Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (164 page)

“And you thought she would just take off without a word? Not even to you?”

Another slow spin of his tumbler. “Yeah, well. I wanted to think we were closer, you know? But I was kidding myself. I don’t think anyone ever got to know her. You know the life. Like everyone else, I thought the worst. A cop disappears, you think the worst.”

And it was the worst that happened to Eve Galvez.

“There was one case she was obsessed with,” Valentine said, unasked.

“What case?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. I asked her, went through her desk, even her purse once. Never found a thing. But it was all about some kid.”

“Kid?” Jessica asked. “Kid as in child?”

“I don’t think so. Not a kid of tender age. A teenager, maybe. I never found out. Eve was good at things like that.”

“Good? Good at what?”

Valentine worked the cubes in his glass. “Covering. Diverting. Misdirecting. She was the best liar I’ve ever met.”

Jessica absorbed it all, glanced at her watch. “I have to hit the street,” she said. “Once again, I appreciate you reaching out like this.”

Jessica stood, dropped a twenty on the table, buying Jimmy Valentine’s last two rounds. It did not go unnoticed. They shook hands again.

“Ask you a question, Detective?”

“Sure,” Jessica said.

“Are you taking an interest here?”

“An interest?” Jessica replied. It was a freeze. They both knew it. She
was
taking an interest and, except for the obvious reasons, she had no idea why.

| TWENTY |

S
WANN ENJOYED THIS PART MOST OF ALL
. T
HE CARING
.
THE PREENING
.

The
tending.

The girl had been easy. Almost too easy. Had he made a mistake?

Was she unworthy of his efforts? When she left the library he followed her in his car for a few blocks on Vine Street. When the traffic behind him urged him forward, he circled the block, twice, having been swept up in center-lane traffic, unable to pull over. At first he thought he had lost her, and had a few anxious moments. When he turned north onto Sixteenth Street he saw her. She was standing at the side of the road, hitchhiking, angling for a ride on the Vine Street Expressway.

He pulled over, all but disbelieving his providence. She got in.

Just like that.

She was not afraid. She was at that age when everything still held adventure, everything was a bold and exciting escapade, an age when it was a certainty that you will never grow old, and that fear and mistrust will never become your mantra.

Had they been seen? Swann didn’t know. In a city like Philadelphia, anything was possible. In a city like Philadelphia you could be completely invisible, or you could stand out like a diamond in a dunghill, to borrow a phrase from Thomas Jefferson.

Her name was Patricia Sato. She was from Albany, New York. They talked about music and film. She was a fan of an actor named James McAvoy.

“I thought he was great in
Atonement,
” Swann had said. “Perhaps even better in
The Last King of Scotland.
”

Patricia Sato was amazed he had ever heard of James McAvoy.

Of course, Swann was well versed in pop culture—music, films, television, fashion. He fastidiously did his research, and had yet to fail to keep up his end of the conversation.

When they reached the entrance to the Schuylkill Expressway, and Patricia realized he was not taking her to Old City as she had asked, she panicked. She tried the doors. She pounded on the windows.

Swann put a hand into the air in front of her. “
Gomen nasai,
” he said in apology.

Patricia turned to him quickly, stunned that he spoke Japanese. He snapped the glass chloroform ampoule beneath her nose.

Moments later Patricia Sato was unconscious.

T
HE SECOND-FLOOR BATHROOM
, just off the master suite, was added in 1938. It was clad in ecru tile with oyster accents. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard pattern. The pedestal sink and claw-foot tub were sparkling white, and featured polished nickel fixtures.

As Swann filled the tub, he poured in two capfuls of Vanilla Shimmer by L’Occitane.

“What are the six basic types of conjuring effects?”

Swann ignored the voice. He tried to enjoy the moment. He luxuriated in the rich vanilla fragrance. Soon it would smell of warm girl.

“Joseph?”

He turned off the tap, dried his hands. He attempted to fill his head with music, with selections from a recent recording he had purchased, a Telarc recording of Tchaikovsky’s
Pathetique,
performed by the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra.

