Jessica thought, Daughter? Could this be the legendary Rose? "I didn't know you had a daughter, Hell," she said, probing.
Hell beamed. In a flash, he had out his wallet, flipped open to a photograph of an adorable little blond girl sitting on a park bench, hugging the hell out of a black Labrador puppy. Crushing the puppy was more like it. Maybe the kid worked out with her dad.
"This is Donatella," Hell said. "She is my heart."
So much for Rose, Jessica thought. "She's a doll."
Byrne looked at the picture, nodded, smiled. Despite the tough- cop pose, Jessica knew Kevin Byrne was complete mush around little girls. He carried at least four pictures of his daughter Colleen at all times.
Hell slipped the photo back into his wallet, trousered it. "Then there's the Shiloh reference in the Bible, of course."
"What's that about?" Jessica asked.
"Well, if memory serves-and it quite often does-Shiloh was the name of a shrine that Moses built in the wilderness. Lots of wilderness in the Bible." Hell flipped a few pages of his notebook. Jessica noticed that there were hand-drawn roses in the margins. "Then there's the Civil War battle of Shiloh, which was also known as the Battle of Pitts- burg Landing."
Jessica glanced once again at her partner. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the second largest city in the commonwealth, was three hundred miles west of Philly. Byrne shook his head, emphasizing to Jessica how little she knew about the Civil War, or American history in general.
"Not what you think," Hell said, picking up on the exchange. "Shiloh is in western Tennessee. Nothing to do with Pittsburgh, PA."
"Anything else pop up?" Jessica asked, anxious to move on.
"Nothing really jumped off the screen. I ran the numbers 4514 and got more than six million hits. Can you believe that? Six million. My first thought was that the four numbers could be the last part of a phone number." Hell flipped through a few more of his notes. "I took the first three letters of Shiloh-S-H-I-and used them as a prefix, which is 744 on the phone. There is no Philly phone number using that designation. I widened the search to include area codes in Pennsylvania, Delaware, and New Jersey. Ditto. It's not a phone number."
"But you think it was something we were supposed to find, right?" Jessica asked. This sort of thing was not the purview of CSU, but Hell was one of the brightest people Jessica knew. It never hurt to get a second, third, and fourth opinion.
Hell smiled. "Well, I'm no detective," he began. He glanced at the photographs of the refrigerator and kitchen at the Second Street crime scene. "But if grilled under hot lights and deprived of Dancing With the Stars reruns, I would say we were definitely supposed to find this. I mean, Jeremiah Crosley? Puh-freakin'-leeze. It's clever, but it's not that clever. On the other hand, maybe that's the point. Maybe it's just clever enough to be intriguing, but not so difficult that it would go over the heads of us big dumb cops."
Jessica had, of course, considered this. They were supposed to find this Bible, and the message inside was the second part of the riddle.
"So I'm thinking this might be an address," Hell said.
"A street address?" Jessica asked. "Here in Philly?"
"Yeah," Hell said. "There's a Shiloh Street here, you know."
Jessica glanced at Byrne. Byrne shrugged. Apparently, he had never heard of it either. Philly was a small city in a lot of ways, but there were a hell of a lot streets. You could never know them all.
"Where is this Shiloh Street?" Jessica asked.
"North Philly," Hell said. "Badlands."
Of course, Jessica thought.
Hell typed a few keystrokes on his laptop. His big fingers nimbly flew across the keys. Seconds later Google Maps appeared on the screen. Hell entered the street address. Soon the image began to zoom in, stopping at a map view of North Philly. A few more keystrokes yielded a fairly tight picture of a handful of city blocks just south of Allegheny Avenue between Fourth and Fifth streets. Hell clicked on the small"+" sign in the corner. The image zoomed in again. A green arrow pointed at the triangular rooftop of a small corner building
"There it is," Hell said. "Voy-la. 4514 Shiloh Street."
Hell tapped another key, switched to satellite view, which eliminated the street names, rendering a photographic image.
From the aerial view, the address appeared to be either a row house or a commercial space at the end of the block. Gray and ugly and undistinguished. No trees. Jessica rarely saw her city from above. This part looked so desolate her heart ached. She glanced at Byrne. "What do you think?"
