Page 8 of Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard 1)

  “You said he’s in the adoration stage but that’s going to change. When do you think it will happen?”

  “Are you asking me how soon? I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I don’t think we’ll have to wait long. You could already be . . . tarnishing . . . in his mind. Look, he’s got to find something wrong with you so he can feel betrayed. Maybe it will be the way you smile. All of a sudden, he’s going to think you’re mocking him, or maybe he’ll believe you’re coming on to some other man. That would definitely enrage him. He’d like us to think he’s tormented. Remember, he promised Tommy that if you ran away from him, he might not follow you. But he also boasted that he is brilliant and that he wants more of a challenge.”

  “Maybe he’ll get tired of this . . . obsession.”

  “He isn’t going to go away.” Nick’s voice had a sharp edge now. “The fantasy’s controlling him. He can’t stop. It’s a cat-and-mouse game to him, and you’re the mouse. He likes the hunt. The more challenging it is, the more fun. The game won’t be over until you have begged for mercy.”

  He leaned forward and studied her closely. “Well, Laurant? Are you scared yet?”

  CHAPTER 7

  What a delightful time he’d had toying with the priest. Delightful indeed. He really hadn’t expected that he would have so much fun, because he’d learned from past experiences that sometimes the buildup—the planning stage in his schedule, as he liked to call it—turned out to be far more rewarding than the actual event—like when he was a boy and he was building his fort in the backyard. The joy was in the anticipation for what he was going to do inside his isolated cocoon where no one could spy on him. Oh, he’d spend hours and hours getting ready, a busy little beaver sharpening the kitchen knives and scissors he’d stolen from his mother’s drawer, and meticulously preparing the burial sites for the animals he’d trapped and caged. The killings always turned out to be anticlimactic though. The animals never squealed enough to satisfy him. But in this instance, good old Tommy boy hadn’t let him down. No, no, he hadn’t been disappointed in the priest at all.

  As he was driving down the highway, he replayed the conversation in his head over and over again until he was laughing out loud and tears were streaming down his face. There wasn’t anyone around, and so he could be as loud and raucous as he wanted to be, but then, come to think of it, he could pretty much do whatever he wanted to do these days, anytime, anywhere, as long as he was careful. Just ask pretty little Millicent. Oh, nope, you couldn’t do that. No, sirree.

  Father Tom’s tortured cry when he realized the next victim was none other than his precious sister kept echoing in his mind. “My Laurant?” the priest had shouted.

  “My Laurant?” he mockingly imitated. Priceless. Really priceless.

  It was a pity he had had to leave so abruptly. He would have enjoyed tormenting Tommy a bit longer, but there simply hadn’t been time, what with all those wasted minutes spent on that nonsense about not being able to tell anyone what had been said inside the confessional, even after he’d given him permission. By God, he’d ordered him to tell. It hadn’t made any difference to the priest though. No, sirree. It hadn’t. Oh, he’d known about the church’s precious regulations guarding their sacraments—he always did his homework—but he’d misjudged Tommy because he hadn’t counted on him being such a stickler for the rules. Who would have thought the priest would be so stubborn, when spilling the beans would save his own sister’s hide? Who would have thought? A priest who wasn’t morally bankrupt. My, oh my, what a dilemma that turned out to be. Had he been an ordinary man, his plans would have been ruined, and he would have had to start over again. But he wasn’t ordinary. No, no, of course not. He was brilliant, and he had, therefore, anticipated every possibility. He’d almost blurted out, right there in the confessional, that he was taping the conversation, but he’d decided to let Tommy be surprised. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to share the tape though, not yet anyway. It would be added to his impressive and certainly eclectic collection. Millie’s tape was getting plumb worn out. Some insomniacs listened to the soothing sounds of the ocean or gentle rainfall when they went to bed; he listened to Millie’s sweet voice.

  The priest had forced his hand with that stupid confession rule, and the only way to get around it had been to break the rule himself by letting the police have a copy of the tape. Always thinking ahead, that was the ticket. One quick trip to Super Sid’s Warehouse to pick up a three-pack of blank cassettes, a couple of manila envelopes, and he had taken care of the problem.

  He would not allow anyone or anything to interfere with his schedule, which was why he always had an alternative plan of action in mind. Anticipate and respond. That was the key.

  He let out a loud yawn. There was so much to do in preparation, and because he was meticulous to a fault in everything he did, he needed every single minute of the next couple of weeks to get ready for his own special Fourth of July celebration.

  It promised to be . . . explosive.

  Now he was on his way to St. Louis, thanks to his helpful friend, the Internet. What a wondrous invention that was. The perfect accomplice. It never whined, complained, cried, or demanded. And he didn’t have to waste precious time training it. It was like a well-paid whore, giving him what he wanted, when he wanted it. No questions asked.

