Myth Man (15 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
WO CARS STOPPED AND double-parked in front of the Kali temple. One sedan was white and blue with roof lights and large letters that said “POLICE” but was often mistranslated as Five-O, pigs, heat, or other popularized slang. The other car was a black Crown Victoria. Although unmarked, the vehicle might as well have had large letters that screamed “UNDERCOVER.”

Detectives Danko and Presto stepped out from the police car, while Agents Ridgewood and Donavan vacated the Crown Victoria.

It had been a long day. The two agents insisted they visit each crime scene. They started at the mosque. Danko’s previous visit had not gone smoothly, and today’s reception had been frosty. Agent Donavan with insults and threats tossed gasoline on that chill and created a firestorm. Within twenty minutes, a small army of Muslim males arrived. They stood silently, shoulder to shoulder. Presto got the message. Donavan did not.

Presto had never witnessed a more horrific interrogation. Donavan did not listen to his partner, even after she reprimanded him for calling the assembled crowd terrorist towel-heads. Three attorneys representing the mosque arrived next, and that ended the first stop on the tour.

On the ride to St. Patrick’s, Presto noted that Danko looked amused, but he withheld comment.

Inside the cathedral, it was obvious the two FBI agents had not ridden in tranquil silence. Agent Ridgewood delicately handled all the questioning, while Agent Donavan followed like a sullen, muzzled mastiff.

Although Ridgewood had not uncovered anything new, Presto was impressed by her professionalism, especially following the mishap at the mosque. When they left St. Patrick’s, it was readily apparent that Donavan was somewhat less impressed with his partner’s work.

“You threw those guys softballs.”

Ridgewood stopped. “Excuse me?” She looked equally angry, annoyed, and embarrassed all at the same time.

“You heard me, Ridgewood,” he said tersely.

Ridgewood held her ground. Firmly, “Donavan, we’ll talk in the car.”

Presto thought, as far as partners go, Danko and he were bosom buddies in comparison.

As Ridgewood began to walk to the cars, Donavan said, “You went over old ground. What was the point?” he added dismissively.

“You might not know,” she responded derisively, “but covering old ground can reveal inconsistencies, memory recall, and …”

“Nothing at all,” he finished abruptly.

“These people are not suspects, and neither were the people at the mosque” she fired back.

Danko and Presto watched the spectacle. Danko’s sly grin had increased.

The mellow mastiff transformed back to a rapid Rottweiler. “You don’t know that. Those guards, at minimum, were incompetent.”

“Newsflash, Donavan, those guards did not also work at the mosque and Hindu temple. And how did you want me to handle the priests? Attack them too?”

“This killer could have accomplices by means of money or complicit persuasions,” he countered. “And,” he emphasized strongly, “why should a priest be treated differently?”

“Let’s go, Donavan,” she said firmly.

He would not let go. “Priests have told lies before, Ridgewood,” he said sardonically. “You might not have heard, but the church had a little scandal because they covered up for pedophile priests.”

“That’s enough,” she said authoritatively. “Let’s go. Now!” She stormed off to their sedan.

Now outside the Kali Temple, Presto watched the two agents approach. While the two did not appear chummy, they both walked over smiling, like the day had gone smoothly.

Donavan’s smile became a smirk. “Hey, Frank. You bring any donuts? I’m getting hungry.” He licked his lips, clicked his tongue, and let out a laugh. “Just playing. Thought a little humor could brighten the mood.”

Ridgewood looked to her partner. “Donavan, if you have a good joke, fine; tell it. But let’s try not to rib one another.”

“Okay,” he said. “I thought of a Hindu joke.” He stopped for an awe shucks shrug. “They just come to me,” he boasted and tapped his index finger to his temple. “What are Hindus’ favorite candies?” Pleased, he smiled broadly.

No one pondered, thus no one answered.

“I stumped you, huh? I’m good.”

Ridgewood turned to the cops. “Ready to go in?”

They both nodded.

“Wait,” Donavan cried. “Don’t you want to hear the punch line?”

Without rancor, she replied. “I could live without it, but I’m sure you’ll tell us regardless.”

Despite Ridgewood’s even tone, Donavan looked miffed. With less enthusiasm, he offered this wisdom, “Dots.”

He laughed. His response was three blank looks.

“Dots. You know, the candy?”

“Got you,” Ridgewood replied coolly.

Donavan appeared disappointed. “Dots, like dot-heads? You don’t find that funny?”

“No,” Ridgewood assured. “I don’t. We have a girl waiting for us. Let’s do our job.” She started to walk again.

“Is she hot?” asked Donavan. “I dig the ethnic thing.”

Ridgewood rolled her eyes.

“She’s fourteen,” informed Danko, who held his face in check better than the prior day.

“So,” he said incredulously. “Most of them fuck at fourteen. Is she sexy or what?”

Ridgewood was prepared to reply, but Danko said first, “I might remind you, Agent Donavan, that we have a statutory rape law.”

“Hey, it’s not illegal to think. Shit, if I ever acted out all my fantasies I’d have one hell of a family and a headache.”

“That’s great to know, Donavan,” Ridgewood opined and briskly set forth to the temple door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Y
OU CHEATED,” PRESTO ANNOUNCED. “It’s too impossible that those were your opening two words.”

Cleo gave a conspiratorial laugh. “When you went to the bathroom, I changed my letters.”

“You’re too much,” he said with a grin.

“I know,” she readily agreed.

They sat at the kitchen table with a Scrabble board between them. There were only three words on the table. She opened with
GIRL
. He added R-U-N-T to the
G
for a low-scoring
GRUNT
. With a sly grin, she added the word
FRIEND
to
GIRL
, forming
GIRLFRIEND
.

