Broken Angels

71

Throughout southeastern Pennsylvania there were small towns and villages scattered among the farms, most with just a handful of commercial enterprises, a pair of churches, a small school. In addition to growing cities like Lancaster and Reading there were bucolic villages like Oley and Exeter, hamlets virtually untouched by time.

As they passed though Valley Forge, Jessica realized how much of her state she had not experienced. As much as she hated to admit it, she had been twenty-six before she had actually seen the Liberty Bell up close. She imagined it was like that for a lot of people who lived near history.

There were more than thirty zip codes in Berks County. The area covered by the 195 zip code prefix covered a large area at the southeastern end of the county.

Jessica and Nicci took a few back roads and began to ask about the farmhouse. They had debated involving local law enforcement in their quest, but things like that at times entailed red tape, jurisdictional issues. They kept it open, available as an option, but decided to do it on their own for the time being.

They inquired at small shops, gas stations, the occasional roadside stands. They stopped at a church on White Bear Road. People were pleasant enough, but no one seemed to recognize the farmhouse, or have any idea where it was located.

At noon the detectives took a road heading south through Robeson Township. A few wrong turns put them on a rough two-lane that wound through the woods. Fifteen minutes later they came upon an auto body and collision shop.

The fields surrounding the enterprise were a necropolis of corroded vehicle shells-fenders and doors, long rusted bumpers, engine blocks, aluminum truck caps. To the right was an outbuilding; a sulking corrugated shed pitching at about a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Everything was overgrown, neglected, covered with gray snow and grime. If it hadn't been for the lights in the windows-including a struggling neon sign advertising Mopar-the building would have looked derelict.

Jessica and Nicci pulled into the parking lot, itself populated with broken-down cars, vans, trucks. There was an RV on blocks. Jessica wondered if that was where the proprietor lived. A sign above the entrance to the garage read:

DOUBLE K AUTO / TWICE THE VALUE

An ancient, disinterested mastiff, chained to a pole, gave a cursory woof as they approached the main building. JESSICA AND NICCI entered. The three-bay garage was jammed with automotive debris. A greasy radio on the counter played Tim McGraw. The place smelled like WD40, grape candy, and old lunch meat.

The bell on the door announced them, and after a few seconds two men approached. They were twins in their early thirties. They wore matching grimy blue overalls, had disheveled blond hair, blackened hands. Their nametags read KYLE and KEITH.

Hence the Double K, Jessica suspected.

"Hi," Nicci said.

Neither man answered. Instead, they slowly ran their eyes over Nicci, then Jessica. Nicci plowed ahead. She showed her ID, introduced herself. "We're with the Philadelphia Police Department."

Both men pulled faces, mugging, mocking. They remained silent.

"We'd like a few minutes of your time," Nicci added.

Kyle smiled a big yellow grin. "I've got all day for you, darlin'."

Here we go, Jessica thought.

"We're looking for a house that might be located around here," Nicci said, unfazed. "I'd like to show you a few pictures."

"Oooo," Keith said. "We like pitchers. Us country folk need pitchers cuzz'n we cain't read."

Kyle snorted laughter.

"Are they dirty pitchers?" he added.

The two brothers bumped grimy fists.

Nicci just stared for a moment, unblinking. She took a deep breath, regrouped, began again. "If you could just take a look at these, we'd really appreciate it. Then we'll be on our way." She held up a photograph. The two men glanced at it, went back to ogling.

"Yeah," said Kyle. "That's my house. We could take a ride up there now if you like."

Nicci glanced at Jessica, back at the brothers. Up came the Philly. "You've got a mouth on you, you know that?"

Kyle laughed. "Oh, you got that right," he said. "Ask any girl in town." He ran his tongue over his lips. "Why don't you come here and find out for yourself?"

"Maybe I will," Nicci said. "Maybe I'll slap it into the next fuckin' county." Nicci took a step toward them. Jessica put a hand on Nicci's arm, held tight.

"Guys? Guys?" Jessica said. "We thank you for your time. We really do appreciate it." She held up one of her business cards. "You've seen the picture. If you think of something, please give us a call." She put her card on the counter.

Kyle looked at Keith, back at Jessica. "Oh I can think of something. Hell, I can think of a lot of things."

