Broken Angels jbakb-3

by Richard Montanari

  Jessica was on her feet in an instant. "I'll go with you."

  "Aren't you off duty?"

  Jessica laughed. "What's off duty?"

  "It's New Year's Eve."

  "As long as I'm home and in my husband's arms by midnight, I'm good."

  At just after 9 AM on December 31, Detectives Jessica Balzano and Nicolette Malone of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Division got on the Schuylkill Expressway. They headed to Berks County, Pennsylvania.

  They headed upriver.

  PART FOUR

  What The Moon Saw

  70

  You stand where the waters meet, at the confluence of two great rivers. The winter sun is low in a salt-colored sky. You choose a path, follow the smaller river north, winding among lyrical names and historic places- Bartram's Garden, Point Breeze, Grays Ferry. You float past sullen row houses, past the majesty of the city, past Boathouse Row and the Museum of Art, past the train yards, the East Park Reservoir, and the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. You slide northwest, whispering in your wake ancient incantations-Miquon, Conshohocken, Wissahickon. You leave the city now, and hover among the phantoms of Valley Forge, Phoenixville, Spring City. The Schuylkill snakes into history, the nation's remembrance. Yet still, it is the hidden river.

  You soon bid farewell to the river main, entering a haven of silence, a thin, meandering tributary heading southwest. The waterway narrows, widens, narrows again, a twisting tangle of rock and shale and water willow.

  Suddenly, from the silted winter mist appears a handful of buildings. A huge trellis spans the canal, once grand, now fallen into neglect and disrepair, its bright colors dour and flaked and dry.

  You see an old structure, at one time a proud boathouse. The fragrance of marine paint and varnish still lives in the air. You enter a room. It is a tidy place, a place of deep shadow and sharp angles.

  In this room you find a workbench. On the bench is an old, but sharp saw. Next to it, a coil of blue and white rope.

  You see a dress laid out on a daybed, waiting. It is a beautiful gown, pale strawberry in color, shirred to the waist. A dress for a princess.

  You continue, winding though a maze of narrow canals. You hear the echo of laughter, the lap of waves against small brightly colored boats. You smell the aroma of carnival foods-elephant ears, cotton candy, the glorious tang of sauerbraten on fresh seeded rolls. You hear the lilt of the calliope.

  And further on, further still, until all is silent again. Now it is a place of darkness. A place where graves chill the earth.

  It is here that Moon will meet you.

  He knows you are coming.

  71

  Throughout southeastern Pennsylvania there were small towns and villages scattered among the farms, most with just a handful of commercial enterprises, a pair of churches, a small school. In addition to growing cities like Lancaster and Reading there were bucolic villages like Oley and Exeter, hamlets virtually untouched by time.

  As they passed though Valley Forge, Jessica realized how much of her state she had not experienced. As much as she hated to admit it, she had been twenty-six before she had actually seen the Liberty Bell up close. She imagined it was like that for a lot of people who lived near history.

  There were more than thirty zip codes in Berks County. The area covered by the 195 zip code prefix covered a large area at the southeastern end of the county.

  Jessica and Nicci took a few back roads and began to ask about the farmhouse. They had debated involving local law enforcement in their quest, but things like that at times entailed red tape, jurisdictional issues. They kept it open, available as an option, but decided to do it on their own for the time being.

  They inquired at small shops, gas stations, the occasional roadside stands. They stopped at a church on White Bear Road. People were pleasant enough, but no one seemed to recognize the farmhouse, or have any idea where it was located.

  At noon the detectives took a road heading south through Robeson Township. A few wrong turns put them on a rough two-lane that wound through the woods. Fifteen minutes later they came upon an auto body and collision shop.

  The fields surrounding the enterprise were a necropolis of corroded vehicle shells-fenders and doors, long rusted bumpers, engine blocks, aluminum truck caps. To the right was an outbuilding; a sulking corrugated shed pitching at about a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Everything was overgrown, neglected, covered with gray snow and grime. If it hadn't been for the lights in the windows-including a struggling neon sign advertising Mopar-the building would have looked derelict.

