Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  But the fact that Vincent had probably spied on her pissed her off to no end.

  Let him think what he wanted.

  ON THE WAY INTO CENTER CITY, Jessica watched the neighborhoods change. No other city she could think of had a personality so split between blight and splendor. No other city clung to the past with more pride, nor demanded the future with more fervor.

  She saw a pair of brave joggers working their way up Frankford, and the floodgates opened wide. A torrent of memories and emotions washed over her.

  She had begun running with her brother when he was seventeen; she, just a gangly thirteen, loosely constructed of pointy elbows, sharp shoulder blades, and bony kneecaps. For the first year or so she hadn’t a prayer of matching either his pace or his stride. Michael Giovanni stood just under six feet and weighed a trim and muscular 180.

  In the summer heat, the spring rain, the winter snow they would jog through the streets of South Philly; Michael, always a few steps ahead; Jessica, always struggling to keep up, always in silent awe of his grace. She had beaten him to the steps of St. Paul’s once, on her fourteenth birthday, a contest to which Michael had never wavered in his claim of defeat. She knew he had let her win.

  Jessica and Michael had lost their mother to breast cancer when Jessica was only five, and from that day forward Michael had been there for every scraped knee, every young girl’s heartbreak, every time she had been victimized by some neighborhood bully.

  She had been fifteen when Michael had joined the Marine Corps, following in their father’s footsteps. She recalled how proud they had all been when he came home in his dress uniform for the first time. Every one of Jessica’s girlfriends had been desperately in love with Michael Giovanni, his caramel eyes and easy smile, the confident way he could put old people and children at ease. Everyone knew he would join the police force after his tour of duty, also following in their father’s footsteps.

  She had been fifteen when Michael, serving in the First Battalion, Eleventh Marines, was killed in Kuwait.

  Her father, a thrice-decorated veteran of the police force, a man who still carried his late wife’s internment card in his breast pocket, had closed his heart completely that day, a terrain he now tread only in the company of his granddaughter. Although small of stature, Peter Giovanni had stood ten feet tall in the company of his son.

  Jessica had been headed to prelaw, then law school, but on the night they received word of Michael’s death she knew that she would join the police force.

  And now, as she began what was essentially an entirely new career in one of the most respected homicide units of any police department in the country, it looked like law school was a dream relegated to the realm of fantasy.

  Maybe one day.

  Maybe.

  BY THE TIME JESSICA PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT at the Roundhouse, she realized that she didn’t recall any of it. Not a single thing. All the cramming in procedure, evidence, the years on the street, everything evacuated her brain.

  Did the building get bigger? she wondered.

  At the door she caught her reflection in the glass. She was wearing a fairly expensive skirt suit, her best sensible girl-cop shoes. A big difference from the torn jeans and sweatshirts she had favored as an undergrad at Temple, in those giddy years before Vincent, before Sophie, before the academy, before all . . . this. Not a care in the world, she thought. Now her world was built on worry, framed with concern, with a leaky roof shingled with trepidation.

  Although she had entered this building many times, and although she could probably find her way to the bank of elevators blindfolded, it all seemed foreign to her, as if she were seeing it for the first time. The sights, the sounds, the smells all blended into the demented carnival that was this small corner of the Philadelphia justice system.

  It was her brother Michael’s beautiful face that Jessica saw as she grabbed the handle on the door, an image that would come back to her many times over the next few weeks as the things upon which she had based her whole life became redefined as madness.

  Jessica opened the door, stepped inside, thinking:

  Watch my back, big brother.

  Watch my back.

  5

  MONDAY, 7:55 AM

  THE HOMICIDE UNIT of the Philadelphia Police Department was located on the first floor of the Roundhouse, the police administration building—or PAB, as it was often called—at Eighth and Race Streets, nicknamed for the round shape of its three-story structure. Even the elevators were round. Criminals were fond of pointing out that, from the air, the building looked like a pair of handcuffs. When a suspicious death occurred anywhere in Philadelphia County, the call came here.

