CHAPTER 51

 

“Chris, why don’t you take a ride over to Chelsea,” said Matt. “Ask around the neighborhood about this Callahan character. See what you can find out. Maybe talk to Father Pete over at St. Jude. See if he belonged to the church. If he did, maybe he knew the other women.”

“You really think this might be the guy?” asked Chris.

“Hey, stranger things have happened,” said Matt. “Remember that one guy who worked at the day care center? Actually volunteered to take those little boys home to—quote–unquote—save the mothers the bother. He molested five of them before anyone caught wise. What was he, sixty-five? Who would have ever suspected? To answer your question: yeah, maybe.”

“Yeah, I remember that creep like it was yesterday. Well, anyway, I’d better get moving. Talk to you later.”

“Okay,” said Matt. “Valdez and I will take a little ride up to the Bronx, talk to this Callahan creep. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky?”

 

Freitag knocked on a few doors in the apartment building Callahan called home. No one seemed to have a bad word to say about the Vietnam vet turned attempted rapist. All were agreed, “he would never do anything like that. They must have the wrong man.”

Eventually, Chris found his way over to St. Jude. He rang the bell at the side door to the rectory and waited. Mrs. Flynn opened the door and invited him inside. Apparently, the good father was off playing golf.

“Would you mind if I just left my card?” asked Freitag. “Maybe he could give me a call when he returns?”

“No, no, that would be fine,” said Mrs. Flynn. “Why don’t you just leave it on the desk in his study?” She pointed down a carpeted hallway. “It’s at the end of the hall.”

Chris walked quietly down the dimly lit corridor, and entered the richly appointed office of the monsignor. He made a mental note that the church must be doing quite well, if the quality of the furnishings that filled the cleric’s private retreat were any indication.

Being naturally curious, Freitag couldn’t help but notice the fairly expensive computer and accompanying flat screen monitor that occupied a prominent place on the priest’s enormous desk. Sure beats the hell out of the one I have at home. He also noted that a phone line was connected to the PC, indicating that Father Pete was probably an Internet user himself. Guess everybody’s online these days – even the local padre. He reached into his pocket and extracted one of his business cards from a rubber-banded stack he carried. He placed it carefully next to the phone at the far right side of the desk where Richter would be sure to find it. What he didn’t realize was that the card he had selected was the one Rita had written her email address and screen name upon, the night they had celebrated at Malone’s.

Then, feeling somewhat uncomfortable at being in someone else’s personal space, Freitag tiptoed out the way he had come in, closing the heavy oak door behind him. “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn,” shouted Chris, to the housekeeper, who was busy in the far recesses of the kitchen.

“You’re welcome, Detective,” she said. “I’ll tell Father Pete you were here.”