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Authors: Richard Montanari

Broken Angels

BOOK: Broken Angels
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ALSO BY RICHARD MONTANARI

The Skin Gods
The Rosary Girls
Kiss of Evil
The Violet Hour
Deviant Way

This book has been optimized for viewing at a monitor setting of 1024 x 768 pixels. A Novel of Suspense

Richard
Montanari

BALL ANTINE BOO KS
T
NE W Y O RK

Merciless
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Richard Montanari
All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Montanari, Richard.

Merciless : a novel of suspense / Richard Montanari.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50015-1
1. Police—Pennsylvania—Philadelphia—Fiction. 2. Serial murders— Fiction. 3. Philadelphia (Pa).—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3563.05384M47 2007
813' .54 —dc22 2007013644
www.ballantinebooks.com
Book design by Lisa Sloane
v1.0

To Ajani
Anchi konjo nesh

Pro logue
August 2001

In his dream they are still alive. In his dream they have blossomed into beautiful young women with careers and homes and families of their own. In his dream they shimmer beneath a golden sun.

Detective Walter Brigham opened his eyes, his heart a cold and bitter stone in his chest. He glanced at the clock, although it was unnecessary. He knew what time it was: 3:50 am. It was the exact moment he had gotten the call six years earlier, the dividing line by which he had measured every day prior, and every day since.

Seconds earlier, in the dream, he had been standing at the edge of the forest, the spring rain an icy shroud over his world. Now he lay awake in his bedroom in West Philadelphia, a layer of sweat covering his body, the only sound his wife’s rhythmic breathing.

In his time, Walt Brigham had seen many things. He had once seen a drug case defendant try to eat his own flesh in a courtroom. Another time he’d found the body of a monstrous man named Joseph Barber— pedophile, rapist, murderer—lashed to a steam pipe in a North Philly tenement, a decomposing corpse with thirteen knives in its chest. He

ix
pro logue

had once seen a veteran homicide detective sitting on a curb in Brewerytown, quiet tears etching his face, a bloodied baby shoe in his hand. That man was John Longo, Walt Brigham’s partner. That case was Johnny’s.

All cops had an unsolved case, a crime that haunted their every waking moment, stalked their dreams. If you dodged the bullet, the bottle, the cancer, God gave you a case.

For Walt Brigham, his case began in April 1995, the day two young girls walked into the woods in Fairmount Park and never walked out. It was the dark fable that dwelt at the foothill of every parent’s nightmare.

Brigham closed his eyes, smelled the dank brew of loam and compost and wet leaves. Annemarie and Charlotte had worn matching white dresses. They were nine years old.

The homicide unit had interviewed a hundred people who had been in the park that day, had collected and sifted through twenty full bags of trash from the area. Brigham himself found the torn page of a children’s book nearby. Since that moment the verse had been a terrible echo in his brain:

Here are maidens, young and fair, Dancing in the summer air, Like two spinning wheels at play, Pretty maidens dance away.

Brigham stared at the ceiling. He kissed his wife’s shoulder, sat up, glanced out the open window. In the moonlight, beyond the nightbound city, beyond the iron and glass and stone, was the dense canopy of trees. A shadow moved through those pines. Behind the shadow, a killer.

Detective Walter Brigham would face this killer one day. One day.
Maybe even today.

Pa rt O n e

In the Forest

D ecember 2006

He is Moon, and he believes in magic.

Not the magic of trapdoors, and false bottoms, and sleights of hand. Not the magic that comes in the form of a pill or a potion. But rather the magic that can grow a beanstalk to the sky, or spin straw into gold, or turn a pumpkin into a carriage.

