Perfect Match Read online

  Nina has told him about the Sunday when Nathaniel came home with a different pair of underwear on beneath his clothes. It might not mean anything. But then again, it might. And Patrick's job is to overturn all the stones so that when he goes to back Szyszynski into a corner, he has all the ammunition he needs to do it.

  The Goodwill box is not next to the water fountain or the restrooms. It's not in Szyszynksi's office, a richly paneled vestibule stacked with wall-to-wall religious texts. He tries a couple of locked doors in the hallway, rattling them to see if they'll give way.

  "Can I help you?"

  The Sunday school teacher, a woman who has the look of a mother about her, stands a few feet behind Patrick. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to interrupt your class."

  He tries to summon all his charm, but this is a woman who is probably used to white lies, to hands caught in the cookie jar. Patrick continues, thinking on his feet. "Actually, my two-year-old just soaked through his jeans during Father Szyszynski's sermon ... and I hear there's a Goodwill box somewhere around here?"

  The teacher smiles in sympathy. "Water into wine gets them every time," she says. She leads Patrick into the classroom, where fifteen tiny faces turn to assess him, and hands him a big blue Rubbermaid box. "I have no idea what's inside, but good luck."

  Minutes later Patrick is hidden in the boiler room, the first place he finds where he won't readily be disturbed. He is knee deep in old clothing. There are dresses that must be a good thirty years old, shoes with worn soles, toddler's snow pants. He counts seven pairs of underwear--three of which are pink, with little Barbie faces on them. Lining the remaining four up on the floor, he takes a cell phone from his pocket and dials Nina.

  "What do they look like?" he says when she answers. "The underwear."

  "What's that humming? Where are you?"

  "In the boiler room of St. Anne's," Patrick whispers.

  "Today? Now? You're kidding."

  Impatient, Patrick pokes at the briefs with one gloved finger. "Okay, I've got a pair with robots, one with trucks, and two that are plain white with blue trim. Does anything sound familiar?"

  "No. These were boxers. They had baseball mitts on them."

  How she remembers this, he can't imagine. Patrick couldn't even tell you what pair of shorts he has on today. "There's nothing here that matches, Nina."

  "It's got to be there."

  "If he kept them, which we don't know he did, they could very well be in his private quarters. Hidden."

  "Like a trophy," Nina says, and the sadness in her voice makes Patrick ache.

  "If they're there, we'll get them with a warrant," he promises. He doesn't say what he is thinking: that the underwear alone will not really prove anything. There are a thousand ways to explain away that kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.

  "Have you talked to--"

  "Not yet."

  "You'll call me, won't you? After?"

  "What do you think?" Patrick says, and hangs up. He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand but cannot grab it. Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hollow. He snags a corner of it--paper, maybe?--and manages to drag it within his arm's reach.

  Baseball mitts. One hundred percent cotton. Gap, size XXS.

  He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand. On the left rear, slightly off center, there is a stiff stain.

  In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski is at that moment reading Scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays that in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure luck.

  Caleb feels Nathaniel's giggle like a tiny earthquake, shuddering up from the rib cage. He presses his ear down more firmly against his son's chest. Nathaniel is lying on the floor; Caleb is lying on him, his ear tipped close to the boy's mouth. "Say it again," Caleb demands.

  Nathaniel's voice is still thready, syllables hanging together by a string. His throat needs to learn how to hold a word again, cradle it muscle by muscle, heft it onto the tongue. Right now, this is all new to him. Right now, it is still a chore.

  But Caleb can't help himself. He squeezes Nathaniel's hand as the sound flounders out, spiky and tentative. "Daddy."

  Caleb grins, so proud he could split in two. Beneath his ear, he hears the wonder in his son's lungs. "One more time," Caleb begs, and he settles in to listen.

  A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am already late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dressed in his coat and boots, waiting for me. "Think!" I say aloud, and then turn to Nathaniel. "Have you seen my keys?"

  "They're under there," he answers.

  "Under where?"

  A giggle erupts from deep inside him. "I made you say underwear."

  When I laugh along with him, I forget what I've been looking for.

  Two hours later, Patrick enters St. Anne's again. This time, it is empty. Candles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thrown by the stained-glass windows. Patrick immediately heads downstairs to Father Szyszynski's office. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. Then he knocks, twice, firmly.

  Glen Szyszynski glances up, smiling. "Can I help you?"

  Let's hope so, Patrick thinks, and he walks inside.

  Patrick pushes a Miranda form across the investigation room table toward Father Szyszynski. "It's just a standard practice, Father. You're not in custody, and you're not under arrest ... but you're willing to answer questions, and the law says I need to tell you you've got rights before I ask you a single thing."

  Without hesitation, the priest signs the list of rights Patrick has just read aloud.

  "I'm happy to do anything that helps Nathaniel."

  Szyszynski had immediately volunteered to help with the investigation. He agreed to give a blood sample when Patrick said they needed to rule out anyone who'd been around Nathaniel. At the hospital, watching the phlebotomist, Patrick had wondered if the sickness in this man's veins was measurable, as much a part of the fluid as the hemoglobin, the plasma.

  Now, Patrick leans back in his chair and stares at the priest. He has faced a thousand criminals, all of whom proclaim their innocence or pretend to have no idea what he is talking about. Most of the time he is able to acknowledge their barbarity with the cool detachment of a law enforcement professional. But today, this slight man sitting across from him--well, it is all Patrick can do to not beat the priest bloody just for speaking Nathaniel's name.

  "How long have you known the Frosts, Father?" Patrick asks.

  "Oh, I've known them since I first came to the parish. I had been sick for a while, and was given a new congregation. The Frosts moved to Biddeford a month after I became a priest here." He smiles. "I baptized Nathaniel."

  "Do they come to church regularly?"

  Father Szyszynski's gaze slides to his lap. "Not as regularly as I'd like," he admits. "But you didn't hear it from me."

  "Have you taught Nathaniel in Sunday school?"

  "I don't teach it; a parent does. Janet Fiore. While the service is going on upstairs." The priest shrugs. "I love children, though, and I like to connect with the little ones--"

  I bet you do, Patrick thinks.

  "--so after the service, when the congregation is enjoying fellowship and coffee, I take the children downstairs and read a story to them." He grins sheepishly. "I'm afraid I'm a bit of a frustrated actor."

  No surprise there, either. "Where are the parents, while you're reading?"

  "Enjoying a few moments to themselves upstairs, for the most part."

  "Does anyone else read to the children with you, or are you alone?"