“Joseph Edmund Swann!”

Swann closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the cold steel of the chains against his skin. The terrible licorice smell of absinthe. The voice would not leave him alone. It never did. He began.

“The six types of conjuring effects are as follows,” he said.

He crossed the space to the linen closet. He had long ago purchased a set of Turkish cotton towels in peach, just for this day. He took out a bath sheet, draped it over the towel-warmer.

“Number one. Appearance. In which an object appears where it was not.” He straightened the bath rug, surveyed his domain. More candles.

“Next!”

“Number two. Vanish. In which an object
disappears
from where it was.” He decided on unscented candles. He did not want to overpower the room with any one fragrance. He returned to the linen closet, removed six more tower candles—all white—and began to place them around the bathroom. When he was done, he looked at the overall composition. He was not pleased. He moved two candles closer to the head of the tub. Better.

“I’m listening.”

“Number three. Transposition. In which an object changes position in space.” Swann removed the lighter from his vest pocket, a slim Dunhill in sterling silver. One by one he lighted the candles. The bubbles in the tub created small rainbows in the soft light.

“Joseph!”

“Number four. Transformation. In which an object changes form.” He stepped out of the bathroom, into the bedroom. The girl was sprawled across the bed. He had given her a second ampoule. He needed her to be pliant for her bath. He slipped a thick canvas apron over his head, tied it in the front.

“This will not do, Joseph.”

“Number five. Penetration. In which matter passes through matter.” He undressed the girl, gently folding her clothes and putting them on the dresser, a nearly perfect Louis XVI Psyche chest he had acquired in Toronto. He took off her shoes. There was a folded five dollar bill in one of them. It was damp with perspiration, flattened with the weight of a hundred miles. He wondered how long it had been in there, what she had sacrificed not to spend it. Joseph Swann took it and put it into the pocket of her jeans.

“I’m waiting.”

Swann wanted to discontinue this routine, as he always had, but he knew this was not an option. His one weapon was the irritation of delay. He lifted the girl and carried her into the bathroom. She was feather-light in his arms.

He sat the girl down on the commode, tested the water in the tub. It was perfect. The mirrors and windows were misted with fragrant steam.

“I will strike you down, Singing Boy!”

He closed his eyes, brushed back the rage, waiting defiantly for a reprimand. He was met with silence. A small victory.

“Number six. Restoration,” he finally said, in his own time. “In which an object is restored to its original condition.”

And then there was stillness. A deep, celestial peace.

Joseph Swann lowered Patricia Sato into the frothy bubbles.

| TWENTY-ONE |

A
T ONE O’CLOCK, JUST AS
J
ESSICA WAS CALLING IN A TAKE-OUT ORDER
, the phone rang.

It always did. It was lunchtime.

“Homicide. Balzano.”

“Detective Balzano.” It was a young woman’s voice. Familiar, although Jessica couldn’t immediately place it. She usually could.

“This is Officer Caruso,” the woman continued. “Maria Caruso.”

Of course,
Jessica thought. “Yes, Officer. What can I do for you?”

“I’m at the Shiloh Street address.”

“What’s up?”

Officer Maria Caruso hesitated for a moment. Jessica could tell that the young woman was leading up to something she found difficult to say.

“It’s about the rug. The rug in the basement.”

“What about it?” Jessica asked.

“Well, we rolled it up and we found something underneath.”

“What did you find?”

A crackling on the line covered the pause for a few seconds. “There was a hole cut into the floor.”

“A hole?”

“More like a door,” Maria Caruso said. “A big square door cut into the wood planking. Maybe three-by-three feet. An access door to a crawlspace.”

“Did you open the door?”

“We did.”

Time stalled again. For a moment, Jessica wondered if the connection had failed. “Officer?”

“I went down there. It was bad.”

It was as flat a statement of fact as Jessica had ever heard. A blank, reluctant declaration, as if the young woman wanted to take it all back. “You went down there?”

