Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (17 page)

At around eleven Patrick walked her to her car, which was parked on Third Street. Then came the moment, as she knew it would. The scotch helped smooth it over.

“So . . . dinner next week, maybe?” Patrick asked.

“Well, I . . . you know . . .” Jessica hemmed and hawed.

“Just friends,” Patrick added. “Nothing untoward.”

“Well, then, forget it,” Jessica said. “If we can’t be toward, what’s the point?”

Patrick laughed again. Jessica had forgotten how magical that sound could be. It had been a long time since she and Vincent had found anything to laugh about.

“Okay. Sure,” Jessica said, trying, and failing, to find a single reason not to go to dinner with an old friend. “Why not?”

“Great,” Patrick said. He leaned over and gently kissed the bruise on her right cheek. “Irish preop,” he added. “It’ll be better in the morning. Wait and see.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

Patrick winked, setting loose a few hundred sparrows in Jessica’s chest. He put up his hands, in a defensive boxing posture, then reached out, smoothed her hair. He turned and walked to his car.

Jessica watched him drive away.

She touched her cheek, felt the lingering warmth of his lips. And was not at all surprised to discover that her face was starting to feel better already.

16

MONDAY, 11:00 PM

S
IMON CLOSE WAS IN LOVE.

Jessica Balzano was absolutely incredible. Tall and slender and sexy as hell. The way she dispatched her opponent in the ring gave him, perhaps, the single most feral charge he had ever felt just looking at a woman. He felt like a schoolboy watching her.

She was going to make great copy.

She was going to make even better artwork.

He had flashed his smile and press ID at the Blue Horizon and gotten in with relative ease. Granted, it wasn’t like getting into the Linc for an Eagles game, or the Wachovia Center to see the Sixers, but still, it gave him a sense of pride and purpose whenever he was treated like part of the mainstream press. Tabloid writers rarely got free tickets, never went on the press junkets, had to beg for press kits. He had misspelled many names in his career, due to the fact that he never got a decent press kit.

After Jessica’s fight, Simon parked half a block from the crime scene tape on North Eighth Street. The only other vehicles were a Ford Taurus, parked inside the perimeter, along with a Crime Scene Unit van.

He watched the eleven o’clock news on his Watchman. The lead story was the murdered young girl. The victim’s name was Tessa Ann Wells, seventeen, of North Philly. Immediately, Simon had his Philadelphia white pages open on his lap, his Maglite in his teeth. There were a total of twelve possibilities in North Philly: eight spelled
Welles,
four spelled
Wells
.

He pulled out his cell phone, dialed the first number.

“Mr. Welles?”

“Yes?”

“Sir, my name is Simon Close. I’m a writer with
The Report
.”

Silence.

Then: “Yes?”

“First off, I just want to say how sorry I was to hear about your daughter.”

A sharp intake of air. “My daughter? Something has happened to Hannah?”

Oops.

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number.”

He clicked off, dialed the next number.

Busy.

Next. A woman this time.

“Mrs. Welles?”

“Who is this?”

“Madam, my name is Simon Close. I’m a writer with
The Report
.”

Click.

Bitch.

Next.

Busy.

Jesus, he thought. Doesn’t anyone in Philly sleep anymore?

Then Channel 6 did a recap. They called the victim “Tessa Ann Wells of Twentieth Street in North Philly.”

Thank you, Action News,
Simon thought.

Check
this
action
.

He looked up the number. Frank Wells on Twentieth Street. He dialed, but the line was busy. Again. Busy. Again. Same result. Redial. Redial.

Damn.

He thought about driving over there, but what happened next, like a crack of righteous thunder, changed everything.

17

MONDAY, 11:00 PM

D
EATH HAD COME here unbidden, and, for its penance, the block mourned in silence. The rain had diminished to a thin mist, whispering off the rivers, slicking the pavement. Night had buried its day in a glassine shroud.

Byrne sat in his car across the street from the Tessa Wells crime scene, his exhaustion now a living thing within. Through the fog he could see a faint orange glow coming from the basement window of the row house. The CSU team would be there all night, and probably most of the next day.

He slipped a blues CD into the player. Soon, Robert Johnson scratched and crackled from the speakers, talking about that hellhound on his trail.

I hear you,
Byrne thought.

He considered the short block of dilapidated row houses. The once graceful façades swooned beneath the yoke of weather and time and neglect. For all the drama that had unfolded behind these walls over the years, both petty and grand, it was the perfume of death that would remain. Long after the footers were plowed back into the earth, madness would dwell here.

Byrne saw movement in the field to the right of the crime scene. A slum dog regarded him from the cover of a small pile of discarded tires, his only worry his next bite of spoiled meat, his next tongueful of rainwater.

Lucky dog.

