Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (142 page)

Compulsive killers start close to home.

The name of the killer is in that computer readout.

Before Byrne could head back into the Roundhouse, he sensed a presence nearby.

“Kevin.”

Byrne spun around. It was Vincent Balzano. He and Byrne had worked a detail a few years earlier. He had, of course, seen Vincent at any number of police functions with Jessica. Byrne liked him. What he knew about Vincent on the job was that he was a little unorthodox, had placed himself in jeopardy more than once to save a fellow officer, and was fairly hotheaded. Not all that different from Byrne himself.

“Hey, Vince,” Byrne said.

“You talk to Jess today?”

“No,” Byrne said. “What’s up?”

“She left a message for me this morning. I’ve been on the street all day. I just picked up the messages an hour ago.”

“You worried?”

Vincent looked at the Roundhouse, then back at Byrne. “Yeah. I am.”

“What did her message say?”

“She said she and Nicci Malone were headed up to Berks County,” Vincent said. “Jess was off duty. And now I can’t get hold of her. Do you have any idea where in Berks?”

“No,” Byrne said. “You try her cell?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I get her voice mail.” Vincent turned away for a moment, then back. “What’s she
doing
up in Berks? Is she working your multiple?”

Byrne shook his head. “She’s working Walt Brigham’s case.”

“Walt Brigham’s case? What’s up there?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s the last thing she logged?”

“Let’s go see.”

BACK IN THE
duty room of the homicide unit, Byrne pulled the binder of Walt Brigham’s murder. He flipped to the most recent entry. “This is from last night,” he said.

The file contained photocopies of two photographs, both sides—black-and-white pictures of an old stone farmhouse. They were duplicates. On the back of one was five numbers, two obscured by what looked like water damage. Beneath that, written in red pen, in a cursive style known well to both men as belonging to Jessica, was the following:

195-/ Berks County / N of French Creek?

“You think this is where she went?” Vincent asked.

“I don’t know,” Byrne said. “But if her voice mail message said that she was heading to Berks with Nicci, there’s a good chance.”

Vincent pulled out his cell, tried Jessica again. Nothing. For a moment, it appeared that Vincent was going to throw the phone through the window. The
closed
window. Byrne knew the feeling.

Vincent pocketed his cell phone, headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Byrne asked.

“I’m going up there.”

Byrne took the pictures of the farmhouse, put the binder away. “I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Byrne stared. “How do you figure that?”

Vincent hesitated for a moment, nodded. “Let’s go.”

They reached Vincent’s car—a fully restored 1970 Cutlass S—at nearly a run. Byrne was out of breath by the time he slipped into the passenger seat. Vincent Balzano was in far better shape.

Vincent decked a blue light on the dash. By the time they reached the Schuylkill Expressway they were traveling at eighty miles per hour.

80

The darkness was nearly complete. Just a thin sliver of cold daylight came between the crack in the storm-cellar doors.

Jessica called out a few times, listened. Silence. Empty, country silence.

She put her shoulder to the nearly horizontal doors and pushed.

Nothing.

She angled her body for maximum leverage and tried again. Again the doors did not move. Jessica looked between the two doors. She saw a dark strip across the center, which meant that the four-by-four crossbeam was in place. Obviously, the door had not closed on its own.

Someone was out there. Someone had slid the crossbeam across the doors.

Where was Nicci?

Jessica looked around the cellar. Against one wall were an old rake and a short-handled shovel. She grabbed the rake, tried to slip the handle between the doors. It did not fit.

She stepped into the other room, was hit by the thick smell of mold and mice. She found nothing. No tools, no levers, no hammers or saws. And the Maglite was starting to fade. Against the far wall, an inside wall, was a pair of ruby curtains. She wondered if they led to another room.

She tore down the curtains. In the corner was a ladder, secured to the stone wall by bolts and a pair of brackets. She banged her flashlight against her palm, got a few more lumens of yellow light from it. She ran the beam up to the cobwebbed ceiling. There, cut into the ceiling, was an access door. It looked as if it had not been used in many years. Jessica gauged that she was now near the center of the house. She wiped some of the soot from the ladder, then tested the first rung. It creaked beneath her weight, but held. She put the Maglite between her teeth, and started up the ladder. She pushed against the wood access door, and was rewarded with a faceful of black dust.

“Fuck!”

Jessica stepped back onto the floor, wiped the soot from her eyes, spit a few times. She took off her coat, draped it over her head and shoulders. She started back up the ladder again. For a second it felt as if one of the rungs was going to give. It cracked slightly. She shifted her feet and her weight to the sides of the rungs, braced herself. This time when she pushed on the ceiling door, she turned her head. The wood budged. It wasn’t nailed shut, and there was nothing heavy on top of it.

She tried one more time, this time using all her strength. The access door gave way. As Jessica slowly pushed it up, she was greeted by thin afternoon light. She pushed the door fully and it toppled over onto the floor of the room above. Although the air in the house was thick and stale, she welcomed it. She took a few deep breaths.

She took the coat from her head, slipped it back on. She looked up to the beamed ceiling of the old farmhouse. She calculated that she would emerge into a small pantry off the kitchen. She stopped, listened. Just the sound of the wind. She pocketed the Maglite, drew her weapon, and continued up the ladder.

