Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (56 page)

But the message Paul had for Byrne this day was not good. One of his quarry, it seemed, had loosed itself: Julian Matisse was back on the street.

The news was impossible, but it was true.

It was no secret that Kevin Byrne took a special interest in cases involving the murders of young women. He had felt this way ever since the day Colleen was born. In his mind and heart, every young woman was forever somebody’s daughter, somebody’s baby girl. Every young woman, at one time, had been that little girl who learned to hold a cup with two hands, had learned to stand up, sea-legged, five tiny fingers on the coffee table.

Girls like Gracie. Two years earlier, Julian Matisse had raped and murdered a young woman named Marygrace Devlin.

Gracie Devlin was nineteen years old the day she was killed. She had curly brown hair that fell in soft ringlets to her shoulders, a light dusting of freckles. She was a slight young woman, a freshman at Villanova. She favored peasant skirts and Indian jewelry and nocturnes by Chopin. She died on a frigid January night in a filthy, abandoned movie theater in South Philadelphia.

And now, by some profane twist of justice, the man who took her dignity and her life was out of prison. Julian Matisse had been sentenced to twenty-five years to life and he was being released after two years.

Two years.

The grass had only grown fully on Gracie’s grave this past spring.

Matisse was a small-time pimp, a sadist of the first order. Before Gracie Devlin, he had spent three and a half years in prison for cutting a woman who had refused his advances. Using a box cutter, he had slashed her face so savagely that she had required ten hours of surgery to repair the muscle damage, and nearly four hundred stitches.

Following the box cutter attack, when Matisse was released from Curran-Fromhold prison—after serving only forty months of a ten-year sentence—it didn’t take long for him to graduate to homicide. Byrne and his partner Jimmy Purify had liked Matisse for the murder of a Center City waitress named Janine Tillman, but they were never able to find any physical evidence tying him to the crime. Her body was found in Harrowgate Park, stabbed and mutilated. She had been abducted from an underground parking lot on Broad Street. She had been sexually assaulted both pre- and postmortem.

An eyewitness from the parking lot came forward and picked Matisse out of a photo lineup. The witness was an elderly woman named Marjorie Samms. Before they could find Matisse, Marjorie Samms disappeared. A week later they found her floating in the Delaware River.

Supposedly Matisse had been staying with his mother after his release from Curran-Fromhold. Detectives staked out Matisse’s mother’s apartment, but he never showed. The case went cold.

Byrne knew that he would see Matisse again one day.

Then, two years ago, on a freezing January night, a 911 call came in that a young woman was being attacked in an alleyway behind an abandoned movie theater in South Philadelphia. Byrne and Jimmy were eating dinner a block away and took the call. By the time they reached the scene, the alley was empty, but a blood trail led them inside.

When Byrne and Jimmy entered the theater, they found Gracie on the stage, alone. She had been brutally beaten. Byrne would never forget the tableau—Gracie’s limp form on the stage in that frigid theater, steam rising from her body, her life force departing. While the EMS rescue was on the way, Byrne frantically tried to give her CPR. She had breathed once, a slight exhalation of air that had gone into his lungs, the existence leaving her body, entering his. Then, with a slight shudder, she died in his arms. Marygrace Devlin lived nineteen years, two months, and three days.

The Crime Scene Unit found a fingerprint on the scene. It belonged to Julian Matisse. With a dozen detectives on the case, and more than a little intimidation of the low-life crowd with whom Julian Matisse consorted, they found Matisse huddling in a closet in a burned-out row house on Jefferson Street, where they also found a glove covered in Gracie Devlin’s blood. Byrne had to be restrained.

Matisse was tried and convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in the state penitentiary at Greene County.

After Gracie’s murder, Byrne walked around for many months with the belief that Gracie’s breath was still inside him, that her strength impelled him to do his job. For a long time, he felt as if it were the only clean part of him, the only piece of him that had not been sullied by the city.

Now Matisse was out, walking the streets, his face to the sun. The thought made Kevin Byrne sick. He dialed Paul DiCarlo’s number.

“DiCarlo.”

“Tell me I heard your message wrong.”

“Wish I could, Kevin.”

“What happened?”

“You know about Phil Kessler?”