  Who would have imagined it would be so easy to learn how to make your own bombs in simple one-two-three steps a child of average intelligence could follow, with colorful illustrations to help the slow-witted along? If you had the money—which he did—you could order more sophisticated triggering devices—which he had—and lovely “enhancing” kits that turned little ear-tingling pops into ear-bleeding booms guaranteed to take out a city block, or your money back. He didn’t have any desire to find nuclear ingredients, but he had a feeling that if he searched the subterranean rooms long enough and got real friendly with those stupidly dedicated anarchists, he would find everything but the plutonium. Weapons weren’t a problem either, as long as you knew where to click on. And he did, of course. Yes, he did.

  Although he had ordered lots of interesting little gadgets through the Internet, he hadn’t ordered the explosives because he knew the mules could be monitoring the sight. Still, he’d gotten the connection he’d needed from one of his buddies who had hooked him up with an illegal dealer operating out of the Midwest, which was why he was now breezing down I-70 with his shopping list in his pocket.

  He spotted a roadside rest area ahead and thought about stopping so he could get his copy of the tape out of the back of the van. He wanted to listen to the priest’s voice again, but then he saw the police car parked there and he immediately changed his mind.

  The mules were probably replaying the tape now while they made copious notes. It wasn’t going to do them any good though. They weren’t smart like he was. They wouldn’t get anything from his voice except maybe the region he came from, and who cared about that? They would never figure out his game until it was over and he had won.

  He knew what the mules were calling him. The unsub. He liked the sound of it and decided that Unknown Subject was about the best nickname he’d ever acquired. The simplicity of it appealed to him, he supposed. By using the word unknown, the mules—his nickname for the FBI agents—were admitting how inept and incompetent they were, and there was something honest and pure about their stupidity and their ignorance. The mules actually knew they were mules. How delightful.

  “Are we having fun yet?” he shouted as he sped down the highway. And then he laughed again. “Oh, yes, we are,” he added with another chuckle. “Yes, sirree.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Two detectives from the Kansas City Police Department, Maria Rodrigues and Frances McCann, arrived at the rectory a little past two. As the interview got under way, Nick, silent and watchful, remained by Laurant’s side. He let the detectives run the show and didn’t interfere in the questioning or volunteer any opinions or suggestions. When he got up to leave the room, Laurant

had to force herself not to grab hold of him to keep him there. She wanted him close by, even if only to offer moral support, but he’d gotten a phone call from a man named George Walker, a profiler assigned to the case.

  Tommy joined them, and the first couple of minutes with him were very predictable. Like most women who met her brother for the first time, the detectives seemed captivated and had trouble taking their eyes off him.

  “Are you a full-fledged priest???? Detective McCann asked. “I mean, have you been ordained and everything?”

  Tommy gave her one of his grins, completely unaware of the heart flutters they caused in most women, and responded, “I’m full-fledged.”

  “Maybe we should stick to the investigation,” Rodrigues suggested to her partner.

  McCann flipped open her notepad and looked at Laurant. “Did your brother tell you how we got hold of the tape?” She didn’t wait for an answer but continued. “The son of a bitch just strolled inside the police station sometime last night, dropped his little package, and then strolled right back out. I mean, it was the perfect time ’cause it was a zoo in there. Two big drug busts had just gone down and they were dragging their drugged-out asses in for over an hour. The watch said he didn’t notice the package until things had calmed down. Anyway, we figure he must have been dressed in blues, like a street cop, or maybe he was pretending to be a lawyer, come to bail his client out. No one remembers seeing anyone with a manila envelope,” she added. “That’s what the tape was in, and to be honest, it was such a hectic time, I doubt anyone would have noticed the envelope if the son of a bitch hadn’t called.”

  “He called 911 from a pay phone in City Center Square,” Rodrigues interjected. “That isn’t too far from here.”

  “The guy’s got steel balls, I’ll give him that,” McCann remarked. She colored then and blurted, “Sorry about the language, Father. I’ve been hanging around Rodrigues too long.”

  “So what can you tell us?” Rodrigues asked Laurant.

  Laurant raised her hands in a gesture of futility. She didn’t have the faintest idea how to help them—she couldn’t even come up with a viable theory as to why she had been targeted.

  The detectives didn’t have any leads yet, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. They had already canvassed the neighborhood, searching for witnesses who might have noticed a stranger or a car in the vicinity late Saturday afternoon. No one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, which hadn’t surprised the detectives.

  “People around here are suspicious of the police,” Rodrigues explained. “We’re hoping that if anyone saw anything peculiar, he’ll confide in Monsignor or maybe even Father Tom here. The parishioners trust their priests.”

  Neither Rodrigues nor McCann were optimistic about catching the unsub quickly. They would have to wait and see what developed. Maybe the letter the man had told Tommy he’d mailed would shed some insight. Then again, maybe not.

  “Aside from assaulting Father Tom here, no other crime has been committed,” McCann said. “At least not yet anyway.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that if I’m murdered, then you’ll look into it?” Laurant asked a little more sharply than she intended.

  McCann, the more blunt of the two, responded. “Do you want me to sugarcoat it or be honest?”

  “Be honest.”

  “Okay,” she replied. “We’re pretty territorial, kinda like big cats, and it would depend on where he dumped the body. If it’s our city, we take the case.”

  “A crime has already been committed,” Tommy reminded them.

