Then: "Yes?"
"First off, I just want to say how sorry I was to hear about your daughter."
A sharp intake of air. "My daughter? Something has happened to Hannah?"
Oops.
"I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number."
He clicked off, dialed the next number.
Busy.
Next. A woman this time.
"Mrs. Welles?"
"Who is this?"
"Madam, my name is Simon Close. I'm a writer with The Report"
Click.
Bitch.
Next.
Busy.
Jesus, he thought. Doesn't anyone in Philly sleep anymore?
Then Channel 6 did a recap. They called the victim "Tessa Ann Wells of Twentieth Street in North Philly."
Thankyou,Action News, Simon thought.
Check this action.
He looked up the number. Frank Wells on Twentieth Street. He dialed, but the line was busy. Again. Busy. Again. Same result. Redial. Redial.
Damn.
He thought about driving over there, but what happened next, like a crack of righteous thunder, changed everything.
17
MONDAY, 11:00 PM
Death had come here unbidden, and, for its penance, the block mourned in silence. The rain had diminished to a thin mist, whispering off the rivers, slicking the pavement. Night had buried its day in a glass- ine shroud.
Byrne sat in his car across the street from the Tessa Wells crime scene, his exhaustion now a living thing within. Through the fog he could see a faint orange glow coming from the basement window of the row house. The CSU team would be there all night, and probably most of the next day.
He slipped a blues CD into the player. Soon, Robert Johnson scratched and crackled from the speakers, talking about that hellhound on his trail.
I hear you, Byrne thought.
He considered the short block of dilapidated row houses. The once graceful facades swooned beneath the yoke of weather and time and neglect. For all the drama that had unfolded behind these walls over the years, both petty and grand, it was the perfume of death that would remain. Long after the footers were plowed back into the earth, madness would dwell here.
Byrne saw movement in the field to the right of the crime scene. A slum dog regarded him from the cover of a small pile of discarded tires, his only worry his next bite of spoiled meat, his next tongueful of rainwater.
Lucky dog.
Byrne shut off the CD, closed his eyes, absorbed the silence.
There had been no fresh footprints through the weed-thick field behind the death house, no recently snapped branches on the low scrub. Whoever killed Tessa Wells had probably not parked on Ninth Street.
He felt the breath catch in his chest, the way it had the night he had plunged into the icy river, locked in death's caress with Luther White-
The images slammed into the back of his skull-brutal and vile and base.
He saw Tessa's final moments.
The approach comes from the front…
The killer turns off his headlights, decelerates, rolls slowly, cautiously, to a stop. Cuts the engine. He exits the vehicle, sniffs the air. He finds this place ripe for his insanity. A bird of prey is most vulnerable when it eats, mantling its catch, exposed to attack from above. He knows he is about to put himself at momentary risk. He has chosen his quarry with care. Tessa Wells is that thing that is missing within him; the very idea of beauty that he must destroy.
He carries her across the street, into the empty row house on the left. Nothing with a soul stirs here. It is dark inside, borrowing no moonlight. The rotted floor is a danger, but he does not risk a flashlight. Not yet. She is light in his arms. He is full of a terrible power.
He exits the rear of the house.
(But why? Why not dump her in the first house?)
He is sexually aroused, but he does not act on it.
(Again, why?)
He enters the death house. He takes Tessa Wells down the stairs into the dank and putrid cellar.
(Has he been here before?)
Rats scurry, frightened off their meager carrion. He is in no hurry. Time does not come here anymore.
He is in complete control at this moment.
He is…
He is-
Byrne tried, but he could not see the killer's face.
Not yet.
The pain flashed with a bright, savage intensity.
It was getting worse.
Byrne lit a cigarette, smoked it down to the filter without the curse of a single thought, or the blessing of a single idea. The rain began again in earnest.
Why Tessa Wells? he wondered, turning her photograph over and over in his hands.
