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.
“I’m sorry that you had to wait,” says a flustered Marie meeting me as I am walking back to the salon. “This was a last minute appointment from a regular customer and I didn’t want to say no.” A brief smile passes over her face as she says, “The fact that she tips really well too is a plus.”
That tiny smile touches a chord in me and I say, “I understand that, no problem, Marie. Let’s go eat, okay?”
On the way to the restaurant I deliberately talk about things not related to her brother’s case. Everything is inconsequential and safe; cars, the surprisingly warm weather, and even the price of gas. Finally I pull into the parking lot of The Curry Club and hand my keys to a waiting valet.
Inside the restaurant, we’re ushered into a room with colorful décor and seated near a large fish tank containing brilliantly colored fish. We order two teas and settle in with the menus. I ask her if she’d like to split two appetizers and we decide on one order each of vegetable samosas, and chicken pakora plus two bowls of lentil soup. As her main course Marie asks for shrimp tikka masala and I get shrimp vindalu.
After we finish the soup and appetizers I bring out the key from my wallet and place it on the table. Marie doesn’t react. The key doesn't seem to mean anything to her.
“Marie, this key was found in Josh’s school backpack. Any idea what it’s for?”
“That was in his backpack? I didn’t know that.”
“Do you know what it’s for?” I press.
She picks it up to examine it and then shakes her head.
“No. I never saw it before. Are you sure it's Josh’s?”
“Yes, it was in his backpack. The evidence officer thought it was a locker key. Did you have key locks at your high school?”
“We did, but that’s not a locker key. It’s too small. The keys for the lockers were thicker and longer, almost like a house key.”
“So you have no idea what lock this would open then.” I palm the key then place it on the table in front of Marie. I want to make sure the key doesn’t jog some memory of her seeing Josh with it before I put it away. But she just looks at it and truly doesn’t seem to recognize it.
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the main course and I put the key back in wallet. Eating, my mother would have said, shouldn’t be disturbed by anything that isn’t dinner-table conversation. The shrimp vindalu is excellent and I make a point of raving about it. Marie seems to enjoy her dish too and we spend an hour just eating and talking about food.
Over a shared dessert of fruit kheer and strongly brewed American coffee, Marie tells me about her and Josh’s high school, Roosevelt High.
“You know, we went to a Catholic elementary school and our parents assumed we’d go to that school’s brother school St. Matthew high school but Josh didn’t want to go there.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
“He loved art and science and Roosevelt High had just built a fantastic science wing with all the latest tech stuff. Actually for that time the equipment they had was pretty advanced. Their art center too; it was state-of-the-art. Josh was a real scholar. He convinced Mom and Dad that the advanced courses at Roosevelt High were what he needed if he wanted to get into a good college. So, they agreed to send both of us there as long as we promised that we’d attend CCD classes, you know, classes about Catholicism. I mean, we’re a real Irish-Catholic family; that was a big thing for our parents. We went every Wednesday night even though Joshua told me that he didn’t believe in God anymore. I never told my parents; it would have hurt them. I thought it was just what the priests call a crisis of faith and he’d start believing again but … he didn’t. Still, no one could have been a better or kinder person than Joshua.”
That little smile flickers across her face again. She looks pretty when she smiles and I find myself thinking that if the case concerning her brother can come to some type of closure, maybe she’ll be able to find things in life that will make her smile again.
“What about your high school?” she asks me. “Where did you go?”
“Well, I went to a private all-girls school, but it wasn’t a parochial one. My parents taught at The Brearley School in the city and the tuition was pretty much waived for teachers’ kids. Anyway, it was lowered significantly,so my parents were able to afford it.”
“Was it a big school? Did you have a lot of friends there?”
“No, it wasn’t big. I did have a couple of close friends. Some of the girls were snobby but on the whole it was a good experience. The best thing for me was that I was on the tennis team and I was very good. I won trophies for the school. That earned everybody’s respect.”
“What about college?” she asks me wistfully. “I always wanted to go to college, but after what happened and all, well, you know.”
“NYU; major in linguistics, minor in Medieval history. I used to be what is called a linguistic forensics expert. Basically, I translated legalese into layman’s terms. Being around lawyers and reading court cases got me interested in investigating. Eventually I got my license as a private investigator and opened my own business. I’ve never regretted it.”
“You’re brave. I could never do that.”
“Either brave or crazy.”
I motion the server over to refill our cups and to bring the check. When Marie begins to ruffle through her handbag, I stop her immediately.
“This is my treat. I invited you, Marie.” Then, to make her not feel as if she couldn’t afford it, I add, “Next time we go out, you can treat me.”