  “Yes,” Rodrigues agreed. “You were assaulted, but—”

  Tommy interrupted. “I didn’t mean that. He confessed to killing another woman.”

  “Yeah, well, he says he killed her,” Rodrigues countered. “He could have been lying about that.”

  McCann volunteered her opinion that the incident in the confes-sional was just a sick prank by an irate man who maybe had a grudge against Father Tom and wanted to get back at him. That was why, she explained, they had spent so much time on their first call questioning him about possible enemies.

  “Look, we aren’t going to sit on our hands,” Rodrigues assured Laurant. “But we don’t have a lot to go on yet.”

  “And it isn’t our jurisdiction.”

  “How do you figure that, Detective McCann?”

  Nick asked the question. He was leaning against the door frame, watching the detectives.

  Her tone was antagonistic when she answered. “The unsub reported the crime here in Kansas City, but he made it clear on the tape, clear to us anyway, that he lives in or around Holy Oaks, Iowa. We’ll share what we’ve got with the police there, and we’ll keep the file open of course . . . in case he comes back.”

  “The way we see it, the FBI’s involved. Right? You guys are bound to come up with something,” Rodrigues offered.

  McCann nodded. “We don’t like to interfere in an FBI investigation.”

  “Since when?” Nick asked.

  She smiled. “Hey, we’re trying to get along here. I don’t see why we can’t work on this together. You give us what you’ve got, and if we come up with anything, we’ll be happy to share it with you.”

  They weren’t getting anywhere. After the detectives gave Laurant their cards, they left the rectory. Laurant was thoroughly frustrated by the lack of action, even though she realized her expectations had been unrealistic. She wanted answers and results—maybe even a miracle—to make this nightmare go away, but by the time the detectives left, she felt . . . hopeless. Because her brother seemed so relieved that something was being done—the cavalry had arrived after all—she didn’t tell him how she felt. In fact, she didn’t get a chance to talk to him for the rest of the afternoon. His attention was diverted elsewhere.

  Tommy was so rattled by what was happening, he forgot it was Sunday afternoon. But then he happened to look out the window and saw the kids waiting for him. There was a tradition at Mercy parish on warm Sunday afternoons when Tommy was in town, and he wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of the ritual that meant so much to the children in the neighborhood. At precisely quarter of three, all other duties and concerns came to a standstill, when a large number of neighborhood kids gathered in the church parking lot and began to clamor for Father Tom to come outside. Tommy put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, kicked his shoes and socks off, and grabbed a towel. He made Laurant stay inside—it was safer he told her—but she could watch the fun from one of the windows.

  As was the custom and barring any unforeseen complications, a fire truck arrived at three o’clock, and two good-hearted off-duty firemen closed the gates to the lot and opened the fire hydrant. The children, including toddlers through high schoolers, eagerly waited while the firemen adjusted the heavy nozzle between the iron gates and clamped it to the rails so that the hose wouldn’t go skittering every which way. Then the water was turned on. The kids wore cut-off jeans or shorts. None of them owned swimming suits—such apparel wasn’t in their parents’ budgets—but that didn’t diminish their excitement. After stacking their towels and shoes on the steps of the rectory, they played in the water until their clothes were soaked, splashing and shouting with as much enthusiasm as any children at a country club. There weren’t any fancy kidney-shaped pools with diving boards and water slides at Mercy. They made do with what they had, and for an hour, while the firemen and any other adults who had tagged along with their little ones sat with Monsignor on the porch and sipped cold lemonade, chaos reigned.

  When Tommy wasn’t busy holding on to the smaller children so they wouldn’t be swept into the bushes by the force of the spray, he manned the medical kit and dispensed Neosporin, glow-in-the-dark Band-Aids, and sympathy for skinned knees and elbows. After the firemen turned the water off and prepared to leave, Monsignor dispensed Popsicles. No matter how tight money was or how poor the collections were that week, there was always enough set aside for these treats.

  After t

he pandemonium had died down and the waterlogged, worn-out children had all gone home, Monsignor McKindry insisted that Nick and Laurant join Tommy and him for a peaceful dinner. Tommy and Nick prepared the meal. Nick grilled chicken while Tommy fixed a salad and green beans fresh from the monsignor’s garden. The table conversation revolved around the monsignor’s reunion, and he entertained his guests with one story after another about the trouble he and his friends had caused during their seminary days. By unspoken agreement, no one discussed what the older priest called the “disturbing event” during dinner, but later as Monsignor McKindry and Laurant worked side by side washing and drying the dishes, he brought up the topic again when he asked her how she was handling the worry. She told him she was frightened, of course, but also so angry she wanted to start throwing things. Monsignor took her at her word and immediately snatched the plate she was drying out of her hands.

  “When your brother found out he had cancer, I know he felt powerless and frustrated and angry, but then he decided to take charge of his medical care. He read as much as he possibly could about his specific type of cancer, and that was quite a challenge because his is such a rare type. He studied all the medical journals and he interviewed a good number of specialists in the field until he found the man who had set the protocol for treatment.”