Maybe he would discover what that was today.
Chapter 50
'I'm fine,' Jessica said.
It was a lie, but she was sticking to it.
The paramedic shone his light into her eyes for the third time, took her blood pressure for the third time, took her pulse for the fifth time.
She had been punched on many occasions in the past — when you box in the ring, it kind of goes with the territory — and this had been a glancing blow, not really that hard. But it had caught her off guard. In the ring, you brace yourself for incoming blows, and the adrenalin that flows naturally at a moment like that works as a sort of neural shock absorber. No one on Earth can be prepared for a sucker punch, which, by definition, comes out of the blue. Her head throbbed a little but her vision was clear, and her energy level was high. She wanted back in the game but they were going to make her sit there like an invalid. She had seen it many times in her years on the job, had even been the purveyor of the unwelcome news to victims of assault.
Just sit there for a moment.
Not so for Vincent Balzano. When the sector cars showed up, she made the call, found Vincent only a dozen blocks away, working an investigation of his own. He broke every speed record getting to the scene. That was the easy part. Calming him down was another matter. At the moment he was pacing like a caged animal. Unfortunately for Vincent Balzano and his Italian temper, he was lacking a convenient punching bag. For now, at least.
Jessica's weapon had been recovered. It had not been fired.
All Jessica remembered was hearing other footsteps but she did not know whose they were. She did not mention the journal, which had not been recovered from the scene
'No one said anything?' Westbrook asked.
Jessica shook her head. It hurt. She stopped doing it. 'No. I heard footsteps approaching. I got clocked twice. There was a scuffle. Then I faded out.'
'What kind of scuffle?'
'Not sure. I heard at least two people grunting. Then the ringing in my ears took over.'
'And you did not see the other person?'
'No, but I-'
Jessica suddenly looked at her watch, sprang to her feet. She felt dizzy for a moment, then it passed. Her anger did not.
'What is it?' Vincent asked.
'We missed it. We fucking missed it.' 'What?'
'The appointment at the Department of Human Services.'
'Jess.'
'Don't Jess me.'
'We'll work it out,' Vincent said. 'Don't worry.'
'Don't worry? This is why they turn you down, Vincent. This is the first big test. You don't show, you don't call, it's over.'
Vincent held her close. 'I think you have a pretty good excuse, babe. I think they'll understand.'
'They won't,' Jessica said, wiggling loose. 'Plus, they're not going to place Carlos in a home where his mother is in danger every day.'
'They know we're both cops. They know what we do.'
It all came out. The anger of this brutal case. The inability to conceive for two years. The indignity of being assaulted. All of it.
'You weren't there, Vincent. I was there. I saw how Carlos was living. I saw the dog shit and the fucking hypodermic needles all over the place. I saw the cockroaches and rats in the sink, the rotting food. I saw him hiding under a fucking garbage bag. You don't know what a hell hole it was, how bad his life was. They are not going to hand him over to us so we can make it worse.'
She tried to walk it off. The rage was a breathing thing within her.
Soon Jessica calmed down and let the investigation begin. It was going to be a long day — and it was just getting started.
Chapter 51
Chestnut Hill was an affluent neighborhood in the Northwest section of Philadelphia, originally part of the German Township laid out by Francis Daniel Pastorius. One of the original 'railroad suburbs,' the area contained a wide variety of nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century residences designed by many of the most prominent Philadelphia architects.
Before leaving Center City, Byrne had called ahead to schedule a time to meet with Christa-Marie. He was directed to Christa-Marie's attorney, a man named Benjamin Curtin. Reluctant at first, Curtin arranged to meet Byrne at the estate at one p.m.
As Byrne turned down St. Andrews Road he saw the house for the second time in his life. He had not been back since the night of the murder.
It was a massive, sprawling Tudor building with a circular driveway accented with cobblestones, a large gabled entrance. To the right, partially hidden by trees, was a stable, next to a pair of tennis courts. A high wrought-iron fence encircled the property.
Byrne parked his van and, even though he was wearing his best suit, suddenly felt underdressed. He also realized that he had been holding his breath. He got out of the vehicle, straightened his tie, smoothed the front of his overcoat, and rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a woman in her sixties. Byrne announced himself, and the woman led him through the high, arched doorway. Ahead was a carved mahogany winding staircase; to the right were thick fluted pillars leading to a formal dining room. To the left was the great room, with a view of the pool and the manicured grounds beyond. Byrne's heels echoed in the massive space. The woman took his coat and led him into a study off the enormous foyer.
The room was darkly paneled, clubby, with a pair of large bookcases built in and a vaulted open-trussed ceiling. A fire burned in the fireplace. The mantel was arrayed with pine cones and other autumn decorations. Above the mantel was a large portrait of Christa-Marie. In the painting she sat in a velvet chair. It had to have been painted right around the time Byrne met her, that dark night in 1990.
A few moments later the door opened and a man entered.
Benjamin Curtin was in his early fifties. He had thick gray hair, swept straight back, a strong jaw. His suit was tailored to perfection and might well have cost what Byrne made in a month. Curtin was probably twenty pounds heavier than he looked.
Byrne introduced himself. He did not produce his identification. He was not there in any official capacity. Not yet.
'It's a pleasure to meet you, detective,' Curtin said, perhaps to remind Byrne what he did for a living. Curtin had a Southern accent. Byrne pegged him as Mississippi money.
'And you, counselor.'
There, Byrne thought. Everyone knows their jobs.
'Is Liam still keeping the peace down there?'
Down there, Byrne thought. Curtin made it sound like the boondocks. He was referring to Judge Liam McManus, who everyone knew was going to run for the Philadelphia Supreme Court in a year.
'We're lucky to have him,' Byrne said. 'Rumor is he won't be there for much longer. Next thing you know he'll be living in Chestnut Hill.'
Curtin smiled. But Byrne knew it was his professional smile, not one that held any warmth. The attorney
