“Please. It’s Susan.”
“Okay, then. Thank you for coming, Susan. This is Sergeant Margaret Aligante and Detective Cedric Thomlinson.”
“Please. Call me Margaret.”
“Cedric.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” she said, extending her hand.
The four took seats around the Lieutenant’s desk.
“I was expecting a return call,” said Driscoll. “And here you are in person.”
The woman smiled.
A bit too flirtatiously to suit Margaret.
“I’ve been following the story in the papers and on the tube with the rest of New York,” Susan explained. “When I read about the man killed at the aquarium, Francis Palmer, his name set off an alarm. At first, I didn’t know why, but I was sure I had heard the name before.”
“He had been convicted of child molestation in Texas,” said Thomlinson.
“That was the easy part. When I ran his name through our system, the conviction popped up. But our database focuses on child exploitation. So I dug a little deeper and realized why I remembered the name. Francis Palmer headed up his own company in Texas because seven years ago he was fired from a Web design and enhancement firm in Silicon Valley, California. The company monitored their employees’ work computers. He was let go because they found he had been making frequent visits to Web sites dealing in prostitution. Child prostitution. He was never formally charged because the firm wanted to avoid exposure. But their director of human resources alerted our California branch office in Tustin, and a record was established. Although no further action was taken, the information remained in our database.”
“How is it his name set off whistles?” asked Driscoll.
“That conscientious director of human resources called me for advice. Her boss had ordered her to delete all information related to Palmer. She knew if any investigative agency made inquiry, her company would deny ever having the guy on the payroll.”
“Why’d she call you?” asked Margaret.
“Because she’s my sister.” Susan Lenihan blushed.
Chapter 47
The door to Driscoll’s office opened, and Thomlinson stuck his head inside. “We’ve got news from Interpol.”
“Let’s have it,” said Driscoll, as Thomlinson planted himself in front of the Lieutenant’s desk.
“Interpol had their nets set for Guenther Rubeleit and Yen Chan, but had nada on Helga Swenson,” said Thomlinson. “They based their suspicions on reports from overseas ECPAT centers.” The detective was referring to a worldwide network of agencies established to End Child Prostitution, Child Pornography, and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes. “The only thing in line with our evidence is an entry on file for Rubeleit. He liked to trawl the Web for amputees.”
“Some assortment of deviants,” said Driscoll. “That look on your face says there’s more.”
“It might make you think twice about ordering sushi.” Thomlinson grinned. “It’s about customs in Tokyo, where Tatsuya Inagaki hailed from. Seems Japan has an ECPAT agency too. It’s in Tokyo and is called ECPAT Stop Japan. But the country’s got its own code of ethics regarding the age of consent for sexual activities and how it applies to the law. This is straight from Interpol. It’s Japan’s Article One-seven-seven Penal Code applicable to the charge of rape. I quote. A person who, through violence or intimidation, has sexual intercourse with a female person of not less than thirteen years of age commits the crime of rape and shall be punished with imprisonment at forced labor for a limited term of not less than two years. The same shall apply to a person who has sexual intercourse, we’re talking consensual now, with a female person under thirteen years of age. The article doesn’t say what happens if the recipient of wanted or unwanted sex is male. You’re gonna love this. They’ve got a dating service going on over there. It’s called Enjo kosai. Girls of high school age, who don’t wanna depend on babysitting money, can get paid to escort older men on dates. That doesn’t necessarily mean sex is on the menu…but?” Thomlinson raised an eyebrow. “And so the boys aren’t left home on a Saturday night, there’s gyaku-enjo.”
“And where does our victim Mr. Inagaki play in all of this?”
“On him they got zip.”
“So, let’s see, two of the four foreign victims have a substantiated yen for teenagers. Excuse the pun. And on domestic soil we have Mr. San Antonio, Texas, himself, Francis Palmer.”
The two lawman exchanged glances.
“Wanna flip a coin?” asked Driscoll.
“For?”
“To see which one of us gets to ask Shewster about Goldilocks.”
Chapter 48
Driscoll, having lost the coin toss, had a quandary. A comprehensive investigation leaves no doors unopened. But there was no evidence to indicate Abigail Shewster had been into sex with sixteen-year-olds, bizarre or otherwise. He didn’t feel comfortable broaching the possibility with her father. He’d likely deny it, and Driscoll believed a man of Shewster’s influence could have buried such a degradation on Mars. There was also the possibility that his daughter was a player but had managed to keep her father, and everyone else, in the dark. He’d only pursue it if evidence surfaced to support such a scandal.
Telephones had been ringing. The department’s Tip Line, linked to Shewster’s 800 number, thanks to the ever-accommodating Mayor, had every Tom, Dick, and Harry spewing knowledge of who Angus was, and they were eager to cash in on the big bucks. In Ann Harbor, Michigan, he was the Domino’s Pizza delivery boy. In Titusville, Florida, a lifeguard. In Nashville, an usher at the Grand Ole Opry. And in Albuquerque, the tour guide on a Hopi reservation. He was everyone’s next-door neighbor. The irony was he might be one of them.
Driscoll summoned Thomlinson and Margaret to his office.
“The possibility is that the twins could be anywhere in the country,” he said. “Coming in, making their hits, and hightailing it back home. Out of the forty-two calls that came in since the face made its debut, we’ve got three possibles in our neck of the woods. A night watchman’s call from a halfway house over on Staten Island is one of them. He says one of the kids there had a meltdown when he saw the sketch on the tube. Number two is a clown from the Pie in the Sky Circus. Says the image is a good likeness to some guy they feature as The Thing, a circus hairy scary, of sorts. Without his costume and makeup, he’s a dead ringer for our guy, says the caller. The third one has curiosity written all over it. A priest at Saint Barnabas Church in Brooklyn apparently broke the seal of confession by calling to say a member of his congregation confessed to the crimes.”
“That’s a new one,” said Thomlinson. “Since when does a Catholic priest turn his back on a vow to help the police?”
“Good question. It’s one I’ll be sure to ask him.”
Chapter 49
Saint Barnabas Church was a red stone building with three Gothic steeples towering over the southwestern entrance to Prospect Park, on a street lined with quaint boutiques and trattorias. The parish had gone through a gentrification that was underwritten by Keyspan, the local utility company. What once were tenements teeming with welfare recipients now housed dual-income professionals who traded mutual funds.
Cutting the Chevy’s engine, Driscoll stepped out onto the sidewalk and proceeded toward the rectory, where the bell was answered by a matronly woman in a floral dress.
“May I help you?” she asked, in an Irish brogue.
“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m here to see Father Terhune.”
“Father Terhune is it? Well, the good father is in his study preparing a sermon. It wouldn’t be wise to disturb him.”
“But we spoke on the phone. He’ll want to see me.”
“And I’m tellin’ ya he left instructions not to be disturbed.”
“Telling him I’m here would be the Christian thing to do, don’t you think?”