Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (165 page)

“Sure,” Officer Caruso said. She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get going anyway. I’ve got to pick up my daughter.”

“You have a little girl?”

Maria Caruso beamed. “Carmen. She’s twenty-two months. And counting.”

Jessica smiled.
Twenty-two months.
Spoken like a young mother trying to hang on to a child’s infancy. Jessica had done the same thing. “Well, thanks again for the good work.”

“You’re welcome.” Officer Caruso stuck out her hand. They shook hands, a little clumsily.

A few seconds later Jessica turned, walked a few feet up the cracked and baking sidewalk. She took out her notebook, glanced at her watch, noted the time, snapped the rubber band. Another old habit.

As she crossed the threshold, she turned, saw Maria Caruso getting into her own car, a ten-year-old Honda Accord. There was rust along the rocker panels, a missing hubcap, a cracked taillight held together with masking tape.

I want to work homicides, of course. Just like everybody else. Just like you
.

You might want to think about that a little longer, Maria.

J
ESSICA LOGGED INTO THE CRIME SCENE
, walked into the building. Although she had been there just a day earlier, the interior looked completely different. It was almost presentable. At least to someone thinking about renovating the place. There were still basketball-sized holes in the drywall, still an inch of grease and mold on everything, but a lot of the trash had been removed, and with it seemed to have gone ninety percent of the flies.

Jessica moved down the hallway, then the narrow wooden stairs, into the partial basement, which was now brightly lit with police lights. The floor was not poured concrete, as she might have originally guessed, but rather an old wood planking. It had at one time been painted a deep claret enamel. Before that, as the chipped-away sections told her, something that appeared to be ash gray. The walls were bare concrete block, the ceiling unfinished, just open joists, criss-crossed with one-by-three bridging, dense with cobwebs.

Jessica immediately saw what she was there to see. There was a hole cut into the center of the floor. Next to it lay a plywood square, probably the access door. There was a finger hole drilled near the center. Neither were precisely square.

The rolled-up rug was against the wall.

For the moment, there was only one other person in the basement. An experienced uniformed officer named Stan Keegan. He stood next to the access hole, hands clasped in front of him. He nodded to Jessica. “Afternoon, Detective.”

“Hey, Stanley,” she said. “You look good. You losing weight?”

“Twenty-eight ounces in the past twelve days. That’s nearly two pounds.”

“Awesome,” Jessica said. “What’s your secret?”

“Fat-free croutons,” Keegan said. “You’d be amazed how regular croutons pile on the calories.”

“I’ll make a note.”

Keegan shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels. “Where’s the big man?”

Jessica pulled her hair back, grabbed a rubber band off her wrist, ponytailed her hair. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Detective Byrne has the afternoon off.”

“Sweet,” Keegan mugged. “Must be nice to have seniority.”

Jessica laughed. “What are you talking about? You’ve been here longer than anyone, Stan. It’s you who should be eating Milk Duds at the movies.”

It was true. No one really knew how long Stan Keegan had been a Philadelphia police officer. White-haired, potbellied, bowlegged, a face like a just-boiled scampi, he seemed to have come with the city itself. Like an accessory. Keegan often told people he was on William Penn’s original security detail.

“Last good movie I saw was
The Quiet Man,
” Keegan said.

“What was that, 1950?”

“Won two Oscars. 1952. John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara, Barry Fitzgerald. Directed by John Ford. Greatest film ever made.”

Stan Keegan said
fill-um.
Jessica was going to ask him if he knew which Oscars the movie had won, but she figured he did. She stepped closer, glanced into the square hole. She couldn’t see much. She wasn’t looking forward to this. “Have you been down there?”

Keegan shook his head. “That’s above my pay grade, Detective. Plus, I have this unnaturally low tolerance for the sight of dead bodies. Always have.”

Jessica recalled her days in uniform, days when she’d had to secure a crime scene. It was always a relief when the detectives showed up. “I understand.”

“Does that make me a homophobe?” Keegan asked.

“Only if the dead person is gay, Stan.”

“Ah.”

