Here we go, Jessica thought. It's going to be a long week.
She got in her car, started it. Her cellphone rang. She answered, and learned something she'd always suspected.
She wasn't the only dangerous female in her family.
Chapter 3
I hear a truck pull into the driveway. A few moments later, a knock at the door. I open it. In front of me stands a man of forty, just beginning to paunch. He is wearing a red windbreaker, paint-splattered jeans, a pair of soiled running shoes with frayed laces. In his hand is a clipboard.
'Mr. Marcato?' the man asks.
Marcato. The name makes me smile.
'Yes.' I extend my hand. The man 's skin is rough, calloused, stained. He reeks of cigarettes and turpentine.
Tm Kenny Beckman,' he says. 'We spoke on the phone.'
'Of course. Please come in.'
Except for a few plastic trash barrels and dusty glass display cases, the space is empty.
''Man, what's that smell?' Beckman asks.
'It's coming from next door. There used to be a sausage shop there and I think they left some meat to rot. I intend to speak to them about it.'
'You better. You're not gonna do any business in here if it smells like this.'
'I understand.' I gesture at the room. As you can see, we're going to need quite a bit of work here.'
'You can say that again.'
Beckman walks around the room, touching the moldering drywall, fingering the dust-caked sills, shining a flashlight along the baseboards. He produces a measuring tape, takes a few dimensions, jots them on the clipboard. I watch him carefully, calculating his speed and agility.
A minute or so later: 'You've got a pretty good sag in the floor joists.' He bounces a few times, driving home his point. The parched joists creak beneath his weight. 'The first thing we're going to need to do is shore that up. You really can't do too much else with the floor out of level.'
'Whatever is necessary to bring this up to code.'
Beckman looks around the room again, perhaps in preparation for his closing. 'Well, you've got a ways to go, but I think we can handle it.'
'Good. I'd like to get started right away.'
'Sounds like a plan.'
'And by the way, you've come highly recommended.'
'Oh yeah? Who recommended me? If you don't mind me asking.'
'I'm not sure I recall. It was a while ago.'
'How long?'
'March 21, 2002.'
At the mention of the date Kenneth Beckman tenses. He takes a step backward, glances at the door. 'I'm sorry? 2002? Is that what you said?'
'Yes.'
'March of 2002?'
'Yes.'
Another glance at the door. 'That's not possible.'
'And why is that?'
'Well, for one thing, I wasn't even in business then.'
'I can explain,' I say. 'Let me show you something.' I gesture to the dark hallway leading to the back room of the first floor. Beckman takes a moment, perhaps sensing that something is slightly off kilter, like a radio that cannot quite find a signal. But he clearly needs the work, even if it is for a weird man who speaks in riddles.
We head down the hallway. When we reach the door I push it open. The smell is a lot stronger here.
'Fuck!' Beckman exclaims, recoiling. He reaches into his back pocket, takes out a soiled handkerchief, brings it to his mouth. 'What the hell is that?'
The small square room is spotless. There are two steel tables at the center, both bolted to the floor. The night-black walls have been expensively soundproofed; the drop ceiling is made of acoustic tile purchased by mail order from a Swiss company specializing in outfitting the finest recording studios in the world. Above the tables is a microphone. The floor is a high- gloss enamel, painted red in the name of practicality. Beneath the tables is a drain hole.
On one of the tables rests a figure, supine beneath a white plastic sheet pulled up to the neck.
When Beckman sees the corpse, and recognizes it for what it is, his knees trick.
I turn to the wall, unpin a photograph, a clipping from a newspaper. It is the only adornment in the room. 'She was pretty,' I say. 'Not beautiful, not in the Grace Kelly sense, but pretty beneath the coarseness of all this paint.'' I hold up the picture. 'Don't you think?'
In the pitiless fluorescent light Beckman's face contorts with fear.
'Tell me what happened,' I say. 'Don't you think it's time?'
