Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (120 page)

“Oh yeah,” Byrne said. “He kind of glazed over when he was talking about her.”

“Maybe
you
should interview some of the other Stiletto girls,” Jessica said, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “See if they have anything to add.”

“It’s dirty work,” Byrne said. “The things I do for the department.”

They got in the car, buckled up. Byrne’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened. Without a word, he clicked off. He turned his head, stared out the driver’s side window for a while.

“What is it?” Jessica asked.

Byrne was silent for a few additional moments, as if he had not heard her. Then: “That was John.”

Byrne meant John Shepherd, a fellow detective in the homicide unit. Byrne started the car, put a blue light on the dash, hit the gas, roared out into traffic. He remained silent.

“Kevin.”

Byrne slammed his fist into the dashboard. Twice. He then took a deep breath, exhaled, turned to her and said the last thing she expected to hear: “Walt Brigham is dead.”

28

When Jessica and Byrne arrived on the scene on Lincoln Drive—a section of Fairmount Park near the Wissahickon Creek—there were two CSU vans, three sector cars, and five detectives already there. Crime-scene tape spanned the road. Traffic was being routed to two slow-moving lanes.

For the police, the site was charged with anger, determination, and a singular kind of rage. This was one of their own.

The sight of the body was beyond revolting.

Walt Brigham lay on the ground in front of his car, on the shoulder of the road. He was on his back, his arms were spread out to his sides, his palms were upturned in supplication. He had been burned to death. The smell of immolated flesh and crisped skin and flash-fried bone filled the air. His corpse was a blackened husk. His gold detective’s badge had been delicately placed on his forehead.

Jessica nearly gagged. She had to turn away from the appalling spectacle. She thought back to the previous night, the way Walt had looked. She had only met him once before, but he had a stellar reputation in the department, and many friends.

Now he was dead.

Detectives Nicci Malone and Eric Chavez would be working the case.

Nicci Malone, thirty-one, was one of the newest detectives in the homicide unit, the only other female besides Jessica. Nicci had spent four years in narcotics. At just under five four, 110 pounds—blond, blue-eyed, and fair on top of it—she had a lot to prove, in addition to all the gender issues. Nicci and Jessica had worked a detail a year earlier and had instantly bonded. They had even worked out together a few times. Nicci practiced tae kwon do.

Eric Chavez was a veteran detective, and the unit’s fashion plate. Chavez had never successfully passed a mirror without looking into it. His file drawers were stacked with
GQ, Esquire,
and
Vitals
magazines. A fashion trend did not emerge without his knowledge, but, that same attention to detail made him a good investigator.

Byrne’s role would be that of a witness—having been one of the last people to talk to Walt Brigham at Finnigan’s Wake—although no one expected him to sit on the sidelines during the investigation. Whenever a police officer is murdered, there were about 6,500 men and women on the case.

Every cop in Philly.

MARJORIE BRIGHAM WAS
a slight woman in her late fifties. She had small, crisp features, close-cropped silvery hair, the raw clean hands of a middle-class woman who had never delegated a single household chore. She wore tan slacks and a chocolate cable-knit sweater, a simple gold band on her left hand.

Her living room was decorated in an Early American style, the wallpaper a cheerful beige gingham. In front of the window overlooking the street was a maple table bearing an assortment of healthy houseplants. In the corner of the dining room was an aluminum Christmas tree with white lights and red ornaments.

When Byrne and Jessica arrived, Marjorie was sitting on a wingback chair across from the TV. In her hand was a black Teflon spatula. She held it as she might a dead flower. This day, for the first time in decades, there was no one to cook for. She seemed unable to put the utensil down. Putting it down meant that Walt wasn’t coming back. If you were married to a police officer, you were afraid every day. You were afraid of the telephone, the knock on the door, the sound of a car pulling into your driveway. You were afraid every time there was a “special report” on television. Then one day the unthinkable happened, and there was no longer anything to fear. You suddenly realized that, all that time, for all those years, fear had been your friend. Fear meant that there was life. Fear was
hope.

Kevin Byrne was not there in an official capacity. He was there as a friend, a brother officer. Still, it was impossible not to ask the questions. He sat on the arm of the couch, took one of Marjorie’s hands in his.

“Are you up for a few questions?” Byrne asked, as softly and gently as possible.

Marjorie nodded.

“Did Walt have any debts? Anyone he might have been having problems with?”

Marjorie thought for a few seconds. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”

“Did he ever mention any specific threats? Anyone who might have had a vendetta against him?”

Marjorie shook her head. Byrne had to try this line of inquiry, even though it was unlikely that Walt Brigham would have shared something like that with his wife. For a fleeting moment, the voice of Matthew Clarke echoed in Byrne’s mind.

This is not over.

“Is this your case?” Marjorie asked.

