A lone teardrop fell onto the glass picture frame.
“And if you have the choice between talking to your daughter, or listening,” Faith added. “Listen. Just … listen.”
Jessica didn’t know what to say. She could think of no response to this. No verbal response. Instead, she took the woman’s hand in hers. And they sat in silence, listening to the summer rain.
JESSICA STOOD NEXT to her car, keys in hand. The sun had come out again. The streets of South Philadelphia steamed. She closed her eyes for a moment, and despite the punishing summer heat, the moment took her to some very dark places. The death mask of Stephanie Chandler. The face of Angelika Butler. Declan Whitestone’s tiny, helpless hands. She wanted to stand beneath the sun for a long time, hoping the sunlight would disinfect her soul.
“Are you all right, Detective?”
Jessica opened her eyes, turned to the voice. It was Terry Cahill.
“Agent Cahill,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Cahill wore his standard blue suit. He no longer wore the sling, but Jessica could see, by the cant of his shoulders, that he was still in pain. “I called the station house. They said you might be down here.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
Cahill feigned an overhand pitch. “Like Brett Myers.”
Jessica assumed that this was a baseball player. If it wasn’t boxing, she was clueless. “You’re back at the agency?”
Cahill nodded. “I finished my stint with the department. I’ll be writing up my report today.”
Jessica could only wonder what would be in it. She decided not to ask. “It was good working with you.”
“Same here,” he said. He cleared his throat. It appeared he was not very good at these sorts of things. “And I want you to know that I meant what I said. You are one hell of a cop. If you’d ever consider the bureau as a career, please give me a call.”
Jessica smiled. “You on commission or something?”
Cahill returned the smile. “Yeah,” he said. “If I bring in three new recruits I get a clear plastic badge protector.”
Jessica laughed. The sound seemed foreign to her. It had been awhile. The lighthearted moment passed quickly. She glanced up the street, then turned back. She found Terry Cahill staring at her. He had something to say. She waited.
“I had him,” he finally said. “I didn’t take him down in that alley, and a baby and a young girl nearly died.”
Jessica had suspected he felt this way. She put a hand on his arm. He didn’t draw away. “No one blames you, Terry.”
Cahill looked at her for a few moments in silence, then turned his gaze toward the river, to the heat-shimmered waters of the Delaware. The moment drew out. It was clear that Terry Cahill was gathering a thought, searching for the right words. “Do you find it easy to go back to your life after something like this?”
Jessica was a little taken aback by the intimacy of the question. But she was nothing if she was not bold. She wouldn’t be a homicide cop if it had been any other way. “Easy?” she asked. “No, not easy.”
Cahill glanced back at her. For an instant, she saw vulnerability in his eyes. In the next instant, the look was replaced with the steel she had long associated with those who choose law enforcement as a way of life.
“Please give Detective Byrne my regards,” Cahill said. “Tell him … tell him I’m glad his daughter was returned safely.”
“I will.”
Cahill hesitated briefly, as if to say something else. Instead, he touched her hand, then turned and walked up the street, toward his car, and the city beyond.
FRAZIER’S GYM WAS an institution on Broad Street in North Philadelphia. Owned and operated by former heavyweight champion Smokin’ Joe Frazier, it had produced a number of champions over the years. Jessica was one of only a handful of women who trained there.
With her ESPN2 bout set for early September, Jessica began her training regimen in earnest. Every sore muscle in her body reminded her how long she had been out of it.
Today she would get into the sparring ring for the first time in months.
As she stepped between the ropes, she thought about her life as it was. Vincent had moved back in. Sophie had made a WELCOME HOME sign out of construction paper worthy of a Veterans Day parade. Vincent was on probation in Casa Balzano, and Jessica made sure he knew it. So far, he had been the model husband.
Jessica knew that reporters were waiting for her outside. They had wanted to follow her into the gym, but you just don’t walk into this place. A pair of young guys who trained here—twin heavyweight brothers who tipped in around 220 each—had gently persuaded them to wait outside.
Jessica’s sparring partner was a girl from Logan, a twenty-year-old dynamo named Tracy “Bigg Time” Biggs. Bigg Time had a record of 2–0, both knockouts, both coming within the first thirty seconds of the fight.