  Jessica and Nicci pulled into the parking lot, itself populated with broken-down cars, vans, trucks. There was an RV on blocks. Jessica wondered if that was where the proprietor lived. A sign above the entrance to the garage read:

  DOUBLE K AUTO / TWICE THE VALUE

  An ancient, disinterested mastiff, chained to a pole, gave a cursory woof as they approached the main building. JESSICA AND NICCI entered. The three-bay garage was jammed with automotive debris. A greasy radio on the counter played Tim McGraw. The place smelled like WD40, grape candy, and old lunch meat.

  The bell on the door announced them, and after a few seconds two men approached. They were twins in their early thirties. They wore matching grimy blue overalls, had disheveled blond hair, blackened hands. Their nametags read KYLE and KEITH.

  Hence the Double K, Jessica suspected.

  "Hi," Nicci said.

  Neither man answered. Instead, they slowly ran their eyes over Nicci, then Jessica. Nicci plowed ahead. She showed her ID, introduced herself. "We're with the Philadelphia Police Department."

  Both men pulled faces, mugging, mocking. They remained silent.

  "We'd like a few minutes of your time," Nicci added.

  Kyle smiled a big yellow grin. "I've got all day for you, darlin'."

  Here we go, Jessica thought.

  "We're looking for a house that might be located around here," Nicci said, unfazed. "I'd like to show you a few pictures."

  "Oooo," Keith said. "We like pitchers. Us country folk need pitchers cuzz'n we cain't read."

  Kyle snorted laughter.

  "Are they dirty pitchers?" he added.

  The two brothers bumped grimy fists.

  Nicci just stared for a moment, unblinking. She took a deep breath, regrouped, began again. "If you could just take a look at these, we'd really appreciate it. Then we'll be on our way." She held up a photograph. The two men glanced at it, went back to ogling.

  "Yeah," said Kyle. "That's my house. We could take a ride up there now if you like."

  Nicci glanced at Jessica, back at the brothers. Up came the Philly. "You've got a mouth on you, you know that?"

  Kyle laughed. "Oh, you got that right," he said. "Ask any girl in town." He ran his tongue over his lips. "Why don't you come here and find out for yourself?"

  "Maybe I will," Nicci said. "Maybe I'll slap it into the next fuckin' county." Nicci took a step toward them. Jessica put a hand on Nicci's arm, held tight.

  "Guys? Guys?" Jessica said. "We thank you for your time. We really do appreciate it." She held up one of her business cards. "You've seen the picture. If you think of something, please give us a call." She put her card on the counter.

  Kyle looked at Keith, back at Jessica. "Oh I can think of something. Hell, I can think of a lot of things."

  Jessica looked at Nicci. She could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. After a moment, she felt the tension in Nicci's arm ease. They turned to leave. "Is your home number on the card?" one of them yelled. Another hyena laugh.

  Jessica and Nicci reached the car, slipped inside. "Remember that kid in Deliverance?" Nicci asked. "The one who played the banjo?" Jessica buckled up. "What about him?" "Looks like he had twins." Jessica laughed. "Where to?"

  They both looked down the road. The snow gently fell. The hills were covered with a silken duvet of white.

  Nicci glanced at the map on the seat, tapped south. "I t
hink we should go this way," she said. "And I think it's time to change tactics."

  At around one they arrived at a family-style restaurant called Doug's Den. The exterior was a deep brown rough siding, the roof a gambrel style. The parking lot held four vehicles.

  As Jessica and Nicci approached the door, it began to snow in earnest.

  They entered the restaurant. Two older men, a pair of locals instantly identifiable by their John Deere caps and worn-looking down vests, held down the far end of the bar.

  The man wiping the countertop was fifty-big shoulders and hands, just starting to go thick in the middle. He wore a lime green sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, black Dockers.

  "Afternoon," he said, brightening a bit at the notion of two young women entering the establishment.

  "How ya doin'?" Nicci asked.

  "Good," he said. "What can I get for you ladies?" He was soft- spoken, affable.

