Jessica checked the books in the locker against Tessa's class list, which she had gotten from the front office. Two books were missing. Biology and algebra II.
Where were they? Jessica wondered.
Jessica riffled the pages of Tessa's remaining textbooks. Her communications media textbook offered a class syllabus on hot pink paper. Inside her theology text-Understanding Catholic Christianity-there was a pair of dry- cleaning coupons. The rest of the books were empty. No personal notes, no letters, no photographs.
At the bottom of the locker were a pair of calf-high rubber boots. Jessica was just about to close the locker when she decided to pick up the boots and turn them over. The left boot was empty. When she turned over the right boot, an item tumbled out and onto the highly polished hardwood floor.
A small, calfskin diary with gold leaf trim.
In the parking lot Jessica ate her sloppy joe and read from Tessa's diary.
The entries were sparse, with days between notations, sometimes weeks. Apparently, Tessa wasn't someone who felt compelled to commit every thought, every feeling, every emotion and interaction to her journal.
On the whole, she seemed a sad girl, seeing the poignant side of life as a rule. There were entries about a documentary she had seen on three young men whom, she believed, as did the filmmakers, were falsely convicted of murder in West Memphis, Tennessee. There was a long entry about the plight of hungry children in Appalachia. Tessa had donated twenty dollars to the Second Harvest program. There were a handful of entries about Sean Brennan. What did I do wrong? Why won't you call?
There was one long, rather touching story about a homeless woman Tessa had met. A woman named Carla who lived in a car on Thirteenth Street. Tessa did not say how she'd met the woman, only how beautiful Carla was, how she might have been a model if life had not taken so many bad turns for her. The woman told Tessa that one of the worst parts of living out of a car was that there was no privacy, that she lived in constant fear that someone was watching her, someone intent on doing her harm. Over the following few weeks, Tessa thought long and hard about the problem, then realized there was something she could do to help.
Tessa paid a visit to her aunt Georgia. She borrowed her aunt's Singer sewing machine and, at her own expense, made curtains for the homeless woman, drapes that could be cleverly hooked into the fabric of the car's interior ceiling. This was a special young lady, Jessica thought. The last entry of note read: Dad is very sick. He is getting worse, I think. He tries to be strong, but I know it is just an act for me. I look at his frail hands and I think about the times, when I was small, when he would push me on the swings. I felt as if my feet could touch the clouds! His hands are cut and scarred from all the sharp slate and coal. His fingernails are blunt from the iron chutes. He always said that he left his soul in Carbon County, but his heart is with me.And with Mom. I hear his terrible breathing every night. Even though I know how much it hurts, each breath comforts me, tells me he is still here. Still Dad.
Near the center of the diary, there were two pages torn out, then the very last entry, dated nearly five months earlier, read, simply:
I'm back. Just call me Sylvia.
Who is Sylvia? Jessica wondered.
Jessica went through her notes. Tessa's mother's name was Anne. She had no sisters. There was certainly no 'Sister Sylvia' at Nazarene.
She flipped back through the diary. A few pages before the section that was removed was a quote from a poem that she didn't recognize.
Jessica turned once again to the final entry. It was dated right around Thanksgiving of the previous year.
I'm back. Just call me Sylvia.
Back from where, Tessa? And who is Sylvia?
9
MONDAY, 1:00 PM
Jimmy Purify had been nearly six feet tall in the seventh grade, and no one had ever called him skinny.
In his day, Jimmy Purify could walk into the toughest white bars in Gray's Ferry without uttering a word, and conversations would drop to a whisper; the hard cases would sit a little straighter.
Born and raised in West Philly, in the Black Bottom, Jimmy had endured travails from within as well as without, and he had handled it all with self-possession and a street dignity that would have broken a smaller man.
But now, as Kevin Byrne stood in the doorway of Jimmy's hospital room, the man in front of him looked like a sun-faded sketch of Jimmy Purify, a husk of the man he had once been. Jimmy had lost thirty or so pounds, his cheeks were sunken, his skin was ashen.
Byrne found that he had to clear his throat before speaking.
'Hey, Clutch.'
Jimmy turned his head. He tried to frown, but the corners of his mouth turned up, betraying the game. 'Jesus Christ. Doesn't this place have security?'
Byrne laughed, a little too loudly. 'You look good.'
'Fuck you,' Jimmy said. 'I look like Richard Pryor.'
'Nah. Maybe Richard Roundtree,' Byrne replied. 'But all things considered-'
'All things considered, I should be in Wildwood with Halle Berry.'
'You've got a better shot at Marion Barry.'
'Fuck you again.'
'However, Detective, you don't look as good as he does,' Byrne said. He held up a Polaroid of the battered and bruised Gideon Pratt.
Jimmy smiled.
'Damn, these guys are clumsy,' Jimmy said, bumping a weak fist with Byrne.
'It's genetic.'
Byrne propped the photo against Jimmy's water pitcher. It was better than any get-well card. Jimmy and Byrne had been looking for Gideon Pratt for a long time.
'How's my angel?' Jimmy asked.
'Good,' Byrne said. Jimmy Purify had three sons, all bruisers, all grown, and he lavished all his softness-what little there was of it-on Kevin Byrne's daughter, Colleen. Every year, on Colleen's birthday, some shamefully expensive, anonymous gift would show up via UPS. No one was fooled. 'She's got a big Easter party coming up.'
'At the deaf school?'
'Yeah.'
'I've been practicing, you know,' Jimmy said. 'Getting pretty good.'
Jimmy made a few feeble hand shapes.
'What was that supposed to be?' Byrne asked.
'It was Happy Birthday.' 'Actually, it looked something like Happy Sparkplug.' 'It did?'
'Yeah.'
'Shit.' Jimmy looked at his hands, as if it were their fault. He tried the hand shapes again, faring no better.
Byrne fluffed Jimmy's pillows, then sat down, arranging his weight on the chair. There followed a long comfortable silence only attainable between old friends.
Byrne left it to Jimmy to get down to business.
'So, I hear you got a virgin to sacrifice.' Jimmy's voice was raspy and weak. This visit had already taken a lot out of him. The nurses at the cardiac desk had told Byrne he could stay five minutes, no longer.
'Yeah,' Byrne replied. Jimmy was talking about Byrne's new partner being a first-day Homicide.