Beckman retreats, waving a forefinger in the air. 'You're fucking nuts, man. Fucking psycho. I'm outta here.' He turns and tries the knob on the door. Locked. He pulls and pushes, pulls and pushes. It is a mounting frenzy, with no success. 'Open the goddamn door!'
Instead of unlocking the door, I step forward, remove the sheet from the figure on the table. The body underneath has begun to decompose, its eyes now descended into their sockets, its skin fallen sallow, the color of overripe corn. The form is still recognizable as human, albeit emaciated and on the precipice of putrefaction. The hands are gray and shriveled, fingers stiff in supplication. I do not gag at the sick-sweet smell. In fact, I have begun to anticipate it with some measure of desire.
I pry back the index finger on the corpse's left hand. There is a small tattoo of a swan. I look at Kenneth Beckman, and say, in my best broken Italian:
'Benvenuto al carnevale!'
Welcome to the carnival.
Beckman staggers against the wall, horrified by the sight, the fresh surge of decay in the air. He tries to speak, but the words bottleneck in his throat.
I lift the Taser and place it to the side of Beckman's chest. Blue lightning strikes. The man folds to the floor.
For a moment the room is silent.
As silent as a womb.
I take the three killing instruments out of their sheaths, lay them on the table, next to the salon-quality hair trimmer. I open the hidden cabinet concealed behind a door that has a touch latch, revealing the recording equipment. The sight of the matte-black finish on the six components, free of dust and static, fills me with an almost sexual sensation. The warmth coming off the components — I always warm everything up at least an hour before a session — coats me in a thin layer of perspiration. Or maybe that is just anticipation.
Beckman is shackled to the table with tape over his mouth. His head is held in place by a neurosurgical clamp, a precision device used to fix a patient's head to a table during stereotactic procedures for the placement of electrodes, an operation requiring rigid immobilization. A year ago I ordered the apparatus from a German firm, paying by international money order, receiving the product through a series of remailers.
I slip on a surgical gown, stand next to the table, open the straight razor. With the index finger of my left hand I probe the soft skin on the man's forehead. Beckman howls into his gag, but the sound is muffled.
That is about to change.
With a steady hand I make the first cut across the forehead, just beneath the hairline, taking my time. I watch the skin bisect slowly, revealing the glossy pink tissue beneath. The surgical clamp does its job well. The man cannot move his head at all. With a foot pedal I press Record, then remove the gag.
The man gulps air, pink foam leaking from the corners of his mouth, lie has severed the tip of his tongue.
He begins to scream.
I monitor the sound levels, make a few adjustments. Beckman continues to shriek, blood running down both sides of his face now, onto the polished stainless steel of the table, onto the dry enamel of the floor.
A few minutes later I blot the blood on Beckman's forehead, clean it with an alcohol pad. I go to work on the man's right ear. When I am finished I take out a measuring tape, measure down from the ait on the forehead, mark the spot with a red felt-tip pen, then take the second killing instrument in hand, hold it to the light. The carbon tip is a dark, lustrous blue.
One final check of the sound levels and I set about my penultimate task. Slowly, deliberately — largo, o
ne might say — I proceed, knowing that just a few feet away, on the other side of the outside wall, the city of Philadelphia is passing by, oblivious to the symphony being composed inside this common looking building.
Then again, has not the greatest art in history come from humble surroundings?
Zig, zig, zag.
I am Death in cadence.
When the power drill reaches its full RPM, and the razor-sharp bit nears the skin covering the frontal bone, in an area just above the right eye, Kenneth Arnold Beckman's screams reach a majestic volume, a second octave. The voice is off key, but that can be fixed later. For now, there is no need to hurry. No need at all.
In fact, we have all day.
Chapter 4
Sophie Balzano sat at one end of the long couch, looking even smaller than usual.
Jessica stepped into the outer office, talked to the secretary, then entered the main office, where she chatted with one of Sophie's Sunday- school teachers. Jessica soon returned, sat next to her daughter. Sophie did not take her stare off her own shoes.
'Want to tell me what happened?' Jessica asked.