  Of the sixty-five detectives in the unit, only a handful were women, a stat the brass were desperate to change.

  Everyone knew that, these days, in a department as politically sensitive as the PPD, it wasn’t necessarily a person who was promoted, but quite often a statistic, a delegate of some demographic that made the cut.

  Jessica knew this. But she also knew that her career on the street was exceptional, and that she had earned her slot on the Homicide Unit, even if she arrived there a few years ahead of the standard decade or so on the job. She had her degree in criminal justice; she had been a more-than-competent uniformed officer, garnering two commendations. If she had to knock a few old-school heads in the unit, so be it. She was ready. She had never backed down from a fight, and she wasn’t going to begin now.

  One of the three supervisors of the Homicide Unit was Sergeant Dwight Buchanan. If the homicide detectives spoke for the dead, it was Ike Buchanan who spoke for those who spoke for the dead.

  When Jessica walked into the common room, Ike Buchanan noticed her and waved her over. The daywork shift began at eight, so at this hour the room was packed. Most of the last out shift was still on, which was not all that uncommon, making the already cramped half-circle space a snarl of bodies. Jessica nodded at the detectives sitting at desks, all men, all on the phone, all of whom returned her greeting with cool, perfunctory nods of their own.

  She wasn’t in the club yet.

  “Come on in,” Buchanan said, extending his hand.

  Jessica shook his hand, then followed him, noticing his slight limp. Ike Buchanan had taken bullets in the Philly gang wars of the late 1970s and, according to legend, had endured half a dozen surgeries and a year of painful rehab to get back in blue. One of the last of the iron men. She had seen him with a cane a few times, but not today. Pride and grit, around this place, were more than luxuries. Sometimes they were the glue that held the chain of command together.

  Now in his late fifties, Ike Buchanan was rail-thin, whipcord-strong, and sported a full head of cloud-white hair and bushy white eyebrows. His face was flushed and pocked by nearly six decades of Philly winters and, if the other legend was true, more than his share of Wild Turkey.

  She entered the small office, sat down.

  “Let’s get the details out of the way.” Buchanan closed the door halfway and walked behind his desk. Jessica could see him trying to cover the limp. He may have been a decorated cop, but he was still a man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your background?”

  “Grew up in South Philly,” Jessica said, knowing that Buchanan knew all this, knowing that this was a formality. “Sixth and Catharine.”

  “Schools?”

  “I went to St. Paul’s. Then N.A. Did my undergraduate work at Temple.”

  “You graduated Temple in three years?”

  Three and a half, Jessica thought. But who’s counting? “Yes, sir. Criminal justice.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir. It was a lot of—”

  “You worked out of the Third?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you like working for Danny O’Brien?”

  What was she supposed to say? That he was an overbearing, misogynistic, witless shithead? “Sergeant O’Brien is a good officer. I learne
d a lot from him.”

  “Danny O’Brien is a Neanderthal,” Buchanan said.

  “That’s one school of thought, sir,” Jessica said, trying her best to keep the smile inside.

  “So tell me,” Buchanan said. “Why are you really here?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. Buying time.

  “I’ve been a cop for thirty-seven years. Hard for me to believe, but true. Seen a lot of good people, a lot of bad people. On both sides of the law. There was a time when I was just like you. Ready to take on the world, punish the guilty, avenge the innocent.” Buchanan turned around, faced her. “Why are you here?”

  Be cool, Jess, she thought. He’s tossing you an egg. “I’m here because . . . because I think I can make a difference.”

  Buchanan stared at her for a few moments. Impossible to read. “I thought the same thing when I was your age.”

  Jessica wasn’t sure if she was being patronized or not. Up came the Italian in her. Up came the South Philly. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, have you made a difference?”

  Buchanan smiled. This was good news for Jessica. “I haven’t retired yet.”

  Good answer, Jessica thought.

  “How is your father?” he asked, shifting gears on the fly. “Is he enjoying retirement?”

