Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (124 page)

“Yes,” Byrne said. “We’re going to take them with us.”

“How come?”

“How
come
? Because this is evidence of a serious crime.”

Both boys looked crestfallen. “Okay,” said the smaller boy.

“Why?” Byrne asked. “Did you want to put them on eBay?”

He looked up. “Can you do that?”

Byrne pointed to the far side of the bridge. “Go home,” he said. “Right now. Go home, or I swear to
God
I’ll arrest your whole family.”

The boys ran.

“Jesus,” Byrne said. “Fucking
eBay.
”

Jessica knew what he meant. She could not imagine herself at eleven years old, coming across a pair of severed feet on a bridge, and
not
freaking out. For these kids it was like an episode of
CSI
. Or some video game.

Byrne talked to the 911-caller while the frigid waters of the Schuylkill River flowed beneath. Jessica glanced at Officer Valentine. It was a strange moment, the two of them standing over what was certainly the severed remains of Kristina Jakos. Jessica recalled her own days in uniform, times when a detective would show up at a homicide she had secured. She remembered looking at the detective in those days with a small measure of envy and awe. She wondered if Officer Lindsey Valentine looked at her that way.

Jessica knelt down for a closer look. The shoes were low-heeled, round-toed, with a thin strap across the top, a wide toe-box. Jessica took a few pictures.

A canvass yielded the expected. Nobody had seen or heard anything. But one thing was obvious to the detectives. Something they did not need witness statements to tell them. These body parts had not been flung here randomly. They had been carefully placed.

WITHIN AN HOUR
they had the preliminary report back. To no one’s surprise, blood tests presumptively indicated that the recovered body parts belonged to Kristina Jakos.

THERE IS A
moment in all homicide investigations—investigations where you don’t find the killer standing over the body, dripping knife or smoking gun in hand—when everything grinds to a halt. Calls don’t come in, witnesses don’t show, forensic results lag. On this day, at this time, it was just such a moment. Perhaps the fact that it was Christmas Eve had something to do with it. No one wanted to think about death. Detectives stared at computer screens, they tapped their pencils to some unheard beat, crime-scene photographs stared up from the desk: accusing, questioning, expecting,
waiting.

It would be forty-eight hours before they could effectively question a sampling of people who took the Strawberry Mansion Bridge at approximately the time the remains were left there. The next day was Christmas Day and the usual traffic pattern would be different.

At the Roundhouse, Jessica gathered her things. She noticed that Josh Bontrager was still there, hard at work. He sat at one of the computer terminals, scrolling through arrest-history data.

“What are your Christmas plans, Josh?” Byrne asked.

Bontrager glanced up from his computer screen. “I’m going home tonight,” he said. “I’m on duty tomorrow. New guy, and all.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what
do
the Amish do for Christmas?”

“That depends on the group.”

“Group?” Byrne asked. “There are different kinds of Amish?”

“Oh, sure. There’s Old Order Amish, New Order Amish, Mennonite, Beachy Amish, Swiss Mennonites, Swartzentruber Amish.”

“Are there parties?”

“Well, they don’t put up lights, of course. But they do celebrate. It’s a lot of fun,” Bontrager said. “Plus they have second Christmas.”

“Second Christmas?” Byrne asked.

“Well, it’s really just the day after Christmas. They usually spend it visiting their neighbors, eating a lot. Sometimes they even have mulled wine.”

Jessica smiled. “Mulled wine. I had no idea.”

Bontrager blushed. “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm?”

As Jessica made the rounds of the hapless souls on the next shift, relaying her holiday wishes, she turned at the door.

Josh Bontrager sat at a desk, looking at the photos of the horrific scene they’d found on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge earlier that day. Jessica thought she saw a slight trembling in the young man’s hands.

Welcome to Homicide.

37

Moon’s book is the most precious thing in his life. It is large and leather-bound, heavy, with gilded edges. It had belonged to his grandfather, and
his
father before that. Inside the front, on the title page, is the signature of the author.

This is more valuable than anything.

Sometimes, late at night, Moon carefully opens the book, looking at the words and drawings by candlelight, savoring the fragrance of the old paper. It smells of his childhood. Now, as then, he is careful not to get the candle too close. He loves the way the golden edges wink in the soft yellow glow.

The first illustration is of a soldier climbing a great tree, his knapsack slung over his shoulder. How many times had Moon been that soldier, the strong young man in search of the tinderbox?

The next illustration is of Little Claus and Big Claus. Moon had been both men, many times.

The next drawing is of Little Ida’s flowers. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Moon used to run through the flowers. Spring and summer were magic times.

Now, as he enters the great structure, he is filled with magic again.

