There was not so much as a glisten in her eyes. Her face was drawn and sallow, but no more than it had been in the two years that the old man had been sick. He had gone weak fast since a liver ailment had pulled him down from his hard-drinking, anger- spitting heights. He'd been on disability with the department. Several months ago, when they'd tried to appease his hate of hospitals by bringing an oxygen tank and mask into his room, he'd slapped the offending thing away and cursed the technician until the guy slammed the front door.
But my mother remained vigilant, always with the homemade soup that he demanded. Always within earshot of his denigrating orders, and frequently still within slapping distance of his hand.
As we sat there I heard the creak of the loose wood on the third step from the top of the staircase, and I winced at the sound-and saw my mother blink also. How many times had we both heard that creaking step and held our breaths, lying in our beds hoping his anger would not visit us?
When I was young, and he came to my door first, I would cower and cry and could only wish him away and then cover my head with the pillow to drown out the curses and accusations that would inevitably come and to ward off the open-handed blows. Then when he left I would keep the pillow over my ears to shield the noise from down the hall, where a hardened fist and my mother's stifled cries bit into the night. When I got older, I wished him to my door and engaged him with a measured defiance, in the hope that at least some of his energy would be spent before he went to her. When I was fourteen I took a handful of nails and pounded them into the riser on that third step. But it never stopped the warning sound.
This morning it was my uncle's weight coming down from where his brother lay dead that creaked the stair. And like his brother, Uncle Keith's broad build filled the kitchen door. My mother looked up, dry-eyed, into his face.
"You alright, Ann-Marie?"
"Yes," she said and I felt her hands flex once under my own.
"Max boy. You wanna see him once upstairs before they take him out?"
"No," I answered.
He didn't react, knowing enough not to say more.
"Then I'll take care of it, Ann-Marie," he said, crossing the kitchen floor and laying a hand on her shoulder. She reached up to pat his back and he pressed a small brown apothecary bottle into her palm.
"So you take care of this. OK?"
I was up early. Billy had already started coffee and was practicing his morning ritual with the paper. We apologized for our respective hangovers and I went down to the beach for a run to purge my pores and memories.
When I got back, sweat-stained and vowing to do more than two miles next time, Billy was on his way out.
"There is f-fruit blend in the refrigerator and S-Sherry called," he said. "T-Tell her I appreciate w-what she's doing."
I reached her on her cell and arranged to meet her at Lester's Diner.
"Just trying to fatten you up, Freeman," she said. She had some paperwork that she needed me to see. When I wondered out loud why we couldn't just meet in her office, she knew I was needling her.
"Sure. Come right up and say hello to Hammonds. He'll be thrilled to hear you've got your fingers in another one of our cases."
When I pulled into Lester's it was past noon. There were several pickups and a couple of truck tractors in the parking lot. Lester's was built in the tradition of the old Northeast railcar diners. Long and rectangular, the outside was lined with windows. Inside, chrome swivel stools were lined up at the counter. There were three rows of booths upholstered in slick red vinyl. Richards was in the last booth in the corner, sitting on the bench facing the door. She was dressed in jeans and a buttoned blouse and she had left her hair down. Papers and what appeared to be a city street map were spread out on the table. As I slid into the seat opposite her she took a few stray strands of hair and tucked them behind her ear.
"Nice choice for a workplace," I said.
"Might as well be an annex," she said. "Sit here long enough and you'll see nearly every patrol officer and detective on two shifts."
The waitress came, dressed in a dingy, '50s-style white uniform that looked like it might have been new when she was young.
"Can I get cha, hon?"
I couldn't help smiling, waiting for the gum to crack.
Richards picked up on the grin.
"Julia Palamara. Max Freeman," she said in introduction. "He'll have coffee."
"Pleasure," the waitress said.
The coffee cup was heavy, ceramic and huge. Julia left a brown plastic pot for refills. I liked the place.
"So here's the stack of rape and homicide files, all of them grouped in the same general area and going back ten years," Richards started. "No fingerprints, a hodgepodge of DNA in only the recent cases, and statements by the rape victims that are sketchy, incomplete and pretty damn vague considering."
"I mapped the locations all out on here," she said, spinning the map to face me. "The cases we looked at are red, then I stuck your list of what were classified as naturals in green."
The circle that enveloped twelve different spots from the high school press box to the concrete bunker to the Thompson house was way too tight. I just looked up at her and then took a long sip from the deep cup.
"It was spread over time," she said, her voice sounding defensive. "They weren't all linked together, and considering the neighborhood…"
I still said nothing. And then she quit, too. Julia came back and gave us both an excuse to stop staring at the map and avoiding each other's eyes. We both ordered breakfast.
"OK," I started. "Let's assume the women fit in with the others, just for now. Do that and you've got three motives; sex, violence for the sake of violence, and money."
"Wrong, Freeman," she said, tightening up her voice. "You haven't been out in that shack that long. Rape isn't about sex. It's all about violence and control."
"OK, OK. Agreed," I said. "If we're going on the theory that your guy wasn't just after sex that got out of hand and that's why you've got some victims still alive."
"Still violence, Freeman."
She was looking full into my face, her eyes a pewter gray. I couldn't hold them.
"OK. You're right," I admitted.
"Good," she said. "Now, tell me again where the money comes in other than to your so-called investors, who sure as hell aren't out here in their three-piece suits killing clients."
I told her about Billy's paper chase, how he'd come up with a possible middleman, some guy named Marshack, who was connected with a finder's fee. I also told her about McCane and how the insurance investigator had tailed Marshack to the liquor store. When I pointed out the location on the map, it fell just outside her circle.
"And you say the only thing he got from the store clerk was that the white guy with the Caprice comes in once every month or so? That's pretty thin, Max," she said. "I know the place isn't much for white clientele. But how come the clerk even marks this guy?"
"The hundred-dollar bills," I said. "Guy always pays with a clean hundred."
I started to pick up my coffee when she reached over without a word and cradled the big cup in her hands and took a sip.
"So you're thinking this middleman has found somebody in the neighborhood who already doesn't mind killing to do the old women, quietly and carefully?"
"And get paid," I said.
"And never leave a clue?"
"In a place where people aren't looking too hard for clues," I said.
"Careful, Freeman."
Our plates came with omelets and hash browns and buttermilk pancakes. We talked about the possibilities as we ate. Would the theoretical killer have to be local, someone who knew the area? Or an outsider doing good surveillance?
"Get out of South Philly, Freeman. Hard to see some big white Italian sitting in his Chevy watching those houses very long without somebody noticing," she said. "Despite what it looks like, we do run patrol down those streets. And especially in the drug areas they're going to stop any suspicious white guys who might be buyers."