Why not the next shy young girl? What did Tessa do to deserve this? Did she refuse the advances of some teenaged Lothario? No. As crazy as every new crop of young men seemed to be, tagging each successive generation with some hyperbolic level of larceny and violence, this was far beyond the pale of some jilted teenager.
Was she chosen at random?
If that was the case, Byrne knew it was unlikely that this was going to stop.
What was so special about this place?
What was he failing to see?
Byrne felt the rage build. The pain tangoed at his temples. He split a Vicodin, swallowed it dry.
He hadn't slept more than three or four hours in the past forty-eight, but who needed sleep? There was work to be done.
The wind kicked up, fluttering the bright yellow crime scene tape- grand-opening pennants at Death Mart.
He looked into the rearview mirror; saw the scar over his right eye and the way it glistened in the moonlight. He ran his finger over it. He thought about Luther White and the way his.22 had glimmered in the moonlight on the night they both died, the way the barrel exploded and painted the world red, then white, then black; the full palette of lunacy, the way the river had embraced them both.
Where are you, Luther?
I could do with a little help.
He got out of the car, locked it. He knew he should go home, but somehow, this place filled him with the sense of purpose he needed at the moment, the peace he used to feel when he was sitting in the living room on some crisp fall day, watching an Eagles game, Donna on the couch next to him, reading a book, Colleen in her room, studying.
Maybe he should go home.
But go home to what? His empty two-room apartment?
He would drink another pint of bourbon, watch the talk shows, probably a movie. At three o'clock he would slip into bed, waiting for a sleep that would not come. At six he would concede to the pre-alarm dawn, and get up.
He glanced at the glow of light from the basement window, saw the shadows moving purposefully about, felt the pull.
These were his brothers, his sisters, his family.
He crossed the street to the death house.
This was his home.
18
MONDAY, 11:08 PM
Simon had been aware of the two vehicles. The blue-and-white Crime Scene Unit van nestled against the side of the row house, and the Taurus parked down the street, the Taurus containing his nemesis, as it were: Detective Kevin Francis Byrne.
When Simon had broken the story on Morris Blanchard's suicide, Kevin Byrne had waited for him one night outside Downey's, a raucous Irish pub on Front and South Streets. Byrne had cornered him and had thrown him around like a rag doll, finally picking him up by the collar of his jacket and slamming him up against a wall. Simon was no bruiser, but he did go six feet tall, eleven stone, and Byrne had lifted him clean off the ground with a single hand. Byrne had smelled like a distillery after a flood, and Simon had prepared himself for a serious donnybrook. Okay, a serious beating. Who was he kidding?
But luckily, instead of punching him flat-which, Simon had to admit, he might have had coming-Byrne just stopped, looked at the sky, and dropped him like a spent tissue, letting him off with sore ribs, a banged up should
er, and a knit shirt stretched beyond all attempts at resizing.
For his penance Byrne had gotten another half a dozen scathing articles out of Simon. For a year Simon had traveled with a Louisville Slugger in his car and an eye over his shoulder. Still did.
But all of that was ancient history.
There was a new wrinkle.
Simon had a pair of stringers he used from time to time, Temple University students who had the same notions about journalism that Simon had once held. They did research and the occasional stakeout, all for a pittance, usually just enough to keep them in iTunes downloads and X.
The one who had some potential, the one who could actually write, was Benedict Tsu. He called at ten after eleven.
"Simon Close."
"It is Tsu."
Simon wasn't sure if it was an Asian thing or a college thing, but Benedict always called himself by his last name. "What's up?"
"That place you asked about, the place on the waterfront?"
Tsu was talking about the dilapidated building under the Walt Whitman Bridge into which Kevin Byrne had mysteriously disappeared for a few hours earlier in the night. Simon had followed Byrne, but had to keep a discreet distance. When Simon had to leave to get to the Blue Horizon, he called Tsu and asked him to look into it. "What about it?"
"It's called Deuces."
"What's Deuces?"
"It's a crack house."
Simon's world began to spin. "A crack house?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
Simon let the possibilities wash over him. The excitement was overwhelming.
