Broken Angels jbakb-3

by Richard Montanari

  "My name is Detective Jessica Balzano." She showed the man her ID.

  "Ah, yes." The man was tall, well groomed, soft-spoken, manicured. He seemed out of place in a secondhand shop. "I am the one who called." He extended his hand. "Welcome to the New Page Emporium. My name is Roland Hannah."

  50

  Byrne interviewed three dancers at Stiletto. As pleasant as the detail was, he had learned nothing, except that exotic dancers can be upward of six feet tall. None of the young ladies remembered anyone paying particular attention to Kristina Jakos.

  Byrne decided to take another look at the Shawmont pump house.

  Before he got on Kelly Drive his cell phone rang. It was Tracy Mc- Govern at the forensic lab.

  "We got a match on those bird feathers," Tracy said.

  Byrne winced when he thought about the bird. God, he hated fucking up. "What is it?"

  "Ready for this?"

  "That sounds like a loaded question, Tracy," Byrne said. "I'm not sure how to answer."

  "The bird was a nightingale."

  "A nightingale?" Byrne recalled the bird in the victim's grasp. It was a small, ordinary looking bird, nothing special. For some reason he'd thought a nightingale would be exotic looking.

  "Yep. Luscinia megarhynchos, also known as the Rufous nightingale," Tracy said. "And here's the good part."

  "Man, do I need a good part."

  "Nightingales don't live in North America."

  "That's the good part?"

  "It is. Here's why. The nightingale is usually considered to be an English bird, but it can also be found in Spain, Portugal, Austria, and Africa. And here's the even better news. Not so much for the bird, mind you, but for us. Nightingales don't do very well in captivity. Ninety percent of those caught die within a month or so."

  "Okay," Byrne said. "So how does one of them end up in the hands of a murder victim in Philly?"

  "As well you may ask. Unless you bring one back from Europe yourself-and in this age of bird flu that would not be likely-there's only one way to get one."

  "And how is that?"

  "From a breeder of exotic birds. Nightingales have been known to survive in captivity if they're bred. Hand-raised, if you will."

  "Please tell me there's a breeder in Philly."

  "No, but there is one in Delaware. I called them, but they said they had not sold a nightingale, or bred one, in years. The owner said he would put together a list of breeders and importers and call back. I gave him your number."

  "Good work, Tracy." Byrne clicked off, then called Jessica's voice mail, left her the information.

  A freezing rain began to fall as he turned onto Kelly Drive, a cloudy gray mist that painted the road with a patina of ice. For Kevin Byrne, at that moment, it felt like the winter would never end, and there were three months to go.

  Nightingales.

  By the time Byrne reached the Shawmont waterworks, the freezing rain had turned into a full-blown ice storm. In the few feet from his car to the slick stone steps of the abandoned pump house he got fairly soaked.

  Byrne stood in the huge open doorway, surveyed the main room of the waterworks. He was still stunned at the scale and sheer desolation of the building. He had lived in Philadelphia his entire life, but had never been there until this case. The site was so secluded-yet not too far from Center City-that he would bet many Philadelphians didn't even know it was there.

  The wind swirled an eddy of rain into the building. Byrne stepped deeper into the gloom. He thought about the activity that had once taken place there, the commotion. A few generations of people had worked here, keeping the water flowing.

  Byrne touched the stone sill where Tara Grendel had been found-

  — and sees the shadow of the killer, bathed in black, positioning the woman, facing her toward the river… hears the sound of the nightingale as he puts it into her hands, hands rapidly taking on rigor… sees the killer stepping outside, glancing at the moon… hears the lilt of a nursery rhyme-

  — then stood back.

  Byrne took a few moments, trying to shake off the images, trying to make sense of them. He had imagined the first few lines of a children's verse-it even seemed like a child's voice-but he could not understand the words. Something about maidens.

  He walked the perimeter of the enormous space, training his Maglite on the pitted and rubbled floor. The crime-scene officers had taken detailed photographs, made scale drawings, combed it for evidence. They had found nothing significant. Byrne snapped off his flashlight. He decided to head back to the Roundhouse.

