Richard Montanari: The Echo Man

'That was your play?' Dino asked.

Jessica blew on her nails, buffed them dramatically on her blouse.

'My God, you are a dangerous woman,' Dino said.

'Tell the world.'

'I should tell your husband.'

'Like he doesn't know,' Jessica said. 'Right now he's painting the fence behind our house. I'm going to let him draw me a bubble bath later.'

Detective Dennis Stansfield, perhaps feeling left out, piped in. 'You know, I read in a recent survey that, in her lifetime, the average American woman receives 26.5 miles of cock.'

If there was one thing Jessica hated, it was a cop who found a way to make a sex joke after hearing about a rape. Even worse, a rape/murder. Rape had nothing to do with sex. Rape was about violence and power.

Stansfield glanced over at Jessica. It seemed that she had gotten the assignment to be the flustered, blushing female officer in his presence, the one ill at ease in the wake of his shabby jokes. Was he kidding? Jessica had been born and raised in South Philly, and had grown up around cops. She was swearing like a longshoreman by the time she was five. She had even gotten to like the taste of soap.

'Twenty-six miles, huh?' Jessica asked.

'Twenty-six point ftve,' Stansfield replied.

Jessica looked at Nicci, at Dino, back at Stansfield. Dino looked at the table. He didn't know exactly what was coming, but he knew something.

'So, let me get this straight,' Jessica said, squaring off.

'Sure.'

'Is that 26.5 miles counting each insertion, or all the cocks added up individually?'

Stansfield, all of a sudden, started to redden a bit himself. 'Well, I'm not sure. I don't think the survey said.'

Nothing killed a dirty joke like discussion and analysis. 'Not very scientific, then, is it?'

'Well, it was-'

'Now, if we're counting per insertion,' Jessica continued, unbowed, 'that might be just one hell of a weekend.' She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. 'If we're counting each dick just once

… let's see.' She looked at Nicci, while gesturing to Stansfield. 'How many times does four inches go into twenty-six miles?'

'Twenty-six-five,' Nicci added.

'Right,' Jessica said. 'Twenty-six-five.'

Stansfield was now as red as a Roma tomato. 'Four inches? Uh, I don't think so, darlin'.'

Jessica looked behind her, at the woman setting up the next table. 'Hey, Kathy, is there a ruler in the office?' Kathy was one of the owners of the Hot Potato Cafe.

'Oh yeah,' Kathy said with a wink. A Philly girl herself, she had heard the whole exchange and was probably dying to leap into the fray.

'All right, all right,' Stansfield said.

'Come on, Dennis,' Jessica said. 'Drop that big hot spud on the table.'

Suddenly Stansfield had somewhere else to be. He glanced at his watch, downed his coffee, mumbled his goodbyes, made his exit.

Jessica could ignore the Cro-Magnons of the world on a day like this. A killer was in custody, they had a pile of evidence against him, no civilian or police officer had been injured in the arrest, and a gun was off the street. It didn't get any better than that.

Twenty minutes later they split up. Jessica walked to her car alone. She knew that she had to keep up a front with her fellow detectives, a shield of hubris and bravado. But the cold truth was that she'd had a gun pointed at her. She knew that everything could have been taken away in the time it took to pull that trigger.

She stepped into a doorway and, making sure she was not observed, closed her eyes, a tidal wave of fear rushing over her. In her mind she saw her husband Vincent, her daughter Sophie, her father Peter. Both Peter Giovanni and Vincent Balzano were cops — her father long retired — and knew the risks, but Jessica envisioned them both standing over her casket at St. Paul's. In her mind she heard the bagpipes.

Jess, she thought. Don't go there. If you go there, you might never come back.

On the other hand, after all was said and done, she was tough, wasn't she? She was PPD. She was her father's daughter.

Fuck it all, she was dangerous.

By the time she reached her car her legs were steady. Before she could open the door she noticed someone across the street. It was David Albrecht. He had the camera on his shoulder. He was filming her.

Here we go, Jessica thought. It's going to be a long week.

She got in her car, started it. Her cellphone rang. She answered, and learned something she'd always suspected.

She wasn't the only dangerous female in her family.

I hear a truck pull into the driveway. A few moments later, a knock at the door. I open it. In front of me stands a man of forty, just beginning to paunch. He is wearing a red windbreaker, paint-splattered jeans, a pair of soiled running shoes with frayed laces. In his hand is a clipboard.

'Mr. Marcato?' the man asks.

Marcato. The name makes me smile.

'Yes.' I extend my hand. The man 's skin is rough, calloused, stained. He reeks of cigarettes and turpentine.

Tm Kenny Beckman,' he says. 'We spoke on the phone.'

'Of course. Please come in.'

Except for a few plastic trash barrels and dusty glass display cases, the space is empty.

''Man, what's that smell?' Beckman asks.

'It's coming from next door. There used to be a sausage shop there and I think they left some meat to rot. I intend to speak to them about it.'

'You better. You're not gonna do any business in here if it smells like this.'

'I understand.' I gesture at the room. As you can see, we're going to need quite a bit of work here.'

'You can say that again.'

Beckman walks around the room, touching the moldering drywall, fingering the dust-caked sills, shining a flashlight along the baseboards. He produces a measuring tape, takes a few dimensions, jots them on the clipboard. I watch him carefully, calculating his speed and agility.

A minute or so later: 'You've got a pretty good sag in the floor joists.' He bounces a few times, driving home his point. The parched joists creak beneath his weight. 'The first thing we're going to need to do is shore that up. You really can't do too much else with the floor out of level.'

'Whatever is necessary to bring this up to code.'

Beckman looks around the room again, perhaps in preparation for his closing. 'Well, you've got a ways to go, but I think we can handle it.'

'Good. I'd like to get started right away.'

'Sounds like a plan.'

'And by the way, you've come highly recommended.'

'Oh yeah? Who recommended me? If you don't mind me asking.'

'I'm not sure I recall. It was a while ago.'

'How long?'

'March 21, 2002.'

At the mention of the date Kenneth Beckman tenses. He takes a step backward, glances at the door. 'I'm sorry? 2002? Is that what you said?'

'Yes.'

'March of 2002?'

'Yes.'

Another glance at the door. 'That's not possible.'

'And why is that?'

'Well, for one thing, I wasn't even in business then.'

'I can explain,' I say. 'Let me show you something.' I gesture to the dark hallway leading to the back room of the first floor. Beckman takes a moment, perhaps sensing that something is slightly off kilter, like a radio that cannot quite find a signal. But he clearly needs the work, even if it is for a weird man who speaks in riddles.

We head down the hallway. When we reach the door I push it open. The smell is a lot stronger here.

'Fuck!' Beckman exclaims, recoiling. He reaches into his back pocket, takes out a soiled handkerchief, brings it to his mouth. 'What the hell is that?'

The small square room is spotless. There are two steel tables at the center, both bolted to the floor. The night-black walls have been expensively soundproofed; the drop ceiling is made of acoustic tile purchased by mail order from a Swiss company specializing in outfitting the finest recording studios in the world. Above the tables is a microphone. The floor is a high- gloss enamel, painted red in the name of practicality. Beneath the tables is a drain hole.