, he wondered who the father of Camille’s baby was. A parishioner? Maybe a father of one of the kids she worked with? Or workers at the convent? Clifton Sharkey was the maintenance man for St. Marguerite’s, fifty-four, the father of six and a grandfather twice over. Elwin Zaan a forty-two-year-old janitor. Both with airtight alibis for the time of Camille’s death.
Nothing was making any sense, he thought, finishing his coffee just as the autopsy report came in through his e-mail. Setting his cup aside, he viewed the photographs and read through the notes. He wasn’t surprised that the coroner confirmed what the prelim had suggested: Camille Renard, eight or nine weeks pregnant, had died of asphyxiation due to having her air supply cut off by a garrote that was uneven in texture. The cuts and abrasions on her neck were deeper in some spots, a pattern clear.
But there was an oddity, too. The ME had discovered scars on Camille’s back, tiny lines crisscrossing her shoulders and lower, mostly healed, certainly not part of the attack that killed her.
He frowned, made a note, and kept reading.
As he perused the report, ugly memories assailed him, gruesome images from another case where victims were killed in a like manner. He typed the name of that killer into his computer, just as his partner paused in the doorway.
“Father John,” Bentz said, eyeing
the screen.
Montoya froze at the mention of a serial killer who had terrorized the city years before. “He’s dead. You took care of that. Remember?”
He pointed to the computer monitor where a picture of the first victim of the serial killer, known as Father John, appeared. Cherie Bellechamps, a local prostitute, had had the misfortune of meeting the twisted psycho masquerading as a priest, only to come to a horrifying, grisly end.
“Maybe.”
“Holy Christ, Father John has to be dead.” Montoya thought of the madman, a tall, good-looking man with a sordid penchant for killing. Bentz had shot him dead in the swamp. Right?
“Same weapon.” Bentz had come to the same conclusion as Montoya: Camille Renard had been killed with a rosary used as a garrote.
“Jesus, don’t even go there.” Montoya didn’t like the dread crawling through him. “It’s been years. What, ten? Twelve?”
“About that.” Bentz’s brow furrowed.
“But Father John killed prostitutes, or people he thought were whores.” Montoya was still shaking his head.
“Maybe a nun who got herself pregnant qualifies.”
“He’s dead, man!” Montoya thought Bentz was definitely barking up the wrong tree.
“Never found his body.”
“Well, shit, so what? It was the goddamned swamp. You nailed him!” Montoya felt his blood pressure rise. He wanted that son of a bitch dead. Forever. “Besides, in this case, the MO is way different. The killer didn’t leave any C-notes with Ben Franklin’s eyes blacked out sitting around, the way that other sick bastard did. Nobody’s complained about a priest running around in sunglasses. And the biggy—Camille Renard wasn’t raped. No sign of sexual trauma, according to the autopsy report. Father John got off on raping his victims as well as killing them.”