A Perfect Evil

Chapter 17

Christine couldn’t believe her luck, though she tried to contain her excitement. While Timmy had been in the bathroom, she had called Taylor Corby, the news editor, her new boss. They had talked several times over the weekend by phone, and, although they had never met, Christine knew exactly who he was. Her coworkers in the “Living Today” section called Corby a news nerd. He wore funky wire-rimmed glasses and seemed to own only black trousers and white oxford shirts, which he decorated with different Looney Tunes ties. To make matters worse, he rode a bicycle even in the winter-and not because he couldn’t afford a car, but simply because he wanted to.

This morning when she told him about Matthew Ta

“Christine, you know what that means?”

It was easy to understand why he had chosen print instead of broadcast journalism. His voice never changed, showed no emotion. And regardless of his choice of words, it was sometimes difficult to tell whether he was excited, bored or simply disinterested. “If you have copy for this evening’s paper, we will have scooped the other media three days in a row.”

“I still need to convince Mrs. Ta

“Interview or not, you already have enough for a great story. Just make sure you substantiate your facts.”

“Of course.”

Now, Christine looked over at her son, knowing he must be worried about his friend. He had made no fuss about her driving him to school and had sat most of the trip in silence. She turned the corner to the school and immediately slammed on the brakes. A line of cars extended to the corner as parents pulled in front of the school to drop off their children. On the sidewalks, parents walked alongside their kids. Every intersection in view had adult crossing guards accompanying their smaller charges.

A horn behind them blasted, making both Christine and Timmy jump. She inched the car forward, getting in line.

“What’s going on, Mom?” Timmy snapped out of his seat belt so he could sit on his feet, allowing a view over the dash.

“Parents are just making sure their kids get to school okay.” Some of the parents looked frantic, scurrying along with one hand on a shoulder, an arm, a back, as though the extra contact would add protection.

“Because of Matthew?”

“We don’t know what’s happened to Matthew yet. He may have just gotten upset and run away from home. You shouldn’t say anything about Matthew.” She shouldn’t have told Timmy about Matthew. Though she had promised to be open and honest with her son after Bruce left, this was not something she should have shared with him. Besides, very few people even knew about Matthew. This panic was in response to her articles. Just the mention of Ronald Jeffreys invoked a protectiveness in parents. This was the same panic parents had displayed when Jeffreys had been on the prowl.

Christine recognized Richard Melzer from KRAP radio. He hurried up the sidewalk in his trench coat, carrying his briefcase and holding the hand of a small blond girl, his daughter no doubt. Christine needed to get to Michelle Ta

The line moved along at a crawl, and she searched for an opening. Perhaps she could just let Timmy out here. She knew he wouldn’t mind, except everyone would notice.

“Mom?”

“Timmy, we’re moving as fast as possible.”

“Mom, I’m pretty sure Matthew wouldn’t just run away from home.”

She glanced at her small son perched on his feet, watching the unusual parade outside his window. His hair stuck up where he had plastered down the cowlick. The sprinkle of freckles only made his skin more pale. When had this little boy grown so wise? She should have felt proud, yet this morning it made her a little sad that she could no longer preserve his i

Chapter 18

Brightly colored stained-glass figures stared down from their heavenly perch. The scent of burning incense and candle wax filled Maggie’s nostrils. Why was it that being inside of a Catholic church always made her feel as if she was twelve again? Immediately, she thought of the black bra and panties she wore- too much lace, an inappropriate color. The butt of her gun stabbed into her side. She reached inside her jacket and readjusted the shoulder strap. Should she even be carrying a gun inside a church? Of course, she was being ridiculous.

She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see a casket being rolled up the aisle behind them. She could still hear the click-clack of rollers, the soft tap of a dozen leather shoes marching in unison along with her father’s casket. When she looked up, Morrelli was watching her, waiting for her at the altar.

“Everything okay?”

He had left her hotel room at five o’clock to go home, shower, shave and change clothes. When he arrived two hours later to pick her up, she hardly recognized him. His short hair was neatly combed back. His face was clean-shaven, and the white scar on his chin-even more pronounced-added a rugged edge to his good looks. Underneath his denim jacket he wore a white shirt and black tie with crisp blue jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. It was a stretch from the customary brown uniforms the rest of his department wore, but he still looked official. Perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, straight and tall, self-assured with long, confident strides.

“O’Dell, are you okay?” he asked again.

She looked around the church. It seemed large for a town of Platte City’s size, with rows and rows of wooden pews. She couldn’t imagine all of them being filled.

“I’m fine,” she finally answered, then regretted taking so long because he truly did look concerned. His eyes betrayed his fresh appearance, still puffy from too little sleep. She had tried to hide her own signs of fatigue with a bit of makeup.

“It seems so big,” she said, trying to explain her distraction.

“It’s relatively new. The old church was a small country parish about five miles south of town,” he told her. “Platte City’s grown, practically doubled in the last ten years. Mostly people tired of living in the city. They still commute to work either in Omaha or Lincoln. Kind of ironic, huh? People moving out here to get away from big-city crime, thinking they’ll raise their kids someplace quiet and safe.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared off over her head.

“You folks need some help?” A man appeared from a curtain behind the altar.

“We’re looking for Father Francis,” Morrelli said without offering any more explanation.

The man eyed them suspiciously. Though he carried a broom, he was dressed in dress slacks, a crisply pressed shirt, tie and long, brown cardigan. He looked young despite his dark hair peppered with gray. When he approached them, Maggie noticed he had a slight limp and wore bright white te

“What do you want with Father Francis?”

Morrelli glanced at Maggie as if asking how much to reveal. Before he had a chance to say anything, the man seemed to recognize Morrelli.

“Wait a minute. I know who you are.” He said it as if it were an accusation. “Didn’t you play quarterback for the Nebraska Cornhuskers? You’re Morrelli, Nick Morrelli, 1982 to 1983.”

“You’re a Cornhuskers fan?” Morrelli gri

“Big-time fan. My name’s Ray…Ray Howard. I just moved back here last spring. They didn’t televise very many games back East. It was horrible, just horrible. Actually, I played a bit.” His excitement rambled on in quick bursts. “In high school. At Omaha Central. Even had Dr. Tom come check me out. Then I boogered up my knee. Our final game. Against Creighton Prep, of all the sissy teams. I twisted it up pretty good. Never played again.”