"I could get out one of the Junie B. books. Want me to do that?" Jessica asked. "Or maybe some Magic Tree House?"
Sophie shrugged again. In the moonlight coming in the window her eyes were fathomless pools. Her lids began to close.
"Maybe tomorrow?"
Sophie Balzano nodded. " 'Kay."
Tomorrow, Jessica thought. You always think there is going to be a tomorrow. Caitlin O'Riordan and Monica Renzi thought there would be a tomorrow.
So did Eve Galvez.
"Okay, my love," Jessica said. "Sleep good." She kissed her daughter on the forehead. In seconds, Sophie closed her eyes. Moments later, she was sound asleep. If there was a more beautiful sight in all the world, Jessica couldn't imagine what it might be. She took a quick shower, emerged from the bathroom in a towel. She took a jar of moisturizer from the nightstand. She sat on the edge of the bed. Vincent was still fast asleep, dead to the world.
Jessica tried to rid her mind of the events of the day. She failed utterly.
Three boxes.
Was the number significant? Were the colors important? What about the way the boxes were aligned?
She knew that Dino and Eric had met with the victim's parents, and the parents were on their way to Philly to try and make a positive ID, but there was little doubt in Jessica's mind who the victim was: Monica Louise Renzi, late of Scranton, Pennsylvania.
But there was a bigger question.
If they were being led to these crime scenes, what was coming next?
"Hey."
Jessica jumped a foot. She hadn't heard Vincent stop snoring.
"Sorry," he said.
"It's okay," she lied. Her heart was now lodged somewhere around her upper esophagus.
"Bad day?" Vincent sat up, massaged her shoulders. He knew every knot, every muscle. He gently kissed them all.
"Bad day," Jessica replied. "Yours?"
"Just another day at Black Rock."
Vincent was on an undercover buy-and-bust sting and that scared the hell out of Jessica. A week earlier his team had taken a casualty.
"Let me ask you something," Vincent said.
"Okay."
"Did you get shot today?"
"No," Jessica said. "You?"
"No."
"Then it couldn't have been that bad."
Jessica nodded. Such was the world of a two-badge marriage. You were both allowed to have bad days, but not at the same time. And every day a bullet or a knife didn't enter your body was a good day on the PPD.
"So tell me. Where does it hurt?" Vincent asked.
Jessica put a finger to her forehead, then slowly pointed at her toes.
"So, we're talking the whole robot."
"Yeah," she said.
"Hmmm. Well, then." Vincent gently rolled his wife onto her back. He slipped out of his drawstring scrubs, peeled off her towel, dropped them both on the floor. "As official head of customer service, it looks like my work is cut out for me."
Jessica nodded again.
"Please pay attention to the following five options," Vincent said. "Because our menu has recently changed."
"Okay."
Vincent held up his left hand, fingers spread. "If you like deep, passionate kisses, press one."
Jessica pressed one.
It was the right choice.
In her dream she sat at the back corner table at the Embers, an old tavern in the Northeast. She was dressed in a tight red dress and black heels, a thin strand of pearls. The clothes were not her own. In front of her was a small tumbler of what looked like Wild Turkey on the rocks.
She glanced down.
In her lap was her wedding album. She hadn't had it out in years. Even before she flipped the cover, she knew what she was going to see. She was going to see herself in the wedding gown that belonged to her mother. She was going to see her aunts and uncles and nieces and friends. She was going to see a hundred drunk cops. She was going to see her aunt Lorrie who had stood up for her at her wedding.
The jukebox at the bar played an old song by Bobby Darin. It sounded like the band at her wedding reception. Pete Simonetta, her sixth-grade crush, sang lead.
She glanced down again. Now the cover of the book was cherry red. In her dream, Jessica flipped open the album.
The woman inside wasn't her. It was someone else wearing her wedding dress, her crucifix, her veil. It was someone else holding her flowers.