Jessica looked at Nicci. She could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. After a moment, she felt the tension in Nicci's arm ease. They turned to leave. "Is your home number on the card?" one of them yelled. Another hyena laugh.

Jessica and Nicci reached the car, slipped inside. "Remember that kid in Deliverance?" Nicci asked. "The one who played the banjo?" Jessica buckled up. "What about him?" "Looks like he had twins." Jessica laughed. "Where to?"

They both looked down the road. The snow gently fell. The hills were covered with a silken duvet of white.

Nicci glanced at the map on the seat, tapped south. "I think we should go this way," she said. "And I think it's time to change tactics."

At around one they arrived at a family-style restaurant called Doug's Den. The exterior was a deep brown rough siding, the roof a gambrel style. The parking lot held four vehicles.

As Jessica and Nicci approached the door, it began to snow in earnest.

They entered the restaurant. Two older men, a pair of locals instantly identifiable by their John Deere caps and worn-looking down vests, held down the far end of the bar.

The man wiping the countertop was fifty-big shoulders and hands, just starting to go thick in the middle. He wore a lime green sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, black Dockers.

"Afternoon," he said, brightening a bit at the notion of two young women entering the establishment.

"How ya doin'?" Nicci asked.

"Good," he said. "What can I get for you ladies?" He was soft- spoken, affable.

Nicci gave the man a sideways glance, the one you give someone when you think you recognize them. Or want them to think you do. "You used to be on the job, didn't you?" she asked.

The man smiled. "You can tell?"

Nicci winked. "It's in the eyes."

The man tossed the bar rag under the counter, sucked in his gut an inch. "I was a state trooper. Nineteen years."

Nicci went into coquette mode, as if he had just said he was Ashley Wilkes. "You were a statie? What barracks?"

"Erie," he said. "Troop E. Lawrence Park."

"Oh, I love Erie," Nicci said. "Were you born there?"

"Not far away. In Titusville."

"When did you put in your papers?"

The man looked at the ceiling, calculating. "Well, let's see." He paled slightly. "Wow."

"What?"

"I just realized that it was almost ten years ago."

Jessica would bet the man knew exactly how long it had been, probably down to the hour and minute. Nicci reached out, touched him lightly on the back of his right hand. Jessica marveled. It was like watching Maria Callas warm up for a performance of Madame Butterfly.

"I bet you could still fit into that uniform," Nicci said.

In went the gut another inch. He was kind of cute in his big, smalltown-boy way. "Oh, I don't know about that."

Jessica couldn't help thinking that, whatever this guy had done for the state he had definitely not been an investigator. If he couldn't see through this line of crap, he couldn't have found Shaquille O'Neal in a day-care center. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it. Jessica saw this sort of reaction in her father all the time these days.

"Doug Prentiss," he said, extending his hand. Handshakes and introductions all around. Nicci told him they were Philly PD, but not homicide.

Of course, they'd known most of this information about Doug before they'd set foot in his establishment. Like lawyers, cops liked to have the answer to a question before it was asked. The shiny Ford pickup parked closest to the door had a license plate that read DOUG1, and a sticker in the back window that read STATE TROOPERS DO IT ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.

"I imagine you're on duty," Doug said, ready to serve. If Nicci had asked, he probably would have painted her house. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? Just brewed."

"That would be great, Doug," Nicci said. Jessica nodded.

"Two coffees, coming up."

Doug was off like a shot. He soon returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, along with a bowl of individually packaged creamers on ice.

"Are you out here on official business?" Doug asked.

"Yes, we are," Nicci said.

"If there's anything I can do to help, just ask."

"I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that, Doug," Nicci said. She sipped from her cup. "Good coffee."

Doug puffed a little chest. "What's the job?"

Nicci took out a nine by twelve envelope, opened it. She extracted the photograph of the farmhouse, slid it across the bar. "We're trying to locate this place, but we're not having too much luck. We're fairly certain it's in this zip code. Does it look familiar to you?"

Doug put on a pair of bifocals, picked up the photograph. After looking at it carefully he said, "I don't recognize this place, but if it's anywhere in this area I know who would."

"Who is that?"

"A woman named Nadine Palmer. She and her nephew run the little arts-and-crafts store down the road," Doug said, clearly pleased to be back in the saddle again, even if it was just for a few minutes. "She's a heck of a painter. So's her nephew."