Byrne scanned the image, his deep-green eyes roaming the surface of the monitor. "I think we're being worked. I hate being worked."
Hell gently closed the book, then opened it again, flipping open just the front cover. "I ran a hair dryer over the inside front endpaper," he said. "Many times people will open a book with their fingers on the outside, and right thumb on the inside. If the front cover was wiped down-and I believe it was-maybe they forgot to-"
Hell stopped talking. His eyes fixed on a slight bump in the lower left-hand corner of the inside front cover, a right angle that lifted an edge.
"What have we here?" Hell said.
He opened a drawer, removed a gleaming pair of stainless steel tweezers, clicked them three times. It seemed like a ritual.
"What is it?" Byrne asked.
"Hang on."
Hell wielded the tweezers like a heart surgeon. He grabbed the endpaper, began to slowly strip it back. Soon, it became apparent that there was something underneath. It appeared that someone had already peeled back the endpaper, inserted something, then re-glued it.
Hell took a deep breath, exhaled, continued to peel back the endpaper. Beneath it was a thin piece of cardboard. Hell gently removed it with the tweezers, put it on the table. It was a white rectangle, about three inches by five inches. The paper had a watermark on it. Hell flipped it over.
The cardboard rectangle was a color photograph. A picture of a teenage girl.
Jessica felt the temperature in the room jump a few degrees, along with the level of anxiety. The mysteries were starting to progress geometrically.
The girl in the picture was white, somewhat overweight, about sixteen. She had long auburn hair, brown eyes, a small cleft in her chin. The photo appeared to be a printout of a digital picture. She wore a red sweater with sequins along the neckline, large hoop earrings, and a striking onyx teardrop pendant necklace.
Hell spun in place, twice, both fists raised in anger, his huge rubber-soled boots squeaking on the tile. "I didn't think to look. I hate that, man," he said, calmly, even as a fiery crimson rose from his neck onto his face like the column in a cheap thermometer.
"No harm no foul," Byrne said. "We have it now."
"Yeah, well, I am still upset. I am really, really upset."
Jessica and Byrne had dealt with Hell Rohmer on a number of cases. It was best to wait out moments like this. Eventually, he calmed down, his face cooling to a hot pink.
"Can we get a copy of this?" Byrne finally asked. It was rhetorical, but it was the best way to go.
Hell stared at the Bible, as if the suspect might jump out of the binding, like a figure in a child's pop-up book, and he could choke him to death. It was well-known in the department that you didn't fuck with Helmut Rohmer's psyche. A few seconds later he snapped out of it. "A copy? Oh yeah. Absolutely."
Hell put the photograph in a clear evidence bag, walked it over to the color copying machine. He punched a few buttons-hard-then waited, hands on hips, for the photocopy to emerge, adrift in that place where frustrated criminalists go. A few seconds later, the page presented itself. Hell handed it to Jessica.
Jessica looked closely at the image. The girl in the photograph was not Caitlin O'Riordan. She was someone new. A person who stared out at the world with an innocence that begged for experience. Jessica was overcome by the feeling that this girl never got the chance.
Jessica put the photocopy of the photograph in her portfolio.
"Thanks," she said. "Keep us in the loop, okay?"
Hell didn't respond. He was gone, adrift on the tangents of hard evidence, juddering with anger. Criminalists didn't like to be played any more than detectives did. Hell Rohmer even less than most.
Ten minutes later Detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne headed to 4514 Shiloh Street, the photograph of the auburn-haired girl on the car seat between them, like a silent passenger.
SIX
Another North Philly Hellhole; a grim and decaying three- story building, the corner structure in a block of five. At the entrance to the left of the Shiloh Street address was a memorial. There were memorials all over North Philly, commemorations of the departed. Some were a simple spray painted "RIP" above the victim's name or nickname. Others were elaborate, highly detailed portraits of the victim, many times in a benevolent pose, sometimes flashing a gang signal, sometimes two or three times actual scale. Almost all honored victims of street violence.
