Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (103 page)

Byrne had been put on a brief administrative leave. There would be a review in the next day or two. They hadn’t talked about the episode in depth yet.

They would.

WHEN SHE TURNED
the corner, she saw him standing in front of the coffee shop, two cups in hand. Their first stop of the day would be to visit a ten-year-old crime scene in Juniata Park, the location of a 1997 double drug-homicide, followed by an interview with an elderly gentleman who had been a potential witness. It was day one of a cold case to which they had been assigned.

There were three sections in the homicide unit—the Line Squad, which handled new cases; the Fugitive Squad, which tracked down wanted suspects; and SIU, the Special Investigation Unit, which, among other things, handled cold cases. The roster of detectives was generally set in stone, but sometimes when all hell broke loose, which happened all too often in Philly, detectives on any given shift could work the line.

“Excuse me, I was supposed to meet my partner here,” Jessica said. “Tall, clean-shaven guy. Looks like a cop. Have you seen him?”

“What, you don’t like the beard?” Byrne handed her a cup. “I spent an hour shaping it.”

“Shaping?”

“Well, you know, trimming around the edges so it doesn’t look ragged.”

“Ah.”

“What do you think?”

Jessica leaned back, scrutinized his face. “Well, to be honest, I think it makes you look …”

“Distinguished?”

She was going to say homeless. “Yeah. That.”

Byrne stroked his beard. It hadn’t grown fully in, but Jessica could see that when it did it would be mostly gray. As long as he didn’t go Just For Men on her, she could probably handle it.

As they headed to the Taurus, Byrne’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open, listened, pulled out his notebook, made a few notes. He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes.” He folded his phone, pocketed it.

“Job?” Jessica asked.

“Job.”

The cold case would stay cold a while longer. They continued up the street. After a full block, Jessica broke the silence.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Me?
Oh,
yeah,” Byrne said. “Never better. Sciatica’s acting up a little, but other than that.”

“Kevin.”

“I’m telling you, I’m a hundred percent,” Byrne said. “Hand to God.”

He was lying, but that’s what friends did for each other when they wanted you to know the truth.

“We’ll talk later?” Jessica asked.

“We’ll talk,” Byrne said. “By the way, why are
you
so happy?”

“I look happy?”

“Let me put it this way. Your face could open a smile outlet in Jersey.”

“Just glad to see my partner.”

“Right,” Byrne said, slipping into the car.

Jessica had to laugh, recalling the unbridled marital passion of her morning. Her partner knew her well.

4

The crime scene was a boarded-up commercial property in Manayunk, an area in the northwest section of Philly, just on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill River. For some time now the neighborhood seemed in a constant state of redevelopment and gentrification, evolving from what was once a quarter for those working in the mills and factories, to an upper middle-class section of the city. The name Manayunk was a Lenape Indian term meaning “our place for drinking,” and in the past decade or so, the neighborhood’s lively Main Street strip of pubs, restaurants, and night clubs—essentially Philadelphia’s answer to Bourbon Street—had tried mightily to live up to that long-ago bestowed name.

When Jessica and Byrne rolled up on Flat Rock Road there were two sector cars securing the site. The detectives pulled into the parking lot, exited the vehicle. The uniformed officer on the scene was Patrol Officer Michael Calabro.

“Good morning, detectives,” Calabro said, handing them the crime scene log. They both signed in.

“What do we have, Mike?” Byrne asked.

Calabro was as pale as the December sky. In his late thirties, stocky and solid, he was a veteran patrol officer whom Jessica had known almost ten years. He didn’t rattle easily. In fact, he usually had a smile for everyone, even the knuckleheads he met on the street. If he was this shaken, it wasn’t good.

He cleared his throat. “Female DOA.”

Jessica walked back to the road, surveyed the exterior of the large two-story building and the immediate vicinity: a vacant lot across the street, a tavern next to that, a warehouse next door. The crime scene building was square, blocky, clad in a dirty brown brick and patched with waterlogged plywood. Graffiti tagged every available inch of the wood. The front door was secured with rusted chains and padlocks. At the roofline was a huge For Sale or Lease sign. Delaware Investment Properties, Inc. Jessica wrote down the telephone number, walked back to the rear of the property. The wind cut across the lot in sharp little knives.

“Any idea what kind of business used to be here?” she asked Calabro.

“A few different things,” Calabro said. “When I was a teenager it was an auto parts wholesaler. My sister’s boyfriend worked here. He used to sell us parts under the counter.”

“What were you driving in those days?” Byrne asked.

Jessica saw a smile grace Calabro’s lips. It always happened when men talked about the cars of their youth. “Seventy-six TransAm.”

“No,” Byrne replied.

“Yep. Friend of my cousin wrecked it in ’85. Got it for a song when I was eighteen. Took me fours years to restore.”

“The 455?”

“Oh, yeah,” Calabro said. “Starlite Black with the T-top.”

“Sweet,” Byrne said. “So how soon after you got married did she make you sell it?”

Calabro laughed. “Right around the ‘You may kiss the bride’ part.”

Jessica saw Mike Calabro brighten considerably. She had never met anyone better than Kevin Byrne when it came to putting people at ease, at taking minds off the horrors that can haunt people in their line of work. Mike Calabro had seen a lot in his day, but that didn’t mean the next one wouldn’t get to him. Or the one after that. That was the existence of a uniform cop. Every time you turned a corner your life could change forever. Jessica wasn’t sure what they were about to confront at this crime scene, but she knew that Kevin Byrne had just made the day a little easier for this man.

The building had an L-shaped parking lot that ran behind the structure, then down a slight slope to the river; a parking lot at one time fully fenced off with chain link. The fence had long ago been clipped and bent and tortured. Huge sections were missing. Trash bags, tires, and street litter were strewn everywhere.

