Frank wondered if Krauthammer had seen it. He got on his cellphone and called St. Margaret’s rectory, told the woman who answered, “This is Frank Renzi. Is Father Tim there?”
Two minutes later Krauthammer said, “Hello.” Clearly annoyed.
“Hi, Father Tim. Did you read Rona Jefferson’s column today?”
“No.”
“Check it out. You might find it interesting. I need you to come down to the station today. I’ve got more questions.”
“I can’t. My schedule is full today.”
Speaking in generalities so anyone listening wouldn’t know what the caller said. “Make time or I’ll come to the rectory. Eighth District Police Station, one o’clock.”
He waited, hoping his bluff would work.
“Okay. I’ll be there.” The line went dead as the priest disconnected.
“Yes!” Frank pumped his fist in the air. Then he called Miller.
“Don’t ask,” Miller said. “I saw the column. Rona’s asking for trouble, goading this guy.”
“Don’t knock it. Maybe she’ll get us the DNA samples. The guy agreed to come to the station today at one o’clock. Can you make it?”
“Be there with bells on! How’d you convince him?”
“Told him I’d come to the rectory if he didn’t. Last night the D.C. detective called and told me about an unsolved murder case down there in 1990. The woman’s tongue was cut prior to death, not after. Krauthammer was in college there in 1990. Might have been his first.”
Miller whistled. “Looking good. You still on the Sampson case?”
“Yup. On my way to talk to Daddy right now.”
“Play your trumpet, impress the man,” Miller said. “See you at one.”
But his chops were no shape to impress anyone, Frank thought ruefully as he headed for the B&B on St. Charles Avenue. After he’d joined Boston PD, he’d only found time to play his trumpet on weekends, and after Maureen was born, not even that. Too much work, too little time, spending every free moment enjoying his endlessly fascinating new baby.
Ten minutes later he pulled up to a large two-story white mansion with glossy black shutters bracketing the windows. He hoped this interview would bear more fruit than the first. Yesterday he’d perched on a stool in Sampson’s trailer on the movie set while Sampson primped in the mirror, combing his hair, checking his makeup, peering out the window that faced the set, saying, “When they want you on the set, you gotta be ready.”
More worried about his performance than his daughter.
Today Sampson was slouched in a white-wicker rocking chair on a wide veranda overlooking a backyard with a lush lawn and elaborate flowerbeds.
He waved Frank over. “Hey man, what’s happnin? Pull up a chair.”
He dragged over a wicker chair and sat down facing Sampson. Without makeup Sampson looked older than fifty-five: leathery skin too-long exposed to the sun, broken capillaries on his nose from too much booze, deep lines etched into his forehead.
“I need to get a better handle on your daughter. It would help if you told me more about her.”
Sampson gulped what appeared to be iced tea. “I been trying to get a handle on Lisa for years, never did get the hang of it.”
“Last thing you said yesterday . . .” He took out his notepad and read from his notes. “Lisa’s done this before. I think she’s trying to scare me.”
“Right. Sorry I had to leave, but this director’s a stickler.” Sampson grinned. “The shoot’s going really good, though. Ev’body says I remind them of John Travolta.”
An old fat John Travolta maybe, without the talent and the smarts.
Sampson rocked his chair, smoothed his black hair, styled long in back. “But Travolta don’t sing as good as me.”
“He sure can dance though. Tell me about Lisa.”
“Right, right. Lisa. Three days she’s been gone. I’m really worried about her. She just turned eighteen, come into all that money and—”
“Hold it. What money?”
“The trust fund money. The lawyers controlled it until she turned eighteen. Last Friday was her birthday.”
That explained a few things, but not why Sampson hadn’t told Captain Dupree about the trust fund. “Did you two argue about the money?”
“We been arguing ‘bout money for years. She wants to fling money around and I want her to use some sense, you know?”
“Where’d the money come from?”
Samson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You don’t know?”
“Tell me. Everything. From the beginning.”
Picking up on his annoyance, Sampson said, “Okay. I met Lisa’s mother here in New Orleans. We had a fling and Julia got pregnant. Her folks were rich as all getout. That was part of the attraction. Back then I was makin big bucks.” He grinned. “Mid-eighties? Shit, my band had two platinum’s. We wuz raking it in. Those were the bad ol’ days. I figured Julia wasn’t after my money. Hell, her family was rollin’ in dough, so I decided to marry her.” Sampson shook his head. “Big mistake.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, scribbling notes.
“Turned out Julia’s a doper. Lisa Marie’s not home from the hospital two days and Julia’s doing hash. By the time Lisa was two, Julia was into crack. Then it all fell apart. My band wasn’t getting no gigs, no airplay, so the band split up.”
Sampson gulped his iced tea and stared into space, rocking his chair. “I hired a housekeeper to take care of Lisa ‘cause I couldn’t depend on Julia. Her folks—I give ‘em credit—her folks tried to talk sense into her. Hell, they din’t want us to get married in the first place, but after Lisa was born, we patched things up. Anyway, we put Julia in rehab. By that time I was out of money so her folks paid. Din’t do no good, though. Julia’s out for six months, goes right back in.”
