Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (9 page)

“We’ll probably be back later today.” Byrne handed Parkhurst a card. “But if you think of anything in the meantime, please give us a call.”

“I sure will,” Parkhurst said.

“Thanks for your time,” Byrne said to both of them.

When they reached the parking lot, Jessica asked: “A little too much cologne for daytime, don’t you think?” Brian Parkhurst had been wearing Polo Blue. A lot of it.

“Just a bit,” Byrne replied. “Now why would a man over thirty need to smell that good around teenaged girls?”

“Good question,” Jessica said.

T
HE WELLS HOUSE WAS A SHABBY TRINITY on Twentieth Street, near Parrish, a straight-through row house on the sort of typical North Philadelphia street where the working-class residents try to differentiate their homes from their neighbors’ by the little details—the window boxes, the carved lintels, the decorative numbers, the pastel awnings. The Wells house had the look of a house maintained out of necessity, rather than any sense of vanity or pride of place.

Frank Wells was in his late fifties, a lumbering, raw-boned man with thinning gray hair that fell into his light blue eyes. He wore a patched flannel shirt and sun-faded khakis, along with a pair of hunter-green corduroy house slippers. His hands were dotted with liver spots, and he had the gaunt, spectral bearing of a man who had recently lost a lot of weight. His glasses had thick, black plastic frames, the type worn by math teachers in the 1960s. He also wore a nasal tube that led to a small oxygen tank on a stand next to his chair. Frank Wells, they would learn, had late-stage emphysema.

When Byrne had showed him the photo of his daughter, Wells had not reacted. Or rather, he had reacted by not visibly reacting. A crucial moment in all homicide investigations is when key players—spouses, friends, family, co-workers—are informed of the death. Reactions to the news are important. Few people are good enough actors to conceal their true feelings effectively upon receiving such tragic news.

Frank Wells took the news like a man who had survived a lifetime of tragedy with stony aplomb. He had not cried, or cursed, or railed against the horror of it all. He closed his eyes for a few moments, handed the photo back, and said: “Yes, that’s my daughter.”

They met in the small, tidy living room. A worn, oval braided rug sat in the center. Early American furniture lined the walls. An ancient color TV console hummed a fuzzy game show, volume low.

“When did you last see Tessa?” Byrne asked.

“Friday morning.” Wells removed the oxygen tube from his nose and let the hose drape over the armrest of the recliner in which he sat.

“What time did she leave?”

“Just before seven.”

“Did you speak to her at all during the day?”

“No.”

“What time did she usually get home?”

“Three thirty or so,” Wells said. “Sometimes later when she had band practice. She played the violin.”

“And she did not come home or call?” Byrne asked.

“No.”

“Did Tessa have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes,” Wells said. “One brother, Jason. He’s much older. He lives in Waynesburg.”

“Did you call any of Tessa’s friends?” Byrne asked.

Wells took a slow, clearly painful breath. “No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes. I called the police around eleven on Friday night.”

Jessica made a note to check on the missing-person report.

“How did Tessa get to school?” Byrne asked. “Did she take the bus?”

“Mostly,” Wells said. “She had her own car. We got her the Ford Focus for her birthday. It helped with her errands. But she insisted on paying for her own gas, so she usually took the bus three or four days a week.”

“Is it a diocese bus or did she take SEPTA?”

“A school bus.”

“Where is the pickup?”

“Over on Nineteenth and Poplar. A few other girls take the bus from there, too.”

“Do you know what time the bus passes there?”

“Five after seven,” Wells said with a sad smile. “I know that time well. It was a struggle every morning.”

“Is Tessa’s car here?” Byrne asked.

“Yes,” Wells said. “It’s out front.”

Both Byrne and Jessica made notes.

“Did she own a rosary, sir?”

Wells thought for a few seconds. “Yes. She got one from her aunt and uncle for her first communion.” Wells reached over, taking a small, framed photo from the end table, handing it to Jessica. It was a picture of the eight-year-old Tessa clasping a crystal bead rosary in her steepled hands. It was not the rosary she held in death.

