Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (176 page)

“Sure. No problem.”

Byrne gave the man his cell phone number, thanked him, hung up.

Since the story broke on the murder and mutilation of Monica Renzi, the PPD’s press office had held a news conference. The official word was that it was still not known if the murder of Monica Renzi was connected to the murder of Caitlin O’Riordan, but that did not stop the mainstream press from speculation, or the alternative press from simply saying so.

In typical journalistic fashion, they had to pin a name on this case. A “unnamed source” within the police department told a reporter that there was a man who was taking girls off the street, keeping them in custody for a while before killing them. The newspaper referred to the killer as “The Collector.”

Byrne figured no one at the paper, a birdcage liner called
The Report,
had ever read
The Collector
by John Fowles—a novel about a young man, a butterfly collector, who kidnaps a woman and keeps her in his basement—but that didn’t matter. It would only be a matter of time before the mainstream press picked up on it, then the public, and eventually it would find its way into police department memos.

The four detectives met in the lobby of the Roundhouse. They were all dressed in casual clothes. The strategy being, if they were going to talk to runaways and homeless kids, they wanted to look like anything but authority figures. Byrne and Andre Curtis were pretty much hopeless in this area. They both looked like cops. Jessica and Josh Bontrager were a little more likely to gain their confidence.

Jessica wore jeans and a white T-shirt and running shoes. She could almost pass for a college student, Byrne thought. Byrne wore a black polo shirt and chinos. He looked like an off duty cop trying to blend in. But he was surprised to see that this shirt fit. It had been getting a little tight. Maybe he was getting in shape after all.

Jessica briefed Josh Bontrager and Dre Curtis on what she had found online. They made their notes and headed out.

A few minutes later Jessica and Byrne walked out of the Roundhouse. The air was a blast furnace. Still no rain.

“Ready to revisit your misspent youth?” Byrne asked as they slipped into the Taurus.

“What are you talking about?” Jessica said. “I’m still misspending it.”

__________

W
HILE
J
OSH
B
ONTRAGER
and Dre Curtis went to Penn Treaty Park, Jessica and Byrne started on South Street. They parked on Columbus Boulevard and took the South Street pedestrian bridge over I-95.

South Street was part of the Queen Village neighborhood, one of the oldest sections of Philadelphia. Its business district ran from Front Street to around Ninth Street.

On the way to South Philly they had decided that it would be best for Jessica to ask the questions. Byrne would shadow her from the other side of the street.

They began at Front Street, in front of Downey’s, and slowly worked their way west. This section of South was crammed with pubs, restaurants, clubs, bookstores, record stores, piercing and tattoo parlors, pizza shops, and even one large condom specialty store. It was a magnet for young people of all styles—Goth, punk, hip-hop, skateboarders, collegiates, Jersey Boys—as well as a thriving tourist trade.

There wasn’t too much you couldn’t find on this street; legal, otherwise, and every stop in between. To a lot of people, South was the beating heart of Philly.

Between Second and Third, Jessica talked to a group of teenagers; three boys and two girls. Byrne always marveled at how good she was at things like this. They had to identify themselves as police officers of course, and the few kids Byrne tried to approach on his own just took off once Byrne produced his ID. Not so for Jessica. People opened up to her.

All of the kids said they were either from Philly, or in town visiting relatives. Nobody was ever a runaway.

At the corner of Fourth and South, Jessica talked to a young girl. The girl, about fifteen, had her blond hair in pigtails, and wore a tie-dyed tank top and denim skirt. She had a half dozen piercings in her nose, lips, and ears. Byrne was out of earshot, but he saw that when Jessica showed the girl a photograph, the girl studied it, then nodded. A minute later Jessica handed the girl a card, moved on.

It turned out to be a dead end. The girl said she had heard of a girl named Starlight, but had never met her, and had no idea where she might be.

