Broken Angels

40

Sophie Balzano was clearly psychic when it came to Christmas presents. She didn't even need to shake the package. Like a miniature Carnac the Magnificent, she could place the gift against her forehead, and within seconds, by some little-girl magic, she seemed to be able to divine its contents. She clearly had a future in law enforcement. Or maybe Customs.

"This is shoes," she said.

She sat on the living-room floor, at the foot of the huge Christmas tree. Next to her sat her grandfather.

"I'm not telling," Peter Giovanni said.

Sophie then picked up one of the fairy-tale books Jessica had gotten from the library. She began to flip through it.

Jessica watched her daughter, thinking: Find me a clue in there, sweetie.

Peter Giovanni had spent nearly thirty years on the Philadelphia police force. He had been awarded many commendations, retiring with the rank of lieutenant.

Peter had lost his wife to breast cancer more than two decades earlier, and he had buried his only son Michael, killed in Kuwait in 1991. Through it all he had identified himself as one thing, had one face that he presented to the world, one banner held high-that of policeman. And although he feared for his daughter every day, as any father would, his deepest sense of pride in life was the fact that his daughter was a homicide detective.

In his early sixties, Peter Giovanni was still active in the community, as well as in a number of police department charities. He was not a big man, but he carried a power that came from within. He still worked out a few times a week. He was still a clotheshorse, too. Today he wore an expensive black cashmere turtleneck and dove gray wool slacks. His shoes were Santoni loafers. With his ice gray hair, he looked like he had stepped off the pages of GQ.

He smoothed his granddaughter's hair, stood up, sat down next to Jessica on the sofa. Jessica was threading popcorn for a garland.

"What do you think of the tree?" he asked.

Every year, Peter and Vincent took Sophie on a drive to a Christmas- tree farm in the appropriately named Tabernacle, New Jersey, where they would cut down their own tree. Usually one of Sophie's choosing. Every year the tree seemed taller.

"Any bigger and we're going to have to move," Jessica said.

Peter smiled. "Hey. Sophie's getting bigger. The tree has to keep pace."

Don't remind me, Jessica thought.

Peter picked up a needle and thread, began to make his own popcorn garland. "Any leads on the case?" he asked.

Although Jessica was not investigating the Walt Brigham murder, and had three open files on her desk, she knew exactly what her father meant by "the case." Whenever a cop was killed, all police officers, active and retired, all across the country, took it personally.

"Nothing yet," Jessica said.

Peter shook his head. "Damn shame. There's a special place in hell for cop killers."

Cop killer. Jessica's gaze immediately went to Sophie, who was still camped by the tree, pondering a small box wrapped in red foil. Every time Jessica thought about the words "cop killer" she realized that both of this little girl's parents were targets every day of the week. Was it fair to Sophie? At times like these, in the warmth and safety of their home, she wasn't sure.

Jessica got up, stepped into the kitchen. Everything was under control. The gravy was simmering; the lasagna noodles were al dente, salad was made, wine was decanted. She took the ricotta out of the refrigerator.

The phone rang. She froze, hoping that it would only ring once, that the person on the other end would realize they had dialed the wrong number and hang up. A second passed. Then another.

Yes.

Then it rang again.

Jessica looked at her father. He looked back. They were both cops. It was Christmas Eve. They knew.