Read Online ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) by Susan A Fleet - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan A Fleet
Ads: Link
get back to sleep until four.
As they left the shade of the stairwell Frank saw a window curtain move in the first floor apartment across the way. He jerked his head, signaling Miller to follow him, went over and tapped on the door.
“ Who is it?” called a woman’s voice.
“ New Orleans Police Department, ma’am.”
“ I already talked to the police.”
Certain that an eye was behind the peephole in the door, he aimed a persuasive smile at it. “It’ll only take a minute.”
A chain grated against metal and the door cracked open two inches. “Where’s your badge?” said the voice, whiny and cantankerous.
They dangled photo IDs in front of the opening. The door slammed shut, the chain rattled, and a woman in a faded-blue housecoat opened the door, gray hair, thin face and blue eyes that squinted with suspicion.
Frank amped up the wattage of his smile. “Sorry to bother you. We need to know if you heard anything unusual last night.”
Her eyes shifted away. “I didn’t hear nothing, didn’t see nothing.”
He didn’t believe it. “Are you sure? It might be important.”
“ I didn’t see nothing. That’s what I told you cops this morning.” Her lips pursed. “Why can’t you catch this killer, huh? Answer me that.”
She slammed the door and rattled home the chain.
Frank looked at Miller. “Riddle me that, huh, Batman?”
Miller grinned. “Would if I could. One thing for sure, we won’t be getting any information out of Miz Crosspatch.”
_____
As soon as the CYO meeting ended the sinner rushed back to the rectory, intent on watching the ten o’clock news in the privacy of his room. But the instant he opened the rectory door, a querulous voice called from the parlor, “Father Tim. Come here, please.”
With a resigned sigh, he turned and entered the parlor. Ensconced in his leather recliner, Monsignor Goretti regarded him sternly, moon-face set in a frown, potbelly straining the buttons on his shirt. His hand, mottled with liver spots, waved a pink message slip.
“ Mrs. Thierry called. You were supposed to see her today.”
The sinner glanced at Father Cronin, seated in the burgundy wingchair beside Monsignor. He thought of them as Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dee. Monsignor was short and fat, with a deceptively benign air about him. Father Cronin was tall and gaunt; dark hair sprouted from his nostrils and his blue eyes were always full of accusation. He despised Father Cronin and Monsignor Goretti’s gentle facade didn’t fool him either. Cronin sucked up to the Monsignor and got all the cushy assignments, which left the unpleasant chores for him, like visiting Mrs. Thierry.
Feigning a look of innocence, he said, “Mrs. Thierry is mistaken. Our appointment is for tomorrow . It’s in my book.”
Father Cronin snapped, “Where were you then?”
Anger pooled in his gut, but he contrived to look puzzled. “When?”
“ This morning, when you should have been ministering to one of your elderly parishioner.”
He lowered his gaze to the maroon-and-gold Oriental rug, contriving to look repentant. He’d skipped his appointment with Ida Thierry. Why listen to a wrinkle-faced old biddy complain about her arthritis when he could listen to people talking about him on the radio?
He beamed the Monsignor a smile. “I was preparing my lecture for tonight’s CYO meeting: Why teenagers should remain chaste until marriage. ”
He saw Father Cronin grip the arms of his chair. Cronin obsessed over the “sex murders” every night at dinner, voicing his disgust at how “those poor girls had been violated.”
“ I hope you had more success than I did when I broached that topic,” said Monsignor Goretti, peering at him over his half-moon spectacles.
“ They were very receptive,” the sinner lied. In fact, they’d behaved like hooligans, rolling their eyes when he told them sex outside the sanctity of marriage was evil. “In fact, two of the girls offered some suggestions on how
As they left the shade of the stairwell Frank saw a window curtain move in the first floor apartment across the way. He jerked his head, signaling Miller to follow him, went over and tapped on the door.
“ Who is it?” called a woman’s voice.
“ New Orleans Police Department, ma’am.”
“ I already talked to the police.”
Certain that an eye was behind the peephole in the door, he aimed a persuasive smile at it. “It’ll only take a minute.”
A chain grated against metal and the door cracked open two inches. “Where’s your badge?” said the voice, whiny and cantankerous.
They dangled photo IDs in front of the opening. The door slammed shut, the chain rattled, and a woman in a faded-blue housecoat opened the door, gray hair, thin face and blue eyes that squinted with suspicion.
Frank amped up the wattage of his smile. “Sorry to bother you. We need to know if you heard anything unusual last night.”
Her eyes shifted away. “I didn’t hear nothing, didn’t see nothing.”
He didn’t believe it. “Are you sure? It might be important.”
“ I didn’t see nothing. That’s what I told you cops this morning.” Her lips pursed. “Why can’t you catch this killer, huh? Answer me that.”
She slammed the door and rattled home the chain.
Frank looked at Miller. “Riddle me that, huh, Batman?”
Miller grinned. “Would if I could. One thing for sure, we won’t be getting any information out of Miz Crosspatch.”
_____
As soon as the CYO meeting ended the sinner rushed back to the rectory, intent on watching the ten o’clock news in the privacy of his room. But the instant he opened the rectory door, a querulous voice called from the parlor, “Father Tim. Come here, please.”
With a resigned sigh, he turned and entered the parlor. Ensconced in his leather recliner, Monsignor Goretti regarded him sternly, moon-face set in a frown, potbelly straining the buttons on his shirt. His hand, mottled with liver spots, waved a pink message slip.
“ Mrs. Thierry called. You were supposed to see her today.”
The sinner glanced at Father Cronin, seated in the burgundy wingchair beside Monsignor. He thought of them as Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dee. Monsignor was short and fat, with a deceptively benign air about him. Father Cronin was tall and gaunt; dark hair sprouted from his nostrils and his blue eyes were always full of accusation. He despised Father Cronin and Monsignor Goretti’s gentle facade didn’t fool him either. Cronin sucked up to the Monsignor and got all the cushy assignments, which left the unpleasant chores for him, like visiting Mrs. Thierry.
Feigning a look of innocence, he said, “Mrs. Thierry is mistaken. Our appointment is for tomorrow . It’s in my book.”
Father Cronin snapped, “Where were you then?”
Anger pooled in his gut, but he contrived to look puzzled. “When?”
“ This morning, when you should have been ministering to one of your elderly parishioner.”
He lowered his gaze to the maroon-and-gold Oriental rug, contriving to look repentant. He’d skipped his appointment with Ida Thierry. Why listen to a wrinkle-faced old biddy complain about her arthritis when he could listen to people talking about him on the radio?
He beamed the Monsignor a smile. “I was preparing my lecture for tonight’s CYO meeting: Why teenagers should remain chaste until marriage. ”
He saw Father Cronin grip the arms of his chair. Cronin obsessed over the “sex murders” every night at dinner, voicing his disgust at how “those poor girls had been violated.”
“ I hope you had more success than I did when I broached that topic,” said Monsignor Goretti, peering at him over his half-moon spectacles.
“ They were very receptive,” the sinner lied. In fact, they’d behaved like hooligans, rolling their eyes when he told them sex outside the sanctity of marriage was evil. “In fact, two of the girls offered some suggestions on how
Similar Books