Jessica made a note of this as the game show welcomed a new contestant.

“My wife, Annie, died six years ago,” Wells said, out of the blue.

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Byrne said.

Jessica looked at Frank Wells. She saw her own father in those years after her mother had died, smaller in every way except his capacity for sorrow. She glanced at the dining room and envisioned the wordless dinners, heard the scrape of smooth-edged silverware on chipped melamine. Tessa had probably prepared the same sorts of meals for her father that Jessica had: meat loaf with jar gravy, spaghetti on Friday, roast chicken on Sunday. Tessa had almost certainly done the ironing on Saturdays, growing taller each year, eventually standing on phone books instead of milk crates in order to reach the ironing board. Tessa, as had Jessica, had surely learned the wisdom of turning her father’s work pants inside out to iron the pockets flat.

Now, suddenly, Frank Wells lived alone. Instead of home-cooked leftovers, the refrigerator would be colonized by the half can of soup, the half container of chow mein, the half-eaten deli sandwich. Now Frank Wells would buy the individual serving cans of vegetables. Milk by the pint.

Jessica took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. The air was cloying and close, nearly corporeal with solitude.

“It’s like a clock.” Wells seemed to hover a few inches over his La-Z-Boy, afloat on fresh grief, his fingers interlaced carefully on his lap. It was as if someone had positioned his hands for him, as if such a simple task were foreign to him in his bleak anguish. On the wall behind him was a skewed collage of photographs: family milestones of weddings, graduations, and birthdays. One showed Frank Wells in a fishing hat, his arm around a young man in a black windbreaker. The young man was clearly his son, Jason. The windbreaker bore an institutional crest Jessica could not immediately place. Another photograph showed a middle-aged Frank Wells in a blue hard hat in front of a coal-mine shaft.

Byrne asked: “I’m sorry? A clock?”

Wells stood, moving with an arthritic dignity from his chair to the window. He studied the street outside. “When you have a clock in the same place for years and years and years. You walk in that room and, if you want to know what time it is, you look at that space, because that’s where the
clock
is. You look in that
particular space
.” He fiddled with his shirt cuffs for the twentieth time. Checking the button, rechecking. “And then one day you rearrange the room. The clock is now in a
new
place, a
new
space in the world. And yet, for days, weeks, months—maybe even years—you look at the old place, expecting to find out the time. You know it’s not there, but you look anyway.”

Byrne let him talk. It was all part of the process.

“That’s where I am now, Detectives. That’s where I’ve been for six years. I look at that place where Annie was in my life, where she
always
was, and she isn’t there. Somebody moved her. Somebody moved my Annie. Somebody rearranged. And now . . . and now Tessa.” He turned to look at them. “Now the clock has stopped.”

Having grown up in a cop family, having witnessed the nightly torment, Jessica was well aware that there were moments like these, times when someone had to question the closest relative of a murdered loved one, times when anger and rage became a twisting, savage thing within you. Jessica’s father had once told her he sometimes envied doctors, for they were able to point to some incurable disease when they approached relatives in the hospital corridor, grim-faced and grimly cordial. All homicide cops ever had was a torn human body, and all they could ever point to were the same three things over and over and over again.
I’m sorry, ma’am, your son died of greed, your husband died of passion, your daughter died of revenge.

Kevin Byrne edged ahead.

“Did Tessa have a best friend, sir? Someone she spent a lot of time with?”

“There was one girl who would come by the house now and then. Patrice was her name. Patrice Regan.”

“Did Tessa have any boyfriends? Anyone she was seeing?”

“No. She was . . . she was a shy girl, you see,” Wells said. “She did see this boy Sean for a while last year, but she stopped.”

“Do you know why they stopped seeing each other?”

Wells blushed slightly, then regained his composure. “I think he wanted to . . . Well, you know how young boys are.”

Byrne glanced at Jessica, signaling her to take the notes. People get self-conscious when police officers write down what they say, as they say it. While Jessica took notes, Kevin Byrne could maintain eye contact with Frank Wells. It was cop shorthand, and Jessica was pleased that she and Byrne, no more than a few hours into their partnership, were already speaking it.

