This man was nothing like him. This man was a predator, a pederast, a criminal. Few things made Swann angrier.
Over the months, as his mind fit these pieces into his puzzle, he had often wondered about the fates of those he had not chosen, those completely unaware just how close they had come to becoming part of his riddle. How close they had come to becoming part of history.
Given his needs, the selection process was easier than one might think. Often, a single stroll through the library’s computer center, where patrons could sign on to the Internet, produced interesting results. One glance at what someone was looking at on the Web told him much about the person. If he followed, and was pressed for a topic, he could recall the subject of their search and weave it into conversation. It rarely failed to engage.
Swann glanced at his watch, then across the room, toward the magazine racks. Sunlight suddenly streamed through the windows, and he saw her. A new maiden, slouching in the corner armchair. His heart skipped a beat.
This one was about seventeen or so. She had coal black hair. She was Asian-American, perhaps of Japanese descent. She had the slightest overbite, her two front teeth resting on her lower lip as she twirled a strand of hair, deep in concentration on her periodical, biting gently down as the possibilities swirled, all the choices presented to one so young.
He watched her as she idly flipped through the pages. Every so often she glanced at the doorways, out the windows; watching, waiting, hoping. Her fingernails were raw and red. Her hair was three days or more from a shampoo.
At just after 9:20—Swann checked his watch again, these moments were valued in his memory—she put down the magazine, picked up another, then gazed across the room, a downy longing to which Swann instantly responded.
The girl rose from her table, returned the magazine to its rack, traversed the room, the lobby, and stepped onto Vine Street, her nutmeg skin aglow in the Philadelphia summer morning. She believed she had nowhere to go, it seemed, no destination known.
Joseph Swann knew differently.
He had just the place.
NINETEEN
THE SAVOY WAS open for breakfast, and fairly well known for its three-egg Greek omelets and paprika-laced home fries, but it also served liquor, starting at 7 AM. When Jessica walked in she saw that Detective Jimmy Valentine was taking full advantage of the liquid portion of the menu. He was at a booth near the back.
Jessica traversed the restaurant. As she approached, Valentine rose.
“Nice to meet you, Detective.”
“And you,” Jessica replied.
They shook hands. Jimmy Valentine was about forty. He had dark Irish good looks, just beginning to crease; black hair tipping silver. He wore a navy suit with subtle gray stripes, decent quality, open white shirt, gold on both wrists. Good-looking in a South Philly way, Jessica thought. He’d had better days than this, though.
“It’s Balzano, right?”
“It is.”
“I know that name,” he said, holding their handshake just a beat too long. “Why do I know that name?”
Jessica was getting used to this. If you were a woman on the job, and married to another cop, you were always in your husband’s shadow. Regardless of your own reputation or rank. You could be chief, you could be commissioner, and you would still be a half-step behind your spouse. Such was law enforcement. “My husband is on the job.”
Valentine let go of Jessica’s hand, as if it were suddenly radioactive. He snapped his fingers. “Vincent,” he said. “You’re married to Vincent Balzano?”
“For better or worse,” Jessica said.
Valentine laughed, winked. In another life, Jessica might have been charmed. “What are you having?” he asked.
“Just coffee.”
He caught a waitress’s eye. A few moments later Jessica had a cup in front of her.
“Thanks for seeing me,” she said.
Valentine mugged. He was a player. “Not a problem. But, like I said on the phone, I already talked to Detective Malone.”
“And, like I said on the phone, I appreciate that we’re keeping this off the record.”
Valentine nodded, tapped out a nervous paradiddle on the table. “What can I do you for, Detective?”
“How long have you been with the DA’s office?”
“Nine years,” Valentine said. There was an edge to his voice that implied he suddenly found this number to be a long time. Perhaps too long.
“And how long were you partnered with Eve Galvez?”
“Almost three years.”
Jessica nodded. “In all that time, did she make many enemies? I mean, more than the usual? Anyone who might have wanted to take the standard shit to the next level?”
Valentine thought. “Nobody stands out. We all get our threats, right? Eve was tough to read.”
“So what happened? I mean, when she went missing.”
Valentine drained his glass, called for another drink. “Well she had a week coming, right? The following Monday she just doesn’t show up. That’s about it.” He shrugged. “It had happened before.”
“Was she troubled?”
Valentine laughed. It was an empty sound. “You know anybody on the job who ain’t?”
“Point taken,” Jessica said. “When was the last time you saw her?”
Jessica expected some hesitation, some grasping at memory. Valentine did neither. “I can tell you exactly when it was,” he said. “I can tell you where and when and why. I can tell you about the weather. I can tell you what I had for breakfast that day. I can even tell you what she was wearing.”
Jessica thought about this. She wondered if the relationship between Jimmy Valentine and Eve Galvez went beyond the walls of 3 Penn Square.
“She had on a red dress and a kind of short black jacket,” he continued. “The kind that comes to here.” Valentine indicated his waist. “You know the kind I mean?”
“Like a bolero jacket?”
“Yeah. Right.” He snapped his fingers. “A bolero jacket.” The waitress brought his cocktail. He weaved a little bit as he got animated about the story. “We had just shuttled a witness from the airport to that Marriott next to City Hall. We went to the Continental afterward. Had a few drinks, talked about a few of our cases.”
“Do you remember which cases?”
“Sure. We had a trial coming up. Remember that kid who got shot on his bicycle in Fishtown? The road-rage kid?”
“Yeah,” Jessica said.
Valentine rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “The day she was due back? She didn’t show. That’s about it. If you knew her, if you worked with her, you expected it.”
“What about her car?” Jessica knew this was in the official report. She was pushing.
“They never found it.”
Jessica sipped her coffee. She’d finally come to the point. “So, what did you think happened, Jimmy?”
Valentine shrugged. “At first I thought she grabbed her purse and just left town for a few more days. Maybe shacked up somewhere. Said ‘Fuck off, Philly.’ ” He glanced at the windows, the people passing by. “If you saw her place you’d understand. A couch, a chair, a table. Nothing on the walls. Nothing in the fridge. She was a Spartan.”
“And you thought she would just take off without a word? Not even to you?”
Another slow spin of his tumbler. “Yeah, well. I wanted to think we were closer, you know? But I was kidding myself. I don’t think anyone ever got to know her. You know the life. Like everyone else, I thought the worst. A cop disappears, you think the worst.”
And it was the worst that happened to Eve Galvez.
“There was one case she was obsessed with,” Valentine said, unasked.
“What case?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. I asked her, went through her desk, even her purse once. Never found a thing. But it was all about some kid.”
“Kid?” Jessica asked. “Kid as in child?”