Sophie shrugged, looked out the window. Her hair was long, pulled back into a cat's-eye barrette. At seven, she was a little smaller than her friends, but she was fast and smart. Jessica was five-eight in her stocking feet, and had grown to that height somewhere during the summer between sixth and seventh grade. She wondered if the same would happen for her daughter.
'Honey? You have to tell Mommy what happened. We'll make it better, but I have to know what happened. Your teacher said you were in a fight. Is that true?'
Sophie nodded.
'Are you okay?'
Sophie nodded again, although this time a little more slowly. 'I'm all right.'
'We'll talk in the car?'
'Okay.'
As they walked out of the school, Jessica saw some of the other kids whispering to each other. Even in this day and age, it seemed, a playground fight still generated gossip.
They left the school grounds, headed down Academy Road. When they made the turn onto Grant Avenue and the traffic halted for some construction works, Jessica asked, 'Can you tell me what the fight was about?'
'It was about Brendan.'
'Brendan Hurley?'
'Yes.'
Brendan Hurley was a boy in Sophie's class. Thin and quiet and bespectacled, Brendan was bully-bait if Jessica had ever seen it. Beyond that, Jessica didn't know a lot about him. Except that on the previous Valentine's Day Brendan had given Sophie a card. A big glittery card.
'What about Brendan?' Jessica asked.
'I don't know,' she said. 'I think he might be…'
Traffic began to move. They pulled off the boulevard, onto Torresdale Avenue.
'What, sweetie? You think Brendan might be what?'
Sophie looked out the window, then at her mother. 'I think he might be G-A-E.'
Oh boy, Jessica thought. She had been prepared for a lot of things. The talk about sharing, the talk about race and class, the talk about money, even the talk about religion. Jessica was woefully unprepared for the talk about gender identity. The fact that Sophie spelled the word out instead of saying it — indicating that, to Sophie, and her classmates, the word belonged in that special classification of profanities not to be uttered — spoke volumes. 'I see,' was all that Jessica could come up with at that moment. She decided not to correct her daughter's spelling at this time. 'What makes you say that?'
Sophie straightened her skirt. This was clearly difficult for her. 'He kind of runs like a girl,' she said. 'And throws like a girl.'
'Okay.'
'But so do I, right?'
'Yes, you do.'
'So it's not a bad thing.'
'No, it's not a bad thing at all.'
They pulled into their driveway, cut the engine. Jessica soon realized that she had no idea how much Sophie knew about sexual orientation. Even thinking about the words 'sexual orientation' in connection with her little girl freaked her completely out.
'So, what happened?' Jessica asked.
'Well, this girl was saying mean things about Brendan.'
'Who is this girl?'
'Monica,' Sophie said. 'Monica Quagliata.'
'Is she in your grade?'
'No,' Sophie said. 'She's in third. She's pretty big.' Consciously or subconsciously, Sophie balled her fists.
'What did you say to her?'
'I told her to stop saying those things. Then she pushed me and called me a skank.'
That bitch, Jessica thought. She secretly hoped that Sophie had cleaned the little shit's clock. 'What did you do then?'
'I pushed her back. She fell down. Everyone laughed.'
'Did Brendan laugh?'
'No,' Sophie said. 'Brendan is afraid of Monica Quagliata. Everyone's afraid of Monica Quagliata.'
'But not you.'
Sophie glanced out the window. It had begun to rain. She traced her finger on the misting glass, then looked back at her mother. 'No,' she said. 'Not me.'
Yes, Jessica thought. My tough little girl. 'I want you to listen, okay, honey?'
Sophie sat up straight. 'Is this going to be one of our talks?'
Jessica almost laughed. She checked herself at the last second. 'Yes. I guess it is.'
'Okay.'
'I want you to remember that fighting is always the last resort, okay? If you have to defend yourself, it's all right. Every single time. But sometimes we need to take care of people who can't take care of themselves. Do you understand what I mean?'
Sophie nodded, but looked confused. 'What about you, Mom? You used to fight all the time.'
Ah, crap, Jessica thought. Logic from a seven-year-old.