By the time they got to Tenth Street, where the shopping and hangout spots dropped off, they had talked to fifty or sixty teenagers, about two dozen shop owners. No one remembered seeing either Caitlin O’Riordan or Monica Renzi. No one knew anything about anything. Jessica and Byrne grabbed lunch at Jim’s Steaks, and headed to the train station.

| FORTY-THREE |

L
ILLY SAT ON THE GROUND NEAR THE
F
RANKLIN
I
NSTITUTE, HER BACK
against the low stone wall. She was still high, crashing fast, and still a little freaked out about the incident on the corner. Had the kid’s face really been on fire?

Regardless, all of that was rearview mirror. She was broke, she had nowhere to stay, and everybody she met was worse off than her.

But she would not give up. She had made a promise, and that was something she rarely did. It
would
be honored.

Before she could formulate a new plan, she looked up to see a man coming toward her. He walked all the way across the street, motoring fast, his eyes on her the whole time. She looked away a few times, but every time she glanced back he was staring at her. And getting closer.

He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants. He was blond, had pretty cool hair, light blue eyes, a nice face. He stopped right in front of her, smiled. He was kind of cute, actually.

But he was still a stranger.

“Hi,” he said.

Lilly didn’t answer. The guy didn’t leave. Instead, he waited a few seconds, then reached into his back pocket.

Now what?
Lilly thought. Jehovah’s Witness? Human resource director for a strip club?

“My name is Josh Bontrager,” he said. “I’m with the Philadelphia Police department.”

He showed her a gold badge and ID card, but Lilly didn’t really see it. She felt the blood rushing in her ears, felt her heart start beating like a racehorse. This was it, she thought. This was how it was going to end. She had come to Philadelphia with a purpose, and now she was going to jail. All she could see was that sick twist, Mr. Mushroom Teeth, laying in that alley, drooling on the pavement.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

His voice brought her spiraling back to reality. She looked around, a little surprised to see all the people. She had forgotten where she was for a moment.

“Lilly.”

Her voice sounded small, even from the inside. She sounded like a wounded mouse.

“I’m sorry?”

“Lilly.”

“Ah, okay. Nice to meet you, Lilly. Great day, huh?”

Lilly just stared at the ground.

“Right. Well. I’d like to talk to you for a few seconds, if that’s okay.” She looked up. He didn’t look mad, or threatening or anything. Actually, he looked a little bit like a farm boy at a school dance. “What about?” she asked.

He put his badge back into his pocket, held up an envelope. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise.”

He got on the ground next to her, sat down, back against the wall. He put his feet out in front of him, crossed his legs. If he was going to arrest her, put her in handcuffs and haul her away, this was a pretty friggin’ weird way of going about it. They never played it this way on
Law & Order.
Not even on
COPS.

“Now, first off, I’m not going to ask you anything about your life, okay? I’m not going to ask you where you’re from, why you’re here, or what you’re doing. I’m not even going to ask you your last name. Deal?”

For some reason, this made Lilly even more nervous. But getting up and running didn’t really seem like an option. This guy looked to be in pretty good shape. He’d catch her for sure. Whatever this was about, she would have to play along.

“I guess.”

“Good. I just want you to know that you’re not in any trouble, and you’re not going to get
into
any trouble for anything you tell me.”

He opened the envelope, took out a pair of pictures.

“I just want to ask you if you recognize a couple of people. If you could do that, it would really help me out.”

He was lying to her. She
knew
it. All that business about not getting into trouble was bullshit. He was going to show her a picture of Mr. Mushroom Teeth, and a picture of that skateboard asshole by the bus station. She was going to get arrested for kneeing some pervert in the balls and burning that kid’s face, too. And she didn’t even do that one.
Double
assault and battery. She was going away for life.

When he flipped over the first picture, Lilly felt a cool breeze blowing across her heart. It wasn’t Mr. Mushroom Teeth in all his creepy glory after all. It was a picture of a girl. Kind of heavyset, but she had on a pair of great hoop earrings and a killer necklace.

“Do you recognize this girl?” he asked. “Her name is Monica.”

Lilly took the picture from him, looked closely. The girl in the photograph looked like a girl she had gone to school with, Trish Carbone, but Trish had smaller eyes. Snake eyes. She didn’t like Trish Carbone. “No,” she said. “I don’t recognize her. Sorry.”