This memorial was to a young child. In the recess of the doorway was a small, delaminating nightstand stuffed with plush teddy bears, rabbits, ducks, birds. It always struck Jessica as odd how, at North Philly memorials, items could be left on the street, items that everyday were shoplifted from Wal-Mart and Rite Aid. They were never stolen from a memorial. Memorials were sacred.
A piece of plywood was nailed over the door of this commemorative display, painted with the words Descanse en Paz. Rest in peace. On the wall to the left of the door was a beautiful airbrushed portrait of a smiling Hispanic girl. A silver Christmas garland ringed the painting. Beneath it sat a red plastic juice pitcher full of dusty satin tulips. Above the girl's head was scrawled Florita Delia Ramos, 2004–2008.
Four years old, Jessica thought. Unless the city moved in and painted the wall over-an unlikely scenario, seeing as how the memorial was the only vestige of beauty left on this blighted block-the portrait would live longer than its subject did.
Jessica glanced at Byrne. He had his hands in his pockets. He was looking the other way. Jessica understood. Sometimes you had to look away.
RIP Florita.
Twenty minutes later, Byrne and a quartet of uniformed officers entered the building and began to clear the structure. While they were inside, Jessica crossed the street to a bodega. She bought a half dozen strong coffees.
When Byrne emerged from the row house, Jessica handed him a cup. The rest of the team found their coffees, and Tastykakes, on the hood of the car.
"Anything?" Jessica asked.
Byrne nodded. "A whole houseful of trash."
"Anything we want to look at?"
Byrne thought for a moment, sipped his coffee. "Probably."
Jessica considered the chain of events, the geography. Here was the dilemma: Do you pull a few officers off other investigations to start searching a building for a needle in a haystack? Were they chasing ghosts, or did this address actually have something to do with the murder of Caitlin O'Riordan?
My name is Jeremiah Crosley.
"What do you think, detective?" Byrne asked.
Jessica looked up at the third floor. She thought of Caitlin dead inside a building not all that different from this one. She thought of the human heart in that specimen jar. She thought of all the evil she had seen, and how it always led to a place of unremitting darkness. A place like this.
The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.
She called for a CSU team.
An hour later, while Byrne returned to the Roundhouse to check the photograph of the dark-haired girl against recent missing-persons files, Jessica stood in the stifling hallway just outside the kitchen at the Shiloh Street address.
Byrne had been right. There was a houseful of junk. Hefty bags and loose garbage were crammed into the corners of the kitchen, bathroom, and dining area, as well as almost filling the three small rooms upstairs.
Strangely, the basement was almost empty. Just a few boxes and a moldy eight-by-ten faux-Persian area rug on the floor, perhaps a 1980s attempt at haute decor. Jessica took pictures of every room.
There had to be ten thousand flies in the house. Maybe more. The buzz was a maddening background hum. Between swatting the flies away and the incessant teeming, it was nearly impossible to think. Jessica began to believe this search was a pointless exercise.
"Detective Balzano?"
Jessica turned. The officer asking the question was a fit and tanned young woman, early twenties, about an inch shorter than Jessica's five- eight. She had clear brown eyes, almost amber. A lock of lustrous brunette hair escaped her cap. In the heat, it was all but plastered to her smooth forehead.
Jessica knew the look, the plight. She'd been there herself, many times, back in the day. It was August-add a Kevlar vest, the dark blue of the uniform, along with what, at times, seemed like a fifty-pound belt-and it was like working in a sauna, clad in medieval armor.
Jessica glanced at the officer's nametag. M. CARUSO.
"What's your first name, Officer Caruso?"
"Maria," the young woman said.
Jessica smiled. She had almost guessed. Maria was Jessica's late mother's name. Jessica had always had a soft spot for anyone named Maria. "What's up?"
"Well, there's a lot of stuff upstairs," she said. "Boxes, trash bags, old suitcases, sacks of dirty clothes, a couple of mattresses, tons of drug paraphernalia."
"No bodies, I hope," Jessica said with what she hoped was a little dark humor. This place was incredibly bleak.