The Stagnuts had planned to join them for a Saturday night of board games with the Parker Brothers, but Gina developed a headache that required her husband’s monitoring. Mother and son decided to play on. After their appointment with the Parker boys, they had plans to visit Mr. Milton Bradley aboard his Battleship.

“Let’s start over,” she said and began to dump the squared wood letters back in the gray bag.

Presto decided he wanted answers. He was not going to put it off any longer. “Mom,” he said. “I want the truth. Why are you fixated on finding me a woman?” She looked away, but he persisted. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Her lip quivered. Pained, she closed her eyes. “A mother does not want to see her son alone.”

He did not respond. Her answer was why he had not previously pressed the issue. He feared where he had decided to tread.

A tear fell down her right eye and welled by her nostril. “You need to focus on this case.”

“Mom,” Presto pleaded and grabbed her thin hand. “Fuck the case. I’m talking about you.”

She gritted her teeth. “There’s nothing to know. I am getting old, Son. Everyone needs someone and so will you … someday.”

His eyebrows rose. “There’s nothing to know?” asked a suspicious but hopeful Presto.

She hesitated before answering. Her eyes looked past him. “Not now.”

Presto swallowed. “Mom, I love you.” He gently stroked the top of her hand with his large thumb. “Please. Talk to me.”

Cleo gave a conciliatory grin like the kind politicians use in their concession speeches after a campaign loss. “Promise me that after I tell you, we continue our lives as we always have with laughs and love.”

Presto gulped but kept his face even. “Naturally.”

“You better,” she said with a thin grin, “or I’ll never cook for you again.”

He cocked his finger. “Don’t threaten me, Honey,” he said with an Elvis Presley accent.

A more genuine smile split her face. “There’s my boy.” Her hand squeezed his back. Although her eyes were wet, she looked resolute. “The doctor’s found something,” she began.

A wave of emotions crashed and flooded the detective’s senses. He swallowed again. This time a bile taste left him gutted and hollow.

“It’s okay, Son,” she said with surprising vigor. “Please, for my sake, don’t take the news worse than I did.”

Although the revelation had unearthed his deepest realized fears, he was still shocked. Apprehensive of the answer, he asked, “What did they find?”

“Cancer,” she replied like he asked for her astrological persuasion. “They found tumors in my lungs.”

The dike holding his feelings at bay cracked, and now several tears rolled down his round cheeks.

“Dominick, please don’t do this. Now that I told you, I need you to be a pillar of Pyrex, not putty.”

He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes and sniffled. “I know. I’m sorry,” he replied nasally. “It’s just that I love you.”

“And I love you,” she said now placing her hand on his. “I’m sorry for acting silly trying to find you a woman. It’s just my motherly instinct taking over.”

*****

Presto lifted his head from the pillow and looked at the digital alarm clock for the umpteenth time since he tried to retire for the evening. 5:00 am. He had not slept well. Each time he dozed off, he woke with a hopeful feeling that it had all been a dream his mother had conjured to fulfill her matchmaking aims. But as the cobwebs cleared, sticky filaments respun his fabrications to threads of reality. Cancer the crab was eating at his mother’s life.

He promised to be as brave as she was, but she was always the stronger of the two. Despite his words, the despair made sleep impossible.

This was a killer he could not catch. Perhaps the biggest serial killer in history, Cancer was described in an ancient Egyptian papyri dating back to 3000–1500 BC. Hippocrates, who’s anointed as the Father of Medicine, first differentiated tumors as either benign or malignant around 400 BC.

Although the killer was identified, cancer continued to prey. Unlike other predators, cancer was an equal opportunity killer, attacking almost anything in the body, including lungs, brain, skin, breasts, and prostrate. Sure, some of its victims survived, but cancer was still on the loose.

Presto brushed his unkempt mop from his eyes but not the haunting vision from his mind’s eye. Death. His legs wobbled as he rose and headed to the bathroom.

In the shower, he leaned against the white tiled wall and willed the water to wash the misery down the drain. Ten minutes later he reached for a giant tropical beach towel, which was just large enough to tie around him.

After he groomed (ran a brush twice through his hair and brushed his teeth) and dressed, he went down the hallway to the living room. He smelled food and heard his mother bustle about in the kitchen. He sat at the dining room table.

Conscious of his promise to his mother, he greeted her heartily. “Morning, Mama.”

She came out of the kitchen with a plate of blueberry pancakes and placed them beside a glass of orange juice. “I know you had an early day. Wanted to make sure it started right.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Ma.” Like a heavier Ralph Kramden, he bellowed, “Baby, you’re the greatest.” Presto took a seat at the kitchen table.

She filled a mug of coffee for herself and sat down. “You have to be alert. The killer could strike today.”

With the first bite in his mouth, Presto nodded in agreement. Today was Palm Sunday, the next significant religious holiday that followed Maha Shivaratri. Until they developed a solid lead, they planned vigilant surveillance. Police officers had been stationed at every city church, from grand cathedrals to the tiniest of tabernacles. Spencer Hoole had checked in. He said the mayor did not want to hear charges of favoritism if the killer struck in a more obscure location.

Cleo said, “Although you’re working Sunday, at least you’ll be at church,” she said with a wry smile.

After the loss of her husband, Cleo Presto initially found support and compassion from their church. For that, she was grateful. Still, the loss left her bitter. She listened to wisdoms like “God moves in mysterious ways” and “he’s off to a better place,” but the words sounded like hollow clichés. Bereft of answers, she lost some of her faith.