Patrick laughed. 'It's Latin.'
'Latin for what? Who beat the crap out of you?'
'Latin for You are wonderful to behold.'
Doctors, Jessica thought. Smooth talk in Latin.
'Well… sono sposato, 'Jessica replied. 'That's Italian for My husband would shoot us both in thefriggin'forehead if he walked in here right now.'
Patrick put both hands up in surrender.
'Enough about me,' Jessica said, silently berating herself for even bringing up Vincent. He wasn't invited to this party. 'Tell me what's up with you these days.'
'Well, it's always busy at St. Joseph's. Never a dull moment,' Patrick said. 'Also, I might have a showing lined up at the Boyce Gallery.'
Besides being a hell of a doctor, Patrick played the cello and was a talented painter. He had done a pastel sketch of Jessica one night when they were dating. Needless to say, Jessica had it well buried in the garage.
Jessica nursed her drink while Patrick had another. They caught up fully, effortlessly flirting just like the old days. The hand touching, the electric brush of feet under the table. Patrick also told her that he was donating his time to a new free clinic opening on Poplar. Jessica told him that she was thinking about painting the living room. Whenever she was around Patrick Farrell, she felt like she was a drain on society.
At around eleven Patrick walked her to her car, which was parked on Third Street. Then came the moment, as she knew it would. The scotch helped smooth it over.
'So… dinner next week, maybe?' Patrick asked.
'Well, I… you know…'Jessica hemmed and hawed.
'Just friends,' Patrick added. 'Nothing untoward.'
'Well, then, forget it,' Jessica said. 'If we can't be toward, what's the point?'
Patrick laughed again. Jessica had forgotten how magical that sound could be. It had been a long time since she and Vincent had found anything to laugh about.
'Okay. Sure,' Jessica said, trying, and failing, to find a single reason not to go to dinner with an old friend. 'Why not?'
'Great,' Patrick said. He leaned over and gently kissed the bruise on her right cheek. 'Irish preop,' he added. 'It'll be better in the morning. Wait and see.'
'Thanks, Doc.'
'I'll call you.'
'Okay.'
Patrick winked, setting loose a few hundred sparrows in Jessica's chest. He put up his hands, in a defensive boxing posture, then reached out, smoothed her hair. He turned and walked to his car.
Jessica watched him drive away.
She touched her cheek, felt the lingering warmth of his lips. And was not at all surprised to discover that her face was starting to feel better
16
MONDAY, 11:00 PM
Simon Close was in love.
Jessica Balzano was absolutely incredible. Tall and slender and sexy as hell. The way she dispatched her opponent in the ring gave him, perhaps, the single most feral charge he had ever felt just looking at a woman. He felt like a schoolboy watching her.
She was going to make great copy.
She was going to make even better artwork.
He had flashed his smile and press ID at the Blue Horizon and gotten in with relative ease. Granted, it wasn't like getting into the Linc for an Eagles game, or the Wachovia Center to see the Sixers, but still, it gave him a sense of pride and purpose whenever he was treated like part of the mainstream press. Tabloid writers rarely got free tickets, never went on the press junkets, had to beg for press kits. He had misspelled many names in his career, due to the fact that he never got a decent press kit.
After Jessica's fight, Simon parked half a block from the crime scene tape on North Eighth Street. The only other vehicles were a Ford Taurus, parked inside the perimeter, along with a Crime Scene Unit van.
He watched the eleven o'clock news on his Watchman. The lead story was the murdered young girl. The victim's name was Tessa Ann Wells, seventeen, of North Philly. Immediately, Simon had his Philadelphia white pages open on his lap, his Maglite in his teeth. There were a total of twelve possibilities in North Philly: eight spelled Welles, four spelled Wells.
He pulled out his cell phone, dialed the first number.
'Mr. Welles?'
'Yes?'
'Sir, my name is Simon Close. I'm a writer with The Report'
Silence.
Then: 'Yes?'
'First off, I just want to say how sorry I was to hear about your daughter.'
A sharp intake of air. 'My daughter? Something has happened to Hannah?'
Oops.
'I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number.'
He clicked off, dialed the next number.
Busy.
Next. A woman this time.
'Mrs. Welles?'
'Who is this?'
'Madam, my name is Simon Close. I'm a writer with The Report'
Click.
Bitch.
Next.
Busy.
Jesus, he thought. Doesn't anyone in Philly sleep anymore?
Then Channel 6 did a recap. They called the victim 'Tessa Ann Wells of Twentieth Street in North Philly.'
Thankyou,Action News, Simon thought.
Check this action.
He looked up the number. Frank Wells on Twentieth Street. He dialed, but the line was busy. Again. Busy. Again. Same result. Redial. Redial.
Damn.
He thought about driving over there, but what happened next, like a crack of righteous thunder, changed everything.
17
MONDAY, 11:00 PM
Death had come here unbidden, and, for its penance, the block mourned in silence. The rain had diminished to a thin mist, whispering off the rivers, slicking the pavement. Night had buried its day in a glass- ine shroud.