It was Eve Galvez.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jessica called Byrne on his cell phone at 7:00 am. She'd been up since five, had already gone for her run, had already ingested a day's worth of caffeine. Byrne was having breakfast in Old City. He sounded fresh. This was good. She need him to be fresh. She felt anything but.
"We're going to have preliminaries on Monica Renzi at around 10:30," he said.
"Who lit the fire?"
"It came from on high. Zeus-high. Someone is killing runaways and the new administration isn't going to stand for it." "I'll see you then." "I think we should-"
She closed her phone with a snap. She knew she had cut him off. She held the phone in her hand, eyes closed, waiting for it to ring, praying it wouldn't. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. A minute. Nothing.
A half hour later, her daughter fed and lunch-bagged and scrubbed and on the bus, she slipped into her car and headed to Elkins Park. She had no idea what she was going to say when she got there.
Enrique Galvez was tall and slender, in his late twenties. He had dark hair to his shoulders, a model's cheekbones, full lips. He wore a black T-shirt, no logo or message, and worn, frayed, knee-holed Levi's. He was barefoot.
When Jessica pulled up in front of his house, Enrique was trimming a large hydrangea, deadheading the blooms. He was wearing white earbuds, so it appeared that he did not hear her pull into the driveway.
Jessica got out of the car. When Enrique turned and saw her, he put his clippers into his pocket, removed the earphones.
"Mr. Galvez?"
"Yes," he replied. "You are with the police?"
Man, Jessica thought, then wondered. Is it that obvious? She produced her ID. "I am," she said. Her gold shield flashed brightly in the morning sun. "I just need a few moments of your time."
Enrique Galvez looked at the ground for a moment, at his flowers. The vibrant bed at his feet was ablaze with color, with life. He looked up. "I have already spoken to the two detectives. It was a Miss Malone and a Mr…"
"Shepherd," Jessica said. "I know. I have just a few follow-up questions." Now she was breaking procedure. Officially. She couldn't seem to stop herself.
"I understand," Enrique said.
The scene froze. Neither spoke. In the near distance Jessica heard a baby crying. Two doors down, perhaps. "May I come in?"
Enrique returned to the moment. "Of course," he said. "Where are my manners? Forgive me." He walked up the steps, onto the porch, opened the screen door wide. "Please."
The small living room was tidy, decorated in a masculine southwestern style, in shades of brown, rust, cream, and jade. On the walls were well-framed watercolors of various landmarks in Philadelphia, including City Hall, Boathouse Row, Independence Hall, the Betsy Ross house. A parakeet chirped in a cage in the kitchen.
"Who is the artist?" Jessica asked.
"Oh," Enrique said, coloring slightly. "I am the artist. I painted these. Although it was a long time ago."
"They are beautiful," Jessica said.
"Thank you," Enrique replied. He seemed to be humble about his talent. "May I offer you something to drink?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
Enrique gestured toward the couch. "Please sit down."
"I know this is terribly difficult for you," she said. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
Jessica sat down, adjusted herself on the chair, extracted her notebook. A personal notebook. "When was the last time you saw your sister?"
"As I told the other detectives, we had dinner," Enrique said. "On the day
she went missing. At the Palm."
"It was just the two of you?"
"Yes."
"Did Eve say or do anything out of the ordinary?"
Enrique shook his head. "The only thing ordinary about my sister was her potential for the extraordinary."
"Did she mention anything about a case she was working on?"
Enrique thought for a few moments. "Eve never talked much to me about her work. She knew that I found such things quite… upsetting."
Jessica shifted tack. "You are originally from Peru?" she asked.
"I am. I was born in a small village near Machu Picchu, as was my sister. We were three and five years old when we came here."
"You came with your parents?"
A moment's hesitation, Jessica noticed. A family problem? Enrique glanced out the front window. Jessica followed his gaze. Across the street, a pair of six-year-old girls-clumsy and stick-figured and giggling in their matching lime-green little-girl bikinis-ran back and forth through a sprinkler.
"Yes," he finally said. "My father was an engineer. He worked for TelComCo in Peru. In 1981 they gave him the opportunity to come to America, to Philadelphia, and he took it. He brought his family soon after."
