Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (6 page)

Jessica knew this. But she also knew that her career on the street was exceptional, and that she had earned her slot on the Homicide Unit, even if she arrived there a few years ahead of the standard decade or so on the job. She had her degree in criminal justice; she had been a more-than-competent uniformed officer, garnering two commendations. If she had to knock a few old-school heads in the unit, so be it. She was ready. She had never backed down from a fight, and she wasn’t going to begin now.

One of the three supervisors of the Homicide Unit was Sergeant Dwight Buchanan. If the homicide detectives spoke for the dead, it was Ike Buchanan who spoke for those who spoke for the dead.

When Jessica walked into the common room, Ike Buchanan noticed her and waved her over. The daywork shift began at eight, so at this hour the room was packed. Most of the last out shift was still on, which was not all that uncommon, making the already cramped half-circle space a snarl of bodies. Jessica nodded at the detectives sitting at desks, all men, all on the phone, all of whom returned her greeting with cool, perfunctory nods of their own.

She wasn’t in the club
yet
.

“Come on in,” Buchanan said, extending his hand.

Jessica shook his hand, then followed him, noticing his slight limp. Ike Buchanan had taken bullets in the Philly gang wars of the late 1970s and, according to legend, had endured half a dozen surgeries and a year of painful rehab to get back in blue. One of the last of the iron men. She had seen him with a cane a few times, but not today. Pride and grit, around this place, were more than luxuries. Sometimes they were the glue that held the chain of command together.

Now in his late fifties, Ike Buchanan was rail-thin, whipcord-strong, and sported a full head of cloud-white hair and bushy white eyebrows. His face was flushed and pocked by nearly six decades of Philly winters and, if the other legend was true, more than his share of Wild Turkey.

She entered the small office, sat down.

“Let’s get the details out of the way.” Buchanan closed the door halfway and walked behind his desk. Jessica could see him trying to cover the limp. He may have been a decorated cop, but he was still a man.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your background?”

“Grew up in South Philly,” Jessica said, knowing that Buchanan knew all this, knowing that this was a formality. “Sixth and Catharine.”

“Schools?”

“I went to St. Paul’s. Then N.A. Did my undergraduate work at Temple.”

“You graduated Temple in three years?”

Three and a half,
Jessica thought.
But who’s counting?
“Yes, sir. Criminal justice.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you, sir. It was a lot of—”

“You worked out of the Third?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How did you like working for Danny O’Brien?”

What was she supposed to say? That he was an overbearing, misogynistic, witless shithead? “Sergeant O’Brien is a good officer. I learned a lot from him.”

“Danny O’Brien is a Neanderthal,” Buchanan said.

“That’s one school of thought, sir,” Jessica said, trying her best to keep the smile inside.

“So tell me,” Buchanan said. “Why are you
really
here?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. Buying time.

“I’ve been a cop for thirty-seven years. Hard for me to believe, but true. Seen a lot of good people, a lot of bad people. On both sides of the law. There was a time when I was just like you. Ready to take on the world, punish the guilty, avenge the innocent.” Buchanan turned around, faced her. “Why are you here?”

Be cool, Jess,
she thought.
He’s tossing you an egg.
“I’m here because . . . because I think I can make a difference.”

Buchanan stared at her for a few moments. Impossible to read. “I thought the same thing when I was your age.”

Jessica wasn’t sure if she was being patronized or not. Up came the Italian in her. Up came the South Philly. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir,
have
you made a difference?”

Buchanan smiled. This was good news for Jessica. “I haven’t retired yet.”

Good answer,
Jessica thought.

“How is your father?” he asked, shifting gears on the fly. “Is he enjoying retirement?”

The truth was, he was climbing the walls. The last time she stopped by his house he was standing by the sliding glass door, looking out into his tiny backyard with a packet of Roma tomato seeds in his hand. “Very much, sir.”

“He’s a good man. He was a great cop.”

“I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll be pleased.”

“The fact that Peter Giovanni is your father won’t help you or hurt you around here. If it ever gets in the way, you come see me.”

Not in a million friggin’ years.
“I will. I appreciate it.”