Phil Kessler had been a homicide detective for twenty-two years, a divisional detective ten years before that, a loose cannon who more than once had put a fellow detective in jeopardy with his inattention to detail or ignorance of procedure or general lack of nerve.

There were always a few guys in the Homicide Unit who were not very good around dead bodies, and they usually would do whatever they had to do to avoid going out to a crime scene. They made themselves available to go get warrants, round up and transport witnesses, work stakeouts. Kessler was just this sort of detective. He liked the idea of being a homicide detective, but the actual homicide itself freaked him out.

Byrne had worked only one job with Kessler as his primary partner, the case of a girl found in an abandoned gas station in North Philly. It turned out to be an overdose, not a homicide, and Byrne couldn’t get away from the man fast enough.

Kessler had retired a year ago. Byrne had heard that the man had late-stage pancreatic cancer.

“I heard he was sick,” Byrne said. “I don’t know much more than that.”

“Well, the word is he doesn’t have more than a few months,” DiCarlo said. “Maybe not even that long.”

As much as Byrne didn’t like Phil Kessler, he didn’t wish such a painful end on anyone. “I still don’t know what this has to do with Julian Matisse.”

“Kessler went to the DA and told her that he and Jimmy Purify planted the bloody glove on Matisse. He gave a sworn statement.”

The room began to spin. Byrne had to steady himself. “What the fuck are you
talking
about?”

“I’m only telling you what he said, Kevin.”

“And you
believe
him?”

“Well, number one, it’s not my case. Number two, the Homicide Unit here is looking into it. And three, no. I don’t believe him. Jimmy was the most stand-up cop I ever knew.”

“Then why does this have traction?”

DiCarlo hesitated. Byrne read the pause as meaning something even worse was coming. How was
that
possible? He found out. “Kessler had a second bloody glove, Kevin. He turned it over. The gloves belonged to Jimmy.”

“It’s pure fucking bullshit! It’s a setup!”

“
I
know it.
You
know it. Anybody who ever rode with Jimmy knows it. Unfortunately, Conrad Sanchez is representing Matisse.”

Jesus,
Byrne thought. Conrad Sanchez was a legend in the public defender’s office, a world-class obstructionist, one of the few who’d decided long ago to make a career out of legal aid. Now in his fifties, he had been a public defender for more than twenty-five years. “Is Matisse’s mother still alive?”

“I don’t know.”

Byrne never got a handle on Matisse’s relationship with his mother, Edwina. He’d had his suspicions, though. When they were investigating Gracie’s murder, they obtained a search warrant for her apartment. Matisse’s room was decorated like a little boy’s room: cowboy shades on the lamps,
Star Wars
posters on the walls, a Spider-Man bedspread.

“So he’s out?”

“Yeah,” DiCarlo said. “They released him two weeks ago pending the appeal.”

“Two
weeks
? Why the hell didn’t I read about it?”

“This is not exactly a shining moment in the commonwealth’s history. Sanchez found a sympathetic judge.”

“Do they have him on a monitor?”

“No.”

“This fucking
city.
” Byrne slammed his hand into the drywall, caving it in.
There goes the security deposit,
he thought. He didn’t feel even a slight ripple of pain. Not at that moment, anyway. “Where’s he staying?”

“I don’t know. We sent a pair of detectives out to his last-known, just to show him a little muscle, but he’s in the wind.”

“That’s just great,” Byrne said.

“Listen, I’ve got to be in court, Kevin. I’ll call you later and we’ll plot a strategy. Don’t worry. We’ll put him back. This charge against Jimmy is bullshit. House of cards.”

Byrne hung up, rose slowly, painfully to his feet. He grabbed his cane and walked across the living room. He looked out the window, watched the kids and their parents on the street.

For a long time, Byrne had thought that evil was a relative thing; that all sorts of evil walked the earth, each in its own shoes. Then he saw Gracie Devlin’s body, and knew that the man who had done that monstrous thing was the embodiment of evil. All that hell would allow on this earth.

Now, after contemplating a day and a week and a month and a lifetime with nothing to do, Byrne had moral imperatives in front of him. All of a sudden there were people he had to see, things he had to do, regardless of how much pain he was in. He walked into the bedroom, pulled open the top drawer of his dresser. He saw Gracie’s handkerchief, the small pink silk square.

