SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria Read Free Book Online Page B

said next made me wonder.
    “They were men like any other. They weren’t saints.”
    “In what way, Father?”
    “The usual way, my son. And that’s all I have to say on the subject.”
    He got up to leave.
    “Oh, before I forget. You can usually reach me at the rectory but please take down my cell phone number.” He reached into his pocket and took out an iPhone. On the back was a small piece of tape from which he read off a number. “I’m afraid I haven’t memorized it yet. I just got this. Still trying to figure out how to use it. I lost my other phone and Monsignor Barilla gave me his when he upgraded. He was also kind enough to get me a new two-year calling plan.” Father Zapo smiled. “Although I’m sure he regrets that now, since I’m not likely to be in the parish much longer. I understand this is an older model without all the bells and whistles. But it does have some useful functions. It has a voice recorder and a note pad, both of which are helpful when I am preparing a sermon.”
    “There is a way to recall your number using the phone, Father. I can show you if you like.”
    “Will it be faster than looking on the back of the phone?”
    He had me there. He put the phone back in his pocket and stuck out his hand.
    “Good luck, my son. And God bless you.”
     

CHAPTER 5 – CARPET BOMBED
     
    The next day, Alice Watts and I were having dinner at Monte’s, the venerable trattoria in Greenwich Village not far from her apartment. We had not seen each other since our storm relief work and I teased her about her selection of restaurant, since she invariably preferred French cuisine. She had smiled wanly. In fact, she had seemed a bit distracted all night. But she perked up when I told her about Father Zapotoski and gave me her full attention.
    “What an interesting man,” she said. “Do you think there is anything to it?”
    “No. Aren’t you going to finish your ravioli?”
    She pushed her plate toward mine.
    “I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”
    “You OK?”
    Alice never worried about her weight. What calories her duties as a college swim coach didn’t burn her frequent five-mile runs did. When she ate, she ate like she was going to the electric chair. She always ordered appetizers and full meal portions, which invariably worked out well for me.
    “I’m fine. What are you going to do about what Father What’s His Name told you.”
    I speared one of her ravioli and noticed that she poured herself more wine.
    “Zapotoski.” I spelled his name out for Alice. “I haven’t figured that out yet. I promised him I would look into it, but I don’t know what to do that won’t ruffle liturgical feathers and upset widows.”
    “Liturgical feathers?”
    “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it.”
    I nailed another ravioli. They were mushroom, my favorite. I had ordered veal spedini, my second choice, knowing that Alice would be generous.
    “Did it occur to you that perhaps Father Zapotoski heard something in the confessional, but couldn’t tell you.”
    My ravioli stopped halfway to my mouth. A first. I even put it down on my plate.
    “The Seal of the Confessional?”
    I was annoyed with myself. I was the Catholic, and a Methodist who taught philosophy at a college founded by Lutherans was reminding me about the damn Seal of the Confessional.
    “Yes,” Alice continued. “Maybe Father Zapotoski couldn’t break it, but wants you to come at the crime from another direction, for the sake of justice.”
    “You think a murderer confessed to killing three people?”
    “No. But a priest might hear something else in confession that leads him to believe the deaths weren’t random. You said he hinted that the victims weren’t saints.”
    I wasn’t willing to call the deceased “victims” yet, but Alice had made a good point.
    “It’s still a stretch. But you’ve given me something to think about.”
    The ravioli were all gone, as was my veal. Had there been anything left in the