at Officer Valentine. It was a strange moment, the two of them standing over what was certainly the severed remains of Kristina Jakos. Jessica recalled her own days in uniform, times when a detective would show up at a homicide she had secured. She remembered looking at the detective in those days with a small measure of envy and awe. She wondered if Officer Lindsey Valentine looked at her that way.
Jessica knelt down for a closer look. The shoes were low-heeled, round-toed, with a thin strap across the top, a wide toe-box. Jessica took a few pictures.
A canvass yielded the expected. Nobody had seen or heard anything. But one thing was obvious to the detectives. Something they did not need witness statements to tell them. These body parts had not been flung here randomly. They had been carefully placed.
Within an hour they had the preliminary report back. To no one's surprise, blood tests presumptively indicated that the recovered body parts belonged to Kristina Jakos.
There is a moment in all homicide investigations-investigations where you don't find the killer standing over the body, dripping knife or smoking gun in hand-when everything grinds to a halt. Calls don't come in, witnesses don't show, forensic results lag. On this day, at this time, it was just such a moment. Perhaps the fact that it was Christmas Eve had something to do with it. No one wanted to think about death. Detectives stared at computer screens, they tapped their pencils to some unheard beat, crime-scene photographs stared up from the desk: accusing, questioning, expecting, waiting.
It would be forty-eight hours before they could effectively question a sampling of people who took the Strawberry Mansion Bridge at approximately the time the remains were left there. The next day was Christmas Day and the usual traffic pattern would be different.
At the Roundhouse, Jessica gathered her things. She noticed that Josh Bontrager was still there, hard at work. He sat at one of the computer terminals, scrolling through arrest-history data.
'What are your Christmas plans, Josh?' Byrne asked.
Bontrager glanced up from his computer screen. 'I'm going home tonight,' he said. 'I'm on duty tomorrow. New guy, and all.'
'If you don't mind my asking, what do the Amish do for Christmas?'
'That depends on the group.'
'Group?' Byrne asked. 'There are different kinds of Amish?'
'Oh, sure. There's Old Order Amish, New Order Amish, Mennon- ite, Beachy Amish, Swiss Mennonites, Swartzentruber Amish.'
'Are there parties?'
'Well, they don't put up lights, of course. But they do celebrate. It's a lot of fun,' Bontrager said. 'Plus they have second Christmas.'
'Second Christmas?' Byrne asked.
'Well, it's really just the day after Christmas. They usually spend it visiting their neighbors, eating a lot. Sometimes they even have mulled wine.'
Jessica smiled. 'Mulled wine. I had no idea.'
Bontrager blushed. 'How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm?'
As Jessica made the rounds of the hapless souls on the next shift, relaying her holiday wishes, she turned at the door.
Josh Bontrager sat at a desk, looking at the photos of the horrific scene they'd found on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge earlier that day. Jessica thought she saw a slight trembling in the young man's hands.
Welcome to Homicide.
37
Moon's book is the most precious thing in his life. It is large and leather-bound, heavy, with gilded edges. It had belonged to his grandfather, and his father before that. Inside the front, on the title page, is the signature of the author.
This is more valuable than anything.
Sometimes, late at night, Moon carefully opens the book, looking at the words and drawings by candlelight, savoring the fragrance of the old paper. It smells of his childhood. Now, as then, he is careful not to get the candle too close. He loves the way the golden edges wink in the soft yellow glow.
The first illustration is of a soldier climbing a great tree, his knapsack slung over his shoulder. How many times had Moon been that soldier, the strong young man in search of the tinderbox?
The next illustration is of Little Claus and Big Claus. Moon had been both men, many times.
The next drawing is of Little Ida's flowers. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Moon used to run through the flowers. Spring and summer were magic times.
Now, as he enters the great structure, he is filled with magic again.
The building stands above the river, a lost majesty, a forgotten ruin not far from the city. The wind moans across the wide expanse. Moon carries the dead girl to the window. She is heavy in his arms. He places her on the stone windowsill, kisses her icy lips.
As Moon goes about his business, the nightingale sings, complaining of the cold.
I know, little bird, Moon thinks.
I know.
Moon has a plan for this, too. Soon he will bring the Snow Man, and winter will be banished forever.
38
'I'll be in the city later,' Padraig said. 'I've got to stop at Macy's.'
'What do you need from there?' Byrne asked. He was on his cell phone, not five blocks from the store. He was on call, but his tour had ended at noon. They had gotten the call from CSU on the paint used at the Flat Rock crime scene. Standard marine paint, available everywhere. The graffiti image of the moon-although an important development- had led nowhere. As yet. 'I can get whatever you need, Da.'
'I'm out of the scruffing lotion.'
My God, Byrne thought. Scruffing lotion. His father was in his sixties, tough as oak plank, and was just now entering a phase of unbridled narcissism.
Ever since the previous Christmas, when Byrne's daughter Colleen had purchased her grandfather an array of Clinique facial products, Padraig Byrne had been obsessed with his skin. Then, one day, Colleen had written a note to Padraig saying that his skin looked great. Padraig had beamed, and from that moment, the Clinique ritual had become a mania, an orgy of sexagenarian vanity.
'I can get it for you,' Byrne said. 'You don't have to drive in.'
'I don't mind. I want to see what else they have. I think they have a new M Lotion.'
It was hard to believe he was speaking to Padraig Byrne. The same Padraig Byrne who had spent nearly forty years on the docks, a man who had once taken on a half dozen drunken Italian Mummers with only his fists and a gutful of Harp lager.
'Just because you don't care about your skin, doesn't mean that I have to look like a lizard in my autumn years,' Padraig added.
Autumn? Byrne thought. He checked his face in the rearview mirror. Maybe he could take better care of his skin at that. On the other hand, he had to admit that the real reason he offered to stop at the store was that he really didn't want his father driving across town in the snow. He was getting overprotective, but he couldn't seem to help it. His silence won the argument. This time.
'Okay, you win,' Padraig said. 'Pick it up for me. But I want to stop by Killian's later, though. To say good-bye to the boys.'
'You're not moving to California,' Byrne said. 'You can go back anytime.'
