by Meg Lelvis
Jack informed her they had nothing new to report, and kept mum regarding the Bible verse as a calling card left by the perp. After she hurried off with her usual air of self-importance, he said, “Thank god.”
“You doing okay, Jack?”
Jack was surprised. “Yeah, why?”
Sherk shrugged. “You seem a little irritable.”
“That’s what I am, Sherk. Nothing new.” At least he hoped that was the case.
True, he felt restless lately. He should go out more. His life lacked substance and satisfaction; times like this when a case headed south. What was he missing with the nun? The answer must be in the Bible verse. The bastard’s playing cat and mouse. Thinks he’s smarter than we are.
Jack couldn’t sit still another minute. “I’m callin’ it a day, Sherk. See you tomorrow.”
“Sure, Jack. Going to your mom’s for dinner tonight?”
“Naw, that’s tomorrow. I think she’s gonna play cupid, but don’t ask.”
Chapter 5
Jack could easily walk the six blocks home, but in winter he was too lazy. Didn’t feel like hoofin’ it today, even though the exercise would do him good. Clear his head. Sure hoped he and Sherk could nail Sister Anne’s murder since it was gaining press coverage. Closing a big case would look good on his career-ladder record, such as it was.
He lucked out and found a parking spot on the street a few doors from his duplex. Boone yelped when the front door key jiggled in the lock and Jack came in.
“Hey guy, ‘wass up?” He ruffled the big dog’s fur. He noticed Boone sleeping more lately, although he always barked and jumped when anyone arrived. No need for an alarm system with him around.
After changing into sweats, Jack spent an uninspired evening drinking Guinness, eating leftover pizza, and streaming reruns of Inspector Lewis. He wondered what Molly Winters was doing tonight. Maybe after the case closed, he’d call her. Then again, maybe not.
. . . . .
The next morning passed without incident. After another lunch of vending machine sandwiches and Sprite enhanced with a shot of Jameson, Jack called the medical examiner.
“Right, I’ll hold for a minute, but this can’t wait,” Jack said. He knew the ME was busy with other cases, but the autopsy report on Sister Anne Celeste should be ready by now.
It took Jack awhile to get used to the ME, Dr. Hal Araki, and his Japanese accent. His given name was a mile long with all consonants, so he’d shortened it to something people could pronounce. The man wasn’t big on personality and wore a perpetual scowl on his large square face, dominated by a substantial black moustache. At first Jack struggled to ignore his father’s voice in his head cursing the ‘goddamn Japs, got us into war.’ Now things were better; Jack respected the ME’s work and ignored his foul humor.
Impatient, Jack planned to hang up when he heard Araki’s voice. “Hal, thanks for answering. Calling about Sister Anne—”
Jack looked at Sherk, pen and notebook ready. “Right, strangulation. What kind of ligature?”
After a minute Jack said, “Okay, Hal. Don’t worry, I’ll read it thoroughly this afternoon. Thanks. A pleasure, as always.” Jack tapped off the phone.
“Think he got your biting sarcasm?” Sherk asked.
Jack shrugged. “Let’s say I think we understand each other.”
By five o’clock Jack and Sherk had reviewed reports from Hal Araki and the crime lab. Jack was ready to call it quits when Daisy LePere phoned him and summoned the partners to her office.
Her door was ajar; Sherk knocked. “You wanted to see us?”
“Is that a question, Sherkenbach? Come in. Take a seat.” LePere wore a pale pink silk blouse with her usual black pants. She sipped from a white mug.
The men sat across from her tidy desk. She gazed at them. “Well, what’s new on the nun case?”
Sherk began. “We spoke with Dr. Araki and he verified what we suspected. Sister Anne Celeste died from ligature strangulation. Fibers and bruising indicate some kind of fabric was used, like a scarf or necktie.”
LePere nodded. “Signs of struggle?”
Sherk shifted in his chair. “Minimal. Skin cells were under three fingernails. Several short strands of hair not belonging to Sister Anne were on her neck and clothing. DNA from the skin and hair aren’t in the database.”