  Before he stepped outside he was overcome by another sensation, a dark and forbidding awareness, the feeling that someone was watching him. He wheeled around, looking into the corners of the enormous room.

  No one.

  Byrne cocked his head, listened. Just the rain, the wind.

  He stepped into the doorway, peered out. Through the thick gray mist, on the other side of the river, he saw a man standing on the riverbank, hands at his sides. The man seemed to be observing him. The figure was a few hundred feet away, and it was impossible to make out anything specific, except that a man in a dark coat was standing there, in a winter ice storm, and he was watching Byrne.

  Byrne stepped back into the building, out of sight, waited a few moments. He poked his head around the corner. The man was still there, standing motionless, studying the monstrous building on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill. For a second the small figure faded into and out of the landscape, lost in a sheet of water.

  Byrne receded into the darkness of the pump house. He got on his cell phone, called the unit. In seconds he told Nick Palladino to get down to the location, on the western bank of the Schuylkill, across from the Shaw- mont pump house, and bring the cavalry. If they were wrong, they were wrong. They would apologize to the man and all go about their day.

  But Byrne somehow knew he wasn't wrong. The feeling was that strong.

  "Hang on a second, Nick."

  Byrne kept the telephone connection open, waited a few moments, trying to calculate which bridge was nearest to his location, which bridge would get him to the other side of the Schuylkill fastest. He crossed the floor space, waited a moment in the huge arch, sprinted to his car, just as someone stepped out of a high portico on the north side of the building, just a few feet away, directly into his path. Byrne didn't look at the man's face. For the moment he couldn't take his eyes off the small caliber weapon in the man's hand. A weapon pointed at Byrne's stomach.

  The man holding the gun was Matthew Clarke.

  "What are you doing?" Byrne screamed. "Get the fuck out of my way!"

  Clarke did not move. Byrne could smell the alcohol on the man's breath. He could also see the gun shaking in the man's hand. Never a good combination.

  "You're going to come with me," Clarke said. Over Clarke's shoulder, through the thick haze of rain, Byrne could see the figure of a man still standing on the far riverbank. Byrne tried to mind-print the image. It was impossible. The man could be five eight or six feet. Twenty or fifty.

  "Give me the gun, Mr. Clarke," Byrne said. "You're obstructing an investigation. This is very serious."

  The wind picked up, whipping off the river, bringing a mass of sleet with it. "I want you to take out your weapon, really slowly, and put it on the ground," Clarke said.

  "I can't do that."

  Clarke cocked the pistol. His hand began to shake. "You do what I tell you."

  Byrne saw the rage in the man's eyes, the heat of madness. The detective slowly unbuttoned his coat, reached inside, removed his weapon with two fingers. He then ejected the magazine, threw it over his shoulder, into the river. He placed the gun on the ground. He was not about to leave behind a loaded weapon.

  "Let's go." Clarke pointed toward his car, which was parked near the train depot. "We're going to take a ride."

  "Mr. Clarke," Byrne said, searching for the right tone of voice. He calculated his chances of making a move to disarm Clarke. Never
good odds under the best of circumstances. "You don't want to do this."

  "I said, let's go."

  Clarke put the gun to Byrne's right temple. Byrne closed his eyes. Colleen, he thought. Colleen.

  "We're going to take a ride," Clarke said. "You and me. If you don't get in my car, I will kill you right here."

  Byrne opened his eyes, turned his head. Across the river, the man was gone.

  "Mr. Clarke, this is the end of your life," Byrne said. "You have no idea the world of shit you've just stepped into."

  "Don't say another word. Not one. Do you hear me?"

  Byrne nodded.

  Clarke stepped behind Byrne, put the gun's barrel against the small of his back. "Let's go," he said once more. They walked to the car. "Do you know where we're heading?"

  Byrne did. But he needed Clarke to say it out loud. "No," he said.

  "We're going to the Crystal Diner," Clarke replied. "We're going to the place where you killed my wife."