There is a terrible memory in this cloth,
he thought. It had been in Gracie’s pocket when she was murdered. Gracie’s mother had insisted Byrne take it the day Matisse was sentenced. He removed it from the drawer and—

—her screams echo in his head her warm breath enters his body her blood washes over him hot and glossy in the frigid night air—

—stepped back, his pulse now slamming in his ears, his mind deep in denial that what he had just felt was a recurrence of a frightful power he believed was part of his past.

The prescience was back.

M
ELANIE
D
EVLIN STOOD
at the small barbecue on the tiny back patio of her row house on Emily Street. The smoke rose lazily from the rusting grill, mingling with the thick, humid air. A long-empty bird feeder sat atop the crumbling back wall. The tiny terrace, like most so-called backyards in Philly, was barely big enough for two people. Somehow she had managed to fit a Weber grill, a pair of sanded wrought-iron chairs, and a small table on it.

In the two years since Byrne had seen Melanie Devlin, she had gained thirty pounds or so. She wore a yellow short set—stretch shorts and a horizontal-striped tank top—but it was not a cheerful yellow. It was not the yellow of daffodils and marigolds and buttercups. It was instead an angry yellow, a yellow that did not welcome the sunshine but rather attempted to drag it into her shattered life. Her hair was short, perfunctorily cut for summer. Her eyes were the color of weak coffee in the midday sun.

Now in her midforties, Melanie Devlin had accepted the burden of sorrow as a constant in her life. She did not fight it any longer. Sadness was her mantle.

Byrne had called and said he was in the neighborhood. He had told her nothing further.

“You sure you can’t stay for dinner?” she asked.

“I have to get back,” Byrne said. “But thanks for the offer.”

Melanie was preparing ribs on the grill. She poured a good amount of salt into her palm, sprinkled it on the meat. Then repeated it. She looked at Byrne, as if to apologize. “I can’t taste anything anymore.”

Byrne knew what she meant. He wanted to establish a dialogue, though, so he responded. If they chatted for a while, it would make it easier to tell her what he had to tell her. “What do you mean?”

“Since Gracie … died, I lost my sense of taste. Crazy, huh? One day, it just disappeared.” She dumped more salt on the ribs, quickly, as if in penance. “Now I have to put salt on everything. Ketchup, hot sauce, mayonnaise, sugar. I can’t taste food without it.” She waved a hand at her figure, explaining her weight gain. Her eyes began to swell with tears. She wiped them away with the back of a hand.

Byrne remained silent. He had observed so many people deal with grief, each in their own way. How many times had he seen women clean their houses over and over after a loss to violence? They fluffed the pillows endlessly, made and remade the beds. Or how many times had he seen men wax their cars beyond reason, or mow their lawns every day? Grief stalks the human heart slowly. People often feel that, if they remain in motion, they might outrun it.

Melanie Devlin stoked the briquettes on the grill, closed the lid. She poured them both a glass of lemonade, sat on the tiny wrought-iron chair opposite him. Someone a few houses down was listening to a Phillies game. They fell silent for a while, feeling the punishing heat of the afternoon. Byrne noticed that Melanie was not wearing her wedding ring. He wondered if she and Garrett had divorced. They certainly wouldn’t be the first couple ripped apart by the violent death of a child.

“It was lavender,” Melanie finally said.

“Excuse me?”

She glanced at the sun, squinted. She looked back down, spun the glass in her hands a few times. “Gracie’s dress. The one we buried her in. It was lavender.”

Byrne nodded. He hadn’t known this. Grace’s service was closed-casket.

“Nobody got to see it, because she was … you know,” Melanie said. “But it was very pretty. One of her favorites. She was fond of lavender.”

Suddenly it occurred to Byrne that Melanie knew why he was there. Not exactly why, of course, but the tenuous thread that bound them—the death of Marygrace Devlin—had to be the reason. Why else would he stop by? Melanie Devlin knew that this visit had something to do with Gracie, and probably felt that if she talked about her daughter in the gentlest of manners, it might ward off any further pain.

Byrne carried that pain in his pocket. How was he going to find the courage to take it out?