After Sophie was born, Jessica had discovered boxing as an exercise and weight-loss regimen. For some reason she took to it, even going so far as to take a few amateur bouts before letting her great uncle Vittorio talk her into turning pro. Although those days were probably behind her — unless there was a Senior Tour for female boxers closing in on thirty-five — she had begun to visit Joe Hand's Gym in anticipation of a series of exhibition bouts planned to raise money for the Police Athletic League.
None of that training helped her at this moment, however, a moment when she was faced with explaining the difference between fighting and boxing.
Then Jessica saw a shadow in her side mirror.
Vincent was walking up the drive, carrying a pizza from Santucci's. With his caramel eyes, long lashes and muscular physique, he still made Jessica's heart flutter, at least on those days when she didn't want to kill him. Sometimes he dressed in suits and ties, cleanshaven, his dark hair swept back. Other days he was scruffy. Today was a scruffy day. Jessica was, and always had been, a pushover for scruff. She had to admit it. Detective Vincent Balzano looked pretty damned good for a married man.
'Sweetie?' Jessica asked.
'Yeah, mom?'
'That thing we were talking about? About fighting versus boxing?'
'What about it?'
Jessica reached over, patted her daughter's hand. 'Ask your father.'
They had lived in the Lexington Park section of Northeast Philadelphia for more than five years, just a few blocks from Roosevelt Boulevard. On a good day it would take Jessica forty-five minutes to get to the Roundhouse. On a bad day — most days — even longer. But all that was about to change.
She and Vincent had just closed on a vacant trinity in South Philly, a three-story row house belonging to old friends, which was how many houses in the neighborhood changed hands. Rare was the property that made it to the classifieds.
They would be living in the shadow of their new church, Sacred Heart of Jesus, where Sophie would be starting school. New friends, new teachers. Jessica wondered what the effect on her little girl was going to be.
Jessica's father, Peter Giovanni, one of the most decorated cops in PPD history, still lived in the South Philadelphia house in which Jessica had grown up — at Sixth and Cath
arine. He was still vibrant and active, very much involved in the community, but he was getting on in years, and the trip for him to see his only granddaughter would eventually become a burden. For this, and for so many other reasons, they were moving back to South Philly.
With her daughter fast asleep, and her husband ensconced in the basement with his brothers, Jessica stood at the top of the narrow stairs to the attic.
It seemed as if her entire life was in these boxes, these cramped and angled rooms. Photographs, keepsakes, awards, birth and death certificates, diplomas.
She picked up one of the boxes, a white Strawbridge's gift box with a piece of green yarn around it. It was the yarn with which her mother used to tie her hair in autumn, after the summer sun had made her brunette hair turn auburn.
Jessica slid off the yarn, opened the box: a faux-pearl mirror compact, a small leather change purse, a stack of Polaroids. Jessica felt the familiar pangs of pain and grief and loss, even though it had been more than twenty-five years since her mother had died. She slipped the yarn back around the box, put it by the stairs, gave the room one last survey.
She had been a cop for a long time, had seen just about everything. There wasn't too much that unnerved her.
This did.
They were moving back to the city.
Chapter 5
'Fuckin' city,' the man said. 'First my car gets booted, then I they tow it, then I hadda go down to PPA and spend two hours standing around with a bunch of smelly lowlifes. Then I hadda go down to Ninth and Filbert. Then they tell me I owe three-hunna-ninety dollars in tickets. Three-hunna-ninety dollars.''
The man slammed back his drink, washed it down with a mouthful of beer.
'Fuckin' city. Fuckin' PPA. Buncha Nazis is what they are. Fuckin' racket.'
Detective Kevin Byrne glanced at his watch. It was 11:45 p.m. His city was coming alive. The guy next to him had come alive after his third Jim Beam. The man migrated from tales of woe that began with his wife (fat and loud and lazy) to his two sons (ditto on the lazy, no data on body type) to his car (a Prism not really worth getting out of hock) and his ongoing war with the Philadelphia Parking Authority. The PPA had few fans in the city. Without them, though, the city would be chaos.
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