"No bodies yet," Officer Caruso replied, matching the tone. She was sharp. "But there is a lot of stuff.
"I understand," Jessica said. "We have time."
In situations like this, Jessica was always careful to use the word we. She recalled her days in uniform, and how that word-uttered by some ancient detective of thirty or so, usually over some incredibly brutal scene of urban carnage-meant catching the bad guys was a joint effort. It mattered.
For a moment, Officer Maria Caruso looked nervous.
"Is something wrong?" Jessica asked.
"No, ma'am. It's just that I heard you and Detective Byrne were investigating the Caitlin O'Riordan case."
"We are," Jessica said. "Do you recall the case?"
"Quite well, ma'am. I remember when she was found."
Jessica just nodded.
"I have family in Lancaster County," Officer Caruso added. "Caitlin's family lives about forty miles from my aunt and cousins. I remember the picture that was in the paper. I remember the case like yesterday."
Caitlin, Jessica thought. This young officer called the victim by her first name. She wondered just how personal this case was to her.
Jessica took out the photograph of Caitlin O'Riordan, the one Caitlin's family had supplied to the FBI. Over her shoulder was a faded lilac knapsack with pink appliqued butterflies. "This is the picture you remember?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am." Officer Caruso turned toward the window for a moment, covering her emotions. Jessica understood. Philly tough.
"Mind if I ask where you're from?" Jessica asked.
"Tenth and Morris."
Jessica nodded. People in Philadelphia were either from neighborhoods or intersections. Mostly both. "South Philly girl."
"Oh, yeah. Born and bred."
"I grew up at Sixth and Catharine."
"I know." Officer Caruso adjusted her belt, cleared her throat. She seemed a little embarrassed. "I mean, y'know, I heard that."
"Did you go to Goretti?"
"Oh, yeah," she said. "I was a Goretti Gorilla."
Jessica smiled. They had a lot in common. "If you need anything, let me know."
The young woman beamed. She tucked that loose strand of dark hair back into her cap. "Thank you, Detective."
With an energy known only to the young, Officer Maria Caruso turned on her heels, and walked back up the steps.
Jessica watched her, wondering if this life was a good choice or a bad choice for the young woman. Didn't matter really, there was
probably no way Maria Caruso could be talked out of it. Once you started catching criminals, Jessica knew, there was little else you were good for.
Byrne walked through the front door into the hallway. After returning from the Roundhouse he had conducted a brief neighborhood survey.
"Anything?" Jessica asked.
Byrne shook his head. "Incredibly, no one on this block has ever seen or heard of a crime being committed at this or any other location."
"And yet there's a memorial to a dead little girl right next door."
"And yet."
"Any hits with missing persons?"
"Nothing so far," Byrne said.
Jessica crossed the kitchen to the other side of the counter. She tapped her fingernails on the worn Formica, just for effect. She was turning into such a drama queen of late, taking her cues from her six- year-old daughter. Jessica had stopped chewing her nails a year or so earlier-a bad habit she'd maintained since her childhood-and only recently started to get them done at a Northeast salon called Hands of Time. Her nails were short, they had to be for her job, but they looked good. For once. This month they were amethyst. How girly-girl can you get? Sophie Balzano approved. Kevin Byrne hadn't yet said a word.
A uniformed officer stepped into the row house. "Detective Byrne?"
"Yeah."
"Fax came in for you." He handed Byrne an envelope.
"Thanks." Byrne opened it and pulled out a single sheet fax, read it.
"What's up?" Jessica asked.
"Ready for your day to get a little bit better?"
Jessica's eyes lit up like a toddler hearing a Jack and Jill ice cream truck coming down the street. "We're going swimming?"
"Not that much better," Byrne said. "But a slight improvement."
"I'm ready."
"I called Paul DiCarlo and asked if he could put someone at the DA's office on tracking down the ownership of this property."
"What did they find?"
"Nothing. Nobody's paid taxes on the place in years."
"And this is good news why?"
"I'm getting there. Paul reached out to a guy at L amp; I, and the guy said that once a month, for the last five months, he's gotten an anonymous call about this address. He said the same caller went on and on about how the building should be torn down."
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