For I Have Sinned Page 7

  “I guess. We'll see. How’s the cold case?”

  “Still relatively cold.”

  “Sorry, but if I know you Cate, you’ll keep digging until you find something. You’re tenacious.”

  I hear him blow out his breath. That sound plus the compliment he gave me means he's preoccupied. Something's on his mind that has nothing to do with his case or mine. On the job he’s tough, relentless, and shows no emotion. If anything is bothering him it has to be something personal.

  “What’s the matter?” I cautiously ask.

  “Nothing, why?”

  “Come on now, Will, you’re talking to me. I know something’s bothering you.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I just asked you, didn’t I?”

  “You did. Okay.” Another heavy expelled breath.

  “What?” I ask impatiently.

  “Francesca called. She’s in town.”

  “So, that’s good, right?” Francesca is his mother. “You enjoy seeing your mom.”

  “I do, but that’s not the issue. She wants to go out to dinner.”

  His exhaled breath practically whistles in my ear over the phone.

  “Sorry, but how is that an issue? Dinner’s usually a pleasant thing for most people.”

  “She wants to go out to dinner with both of us.”

  “Shit!”

  “My thought exactly.”

  You can talk all you want about how daughters-in-law, especially ex-daughters-in-law, have horrible relationships with their mothers-in-law but that is not the case with Will’s mom and me. We actually like each other. Francesca Sutton Benigni is a woman of taste and intelligence who is beautiful, polite and has a dry sense of humor. She's a highly paid art historian who is active and on the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She has residences in Naples, Florida and New York. Will got his share of good looks and charm from the maternal side of the family, believe me. She made me feel comfortable the minute I met her.

  The problem isn’t that I don’t want to have dinner with her because Will and I are divorced. She was very gracious about it and didn’t place blame on either one of us. In fact, she never spoke about it. How’s that for a nice mother-in-law?

  The problem is that, the two times I did see her after our divorce, she unintentionally made me feel uncomfortable. She will ever so subtly mention that people she knows have gotten back together after a divorce. Francesca will tell me about a distant cousin who reconciled with her ex-husband, or a friend’s son who is back with his wife. I get the feeling that she thinks her son and I will eventually realize we made a horrible mistake, fall into each other's arms, and rush off to get remarried. And that is not going to happen.

  “When?” I finally say into the phone after a long silence on both our parts.

  “Saturday night. She’s only here for a week. Look, I can say you’re busy with something else. Give me an excuse, Cate. I know it’s awkward.”

  It would be easy to give Will an excuse, to say that I’m working Friday night, or to give that wonderfully ambiguous excuse called I have other plans but I suddenly feel sorry for him. He doesn’t need to be alone with Francesca answering questions about his life and his dubious future as a lawyer. The hurt feelings I had for him after the divorce are fighting with the warm memories I have of us when we were first so hotly in love. One sweet memory in particular is of him making me French toast when I was horribly sick with the flu. After I ate he gently held me until I fell into a feverish sleep. Mentally I sigh. Okay.

  “Tell her I’ll be there. Just give me the time and the place.”

  Big pause and a very long relieved expulsion of breath.

  “Francesca and I can pick you up at your place.”

  “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’ve got a million things to do Saturday. I might be at my office during the day. When I get home I don’t want to have to rush around getting ready while you two sit waiting for me in the brownstone. It’s better if I meet you. Which restaurant and what time?”

  The truth is that I have no desire to have Francesca sitting in my minimally decorated living room feeling sorry for me. She’ll think that I can’t afford furniture since the divorce. Meeting in a neutral zone is better.

  “Regina Margherita, at eight o’clock.”

  “That’s fine. No problem, I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Francesca will be happy.”

  At least one of us will be, I think.

  The issue about Francesca resolved, we talk for a few more minutes about all the crazies who seem on the prowl tonight. Will sounds much more relaxed and even tries to turn Myrtle’s comment about crazy people roaming the streets to his advantage. Suddenly he becomes pseudo-concerned with my safety.