Moon believes in the pretty girl who loves to dance.
He had watched her for a long time. She is in her twenties, slender, above average in height, possessed of great refinement. Moon knows she lived for the moment, but for all that she was, for all she was going to be, she still seemed quite sad. Yet he is certain she understood, as does he, that there is an enchantment that lives within all things, an elegance unseen and unappreciated by the passing pageant—the curve of an orchid’s petal, the symmetry of a butterfly’s wings, the breathtaking geometry of the heavens.
A day earlier he had stood in shadows, across the street from the Laundromat, watching as she loaded clothes into the dryer, marveling at the graceful way she encountered the earth. The night was clear, terribly cold, the sky a seamless black fresco above the City of Brotherly Love.
He watched her step through the frosty glass doors, onto the sidewalk, her bag of laundry over her shoulder. She crossed the street, stood at the SEPTA stop, stamped her feet against the chill. She had never been more beautiful. When she turned to see him, she
knew,
and he was filled with magic.
Now, as Moon stands on the bank of the Schuylkill River, the magic fills him again.
He looks at the black water. Philadelphia is a city of two rivers, twin tributaries of the same heart. The Delaware River is muscular, broad of back, unyielding. The Schuylkill River is crafty and cunning and serpentine. It is the hidden river. It is
his
river.
Not unlike the city itself, Moon has many faces. Over the next two weeks he will keep this face unseen, as he must, just another dull daub on a gray winter canvas.
He gently places the dead girl on the bank of the Schuylkill, kisses her cold lips one last time. As beautiful as she is, she is not his princess. He will meet his princess soon.
Thus the tale is spun.
She is Karen. He is Moon.
And this is what the moon saw . . .

The city hadn’t changed. He’d been away only a week, and hadn’t expected miracles, but after more than two decades on the police force of one of the toughest cities in the nation, one could always hope. On the way into town he had seen two accidents and five arguments, along with a trio of fistfights outside three different taverns.