"Did you ever hear from your sister in all the time she was missing?"
Enrique shook his head. "I did not."
It appeared Enrique wanted to continue. Jessica remained silent.
"For these past two months I wondered, of course," he said. "I questioned. And yet it is the kind of thing you know, yes?"
Jessica nodded, despite her best efforts not to.
"It is the kind of thing you know," he repeated. "But still, always, you hope it is not true. The hope is something that burns inside of you, a small flame that fights the darkness of what you know in your heart."
"I'm so sorry," Jessica said. She was now afraid the conversation was slipping away. She put her notebook away, glanced once more around the room. "Is there anything else you can think of that might help?"
"Well, I have not touched her apartment. The other detectives were there yesterday, I believe."
"Would it be okay if I stopped by?" Jessica knew she would definitely and irretrievably cross the line if she did this.
"Yes, of course." He crossed the room, opened a drawer, pulled out a single key. He wrote down an address on a small pad, handed both to her. "You can just leave the key there. One day, one day soon, I will…"
Enrique stopped. His eyes began to rim with tears.
"I understand," Jessica said, knowing her words were inadequate. "Thank you."
Five minutes later, as Jessica backed into the street, she realized that somehow, in some way, this little visit was going to come back and haunt her. If Ike Buchanan found out that she had come here to talk to a victim's brother without logging the interview, or clearing it with the primary detectives on the case, she would get her ears boxed, or worse. No detective liked an interloper on their patch. Homicide detectives especially.
As she drove away she turned to look at the small house one last time. Before she reached the corner she saw that the porch light was on. It was probably habit, she thought, one that Enrique Galvez was not ready to break.
A small flame that fights the darkness of what you know in your heart.
Enrique Galvez was still waiting for his sister.
THIRTY-FIVE
Swann sat on the park bench. It was a glorious morning. He nibbled on a raspberry scone he had purchased from a new bakery on Pine Street.
Across his knees was a metal detector, a Bounty Hunter Tracker II.
He watched them for the better part of an hour. Five teenagers, a strange number for many reasons. Two boys and three girls. At this age, there was always a peculiar dynamic at play with an odd number. Loud, physical, bounding with energy, they challenged each other. There would always be a hierarchy established at times like this, a ladder based on the reason they had assembled in the first place. Later on it would be money and power and position. But in Swann's experience, at this age, it was usually beauty and strength that won the day.
Their vehicle was a red minivan, doors open, music playing at a respectful level. They teased for a while, shared cigarettes and soda. Eventually watches were consulted, goodbyes uttered, trash thrown into receptacles.
When the van left, it was as he expected. One girl was left behind. To his eyes she was by far the prettiest, but she did not belong to this group for other reasons. She was clearly a stray.
As the van rounded a bend, the girl waved, tossed a finger, a smile. But Swann could see desolation in her smile. Alone now, the girl drank from her water bottle, even though she knew it was empty. Girls her age often repeated tasks like that. The energy had to go somewhere.
Swann got up from the bench, turned on the detector. It was showtime. He walked along the side of the road, brow furrowed, deep in concentration. When he positioned himself about twenty yards behind the girl, the detector alerted him. She heard, turned to watch.
"Yes!" he exclaimed loud enough for the girl to hear. "Oh yes, yes, yes."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her considering him. Who was this strange man with this strange machine? Her teenage curiosity could not resist.
"Did you find something?" she asked.
He looked up, around, as if trying to determine from where the voice had come. He found her, pointed to the ground near his feet. "Eureka!"
Swann bent over, picked up a necklace. The necklace was cheap gold. It had been palmed in his hand the whole time. "I struck gold!"
He held it up. The necklace glittered in the morning sun. The girl got up to take a closer look. They always did.
"Oh man. Sweet," she said. "Very cool." Her eyes went from the necklace to the emblem on his jumpsuit. The patch looked official, as if he were part of the park service. Closer scrutiny would reveal nothing of the kind.
