Richard Montanari (33 page)

    'Excuse
me. Sir?'

    He
looked up. He was black, somewhere between fifty and seventy. He wore a
tattered brown corduroy blazer and a yellowed shirt. His tie, like the blanket,
looked new. Jessica wondered if there was a price tag on that, too. His eyes
were bright and intelligent.

    'Madam.'

    'May
I ask your name?'

    'Abraham
Coltrane.'

    Jessica
believed the Abraham part. 'Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?' Jessica
held up her badge. The man scanned it.

    'Not
at all.'

    Jessica
held up three of the photographs. 'Do you know any of these men?'

    Coltrane
scanned the pictures. 'I do not. Are they men of leisure, such as myself?'

    'They
are.'

    Abraham
Coltrane nodded. Jessica held up the final picture, a photograph of the fourth
man believed to have been involved with the

    2004
murder of Marcellus Palmer. The man's name was Tyvander Alice. 'What about this
man?'

    Coltrane
looked again. This time Jessica saw the slightest flicker of recognition.
'Again,' he said. 'My regrets.'

    'This
picture was taken a few years ago.'

    'I
remember everyone I have ever met, madam.'

    She
believed he did, which was why she didn't believe the part about him not
knowing Tyvander Alice. She took out a five-dollar bill, making sure that the
man saw it.

    'Nice
blanket,' she said.

    'It
provides.'

    Jessica
lifted the price tag. 'You have a receipt for this, Mr. Coltrane?'

    'It
was a gift from one of my many admirers.'

    'They
gave you a gift with the price tag still on it?'

    Coltrane
shrugged. 'The young have but a nodding acquaintance with custom, I fear.'

    'Thank
God the court system still does,' Jessica said. 'They're really big on it.
Indictment, prosecution, conviction, incarceration. You might say they are
sticklers for tradition.'

    Coltrane
stared at her for a moment. Jessica saw the man's will begin to fade. 'May I
see that photograph again?'

    'Of
course.' Jessica showed him. He studied it for a moment, rubbing his stubbled
chin.

    'Now
that I've had a moment to reflect, I believe I have made the acquaintance of
this gentleman.'

    'Is
this Tyvander Alice?'

    
'Tyvander
?'
he asked. 'No. I knew him by another name. I know him as Hoochie.'

    'Hoochie?'

    'Yes.
An unfortunate and undignified sobriquet based on his love of the lesser
vintages, I believe.'

    Jessica
handed Coltrane the five. The man touched it to his forehead, sniffed it, then
spirited it away under his blanket.

    Before
Jessica could ask another question she saw the blanket move. A few seconds
later a Jack Russell terrier poked his snout out.

    His
gray
snout. The dog blinked a few times, adjusting its eyes to the light.

    'And
who is this?' Jessica asked.

    'This
is the irascible Biscuit. He is my oldest friend.' Coltrane patted the dog's
head. Jessica saw the blanket bounce up and down with the movement of the
pooch's tail. 'Is there anything in the world better than a warm biscuit?'

    Jessica
tried to think of something. She could not. There was as good, but not better.
She returned to the business at hand. 'Do you know where I might find Hoochie?'

    Coltrane
shrugged. '"I wander'd lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales
and hills.'"

    Jessica
raised an eyebrow, expecting more. There was no more. 'Bon Jovi?'

    Coltrane
smiled. 'Wordsworth.'

    In other
words, the answer was no. Homeless were just that. Jessica took out the
photograph of Marcellus Palmer, the original victim found at Second and Poplar
in 2004. 'Did you know this gentleman?'

    'Oh
yes,' Coltrane said. 'Marcellus. We shared many a tankard of kill-devil. But
that was a long time ago.'

    'Do
you know what happened to him?'

    Coltrane
nodded sadly. 'I heard he came to an unfortunate end. City buried him.'

    'Do
you know where?'

    Coltrane
looked up at the concrete embankment. For a moment there was only the sound of
the cars passing overhead. 'Now, I
did
know at one time. The
recollection seems to be pirouetting just at the edge of my memory.'

    Jessica
produced another five, held it back. 'Think we could coax it back onto the dance
floor?'

    'I
believe we can.'

    The
money was gone in an instant.

    'Up
around Parkwood, I believe.'

    Jessica's
phone rang. She looked at the screen. It was Byrne.

    'Thank
you for your time, Mr. Coltrane.'

    'Always
willing to do my part,' he said.

    Jessica
took a few steps away, answered her phone.

    'Where
are you?' she asked.

    'Still
in West Philly.'

    Jessica
told him what she had learned from Abraham Coltrane. Byrne filled her in on
what she had missed. Two of the other homeless men who had been questioned in
the murder of Marcellus Palmer were dead. The third man was long gone. Someone
told someone that someone's friend had told someone that he was in Florida. Two
someones
was about the extent of any network worth exploring.

