She had no choice. As she walked toward Sergeant Westbrook’s office, the siren call of her Cosi breakfast wrap grew cold, as did the sandwich itself.
*
‘And you couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman?’
‘No,’ Jessica said. ‘The voice was just a whisper.’
‘What did the caller say again?’
Dana Westbrook was in her early fifties, fit and toned and agile. Although she was easily four inches shorter than Jessica’s five-eight, she was by no means petite. And God help you if you crossed her, or shirked your duty.
Women in law enforcement worldwide knew that when you were in uniform you had to work twice as hard as men. It was a fact of life. At the command level it was double even that. Jessica did not envy Dana Westbrook’s rank, just as she knew she would never try for the position. Detective work was hard enough.
Jessica flipped a page in her notebook. ‘Whoever it was said One God, then something about seven churches.’
‘Seven churches?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Any idea what that means?’
‘Not a clue.’
Westbrook thought for a moment, tapping her pen. ‘Does that intersection mean anything to you? Anything that might be relevant to an open case?’
The thought had, of course, crossed Jessica’s mind. She hadn’t brought it up because she really didn’t want to follow up on this. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, Sarge.’
‘And what was the other thing? The “first of the dead”?’
‘“First of the dead.” Then, “We will not speak again.”’
‘Will not? Not won’t?’
‘Will not.’
‘Precise,’ Westbrook said. ‘Not a contraction. Interesting.’
Shit, Jessica thought. She connected the dots, tried to look at it from her boss’s point of view. All things considered, it looked like Detective Jessica Balzano was going on this call whether she liked it or not.
Westbrook looked out the window for a few moments. She twirled her pen. Jessica recognized it as a technique used by cheerleaders. She’d never have the courage to ask Dana Westbrook — tough, ex-Marine, veteran of Desert Storm Dana Westbrook — whether or not she’d ever been a cheerleader.
‘Check it out,’ Westbrook said. ‘If it’s nothing, you get a nice visit to Kensington. I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.’
Jessica smiled, ever the cheerful and loyal centurion. ‘You got it, Sarge.’
Ten minutes later Jessica walked out of the office, grabbed her coat and car keys, along with a two-way radio out of the charging station. On the way she stopped by the secretary’s desk, wrote the location down on a separate page from her notebook — along with the bit about the dove — tore it out, handed it to the secretary. ‘Let’s get a sector car started to this address,’ she said. ‘Might be something, might be nothing.’
On the way to the elevator she ran into Byrne.
As they drove to Kensington, Jessica filled her partner in on the details of the phone call.
‘Sound like a suicide reach out?’ Byrne asked.
‘Could be. But why call homicide? Why not call the suicide hotline?’
‘Now where’s the drama in that?’
This was true. ‘On the other hand it was a direct-line call.’
‘Not good.’
‘Not good.’
The direct-line numbers into the Homicide Unit were not published anywhere — not in a brochure, not in a directory, certainly not in any phone book. If someone had any of the direct line phone numbers of the homicide unit they most likely got them from a business card. All other calls were routed from police radio.
‘And you didn’t recognize the voice?’ Byrne asked.
‘No. But I didn’t hear much of it. It was pretty much a whisper.’
‘And what was the line about the dead? “First of the dead”?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Also not good.’
‘Who the hell says “of the dead”?’
It was a rhetorical question. Neither detective really wanted to find out.
‘Did the caller say your name?’ Byrne asked.
Jessica had to think about this. She really couldn’t remember. Unlike calls that come in to 911, direct calls to homicide were not automatically recorded and logged, so there was no audio record. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Did you hear anything in the background? TV? Radio? Music of any kind?’
‘No,’ Jessica said. ‘But to be honest, I wasn’t paying all that much attention. The call came out of the blue.’
Byrne went quiet for a while, processing it all.
‘Hey, I forgot to ask. Did you ever do that Philly Brothers thing?’ Jessica asked.
Byrne did not answer immediately. Jessica had known the man a long time, and knew that whatever she was about to hear was only going to be part of the story. She also knew she would get the entire story when Byrne was ready to tell her.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘And it went okay, I guess. Kid’s eleven. It’s like talking to an alien.’
‘What’s his story?’
‘Father was a ghost, mother walked the streets, died of an overdose. Gabriel’s older brother swallowed a gun.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘The kid’s a walking gang recruitment poster.’
‘No tats or scars,’ Byrne said. ‘None I could see anyway.’
‘You think he’s at risk?’
‘They’re all at risk these days. Hard to tell with him, though. He seems pretty smart, but that’s just an impression. I don’t think he said fifty words the whole time I was with him.’
‘You guys going to get together again?’
Another hesitation. Another half-story coming up. ‘I brought it up, but all I got was his thousand-yard stare. I’m going to call him though, give it a shot.’
They stopped at the light at Eighth and Spring Garden. A cold blast of wind buffeted the car. Jessica kicked up the heat a notch.
‘On the other hand, I’m probably not his ideal Philly Brother, you know?’ Byrne added. ‘Big middle-aged white cop. I don’t think he’s going to bring me in for show and tell any time soon.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re a total catch.’
‘Right.’
‘You are. In fact, I heard that Philadelphia Magazine is going to do another one of its “Philadelphia’s Sexiest Bachelor” issues. I’m going to submit your name.’
Byrne smiled. ‘No, you’re not.’
‘Oh, yes I am.’
‘Make sure you tell them I live in a three-room apartment and keep my socks and underwear in a file cabinet.’
‘Babes will line up around the block for that. I’m seeing crowd control issues.’
‘And don’t forget to mention that I once mixed up a can of furniture polish with my deodorant.’
Jessica laughed. ‘I thought you smelled kind of lemony fresh that day.’
Kensington was a neighborhood in the lower northeast section of the city. It was at one time a bustling shipbuilding district, before giving way to manufacturing and mill work. When the mills began to close, Kensington fell on hard times, becoming one of the most depressed areas of the city, an era of decay and desolation from which it was still struggling to emerge.
Because Amber Street was one-way, Jessica and Byrne drove down to York first, then cut back. As they neared the address Jessica saw a sector car parked on Amber, its lights flashing. On a street like this, the longer the bar flashed, the more likely it would be to draw people out of their houses. Right now they didn’t need a crowd. In fact, unless the perpetrator stood at the front in an orange jumpsuit with a sign around his neck confessing to the crime, they never needed a crowd.
The patrol officer was a Hispanic woman in her twenties.
Before getting out of the car Jessica studied the scene. The address was a freestanding, two-story, red-sandstone building. Buildings such as these were common in Kensington, structures rehabbed and repurposed over the years. While many had been torn down over the past three decades, as Kensington and neighboring Harrowgate, West Kensington, and Fishtown attempted to gentrify, many remained, sandwiched between blocks of rowhouses and commercial buildings.