  Nicci gave the man a sideways glance, the one you give someone when you think you recognize them. Or want them to think you do. "You used to be on the job, didn't you?" she asked.

  The man smiled. "You can tell?"

  Nicci winked. "It's in the eyes."

  The man tossed the bar rag under the counter, sucked in his gut an inch. "I was a state trooper. Nineteen years."

  Nicci went into coquette mode, as if he had just said he was Ashley Wilkes. "You were a statie? What barracks?"

  "Erie," he said. "Troop E. Lawrence Park."

  "Oh, I love Erie," Nicci said. "Were you born there?"

  "Not far away. In Titusville."

  "When did you put in your papers?"

  The man looked at the ceiling, calculating. "Well, let's see." He paled slightly. "Wow."

  "What?"

  "I just realized that it was almost ten years ago."

  Jessica would bet the man knew exactly how long it had been, probably down to the hour and minute. Nicci reached out, touched him lightly on the back of his right hand. Jessica marveled. It was like watching Maria Callas warm up for a performance of Madame Butterfly.

  "I bet you could still fit into that uniform," Nicci said.

  In went the gut another inch. He was kind of cute in his big, smalltown-boy way. "Oh, I don't know about that."

  Jessica couldn't help thinking that, whatever this guy had done for the state he had definitely not been an investigator. If he couldn't see through this line of crap, he couldn't have found Shaquille O'Neal in a day-care center. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it. Jessica saw this sort of reaction in her father all the time these days.

  "Doug Prentiss," he said, extending his hand. Handshakes and introductions all around. Nicci told him they were Philly PD, but not homicide.

  Of course, they'd known most of this information about Doug before they'd set foot in his establishment. Like lawyers, cops liked to have the answer to a question before it was asked. The shiny Ford pickup parked closest to the door had a license plate that read DOUG1, and a sticker in the back window that read STATE TROOPERS DO IT ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.

  "I imagine you're on duty," Doug said, ready to serve. If Nicci had asked, he probably would have painted her house. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? Just brewed."

  "That would be great, Doug," Nicci said. Jessica nodded.

  "Two coffees, coming up."

  Doug was off like a shot. He soon returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, along with a bowl of individually packaged creamers on ice.

  "Are you out here on official business?" Doug asked.

  "Yes, we are," Nicci said.

  "If there's anything I can do to help, just ask."

  "I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that, Doug," Nicci said. She sipped from her cup. "Good coffee."

  Doug puffed a little chest. "What's the job?"

  Nicci took out a nine by twelve envelope, opened it. She extracted the photograph of the farmhouse, slid it across the bar. "We're trying to locate this place, but we're not having too much luck. We're fairly certain it's in this zip code. Does it look familiar to you?"

  Doug put on a pair of bifocals, picked up the photograph. After looking at it carefully he said, "I don't recognize this place, but if it's anywhere in this area I know who would."

  "Who is that?"

  "A woman named Nadine Palmer. She and her nephew run the little arts-and-crafts store down the road," Doug said, clearly pleased to be back in the saddle again, even if it was just for a few minutes. "She's a heck of a painter. So's her nephew."

  72

  The Art Ark was a small weather-beaten store at the end of the block, on the one and only main street in the small town. The display in the window was a cleverly arranged collage of brushes, paints, canvases, watercolor pads, along with the expected silo-and-barn landscapes of local farms, produced by local artists, painted by people most likely instructed by-or related to-the proprietor.

  A bell over the door announced Jessica and Nicci's entrance. They were greeted by the aroma of potpourri, linseed oil, and a subtle undercurrent of cat.

  The woman behind the counter was in her early sixties. Her hair was pulled into a bun and held in place by an elaborately carved wooden pick. If they were not in Pennsylvania, Jessica would have placed the woman at a Nantucket art fair. Maybe that was the idea.

  "Afternoon," the woman said.

  Jessica introduced herself and Nicci as police officers. "Doug Pren- tiss referred us to you," she said.

  "Good-looking man that Doug Prentiss."

  "Yes he is," Jessica said. "He said you might be able to help us."