Jessica’s great-uncle Vittorio—a former heavyweight contender himself, a man who held the distinction of once having knocked down Benny Briscoe, at McGillin’s Old Ale House, no less—was her trainer.
“Go easy on her, Jess,” Vittorio said. He slipped her headgear on, fastened her chin strap.
Easy? Jessica thought. The kid was built like Sonny Liston.
As she waited for the bell, Jessica thought about what had happened in that dark room, about making the split-second decision that took a man’s life. There had been a moment, in that low and horrible place, when she had doubted herself, when the quiet violence of fear had owned her. She imagined it would always be this way.
The bell rang.
Jessica moved forward and feinted a right hand. Nothing overt, nothing flashy, just a slight movement of her right shoulder, the sort of move that might go unnoticed to the untrained eye.
Her opponent flinched. Fear grew in the girl’s eyes.
“Bigg Time” Biggs was hers.
Jessica smiled, and launched a left hook.
Ava Gardner, indeed.
EPILOGUE
HE TYPED THE last period on his last report. He sat back, looked at the form. How many of them had he seen? Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
He recalled his first case in the unit. A homicide that had started as a domestic. A Tioga couple had gotten into it over the dishes. Seems the woman had left a piece of dried egg yolk on a plate and put it back into the cupboard. The husband beat her to death with an iron skillet—poetically, the one in which she had prepared the eggs.
So long ago.
Byrne pulled the paper from the typewriter, placed it in the binder. His last report. Did it tell the whole story? No. Then again, the binder never did.
He rose from the chair, noticing that the pain in his back and legs was almost gone. He hadn’t taken a Vicodin in two days. He wasn’t ready to play tight end for the Eagles, but he wasn’t hobbling around like an old man, either.
He put the binder on the shelf, wondering what he’d do with the rest of the day. Hell, with the rest of his life.
He put his coat on. There was no brass band, no cake, no streamers, no cheap sparkling wine in paper cups. Oh, there would be a blowout at Finnigan’s Wake in the next few months, but today there was nothing.
Could he leave it all behind? The warrior code, the joy in the battle. Was he really about to leave this building for the last time?
“Are you Detective Byrne?”
Byrne turned around. The question came from a young officer, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular in the way only young men can be. He had dark hair and eyes. Good-looking kid. “Yes.”
The young man extended his hand. “I’m Officer Gennaro Malfi. I wanted to shake your hand, sir.”
They shook hands. The kid had a firm, confident grip. “Nice to meet you,” Byrne said. “How long have you been on the job?”
“Eleven weeks.”
Weeks, Byrne thought. “Where do you work out of?”
“I’
m out of the Sixth.”
“That’s my old beat.”
“I know,” Malfi said. “You’re kind of a legend around there.”
More like a ghost, Byrne thought. “Believe half of it.”
The kid laughed. “Which half?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Okay.”
“Where are you from?”
“South Philly, sir. Born and raised. Eighth and Christian.”
Byrne nodded. He knew the corner. He knew all the corners. “I knew a Salvatore Malfi from that neighborhood. Cabinetmaker.”
“He’s my grandfather.”
“How is he these days?”
“He’s fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Is he still working?” Byrne asked.
“Only on his bocce game.”
Byrne smiled. Officer Malfi glanced at his watch.
“I’m on in twenty,” Malfi said. He extended his hand again. They shook once more. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
The young officer began to make his way to the door. Byrne turned and looked into the duty room.
Jessica was sending a fax with one hand, eating a hoagie with the other. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were poring over a pair of DD5s. Tony Park was running a PDCH on one of the computers. Ike Buchanan was in his office, working up the duty roster.
The phone was ringing.
He wondered if, in all the time he had spent in this room, he had made a difference. He wondered if the diseases that infect the human soul could be cured, or if they were merely destined to patch and repair the damage people did to each other on a daily basis.
Byrne watched the young officer walk out the door, his uniform so crisp and pressed and blue, his shoulders squared, his shoes buffed to a high gloss. He had seen so much when he had shaken the young man’s hand. So much.
It’s an honor to meet you, sir.
No, kid, Kevin Byrne thought as he took off his coat and walked back into the duty room. The honor is mine.