  “Cate, listen, maybe Myrtle is right about you being alone. There are nutcases around. I mean if you want, I can swing by your office to, uh, babysit you. I could follow you home; make sure you’re alright, maybe come in for a while. I miss you, you know what I mean?”

  I know exactly what he means.

  “No, stop that, I’m fine,” I say annoyed. “Damn! Do you never stop thinking with your male equipment? And besides, you’re out of the picture. You know I’m involved with someone else now.”

  “That’s not going to last.” I hear him laugh. “Giles is your interim man, the guy you date until you get back together with the man you really want.”

  What an ego he has! It annoys me no end that he chooses to believe I’m not serious about Giles.

  “How the hell do you know it’s not serious between Giles and me?”

  “I just know.”

  Omigod! He is relentless; I’ll give him that

  “And my male equipment, as you put it, is thinking of you nude right now. I can’t help what it does.”

  “Well tell it to think of someone else.”

  “You can’t say that you didn’t like what we had in the sex department, Cate. I know you did. You certainly sounded like you did. All that moaning and all the …”

  “I loved it, okay? God, Will, please, stop already!” I practically shout into the phone. “I’m leaving in about an hour. And, as you said, I’m a big girl packing a gun. I can take care of myself. Don’t mess with me. May I remind you that I am one tough woman; you think about that.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay.” He laughs again. “But let me give you a reminder from our past, Cate.”

  “What now?”

  “You were never too tough for me to spank. You think about that.”

  ****

  An hour after our phone conversation I’m still in my office. I’ve got the McElroy cold case box on top of the filing cabinet. I decide to go through it once more before I go home. It’s late and I’m hungry and, damn it, I wished Will hadn’t annoyed me. He has to start all the sexual chemistry crap. It’s never ending.

  The backpack reveals nothing new. I root around in the contents and my fingers brush the key. I thought that it could be a locker key but now I don’t know. Different schools do things differently. My old high school used the combination locks, no keys needed. They were a pain to open between classes, but they worked. My cousin, who went to a different school, had locks that required a key, which he was always losing.

  I pick up the key and look at it, rolling it around in my hand. Just because it was in his backpack doesn’t mean that it is a locker key. The person detailing the contents may have just assumed it was. I decide that tomorrow I’ll check with Marie and find out if their school had key locks. If the answer is no, I’ll have to find out what this key opened and how it could have an impact on the cold case.

  Before I leave I walk silently to the window and check on my doves. They are all nestled together sleeping securely in their nest on a fifth floor fire escape. If Joshua McElroy said baby birds need protection, here’s a perfect example. My doves certainly seem protected. I grab my bag, put my gun in the waistband of my jeans and walk out making sure the double locks on the old, battered oak door of Catherine
Harlow, Private Investigations are securely in place.

  Despite Myrtle’s dire warnings, I make it to my car just fine. There are some rough-looking people walking on the street and a group of young toughs hanging around on the corner. I keep my right hand loose and close to my gun. I pass the homeless man who regularly washes my car windows whether they need it or not and take out the twenty I give him once a week. He is what my grandmother’s generation would have called “slow”, a nice person who got handed a hard life.

  “Buy food, Bo,” I say as I hand him the money. He smiles a toothless grin and nods his head. He’ll probably buy a couple of sandwiches and some packaged Twinkies to go along with any beer, but at least it will be something. There’s a story my grandmother once told me about how people in old ethnic neighborhoods took care of their own. No one went hungry or without basic life necessities if they were down on their luck. There was no need for public assistance. Helping each other was a way of life.

  I know that Bo won’t go to any shelters or any city places that might help him out. He’s a man on the street for a reason and doesn’t want to risk losing what he considers his freedom. I’d like to think that my small contribution keeps him from being hungry. I hope so anyway.

  ****

  “I want to see you again. We were so close once, do you remember? How about dinner next week? It will be my treat, alright Joey?”

