She pulled back, looked into her husband's eyes. She kissed him. Deep and serious and let's-make-a-baby big-time.
"Wow," Vincent said, his lips smeared with lipstick. "We should send her to school more often."
"There's a lot more where that came from, Detective," she said, probably a little too seductively for seven in the morning. Vincent was, after all, Italian. She slid off his lap. He pulled her right back. He kissed her again, and then they both looked at the wall clock.
The bus was coming for Sophie in five minutes. After that Jessica didn't have to meet her partner for almost an hour.
Plenty of time.
Kevin Byrne had been off for a week, and although Jessica had had enough on her plate to keep her busy, the week without him had dragged. Byrne had been scheduled to return three days ago, but there had been that horrible incident at the diner. She'd read the accounts in the Inquirer and Daily News, read the official reports. A nightmare scenario for a police officer.
Byrne had been put on a brief administrative leave. There would be a review in the next day or two. They hadn't talked about the episode in depth yet.
They would.
When she turned the corner, she saw him standing in front of the coffee shop, two cups in hand. Their first stop of the day would be to visit a ten-year-old crime scene in Juniata Park, the location of a 1997 double drug-homicide, followed by an interview with an elderly gentleman who had been a potential witness. It was day one of a cold case to which they had been assigned.
There were three sections in the homicide unit-the Line Squad, which handled new cases; the Fugitive Squad, which tracked down wanted suspects; and SIU, the Special Investigation Unit, which, among other things, handled cold cases. The roster of detectives was generally set in stone, but sometimes when all hell broke loose, which happened all too often in Philly, detectives on any given shift could work the line.
"Excuse me, I was supposed to meet my partner here," Jessica said. "Tall, clean-shaven guy. Looks like a cop. Have you seen him?"
"What, you don't like the beard?" Byrne handed her a cup. "I spent an hour shaping it."
"Shaping?"
"Well, you know, trimming around the edges so it doesn't look ragged."
"Ah."
"What do you think?"
Jessica leaned back, scrutinized his face. "Well, to be honest, I think it makes you look…"
"Distinguished?"
She was going to say homeless. "Yeah. That."
Byrne stroked his beard. It hadn't grown fully in, but Jessica could see that when it did it would be mostly gray. As long as he didn't go Just For Men on her, she could probably handle it.
As they headed to the Taurus, Byrne's cell phone rang. He flipped it open, listened, pulled out his notebook, made a few notes. He glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes." He folded his phone, pocketed it.
"Job?" Jessica asked.
"Job."
The cold case would stay cold a while longer. They continued up the street. After a full block, Jessica broke the silence.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Me? Oh, yeah," Byrne said. "Never better. Sciatica's acting up a little, but other than that."
"Kevin."
"I'm telling you, I'm a hundred percent," Byrne said. "Hand to God."
He was lying, but that's what friends did for each other when they wanted you to know the truth.
"We'll talk later?" Jessica asked.
"We'll talk," Byrne said. "By the way, why are you so happy?"
"I look happy?"
"Let me put it this way. Your face could open a smile outlet in Jersey."
"Just glad to see my partner."
"Right," Byrne said, slipping into the car.
Jessica had to laugh, recalling the unbridled marital passion of her morning. Her partner knew her well.
4
The crime scene was a boarded-up commercial property in Manayunk, an area in the northwest section of Philly, just on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill River. For some time now the neighborhood seemed in a constant state of redevelopment and gentrification, evolving from what was once a quarter for those working in the mills and factories, to an upper middle-class section of the city. The name Manayunk was a Lenape Indian term meaning "our place for drinking," and in the past decade or so, the neighborhood's lively Main Street strip of pubs, restaurants, and night clubs-essentially Philadelphia's answer to Bourbon Street-had tried mightily to live up to that long-ago bestowed name.
When Jessica and Byrne rolled up on Flat Rock Road there were two sector cars securing the site. The detectives pulled into the parking lot, exited the vehicle. The uniformed officer on the scene was Patrol Officer Michael Calabro.
"Good morning, detectives," Calabro said, handing them the crime scene log. They both signed in.
"What do we have, Mike?" Byrne asked.
Calabro was as pale as the December sky. In his late thirties, stocky and solid, he was a veteran patrol officer whom Jessica had known almost ten years. He didn't rattle easily. In fact, he usually had a smile for everyone, even the knuckleheads he met on the street. If he was this shaken, it wasn't good.
He cleared his throat. "Female DOA."
Jessica walked back to the road, surveyed the exterior of the large two-story building and the immediate vicinity: a vacant lot across the street, a tavern next to that, a warehouse next door. The crime scene building was square, blocky, clad in a dirty brown brick and patched with waterlogged plywood. Graffiti tagged every available inch of the wood. The front door was secured with rusted chains and padlocks. At the roofline was a huge For Sale or Lease sign. Delaware Investment Properties, Inc. Jessica wrote down the telephone number, walked back to the rear of the property. The wind cut across the lot in sharp little knives.
"Any idea what kind of business used to be here?" she asked Calabro.
"A few different things," Calabro said. "When I was a teenager it was an auto parts wholesaler. My sister's boyfriend worked here. He used to sell us parts under the counter."
"What were you driving in those days?" Byrne asked.
Jessica saw a smile grace Calabro's lips. It always happened when men talked about the cars of their youth. "Seventy-six TransAm."
"No," Byrne replied.
"Yep. Friend of my cousin wrecked it in '85. Got it for a song when I was eighteen. Took me fours years to restore." "The 455?"
"Oh, yeah," Calabro said. "Starlite Black with the T-top."
"Sweet," Byrne said. "So how soon after you got married did she make you sell it?"
Calabro laughed. "Right around the 'You may kiss the bride' part."
Jessica saw Mike Calabro brighten considerably. She had never met anyone better than Kevin Byrne when it came to putting people at ease, at taking minds off the horrors that can haunt people in their line of work. Mike Calabro had seen a lot in his day, but that didn't mean the next one wouldn't get to him. Or the one after that. That was the existence of a uniform cop. Every time you turned a corner your life could change forever. Jessica wasn't sure what they were about to confront at this crime scene, but she knew that Kevin Byrne had just made the day a little easier for this man.
The building had an L-shaped parking lot that ran behind the structure, then down a slight slope to the river; a parking lot at one time fully fenced off with chain link. The fence had long ago been clipped and bent and tortured. Huge sections were missing. Trash bags, tires, and street litter were strewn everywhere.
Before Jessica could inquire about the DOA, a black Ford Taurus, identical to the departmental car Jessica and Byrne were driving, pulled into the lot, parked. Jessica did not recognize the man behind the wheel. Moments later the man emerged, approached them.