“Damn,” LePere said. She looked at Jack. “You have anything to add, Mr. Silent?”
Jack had something he’d like to add, but he’d get canned if he said it. “Partial prints they found weren’t in the database either, surprise, surprise. No analysis on the fibers other than the scarf or necktie theory. No other remarkable fibers were found. So there we are, Sarge.”
“It’s Ms. LePere, Bailey. Why do I always have to remind you?”
“Senior memory lapses.” Jack smirked. “Or maybe my mother dropped me on my head when I was a baby.”
“No comment. Watch your attitude.” She rose and started for the door. “Carry on with looking into the nun’s history and go to the funeral. The perp may show up. Look for a single man who doesn’t look like a friend of the nun’s.”
Brilliant idea, Sherlock, Jack thought. “Yes, Sarge. Oh, sorry— Ms. LePere.” Jack exited the office, Sherk on his heels.
They headed back to their desks. Jack said, “Yeah, we’ll look into the nun’s history. How does that bimbo keep her job? Oh yeah, family connections.”
Sherk shook his head. “She’s more to be pitied than censored.”
“Enough of your Shakespeare. Besides, I don’t feel sorry for her.”
“Actually it’s a song by William B. Gray. An old saloon song. Have you heard of Mae West?”
“Come on, Sherk. I’ve been around the block a few times. Once my ma got loaded and did a pretty decent impersonation of old Mae.”
“Wish I could have seen that. At any rate, I don’t think the sarge is a happy woman.”
“I don’t give a damn, I’m outta here. Wish me luck. Dinner at Ma’s tonight.”
“Ah, yes. Maybe you’ll meet someone interesting.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. See ya later.” Jack made his way to the coatrack, retrieved his jacket and cap and headed out the building.
He drove down West Thirty-second Street from the station until he reached Aberdeen Avenue six blocks away. He managed to find a parking space a couple houses from his duplex instead of the usual circling the block and down the alley to carports allotted for residents. He missed having a garage like the one in Texas. Well, can’t have everything.
Jack’s neighborhood was an older working class area with homes, duplexes, and apartments in a row with little space between them. Trees lined the streets and sidewalks, with the residences a few feet away. No front yards here; three steps from the street and you were at the front doors.
Unremarkable looking, the building was dark brown with tan window trim. Nothing you’d look at twice, but the place had been updated with decent tile floors and attractive kitchen countertops and appliances. He was lucky to find the house, thanks to his brother, Tommy. He not only had been a lead for the Bridgeport detective job, but steered Jack to the residence. He hoped Tommy would be at his mother’s for dinner tonight so he wasn’t the lone man for the dreaded matchmaker event.
. . . . .
It was still light out when Jack left the duplex and drove toward his mother’s house. No snow yet, but an iciness filled the air. Jack turned left when he reached Racine Avenue and headed south. The community had changed since his move to Texas over seven years ago. Like many large cities, enclaves like Bridgeport had become diverse and trendy in certain neighborh
oods. The Bridgeport Art Center, a repurposed warehouse, boasted several galleries and a sculpture garden. Along with upscale shops and restaurants, many residents called the area a “happening place.”
Jack was painfully aware of these sites because of Karen. She introduced him to a world of art and travel when they began dating. The loss of his wife and young daughter, Elizabeth twelve years ago haunted him to this day. Karen would approve of the neighborhood changes if she were— Jack forced thoughts of his wife and child back into the darkness.
He turned left onto Thirty-eighth Street, then hit Morgan and took a right. The Bailey family home was located short of Pershing Road, the southern boundary of Bridgeport. An older neighborhood, its rows of homes and tree-lined streets were well maintained and many had been updated. The three-level house was dark green during Jack’s childhood; now its current façade featured gray siding with ivory window trim. A new white picket fence surrounded the tiny front yard, where three steps led to a small porch. Two gray wooden chairs sat on either side of the shiny black door. Tommy worked hard to maintain the place; always was a good handyman.