Seconds later Jessica stepped through the opening and into the house, glad to be out of the oppressive confines of the damp cellar. She slowly turned 360 degrees. What she saw nearly took her breath away. She had not just entered an old farmhouse.

She had entered another century.

81

Byrne and Vincent made Berks County in record time, courtesy of Vincent’s muscle car and his ability to maneuver through expressway traffic in what was becoming a full-blown snowstorm. After getting their bearings concerning the general boundaries of the 195 zip code area, they found themselves in Robeson Township.

They took a two-lane road south. Houses were spread out here, none of them resembling the isolated-looking old farmhouse they sought. After a few minutes of trolling the road, they came upon a man shoveling snow near the street.

The man, perhaps in his late sixties, was shoveling out the apron of his driveway, a driveway that looked more than fifty feet long.

Vincent pulled over on the other side of the street, rolled his window down. Within seconds there was snow in the car.

“Hi,” Vincent said.

The man looked up from his chore. It looked like he was wearing every item of clothing he’d ever owned—three coats, two hats, three pairs of gloves. His scarves were knitted, homemade, rainbow colored. He was bearded; his gray hair was in a braid. Former flower child. “Afternoon, young man.”

“You didn’t shovel that whole thing did you?”

The man laughed. “No, my two grandsons did. They never finish anything though.”

Vincent showed him the picture of the farmhouse. “Are you familiar with this place?”

The man moved slowly across the road. He stared at the picture, giving the task its full due. “No. Sorry.”

“Did you happen to see two other police detectives come by today? Two women in a Ford Taurus?”

“No, sir,” the man said. “Can’t say that I did. I’d remember that.”

Vincent thought for a moment. He pointed to the crossroad ahead. “Anything up this way?”

“Only thing up there is Double K Auto,” he said. “If someone was lost or looking for directions, I imagine they might have pulled in there.”

“Thank you sir,” Vincent said.

“You are welcome young man. Peace.”

“Don’t work too hard on this,” Vincent called to him, putting the car in gear. “It’s only snow. It will be gone by spring.”

The man laughed again. “It’s a thankless job,” he said, walking back across the road. “But I’ve got karma to spare.”

DOUBLE K AUTO
was a ramshackle, corrugated steel building set back from the road. Derelict cars and auto parts dotted the landscape for a quarter mile in all directions. It looked like a snow-covered topiary of alien beings.

Vincent and Byrne entered the establishment at just after five o’clock.

Inside, at the back of a large grimy lobby, a man stood near the counter, reading
Hustler.
He made no attempt to hide it or put it away in the face of potential customers. He was in his thirties, greasy blond hair, filthy garage overalls
.
His nametag read
KYLE
.

“How ya doin’?” Vincent offered.

Cool reception. Closer to cold. The man didn’t say a word.

“I’m good, too,” Vincent said. “Thanks for asking.” He held up his badge. “I was wondering if—”

“Can’t help you.”

Vincent froze, badge high. He glanced at Byrne, back to Kyle. He held this position for a few moments, then continued.

“I was wondering if two other police officers might have stopped here earlier today. Two female detectives from Philadelphia.”

“Can’t help you,” the man repeated, going back to his magazine.

Vincent took a series of short, quick breaths, like someone preparing to lift a great weight. He took a step forward, put his badge away, flipped back the hem of his coat. “You’re saying that two police officers from Philadelphia did
not
stop here earlier in the day. Is that correct?”

Kyle screwed up his face, as if he were slightly retarded. “I’m dowwy. Do you hab a heawing pwobwem?”

Vincent flicked a glance at Byrne. He knew that Byrne wasn’t too keen on jokes at the expense of the hearing impaired. Byrne kept his cool.

“One last time, while we’re still friends,” Vincent said. “Did two female detectives from Philadelphia stop here today, looking for a farmhouse? Yes or no?”

“Don’t know nothin’ about it, sport,” Kyle said. “Have a nice night.”

Vincent laughed, which at the moment was actually scarier than his growl. He ran a hand through his hair, over his jaw. He looked around the lobby area. His eyes landed on something that caught his interest.

“Kevin,” he said.

“What?”

Vincent pointed to a nearby trash can. Byrne looked.

There, on top of a pair a greasy Mopar boxes, sat a business card with the familiar badge logo—raised black type, white card stock. It belonged to Detective Jessica Balzano, Philadelphia Police Department, Homicide Division.

Vincent spun on his heels. Kyle was still standing by the counter, watching. But his magazine was now on the floor. When Kyle realized they weren’t leaving he made a move to reach beneath the counter.

At that moment, Kevin Byrne saw something incredible.

Vincent Balzano ran across the room, leapt over the counter, and grabbed the blond man by the throat, slamming him back into a display rack. Oil filters, air filters, and spark plugs flew.

All of this seemed to take place in under a second. Vincent was a blur.

In one smooth move, with his left hand wrapped tightly around Kyle’s throat, Vincent drew his weapon and aimed it at a dirt-streaked curtain hanging in the doorway to what was probably a back room. The fabric looked as if it had at one time been a shower curtain, although Byrne doubted that Kyle was too familiar with that concept. The point was, someone was standing behind the curtain. Byrne had seen him too.