“Yes ma’am. And my boss, Sergeant Reed, well, he’ll be calling Sergeant Buchanan any second now. I just thought you might want a heads-up on this. I hope I don’t get into any trouble.”

“You won’t,” Jessica said, although she could not guarantee this. “A heads-up on what?”

“You should … well, you’ll see.”

“Okay,” Jessica said. “Thanks for calling.”

“Sure.”

Jessica hung up, called Byrne’s cell phone, got his voice mail, left a message. A minute later she tried again. Same result.

A big square door cut into the wood planking.

Jessica flipped through Caitlin O’Riordan’s case files, rereading some of the witness interviews. There were a number of them. Every so often she’d glance up, waiting for Ike Buchanan to step out of his office, catch her eye.

It was bad.

T
HE EXTERIOR OF
4514 S
HILOH
S
TREET
looked essentially the same as it had when they were there the day before, save for the two CSU vans and three sector cars. There were a few more teddy bears at the Florita Ramos memorial next door, a few more flowers. Someone had left a pink panda. It still had the price tag on it. A crowd was assembling across the street.

Byrne still had not called back. For the moment, Jessica was working solo. She hated it.

Having changed from her skirt and blouse into a comfortable pair of Levi’s, Jessica exited her car, clipped her badge on her belt, slipped under the bright yellow tape. She was briefed by Sgt. Thad Reed, the day-work commander of the Crime Scene Unit. All Jessica knew was that they had a female DOA in the crawlspace of the building. According to Reed, nothing down there had been disturbed. Photos and video had been taken.

Jessica looked at the sky. The temperature was a tolerable but humid eighty.

Still no rain.

Officer Maria Caruso was off duty, but it appeared that she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Jessica understood. When you’re young, you get emotionally protective of crime scenes. Every cop had been in that position. If Officer Caruso was ordered off the premises, Jessica had the feeling she would step a few inches past the crime-scene tape and observe, like the ever-growing throng.

Jessica took the young woman lightly by the arm, led her a few doorways south.

“Are you okay?” Jessica asked.

Maria Caruso nodded, a little too forcefully. Jessica wondered whom she was trying to convince.

“I’m good, ma’am.”

Officer Caruso looked better than she had sounded on the phone. On the other hand, she’d had twenty minutes or so to suck it up.

“You found the body?”

Officer Caruso nodded again. She took a few quick breaths.

“Did you disturb anything?”

“No ma’am.”

“Gloves on?”

“Yes.”

Jessica looked at the building, back. She took out her notebook, flipped to a blank page, slipped a rubber band around it. Old habit. She always had a rubber band or two on her somewhere. There was usually one around one of her wrists.

“Was it okay that I called you?” Officer Caruso asked, lowering her voice.

It really wasn’t, but Jessica wasn’t going to get into that now. The kid would learn. “Don’t worry about it.” Jessica slipped her notebook back into her pocket.

“Can I ask you something?” Jessica asked.

“Sure.”

Jessica wanted this to come out right. It might mean something to this young officer somewhere down the road. She took a second, remembering when she had been asked this very question. “Do you have ambitions on this job?”

“Ambitions?”

“What I mean is, do you see yourself on the force in ten years?”

The look on Officer Caruso’s face said that she had indeed given this a lot of thought. On the other hand, it also said that she didn’t want to just blurt out the answer. “Yes,” she finally said. “I mean, I
do
have ambitions, ma’am. Very much so.”

At that moment, in the diffused sunlight of the alleyway, Maria Caruso looked about sixteen.
Take off, kid,
Jessica thought.
Hang up that belt and run. Go be a lawyer or an architect or a surgeon or a country-western singer. Make it to fifty with your sanity and all your parts intact.

“May I ask what you want to do?” Jessica asked. “What unit you want to work?”

Officer Caruso smiled, blushed. “I want to work homicides, of course,” she said. “Just like everybody else. Just like you.”

Oh, man,
Jessica thought.
No, no, no.
She’d have to get this kid hammered one night at Finnigan’s Wake. Explain the ways of the world. For now, she decided to let it go. She glanced at the doorway. “I’d better get in there.”