Jack parked down the street and let himself into the house with his own key. An aroma of pot roast and onions wafted in the air. “Anybody home? I’m hungry,” he called out.
“Coming,” a shrill voice answered.
Jack removed his cap and jacket, and before he could toss them on a chair in the entry, Maureen Bailey scurried in. “Not there, Jacky. Hang them in the closet.” She lowered her voice. “We have company.”
“I thought I was,” Jack said.
“Don’t start with me. Come on in,” she whispered. “And be nice.”
Maureen’s most prominent feature was her bright henna hair, which she insisted was the exact color it was when she was a child. At eighty-eight, she was feisty and active, with few of the aches and pains common to those her age. Medium height and hefty, she took time with her grooming and make-up, which resulted in her appearing ten years younger.
“You look nice, Ma. Who you trying to impress?” Jack took in her forest green turtleneck and long black vest over loose black pants.
“Shush. I said behave.” She led Jack through the entry way by the stairs into the living room. Unlike the avocado shag carpet from Jack’s childhood, hard wood covered the sitting and dining room areas. Vintage end tables and an armoire contrasted with updated chairs and a sofa.
An attractive middle-aged woman dressed in a brown tweed pants outfit sat on the burgundy colored sofa. Her dark hair in a layered blunt cut framed her oval shaped face. She smiled at Jack as she started to rise from the sofa.
Maureen said, “Oh, stay seated dear. It’s only Jack. Oh, I mean—” She grabbed Jack’s arm. “Jack, I’d like you to meet Bonnie Ames. Bonnie, my son, Jack.” Maureen beamed as if proud of her accomplishment.
Jack took Bonnie’s outstretched hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Bonnie.” He could turn on the charm when he wanted to.
“Jack, I’ve looked forward to seeing you. I’ve heard so much about you from your mom.”
“Guilty as charged.” Jack joined her on the sofa a comfortable distance away. He leaned back and crossed his legs. He felt a guilty sense of relief that Bonnie was nice looking, in his opinion anyway.
Maureen hovered about like a hummingbird. “Would anyone like something to drink before dinner?”
Bonnie said, “A glass of red wine would be nice.”
“Your usual, Jacky?”
“Yes, Ma.”
Maureen scampered away, and Jack felt the burden of awkward silence. Just the two of them. Alone. Damn, he was out of practice.
Chapter 6
“Don’t worry, Jack.” Bonnie leaned toward him. “My mother’s the same way. The main reason I agreed to show up is your mom said you look like Liam Neeson.”
Jack waited. “And?”
“And what?”
“Do I look like him?”
“I can see the resemblance, but you look older and wiser.”
“Actually we were born the same year. He must be wiser though.”
Jack shifted on the sofa and faced Bonnie. “Do you live in Bridgeport?”
“Close by. McKinley Park. I’m a coordinator at the hospice clinic branch of Mercy Hospital, a little west of the lagoon. I live a couple miles north of there.”
Maureen bustled in with drinks. She handed Bonnie a glass of Merlot and Jack a tall mug of Guinness.
“I’ve known Bonnie’s mother for years. Knew her from St. Bridget’s back in the old days before it closed.” Maureen sat in a chair near the sofa. “Oh, what a sad day that was. Mayor Daley was married in that church and— “
“Ma, don’t wanna be rude or anything, but— “
“I know, I know.” Maureen took a sip of Jim Beam from a highball glass. “I won’t bore our guest.”
“It’s okay.” Bonnie smiled. “My mom feels the same way about St. Bridget’s. She found a new church in Palatine when she moved there a few years ago.”
Jack took a swig of beer. He wondered if they’d yak about churches all night. He restrained himself from glancing at his watch.
After ten minutes of small talk, Maureen said, “I think dinner’s about ready. Let me go check the pot roast. Jacky, come and help.”
Bonnie shifted on her seat. “I’ll be happy to help, Maureen.”