Buchanan stood up, leaned forward, pinned her with his intense gaze. “This job has broken a lot of hearts, Detective. I hope yours isn’t one of them.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Buchanan looked over her shoulder, out into the common room. “Speaking of heartbreakers.”

Jessica followed his gaze to the big man standing next to the assignment desk, reading a fax. They stood, exited Buchanan’s office.

As they approached him, Jessica sized the man. He was in his early forties, about six three, maybe 240, solid. He had light brown hair, wintergreen eyes, huge hands, a thick, shiny scar over his right eye. Even if she hadn’t known he was a homicide cop, she would have guessed. He met all the criteria: good suit, cheap tie, shoes that hadn’t seen polish since they left the factory, along with the de rigueur trio of scents: tobacco, Certs, and the faint trace of Aramis.

“How’s the baby?” Buchanan asked the man.

“Ten fingers, ten toes,” the man said.

Jessica spoke the code. Buchanan was asking how a current case was going. The detective’s response meant:
All is well.

“Riff Raff,” Buchanan said. “Meet your new partner.”

“Jessica Balzano,” Jessica said, extending her hand.

“Kevin Byrne,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”

The name immediately dragged Jessica back a year or so. The Morris Blanchard affair. Every cop in Philly had followed the case. Byrne’s image had been plastered all over the city, on every news show, newspaper, and local magazine. Jessica was surprised she hadn’t recognized him. At first glance he seemed five years older than the man she remembered.

Buchanan’s phone rang. He excused himself.

“Same here,” she replied. Eyebrows up. “Riff Raff?”

“Long story. We’ll get to it.” They shook hands as the name registered with Byrne. “You’re Vincent Balzano’s wife?”

Jesus Christ,
Jessica thought. Nearly seven thousand cops on the force and you could fit them all in a phone booth. She applied a few more foot-pounds—or, in this instance, hand-pounds—of pressure to her handshake. “In name only,” she said.

Kevin Byrne got the message. He winced, smiled. “Gotcha.”

Before letting go, Byrne held her gaze for a few seconds in the way that only veteran police officers can. Jessica knew all about it. She knew about the club, the territorial makeup of a unit, the way that cops bond and protect. When she was first assigned to Auto, she had to prove herself on a daily basis. After a year, though, she could roll with the best of them. After two years, she could pull a J-turn on two inches of solid ice, could tune up a Shelby GT in the dark, could read a VIN number through a smashed pack of Kools on the dashboard of a locked car.

When she caught Kevin Byrne’s stare and threw it right back at him, something happened. She wasn’t positive if it was a good thing, but it let him know that she was no probie, no boot, no damp-seated rookie who got here based on her plumbing.

They retrieved their hands as the phone rang at the assignment desk. Byrne answered, made a few notes.

“We’re up on the wheel,” Byrne said. The wheel was the duty roster of assignments for detectives on the Line Squad. Jessica’s heart sank. How long had she been on the job, fourteen minutes? Wasn’t there supposed to be a grace period? “Dead girl in crack town,” he added.

Guess not.

Byrne fixed Jessica with a look afloat somewhere between a smile and a challenge. He said: “Welcome to Homicide.”

“H
OW DO YOU KNOW VINCENT?” Jessica asked.

They had ridden in silence for a few blocks after pulling out of the lot. Byrne drove the standard-issue Ford Taurus. It was the same uneasy silence experienced on a blind date, which, in many ways, this was.

“A year ago we took down a dealer in Fishtown. We’d been looking at him for a long time. Liked him for the murder of one of our CIs. Real badass. Carried a hatchet on his belt.”

“Charming.”

“
Oh
yeah. Anyway, it was our case, but Narcotics set up a buy to draw the prick out. When it came time for entry, about five in the morning, there’s six of us, four from Homicide, two from Narcotics. We get out of the van, checking our Glocks, adjusting our vests, getting pumped for the door. You know the drill. All of a sudden, no Vincent. We look around, behind the van, under the van. Nothing. It’s quiet as hell, then all of sudden we hear
‘Get onna ground . . . get onna ground . . . hands behind yer back motherfucker!’
from
inside
the house. Turns out Vincent was off, through the door and up the guy’s ass before any of us could move.”

“Sounds like Vince,” Jessica said.

“And how many times has he seen
Serpico
?” Byrne asked.

