didn’t want to talk about it. As for the good-night kiss, neither one of them ever mentioned it. But that was all it took for Peter to become even more infatuated with his best friend.
He didn’t wash that blue-striped pillowcase for several days, because he could still smell Johnny on it. He’d hold that pillow through the night—as he wished he could have held Johnny.
That same familiar scent now lingered on Johnny’s blue shirt. Peter clung to it, knowing the smell would soon fade.
He climbed off the bed and went to the window, Johnny’s shirt balled up in his hands. He stared out across the lake, at the buildings on campus. He could just make out the rooftop of St. Clement Hall.
Those sophomores Johnny had been seeing all lived on the third floor. Peter knew their names. He also knew one of them was a murderer.
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Chapter Eleven
SORRETTO, J was printed on the buzzer. According to the phone book, the neglected, dark wood-frame duplex was Jonie’s current address. Jack stood on the front stoop, where someone had left a large open bag of kitty litter. Old bedsheets hung in the first-floor window in lieu of curtains.
In his hand, Jack held his green, pocket-size notebook. The first ten pages were now full of names and ideas. The name he’d written down most was Rick Pettinger, the seminarian who had denied knowing Johnny, then suddenly left school. Rick’s former lover had called him “dangerous.”
Did Jonie know about Johnny’s other relationships? Had she ever heard of Rick Pettinger? Jack had wanted to ask her yesterday, but couldn’t bring it up in front of Maggie.
He hadn’t phoned Jonie in advance. It was 11:30 on Sunday morning. She was probably pulling herself out of bed just about now.
Jack put the notebook in his pocket and pressed the buzzer. He waited a minute, then pressed it again.
“Whozit?” was the response over the intercom.
“It’s Father Murphy, Jonie. Can I come up?”
Silence.
“Jonie?”
“Be right down,” she replied.
Jack waited. And waited. At least three or four minutes passed. He thought about walking around the house to see if she’d ducked out a back way. He was about to buzz again when the door flung open.
“Yeah, what do you want?” Jonie asked, half hiding behind the door. She was dressed in black jeans and a ratty black pullover. Her dyed platinum hair was pinned up in back. She smoked a cigarette. Her black cherry lipstick left a mark on the filter.
“I’d like to ask you a couple more questions,” Jack said.
She rolled her raccoon-painted eyes. “I really don’t have time right now.”
“It won’t take long,” Jack assured her.
She sighed and blew out a stream of smoke. “Okay, what?”
“Did Johnny ever mention a friend named Rick Pettinger?”
She quickly shook her head. “Nope. I told you yesterday, he never talked about any of his friends except for what’s-his-name—Peter. And I already told you yesterday everything I know about him.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Now, is that it? Because I’m meeting a friend to go up to Vancouver, and I’m late.”
“Please, just one more minute, okay?” Jack said. “Has anyone else come to you about Johnny? The police or anyone from the faculty of Our Lady of Sorrows?”
“No. You and his sister are the only ones.”
“Then why did you keep saying yesterday that you weren’t supposed to talk to us?”
“I don’t get what you mean,” Jonie replied, frowning.
“You said it two or three times, ‘ I don’t think I should be talking to you .’ Did someone tell you not to talk with us?”
“Yeah, Johnny,” she said, impatiently. “Shit, I already explained that to you. He wanted to keep it a secret about us.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Hey, look. I gotta go.”
She turned and ran up the stairs to her apartment. But she’d left the door open. Jack stepped in and listened to her stomping around. It sounded like she was alone up
He didn’t wash that blue-striped pillowcase for several days, because he could still smell Johnny on it. He’d hold that pillow through the night—as he wished he could have held Johnny.
That same familiar scent now lingered on Johnny’s blue shirt. Peter clung to it, knowing the smell would soon fade.
He climbed off the bed and went to the window, Johnny’s shirt balled up in his hands. He stared out across the lake, at the buildings on campus. He could just make out the rooftop of St. Clement Hall.
Those sophomores Johnny had been seeing all lived on the third floor. Peter knew their names. He also knew one of them was a murderer.
Demo version limitation
Chapter Eleven
SORRETTO, J was printed on the buzzer. According to the phone book, the neglected, dark wood-frame duplex was Jonie’s current address. Jack stood on the front stoop, where someone had left a large open bag of kitty litter. Old bedsheets hung in the first-floor window in lieu of curtains.
In his hand, Jack held his green, pocket-size notebook. The first ten pages were now full of names and ideas. The name he’d written down most was Rick Pettinger, the seminarian who had denied knowing Johnny, then suddenly left school. Rick’s former lover had called him “dangerous.”
Did Jonie know about Johnny’s other relationships? Had she ever heard of Rick Pettinger? Jack had wanted to ask her yesterday, but couldn’t bring it up in front of Maggie.
He hadn’t phoned Jonie in advance. It was 11:30 on Sunday morning. She was probably pulling herself out of bed just about now.
Jack put the notebook in his pocket and pressed the buzzer. He waited a minute, then pressed it again.
“Whozit?” was the response over the intercom.
“It’s Father Murphy, Jonie. Can I come up?”
Silence.
“Jonie?”
“Be right down,” she replied.
Jack waited. And waited. At least three or four minutes passed. He thought about walking around the house to see if she’d ducked out a back way. He was about to buzz again when the door flung open.
“Yeah, what do you want?” Jonie asked, half hiding behind the door. She was dressed in black jeans and a ratty black pullover. Her dyed platinum hair was pinned up in back. She smoked a cigarette. Her black cherry lipstick left a mark on the filter.
“I’d like to ask you a couple more questions,” Jack said.
She rolled her raccoon-painted eyes. “I really don’t have time right now.”
“It won’t take long,” Jack assured her.
She sighed and blew out a stream of smoke. “Okay, what?”
“Did Johnny ever mention a friend named Rick Pettinger?”
She quickly shook her head. “Nope. I told you yesterday, he never talked about any of his friends except for what’s-his-name—Peter. And I already told you yesterday everything I know about him.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Now, is that it? Because I’m meeting a friend to go up to Vancouver, and I’m late.”
“Please, just one more minute, okay?” Jack said. “Has anyone else come to you about Johnny? The police or anyone from the faculty of Our Lady of Sorrows?”
“No. You and his sister are the only ones.”
“Then why did you keep saying yesterday that you weren’t supposed to talk to us?”
“I don’t get what you mean,” Jonie replied, frowning.
“You said it two or three times, ‘ I don’t think I should be talking to you .’ Did someone tell you not to talk with us?”
“Yeah, Johnny,” she said, impatiently. “Shit, I already explained that to you. He wanted to keep it a secret about us.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Hey, look. I gotta go.”
She turned and ran up the stairs to her apartment. But she’d left the door open. Jack stepped in and listened to her stomping around. It sounded like she was alone up
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