“No sweat.” He put the picture back into the envelope, flipped over the other picture. This one was of a blond girl. She was really pretty.

Like
model
pretty.

“What about her?” he asked. “Have you ever seen her before?”

Lilly scanned the photo. She didn’t know too many girls this pretty. Sure, there were girls at her school who looked good—rich girls from Rivercrest and Pine Hollow—but they were all haters. Mean Girls, Inc. This girl looked like someone she could hang out with. “No. Sorry again.”

“That’s okay. You tried, and I appreciate it.”

He slipped the second picture into the envelope, closed the clasp.

“Just one more thing, and I’ll leave you to this beautiful day,” he said. “I want to give you a few names, see if they sound familiar.”

“Okay.”

“Daria.”

Lilly shook her head.

“Starlight.”

“No,” she said, absolutely positive her face would give her away. It didn’t.

“Govinda.”

“Is that a girl?”

“I think so.”

Lilly shrugged. “Don’t know her either.”

“Okay.”

He gathered his things together, preparing to leave.

“I wasn’t much help, was I?”

“Don’t worry about it. You did great,” he said. “Some people won’t even talk to me.”

“Well that’s just plain rude.”

He laughed. He had dimples. “It surely is. Back in Berks County, where I’m from? People are more than happy to conversate. Well, maybe not in Reading so much, but in Bechtelsville you can’t shut them up.”

This guy is from Berks, Lilly thought. She knew there was something farm boy about him. She’d always been a sucker for farm boys. For a second she wanted him to stay and talk to her, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

He stood up, brushed off his pants. “Well, thanks again. It is most appreciated.” He reached into his pocket and took out a little black wallet. He pulled out a card, handed it to her. “If you remember anything, or run into anyone who might have known these girls, please give me a call.”

“I will.”

He smiled, turned, and walked across the sidewalk. He waited for the light.

“What was her name?” Lilly asked.

Detective Joshua Bontrager spun around. “I’m sorry?”

“The girl in the picture. The blond girl. You never told me her name.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Great cop I am. It was Caitlin. Her name was Caitlin O’Riordan.”

Lilly felt dizzy. It felt as if the earth was falling away beneath her, as if she had just chugged a fifth of bad whiskey and gotten on a Tilt-A-Whirl. And he was going to notice. He was going to notice something was wrong and ask her if she was okay and she was going to blurt everything out. Then she was going to jail for sure.

But that’s not what happened. Although it felt as if her ears were jammed with wet cotton, it sounded like he said, “Have a great day.”

She watched him walk away. There were a pair of teenage boys in the small park across North Twentieth Street. He was going to start all over with them.

Lilly took a pair of deep, slow breaths. She felt like she was at the top of the first hill on a roller coaster, about to plunge toward the earth.

Caitlin O’Riordan.

They knew. And they would be watching her. She would have to act fast.

She would have to trust somebody.

| FORTY-FOUR |

T
HEY’D STRUCK OUT
. B
ETWEEN
S
OUTH
S
TREET AND THE BUS STATION
they had talked to more than a hundred teenagers, passed out over a hundred cards. On their way out of the station Byrne saw four cards in the trash. He saw three more on the sidewalk.

Street work paid off more than it didn’t, but it was exhausting. And sometimes, on days like this, fruitless. Byrne hadn’t expected much, and that’s what they got.

O
N THE WAY BACK
to the Roundhouse, Byrne’s cell phone rang.

“Byrne.”

“Detective Byrne, my name is David Sinclair.”

Byrne rummaged his memory. Then it clicked. “The author.”

“Yes sir.”

“I appreciate you getting back to us.”

“Well, it’s not every day I’m asked to call the police. How can I help you?”

“We’d like to meet with you if we could. We have a few questions about your books that we think may impact on a case we’re working on.”

Silence. “My books?”

“I’ll explain more when we meet.”

“Okay. Sure. When would you like to get together?”