Richard Montanari (14 page)

    The
woman took a long drag on her cigarette. Jessica noted that the nicotine stains
on her fingers reached down to her knuckles. She blew out the smoke, and with
it her answer. 'Barely.'

    'When
was the last time you saw him?'

    'Why?'

    'Right
now I just need you to answer the question, ma'am. I'll explain why in a
moment.'

    Another
drag. Jessica estimated that, if they were going to get through the basic
questions at this pace, Sharon Beckman would go through a pack and a half.
'Yesterday afternoon.'

    'About
what time?'

    Another
sigh. 'About three o'clock.'

    'And
where was this?'

    'It
was at the MGM Grand in Vegas. I'm a dancer there.'

    Byrne
stared, the woman stared. She rolled her eyes.

    'It
was right about where you're standing,' she said. 'I think he said something
like "Clean the kitchen, you lazy fucking bitch." Real Hallmark
moment.'

    The
wind picked up again, blowing a thin cold rain across the porch. Byrne moved a
few feet to his right, making sure that Sharon Beckman caught the rain directly
in her face.

    'Was
he alone at the time?'

    'Yeah,'
Sharon Beckman said, stepping back a foot. 'For once.'

    'And
he did not come home last night?'

    The
woman snorted. 'Why break with tradition?'

    Byrne
pressed on. 'Does anyone else live here?'

    'Just
my son.'

    My
son,
Jessica thought.
Not
our
son.

    'How
old is he?'

    The
woman smiled. Her teeth were the same color as her tobacco- stained knuckles.
'Why, officer. That would be giving away my age.' When Byrne didn't respond,
didn't budge, didn't seem to be weak- kneed by the woman's coquettish charms,
she repositioned her scowl, hit her cigarette again, and said, 'He's nineteen.
I had him when I was six.'

    Byrne
made the note. He then asked her what the kid's name was. She told him. Jason
Crandall.

    'Where
does your husband work?'

    
'Hey
.
You writing a fucking book here? My autobiography, maybe?'

    'Ma'am,
we're just trying to—'

    'No. What
you need to do is tell me what this is about or we're done here. I know my
rights.'

    Jessica
knew the notification was coming, so she watched the woman's face as she took
in the news. You could tell a lot from the initial reaction to the news that a
loved one has been killed. Or even one not so loved.

    'Mrs.
Beckman, your husband was murdered yesterday.'

    The
woman drew a sharp intake of breath, but other than that betrayed nothing.
Except, perhaps, for a slight shake in her hands, which deposited a long
cigarette ash on the floor. She stared out at the street for a moment, turned
back. 'How did he get it?'

    
Get
it,
Jessica thought. Most people said 'What?' or 'Oh my God' or 'No!' or
something like that.
How did he get it
? No, not too many people ask how
the deceased became deceased. That usually came a bit later in the
conversation.

    'May
we come in, ma'am?' Byrne said. 'It's getting a little nasty out here.'

    The
news had undone the woman's resolve, as well as her animosity. Without saying a
word, she opened the door and stepped to the side.

    They
entered the house, a standard porchfront-style row house, large by Philly
standards, probably measuring around 1500 square feet on three floors. It was
quickly degenerating, already long past its sell- by date.

    The
living room was directly to the left, with a hallway leading to a kitchen and a
stairway at the back of the house. The walls were painted a cheerless, faded
baby blue. The furniture was worn, mismatched, spring-shocked. A half-eaten
Weight Watchers dinner sat on a coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray.
Cat hair covered nearly every surface. The place smelled like microwave
popcorn.

    Sharon
Beckman did not offer them a seat. Jessica would have passed on that offer
anyway.

    'Ma'am,'
Byrne said. 'We're here because your husband was a victim of homicide. We're
trying to find out who did this, and bring that person to justice.'

    'Yeah?
Well, look in the fucking mirror,' the woman spat.

    'I
understand your anger,' Byrne continued. 'But if there's anything you can think
of that might help us, we would really appreciate it.'

    The
woman lit another Salem off the first cigarette, held them both for a few
moments, one in each hand.

    'Can
you think of anyone who might have had a problem with your husband?' Byrne
asked. 'Someone he owed money to? Someone with whom he had a business problem?'

    The
woman took a full five seconds to answer. Maybe she did have something to hide.

    'Do I
need a lawyer?' Sharon Beckman asked. She butted out the short cigarette.

    'Have
you done anything wrong, Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked. It was Cop Speak 101.
Standard across the world when police arrive at the lawyer moment.

    'Plenty,'
she said.

    
Wrong
answer,
Jessica thought. The woman was trying to be cute, but she didn't
realize that a picture was being painted, and every stroke mattered.

    'Well,
then, I can't answer your question,' Byrne said. 'If you feel the need for
counsel at this time, by all means call your attorney. I
can
tell you
that you are not suspected of anything. You are a witness, and a very important
witness. All we need to do is ask you a few questions. The more you tell us,
the likelier it will be that we can find the person who did this to your
husband.'

