Play dead

THIRTY-FOUR

Jessica called Byrne on his cell phone at 7:00 am. She'd been up since five, had already gone for her run, had already ingested a day's worth of caffeine. Byrne was having breakfast in Old City. He sounded fresh. This was good. She need him to be fresh. She felt anything but.

"We're going to have preliminaries on Monica Renzi at around 10:30," he said.

"Who lit the fire?"

"It came from on high. Zeus-high. Someone is killing runaways and the new administration isn't going to stand for it." "I'll see you then." "I think we should-"

She closed her phone with a snap. She knew she had cut him off. She held the phone in her hand, eyes closed, waiting for it to ring, praying it wouldn't. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. A minute. Nothing.

A half hour later, her daughter fed and lunch-bagged and scrubbed and on the bus, she slipped into her car and headed to Elkins Park. She had no idea what she was going to say when she got there.

Enrique Galvez was tall and slender, in his late twenties. He had dark hair to his shoulders, a model's cheekbones, full lips. He wore a black T-shirt, no logo or message, and worn, frayed, knee-holed Levi's. He was barefoot.

When Jessica pulled up in front of his house, Enrique was trimming a large hydrangea, deadheading the blooms. He was wearing white earbuds, so it appeared that he did not hear her pull into the driveway.

Jessica got out of the car. When Enrique turned and saw her, he put his clippers into his pocket, removed the earphones.

"Mr. Galvez?"

"Yes," he replied. "You are with the police?"

Man, Jessica thought, then wondered. Is it that obvious? She produced her ID. "I am," she said. Her gold shield flashed brightly in the morning sun. "I just need a few moments of your time."

Enrique Galvez looked at the ground for a moment, at his flowers. The vibrant bed at his feet was ablaze with color, with life. He looked up. "I have already spoken to the two detectives. It was a Miss Malone and a Mr…"

"Shepherd," Jessica said. "I know. I have just a few follow-up questions." Now she was breaking procedure. Officially. She couldn't seem to stop herself.

"I understand," Enrique said.

The scene froze. Neither spoke. In the near distance Jessica heard a baby crying. Two doors down, perhaps. "May I come in?"

Enrique returned to the moment. "Of course," he said. "Where are my manners? Forgive me." He walked up the steps, onto the porch, opened the screen door wide. "Please."

The small living room was tidy, decorated in a masculine southwestern style, in shades of brown, rust, cream, and jade. On the walls were well-framed watercolors of various landmarks in Philadelphia, including City Hall, Boathouse Row, Independence Hall, the Betsy Ross house. A parakeet chirped in a cage in the kitchen.

"Who is the artist?" Jessica asked.

"Oh," Enrique said, coloring slightly. "I am the artist. I painted these. Although it was a long time ago."

"They are beautiful," Jessica said.

"Thank you," Enrique replied. He seemed to be humble about his talent. "May I offer you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

Enrique gestured toward the couch. "Please sit down."

"I know this is terribly difficult for you," she said. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

Jessica sat down, adjusted herself on the chair, extracted her notebook. A personal notebook. "When was the last time you saw your sister?"

"As I told the other detectives, we had dinner," Enrique said. "On the day she went missing. At the Palm."

"It was just the two of you?"

"Yes."

"Did Eve say or do anything out of the ordinary?"

Enrique shook his head. "The only thing ordinary about my sister was her potential for the extraordinary."

"Did she mention anything about a case she was working on?"

Enrique thought for a few moments. "Eve never talked much to me about her work. She knew that I found such things quite… upsetting."

Jessica shifted tack. "You are originally from Peru?" she asked.

"I am. I was born in a small village near Machu Picchu, as was my sister. We were three and five years old when we came here."

"You came with your parents?"

A moment's hesitation, Jessica noticed. A family problem? Enrique glanced out the front window. Jessica followed his gaze. Across the street, a pair of six-year-old girls-clumsy and stick-figured and giggling in their matching lime-green little-girl bikinis-ran back and forth through a sprinkler.

"Yes," he finally said. "My father was an engineer. He worked for TelComCo in Peru. In 1981 they gave him the opportunity to come to America, to Philadelphia, and he took it. He brought his family soon after."

"Did you ever hear from your sister in all the time she was missing?"

Enrique shook his head. "I did not."

It appeared Enrique wanted to continue. Jessica remained silent.

"For these past two months I wondered, of course," he said. "I questioned. And yet it is the kind of thing you know, yes?"

Jessica nodded, despite her best efforts not to.

"It is the kind of thing you know," he repeated. "But still, always, you hope it is not true. The hope is something that burns inside of you, a small flame that fights the darkness of what you know in your heart."

"I'm so sorry," Jessica said. She was now afraid the conversation was slipping away. She put her notebook away, glanced once more around the room. "Is there anything else you can think of that might help?"

"Well, I have not touched her apartment. The other detectives were there yesterday, I believe."

"Would it be okay if I stopped by?" Jessica knew she would definitely and irretrievably cross the line if she did this.

"Yes, of course." He crossed the room, opened a drawer, pulled out a single key. He wrote down an address on a small pad, handed both to her. "You can just leave the key there. One day, one day soon, I will…"

Enrique stopped. His eyes began to rim with tears.

"I understand," Jessica said, knowing her words were inadequate. "Thank you."

Five minutes later, as Jessica backed into the street, she realized that somehow, in some way, this little visit was going to come back and haunt her. If Ike Buchanan found out that she had come here to talk to a victim's brother without logging the interview, or clearing it with the primary detectives on the case, she would get her ears boxed, or worse. No detective liked an interloper on their patch. Homicide detectives especially.

As she drove away she turned to look at the small house one last time. Before she reached the corner she saw that the porch light was on. It was probably habit, she thought, one that Enrique Galvez was not ready to break.

A small flame that fights the darkness of what you know in your heart.

Enrique Galvez was still waiting for his sister.