  They reached the car. They slipped inside at the same moment- Byrne into the driver's seat, Clarke directly behind him. "Nice and slow," Clarke said. "Drive."

  Byrne started the car, put on the wipers, the defrosters. His hair and face and clothes were soaked, his pulse was thrumming in his ears. He wiped the rain from his eyes, and then headed toward the city.

  51

  Jessica Balzano and Roland Hannah sat in the small back room of the thrift shop. The walls bore a number of Christian posters, a Christian calendar, framed inspirational sayings in needlepoint, pictures drawn by children. In one corner was an orderly pile of painting supplies- cans, rollers, pans, drop cloths. The walls in the back room were a pastel yellow.

  Roland Hannah was lanky, light-haired, trim. He wore faded jeans, worn Reeboks, and a white sweatshirt with a slogan on the front, printed in black letters:

  LORD, IF YOU CAN'T MAKE ME SKINNY, MAKE ALL MY FRIENDS FAT.

  There were flecks of paint on his hands.

  "Can I offer you a coffee or tea? A soda perhaps?" he asked.

  "I'm fine, thanks," Jessica said.

  Roland sat down at the table, across from Jessica. He folded his hands, knitted his fingers together. "How can I help you?"

  Jessica opened her notebook, clicked a pen. "You said that you called the police."

  "That's correct."

  "Can I ask why?"

  "Well, I read the account of these terrible murders," Roland said. "The detail of the vintage clothing caught my eye. I just figured I might be able to help."

  "How so?"

  "I've been at this quite a while, Detective Balzano," he said. "Although this store has only recently opened, I have served the community and the Lord in some capacity for many years. And as far as the ministry thrift shops in Philadelphia are concerned, I know just about everyone. I know a number of the Christian ministers in New Jersey and Delaware also. I figured I might be able to facilitate introductions, things like that."

  "How long have you been at this location?"

  "We just opened our doors here about ten days ago," Roland said.

  "Have you gotten a lot of customers?"

  "Yes," Roland said. "The good word is spreading."

  "Do you know many of the people who come here to shop?"

  "Quite a few," he said. "The location has been printed in our church bulletin for some time now. Some of the alternative papers here have even included us in their listing sections. On the day we opened we had balloons for the children, along with cake and punch for all."

  "What sort of things do the customers buy mostly?"

  "Depends on their ages, of course. The married couples tend to look at the furniture and children's clothes. Young people, such as yourself, tend to head right for the jeans and denim jackets. They always think there'll be the Juicy Couture or Diesel or Vera Wang article of clothing buried amid the Sears and JCPenney's. I can tell you that it rarely happens. Most of the designer items are snatched up before they reach our shelves, I'm afraid."

  Jessica looked closely at the man. If she had to guess, she would say he was a few years younger than she was. "Young people such as me?"

  "Well, yes."

  "How old do you think I am?"

  Roland scrutinized her, hand on chin. "I'd say twenty-five or twenty- six."

  Roland Hannah was her new best friend. "Can I show you some photographs?"

  "Certainly," he said.

  Jessica took out the pictures of the two dresses. She put them on the table. "Have you ever seen these dresses before?"

  Roland Hannah looked closely at the pictures. Soon, recognition seemed to dawn on his face. "Yes," he said. "I think I've seen these dresses."

  After a frustrating day of dead ends, the words almost didn't register. "You sold these dresses?"

  "I'm not sure. I may have. I think I remember unpacking them and placing them on display."

  Jessica's pulse galloped. It was that feeling all investigators get when the first solid clue falls from the sky. She wanted to call Byrne. She checked the impulse. "How long ago was this?"

  Roland thought for a moment. "Let's see. We've been open for maybe ten days or so, like I said. So I'd reckon it was about two weeks ago that I would have put them on the rack. I think we had them when we opened. So, about two weeks."

  "Do you know the name David Hornstrom?"

  "David Hornstrom?" Roland asked. "I'm afraid I don't."

  "Do you recall who might have bought the dresses?"