“Oh no, dear, you’re our guest. Jacky will just carry things to the table.” Strands of red hair stuck to her forehead. “Whew, it’s warm in here.”
They hustled about in the kitchen; Maureen ordered Jack to carry the pot roast, salad, and bread to the dining room table, all set with white linen tablecloth and napkins. Jack noticed the good silverware surrounded pink depression glass plates, cups, and saucers.
“Why all this, Ma? You’re not entertaining the queen.”
“You hush. I told you, be nice.”
Dinner passed with compliments from Bonnie about the lovely table setting and tasty food. She was gracious; Jack thought the meat was overcooked and the potatoes and carrots soggy.
After cherry pie and coffee in the living room, Maureen insisted she wanted no help cleaning the kitchen and Jack and Bonnie should stay put.
Bonnie grinned. “I guess we ought to do as she says.”
“Yeah, no arguing with her.” Jack turned on the sofa toward Bonnie. “You’re sure being a good sport about this.”
“It’s fine. I’ve actually enjoyed myself. Your mom’s very, ah, interesting.”
“Gotta humor her to survive around here,” Jack gulped drained his coffee.
“You know, Jack, my single friends and I started an un-date agreement when we were fixed up with someone. We say we’ll go for coffee or a drink, not dinner, and see if we want to pursue things.”
Jack was confused. “Sorry, I’m not following. Out of practice.”
Bonnie laughed. “It’s a way of appeasing the person who fixed you up, with no pressure to follow through. The point is to see how things go in a non-pressure situation. Then if there’s no call within a week from either party, no hard feelings.”
Jack raised his brow. “Sounds like a Seinfeld conversation.”
“I think it is.” Bonnie drained her coffee cup. “I’ll take charge here. Let’s meet somewhere for a drink after work, see what happens. Again, no pressure, it’s not a real date.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot.” This was weird, but made sense for some reason. “When can you meet at Shinnick’s Pub for a pint?”
“Now you’re catching on. Some time next week works for me.”
“Tuesda
y is Sister Anne’s funeral. We can toast the good nun later on.”
Bonnie nodded. “Oh yes, I wondered how the case was coming along, but I know you can’t discuss it. The paper says still no leads?”
“That’s about it,” Jack said.
“Tuesday sounds good. After work’s fine for me. Should we meet at Shinnick’s around five thirty?”
“Sure, it’s a date. I mean an un-date.”
Jack reached in his pocket for his wallet. He handed Bonnie a card, while she dug hers out of her purse.
“Ah, exchanging phone numbers. That’s nice.” Maureen ambled into the room. Jack suspected she’d been eavesdropping. Was a perfect entrance.
“Don’t get excited, Ma. Too old to give ya grandkids.”
“Oh, hush. What will Bonnie think? Talk like that.”
“Don’t worry, Maureen.” Bonnie chuckled. “My mom’s just like you.”
An hour later, Jack walked Bonnie to her car. She took his hand. “No pressure for a goodnight kiss either. I had a great time. See you Tuesday.”
Jack leaned toward her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Thanks, Bonnie. A very relaxing time for a mother-match-up.”
They said goodnight and drove home in their separate cars, darkness surrounding them.
. . . . .
Maureen called Jack bright and early to drill him on his impression of Bonnie and their plans to meet. “Ma, keep this up, and I’m moving back to Texas.”
Throughout the weekend, Jack thought about Bonnie. Although she was attractive with a fun personality and sense of humor, he doubted he was ready for a relationship now or maybe ever. He didn’t buy into the ‘meant to be’ crap. His track record with women was dismal. A romantic interest a couple years ago ended in shambles. No one could ever hold a candle to Karen, and it was unfair to compare her to any woman he met.
This week he and Sherk needed to haul ass on the nun’s murder. If the long-ago priest abused a kid, he’d be old enough now in 2012 to seek revenge. They’d take a closer look at the list of students from Father McGarvey’s time. Maybe something would pop out. Can’t have the good citizens of Bridgeport afraid to go out at night.