Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense by Richard Montanari Read Free Book Online

Shelby GT in the dark, could read a VIN number through a smashed pack of Kools on the dashboard of a locked car.
    When she caught Kevin Byrne’s stare and threw it right back at him, something happened. She wasn’t positive if it was a good thing, but it let him know that she was no probie, no boot, no damp-seated rookie who got here based on her plumbing.
    They retrieved their hands as the phone rang at the assignment desk. Byrne answered, made a few notes.
    “We’re up on the wheel,” Byrne said. The wheel was the duty roster of assignments for detectives on the Line Squad. Jessica’s heart sank. How long had she been on the job, fourteen minutes? Wasn’t there supposed to be a grace period? “Dead girl in crack town,” he added.
    Guess not.
    Byrne fixed Jessica with a look afloat somewhere between a smile and a challenge. He said: “Welcome to Homicide.”
     
    “H OW DO YOU KNOW VINCENT?” Jessica asked.
    They had ridden in silence for a few blocks after pulling out of the lot. Byrne drove the standard-issue Ford Taurus. It was the same uneasy silence experienced on a blind date, which, in many ways, this was.
    “A year ago we took down a dealer in Fishtown. We’d been looking at him for a long time. Liked him for the murder of one of our CIs. Real badass. Carried a hatchet on his belt.”
    “Charming.”
    “ Oh yeah. Anyway, it was our case, but Narcotics set up a buy to draw the prick out. When it came time for entry, about five in the morning, there’s six of us, four from Homicide, two from Narcotics. We get out of the van, checking our Glocks, adjusting our vests, getting pumped for the door. You know the drill. All of a sudden, no Vincent. We look around, behind the van, under the van. Nothing. It’s quiet as hell, then all of sudden we hear ‘Get onna ground . . . get onna ground . . . hands behind yer back motherfucker!’ from inside the house. Turns out Vincent was off, through the door and up the guy’s ass before any of us could move.”
    “Sounds like Vince,” Jessica said.
    “And how many times has he seen Serpico ?” Byrne asked.
    “Let’s put it this way,” Jessica said. “We’ve got it on DVD and VHS.”
    Byrne laughed. “He’s a piece of work.”
    “He’s a piece of something.”
    Over the next few minutes they went through their who-do-you-knows, where-did-you-go-to-schools, who-have-you-busted repartee. All of which brought them back to their families.
    “So is it true that Vincent was in the seminary once?” Byrne asked.
    “For about ten minutes,” Jessica said. “You know how it is in this town. If you’re male and Italian, you’ve got three choices. The seminary, the force, or cement contracting. He has three brothers, all in the building trades.”
    “If you’re Irish, it’s plumbing.”
    “There ya go,” Jessica said. Although Vincent tried to posture himself as a swaggering South Philly homeboy, he had a BA from Temple with a minor in art history. On Vincent’s bookshelves, next to the PDR, Drugs in Society, and The Narc’s Game, sat a well-worn copy of H. W. Janson’s History of Art . He wasn’t all Ray Liotta and gold-plated malocchio .
    “So what happened to Vince and the calling?”
    “You’ve met him. Do you think he was built for a life of discipline and obedience?”
    Byrne laughed. “Not to mention celibacy.”
    No friggin’ comment, Jessica thought.
    “So, you guys are divorced?” Byrne asked.
    “Separated,” Jessica said. “You?”
    “Divorced.”
    It was a standard refrain for cops. If you weren’t splitsville, you were en route. Jessica could count the happily married cops on one hand, with an empty ring finger left over.
    “Wow,” Byrne said.
    “What?”
    “I’m just thinking . . . two people on the job, under one roof. Damn.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    Jessica had known all about the challenges of a two-badge marriage from the start—the egos, the hours, the pressures, the danger—but love has a way of