Jessica knelt on the floor. There was no ladder, but that didn’t seem to be a problem. The crawlspace looked to be only about forty inches deep or so. “You sure I can’t promote you, just for the afternoon?” she asked.

Jessica saw the right corner of Stan Keegan’s mouth rise a millimeter. For Officer Keegan, this was the equivalent of laughing hysterically. “No thanks.”

“All right.” Jessica took a few deep breaths. “The sooner I get down there, right?”

“
Dia duit,
Detective.”

As far as Jessica knew, this was a Gaelic phrase meaning “God to you.” The long tradition of the Irish in law enforcement in most major cities in America infused a lot of Gaelic traditions and language into the department, even if the closest you came to being Irish was drinking Irish coffees. She’d heard many black and Hispanic officers spouting Irish proverbs in the past, albeit usually around last call. “Thanks, Stan.”

Jessica swung her legs over the edge, sat on the floor for a moment. Beneath her, the temporary police lights in the crawlspace cast a yellow, ghostlike glow along the hard pack floor. Long shadows filtered across her field of vision.

Shadows of what?
Jessica wondered. She looked a little more closely and saw the vague outline of three boxes, their silhouettes elongated by the bright lights.

Three boxes in a crawlspace. One female DOA.

Jessica said a silent prayer, and lowered herself into the ground.

| TWENTY-TWO |

B
YRNE STOOD ON THE CORNER OF
T
WENTIETH AND
M
ARKET STREETS
.

As the lunchtime crowd flowed around him, he glanced at his phone. He had turned it off. He wasn’t supposed to do this, but he had half a day off, and he was going to take it. He could still think, even when he was off duty, couldn’t he? On the other hand, he couldn’t recall ever feeling completely off duty, not in the past fifteen years. He once took a week in the Poconos, and found himself mulling over his caseload while sitting in a creaky Adirondack chair, sipping Old Forester out of a jelly jar. Such was the life.

His mind drifted from Caitlin O’Riordan to Laura Somerville to Eve Galvez.

Eve.

Somehow he had always known what happened to her. He hadn’t imagined such a gruesome fate, but he had known it was bad. He had always hoped that he was wrong. He knew that they were—

He felt a hand on his arm.

Byrne spun, his heart in his throat. It was his daughter, Colleen.

“Hey, Dad,” she signed.

“Hey.”

His daughter hugged him, and the world broke out in roses.

T
HEY WALKED DOWN
M
ARKET
S
TREET
, toward the Schuylkill. The sun was high and hot. The lunchtime crowd streamed by.

“You look so good,” she signed. “Like,
really
good.”

Colleen Siobhan Byrne had been deaf since birth, proficient at American Sign Language since the age of seven. These days she taught it part-time at an inner-city school. Her father was pretty good at it too.

“I’m getting there,” Byrne said. It had been a slow climb back since he had been shot three years earlier. He had realized this past spring, on a damp morning when everything, including his eyebrows and ankles and tongue hurt like hell, that he had to do something. He’d had a man-in-the-mirror talk with himself. He knew that if he didn’t make a move, at this age, he never would. He was even considering a yoga class, although he would never tell anyone. Even his daughter. He’d even gone so far as to pick up a yoga DVD, and had tried a few of the breathing exercises. He had also been working with weights twice a week, too. Anything to stay out of physical therapy.

“Have you been working out?” she asked.

“A little,” Byrne signed.

“A
little
?” She grabbed his upper left arm, squeezed. “Don’t get too buff on me, Dad,” she signed. “All my girlfriends think you’re pretty cute as it is.”

Byrne blushed. No one could get to him like his daughter.

Colleen looped her arm through his.

At Twenty-first, a pair of spike-haired boys approached them, boys around seventeen, both wearing torn jeans, black T-shirts bearing some death message. They both leered at Colleen in her white sundress, at Byrne’s signing, then back to Colleen. They nudged each other, as if to say that the fact that this hot blond was deaf made her even hotter. The boys smiled at his daughter. Byrne wanted to drop them where they stood. He resisted.

When they stopped, waiting for the light on Twenty-second Street, Byrne knew it was time to ask. He got his daughter’s attention.

“So,” he began. “What’s this all about?”