“Do you know Sean’s last name?” Byrne asked.

“Brennan.”

Wells turned from the window, heading back to his chair. He then hesitated, steadying himself on the sill. Byrne shot to his feet, crossed the room in a few strides. Taking Frank Wells by the arm, Byrne helped him back to the overstuffed recliner. Wells sat down, positioning the oxygen tube into his nose. He picked up the Polaroid and glanced at it again. “She’s not wearing her pendant.”

“Sir?” Byrne asked.

“I gave her an angel pendant watch when she made her confirmation. She never took it off. Ever.”

Jessica looked to the photo on the mantel, the Olan Mills–type shot of the fifteen-year-old high school student. Her eyes found the sterling pendant around the young woman’s neck. Crazily, Jessica remembered when she was very young, in that strange and confusing summer when her mother became a skeleton, her mother had told her that she had a guardian angel who would look after her all her life, keeping her safe from harm. Jessica wanted to believe it was true for Tessa Wells, too. The crime scene photo made it very hard.

“Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?” Byrne asked.

Wells thought for a few moments, but it was clear he was no longer part of a dialogue, but rather adrift on his memories of his daughter, memories that had not yet turned into the specter of dreams. “You didn’t know her, of course. You came to meet her in this terrible way.”

“I know, sir,” Byrne said. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are.”

“Did you know that, when she was really small, she would only eat her Alpha-Bits in alphabetical order?”

Jessica thought of how systematic her own daughter Sophie was about everything, the way she would line up her dolls by height when she played with them, the way she organized her clothes by color. Reds to the left, blues in the middle, greens on the right.

“And then she would skip when she was sad. Isn’t that something? I asked her about it once when she was about eight or so. She said that she would skip until she was happy again. What sort of person skips when they are sad?”

The question hung in the air for a few moments. Byrne caught it, soft-pedaled it in.

“A special person, Mr. Wells,” Byrne said. “A very special person.”

Frank Wells stared blankly at Byrne for a few moments, as if he had forgotten the two police officers were there. Then he nodded.

“We are going to find whoever did this to Tessa,” Byrne said. “You have my word on that.”

Jessica wondered how many times Kevin Byrne had said something like that, and how many times he was able to make good. She wished she could be so confident.

Byrne, the veteran cop, moved on. Jessica was grateful. She didn’t know how much longer she could sit in this room before the walls would begin to close in. “I have to ask you this question, Mr. Wells. I hope you understand.”

Wells stared, his face an unvarnished canvas, primed with heartache.

“Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do something like this to your daughter?” Byrne asked.

There was a proper moment of silence, the span of time needed for the appearance of deductive thought. The fact was,
no
body knew
any
one who could do what was done to Tessa Wells.

“No” was all Wells said.

A lot went with that
no,
of course; every side dish on the menu, as Jessica’s late grandfather used to say. But for the moment, it went unsaid here. And as the spring day raged outside the windows of Frank Wells’s tidy living room, as the body of Tessa Wells lay cooling in the medical examiner’s office, already beginning to conceal its many mysteries, that was a good thing, Jessica thought.

A damn good thing.

T
HEY LEFT FRANK WELLS STANDING in the doorway to his row house, his pain fresh and red and raw, a million exposed nerve endings waiting for the infection of silence. He would make a formal identification of the body later in the day. Jessica thought about the time Frank Wells had spent since his wife had died, the two thousand or so days that everyone else involved had gone about their lives, living and laughing and loving. She considered the fifty thousand or so hours of inextinguishable grief, each one populated by sixty horrible minutes, themselves counted off by sixty agonizing seconds apiece. Now the cycle of grief began again.

They had looked through some of the drawers and closets in Tessa’s room, finding nothing of particular interest. A methodical young woman, organized and precise, even her junk drawer was orderly, separated into clear plastic boxes: matchbooks from weddings, ticket stubs from movies and concerts, a small collection of interesting buttons, a pair of plastic bracelets from hospital stays. Tessa favored satin sachets.