Byrne shut off the CD, closed his eyes, absorbed the silence.

There had been no fresh footprints through the weed-thick field behind the death house, no recently snapped branches on the low scrub. Whoever killed Tessa Wells had probably not parked on Ninth Street.

He felt the breath catch in his chest, the way it had the night he had plunged into the icy river, locked in death’s caress with Luther White—

The images slammed into the back of his skull—brutal and vile and base.

He saw Tessa’s final moments.

The approach comes from the front . . .

The killer turns off his headlights, decelerates, rolls slowly, cautiously, to a stop. Cuts the engine. He exits the vehicle, sniffs the air. He finds this place ripe for his insanity. A bird of prey is most vulnerable when it eats, mantling its catch, exposed to attack from above. He knows he is about to put himself at momentary risk. He has chosen his quarry with care. Tessa Wells is that thing that is missing within him; the very idea of beauty that he must destroy.

He carries her across the street, into the empty row house on the left. Nothing with a soul stirs here. It is dark inside, borrowing no moonlight. The rotted floor is a danger, but he does not risk a flashlight. Not yet. She is light in his arms. He is full of a terrible power.

He exits the rear of the house.

(But why? Why not dump her in the first house?)

He is sexually aroused, but he does not act on it.

(Again, why?)

He enters the death house. He takes Tessa Wells down the stairs into the dank and putrid cellar.

(Has he been here before?)

Rats scurry, frightened off their meager carrion. He is in no hurry. Time does not come here anymore.

He is in complete control at this moment.

He is . . .

He is—

Byrne tried, but he could not see the killer’s face.

Not yet.

The pain flashed with a bright, savage intensity.

It was getting worse.

B
YRNE LIT A CIGARETTE, smoked it down to the filter without the curse of a single thought, or the blessing of a single idea. The rain began again in earnest.

Why Tessa Wells?
he wondered, turning her photograph over and over in his hands.

Why not the next shy young girl? What did Tessa do to deserve this? Did she refuse the advances of some teenaged Lothario? No. As crazy as every new crop of young men seemed to be, tagging each successive generation with some hyperbolic level of larceny and violence, this was far beyond the pale of some jilted teenager.

Was she chosen at random?

If that was the case, Byrne knew it was unlikely that this was going to stop.

What was so special about this place?

What was he failing to see?

Byrne felt the rage build. The pain tangoed at his temples. He split a Vicodin, swallowed it dry.

He hadn’t slept more than three or four hours in the past forty-eight, but who needed sleep? There was work to be done.

The wind kicked up, fluttering the bright yellow crime scene tape—grand-opening pennants at Death Mart.

He looked into the rearview mirror; saw the scar over his right eye and the way it glistened in the moonlight. He ran his finger over it. He thought about Luther White and the way his .22 had glimmered in the moonlight on the night they both died, the way the barrel exploded and painted the world red, then white, then black; the full palette of lunacy, the way the river had embraced them both.

Where are you, Luther?

I could do with a little help.

He got out of the car, locked it. He knew he should go home, but somehow, this place filled him with the sense of purpose he needed at the moment, the peace he used to feel when he was sitting in the living room on some crisp fall day, watching an Eagles game, Donna on the couch next to him, reading a book, Colleen in her room, studying.

Maybe he should go home.

But go home to what? His empty two-room apartment?

He would drink another pint of bourbon, watch the talk shows, probably a movie. At three o’clock he would slip into bed, waiting for a sleep that would not come. At six he would concede to the pre-alarm dawn, and get up.

He glanced at the glow of light from the basement window, saw the shadows moving purposefully about, felt the pull.

These were his brothers, his sisters, his family.

He crossed the street to the death house.

This
was his home.

18

MONDAY, 11:08 PM

S
IMON HAD BEEN AWARE of the two vehicles. The blue-and-white Crime Scene Unit van nestled against the side of the row house, and the Taurus parked down the street, the Taurus containing his nemesis, as it were: Detective Kevin Francis Byrne.

When Simon had broken the story on Morris Blanchard’s suicide, Kevin Byrne had waited for him one night outside Downey’s, a raucous Irish pub on Front and South Streets. Byrne had cornered him and had thrown him around like a rag doll, finally picking him up by the collar of his jacket and slamming him up against a wall. Simon was no bruiser, but he did go six feet tall, eleven stone, and Byrne had lifted him clean off the ground with a single hand. Byrne had smelled like a distillery after a flood, and Simon had prepared himself for a serious donnybrook. Okay, a serious beating. Who was he kidding?

But luckily, instead of punching him flat—which, Simon had to admit, he might have had coming—Byrne just stopped, looked at the sky, and dropped him like a spent tissue, letting him off with sore ribs, a banged up shoulder, and a knit shirt stretched beyond all attempts at resizing.