  “Sure, Father. That would be fine. I’ll pick you up here, five o’clock.”

  Chapter 9

  Thwhack! The ball hits the wall and comes racing back at me. Thwack! I backhand it with all my strength the way my Dad taught me. Back and forth I make myself run as I deliberately hit the ball hard and to the opposite sides of the practice wall. Sweat runs down my face and the front of my sports bra. I’ve been doing this for an hour but still feel the tension from my conversation last night with Will. Thwack! I ram the ball with controlled precision at the wall and it flies back at me only to get backhanded again and again. Thwack! Thwack! Tennis makes me feel in charge, and I need that feeling to be strong in my business and in my personal life.

  I try to play tennis twice a week, and if there’s no one available to play against I go to the wall. Lately it’s been me versus the wall, but that’s fine; sometimes it’s even better. Not many people use the wall and I don’t have to wait for a court to be free.

  After smashing the ball one last time, I bend forward exhaling, put my hands on my knees, and feel the pleasant rise of endorphins. My legs ache in a good way.

  I check the old tower clock near the tennis courts and see that it’s not even nine yet. I’m meeting Marie McElroy at the hair salon around noon to take her to lunch, so I’ve got plenty of time to go home, shower, dress, and stop by my office to pick up Josh’s key. Also plenty of time to call Will and see if there’s any progress on the priest’s case. I grab my racquets, retrieve my balls, and head out of the park for the short walk to the brownstone.

  MA short distance from the courts my phone vibrates from the side pocket of my tennis bag. I fish it out and see that’s it’s a text from Giles.

  “FYI body w/priest collar ID’d.”

  ****

  I feel a little exposed in my tennis skirt and top as I’m speeding down to the morgue through early morning traffic. No time to change because I need to talk to Giles before info gets to Detective Will Benigni. I know Giles gave me a heads-up on this one because of the body I found last year. The thing is, he can only hold the information he has for so long. There’s a strict protocol involved. If he ID’d the body through forensics then he is bound by law to give the presiding detective on the case all the information as soon as possible. He can’t email, fax, or text anyone outside the official investigation any specifics until, and unless, it’s cleared by Will or his captain. He’s risking a lot by notifying me first.

  There’s no parking in the lot by the morgue so I drive around and find an empty space near a warehouse five blocks away. There’s a sign in front of the space: Delivery Zone No Parking Any Time. But I can’t worry about that now. I sprint easily down the street on my well-exercised legs, congratulating myself for having spent time at the tennis wall and arrive at the morgue to see Giles waiting outside for me.

  He looks at my outfit, nods his approval, then motions me to the side of the building where we’ll be out of direct sight of any one coming out of, or going into, the front door. Giles wastes no time.

  “His name is Francis Xavier Murphy, seventy-two, and he was a Roman Catholic priest out of New Jersey. We went through dental records. His last known address was in Washington Township in Morris County; he was living in a rented apartment in a building owned by the Diocese of Paterson. I have no other info except for the method of murder which you already know.” He pauses and looks at me.

  “I have to call Will and give him the information. Be careful Catherine.”

  As he walks away, I’m already bending to retrieve the crumpled scrap of paper he dropped by my feet. There’s an address written on it. I palm it and begin making my way back to my car. Another priest who lived outside the confines of a rectory or religious community. Now that is another link to both murders.

  ****

  Some whistles, oh mamas, and hey babes from construction workers along the road greet me as I walk back to my car. I casually wave a hand in acknowledgement. Better to make nice to them than to cop an attitude. They’re harmless.

  A block away from where I parked I see a delivery truck in the street in front of my car, which is being ticketed as I approach. A man is standing on the loading dock platform looking angry as hell. Damn it! I pull out my P.I. license and run over to the cop placing the ticket under my windshield wiper.

