for Emergency Contact.’
Byrne glanced at the bottom of the page. ‘J. C. Delacroix.’ He looked at Jessica. ‘JCD.’
‘As in JCD 10K.’
‘Or 10E.’
Byrne rolled his chair over to a computer terminal, punched in the information. A few seconds later he turned the monitor. He had looked up the address on Google Maps. It was the second to last house in a block of row houses in Brewerytown.
‘I don’t think this address has a 10E. I’m going with 10K, as in ten grand,’ Byrne said. ‘Let’s go see what J. C. Delacroix has to say about it.’
As they got ready to leave, Jessica glanced back at Robert Freitag’s resume, at the missing entry spanning 1992 to 1996, wondering:
What happened during those four years?
17
The house was located on a narrow street in the Brewerytown section of North Philadelphia, a neighborhood pleated between the east bank of the Schuylkill River and 25th Street. To the north was Cecil B. Moore Avenue; to the south, Parrish Street. An unofficial district, Brewerytown got its nickname from the many breweries that flourished along the river during the late nineteenth century.
The house was a painted brick trinity with a white wrought-iron railing leading up the two steps to the small porch.
When Jessica rang the doorbell she noticed holes drilled above and below the two windows to the right of the door. It appeared there had, at one time, been bars over the windows. While the area was not a high crime area, she didn’t believe it was gentrified to the point where dropping your guard was a good idea.
After ringing the bell for the third time, Jessica and Byrne took a step back, checked the upstairs and downstairs windows for movement. They found none.
Seeing as the row house was the second address from the corner, they walked to the cross street, then left, and found an alley running between the houses. They headed down the alley and saw a gate leading to the back of Delacroix’s house. In the tiny back patio was a man with earbuds firmly in place, working on what appeared to be a container garden. The air was thick with the smell of compost.
Jessica knocked on the gate, even though she was certain the man could not hear her. He didn’t. She waved a hand until she caught his eye. He immediately looked over and removed the earbuds. Even from a few feet away Jessica heard that he was listening to some heavy metal rock. The man was in his fifties, fighting the good fight against a paunch, had a receding hairline. He wore faded Levi’s and an orange down vest. At first Jessica thought the music sounded a little young for him, but then had to remind herself that the seventies was forty years ago. The truth was, some people who listened to AC/DC looked like this guy.
‘Hi,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t see you standing there.’
‘Not a problem,’ Jessica said. ‘We rang the bell a few times.’
The man nodded. He gestured to the seven or eight redwood planters on the ground in front of him. ‘Just getting the soil ready for the season,’ he said. He then pointed at the rather intricate trellis that grew up the north side of his small terrace. It was constructed out of electrical conduit and what appeared to be fishing line. ‘The plight of the Philadelphia gardener,’ he added. ‘Vertical gardening.’
Jessica was familiar with the technique. Growing up on Catharine Street with their minuscule backyard, her father grew his tomatoes and cucumbers on stakes that seemed to reach the clouds. Of course, she was much smaller then.
‘Are you Mr Delacroix?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I am.’ He took off his gardening gloves and unlatched the gate. ‘What can I do for you?’
Jessica produced her ID. ‘My name is Detective Jessica Balzano. This is my partner, Detective Byrne.’
The man looked between them a few times. ‘Police?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’
The man turned in place, looking for
Byrne glanced at the bottom of the page. ‘J. C. Delacroix.’ He looked at Jessica. ‘JCD.’
‘As in JCD 10K.’
‘Or 10E.’
Byrne rolled his chair over to a computer terminal, punched in the information. A few seconds later he turned the monitor. He had looked up the address on Google Maps. It was the second to last house in a block of row houses in Brewerytown.
‘I don’t think this address has a 10E. I’m going with 10K, as in ten grand,’ Byrne said. ‘Let’s go see what J. C. Delacroix has to say about it.’
As they got ready to leave, Jessica glanced back at Robert Freitag’s resume, at the missing entry spanning 1992 to 1996, wondering:
What happened during those four years?
17
The house was located on a narrow street in the Brewerytown section of North Philadelphia, a neighborhood pleated between the east bank of the Schuylkill River and 25th Street. To the north was Cecil B. Moore Avenue; to the south, Parrish Street. An unofficial district, Brewerytown got its nickname from the many breweries that flourished along the river during the late nineteenth century.
The house was a painted brick trinity with a white wrought-iron railing leading up the two steps to the small porch.
When Jessica rang the doorbell she noticed holes drilled above and below the two windows to the right of the door. It appeared there had, at one time, been bars over the windows. While the area was not a high crime area, she didn’t believe it was gentrified to the point where dropping your guard was a good idea.
After ringing the bell for the third time, Jessica and Byrne took a step back, checked the upstairs and downstairs windows for movement. They found none.
Seeing as the row house was the second address from the corner, they walked to the cross street, then left, and found an alley running between the houses. They headed down the alley and saw a gate leading to the back of Delacroix’s house. In the tiny back patio was a man with earbuds firmly in place, working on what appeared to be a container garden. The air was thick with the smell of compost.
Jessica knocked on the gate, even though she was certain the man could not hear her. He didn’t. She waved a hand until she caught his eye. He immediately looked over and removed the earbuds. Even from a few feet away Jessica heard that he was listening to some heavy metal rock. The man was in his fifties, fighting the good fight against a paunch, had a receding hairline. He wore faded Levi’s and an orange down vest. At first Jessica thought the music sounded a little young for him, but then had to remind herself that the seventies was forty years ago. The truth was, some people who listened to AC/DC looked like this guy.
‘Hi,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t see you standing there.’
‘Not a problem,’ Jessica said. ‘We rang the bell a few times.’
The man nodded. He gestured to the seven or eight redwood planters on the ground in front of him. ‘Just getting the soil ready for the season,’ he said. He then pointed at the rather intricate trellis that grew up the north side of his small terrace. It was constructed out of electrical conduit and what appeared to be fishing line. ‘The plight of the Philadelphia gardener,’ he added. ‘Vertical gardening.’
Jessica was familiar with the technique. Growing up on Catharine Street with their minuscule backyard, her father grew his tomatoes and cucumbers on stakes that seemed to reach the clouds. Of course, she was much smaller then.
‘Are you Mr Delacroix?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I am.’ He took off his gardening gloves and unlatched the gate. ‘What can I do for you?’
Jessica produced her ID. ‘My name is Detective Jessica Balzano. This is my partner, Detective Byrne.’
The man looked between them a few times. ‘Police?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’
The man turned in place, looking for
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