in the middle of the night it all seemed
possible. Then the sun would come up again and she realized it would never
happen.
'How
is he doing?' Byrne asked.
'Good,
I guess,' Jessica said. She really didn't know if that was true or not, but it
was the only answer she had.
'If
you want, we can stop in at the Department of Human Services and check on him.'
The
sooner Jessica let go, the better it would be. Still, she knew what she was
going to say. 'Sure. That would be good.'
Before
they could discuss it further, Nicci Malone poked her head into the duty room.
'Kevin, you have a call.'
Byrne
crossed the room, hit a button, answered. A few moments later he pulled out his
notebook, wrote something in it, punched a fist through the air. It was clearly
good news. Jessica needed some good news.
Byrne
hung up, grabbed his coat. 'That was the ID Unit.'
The
ID Unit processed latent fingerprints.
'Are
we on?' Jessica asked.
'We
are,' Byrne said. 'Our cleanshaven dead man has a name. Kenneth Arnold
Beckman.'
Chapter 11
The
Beckman house was a gaunt and peeling postwar row house on West Tioga Street,
in the Nicetown area of North Philadelphia. Nicetown was a blue-collar section
of the city that was slowly recovering after three decades of slow decline, a
slide culminating in the Tastykake company moving out of the area in 2007. At
one time it was rumored that Trump Entertainment would be building a casino on
Hunting Park Avenue. It never happened. The only gambling being done in
Nicetown these days was among those residents and store owners debating whether
or not to hang onto their property.
Before
leaving the Roundhouse, Jessica asked Josh Bontrager to run a check on Kenneth
Arnold Beckman. Bontrager would call if there was anything to report.
When
Jessica and Byrne pulled to a stop in front of the Beckman house, near Schuyler
Street, it began to rain. The wind picked up, and when they stepped onto the
porch wet leaves gathered at their feet.
Jessica
rang the bell three times before noticing that there was a wire hanging out
from the bottom of the rusted panel. The bell didn't work. A quick look at the
crumbling porch, with its leaning support pillars and brickwork desperately in
need of tuck pointing, explained why. She knocked on the door, gently at first.
The second time she knocked harder. Eventually they heard the deadbolts begin
to turn. There were three of them.
The
woman who answered the door was a hard forty. Her platinum hair was perm-fried,
her make-up looked like it had been applied with a paper towel. She wore black
Capri pants and battered pink running shoes. A lighted cigarette hung from the
corner of her mouth.
Looking
Byrne up and down, she tossed a sideways glance at Jessica.
'Are
you Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked.
'Well,
now,' she replied. 'That would depend on two things, wouldn't it?'
'And
what would those two things be?'
'Who
you are and what the fuck you want.'
Oh
boy, Jessica thought. We've got a real charmer here .
Byrne
took out his ID, badged the woman. She stared at it far too long. Jessica
figured this was an attempt on the woman's part to establish some sort of power
dynamic. What the woman didn't know was that Kevin Byrne could outlast a
glacier. She looked at Jessica, raising a painted-on eyebrow. Jessica reached
into her pocket, showed the woman her ID. The woman sniffed, turned back
to Byrne.
'Well,
that answers one of my questions,' she said.
'May
we come in?' Byrne asked.
The
woman blinked a few times, as if Byrne was speaking another language. 'Can you
hear me?' she asked.
'Ma'am?'
'Can
you hear my voice?'
'Yes,'
Byrne said. 'I can hear your voice.'
'Good.
I hear you too. We can talk right here.'
Jessica
sensed
possible. Then the sun would come up again and she realized it would never
happen.
'How
is he doing?' Byrne asked.
'Good,
I guess,' Jessica said. She really didn't know if that was true or not, but it
was the only answer she had.
'If
you want, we can stop in at the Department of Human Services and check on him.'
The
sooner Jessica let go, the better it would be. Still, she knew what she was
going to say. 'Sure. That would be good.'
Before
they could discuss it further, Nicci Malone poked her head into the duty room.
'Kevin, you have a call.'
Byrne
crossed the room, hit a button, answered. A few moments later he pulled out his
notebook, wrote something in it, punched a fist through the air. It was clearly
good news. Jessica needed some good news.
Byrne
hung up, grabbed his coat. 'That was the ID Unit.'
The
ID Unit processed latent fingerprints.
'Are
we on?' Jessica asked.
'We
are,' Byrne said. 'Our cleanshaven dead man has a name. Kenneth Arnold
Beckman.'
Chapter 11
The
Beckman house was a gaunt and peeling postwar row house on West Tioga Street,
in the Nicetown area of North Philadelphia. Nicetown was a blue-collar section
of the city that was slowly recovering after three decades of slow decline, a
slide culminating in the Tastykake company moving out of the area in 2007. At
one time it was rumored that Trump Entertainment would be building a casino on
Hunting Park Avenue. It never happened. The only gambling being done in
Nicetown these days was among those residents and store owners debating whether
or not to hang onto their property.
Before
leaving the Roundhouse, Jessica asked Josh Bontrager to run a check on Kenneth
Arnold Beckman. Bontrager would call if there was anything to report.
When
Jessica and Byrne pulled to a stop in front of the Beckman house, near Schuyler
Street, it began to rain. The wind picked up, and when they stepped onto the
porch wet leaves gathered at their feet.
Jessica
rang the bell three times before noticing that there was a wire hanging out
from the bottom of the rusted panel. The bell didn't work. A quick look at the
crumbling porch, with its leaning support pillars and brickwork desperately in
need of tuck pointing, explained why. She knocked on the door, gently at first.
The second time she knocked harder. Eventually they heard the deadbolts begin
to turn. There were three of them.
The
woman who answered the door was a hard forty. Her platinum hair was perm-fried,
her make-up looked like it had been applied with a paper towel. She wore black
Capri pants and battered pink running shoes. A lighted cigarette hung from the
corner of her mouth.
Looking
Byrne up and down, she tossed a sideways glance at Jessica.
'Are
you Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked.
'Well,
now,' she replied. 'That would depend on two things, wouldn't it?'
'And
what would those two things be?'
'Who
you are and what the fuck you want.'
Oh
boy, Jessica thought. We've got a real charmer here .
Byrne
took out his ID, badged the woman. She stared at it far too long. Jessica
figured this was an attempt on the woman's part to establish some sort of power
dynamic. What the woman didn't know was that Kevin Byrne could outlast a
glacier. She looked at Jessica, raising a painted-on eyebrow. Jessica reached
into her pocket, showed the woman her ID. The woman sniffed, turned back
to Byrne.
'Well,
that answers one of my questions,' she said.
'May
we come in?' Byrne asked.
The
woman blinked a few times, as if Byrne was speaking another language. 'Can you
hear me?' she asked.
'Ma'am?'
'Can
you hear my voice?'
'Yes,'
Byrne said. 'I can hear your voice.'
'Good.
I hear you too. We can talk right here.'
Jessica
sensed
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