"Thanks, Ben," Simon said. "I'll be in touch."
"Bukeqi"
Simon clicked off, considered his good fortune.
Kevin Byrne was on the pipe.
Which meant that what had become a casual endeavor-following Byrne to get a story-would now become a grand obsession. Because, from time to time, Kevin Byrne had to score his drugs. Which meant that Kevin Byrne had a brand-new partner. Not a tall, sexy goddess with smoldering dark eyes and a freight-train right cross, but rather a skinny white boy from Northumberland.
A skinny white boy with a Nikon D100 camera and a Sigma 55-200mm DC zoom lens.
19
TUESDAY, 5:40 AM
Jessica huddled in the corner of a dank cellar, watching a young woman kneeling in prayer. The girl was about seventeen, blond, freckled, blue-eyed, and innocent.
The moonlight streaming through the small window cast brusque shadows across the rubble in the cellar, creating buttes and chasms amid the gloom.
When the girl was done praying, she sat down on the damp floor and produced a hypodermic needle and, without ceremony or preparation, stuck the needle in her arm.
"Wait!" Jessica screamed. She made her way quickly across the debris-strewn basement with relative ease, considering the shadow and the clutter. No barked shins, no stubbed toes. It was as if she floated. But by the time she reached the young woman, the young woman was already depressing the plunger.
You don't have to do that, Jessica said.
Yes I do, the girl dream-replied. You don't understand.
I do understand. You don't need it.
But I do. There is a monster after me.
Jessica stood a few feet away from the girl. She saw that the girl was barefoot; her feet were red and raw and blistered. When Jessica looked back up-
The girl was Sophie. Or, more accurately, the young woman Sophie would become. Gone were her daughter's roly-poly little body and chubby cheeks, replaced instead by a young woman's curves: long legs, slender waist, a discernible bust beneath the ragged V-neck sweater with the Nazarene crest.
But it was the girl's face that horrified Jessica. Sophie's face was drawn and haggard, with dark violet smudges beneath her eyes.
Don't, sweetie, Jessica implored. God, no.
She looked again and saw that the girl's hands were now bolted together and bleeding. Jessica tried to take a step forward but her feet seemed frozen to the ground, her legs leaden. She felt something at her breastbone. She looked down to see an angel pendant hanging around her neck.
Then, suddenly, a bell sounded. Loud and intrusive and insistent. It seemed to come from above. Jessica looked at the Sophie-girl. The drug was just taking hold of the girl's nervous system, and as her eyes rolled back, her head tilted upward. Suddenly, there was no ceiling above them, no roof. Just the black sky. Jessica followed her gaze as the bell pounded through the firmament again. A sword of golden sunlight split the night clouds, catching the sterling silver of the pendant, blinding Jessica for a moment, until-
Jessica opened her eyes and sat upright, her heart rattling around in her chest. She looked at the window. Pitch black. It was the middle of the night and the phone was ringing. Only bad news made the trip at this hour.
Vincent?
Dad?
The phone rang a third time, offering no details, no comfort. She reached for it, disoriented, frightened, her hands shaking, her head still throbbing. She lifted the receiver.
"H-hello?"
"It's Kevin."
Kevin? Jessica thought. Who the hell is Kevin? The only Kevin she knew was Kevin Bancroft, the weird kid who lived on Christian Street when she was growing up. Then it hit her.
Kevin.
The job.
"Yeah. Right. Okay. What's up?"
"I think we should catch the girls at the bus stop."
Greek. Maybe Turkish. Definitely some foreign language. She had no idea what these words meant.
"Can you hang on a sec?" she asked.
"Sure."
Jessica sprinted to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face. The right side was still slightly swollen, but much less painful than it was last night, due to an hour of ice packs when she'd gotten home. Along with Patrick's kiss, of course. The thought made her smile, the smile made her face hurt. It was a good hurt. She ran back to the phone, but before she could say anything, Byrne added:
"I think we'll get more out of them there than we will at the school."