  "I'm not sure I remember. But if I saw some photographs, I might be able to tell you. Pictures might jog my memory. Do the police still do that?"

  "Do what?"

  "Have people look through mug shots? Or is that something they only do on TV?"

  "No, we do a lot of that," Jessica said. "Would you be willing to come down to the Roundhouse right now?"

  "Of course," Roland said. "Anything I can do to help."

  52

  The traffic on Eighteenth Street was snarled. Cars were slipping and sliding. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the sleet was relentless.

  A million thoughts raced through Kevin Byrne's mind. He thought about the other times in his career when he had faced a gun. He wasn't getting any better at it. His stomach was tied in steel knots.

  "You don't want to do this, Mr. Clarke," Byrne said again. "There's still time to call this off."

  Clarke remained silent. Byrne glanced into the rearview mirror. Clarke had the thousand-yard stare in place.

  "You don't get it," Clarke finally said.

  "I do get it."

  "No, you don't. How could you? Have you ever lost someone you love to violence?"

  Byrne had not. But he had come close once. He had almost lost everything once when his daughter had been in the hands of a killer. He had nearly crossed the threshold of sanity himself that dark day.

  "Pull over," Clarke said.

  Byrne eased the car to the curb. He put it in park, kept it running. The only sound was the click and clack of the windshield wipers keeping time with Byrne's hammering heart.

  "What now?" Byrne asked.

  "We're going to go into the diner, and we are going to end this. For you and me."

  Byrne glanced at the diner. Through the mist of freezing rain, the lights sparkled and shimmered. The front window had been replaced already. The floor had been bleached clean. It was as if nothing had occurred in there. Except it had. And that was the reason they were back.

  "It doesn't have to end this way," Byrne said. "If you put down the weapon, there's still a chance of getting your life back."

  "You mean I can just walk away like this never happened?"

  "No," Byrne said. "I'm not going to insult you by telling you that. But you can get help."

  Byrne glanced again in the rearview. And saw it.

  There were now two small red dots of light on Clarke's chest.

  Byrne closed his eyes for the moment. This was the best of news, the worst of news. He had kept the phone o
pen the whole time, ever since Clarke had confronted him at the pump house. Obviously, Nick Pal- ladino had called SWAT, and they had deployed at the diner. For the second time in about a week. Byrne glanced up the street. He spotted SWAT officers positioned at the mouth of the alley next to the diner.

  This could all end suddenly, violently. Byrne wanted the former, but not the latter. He was fair at negotiation tactics, but far from an expert. Rule number one. Remain calm. No one has to die. "I'm going to tell you something," Byrne said. "And I want you to listen carefully. Do you understand?"

  Silence. The man was about to blow.

  "Mr. Clarke?"

  "What?"

  "I need to tell you something. But first you must do exactly as I say. You must sit absolutely still."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Have you noticed that there is no traffic?"

  Clarke looked out the window. A block away, a pair of sector cars had blocked Eighteenth Street.

  "Why are they doing that?" Clarke asked.

  "I'll tell you all about it in a second. But first I want you to look down, very slowly. Just tilt your head. No sudden moves. Look down at your chest, Mr. Clarke."

  Clarke did as Byrne suggested. "What is this?" he asked.

  "This is the end of things, Mr. Clarke. Those are laser sights. They are coming from the rifles of two SWAT officers."

  "Why are they on me?"

  Oh God, Byrne thought. This was far worse than he imagined. Matthew Clarke was beyond recall.

  "Again, do not move your body," Byrne said. "Just your eyes. I want you to look at my hands now, Mr. Clarke." Byrne had both hands on the steering wheel, at the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions. "Can you see my hands?"

  "Your hands? What about them?"

  "See how they're gripping the wheel?" Byrne asked.

  "Yes."

  "If I so much as lift the index finger on my right hand, they will pull the trigger. They will take the shot," Byrne said, hoping it rang true. "Remember what happened to Anton Krotz in the diner?"

  Byrne could hear Matthew Clarke begin to sob. "Yes."