Ah, the holiday season in Philly,
he thought.
Warms the heart
. Detective Kevin Francis Byrne sat at the counter of the Crystal Diner, a small, clean coffee shop on Eighteenth Street. Since the Silk City Diner had closed, this had become his favorite late night haunt. The speakers offered “Silver Bells.” The chalkboard overhead heralded the holiday message of the day. The multicolored lights on the street spoke of Christmas and joy and merriment and love. All well and good and
fa-la-la-la-la.
Right now Kevin Byrne needed food, a shower, and sleep. His tour started at 8 am.
And then there was Gretchen. After a week of looking at deer droppings and shivering squirrels, he needed to look at something beautiful.
Gretchen upended Byrne’s cup, poured coffee. She may not have poured the best cup in town, but nobody ever looked better doing it. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said.
“Just got back,” Byrne replied. “Took a week in the Poconos.”
“Must be nice.”
“It was,” Byrne said. “Funny thing though, for the first three days I couldn’t sleep. It was too damned quiet.”
Gretchen shook her head. “You city boys.”
“City boy?
Me?
” He caught a glimpse of himself in the nightblackened window—seven-day growth of beard, L.L.Bean jacket, flannel shirt, Timberland boots. “What are you talking about? I thought I looked like Jeremiah Johnson.”
“You look like a city boy with a vacation beard,” she said.
It was true. Byrne was born and bred a Two-Streeter. And he’d die one.
“I remember when my mama moved us here from Somerset,” Gretchen added, her perfume maddeningly sexy, her lips a deep burgundy. Now in her mid-thirties, Gretchen Wilde’s teenaged beauty had softened into something far more striking. “I couldn’t sleep either. Way too noisy.”
“How’s Brittany?” Byrne asked.
Gretchen’s daughter Brittany was fifteen, going on twenty-five. She had gotten busted a year earlier at a rave in West Philly, caught with enough Ecstasy to pull a charge of possession with intent. Gretchen had called Byrne that night, at wit’s end, not really realizing the walls that existed between the divisions in the police department. Byrne had reached out to a detective who owed him a favor. The charge was reduced to simple possession by the time it got to municipal court, and Brittany had gotten community service.
“I think she’s gonna be okay,” Gretchen said. “Her grades are up, she’s getting home at a respectable hour. At least on weeknights.”
Gretchen had been married and divorced twice. Both of her exes were drug-addled, violent losers. But somehow, against the odds, Gretchen had managed to keep her head up through it all. There was no individual on earth Kevin Byrne admired more than the single mother. It was, hands down, the hardest job in the world.
“And how’s Colleen?” Gretchen asked.
Byrne’s daughter Colleen was the lighthouse at the end of his soul. “She’s amazing,” he said. “Absolutely amazing. A brand-new world every day.”
Gretchen smiled. They were two parents who, for the moment, had no worries. Give it another minute. Everything could change.
“I’ve been eating cold sandwiches for a week,” Byrne said. “And
lousy
cold sandwiches at that. What do you have that’s warm and sweet?”
“Present company excluded?”
“Never.”
She laughed. “I’ll see what we’ve got.”
She sashayed into the back room. Byrne watched. In her tight pink tricot uniform, it was impossible not to.
It was good to be back. The country was for other people:
country
people. The closer he got to retirement, the more he thought about leaving the city. But where would he go? The past week had all but ruled out the mountains. Florida? He wasn’t big on hurricanes either. The southwest? Didn’t they have Gila monsters there? He’d have to give this more thought.
Byrne glanced at his watch, a huge chronograph with a thousand dials. It seemed to do everything but tell the time. It had been a present from Victoria.
He had known Victoria Lindstrom for more than fifteen years, ever since they’d met during a vice raid at a massage parlor where she had been working. At the time she was a confused and stunningly beautiful seventeen-year-old, not long from her home in Meadville, Pennsylvania. She had continued in the life until one day a man attacked her, viciously cutting her face with a box cutter. She had endured a number of painful surgeries to repair the muscles and tissue. No surgeries could repair the damage inside.
They had recently found each other again. This time with no expectations.
Victoria was spending time with her ailing mother in Meadville. Byrne had been meaning to call. He missed her.
Byrne glanced around the restaurant. There were only a handful of other diners. A middle-aged couple in a booth. A pair of college girls sitting together, both on cell phones. A man at the booth nearest the door, reading a newspaper.
Byrne stirred his coffee. He was ready to get back to work. He had never been one to flourish in the down times between jobs, or on those rare occasions when he took his vacation time. He wondered what new cases had come into the unit, what progress had been made in ongoing investigations, what arrests, if any, had been made. The truth was, he’d thought about these things the entire time he’d been away. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t brought his cell phone with him. He would have been on the horn to the unit twice a day.
The older he got, the more he came to terms with the fact that we are all here for a very short time. If he’d made even the slightest difference as a police officer, then it was worth it. He sipped his coffee, content with his dime-store philosophies. For the moment.
Then it hit him. His heart picked up a beat. His right hand involuntarily formed a pistol grip. That was never good news.
He knew the man sitting by the door, a man named Anton Krotz. A few years older than the last time Byrne had seen him, a few pounds heavier, a little more muscular, but there was no doubt it was Krotz. Byrne recognized the elaborate scarab tattoo on the man’s right hand. He recognized the mad-dog eyes.
Anton Krotz was a cold-blooded killer. His first documented murder had come as a result of a botched robbery at a variety store in South Philly. He had shot the cashier point blank for thirty-seven dollars. They had brought him in for questioning on that case, but had to let him go. Two days later he robbed a jewelry store in Center City and shot the man and woman who owned the store—execution style. It was caught on video. A massive manhunt nearly shut down the city that day, but somehow Krotz slipped through.
As Gretchen made her way back with a full Dutch apple pie, Byrne slowly reached over to his duffel on the adjoining stool, casually unzipped it, watching Krotz out of the corner of his eye. Byrne eased his weapon out, slipped it onto his lap. He had no two-way radio, no cell phone. For the moment, he was on his own. And you didn’t want to take down a man like Anton Krotz on your own.
“You have a phone in the back?” Byrne asked Gretchen softly.
Gretchen stopped slicing the pie. “Sure, there’s one in the office.”
Byrne grabbed her pen, wrote a note on her check pad:

Call 911. Tell them I need assistance at this address. Suspect is Anton Krotz. Send SWAT. Back entrance. After you read this, laugh.

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