Richard Montanari: Broken Angels

"Let him go," Byrne said. "Just… let him go."

The shooting team wrapped up around 3 AM. A half dozen detectives from the homicide unit had shown up for support. In a loose circle they stood around Byrne, protecting him from the media, even from the brass.

Byrne gave his statement and was debriefed. He was free to go. For a while, he didn't know where to go, where he wanted to be. The idea of getting drunk wasn't even appealing, though it just might blot out the horrible events of the evening.

Just twenty-four hours earlier he had been sitting on the cold, comfortable porch of a cabin in the Poconos, feet up, and a few inches of Old Forester in a plastic mug. Now two people were dead. It seemed as if he brought death with him.

The man's name was Matthew Clarke. He was forty-one. He had three daughters-Felicity, Tammy, and Michele. He worked as an insurance broker for a large national firm. He and his wife had been in the city to see their oldest daughter, a freshman at Temple University. They had stopped at the diner for coffee and lemon pudding, his wife's favorite.

Her name was Laura.

She had hazel eyes.

Kevin Byrne had a feeling he would see those eyes for a long time to come.

Two days lаtег.

The book sat on the table. It was constructed out of harmless cardboard, benign paper, nontoxic ink. It had a dust jacket, an ISBN number, blurbs on the back, a title along the spine. It was similar in all ways to just about every other book in the world.

Except it was different.

Detective Jessica Balzano, a ten-year veteran of the Philadelphia Police Department, sipped her coffee and stared at the terrifying object. In her time she had squared off with killers, muggers, rapists, Peeping Toms, burglars, other model citizens; had once looked down the barrel of a 9mm weapon, aimed point-blank at her forehead. She had punched and been punched by a select group of thugs, creeps, whackos, punks, and gangsters; had chased psychopaths down dark alleys; had once been threatened by a man wielding a cordless drill.

And yet the book on her dining room table scared her more than all of that combined.

Jessica had nothing against books. Nothing at all. As a rule, she loved books. In fact, rare was the day she didn't have a paperback in her purse for those down times on the job. Books were great. Except this book-the bright, cheerful, yellow and red book on her dining room table, the book with a menagerie of grinning cartoon animals on the front-belonged to her daughter, Sophie.

Which meant that her daughter was going to school.

Not preschool, which to Jessica had seemed like a glorified day-care center. Regular school. Kindergarten. Granted, it was only a get- acquainted day for the real thing that began next fall, but all the trappings were there. On the table. In front of her. Book, lunch, coat, mittens, pencil case.

School.

Sophie came out of her bedroom dressed and primed for her first official day of academe. She wore a navy blue accordion-pleat skirt and crewneck sweater, a pair of lace-up shoes, and a wool beret-and-scarf set. She looked like a miniature Audrey Hepburn.

Jessica felt sick.

"You okay, Mom?" Sophie asked. She slid onto her chair.

"Of course, sweetie," Jessica lied. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

Sophie shrugged. "You've been sad all week."

"Sad? What have I been sad about?"

"You've been sad about me going to school."

My God, Jessica thought. I have a five-year-old Dr. Phil living in my house. "I'm not sad, honey."

"Kids go to school, Mom. We talked about it."

Yes we did, my darling daughter. Except I didn't hear a word. I didn't hear a word because you are just a baby. My baby. A tiny, helpless, pink-fingered little soul who needs her mommy for everything.

Sophie poured herself some cereal, added milk. She dug in.

"Morning, my lovely ladies," Vincent said, walking into the kitchen, tying his tie. He planted a kiss on Jessica's cheek, and one on top of Sophie's beret.

Jessica's husband was always cheerful in the morning. He brooded almost all the rest of the time, but in the morning he was a ray of sunshine. Exactly the opposite of his wife.

Vincent Balzano was a detective working out of Narcotics Field Unit North. He was trim and muscular, still the most devastatingly sexy man Jessica had ever known-dark hair, caramel eyes, long lashes. This morning his hair was still damp, swept back from his broad forehead. He wore a dark blue suit.

During six years of marriage, they'd hit a few rough patches-had been separated for nearly six months-but they were back together and making a go of it. Two-badge marriages were an extremely rare commodity. Successful ones, that is.

Vincent poured himself a cup of coffee, sat at the table. "Let me look at you," he said to Sophie.

Sophie jumped up from her chair, standing at rigid attention in front of her father.

"Turn around," he said.

Sophie spun in place, vamped, giggled, hand on hip.

"Va-va-voom," Vincent said.

"Va-va-voom," Sophie echoed.

"So, tell me something, young lady."

"What?"

"How did you get so pretty?"

"My mom's pretty." They both looked at Jessica. This was their routine when she was feeling a little down.

Oh God, Jessica thought. Her chest felt like it was going to rumble right off her body. Her lower lip quivered.

"Yes, she is," Vincent said. "One of the two prettiest girls in the world."

"Who's the other girl?" Sophie asked.

Vincent winked.

"Dad," Sophie said.

"Let's finish our breakfast."

Sophie sat back down.

Vincent sipped his coffee. "Are you looking forward to visiting the school?"

"Oh, yes." Sophie spooned a blob of milk-sodden Cheerios into her mouth.

"Where's your backpack?"

Sophie stopped chewing. How could she get through the day without her backpack? It all but defined her as a person. Two weeks earlier she had tried on more than a dozen, finally settling on a Strawberry Shortcake model. For Jessica it had been like watching Paris Hilton at a Jean Paul Gaultier trunk show. A minute later Sophie finished eating, brought her bowl to the sink, and rocketed back to her room.

Vincent then turned his attention to his suddenly fragile wife, the same woman who once punched out a thug in a Port Richmond bar for putting his arm around her waist, the woman who once went four full victorious rounds on ESPN2 with a monstrous gal from Cleveland, Ohio, a heavily muscled nineteen-year-old nicknamed "Cinder Block" Jackson.

"Come here, you big baby," he said.

Jessica crossed the room. Vincent patted his lap. Jessica sat. "What?" she asked.

"You're not dealing with this too well, are you?"

"No." Jessica felt the emotions well up again, a hot coal burning behind her breastbone. Big brute of a Philly homicide detective was she.

"It's only an orientation thing, I thought," Vincent said.

"It is. But it's going to orient her to school."

"I thought that was the point."

"She's not ready for school."

"News flash, Jess."

"What?"

"She is ready for school."

"Yeah but… but that means she'll be ready to wear makeup, and get her license, and start dating, and-"

"What, in first grade?"

"You know what I mean."

It was obvious. God help her and save the republic she wanted another baby. Ever since she had rolled the odometer to thirty, she'd thought about it. Most of her friends were on bundle number three. Every time she saw a swaddled baby in a stroller, or in a papoose, or in a car seat, or even in a stupid television commercial for Pampers, she felt the pang.

"Hold me tight," she said.

Vincent did. As tough as Jessica thought she was-in addition to her life as a police officer, she was also a professional boxer, not to mention a South Philly girl, born and raised at Sixth and Catharine-she never felt safer than at moments like this.