Play Dead by Richard Montanari Read Free Book Online

She had long auburn hair, brown eyes, a small cleft in her chin. The photo appeared to be a printout of a digital picture. She wore a red sweater with sequins along the neckline, large hoop earrings, and a striking onyx teardrop pendant necklace.
Hell spun in place, twice, both fists raised in anger, his huge rubber-soled boots squeaking on the tile. “I didn’t think to look. I hate that, man,” he said, calmly, even as a fiery crimson rose from his neck onto his face like the column in a cheap thermometer.
“No harm no foul,” Byrne said. “We have it now.”
“Yeah, well, I am still upset. I am really, really upset.”
Jessica and Byrne had dealt with Hell Rohmer on a number of cases. It was best to wait out moments like this. Eventually, he calmed down, his face cooling to a hot pink.
“Can we get a copy of this?” Byrne finally asked. It was rhetorical, but it was the best way to go.
Hell stared at the Bible, as if the suspect might jump out of the binding, like a figure in a child’s pop- up book, and he could choke him to death. It was well- known in the department that you didn’t fuck with Helmut Rohmer’s psyche. A few seconds later he snapped out of it. “A copy? Oh yeah. Absolutely.”
Hell put the photograph in a clear evidence bag, walked it over to the color copying machine. He punched a few buttons—hard—then waited, hands on hips, for the photocopy to emerge, adrift in that place where frustrated criminalists go. A few seconds later, the page presented itself. Hell handed it to Jessica.
Jessica looked closely at the image. The girl in the photograph was not Caitlin O’Riordan. She was someone new. A person who stared out at the world with an innocence that begged for experience. Jessica was overcome by the feeling that this girl never got the chance.
Jessica put the photocopy of the photograph in her portfolio. “Thanks,” she said. “Keep us in the loop, okay?”
    32 R ICHAR D MONTANAR I
    Hell didn’t respond. He was gone, adrift on the tangents of hard evidence, juddering with anger. Criminalists didn’t like to be played any more than detectives did. Hell Rohmer even less than most.
    Ten minutes later Detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne headed to 4514 Shiloh Street, the photograph of the auburn- haired girl on the car seat between them, like a silent passenger.
    SIX
A
    nother North Philly hellhole; a grim and decaying threestory building, the corner structure in a block of five. At the entrance to the left of the Shiloh Street address was a memorial. There were memorials all over North Philly, commemorations of the departed. Some were a simple spray painted “RIP” above the victim’s name or nickname. Others were elaborate, highly detailed portraits of the victim, many times in a benevolent pose, sometimes flashing a gang signal, sometimes two or three times actual scale. Almost all honored victims of street violence.
    This memorial was to a young child. In the recess of the doorway was a small, delaminating nightstand stuffed with plush teddy bears, rabbits, ducks, birds. It always struck Jessica as odd how, at North Philly memorials, items could be left on the street, items that everyday were shoplifted from Wal- Mart and Rite Aid. They were never stolen from a memorial. Memorials were sacred.
    A piece of plywood was nailed over the door of this commemorative display, painted with the words Descanse en Paz. Rest in peace. On the wall to the left of the door was a beautiful airbrushed portrait of a smiling Hispanic girl. A silver Christmas garland ringed the painting. Beneath it sat a red plastic juice pitcher full of dusty satin tulips. Above the girl’s head was scrawled Florita Delia Ramos, 2004–2008.
    Four years old, Jessica thought. Unless the city moved in and painted the wall over—an unlikely scenario, seeing as how the memorial was the only vestige of beauty left on this blighted block—the portrait would live longer than its subject did.
    Jessica