"You didn't lose this by any chance, did you?" he asked, slight disappointment edging his voice.
The girl hesitated for a moment-Swann would have been deeply disappointed if she had not, the longer she hesitated the longer she had been on the road-then shook her head. "No. I wish. It's really nice."
Swann put the necklace into his bag. "You'd be amazed what I've been able to find over the years."
"I'll bet." She shoved her hands into her jeans pockets. She wanted to talk. She was lonely. "What kinds of stuff?"
"Gosh, let's see. Rings, bracelets, coins, barrettes. Lots and lots of barrettes."
The girl laughed. "Kids."
"Tell me about it. I buy my daughters barrettes by the case. They are always losing them." He turned off the machine. "My name's Ludo, by the way."
"Ludo? Cool name. Mine's Claire." They shook hands. He did not remove his gloves. "Do you work here?" she asked.
"As little as possible."
The girl laughed again. Swann turned the machine back on, stepped away, then stepped back. "Want to try?"
The girl shook her head. Shy now. "I don't think I'd be any good at it."
"Sure you would. Of course you would. There's really nothing to it. If I can do it, you can do it."
"You think?"
"Absolutely. And I'll tell you what."
"What?"
"Whatever you find you can keep."
Her eyes lit up. It was like the best offer she'd ever had. "For real?"
Swann gave her a brief demonstration. She took the detector from him.
"Try near the entrance to the path," he said, pointing to the asphalt-paved lane leading into the forest of trees. "A lot of times people will pull things out of their pockets right there-sweatbands, sunglasses, mosquito spray-and things can fly out and get lost in the leaves. It can be a real gold mine."
"Okay. I don't know. I'm not really… okay." The girl began to scan where he told her to look. She waved the machine back and forth, back and forth, like a divining rod, settling the weight.
"A little slower," he said.
"O
kay."
Left, left, left, Swann thought. Stop.
"Right around here?"
"Yes."
More to the left. Stop. Right. Stop.
The machine beeped.
Yes.
"Hey! I think I found something! Does this mean I found something?" she asked.
"It does indeed."
"What do I do?"
"I'll show you."
She modeled the bangle. "So this is really mine?"
"Finders, keepers."
The paste jewelry sparkled in the sun. To the girl, it was a Tiffany tennis bracelet.
He glanced at his watch. "Well, I've got to get back to work. They only let me do this on my break. It was nice to meet you, Claire." He pointed to the bracelet. "Very cool find, by the way. I think you're a natural sleuth."
He put the detector over one shoulder, and began to walk away.
" 'Scuse me."
Joseph Swann stopped, turned. "Yes?"
"I was wondering something."
"Okay."
"Is there, I mean, do you guys have, like, campgrounds around here?"
"Campgrounds? Sure," he said. "About a mile up this way. Nice, too."
"I'm not with…" she trailed off, pointing back over her shoulder. She meant she was not with anybody. She meant she was alone. He knew this already.
"Don't worry," Swann said. "It's okay. I'll tell them you're my cousin or something. You won't even need ID. I've got a little juice around here. It's a really nice place. Safe, too."
"Cool."
Claire Finneran smiled. Joseph Swann smiled back.
"It's right up here," he said. "C'mon. I'll show you."
No hesitation now. She grabbed her bag.
They walked into the woods.
THIRTY-SIX
Byrne sat in the car, watching. The man stood across the vacant lot, leaning against a half-demolished brick wall. The man had been there every day at the same time for the past three days, probably long before that. He wore the same clothes. He wore the same hat, the same expression. To Byrne he looked emptied, as if someone had scooped out everything that made him human and left just the shell, a brittle shell at that.
This had become Robert O'Riordan's vigil, the same as a death- watch, even though his daughter had already died. Or perhaps she had not, in his mind. Perhaps he expected her to appear in one of the windows, like some spectral Juliet. Or maybe his desires were more earth- bound, and practical. Maybe he expected Caitlin's killer to return to the scene of the crime, as killers were wont to do.
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