There were four others in the room. Roland knew them all. They did not acknowledge him in any way. He crossed the room, removed his coat and gloves, put the present on the table. It was a robe and slippers, both lavender. Charles had meticulously wrapped and rewrapped the gift in festive foil paper featuring elves and workbenches and brightly colored tools.
Roland kissed her on the top of her head. She did not respond.
Outside the snow continued to fall-huge velvety flakes that lilted silently down. She watched, seeming to select an individual flake from the flurry, following it to the ledge, to the earth below, beyond.
They sat, not speaking. She had said only a few words in many years. The music in the background was Perry Como's 'I'll Be Home for Christmas.'
At six o'clock they brought her a tray. Creamed corn, breaded fish sticks, Tater Tots, along with a butter cookie with green and red sprinkles on a Christmas tree made of white icing. Roland watched as she arranged and rearranged her red plastic silverware from the outside in- fork, spoon, knife, then the reverse order. Three times. Always three times, until she had it right. Never two, never four, never more. Roland always wondered by what internal abacus this number had been determined.
'Merry Christmas,' Roland said.
She looked up at him, eyes the palest blue. Behind them lived a universe of mystery.
Roland glanced at his watch. It was time to go.
Before he could stand up she took his hand in hers. Her fingers were carved ivory. Roland saw her lips tremble, and knew what was coming.
'Here are maidens, young and fair,' she said. 'Dancing in the summer air.'
Roland felt the glaciers of his heart dislodge. He knew it was all Artemisia Hannah Waite remembered of her daughter Charlotte, and those terrible days in 1995.
'Like two spinning wheels at play,' Roland answered.
His mother smiled, and finished the verse: 'Pretty maidens dance away.'
Roland found Charles standing next to the van. A dusting of snow sat on his shoulders. In years past, Charles would look into Roland's eyes at this moment, searching for some sign that things had improved. Even to Charles, with his innate optimism, this was a practice long since dropped. Without a word, they slipped into the van.
After a brief prayer, they drove back to the city.
They ate in silence. When they were finished, Charles cleared the dishes. Roland could hear the television news in the office. A few moments later Charles poked his head around the corner.
'Come here and look at this,' Charles said.
Roland walked into the small office. On the television screen was a shot of the parking lot at the Roundhouse, the police administration building on Race Street. Channel Six was doing a remote stand up. A reporter was following a woman across the parking lot.
The woman was young, dark-eyed, attractive. She carried herself with a great deal of poise and confidence. She wore a black leather coat and gloves. The name under her face on the screen said she was a detective. The reporter asked her questions. Charles turned up the volume on the television.
'— the work of one person?' the reporter asked.
'We can't rule that in or out,' the detective said.
'Is it true that the woman was mutilated?'
'I can't comment on specifics related to the investigation.'
'Is there anything you'd like to say to our viewers?'
'What we're asking for is help in finding the killer of Kristina Jakos. If you know something, even something that seems insignificant, please call the Homicide Unit of the PPD.'
With this the woman turned and headed into the building.
Kristina Jakos, Roland thought. She was the woman they found murdered on the bank of the Schuylkill River in Manayunk. Roland had the news clipping on the corkboard next to his desk. He would read more about the case now. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the detective's name.
Jessica Balzano.
40
Sophie Balzano was clearly psychic when it came to Christmas presents. She didn't even need to shake the package. Like a miniature Carnac the Magnificent, she could place the gift against her forehead, and within seconds, by some little-girl magic, she seemed to be able to divine its contents. She clearly had a future in law enforcement. Or maybe Customs.
'This is shoes,' she said.
She sat on the living-room floor, at the foot of the huge Christmas tree. Next to her sat her grandfather.
'I'm not telling,' Peter Giovanni said.
Sophie then picked up one of the fairy-tale books Jessica had gotten from the library. She began to flip through it.
Jessica watched her daughter, thinking: Find me a clue in there, sweetie.
Peter Giovanni had spent nearly thirty years on the Philadelphia police force. He had been awarded many commendations, retiring with the rank of lieutenant.
Peter had lost his wife to breast cancer more than two decades earlier, and he had buried his only son Michael, killed in Kuwait in 1991. Through it all he had identified himself as one thing, had one face that he presented to the world, one banner held high-that of policeman. And although he feared for his daughter every day, as any father would, his deepest sense of pride in life was the fact that his daughter was a homicide detective.
In his early sixties, Peter Giovanni was still active in the community, as well as in a number of police department charities. He was not a big man, but he carried a power that came from within. He still worked out a few times a week. He was still a clotheshorse, too. Today he wore an expensive black cashmere turtleneck and dove gray wool slacks. His shoes were Santoni loafers. With his ice gray hair, he looked like he had stepped off the pages of GQ.
He smoothed his granddaughter's hair, stood up, sat down next to Jessica on the sofa. Jessica was threading popcorn for a garland.
'What do you think of the tree?' he asked.
Every year, Peter and Vincent took Sophie on a drive to a Christmas- tree farm in the appropriately named Tabernacle, New Jersey, where they would cut down their own tree. Usually one of Sophie's choosing. Every year the tree seemed taller.
'Any bigger and we're going to have to move,' Jessica said.
Peter smiled. 'Hey. Sophie's getting bigger. The tree has to keep pace.'
Don't remind me, Jessica thought.
Peter picked up a needle and thread, began to make his own popcorn garland. 'Any leads on the case?' he asked.
Although Jessica was not investigating the Walt Brigham murder, and had three open files on her desk, she knew exactly what her father meant by 'the case.' Whenever a cop was killed, all police officers, active and retired, all across the country, took it personally.
'Nothing yet,' Jessica said.
Peter shook his head. 'Damn shame. There's a special place in hell for cop killers.'
Cop killer. Jessica's gaze immediately went to Sophie, who was still camped by the tree, pondering a small box wrapped in red foil. Every time Jessica thought about the words 'cop killer' she realized that both of this little girl's parents were targets every day of the week. Was it fair to Sophie? At times like these, in the warmth and safety of their home, she wasn't sure.
Jessica got up, stepped into the kitchen. Everything was under control. The gravy was simmering; the lasagna noodles were al dente, salad was made, wine was decanted. She took the ricotta out of the refrigerator.
The phone rang. She froze, hoping that it would only ring once, that the person on the other end would
