“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 décor. 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 cas
e 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 appliquéd 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 & 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.”
The Philadelphia Department of Licenses and Inspections was responsible for the enforcement of the city’s building code. It was also empowered to demolish vacant buildings that posed a threat to public safety.
“Do we have any information on the caller?” Jessica asked.
Byrne handed her the fax. “We do. The guy at L & I had caller ID. After the fifth call he wrote the number down.”
Jessica read it. The phone number was registered to a Laura A. Somerville. The address was on Locust Street. From the street number it looked to be in West Philadelphia.
Jessica glanced up the stairs, at the CSU officers who were beginning the slow, arduous task of sifting through what had to be years of trash. She wondered what might be up there, what crimes might be concealed, asking for closure.
She’d be back. Somehow, she was sure of it.
The two detectives signed off the crime-scene log, and headed to West Philly.
| SEVEN |
| TWO MONTHS EARLIER |
EVE ORDERED A CHEESEBURGER AND FRIES AT THE MIDTOWN IV RESTAURANT, a 24-hour place on Chestnut, catching glances and lewd looks from the night boys. The air in the room was a mixture of summer sweat, coffee, frying onions. Eve glanced at her watch. It was 2:20. The place was packed. She spun on her stool, considered the crowd. A young couple, early twenties, sat on the same side of a nearby booth. In your twenties you sat on the same side, Eve thought. In your thirties, you sat on opposite sides, but still talked. In your forties and beyond, you brought a newspaper.
At 2:40 a shadow appeared to her right. Eve turned. The girl was about fifteen, still carrying a layer of baby fat. She had an angelic face, street-hardened eyes. She wore faded jeans, a faux-leather jacket with a fake fur collar, and bright white New Balance sneakers, about an hour out of the box.
“Hey,” Eve said.
The girl scrutinized her. “Hey.”
“Are you Cassandra?”
The girl glanced around. She racked her shoulders, sniffled. “Yeah.”
“Nice to meet you.” Eve had gotten Cassandra’s name from a street kid named Carlito. The word was that Cassandra had been abducted. Eve had dropped a pair of twenties and the word was passed.
“Yeah. Um. You too.”
“Want to get a booth?” Eve asked.
The girl shook her head. “I’m not going to be here that long.”
“Okay. Are you hungry?”
Another shake of the head, this time with hesitation. She was hungry, but too proud to take a handout.
“Okay.” Eve stared at the girl for a few silent moments, the girl stared back, neither of them knowing how to start.
A few seconds later Cassandra slipped onto the stool next to Eve, and began.
CASSANDRA TOLD HER the whole story. More than once Eve got goose flesh. The story was not unlike her own. Different era, different shadows. Same horrors. As the girl talked, Eve stole glances at Cassandra’s hands. They were alternately trembling and formed into tight fists.
For the past two months Eve had felt she was getting nearer the truth, but it had always been in her head. Now it was in her heart.
“Can you point out the house to me?” Eve asked.
The girl seemed to shrink away from her. She shook her head. “No. Sorry. I can’t do that. I can tell you just about where it is, but I can’t show you.”
“Why not?”
The girl hesitated. She put her hands in her jacket pockets. Eve wondered what she had in there. “I just … can’t, that’s all. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Eve said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”
The girl issued a humorless laugh. “I don’t think you understand.”
“Understand what?”
For a moment, Eve thought the girl was going to leave without another word. Then, haltingly, Cassandra said, “I’m not going back there. I can’t ever go back there.”
Eve studied the girl. Her heart nearly broke. The girl had the haunted look of the ever-vigilant, the ever-cautious, s
omeone who never slept, never let down her guard. She was a mirror image of Eve at the same age.
Eve knew her next question would not be answered. It never was. She asked anyway. “Can I ask why you didn’t go to the police?”
Cassandra looked at the floor. “I have my reasons.”
“All right,” Eve said. “I understand. Trust me. I really do.” She reached into her pocket, palmed a fifty, slid it across the counter, lifted a finger.
The girl looked down, stared at the corner of the bill for a few seconds, then glanced up at Eve. “I don’t need it.”
Eve was shocked. Street kids did not turn down money. Something else was at work here. She could not imagine what it might be. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want the money. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
A long pause. The girl nodded.
Eve put the bill back in her pocket. She glanced around the restaurant. No one was watching. No one ever did at the all-nighters. She glanced back at the girl. “What can I do for you?” she asked. “You have to let me do something for you.”
The girl drummed her fingers on the countertop for a few seconds, then picked up Eve’s cheeseburger, wrapped it in a paper napkin, shoved it in her pocket. She also grabbed a handful of Equal packets. She spun on her stool, seemingly ready to bolt, then stopped, looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me,” she said. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. Her face was a mask of fear. Or maybe it was shame.
“What’s that?”
“You can kill him.”
THREE THIRTY.
The huge house was on a quiet street. It looked just as the girl had described it—overgrown with weeds, tangled with shrubbery, gnarled with dying trees. Vines hung from the gutters; dead ivy clung to the north side like black veins. Three stories in height, clad in dark orange brick, it squatted on a large corner lot, all but hidden from the street. A stone balcony wrapped around the second floor, looming over a crumbling stone porch. Four chimneys probed the night sky like a thumbless hand.
Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands Page 110