"Sure," Jessica replied, and she suddenly realized that he was talking about Tessa Wells's friends.
"I'll pick you up in twenty," he said.
For a minute, she thought he meant twenty minutes. She glanced at the clock. Five forty. He did mean twenty minutes. Luckily, Paula Fari- nacci's husband left for work in Camden by six, so she was up. Jessica could drop Sophie off at Paula's and have just enough time for a shower. "Right," Jessica said. "Okay. Great. No problem. See you then."
She hung up, threw her legs over the side of the bed, ready for a nice, brisk nap.
Welcome to Homicide.
20
TUESDAY, 6:00 AM
Byrne had been waiting for her with a large coffee and a sesame seed bagel. The coffee was strong and hot, the bagel fresh.
Bless him.
Jessica hurried through the rain and slipped into the car, nodded a token greeting. To put it mildly, she was not a morning person, especially a six-o'clock-in-the-morning person. Her fondest hope was that she was wearing matching shoes.
They rode into the city in silence, Kevin Byrne respecting her space and waking ritual, realizing he had forced the shock of the new day upon her unceremoniously. He, on the other hand, looked wide-awake. A little ragged, but wide-eyed and alert.
Men had it so easy, Jessica thought. Clean shirt, shave in the car, a spritz of Binaca, a drop of Visine, ready for the day.
They made the ride to North Philly in short order. They parked near the corner of Nineteenth and Poplar. Byrne put on the radio at the half hour. The Tessa Wells story was mentioned.
With half an hour to wait, they hunkered down. Occasionally, Byrne flipped the ignition to start the wipers, the defrosters.
They tried to talk about the news, the weather, the job. The subtext kept bulling forward. Daughters.
Tessa Wells was someone's daughter.
This realizat
ion hardwired them both into the brutal soul of this crime. It might have been their child. "SHE'LL BE THREE NEXT MONTH," Jessica said.
Jessica showed Byrne a picture of Sophie. He smiled. She knew he had a marshmallow center. "She looks like a handful."
"Two hands," Jessica said. "You know how it is when they're that age. They look to you for everything." "Yeah."
"You miss those days?"
"I missed those days," Byrne said. "I was working double tours in those days."
"How old is your daughter now?"
"She's thirteen," Byrne said.
"Uh-oh," Jessica said.
"Uh-oh is an understatement."
"So… she have a house full of Britney CDs?"
Byrne smiled again, thinly this time. "No."
"Oh boy. Don't tell me she's into rap."
Byrne spun his coffee a few times. "My daughter is deaf."
"Oh my," Jessica said, suddenly mortified. "I'm… I'm sorry."
"That's okay. Don't be."
"I mean… I just didn't-"
"It's okay. Really. She hates sympathy. And she's a lot tougher than you and me combined."
"What I meant was-"
"I know what you meant. My wife and I went through years of sorry. It's a natural reaction," Byrne said. "But to be quite honest, I've yet to meet a deaf person who thinks of herself as handicapped. Especially Colleen."
Seeing as she had opened this line of questioning, Jessica figured she might as well continue. She did, gently. "Was she born deaf?"
Byrne nodded. "Yeah. It was something called Mondini dysplasia. Genetic disorder."
Jessica's mind turned to Sophie, dancing around the living room to some song on Sesame Street. Or the way Sophie would sing at the top of her lungs amid the bubbles in the tub. Like her mother, Sophie couldn't tow a tune with a tractor, but she was earnest in the attempt. Jessica thought about her bright, healthy, beautiful little girl and considered how lucky she was.
They both fell silent. Byrne ran the wipers, the defroster. The windshield began to clear. The girls had yet not arrived at the corner. Traffic on Poplar was beginning to thicken.
"I watched her once," Byrne said, sounding a little melancholy, as if he had not spoken of his daughter to anyone in a while. The longing was obvious. "I was supposed to pick her up at her deaf school, and I was a little early. So I pulled over to the side of the street to grab a smoke, read the paper.
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