Free Richard Montanari by The Echo Man

morning, and Robles's
mother said Robles didn't come home last night. She said his bed is still
made.'
        'This
guy has two bodies on him and he lives with his mother?'
        'That
does have a little bit of a Norman Bates vibe to it, now that you mention it.'
        'We
don't really need him to indict him, do we?' The question was rhetorical. The
DA, as the saying went, could indict a ham sandwich. The sandwich did not need
to be present.
        'No,'
Drummond said. 'But the jury is hearing another case today. That triple at the
Fontana.'
        The
Fontana was a recently opened luxury condominium in Northern Liberties, a
100-million-dollar renovation project that had taken more than four years to complete.
Three people had been shot, gangland style, in one of the units. It turned out
that one of the victims was a former debutante who'd had a secret life that
involved exotic dancing, drug dealing, and trysts with local sports
celebrities. It was about as lurid as it got, which meant the story went viral
within hours.
        As of
that morning, police had seven suspects in custody. The singing at the
Roundhouse would commence shortly. Which meant that players for the Sixers,
Eagles, Phillies, and Flyers were all sweating big time.
        'I've
got some serious time on this,' Byrne said. He knew that he had to play the
game, and he was as good as anybody at it. Probably better.
        'I
know, Kevin. And I apologize. The Fontana case is high priority, and you know
how things go. People forget, people run, people mysteriously disappear.
Especially with a drug-homicide case.'
        Byrne
understood. The passions on a shocking and bloody case such as the Fontana ran
high.
        'What
are we looking at?' he asked.
        Drummond
checked his BlackBerry. 'The jury will be back on Robles in three days when
they meet again. I promise.'
        It
might not matter. Byrne knew that Philadelphia had a way of solving its own
problems.
        'Thanks
for meeting with me, Michael.'
        'Not
a problem. Are you coming to my party?'
        'Wouldn't
miss it.'
        They
shook hands again. 'Don't worry about a thing, Kevin. Not a thing. Eddie Robles
is history.'
        Byrne
just stared, impassive. 'Keep me posted.'
     
        Byrne
thought about heading to the Roundhouse, but he wasn't expected for a while. He
had to think. He drove to York Street, parked across from the alley down which
Eduardo Robles had walked.
         Eddie
Robles is missing .
        Byrne
got out of the car, looked up and down the street. A half- block away he found
what he was looking for, something that he had not noticed before.
        There,
high above the sidewalk, glancing indifferently down at the street, was a
police camera.

 
        

Chapter 8
        
        The
Homicide Unit at the Roundhouse was a study in controlled bedlam. There were
ninety detectives in the unit, working three shifts, seven days a week. The
first floor was a winding labyrinthine warren of half-round rooms which made it
a real challenge to place desks, file cabinets, computer tables - in other
words, everything that might be needed in an office. Not that anyone went out
of their way to give even a simple nod to the concept of decor in this place.
        But
there was a system, and that system worked. Philly Homicide had one of the highest
solve rates of any homicide division in the country.
        At
noon, with most of the detectives at lunch or on the street, Jessica looked up
to see Dana Westbrook crossing the room.
        Sergeant
Dana Westbrook was the new day-work supervisor, taking over for the retired Ike
Buchanan. In her late forties, Westbrook was the daughter of a retired police
inspector, and had been raised in Kensington. She was a Marine veteran of
Desert Storm.
        At
first glance she was not the most intimidating figure. With her bobbed cut,
just turning gray, and measuring in at just over five-four, she