“I had him,” he finally said. “I didn’t take him down in that alley, and a baby and a young girl nearly died.”
Jessica had suspected he felt this way. She put a hand on his arm. He didn’t draw away. “No one blames you, Terry.”
Cahill looked at her for a few moments in silence, then turned his gaze toward the river, to the heat-shimmered waters of the Delaware. The moment drew out. It was clear that Terry Cahill was gathering a thought, searching for the right words. “Do you find it easy to go back to your life after something like this?”
Jessica was a little taken aback by the intimacy of the question. But she was nothing if she was not bold. She wouldn’t be a homicide cop if it had been any other way. “Easy?” she asked. “No, not easy.”
Cahill glanced back at her. For an instant, she saw vulnerability in his eyes. In the next instant, the look was replaced with the steel she had long associated with those who choose law enforcement as a way of life.
“Please give Detective Byrne my regards,” Cahill said. “Tell him . . . tell him I’m glad his daughter was returned safely.”
“I will.”
Cahill hesitated briefly, as if to say something else. Instead, he touched her hand, then turned and walked up the street, toward his car, and the city beyond.
* * *
FRAZIER’S GYM WAS an institution on Broad Street in North Philadelphia. Owned and operated by former heavyweight champion Smokin’ Joe Frazier, it had produced a number of champions over the years. Jessica was one of only a handful of women who trained there.
With her ESPN2 bout set for early September, Jessica began her training regimen in earnest. Every sore muscle in her body reminded her how long she had been out of it.
Today she would get into the sparring ring for the first time in months.
As she stepped between the ropes, she thought about her life as it was. Vincent had moved back in. Sophie had made a WELCOME HOME sign out of construction paper worthy of a Veterans Day parade. Vincent was on probation in Casa Balzano, and Jessica made sure he knew it. So far, he had been the model husband.
Jessica knew that reporters were waiting for her outside. They had wanted to follow her into the gym, but you just don’t walk into this place. A pair of young guys who trained here— twin heavyweight brothers who tipped in around 220 each— had gently persuaded them to wait outside.
Jessica’s sparring partner was a girl from Logan, a twenty-year-old dynamo named Tracy “Bigg Time” Biggs. Bigg Time had a record of 2–0, both knockouts, both coming within the first thirty seconds of the fight.
Jessica’s great-uncle Vittorio— a former heavyweight contender himself, a man who held the distinction of once having knocked down Benny Briscoe, at McGillin’s Old Ale House, no less— was her trainer.
“Go easy on her, Jess,” Vittorio said. He slipped her headgear on, fastened her chin strap.
Easy?
Jessica thought. The kid was built like Sonny Liston.
As she waited for the bell, Jessica thought about what had happened in that dark room, about making the split-second decision that took a man’s life. There had been a moment, in that low and horrible place, when she had doubted herself, when the quiet violence of fear had owned her. She imagined it would always be this way.
The bell rang.
Jessica moved forward and feinted a right hand. Nothing overt, nothing flashy, just a slight movement of her right shoulder, the sort of move that might go unnoticed to the untrained eye.
Her opponent flinched. Fear grew in the girl’s eyes.
“Bigg Time” Biggs was
hers.
Jessica smiled, and launched a left hook.
Ava Gardner, indeed.
EPILOGUE
HE TYPED THE LAST PERIOD ON HIS LAST REPORT. HE SAT BACK, looked at the form. How many of them had he seen? Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
He recalled his first case in the unit. A homicide that had started as a domestic. A Tioga couple had gotten into it over the dishes. Seems the woman had left a piece of dried egg yolk on a plate and put it back into the cupboard. The husband beat her to death with an iron skillet— poetically, the one in which she had prepared the eggs.
So long ago.
Byrne pulled the paper from the typewriter, placed it in the binder.
His last report.
Did it tell the whole story? No. Then again, the binder never did.
He rose from the chair, noticing that the pain in his back and legs was almost gone. He hadn’t taken a Vicodin in two days. He wasn’t ready to play tight end for the Eagles, but he wasn’t hobbling around like an old man, either.
He put the binder on the shelf, wondering what he’d do with the rest of the day. Hell, with the rest of his
life.