  The truth was, he was climbing the walls. The last time she stopped by his house he was standing by the sliding glass door, looking out into his tiny backyard with a packet of Roma tomato seeds in his hand. “Very much, sir.”

  “He’s a good man. He was a great cop.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll be pleased.”

  “The fact that Peter Giovanni is your father won’t help you or hurt you around here. If it ever gets in the way, you come see me.”

  Not in a million friggin’ years. “I will. I appreciate it.”

  Buchanan stood up, leaned forward, pinned her with his intense gaze. “This job has broken a lot of hearts, Detective. I hope yours isn’t one of them.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Buchanan looked over her shoulder, out into the common room. “Speaking of heartbreakers.”

  Jessica followed his gaze to the big man standing next to the assignment desk, reading a fax. They stood, exited Buchanan’s office.

  As they approached him, Jessica sized the man. He was in his early forties, about six three, maybe 240, solid. He had light brown hair, wintergreen eyes, huge hands, a thick, shiny scar over his right eye. Even if she hadn’t known he was a homicide cop, she would have guessed. He met all the criteria: good suit, cheap tie, shoes that hadn’t seen polish since they left the factory, along with the de rigueur trio of scents: tobacco, Certs, and the faint trace of Aramis.

  “How’s the baby?” Buchanan asked the man.

  “Ten fingers, ten toes,” the man said.

  Jessica spoke the code. Buchanan was asking how a current case was going. The detective’s response meant: All is well.

  “Riff Raff,” Buchanan said. “Meet your new partner.”

  “Jessica Balzano,” Jessica said, extending her hand.

  “Kevin Byrne,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”

  The name immediately dragged Jessica back a year or so. The Morris Blanchard affair. Every cop in Philly had followed the case. Byrne’s image had been plastered all over the city, on every news show, newspaper, and local magazine. Jessica was surprised she hadn’t recognized him. At first glance he seemed five years older than the man she remembered.

  Buchanan’s phone rang. He excused himself.

  “Same here,” she replied. Eyebrows up. “Riff Raff?”

  “Long story. We’ll get to it.” They shook hands as the name registered with Byrne. “You’re Vincent Balzano’s wife?”

  Jesus Christ, Jessica thought. Nearly seven thousand cops on the force and you could fit them all in a phone booth. She applied a few more foot-pounds—or, in this instance, hand-pounds—of pressure to her handshake. “In name only,” she said.

  Kevin Byrne got the message. He winced, smiled. “Gotcha.”

  Before letting go, Byrne held her gaze for a few seconds in the way that only veteran police officers can. Jessica knew all about it. She knew about the club, the territorial makeup of a unit, the way that cops bond and protect. When she was first assigned to Auto, she had to prove herself on a daily basis. After a year, though, she could roll with the best of them. After two years, she could pull a J-turn on two inches of solid ice, could tune up a Shelby GT in the dark, could read a VIN number through a smashed pack of Kools on the dashboard of a locked car.

  When she caught Kevin Byrne’s stare and threw it right back at him, something happened. She wasn’t positive if it was a good thing, but it let him know that she was no probie, no boot, no damp-seated rookie who got here based on her plumbing.

  They retrieved their hands as the phone rang at the assignment desk. Byrne answered, made a few notes.

  “We’re up on the wheel,” Byrne said. The wheel was the duty roster of assignments for detectives on the Line Squad. Jessica’s heart sank. How long had she been on the job, fourteen minutes? Wasn’t there supposed to be a grace period? “Dead girl in crack town,” he added.

  Guess not.

  Byrne fixed Jessica with a look afloat somewhere between a smile and a challenge. He said: “Welcome to Homicide.”

  “HOW DO YOU KNOW VINCENT?” Jessica asked.

  They had ridden in silence for a few blocks after pulling out of the lot. Byrne drove the standard-issue Ford Taurus. It was the same uneasy silence experienced on a blind date, which, in many ways, this was.