“What about Lisa,” Frank asked. “How old was she?”
Sampson’s lips tightened and his eyes were resentful. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. A rock guitar player’s no kind of parent, but I tried my damndest. Thing is, Lisa was . . .”
He frowned, groping for a word. “Awkward, you know? Like a chunky pony that never growed up, din’t mix with the kids in school or nothing. I got braces for her teeth and sent her to a dermatologist when her skin got really bad.” He shrugged. “She just din’t fit in nowhere, no-how. I’d come home from some rinky-dink tour and all she ever did was ask me for money.”
Frank got the picture. He glanced at his watch, wishing Sampson would hurry up. A half hour from now Timothy Krauthammer would be at the Eighth District station and he could hardly wait to grill him.
“Tell me about the trust fund.”
“Julia’s parents set it up, but I put in a few bucks.” Sampson rocked forward in the chair, eyes begging for understanding. “It wasn’t just them.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Now? Couple million maybe.”
Jesus, Frank thought, Lisa turns eighteen, turns into Miss Megabucks.
“Don’t be thinkin I got dibs on that money, cuz I don’t.” Sampson gnawed his lip. “I’m really worried about Lisa. She got no street smarts, don’t know how to evaluate people, see? Lisa trusts everybody. She hates being alone, got no friends here, no family but me. Julia’s doing time in Oregon for parole violation and Julia’s parents died years ago.”
Samson fixed him with a somber gaze, rocking his chair. “I’m scared she’ll hook up with some smartass, and if he finds out she’s got the big bucks he could take advantage of her.”
“How does she access the money?”
Sampson rocked harder. “Calls the lawyer that manages the trust, he wires her the money, or wires it into her bank account, one or t’other.”
He wrote down the contact info for the lawyer that Sampson gave him and stood. “Does Lisa have a cellphone?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have the number. I used to call her to keep tabs on what she was doing, you know? After a while she got mad and bought another
one, wouldn’t tell me the number.”
Great. Dad doesn’t even have his own daughter’s cellphone number.
Frank said he’d be in touch and left.
_____
The sinner was surprised when two men entered the interview room, an airless cubicle with dingy-green walls and no windows. He had expected Renzi, had been looking forward to fencing with him. Alone. The other man’s shoulders strained the seams of his cheap suit as he ran his hand over his dark-skinned shaven head, a wedding ring gleaming on his left hand.
The black man was huge, towering over Renzi, but Renzi was clearly in charge, a tightly-wound panther with a mane of black hair, sideburns flecked with gray, dark eyes evaluating his prey, regarding him with a look of disgust, as if he were a cockroach floating in his soup.
“Sorry we kept you waiting, Father Tim,” Renzi said.
“No you’re not. That’s precisely what you intended, making me sit here for twenty minutes in this uncomfortable chair.” He took a Mr. Goodbar out of his pocket, ripped off the wrapper and aimed a sardonic smile at Renzi. “Are you going to arrest me if I eat this candy?”
Renzi met his gaze, grimly serious. “I would if I could.”
He broke off a square of chocolate and put it in his mouth. “I’d offer to share, but I might need the whole bar. Answering your questions takes a lot of energy, Detective Renzi.”
The black man smiled faintly, but Renzi didn’t. Renzi sat down opposite him, facing him across the pock-marked wooden table. The other man stood behind him, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.
He caught a whiff of sour sweat. His own. “What’s this about?”
“You know what it’s about,” Renzi said.
The unspoken subtext being: Cut the crap. Renzi tilted back his chair. The sinner did the same, mimicking him, thankful for the candy bar prop. It kept his hands busy. A sudden image popped into his mind, Patti Cole’s mouth working against the tape that gagged her. An annoying distraction.
He looked at the black man leaning against the wall and said, “Detective Renzi didn’t introduce us.”
“Detective Kenyon Miller.” Deadpan, dark brown eyes boring into him.
The sinner smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
Detective Miller didn’t smile back.
In the silence, the ceiling fan emitted a measured squeak, its arms out of balance. He broke off another square of candy and put it on his tongue, savoring the melting chocolate. Nanny would turn over in her grave, watching him eat the whole bar. If only she were in her grave. Unfortunately the Queen of Torture was alive and well and living in Wahoo with his father.
After the chocolate melted he chewed the peanuts.
Renzi watched him with his dark dispassionate predatory eyes.
“Why’d you lie to me about Melody? You said you never talked to her, but someone saw you talking to her at the fundraiser dance at St. Margaret’s.”
Which one of those miserable teenagers had ratted on him?
He shrugged. “I might have complimented her on my way out.”
“Someone saw you talking to Lynette Beauregard too, the day before she was murdered.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“I’m free to go?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you drag me down here then?” he snapped.
“You know why,” Renzi said.
A haze of anger fogged his vision. “This is harassment, pure and simple. You’ve got no evidence to incriminate me.”
“Yes we do.” Renzi turned to Miller and said, “Could you get it?”
“I’d be delighted,” Miller said.
“I’m thirsty,” the sinner said. “Could I have some water, please?”
“Sure,” Renzi said. “You want it in a paper cup so you can take it with you when you go? That way we won’t be able to get your DNA off it.”