  “Officer, I was on official business and really had nowhere to park. Can you give me a break on this one? Please?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Playing tennis ain’t official business. Sorry, read the sign lady.” He jerks his head in the direction of the loading platform. “Just count yourself lucky the owner over there didn’t ask to have your ride towed. Yet.”

  I glance at the guy on the platform and he flips me the finger. I mutter Will’s favorite obscenity at him then turn back to the officer. I hate myself for what I’m going to say next, but a ticket blocking access to a business can cost me a lot and my checking account is low.

  “Would it make a difference if I told you I’m related to Detective Will Begnini of the twelfth?”

  “Related? To Begnini? How?” My ex’s name got his interest. Will’s reputation is well known and other cops respect him. “You his sister?”

  “Um, no,” I say too quickly without thinking. Stupid! To make things easy for myself I should have just said yes. “His…”

  “Cousin?”

  Damn!

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No, um, …I’m…his…ex-wife.”

  “Oh, yeah? Ex-wife, huh? Well, that alone should make me rip up the ticket right now, shouldn’t it!” The cop lets out a snort of laughter. “Honey,” he leans in closer to me, “No cop worth his badge has ever asked me to fix a ticket for an ex-anyone, most especially for an ex-wife. Cop divorces are seldom friendly deals, you should know that.”

  “Seriously we are still friends, sort of, anyway.”

  “Yeah, right, and I’m taking both my first and second ex-wives out for a steak dinner with my new twenty-year old hotter-than-hell girlfriend. Sorry, ma’am, no deal.” He tips his cap and pulls the ticket from my windshield. Handing it to me he says, “Have a nice day,” gets in his vehicle and drives away.

  The minute he’s gone the man on the platform jumps down and starts walking over towards me.

  “Hey! Bitch! Move your fuckin' car before I have it towed!”

  With that ringing in my ears, and a ticket for one hundred fifty bucks, which I don’t have, I get in my car and head back to my brownstone.

  And my day had started out with so much promise!

  ****

  I feel
a little better driving to meet Marie at her salon. A change out of my tennis clothes did wonders for my mood and I decided to deal with the ticket tomorrow. Maybe Will can help me get out of it, who knows?

  Back at the brownstone I had changed into crème-colored linen pants, a sheer cobalt blue blouse with a crème camisole, and blue wedge sandals. My hair was pulled back with pearl combs. I was taking Marie to The Curry Club, the best Indian restaurant on Long Island. Dressing nicely was a must. It was my decision to take her out for lunch and then ask her about the key. Her sadness brings out a protective instinct in me, and I want to do something that will maybe put a smile on her face. Good food can do that.

  The key that was in Josh’s backpack is in my handbag. I retrieved it from my office on the way to meet Marie. While I was there, and before Myrtle came in, I Googled Washington Township and found the address of the apartment of the victim/priest. I also did a search on the Diocese of Paterson, New Jersey. I sent all of it to my cell phone so I could check into it later. I also left a note on Myrtle’s computer screen to forward any calls to my cell since I would be out for pretty much of the day.

  The salon where Marie works is pleasantly surprising. It is more upscale than I had anticipated. She’s waiting near the door for me and tells me that she just has to do a blowout and asks me if I mind waiting. I tell her no and then say that I’m going outside to walk around a little bit.

  Marie works a distance from her home. With the cute shops and several small stores, the area here may pretend to have a small town feel but make no mistake this is not a small town. Queens is the easternmost of the five boroughs of New York City, the largest in area, and the second largest in population. It’s a mix of Italian-Americans, Irish-Americans, Indians, West Indians, Greek, Chinese, and a few other ethnic groups. It has a unique flavor all it’s own

  Marie and Josh lived in a small Irish-American neighborhood that was a town unto itself. It is bordered by familiarity; Madison Methodist Church to the west, St. Matthew’s Catholic Church to the east, the library smack in-between them. Stores, the Presbyterian Church and day-care, little boutiques, public and private schools, and homes made up the rest of the area. Just about everything is within walking distance.