  “A year ago we took down a dealer in Fishtown. We’d been looking at him for a long time. Liked him for the murder of one of our CIs. Real badass. Carried a hatchet on his belt.”

  “Charming.”

  “Oh yeah. Anyway, it was our case, but Narcotics set up a buy to draw the prick out. When it came time for entry, about five in the morning, there’s six of us, four from Homicide, two from Narcotics. We get out of the van, checking our Glocks, adjusting our vests, getting pumped for the door. You know the drill. All of a sudden, no Vincent. We look around, behind the van, under the van. Nothing. It’s quiet as hell, then all of sudden we hear ‘Get onna ground . . . get onna ground . . . hands behind yer back motherfucker!’ from inside the house. Turns out Vincent was off, through the door and up the guy’s ass before any of us could move.”

  “Sounds like Vince,” Jessica said.

  “And how many times has he seen Serpico?” Byrne asked.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Jessica said. “We’ve got it on DVD and VHS.”

  Byrne laughed. “He’s a piece of work.”

  “He’s a piece of something.”

  Over the next few minutes they went through their who-do-you-knows, where-did-you-go-to-schools, who-have-you-busted repartee. All of which brought them back to their families.

  “So is it true that Vincent was in the seminary once?” Byrne asked.

  “For about ten minutes,” Jessica said. “You know how it is in this town. If you’re male and Italian, you’ve got three choices. The seminary, the force, or cement contracting. He has three brothers, all in the building trades.”

  “If you’re Irish, it’s plumbing.”

  “There ya go,” Jessica said. Although Vincent tried to posture himself as a swaggering South Philly homeboy, he had a BA from Temple with a minor in art history. On Vincent’s bookshelves, next to the PDR, Drugs in Society, and The Narc’s Game, sat a well-worn copy of H. W. Janson’s History of Art. He wasn’t all Ray Liotta and gold-plated malocchio.

  “So what happened to Vince and the calling?”

  “You’ve met him. Do you think he was built for a life of discipline and obedience?”

  Byrne laughed. “Not to mention celibacy.”

  No friggin’ comment, Jessica thought.

  “So, you guys are divorced?” Byrne asked.

  “Separated,” Jessica said. “
You?”

  “Divorced.”

  It was a standard refrain for cops. If you weren’t splitsville, you were en route. Jessica could count the happily married cops on one hand, with an empty ring finger left over.

  “Wow,” Byrne said.

  “What?”

  “I’m just thinking . . . two people on the job, under one roof. Damn.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jessica had known all about the challenges of a two-badge marriage from the start—the egos, the hours, the pressures, the danger—but love has a way of obscuring the truth you know, and molding a truth you seek.

  “Did Buchanan give you his why are you here speech?” Byrne asked.

  Jessica was relieved that it wasn’t just her. “Yeah.”

  “And you told him you were here because you want to make a difference, right?”

  Was he baiting her? Jessica wondered. Fuck this. She glanced over, ready to reveal a few talons. He was smiling. She let it slide. “What is that, the standard?”

  “Well, it beats the truth.”

  “What’s the truth?”

  “The real reason we became cops.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The big three,” Byrne said. “Free meals, no speed limits, and the license to beat the shit out of bigmouthed assholes with impunity.”

  Jessica laughed. She had never heard it put quite so poetically. “Well, let’s just say I didn’t tell the truth, then.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked him if he thought he’d made a difference.”

  “Oh, man,” Byrne said. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.”

  “What?”

  “You got in Ike’s face the first day?”

  Jessica thought about it. She imagined she did. “I guess so.”

  Byrne laughed, lit a cigarette. “We’re gonna get along just fine.”

  THE 1500 BLOCK OF NORTH EIGHTH STREET, near Jefferson, was a blighted stretch of weed-blotted vacant lots and weather-blasted row houses—slanted porches, crumbling steps, sagging roofs. At the rooflines, the cornices wrote wavy contours of waterlogged white pine; the dentils were rotted to toothless scowls.