The building stands above the river, a lost majesty, a forgotten ruin not far from the city. The wind moans across the wide expanse. Moon carries the dead girl to the window. She is heavy in his arms. He places her on the stone windowsill, kisses her icy lips.

As Moon goes about his business, the nightingale sings, complaining of the cold.

I know, little bird,
Moon thinks
.

I know.

Moon has a plan for this, too. Soon he will bring the Snow Man, and winter will be banished forever.

38

“I’ll be in the city later,” Padraig said. “I’ve got to stop at Macy’s.”

“What do you need from there?” Byrne asked. He was on his cell phone, not five blocks from the store. He was on call, but his tour had ended at noon. They had gotten the call from CSU on the paint used at the Flat Rock crime scene. Standard marine paint, available everywhere. The graffiti image of the moon—although an important development—had led nowhere. As yet. “I can get whatever you need, Da.”

“I’m out of the scruffing lotion.”

My God,
Byrne thought.
Scruffing lotion.
His father was in his sixties, tough as oak plank, and was just now entering a phase of unbridled narcissism.

Ever since the previous Christmas, when Byrne’s daughter Colleen had purchased her grandfather an array of Clinique facial products, Padraig Byrne had been obsessed with his skin. Then, one day, Colleen had written a note to Padraig saying that his skin looked great. Padraig had beamed, and from that moment, the Clinique ritual had become a mania, an orgy of sexagenarian vanity.

“I can get it for you,” Byrne said. “You don’t have to drive in.”

“I don’t mind. I want to see what else they have. I think they have a new M Lotion.”

It was hard to believe he was speaking to Padraig Byrne. The same Padraig Byrne who had spent nearly forty years on the docks, a man who had once taken on a half dozen drunken Italian Mummers with only his fists and a gutful of Harp lager.

“Just because you don’t care about your skin, doesn’t mean that I have to look like a lizard in my autumn years,” Padraig added.

Autumn?
Byrne thought. He checked his face in the rearview mirror. Maybe he
could
take better care of his skin at that. On the other hand, he had to admit that the real reason he offered to stop at the store was that he really didn’t want his father driving across town in the snow. He was getting overprotective, but he couldn’t seem to help it. His silence won the argument. This time.

“Okay, you win,” Padraig said. “Pick it up for me. But I want to stop by Killian’s later, though. To say good-bye to the boys.”

“You’re not moving to California,” Byrne said. “You can go back anytime.”

In Padraig Byrne’s eyes, moving to the Northeast was the equivalent of moving out of the country. It had taken the man five years to make the decision, and five more to make the first move.

“So you say.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Byrne said.

“Don’t forget my scruffing lotion.”

Christ,
Byrne thought as he clicked off his cell phone.

Scruffing lotion.

KILLIAN’S WAS A
rough and tumble bar near Pier 84, in the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge, a ninety-year-old institution that had survived a thousand donnybrooks, two fires, and a wrecking ball. Not to mention four generations of dockworkers.

A few hundred feet from the Delaware River, Killian’s was a bastion of the ILA, the International Longshoreman’s Association. These men lived, ate, and breathed the river.

Kevin and Padraig Byrne entered, turning every head in the bar toward the door and the icy blast of wind it brought with it.

“Paddy!”
they seemed to yell in unison. Byrne took a seat at the bar while his father made the rounds. The bar was half full. Padraig was in his element.

Byrne surveyed the gang. He knew most of them. The Murphy brothers—Ciaran and Luke—had worked side by side with Padraig Byrne for nearly forty years. Luke was tall and robust; Ciaran was short and thickset. Next to them were Teddy O’Hara, Dave Doyle, Danny McManus, Little Tim Reilly. If this hadn’t been the unofficial home of ILA Local 1291, it could have been the meetinghouse of the Sons of Hibernia.

Byrne grabbed his beer, made his way over to the long table.

“So, what, you need a passport to go up there?” Luke asked Padraig.

“Yeah,” Padraig said. “I hear they have armed checkpoints on Roosevelt. How else we gonna keep out the South Philly riffraff from the Northeast?”

“Funny, we look at it exactly the opposite. Seems to me you did too. Back in the day.”

Padraig nodded. They were right. He had no argument for it. The Northeast was a foreign country. Byrne saw that look cross his father’s face, a look he had seen a number of times over the past few months, the look that all but screamed
Am I doing the right thing?

A few more of the boys showed up. Some brought houseplants with bright red bows on pots covered in bright green foil. This was the tough guy version of a housewarming gift, the greenery undoubtedly purchased by the distaff half of the ILA. It was turning into a Christmas party/going-away party for Padraig Byrne. The juke played “Silent Night: A Christmas in Rome” by the Chieftains. The lager flowed.

An hour later Byrne glanced at his watch, slipped his coat on. As he was saying his good-byes, Danny McManus approached with a young man Byrne didn’t know.