She nods and puts her bag to the side.
As I’m placing my debit card on the little tray with the bill, I ask Marie about her high school experience.
“Did a lot of your friends go to Roosevelt High or did they go to St. Matthew?”
“Oh I’d say just about a small group of our friends went to Roosevelt. The tuition at St. Matt’s was steeper than our elementary school had been, so some families just decided to send their kids to public high. We were blue-collar families and money was usually tight. I liked Roosevelt. It was small and I got to know so many of the kids there.”
“And Josh?”
“He liked Roosevelt too. He said he was looking forward to starting fresh in a new place. Even though we had some of the same friends there, Josh said that going to a new school was like being given a chance to become a new person. That’s when he began insisting that everyone call him Joshua. He wouldn’t answer to any family pet names.”
“No nicknames, huh? I know about that. My ex-mother-in-law, who is a very nice woman, will not allow anyone to call her Fran. Her name is Francesca and she politely, but firmly, insists on being called her full name.”
Marie nods and gives me the ghost smile again.
While we’re waiting for the server to return with my debit card and receipt, we talk about life after school, working, why people choose certain professions, and finally, men.
“Are you dating anyone special?” I ask her as I sign the receipt and put cash out for a tip. I hope she is because she seems as if she’s alone too much and she needs distraction.
“No, not really. Sometimes I feel that I can’t really do anything for me until I know for sure about Joshua. I feel, I don’t know…”
“Guilty?”
“Yes! I do. I feel guilty for being alive, even for being here enjoying a lunch when I don’t know if Josh has food or if he’s…”
I grab her hand across the table.
“Listen to me Marie. It’s normal to feel this way. You don’t know where Joshua is or even if he’s alive and it’s eating you up inside. You want some answers for what's happened in your life and up until now you haven’t gotten them. You still haven't gotten them but I’m working on it, believe me.
“I’m not going to tell you to go on with your life as the police did, even though their intentions were good. But I am going to tell you that if you enjoy yourself, if you smile or laugh, it doesn’t mean that you've forgotten your brother or abandoned his memory.
“You’re human and we humans are fragile. You need to get out and live a little, just a little so you don’t keep dying over and over again in your heart.”
She thinks about what I’m saying for what seems a long time while the server politely waits to get his tip.
“I did meet someone,” she says shyly, “Someone who just moved here a few months ago. He seems nice but I don’t know. He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him. We talk pretty often on the phone and we’ve met a couple of times at the movies. I want to ask him over for dinner but I feel kind of scared. Like maybe he’ll accept to be polite but then he’ll make an excuse and not come. I’m not very good about dating.”
I grab my handbag and get up. “Ask him,” I tell her. “You won’t lose anything by asking and you might be pleasantly surprised. Where men are concerned, Marie, it doesn’t pay to be shy. This is the twenty-first century; women are just as much the pursuer as the pursued.”
“What if he says no? Then what?”
“Then he says no and you look elsewhere. His saying no is not a big deal; don’t make it one. There are a lot of guys out there, Marie.”
“Do you have a … a man in your life?” she asks shyly.
“More like two men,” I smile and am pleased when my statement brings a giggle from her.
“Wow! I guess, well then … I guess I should say … have fun!” She blushes to the roots of her hair and we both laugh over her unexpected comment.
Back in the car I ask Marie if she’d mind if I came over to her house tomorrow morning around ten and looked through the house and property. There might be something, some box, something hidden somewhere that the key in my handbag would open.
“Oh, sure. But I won’t be home. One of the other girls is having her car serviced and I promised her I’d pick her up. She lives a distance from me so I’m leaving really early. You can go over today while I’m at work if you’d like. I don’t have a problem with you looking around the house when I’m not there. I trust you.”
Trust. Such a simple word but one with one helluva powerful meaning. Who did Josh trust? I wonder.
“Thanks Marie but I have to do some other work this afternoon. Tomorrow will be much better for me. Is that okay with you? I’ll come pick up the house key at the salon.”
“Tomorrow is good and you don’t have to come all the way out here for the house key. I’ll leave it with Mr. O’Leary who lives next door, the house on the left side. But listen, when you go to get the key just make sure that you tell him you’re really busy or he’ll talk your ear off. He remembers everything from years ago and he’s very sharp, even if he is ninety-four.”
She thanks me for lunch and I watch her walk back to the door of the salon and disappear inside.
As I drive towards the city I’m thinking that, if I’m lucky tomorrow, maybe Mr. O’Leary will remember something important from ten years ago.