“Let’s put it this way,” Jessica said. “We’ve got it on DVD
and
VHS.”

Byrne laughed. “He’s a piece of work.”

“He’s a piece of something.”

Over the next few minutes they went through their who-do-you-knows, where-did-you-go-to-schools, who-have-you-busted repartee. All of which brought them back to their families.

“So is it true that Vincent was in the seminary once?” Byrne asked.

“For about ten minutes,” Jessica said. “You know how it is in this town. If you’re male and Italian, you’ve got three choices. The seminary, the force, or cement contracting. He has three brothers, all in the building trades.”

“If you’re Irish, it’s plumbing.”

“There ya go,” Jessica said. Although Vincent tried to posture himself as a swaggering South Philly homeboy, he had a BA from Temple with a minor in art history. On Vincent’s bookshelves, next to the
PDR, Drugs in Society,
and
The Narc’s Game,
sat a well-worn copy of H. W. Janson’s
History of Art
. He wasn’t all Ray Liotta and gold-plated
malocchio
.

“So what happened to Vince and the calling?”

“You’ve met him. Do you think he was built for a life of discipline and obedience?”

Byrne laughed. “Not to mention celibacy.”

No friggin’ comment,
Jessica thought.

“So, you guys are divorced?” Byrne asked.

“Separated,” Jessica said. “You?”

“Divorced.”

It was a standard refrain for cops. If you weren’t splitsville, you were en route. Jessica could count the happily married cops on one hand, with an empty ring finger left over.

“Wow,” Byrne said.

“What?”

“I’m just thinking . . . two people on the job, under one roof. Damn.”

“Tell me about it.”

Jessica had known all about the challenges of a two-badge marriage from the start—the egos, the hours, the pressures, the danger—but love has a way of obscuring the truth you know, and molding a truth you seek.

“Did Buchanan give you his
why are you here
speech?” Byrne asked.

Jessica was relieved that it wasn’t just her. “Yeah.”

“And you told him you were here because you want to make a difference, right?”

Was he baiting her? Jessica wondered. Fuck
this
. She glanced over, ready to reveal a few talons. He was smiling. She let it slide. “What is that, the standard?”

“Well, it beats the truth.”

“What’s the truth?”

“The real reason we became cops.”

“And what is
that
?”

“The big three,” Byrne said. “Free meals, no speed limits, and the license to beat the shit out of bigmouthed assholes with impunity.”

Jessica laughed. She had never heard it put quite so poetically. “Well, let’s just say I didn’t tell the truth, then.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked him if he thought
he’d
made a difference.”

“Oh, man,” Byrne said. “Oh man, oh man, oh
man
.”

“What?”

“You got in Ike’s face the first
day
?”

Jessica thought about it. She imagined she did. “I guess so.”

Byrne laughed, lit a cigarette. “We’re gonna get along just fine.”

T
HE 1500 BLOCK OF NORTH EIGHTH STREET, near Jefferson, was a blighted stretch of weed-blotted vacant lots and weather-blasted row houses—slanted porches, crumbling steps, sagging roofs. At the rooflines, the cornices wrote wavy contours of waterlogged white pine; the dentils were rotted to toothless scowls.

Two patrol cars flashed in front of the crime scene house, midblock. A pair of uniforms stood guard at the steps, both covertly cupping cigarettes in their hands, ready to flick and stomp the moment a superior officer arrived.

A light rain had begun to fall. The deep violet clouds to the west threatened storms.

Across the street from the house a trio of wide-eyed black kids hopped from one foot to the other, nervous, excited, as if they had to pee, their grandmothers hovering nearby, chatting and smoking, shaking their heads at this, yet another atrocity. To the kids, though, this was no tragedy. This was a live version of
COPS,
with a dose of
CSI
thrown in for dramatic value.

Behind them loitered a pair of Hispanic teenaged boys—matching hooded Rocawear sweatshirts, thin mustaches, spotless, unlaced Timberlands. They observed the unfolding scene with casual interest, fitting it into the stories they would pitch later that night. They stood close enough to the theatrics to observe, but far enough away to paint themselves into the backdrop of the urban canvas with a few quick strokes if it appeared they might be questioned.