The honor is all mine.
TRANSLATION OF THE DEDICATION:
The essence of a game is at its end.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are no supporting players on this book. Only dashing leads.
Thanks to Sgt. Joanne Beres, Sgt. Irma Labrice, Sgt. William T. Britt, Officer Paul Bryant, Detective Michele Kelly, Sharon Pinkenson, The Greater Philadelphia Film Office, Amro Hamzawi, Jan “GPS” Klincewicz, phillyjazz.org, Mike Driscoll, and the wonderful staff at Finnigan’s Wake.
A special thanks to Linda Marrow, Gina Centrello, Kim Hovey, Dana Isaacson, Dan Mallory, Rachel Kind, Cindy Murray, Libby McGuire, and the great team at Ballantine. Thanks to my frontline: Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Peggy Gordijn, Don Cleary, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency. A transatlantic ta to Nikola Scott, Kate Elton, Louisa Gibbs, Cassie Chadderton, and the AbFab group at Arrow and William Heinemann.
Thanks again to the city of Philadelphia, its people, its bartenders, and especially the men and women of the PPD.
And, as always, a heartfelt grazie to The Yellowstone Gang.
It would all be a B movie without you.
The Skin Gods is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Richard Montanari
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-49095-7
v3.0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One: In the Forest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two: The Nightingale
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Three: The River Darkness
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Part Four: What the Moon Saw
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Copyright
To Ajani
Anchi konjo nesh
PROLOGUE
AUGUST 2001
In his dream they are still alive. In his dream they have blossomed into beautiful young women with careers and homes and families of their own. In his dream they shimmer beneath a golden sun.
Detective Walter Brigham opened his eyes, his heart a cold and bitter stone in his chest. He glanced at the clock, although it was unnecessary. He knew what time it was: 3:50 AM. It was the exact moment he had gotten the call six years earlier, the dividing line by which he had measured every day prior, and every day since.
Seconds earlier, in the dream, he had been standing at the edge of the forest, the spring rain an icy shroud over his world. Now he lay awake in his bedroom in West Philadelphia, a layer of sweat covering his body, the only sound his wife’s rhythmic breathing.
In his time, Walt Brigham had seen many things. He had once seen a drug case defendant try to eat his own flesh in a courtroom. Another time he’d found the body of a monstrous man named Joseph Barber—pedophile, rapist, murderer—lashed to a steam pipe in a North Philly tenement, a decomposing corps
e with thirteen knives in its chest. He had once seen a veteran homicide detective sitting on a curb in Brewery-town, quiet tears etching his face, a bloodied baby shoe in his hand. That man was John Longo, Walt Brigham’s partner. That case was Johnny’s.
All cops had an unsolved case, a crime that haunted their every waking moment, stalked their dreams. If you dodged the bullet, the bottle, the cancer, God gave you a case.
For Walt Brigham, his case began in April 1995, the day two young girls walked into the woods in Fairmount Park and never walked out. It was the dark fable that dwelt at the foothill of every parent’s nightmare.
Brigham closed his eyes, smelled the dank brew of loam and compost and wet leaves. Annemarie and Charlotte had worn matching white dresses. They were nine years old.
The homicide unit had interviewed a hundred people who had been in the park that day, had collected and sifted through twenty full bags of trash from the area. Brigham himself found the torn page of a children’s book nearby. Since that moment the verse had been a terrible echo in his brain:
Here are maidens, young and fair,
Dancing in the summer air,
Like two spinning wheels at play,
Pretty maidens dance away.
Brigham stared at the ceiling. He kissed his wife’s shoulder, sat up, glanced out the open window. In the moonlight, beyond the night-bound city, beyond the iron and glass and stone, was the dense canopy of trees. A shadow moved through those pines. Behind the shadow, a killer.
Detective Walter Brigham would face this killer one day.
One day.
Maybe even today.
PART ONE
IN THE FOREST
1
DECEMBER 2006
He is Moon, and he believes in magic.
Not the magic of trapdoors, and false bottoms, and sleights of hand. Not the magic that comes in the form of a pill or a potion. But rather the magic that can grow a beanstalk to the sky, or spin straw into gold, or turn a pumpkin into a carriage.
Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands Page 72