Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (138 page)

THEY SAT AT
the dining room table. Nicci had brought a number of files.

“There’s something here you should see,” Nicci said. She was pumped.

She opened a large envelope, took out a few photocopied pages. They were pages from Walt Brigham’s notebook. Not his official detective’s book, but a second, personal notebook. The last entry regarded the Annemarie DiCillo case, dated two days before Walt’s murder. The notations were in Walt’s now familiar cryptic hand.

Nicci had also signed out the DiCillo PPD homicide case file. Jessica scanned it.

Byrne had told Jessica about the case, but seeing the details made her sick. Two little girls at their birthday party in Fairmount Park in 1995. Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. They had walked into the forest, and never walked out. How many times had Jessica taken her own daughter to the park? How many times had she taken her eyes off Sophie just for a second?

Jessica looked at the crime-scene photographs. The girls were found near the base of a pine tree. Close up photographs showed what appeared to be a makeshift nest built around them.

There were a few dozen witness statements from families that were in the park that day. No one seemed to have seen anything. The little girls were there one minute, and the next they were gone. Police were called at about 7
PM
that evening, and a tender-age search was conducted, involving two officers and dogs from the K-9 unit. At 3
AM
the next morning the girls were found near the bank of the Wissahickon Creek.

Over the next few years there were periodic entries into the file, mostly from Walt Brigham, some from his partner John Longo. Each of the entries was similar. Nothing new.

“Look.” Nicci took out the photographs of the farmhouse, flipped them over. On the back of one picture was the partial zip code. On the other were the three letters ADC. Nicci pointed to a timeline in Walt Brigham’s notes. Among the many bits of shorthand were the same letters: ADC.

ADC was Annemarie DiCillo.

A jolt of electricity shot through Jessica. The farmhouse had something to do with Annemarie’s murder. And Annemarie’s murder had something to do with Walt Brigham’s death.

“Walt was getting close.” Jessica said. “He was murdered because he was closing in on the killer.”

“Bingo.”

Jessica considered the evidence and the theory. Nicci was probably right. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

Nicci tapped the picture of the farmhouse. “I want to take a ride to Berks County. Maybe we can find this house.”

Jessica was on her feet in an instant. “I’ll go with you.”

“Aren’t you off duty?”

Jessica laughed. “What’s off duty?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“As long as I’m home and in my husband’s arms by midnight, I’m good.”

At just after 9
AM
on December 31, Detectives Jessica Balzano and Nicolette Malone of the Philadelphia Police Department’s Homicide Division got on the Schuylkill Expressway. They headed to Berks County, Pennsylvania.

They headed upriver.

PART FOUR

WHAT THE MOON SAW

70

You stand where the waters meet, at the confluence of two great rivers. The winter sun is low in a salt-colored sky. You choose a path, follow the smaller river north, winding among lyrical names and historic places—Bartram’s Garden, Point Breeze, Grays Ferry. You float past sullen row houses, past the majesty of the city, past Boathouse Row and the Museum of Art, past the train yards, the East Park Reservoir, and the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. You slide northwest, whispering in your wake ancient incantations—Miquon, Conshohocken, Wissahickon. You leave the city now, and hover among the phantoms of Valley Forge, Phoenixville, Spring City. The Schuylkill snakes into history, the nation’s remembrance. Yet still, it is the hidden river.

You soon bid farewell to the river main, entering a haven of silence, a thin, meandering tributary heading southwest. The waterway narrows, widens, narrows again, a twisting tangle of rock and shale and water willow.

Suddenly, from the silted winter mist appears a handful of buildings. A huge trellis spans the canal, once grand, now fallen into neglect and disrepair, its bright colors dour and flaked and dry.

You see an old structure, at one time a proud boathouse. The fragrance of marine paint and varnish still lives in the air. You enter a room. It is a tidy place, a place of deep shadow and sharp angles.

In this room you find a workbench. On the bench is an old, but sharp saw. Next to it, a coil of blue and white rope.

You see a dress laid out on a daybed, waiting. It is a beautiful gown, pale strawberry in color, shirred to the waist. A dress for a princess.

You continue, winding though a maze of narrow canals. You hear the echo of laughter, the lap of waves against small brightly colored boats. You smell the aroma of carnival foods—elephant ears, cotton candy, the glorious tang of sauerbraten on fresh seeded rolls. You hear the lilt of the calliope.

And further on, further still, until all is silent again. Now it is a place of darkness. A place where graves chill the earth.

It is here that Moon will meet you.

He knows you are coming.