    Jessica
made another quick perusal of the room. There were no photographs of the
Beckmans on the mantel over the bricked-in fireplace, no soft-focus wedding day
portraits in tacky gold-painted frames.

    'If
you'll just bear with us a little longer,' Byrne continued, 'we'll get the
information we need, and we'll leave you to your thoughts and your
arrangements.'

    Sharon
Beckman just stared. Byrne led her through the rest of the standard questions,
giving her the standard assurances. He concluded by asking her if she had a
photograph of her husband.

    While
Sharon Beckman was in the hallway, going through a legal- sized cardboard box,
looking for the photograph, the front door opened.

    The
kid who entered looked younger than nineteen. Stringy blond hair, surfer cool,
hooded, stoned eyes. When he saw Byrne he must have figured him for a cop, and
he shoved his right hand deep into his baggy shorts. Dope pocket.

    'How
ya doin?' the kid mumbled.

    'Good,
thanks,' Byrne said. 'Are you Jason?'

    The
kid looked up, shocked, like there was no way that Byrne could have possibly
gotten this information. 'Yeah.' Barely audible. The kid leaned back on his
heels, as if that might increase the distance between them. Jessica could smell
the marijuana on his clothes from ten feet away.

    'Kenny's
dead,' Sharon Beckman said, walking back into the room, a pair of old snapshots
in her hand. She handed them to Jessica.

    Jason
stared at his mother, blinking. It was as if the words hadn't yet reached his
brain. 'Dead?'

    'Yeah.
Like in not alive anymore?'

    Jessica
looked at the kid. No reaction.

    Over
the next few minutes Byrne asked Jason the basic questions, got the expected answers.
Jason said he had not seen his stepfather in more than three days.

    'Once
again, we're sorry for your loss,' Byrne said to them both, putting away his
notebook. He dropped a pair of business cards on the cluttered coffee table.
'If you think of anything that might help us, please call.'

    The
temperature had dropped a few degrees since they had entered the Beckman house.
The rain continued, getting colder. For the first time that year, it felt as if
it might snow.

    'What's
up, Josh?' Byrne asked.

    'Have
you made notification yet?'

    'Just
did. What do you have?'

    'I
ran Kenneth Beckman,' Bontrager said. 'A couple of things jumped out.'

    'Such
as?'

    'Well,
at one time he was a person of interest.'

    Bontrager
meant that the deceased had been looked at by the police for some sort of
crime.

    'What
was the job?' Jessica asked.

    'A
homicide.'

    Jessica
felt her pulse kick up a notch. 'This guy was looked at for a murder? When was
this?'

    '2002.'

    'How
far did the investigation go?'

    'They
had him in, but I guess he didn't roll,' Bontrager said. 'The detective working
the case kept an eye on the guy for a few years, made a few more notes, but
then it went cold. Nothing in the file since '06.'

    'Who
was the victim?'

    Bontrager
pulled out his notebook. 'A nineteen-year-old girl named Antoinette Chan. Cause
of death was multiple blunt-force trauma. Weapon was a claw hammer found at the
scene. The weapon had been wiped clean of prints.'

    'What
was the date?' Jessica asked.

    Bontrager
flipped a few pages. 'March 21, 2002.'

    A
cold finger traced a path along Jessica's spine. It was the date that the old
codgers had mentioned earlier. She shot a look at Byrne, who also seemed
transfixed by the information.

    'I'm
going to take a ride over to Record Storage, get the whole story,' Bontrager
said.

    'We'll
do it,' Byrne said. 'Check out the next of kin in the Chan family, see where
they are, who they are. If they held Beckman responsible they may be worth
looking at.'

    'No
problem.'

    Josh
Bontrager got into the car, drove away, a stone-faced Dennis Stansfield in the
passenger seat.

    'What
do you think?' Jessica asked.

    Byrne
took a few moments to answer. He absently ran a finger over the small V-shaped scar
located above his right eye, a keloid souvenir of the time he had been grazed
by a bullet years ago. Jessica knew this meant the wheels were turning.

    'I
think we need to see that original file.' He looked at his watch. 'But first I
want to have another word with the lovely and talented Mrs. Beckman.' He looked
back at Jessica. 'Funny she didn't mention any of this.'

    'Right.
When I asked her if she knew who might have done this and she said "Look
in the fucking mirror" I didn't really get it. Now I do. She blames the
police.'

    'What
a rarity,' Byrne said. 'And she seemed so nice.'

    'Real
debutante,' Jessica said. 'I'll run checks on her and the stoned kid. See where
they were and what they were doing in March '02.'

    'I'll
meet you at Record Storage,' Byrne said. 'Call me if she has any wants or
warrants. I don't care if Sharon Beckman did just lose her husband. I'd love to
toss her in a cage for a while.'

    'Oh,
please,' Jessica said. 'You just like putting women in handcuffs.'