“No,” Byrne said. “Detective Malone and Detective Chavez are investigating. They’ll come by a little later today.”

“Are they good?”

“
Very
good,” Byrne replied. “Now, you know they’ll want to go through some of Walt’s things. Are you all right with that?”

Marjorie Brigham just nodded, numb.

“Now remember, if there are any problems or questions, or if you just want to talk, you call me first, okay? Anytime. Day or night. I’ll come right over.”

“Thanks, Kevin.”

Byrne rose, buttoned his coat. Marjorie stood up. Finally she put the spatula down, then hugged the big man in front of her, burying her face in his broad chest.

THE STORY WAS
already all over the city, the region. News crews were setting up shop on Lincoln Drive. They had a potentially sensational story. Fifty or sixty cops convene at a tavern, and one of them leaves and is murdered along a remote section of Lincoln Drive. What was he doing there? Drugs? Sex? A payoff? For a police department that was constantly under scrutiny from every civil-rights group, every review board, every citizen-action committee, not to mention the local and often national media, it didn’t look good. The pressure from the big bosses to solve this and solve it fast was already enormous, and growing by the hour.

29

“What time did Walt leave the bar?” Nicci asked. They were gathered around the assignment desk in the homicide unit, Nicci Malone, Eric Chavez, Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, and Ike Buchanan.

“Not sure,” Byrne said. “Maybe two.”

“I’ve talked to a dozen detectives already. No one seems to have seen him leave. It was his party. Does that really sound
right
to you?” Nicci asked.

It didn’t. But Byrne shrugged. “It is what it is. We were all pretty loaded. Especially Walt.”

“Okay,” Nicci said. She flipped a few pages back in her notebook. “Walt Brigham shows up at Finnigan’s Wake at about 8
PM
last night, where he proceeds to drink half the top shelf. Did you know him as a drinker?”

“He was a homicide cop. And this was his retirement party.”

“Point taken,” Nicci said. “Did you see him argue with anybody?”

“No,” Byrne said.

“Did you see him leave for a while, come back?”

“I did not,” Byrne replied.

“Did you see him make any phone calls?”

“No.”

“Did you recognize most of the people at the party?” Nicci asked.

“Just about everybody,” Byrne said. “I came up with a lot of those guys.”

“Any long-standing feuds, anything that goes back?”

“Nothing I know of.”

“So, you talked to the victim at the bar around one thirty, and you didn’t see him after that?”

Byrne shook his head. He thought about all the times he had done exactly what Nicci Malone was doing, how many times he had used the word “victim” instead of the person’s name. He had never really realized how it sounded. Until now. “No,” Byrne said, suddenly feeling completely useless. This was a new experience for him—that of being a witness—and he didn’t like it much. He didn’t like it at all.

“Anything to add, Jess?” Nicci asked.

“Not really,” Jessica said. “I was out of there around midnight.”

“Where did you park?”

“On Third.”

“Near the lot?”

Jessica shook her head. “Closer to Green Street.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around the lot behind Finnigan’s?”

“No.”

“Anyone walking up the street as you were leaving?”

“No one.”

A canvass had been conducted in a two-block radius. No one had seen Walt Brigham leave the bar, walk up Third Street, enter the lot, or drive away.

JESSICA AND BYRNE
had an early dinner at the Standard Tap at Second and Poplar. They ate in a stunned silence over the news of Walt Brigham’s murder. The first report had come in. Brigham had suffered blunt-force trauma to the back of the head, and had then been doused with gasoline and set ablaze. A gas can was found in the woods near the crime scene, an ordinary two-gallon plastic model, available everywhere, no prints. The ME’s office would consult with a forensic odontologist, perform a dental ID on the body, but there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that the charred corpse was that of Walter Brigham.

“So, what’s up for Christmas Eve?” Byrne finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“My father’s coming over,” Jessica said. “It’ll just be him, me, Vincent, and Sophie. Christmas Day we’re going to my aunt’s house. Been that way forever. How about you?”

“I’m going to stop at my father’s, help him start to pack.”

“How’s your father doing?” Jessica had been meaning to ask. When Byrne had been shot, and was lying in an induced coma, she had visited the hospital every day for weeks. Sometimes she couldn’t make it until well after midnight, but as a rule, when a police officer was hurt in the line of duty, there were no formal visiting hours. Regardless of the time, Padraig Byrne had been there. He had not been emotionally able to sit in the ICU with his son, so they had put a chair in the hallway for him, where he sat vigil—plaid Thermos at his side, newspaper in hand—around the clock. Jessica had never spoken to the man at length, but the ritual of her rounding the corner, seeing him sitting there with his rosary, nodding a good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, had been a constant she came to look forward to during those shaky weeks, the bedrock on which she built the foundation of her hopes.