Richard Montanari: Play dead

Byrne walked through the front door into the hallway. After returning from the Roundhouse he had conducted a brief neighborhood survey.

"Anything?" Jessica asked.

Byrne shook his head. "Incredibly, no one on this block has ever seen or heard of a crime being committed at this or any other location."

"And yet there's a memorial to a dead little girl right next door."

"And yet."

"Any hits with missing persons?"

"Nothing so far," Byrne said.

Jessica crossed the kitchen to the other side of the counter. She tapped her fingernails on the worn Formica, just for effect. She was turning into such a drama queen of late, taking her cues from her six- year-old daughter. Jessica had stopped chewing her nails a year or so earlier-a bad habit she'd maintained since her childhood-and only recently started to get them done at a Northeast salon called Hands of Time. Her nails were short, they had to be for her job, but they looked good. For once. This month they were amethyst. How girly-girl can you get? Sophie Balzano approved. Kevin Byrne hadn't yet said a word.

A uniformed officer stepped into the row house. "Detective Byrne?"

"Yeah."

"Fax came in for you." He handed Byrne an envelope.

"Thanks." Byrne opened it and pulled out a single sheet fax, read it.

"What's up?" Jessica asked.

"Ready for your day to get a little bit better?"

Jessica's eyes lit up like a toddler hearing a Jack and Jill ice cream truck coming down the street. "We're going swimming?"

"Not that much better," Byrne said. "But a slight improvement."

"I'm ready."

"I called Paul DiCarlo and asked if he could put someone at the DA's office on tracking down the ownership of this property."

"What did they find?"

"Nothing. Nobody's paid taxes on the place in years."

"And this is good news why?"

"I'm getting there. Paul reached out to a guy at L amp; I, and the guy said that once a month, for the last five months, he's gotten an anonymous call about this address. He said the same caller went on and on about how the building should be torn down."

The Philadelphia Department of Licenses and Inspections was responsible for the enforcement of the city's building code. It was also empowered to demolish vacant buildings that posed a threat to public safety.

"Do we have any information on the caller?" Jessica asked.

Byrne handed her the fax. "We do. The guy at L amp; I had caller ID. After the fifth call he wrote the number down."

Jessica read it. The phone number was registered to a Laura A. Somerville. The address was on Locust Street. From the street number it looked to be in West Philadelphia.

Jessica glanced up the stairs, at the CSU officers who were beginning the slow, arduous task of sifting through what had to be years of trash. She wondered what might be up there, what crimes might be concealed, asking for closure.

She'd be back. Somehow, she was sure of it.

The two detectives signed off the crime-scene log, and headed to West Philly.

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

Eve ordered a cheeseburger and fries at the Midtown IV Restaurant, a 24-hour place on Chestnut, catching glances and lewd looks from the night boys. The air in the room was a mixture of summer sweat, coffee, frying onions. Eve glanced at her watch. It was 2:20. The place was packed. She spun on her stool, considered the crowd. A young couple, early twenties, sat on the same side of a nearby booth. In your twenties you sat on the same side, Eve thought. In your thirties, you sat on opposite sides, but still talked. In your forties and beyond, you brought a newspaper.

At 2:40 a shadow appeared to her right. Eve turned. The girl was about fifteen, still carrying a layer of baby fat. She had an angelic face, street-hardened eyes. She wore faded jeans, a faux-leather jacket with a fake fur collar, and bright white New Balance sneakers, about an hour out of the box.

"Hey," Eve said.

The girl scrutinized her. "Hey."

"Are you Cassandra?"

The girl glanced around. She racked her shoulders, sniffled. "Yeah."

"Nice to meet you." Eve had gotten Cassandra's name from a street kid named Carlito. The word was that Cassandra had been abducted. Eve had dropped a pair of twenties and the word was passed.

"Yeah. Um. You too."

"Want to get a booth?" Eve asked.

The girl shook her head. "I'm not going to be here that long."

"Okay. Are you hungry?"

Another shake of the head, this time with hesitation. She was hungry, but too proud to take a handout.

"Okay." Eve stared at the girl for a few silent moments, the girl stared back, neither of them knowing how to start.

A few seconds later Cassandra slipped onto the stool next to Eve, and began.

Cassandra told her the whole story. More than once Eve got goose flesh. The story was not unlike her own. Different era, different shadows. Same horrors. As the girl talked, Eve stole glances at Cassandra's hands. They were alternately trembling and formed into tight fists.

For the past two months Eve had felt she was getting nearer the truth, but it had always been in her head. Now it was in her heart.

"Can you point out the house to me?" Eve asked.

The girl seemed to shrink away from her. She shook her head. "No. Sorry. I can't do that. I can tell you just about where it is, but I can't show you."

"Why not?"

The girl hesitated. She put her hands in her jacket pockets. Eve wondered what she had in there. "I just… can't, that's all. I can't."

"You don't have to be afraid," Eve said. "There's nothing to be afraid of now."

The girl issued a humorless laugh. "I don't think you understand."

"Understand what?"

For a moment, Eve thought the girl was going to leave without another word. Then, haltingly, Cassandra said, "I'm not going back there. I can't ever go back there."

Eve studied the girl. Her heart nearly broke. The girl had the haunted look of the ever-vigilant, the ever-cautious, someone who never slept, never let down her guard. She was a mirror image of Eve at the same age.

Eve knew her next question would not be answered. It never was. She asked anyway. "Can I ask why you didn't go to the police?"

Cassandra looked at the floor. "I have my reasons."

"All right," Eve said. "I understand. Trust me. I really do." She reached into her pocket, palmed a fifty, slid it across the counter, lifted a finger.

The girl looked down, stared at the corner of the bill for a few seconds, then glanced up at Eve. "I don't need it."

Eve was shocked. Street kids did not turn down money. Something else was at work here. She could not imagine what it might be. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't want the money. I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

A long pause. The girl nodded.

Eve put the bill back in her pocket. She glanced around the restaurant. No one was watching. No one ever did at the all-nighters. She glanced back at the girl. "What can I do for you?" she asked. "You have to let me do something for you."

The girl drummed her fingers on the countertop for a few seconds, then picked up Eve's cheeseburger, wrapped it in a paper napkin, shoved it in her pocket. She also grabbed a handful of Equal packets. She spun on her stool, seemingly ready to bolt, then stopped, looked back over her shoulder. "I'll tell you what you can do for me," she said. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. Her face was a mask of fear. Or maybe it was shame.

"What's that?"

"You can kill him."

THREE THIRTY.

The huge house was on a quiet street. It looked just as the girl had described it-overgrown with weeds, tangled with shrubbery, gnarled with dying trees. Vines hung from the gutters; dead ivy clung to the north side like black veins. Three stories in height, clad in dark orange brick, it squatted on a large corner lot, all but hidden from the street. A stone balcony wrapped around the second floor, looming over a crumbling stone porch. Four chimneys probed the night sky like a thumbless hand.