71

Throughout southeastern Pennsylvania there were small towns and villages scattered among the farms, most with just a handful of commercial enterprises, a pair of churches, a small school. In addition to growing cities like Lancaster and Reading there were bucolic villages like Oley and Exeter, hamlets virtually untouched by time.

As they passed though Valley Forge, Jessica realized how much of her state she had not experienced. As much as she hated to admit it, she had been twenty-six before she had actually seen the Liberty Bell up close. She imagined it was like that for a lot of people who lived near history.

THERE WERE MORE
than thirty zip codes in Berks County. The area covered by the 195 zip code prefix covered a large area at the southeastern end of the county.

Jessica and Nicci took a few back roads and began to ask about the farmhouse. They had debated involving local law enforcement in their quest, but things like that at times entailed red tape, jurisdictional issues. They kept it open, available as an option, but decided to do it on their own for the time being.

They inquired at small shops, gas stations, the occasional roadside stands. They stopped at a church on White Bear Road. People were pleasant enough, but no one seemed to recognize the farmhouse, or have any idea where it was located.

At noon the detectives took a road heading south through Robeson Township. A few wrong turns put them on a rough two-lane that wound through the woods. Fifteen minutes later they came upon an auto body and collision shop.

The fields surrounding the enterprise were a necropolis of corroded vehicle shells—fenders and doors, long rusted bumpers, engine blocks, aluminum truck caps. To the right was an outbuilding; a sulking corrugated shed pitching at about a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Everything was overgrown, neglected, covered with gray snow and grime. If it hadn’t been for the lights in the windows—including a struggling neon sign advertising
Mopar
—the building would have looked derelict.

Jessica and Nicci pulled into the parking lot, itself populated with broken-down cars, vans, trucks. There was an RV on blocks. Jessica wondered if that was where the proprietor lived. A sign above the entrance to the garage read:

DOUBLE K AUTO / TWICE THE VALUE

An ancient, disinterested mastiff, chained to a pole, gave a cursory
woof
as they approached the main building.

JESSICA AND NICCI
entered. The three-bay garage was jammed with automotive debris. A greasy radio on the counter played Tim McGraw. The place smelled like WD40, grape candy, and old lunch meat.

The bell on the door announced them, and after a few seconds two men approached. They were twins in their early thirties. They wore matching grimy blue overalls, had disheveled blond hair, blackened hands. Their nametags read
KYLE
and
KEITH
.

Hence the
Double K,
Jessica suspected.

“Hi,” Nicci said.

Neither man answered. Instead, they slowly ran their eyes over Nicci, then Jessica. Nicci plowed ahead. She showed her ID, introduced herself. “We’re with the Philadelphia Police Department.”

Both men pulled faces, mugging, mocking. They remained silent.

“We’d like a few minutes of your time,” Nicci added.

Kyle smiled a big yellow grin. “I’ve got all day for you, darlin’.”

Here we go,
Jessica thought.

“We’re looking for a house that might be located around here,” Nicci said, unfazed. “I’d like to show you a few pictures.”

“Oooo,” Keith said. “We like pitchers. Us country folk need pitchers cuzz’n we cain’t
read.
”

Kyle snorted laughter.

“Are they
dirty
pitchers?” he added.

The two brothers bumped grimy fists.

Nicci just stared for a moment, unblinking. She took a deep breath, regrouped, began again. “If you could just take a look at these, we’d really appreciate it. Then we’ll be on our way.” She held up a photograph. The two men glanced at it, went back to ogling.

“Yeah,” said Kyle. “That’s my house. We could take a ride up there now if you like.”

Nicci glanced at Jessica, back at the brothers. Up came the Philly. “You’ve got a mouth on you, you know that?”

Kyle laughed. “Oh, you got that right,” he said. “Ask any girl in town.” He ran his tongue over his lips. “Why don’t you come here and find out for yourself?”

“Maybe I will,” Nicci said. “Maybe I’ll slap it into the next fuckin’ county.” Nicci took a step toward them. Jessica put a hand on Nicci’s arm, held tight.

“Guys?
Guys?
” Jessica said. “We thank you for your time. We really do appreciate it.” She held up one of her business cards. “You’ve seen the picture. If you think of something, please give us a call.” She put her card on the counter.

Kyle looked at Keith, back at Jessica. “Oh I can think of something. Hell, I can think of a
lot
of things.”

Jessica looked at Nicci. She could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. After a moment, she felt the tension in Nicci’s arm ease. They turned to leave.

“Is your home number on the card?” one of them yelled.

Another hyena laugh.

Jessica and Nicci reached the car, slipped inside. “Remember that kid in
Deliverance
?” Nicci asked. “The one who played the banjo?”

Jessica buckled up. “What about him?”

“Looks like he had twins.”