Rage clogged his throat. “Never mind,” he said to Detective Miller.
Miller turned and left the room. During the wait, Renzi stared at him, eyes fixed on his face. He clenched his hands in his lap, worked hard to keep his face impassive even though he felt exposed and defenseless, his mind working overtime, wondering what sort of evidence they had.
Detective Miller came back with a manila folder and gave it to Renzi, who took out some color photographs and spread them out on the table.
“Do you recognize these women?”
The sinner studied the photo array. “No, I don’t think so. Should I?”
“How about these?” Renzi set more photos before him, matching them with the others. Before-and-after shots of Lynette and Dawn and Patti and Melody, naked and pathetic, lying in their beds with identical looks of horror on their faces. He flashed on their final moments, recalling how they struggled, thrashing their arms and legs in a futile attempt to free themselves as the light faded in their eyes.
He raised his head and met Renzi’s implacable gaze. “I knew Melody Johnson, but not the others. I saw their pictures in the paper, though. The shots when they were still alive.”
Renzi clenched his fists and half-rose from his chair. “You monster.”
“Frank,” said the other detective in a warning tone. Leaving his spot against the wall to step closer to the table, he said, “What happened to your knuckles? Looks like someone scratched you.”
Involuntarily, he touched the fading scratches on his neck.
“Would you be willing to take a polygraph?” Renzi asked.
“Why? You’re the liar, saying you’ve got evidence when you don’t.”
Renzi locked eyes with him. “We’ve got DNA.”
He looked away, smiling at the black detective. “I saw you on TV.”
“Yeah? Outside the home of which poor defenseless woman you murdered?”
“No. Outside the J-J-Jefferson house,” he stammered, eyes blinking.
“Someone saw a Toyota Camry,” Renzi said, “leaving the scene after you firebombed her house.”
He felt sick, his legs weak and rubbery as though he’d just carried a refrigerator up three flights of stairs by himself.
“There are lots of T-T-Toyota Camrys. I didn’t f-f-firebomb her house.”
Stop stammering you idiot. It makes you look guilty.
“Rona Jefferson can’t begin to imagine how evil you are,” Renzi said, “but I can. I know you.”
“No you don’t. If you knew me, you’d know it’s futile to drag me down here and browbeat me with these ridiculous questions.”
Renzi cracked his knuckles, popping them one by one, gazing at him with his implacable dark eyes. “Stress is a funny thing. It builds, you know? Builds and builds and builds. Sometimes it makes people do stupid things. When I was in Wahoo, I had a nice chat with your father.”
He summoned every ounce of restraint he could muster to stop himself from smashing his fist into Detective Frank Renzi’s gloating face.
“He told me to say hello next time I saw you.”
Liar! My father doesn’t give a damn about me.
“I’ve had a difficult life,” he said.
“How sad. Next you’ll be telling me that you were sexually abused.” Staring at him with those voracious panther-eyes.
“There are many victims in the world. Not all of them are dead.”
Renzi leaned forward over the table, visibly angry. “I don’t give a fuck about your unhappy childhood, and I don’t give a fuck about your sexual issues with men and women. I don’t give a flying fuck about your psyche. All I care about is getting you off the street so you can’t kill anymore women. We see the victims. We have to deal with their bodies.”
“Have you ever loved someone, Detective Renzi?”
Renzi looked at him, startled. After a moment he said, “Of course.”
“I hadn’t, until last night. Loving someone changes everything.”
“Nothing changes the horrible things you’ve done.”
The ceiling fan chirped a measured rhy
thm into the silence.
He locked eyes with Renzi and smiled. “They say it’s never too late for a happy childhood.”
“It’s too late for Dawn and Patti and Melody,” Renzi said, his gaze relentless. “It’s too late for Lynette Beauregard.”
“This is getting tiresome. May I go now?”
“We’re going to get you. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m free to go, then?”
“I can’t stop you.” Renzi held his gaze. “Yet.”
“You should use some Grecian Formula on your sideburns,” the sinner said. “Going gray’s no big deal. Grecian Formula would cover it.”
Renzi blinked and looked startled, which pleased him. He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t.
“Actually,” Renzi said, flashing a smile, “my lover likes the gray.”
The sinner pushed back his chair, got up and went to the door. He had his hand on the doorknob when Renzi said, “Are you going to run?”
“Why should I run?” He beamed Renzi a smile. “Really, Detective, think about that Grecian formula. No need to let yourself look old.”
_____
Frank paced around the table, too angry to speak, too wired to sit.
Miller settled his butt on the table and ran a hand over his head. “Fucking creep. What’s up with the Mickey Mouse watch, I wonder?”
“Who knows? Did you hear him stammer? Did you see the panic on his face when I said someone saw his Toyota?” He slammed the palm of his hand against the wall. “Timothy Krauthammer is the Tongue Killer, dammit. He tortured those women and then he killed them.”
“You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack, you don’t watch out.”
He whirled on his partner, angry beyond measure, on the verge of losing control. “The son of a bitch is guilty and I’m going to nail him.”
Miller looked at him, eyes wary. “Okay. Shall we tell Norris?”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 24