Read Online Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense by Richard Montanari - Free Book Online Page B

to her computer and tapping a few keys. In a moment, Tessa Wells’s school records appeared on the screen, along with her personal data. Sister Veronique regarded the screen as if it were an obituary, then hit a key and started the laser printer in the corner of the room.
    “When was the last time you saw her?” Byrne asked Brian Parkhurst.
    Parkhurst paused. “I believe it was Thursday.”
    “Thursday of last week?”
    “Yes,” Parkhurst said. “She stopped by the office to discuss college applications.”
    “What can you tell us about her, Dr. Parkhurst?”
    Brian Parkhurst took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Well, she was very bright. A little on the quiet side.”
    “A good student?”
    “Very,” Parkhurst said. “Carried a 3.8 average if I’m not mistaken.”
    “Was she in school Friday?”
    Sister Veronique tapped a few keys. “No.”
    “What time do classes start?”
    “Seven fifty,” Parkhurst said.
    “And what time do you let out?”
    “Generally around two forty-five,” Sister Veronique said. “But intramural and extracurricular activities can sometimes keep students here until five and six o’clock.”
    “Was she a member of any clubs?”
    Sister Veronique tapped a few more keys. “She’s a member of the Baroque Ensemble. They’re a small classical chamber group. But they only meet every two weeks. There were no rehearsals last week.”
    “Do they meet here on campus?”
    “Yes,” Sister Veronique said.
    Byrne turned his attention back to Dr. Parkhurst. “Anything else you can tell us?”
    “Well, her father is pretty sick,” Parkhurst said. “Lung cancer, I believe.”
    “Is he living at home?”
    “Yes, I believe so.”
    “And her mother?”
    “She’s deceased,” Parkhurst said.
    Sister Veronique handed Byrne the printout listing Tessa Wells’s home address.
    “Do you know who her friends were?” Byrne asked.
    Brian Parkhurst again appeared to think carefully about this before answering. “Not . . . offhand,” Parkhurst said. “Let me ask around.”
    The slight delay in Brian Parkhurst’s reply was not lost on Jessica—and if he was as good as she knew he was, it was not lost on Kevin Byrne, either.
    “We’ll probably be back later today.” Byrne handed Parkhurst a card. “But if you think of anything in the meantime, please give us a call.”
    “I sure will,” Parkhurst said.
    “Thanks for your time,” Byrne said to both of them.
    When they reached the parking lot, Jessica asked: “A little too much cologne for daytime, don’t you think?” Brian Parkhurst had been wearing Polo Blue. A lot of it.
    “Just a bit,” Byrne replied. “Now why would a man over thirty need to smell that good around teenaged girls?”
    “Good question,” Jessica said.
     
    T HE WELLS HOUSE WAS A SHABBY TRINITY on Twentieth Street, near Parrish, a straight-through row house on the sort of typical North Philadelphia street where the working-class residents try to differentiate their homes from their neighbors’ by the little details—the window boxes, the carved lintels, the decorative numbers, the pastel awnings. The Wells house had the look of a house maintained out of necessity, rather than any sense of vanity or pride of place.
    Frank Wells was in his late fifties, a lumbering, raw-boned man with thinning gray hair that fell into his light blue eyes. He wore a patched flannel shirt and sun-faded khakis, along with a pair of hunter-green corduroy house slippers. His hands were dotted with liver spots, and he had the gaunt, spectral bearing of a man who had recently lost a lot of weight. His glasses had thick, black plastic frames, the type worn by math teachers in the 1960s. He also wore a nasal tube that led to a small oxygen tank on a stand next to his chair. Frank Wells, they would learn, had late-stage emphysema.
    When Byrne had showed him the photo of his daughter, Wells had not reacted. Or rather, he had reacted by not visibly reacting. A crucial moment