He put his coat on. There was no brass band, no cake, no streamers, no cheap sparkling wine in paper cups. Oh, there would be a blowout at Finnigan’s Wake in the next few months, but today there was nothing.
Could he leave it all behind? The warrior code, the joy in the battle. Was he really about to leave this building for the last time?
“Are you Detective Byrne?”
Byrne turned around. The question came from a young officer, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular in the way only young men can be. He had dark hair and eyes. Good-looking kid. “Yes.”
The young man extended his hand. “I’m Officer Gennaro Malfi. I wanted to shake your hand, sir.”
They shook hands. The kid had a firm, confident grip. “Nice to meet you,” Byrne said. “How long have you been on the job?”
“Eleven weeks.”
Weeks,
Byrne thought. “Where do you work out of?”
“I’m out of the Sixth.”
“That’s my old beat.”
“I know,” Malfi said. “You’re kind of a legend around there.”
More like a ghost, Byrne thought. “Believe half of it.”
The kid laughed. “Which half?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Okay.”
“Where are you from?”
“South Philly, sir. Born and raised. Eighth and Christian.”
Byrne nodded. He knew the corner. He knew all the corners. “I knew a Salvatore Malfi from that neighborhood. Cabinetmaker.”
“He’s my grandfather.”
“How is he these days?”
“He’s fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Is he still working?” Byrne asked.
“Only on his bocce game.”
Byrne smiled. Officer Malfi glanced at his watch.
“I’m on in twenty,” Malfi said. He extended his hand again. They shook once more. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
The young officer began to make his way to the door. Byrne turned and looked into the duty room.
Jessica was sending a fax with one hand, eating a hoagie with the other. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were poring over a pair of DD5s. Tony Park was running a PDCH on one of the computers. Ike Buchanan was in his office, working up the duty roster.
The phone was ringing.
He wondered if, in all the time he had spent in this room, he had made a difference. He wondered if the diseases that infect the human soul could be cured, or if they were merely destined to patch and repair the damage people did to each other on a daily basis.
Byrne watched the young officer walk out the door, his uniform so crisp and pressed and blue, his shoulders squared, his shoes buffed to a high gloss. He had seen so much when he had shaken the young man’s hand. So much.
It’s an honor to meet you, sir.
No, kid,
Kevin Byrne thought as he took off his coat and walked back into the duty room. The honor is mine.
The honor is all mine.
TRANSLATION OF THE DEDICATION:
The essence of a game is at its end.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are no supporting players on this book. Only dashing leads.
Thanks to Sgt. Joanne Beres, Sgt. Irma Labrice, Sgt. William T. Britt, Officer Paul Bryant, Detective Michele Kelly, Sharon Pinkenson, The Greater Philadelphia Film Office, Amro Hamzawi, Jan “GPS” Klincewicz, phillyjazz.org, Mike Driscoll, and the wonderful staff at Finnigan’s Wake.
A special thanks to Linda Marrow, Gina Centrello, Kim Hovey, Dana Isaacson, Dan Mallory, Rachel Kind, Cindy Murray, Libby McGuire, and the great team at Ballantine. Thanks to my frontline: Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Peggy Gordijn, Don Cleary, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency. A transatlantic
ta
to Nikola Scott, Kate Elton, Louisa Gibbs, Cassie Chadderton, and the AbFab group at Arrow and William Heinemann.
Thanks again to the city of Philadelphia, its people, its bartenders, and especially the men and women of the PPD.
And, as always, a heartfelt
grazie
to The Yellowstone Gang.
It would all be a B movie without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RICHARD MONTANARI is a novelist, screenwriter, and essayist. His work has appeared in the
Chicago Tribune, Detroit Free Press,
Cleveland
Plain Dealer,
and scores of other national and regional publications. He is the OLMA-winning author of the internationally acclaimed thrillers
The Rosary Girls, Kiss of Evil, Deviant Way,
and
The Violet Hour.
Visit the author’s website at www.richardmontanari.com.
ALSO BY RICHARD MONTANARI
The Rosary Girls
Kiss of Evil
The Violet Hour
Deviant Way
The Skin Gods
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 Š 2006 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.
eISBN-13: 978-0-345-49095-7
eISBN-10: 0-345-49095-9
www.ballantinebooks.com
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