Two days earlier, Donna Sullivan Byrne, Kevin Byrne’s ex-wife, Colleen’s mother, had called out of the blue. She said she wanted to see him, to have lunch. Just like that.
Lunch.
It was nearly an alien construct for the two of them.

They hadn’t really had lunch since they were courting. Their divorce had been reasonably amicable—if you considered the Crimean War amicable—but they had tolerated seeing each other over the years for Colleen. The other day, on the phone, Donna had seemed kind of like the
old
Donna. Flirtatious and happy. Happy to talk to
him.
It didn’t take the world’s greatest detective to know that something was up. Byrne just didn’t have a clue what it could be.

Of course, he hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row thinking about this.

“I swear I don’t know,” Colleen signed on the tail of a mysterious smile.

She stopped at a metal box of newspapers, one of a half dozen, and picked up a copy of
The Report,
the sleaziest free weekly in Philly, which was saying something. Even for free it was grossly overpriced. Byrne winced. Colleen laughed. She knew her father’s history with the paper. As they walked on, Colleen flipped to page three, halved it, like she knew where she was going. She did. She pointed to the picture of Caitlin O’Riordan.

“This is your case, isn’t it?” she signed.

Byrne hated to talk about the ugliness of his job with Colleen, but he had to constantly remind himself of late that she was no longer a child. Far from it. She would be in college before he knew it.

He nodded.

“The girl was a runaway?”

“Yes,” Byrne signed. “She was from Lancaster.”

Colleen looked at the article for a few moments, then folded the paper and put it into her tote bag.

Byrne thought about how blessed he was, how bright, and capable and resourceful his daughter was. He then thought of Robert O’Riordan, and the four months of hell through which the man had lived. Byrne had no idea if they were ever going to close the O’Riordan case. About this Kevin Byrne had a number of hopes, as well.

When they reached the building, Byrne looked at his daughter, she at him. He must have looked exactly the way he felt.

Colleen rolled her eyes, swatted him on the arm. “You are
such
a baby.”

Byrne silently agreed and held open the door.

__________

B
YRNE AND
C
OLLEEN
were seated at a table at Bistro St. Tropez, near the windows overlooking the Schuylkill River. The sun had come out again, and the water sparkled. They sat without conversing for a while, just enjoying their nearness.

Soon a shadow crossed the table. Byrne looked up. A woman stood next to their table, a butterscotch blond with a slender figure and a beautiful smile. She wore a pale-lemon linen suit.

The woman was his ex-wife, the love of his life. Byrne stood. Donna kissed him on the cheek. She thumbed off her lipstick—an old endearment—and his legs wobbled.

Big city cop, Byrne thought. Real tough guy. He’d been shot, stabbed, and punched more times than he could count. The slightest touch of his wife’s thumb and he was down for the count.

T
HEY SIPPED THEIR WATERS
, glanced around at the well-dressed clientele, made their small talk. They perused the menus. Okay, Byrne did. It seemed Donna and Colleen had been here before, and knew what they wanted long before he did. They both ordered salads—one Poulet Moroccan, one Belle Mer—and Byrne ordered the Burger St. Tropez.

No one was surprised.

While they waited for their food, Byrne tried to keep up with the gossip, but he was really lost in a fog. Donna Sullivan was still the most beautiful and vibrant woman he had ever met. From the moment he first laid eyes on her next to a 7-Eleven, when they were both teenagers, he had always been in her thrall. He’d had many affairs since the divorce, had even thought he felt the real thing a few times, but his heart still stuttered every time they met.

Donna had worked as a real-estate agent for the past five years, but had recently joined a small interior design firm. She had always been creative, had taken design courses in college, but had never found the proper outlet. Now, it seemed, she had.

The lunch hour passed far too quickly. At least a dozen times as they ate and talked and laughed, Byrne thought,
I’m with my wife and daughter. I’m actually sitting in a restaurant with the two girls who actually mean something to me on this planet.

Okay, two of the three. Jessica would kill him.

At just before two o’clock Donna glanced at her watch. She grabbed the check. Byrne objected, but just a little. She made a lot more than he did.