    When
they met back at the Roundhouse, Jessica checked a roster of the city's
graveyards.

    There
was no cemetery in Parkwood.

    Finnigan's
Wake, the popular Irish pub at Third and Spring Garden Streets, in the Northern
Liberties section of the city, was packed with a who's who from the department
and the DA's office, as well as defense attorneys, paralegals, FBI agents,
commissioners, medical examiner's investigators. As always, everyone clustered
with their tribe. David Albrecht was there, shooting from the sidelines. Russ
Diaz was with his new team. Tom Weyrich was there, looking a little better than
Jessica had seen him look in a long time. Maybe it was the Guinness. Dennis
Stansfield stood in the corner with two of his old squad mates.

    The
jampacked party was held on the second floor, also known as the Lincoln Level.
After Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, his body was transported to
Philadelphia to lie in state at Independence Hall. That night his body had been
kept in a Northern Liberties funeral parlor, and the doors from that
establishment became part of the second floor at Finnigan's Wake. More than one
pint had been lifted to Honest Abe in this room.

    At
eleven p.m. Michael Drummond himself took the microphone. Although Drummond was
not yet forty, there was a lot of fresh blood in the DA's office and he was
referred to as the old man.

    'Yes,
it's true that I joined the office after an unfortunate incident with a Model A
Ford,' he said, drawing polite laughter.

    He
went on to thank just about everyone he'd ever worked with, on both sides of
the aisle, taking particular care to heap praise upon all the judges - men and
women in front of whom he would shortly be arguing for the defense - regardless
of whether they were at the party or not.

    Soon
it became time for him to spill the beans. With a clank of a spoon on a crystal
glass, he got everyone's undivided attention.

    'Folks,
I have an announcement to make,' Drummond said.

    Everyone
quieted down. This was, more or less, the reason they had gathered.

    'In
two weeks I will start work as a junior partner at Paulson Derry Chambers.
Until then, I'm on the job. So watch yourselves.'

    A
rumble went through the room. Paulson Derry Chambers was one of the most
prominent firms in the city. Everyone expected Mike Drummond to go for the
dollar, but a junior partnership at Paulson Derry was like stepping into
Valhalla. Applause followed.

    'Although
I didn't know him personally, I'd like to leave you with the wise words of Pericles,'
Drummond added. 'He said:
"What you leave behind is not what is
engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others."'

    'Hear,
hear,' someone said.

    Everyone
raised a glass.

    'Here's
to old dogs,' a slightly inebriated Nick Palladino added.

    Drummond
laughed. 'And soft bones.'

    Everyone
returned to their small groups. The detectives gathered near the tall windows
overlooking Spring Garden Street and the view of the Ben Franklin Bridge.

    'Ah,
shit,'
Dino said after everyone sat down.

    'What?'
Jessica asked.

    Dino
stood up, looked in his pockets, patted himself down like a suspect. 'I can't
believe this.'

    'What's
wrong?'

    Deadpan:
'I think I left my lip gloss at home.'

    Someone
snorted.

    Dino
pointed at Byrne's man bag, hanging off the back of his chair. 'Hey, Kev. You
wouldn't happen to have any in there, would you?'

    Muffled
laughs around the table. Byrne shook his head. 'I'm a lot bigger than you are,
you know that, right?'

    'I
know,' Dino said. 'But you're also older.'

    'By
what, five or six months?'

    'Still.'

    'That
just means it will take me a few seconds longer to get across the room.'

    Dino
held up both hands. 'Just don't hit me with your man bag.'

    Byrne
shot to his feet.

    Nick
Palladino ran to the bar.

    Jessica,
who was just about out the door, stood with Byrne near the elevator. Michael
Drummond found them, crossed the room. He'd had his share of cheer, and more.

    'Thanks
for coming, guys.'

    Drummond
gave Jessica a brotherly hug, shook Byrne's hand, clapped him on the shoulder.

    'You
do realize we'll probably go up against each other one of these days,' Byrne
said.

    Drummond
nodded. 'Yeah. I feel like I've gone over to the dark side.'

    'The
money should help ease your pain.'

    Drummond
smiled. He glanced at his watch. 'I've got to be up in about three hours,' he
said. 'We're moving my mother into an assisted- living facility.'

    'Do
you need another pair of hands?' Byrne asked.

    'No,
we're good. Thanks.' Drummond slipped on his overcoat. 'I just have to be in
Parkwood around six-thirty.'

    Jessica
looked at Byrne, then back. 'Parkwood?'

    'What
about it?'

    'Well,
it's just come up twice in one day.'

    'What
do you mean?' Drummond asked.

    Jessica
explained what they had done that afternoon, about Abraham Coltrane's claim
that Marcellus Palmer, the 2004 victim found in the Dumpster just a few blocks
from where they now stood, was buried in or around Parkwood. Drummond thought
for a few moments.