Before Jessica could inquire about the DOA, a black Ford Taurus, identical to the departmental car Jessica and Byrne were driving, pulled into the lot, parked. Jessica did not recognize the man behind the wheel. Moments later the man emerged, approached them.

“Are you Detective Byrne?” he asked.

“I am,” Byrne said. “And you are?”

The man reached into his back pocket, pulled out a gold shield. “Detective Joshua Bontrager,” he said. “Homicide.” He proffered a big smile, the color rising in his cheeks.

Bontrager was probably thirty or so, but he looked much younger. A slim five ten, his hair was summer blond gone December dull, cropped relatively short; spiky, but not in a
GQ
way. It looked like it may have been a homemade haircut. His eyes were mint green. He had about him the air of scrubbed country, of rural Pennsylvania that spoke of state college on an academic scholarship. He pumped Byrne’s hand, then Jessica’s. “You must be Detective Balzano,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Jessica said.

Bontrager looked between them, back and forth. “This is just, just, just …
great.
”

If nothing else, Detective Joshua Bontrager was full of energy and enthusiasm. With all the cutbacks, retirements, and injuries to detectives—not to mention the spiking homicide rate—it was good to have another warm body in the unit. Even if that body looked like it just stepped out of a high school production of
Our Town
.

“Sergeant Buchanan sent me out,” Bontrager said. “Did he call you?”

Ike Buchanan was their boss, the day watch commander of the homicide unit. “Uh, no,” Byrne said. “You’ve been assigned to homicide?”

“Temporarily,” Bontrager said. “I’ll be working with you and two other teams, rotating tours. At least until things, you know, calm
down
a bit.”

Jessica looked closely at Bontrager’s clothing. His suit coat was a dark blue, and his slacks were black, as if he had cobbled together an ensemble from two different weddings, or had gotten dressed while it was still dark. His striped rayon tie was from sometime around the Carter administration. His shoes were scuffed but sturdy, recently resoled, tightly laced.

“Where do you want me?” Bontrager asked.

The look on Byrne’s face fairly screamed the answer.
Back at the Roundhouse.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where were you before you got assigned to Homicide?” Byrne asked.

“I was in the Traffic Unit,” Bontrager said.

“How long were you there?”

Chest out, chin high. “Eight years.”

Jessica thought about looking at Byrne, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

“So,” Bontrager said, rubbing his hands together for warmth, “what can I do?”

“For now we want to make sure the scene is secure,” Byrne said. He pointed to the far side of the building, to the short driveway on the north side of the property. “If you could secure that entry point, it would be a great help. We don’t want folks coming onto the property and disturbing the evidence.”

For a second, Jessica thought Bontrager was going to salute.

“I am
so
on it,” he said.

With this, Detective Joshua Bontrager all but ran across the grounds.

Byrne turned to Jessica. “What is he, about seventeen?”

“He’ll
be
seventeen.”

“Did you notice he’s not wearing a coat?”

“I did.”

Byrne glanced at Officer Calabro. Both men shrugged. Byrne pointed at the building. “Is the DOA on the first floor?”

“No, sir,” Calabro said. He turned and pointed to the river.

“The victim is in the river?” Byrne asked.

“On the bank.”

Jessica glanced toward the river. The angle sloped away from them, so she could not yet see the bank. Through the few barren trees on this side she could see the opposite side of the river, the cars on the Schuylkill Expressway. She turned back to Calabro. “Have you cleared the immediate area?”

“Yes,” Calabro said.

“Who found her?” Jessica asked.

“Anonymous 911 call.”

“When?”

Calabro looked at the log. “About an hour and fifteen minutes ago.”

“Has the ME’s office been notified?” Byrne asked.

“On the way.”

“Good work, Mike.”

Before heading down to the river, Jessica took a number of photographs of the exterior of the building. She also photographed the two abandoned vehicles in the lot. One, a twenty-year-old midsize Chevy; the other, a rusted out Ford van. Neither had plates. She walked over, felt the hoods of both vehicles. Stone cold. On any given day there were hundreds of derelict cars in Philadelphia. Sometimes it seemed like thousands. Every time someone ran for mayor or council, one of the planks in their platform was always the promise to get rid of the abandoned vehicles and tear down the abandoned buildings. It never seemed to happen.

She took a few more photographs. When she was finished, she and Byrne snapped on latex gloves.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s do it.”

They walked to the end of the lot. From there, the ground gently sloped down toward the soft riverbank. Because the Schuylkill was not a working river—almost all commercial traffic navigated the Delaware River—there were few docks as such, but occasionally there were small stone jetties, the infrequent narrow floating pier. As they reached the end of the asphalt, they saw the victim’s head, then her shoulders, then her body.

“Ah, God,” Byrne said.

She was a young blond woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Perched on a short stone dock, her eyes were wide open. It looked like she was just sitting at the river’s edge, watching it flow.

In life there was no doubt she had been very pretty. Now her face was a ghastly and pallid gray, her bloodless skin already beginning to split and crack from the ravages of the wind. Her nearly black tongue lolled to the side of her mouth. She wore no coat, no gloves, no hat, only a long dusty-rose-colored dress. It looked to be very old, suggesting a time long gone. It hung below her feet, nearly touching the water. It appeared that she had been there for a while. There was some decomposition, but not nearly as much as there would have been if the weather had been warm. Still, the smell of decaying flesh hung heavy in the air, even ten feet away.

Around the young woman’s neck was a nylon belt, knotted in the back.

Jessica could see that some exposed parts of the victim’s body were covered in a thin layer of ice, giving the corpse a surreal, artificial gloss. It had rained the day before, then the temperature had plummeted.