Read Online Broken Angels by Richard Montanari - Free Book Online Page A

on the back of the door. This was a young woman’s apartment, early days. There were no pictures on the walls, no posters. There were none of the frilly accoutrement one might expect in the bedroom of a young woman. Jessica thought about Kristina, standing right where she was standing. Kristina, considering her new life in her new home, all the possibilities that are yours when you are twenty-four. Kristina, imagining a room full of Thomasville or Henredon furniture. New rugs, new lamps, new bedclothes. New life.
Jessica crossed the room, opened the closet door. There were just a few dresses and sweaters in garment bags, all fairly new, all good quality. There was certainly nothing like the dress Kristina wore when she was found on the riverbank. Nor were there any baskets or bags of just laundered clothes.
Jessica took a step back, trying to catch the vibe. As a detective, how many closets had she looked in? How many drawers? How many glove compartments and trunks and hope chests and purses? How many lives had Jessica run through like a trespasser?
On the floor of the closet was a cardboard box. She opened it. There were tissue-wrapped figurines of glass animals—turtles mostly, squirrels, a few birds. There were also Hummels: miniatures of rosy-cheeked children playing the violin, the flute, the piano. At the bottom was a beautiful wooden music box. It looked to be walnut, and had a pink and white ballerina inlaid on top. Jessica took it out, opened it. There was no jewelry in the box, but the song it played was “The Sleeping Beauty Waltz.” The notes echoed in the nearly empty room, a sad melody charting the end of a young life.
    the detectives met back at the Roundhouse, compared notes. “The van belonged to a man named Harold Sima,” Josh Bontrager
said. He had spent the afternoon tracking down information on the vehicles at the Manayunk crime scene. “Mr. Sima lived in Glenwood, but
unfortunately met an untimely death by way of a fall down the stairs in
September of this year. He was eighty-six. His son confessed to leaving
the van in that lot a month ago. He said he couldn’t afford to have it
towed and junked. The Chevrolet was the property of a woman named
Estelle Jesperson, late of Powelton.”
“Late as in deceased?” Jessica asked.
“Late as in deceased,” Bontrager said. “She died of a massive coronary three weeks ago. Her son-in-law left the car in that lot. He works
in East Falls.”
“Did you run checks on everyone?” Byrne asked.
“I did,” Bontrager said. “Nothing.”
Byrne briefed Ike Buchanan on what they had so far, and the possi-
ble direction of further inquiries. As they prepared to leave for the day,
Byrne asked Bontrager a question that had probably circled him all day. “So where are you from, Josh?” Byrne asked. “Originally.” “I’m from a small town near Bechtelsville,” he said.
Byrne nodded. “You grew up on a farm?”
“ Oh, yeah. My family is Amish.”
The word slammed around the duty room like a ricocheting .22 bullet. At least ten detectives heard it, and got immediately interested in
whatever piece of paper was in front of them. It took every ounce of her
power for Jessica not to look at Byrne. An Amish homicide cop. She’d
been down the shore and back, as they say, but this was a new one. “Your family is Amish?” Byrne asked.
“They are,” Bontrager said. “I decided a long time ago not to join
the church, though.”
Byrne just nodded.
“You’ve never had Bontrager Special Preserves?” Bontrager asked. “Never had the pleasure.”
“It’s very good. Damson plum, strawberry rhubarb. We even make
a great peanut butter schmier. ”
More silence. The room became a morgue full of tight-lipped corpses
in suits.
“Nothing like a good schmier, ” Byrne said. “My motto.” Bontrager laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ve heard all the jokes.
I can take it.”
“There are Amish jokes?” Byrne asked.
“Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s