  "Do what I can," she replied. "Name's Nadine Palmer, by the way."

  Nadine's words promised cooperation, even though her body language had tightened up a little when she'd heard the word "police." It was to be expected. Jessica brought out the photograph of the farmhouse. "Doug said you might know where this house was."

  Before Nadine looked at the photograph she asked, "Might I see some ID?"

  "Absolutely," Jessica said. She pulled her badge, flipped it open. Nadine took it from her, scrutinized it.

  "Must be exciting work," she said, handing the ID back.

  "Sometimes," Jessica replied.

  Nadine picked up the photograph. "Oh, sure," she said. "I know the place."

  "Is it far from here?" Nicci asked.

  "Not too far."

  "Do you know who lives there?" Jessica asked.

  "Don't think anyone lives there now." She took a step toward the back of the store, yelled, "Ben?"

  "Yeah?" came a voice from the basement.

  "Can you bring up the watercolor that's leaning up against the freezer?"

  "The small one?"

  "Yes."

  "Sure thing," he replied.

  A few seconds later a young man came up the steps carrying a framed watercolor. He was in his early to mid-twenties, right out of central casting for small-town Pennsylvania. He had a shock of wheat- colored hair that fell into his eyes. He wore a navy blue cardigan, white T-shirt, and jeans. He was almost feminine in his features.

  "This is my nephew, Ben Sharp," Nadine said. She went on to introduce Jessica and Nicci and explain who they were.

  Ben handed his aunt the tastefully framed and matted watercolor. Nadine put it onto an easel next to the counter. The painting, realistically rendered, was almost an exact duplicate of the photo.

  "Who painted this?" Jessica asked.

  "Yours truly," Nadine said. "I snuck out there one Saturday in June. A long, long time ago."

  "It's beautiful," Jessica said.

  "It's for sale." Nadine winked. From the back room came the sound of a teakettle whistling. "If you'll excuse me a second." She walked out of the room.

  Ben Sharp looked between his two visitors, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, rocked on his heels for a moment. "So, you guys are up from Philly?" he asked.

  "That's right," Jessica said.

  "And you're detectives?"

  "Right again."

&nbs
p; "Wow."

  Jessica glanced at her watch. It was past two. If they were going to track down this house, they had better get going. She then noticed a display of paintbrushes on the counter behind Ben. She pointed to it.

  "What can you tell me about these brushes?" she asked.

  "Just about anything you'd like to know," Ben said.

  "Are they all pretty much the same?" she asked.

  "No, ma'am. First of all, they come in different grades-master, studio, academic. All the way down to economy, although you really don't want to paint with economy. They're more for the hobbyist. I use the studio, but that's because I get a discount. I'm not as good as Aunt Nadine, but I'm coming along."

  At this, Nadine reentered the shop with a tray bearing a steaming pot of tea. "Do you have time for a cup of tea?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid we don't," Jessica said. "But thanks." She turned to Ben, held up the photograph of the farmhouse. "Are you familiar with this house?"

  "Sure," Ben said.

  "How far away is it?"

  "Maybe ten minutes or so. It's kind of hard to find. If you like, I can show you where it is."

  "That would be very helpful," Jessica said.

  Ben Sharp beamed. Then his expression darkened. "Is that okay, Aunt Nadine?"

  "Of course," she said. "Not exactly turning away customers, it being New Year's Eve and all. I should probably just close up and pop the Cold Duck."

  Ben ran into the back room, returned wearing a parka. "I'll bring my van around, meet you out front."

  While they waited, Jessica glanced around the shop. It had that smalltown atmosphere that she found appealing of late. Maybe that was what she was looking for now that Sophie was getting older. She wondered what the schools were like around here. She wondered if there were schools around here.

  Nicci nudged her, dissolving her daydream. It was time to go.

  "Thanks for your time," Jessica said to Nadine.

  "Anytime," Nadine said. She came around the counter, walked them to the door. It was then that Jessica noticed the wooden box near the radiator; the box contained a cat and four or five newborn kittens.