Broken Angels

81

Byrne and Vincent made Berks County in record time, courtesy of Vincent's muscle car and his ability to maneuver through expressway traffic in what was becoming a full-blown snowstorm. After getting their bearings concerning the general boundaries of the 195 zip code area, they found themselves in Robeson Township.

They took a two-lane road south. Houses were spread out here, none of them resembling the isolated-looking old farmhouse they sought. After a few minutes of trolling the road, they came upon a man shoveling snow near the street.

The man, perhaps in his late sixties, was shoveling out the apron of his driveway, a driveway that looked more than fifty feet long.

Vincent pulled over on the other side of the street, rolled his window down. Within seconds there was snow in the car.

"Hi," Vincent said.

The man looked up from his chore. It looked like he was wearing every item of clothing he'd ever owned-three coats, two hats, three pairs of gloves. His scarves were knitted, homemade, rainbow colored. He was bearded; his gray hair was in a braid. Former flower child. "Afternoon, young man."

"You didn't shovel that whole thing did you?"

The man laughed. "No, my two grandsons did. They never finish anything though."

Vincent showed him the picture of the farmhouse. "Are you familiar with this place?"

The man moved slowly across the road. He stared at the picture, giving the task its full due. "No. Sorry."

"Did you happen to see two other police detectives come by today? Two women in a Ford Taurus?"

"No, sir," the man said. "Can't say that I did. I'd remember that."

Vincent thought for a moment. He pointed to the crossroad ahead. "Anything up this way?"

"Only thing up there is Double K Auto," he said. "If someone was lost or looking for directions, I imagine they might have pulled in there."

"Thank you sir," Vincent said.

"You are welcome young man. Peace."

"Don't work too hard on this," Vincent called to him, putting the car in gear. "It's only snow. It will be gone by spring."

The man laughed again. "It's a thankless job," he said, walking back across the road. "But I've got karma to spare." DOUBLE K AUTO was a ramshackle, corrugated steel building set back from the road. Derelict cars and auto parts dotted the landscape for a quarter mile in all directions. It looked like a snow-covered topiary of alien beings.

Vincent and Byrne entered the establishment at just after five o'clock.

Inside, at the back of a large grimy lobby, a man stood near the counter, reading Hustler. He made no attempt to hide it or put it away in the face of potential customers. He was in his thirties, greasy blond hair, filthy garage overalls. His nametag read KYLE.

"How ya doin'?" Vincent offered.

Cool reception. Closer to cold. The man didn't say a word.

"I'm good, too," Vincent said. "Thanks for asking." He held up his badge. "I was wondering if-"

"Can't help you."

Vincent froze, badge high. He glanced at Byrne, back to Kyle. He held this position for a few moments, then continued.

"I was wondering if two other police officers might have stopped here earlier today. Two female detectives from Philadelphia."

"Can't help you," the man repeated, going back to his magazine.

Vincent took a series of short, quick breaths, like someone preparing to lift a great weight. He took a step forward, put his badge away, flipped back the hem of his coat. "You're saying that two police officers from Philadelphia did not stop here earlier in the day. Is that correct?"

Kyle screwed up his face, as if he were slightly retarded. "I'm dowwy. Do you hab a heawing pwobwem?"

Vincent flicked a glance at Byrne. He knew that Byrne wasn't too keen on jokes at the expense of the hearing impaired. Byrne kept his cool.

"One last time, while we're still friends," Vincent said. "Did two female detectives from Philadelphia stop here today, looking for a farmhouse? Yes or no?"

"Don't know nothin' about it, sport," Kyle said. "Have a nice night."

Vincent laughed, which at the moment was actually scarier than his growl. He ran a hand through his hair, over his jaw. He looked around the lobby area. His eyes landed on something that caught his interest.

"Kevin," he said.

"What?"

Vincent pointed to a nearby trash can. Byrne looked.

There, on top of a pair a greasy Mopar boxes, sat a business card with the familiar badge logo-raised black type, white card stock. It belonged to Detective Jessica Balzano, Philadelphia Police Department, Homicide Division.

Vincent spun on his heels. Kyle was still standing by the counter, watching. But his magazine was now on the floor. When Kyle realized they weren't leaving he made a move to reach beneath the counter.

At that moment, Kevin Byrne saw something incredible.

Vincent Balzano ran across the room, leapt over the counter, and grabbed the blond man by the throat, slamming him back into a display rack. Oil filters, air filters, and spark plugs flew.

All of this seemed to take place in under a second. Vincent was a blur.

In one smooth move, with his left hand wrapped tightly around Kyle's throat, Vincent drew his weapon and aimed it at a dirt-streaked curtain hanging in the doorway to what was probably a back room. The fabric looked as if it had at one time been a shower curtain, although Byrne doubted that Kyle was too familiar with that concept. The point was, someone was standing behind the curtain. Byrne had seen him too.

"Step out here," Vincent yelled.

Nothing. No movement. Vincent pointed his weapon at the ceiling. He fired a round. The blast was ear-shattering. He pointed the gun back at the curtain.

"Now!"

A few seconds later a man stepped out of the back room, hands out to his sides. He was Kyle's identical twin. His nametag read KEITH.

"Detective?" Vincent asked.

"I'm on him," Byrne replied. He looked at Keith, which was enough. The man was petrified. There was no need for Byrne to draw his weapon. Yet.

Vincent turned his attention fully to Kyle. "Now, you've got about two fuckin' seconds to start talking, Jethro." He put his weapon to Kyle's forehead. "No. Make that one second."

"I don't know what you're-"

"Look into my eyes and tell me I'm not crazy." Vincent tightened his grip on Kyle's throat. The man was turning olive green. "Go ahead."

All things considered, choking a man while expecting him to talk was probably not the best interrogation technique. But right about now Vincent Balzano was not considering all things. Just one.

Vincent shifted his weight and brought Kyle down to the concrete, slamming the air from his lungs. He put a knee into the man's groin.

"I see your lips moving, but I'm not hearing anything." Vincent eased off on the man's throat. Slightly. "Talk. Now."

"They… they were here," Kyle said.

"When?"

"About noon."

"Where did they go?"

"I… I don't know."

Vincent pressed the barrel of his weapon into Kyle's left eye.

"Wait! I really don't know I don't know I don't know!"

Vincent took a deep calming breath. It didn't seem to help. "When they left, which way did they go?"

"South," Kyle managed.

"What's down there?"

"Doug's. Maybe they went there."

"What the fuck is Doug's?"

"Duh-diner."

Vincent withdrew his weapon. "Thuh-thanks, Kyle."

Five minutes later the two detectives drove south. But not before they had searched every square inch of Double K Auto. There were no other signs that Jessica and Nicci had spent time there.