Free Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense by Richard Montanari

in all homicide investigations is when key players—spouses, friends, family, co-workers—are informed of the death. Reactions to the news are important. Few people are good enough actors to conceal their true feelings effectively upon receiving such tragic news.
    Frank Wells took the news like a man who had survived a lifetime of tragedy with stony aplomb. He had not cried, or cursed, or railed against the horror of it all. He closed his eyes for a few moments, handed the photo back, and said: “Yes, that’s my daughter.”
    They met in the small, tidy living room. A worn, oval braided rug sat in the center. Early American furniture lined the walls. An ancient color TV console hummed a fuzzy game show, volume low.
    “When did you last see Tessa?” Byrne asked.
    “Friday morning.” Wells removed the oxygen tube from his nose and let the hose drape over the armrest of the recliner in which he sat.
    “What time did she leave?”
    “Just before seven.”
    “Did you speak to her at all during the day?”
    “No.”
    “What time did she usually get home?”
    “Three thirty or so,” Wells said. “Sometimes later when she had band practice. She played the violin.”
    “And she did not come home or call?” Byrne asked.
    “No.”
    “Did Tessa have any brothers or sisters?”
    “Yes,” Wells said. “One brother, Jason. He’s much older. He lives in Waynesburg.”
    “Did you call any of Tessa’s friends?” Byrne asked.
    Wells took a slow, clearly painful breath. “No.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    “Yes. I called the police around eleven on Friday night.”
    Jessica made a note to check on the missing-person report.
    “How did Tessa get to school?” Byrne asked. “Did she take the bus?”
    “Mostly,” Wells said. “She had her own car. We got her the Ford Focus for her birthday. It helped with her errands. But she insisted on paying for her own gas, so she usually took the bus three or four days a week.”
    “Is it a diocese bus or did she take SEPTA?”
    “A school bus.”
    “Where is the pickup?”
    “Over on Nineteenth and Poplar. A few other girls take the bus from there, too.”
    “Do you know what time the bus passes there?”
    “Five after seven,” Wells said with a sad smile. “I know that time well. It was a struggle every morning.”
    “Is Tessa’s car here?” Byrne asked.
    “Yes,” Wells said. “It’s out front.”
    Both Byrne and Jessica made notes.
    “Did she own a rosary, sir?”
    Wells thought for a few seconds. “Yes. She got one from her aunt and uncle for her first communion.” Wells reached over, taking a small, framed photo from the end table, handing it to Jessica. It was a picture of the eight-year-old Tessa clasping a crystal bead rosary in her steepled hands. It was not the rosary she held in death.
    Jessica made a note of this as the game show welcomed a new contestant.
    “My wife, Annie, died six years ago,” Wells said, out of the blue.
    Silence.
    “I’m sorry,” Byrne said.
    Jessica looked at Frank Wells. She saw her own father in those years after her mother had died, smaller in every way except his capacity for sorrow. She glanced at the dining room and envisioned the wordless dinners, heard the scrape of smooth-edged silverware on chipped melamine. Tessa had probably prepared the same sorts of meals for her father that Jessica had: meat loaf with jar gravy, spaghetti on Friday, roast chicken on Sunday. Tessa had almost certainly done the ironing on Saturdays, growing taller each year, eventually standing on phone books instead of milk crates in order to reach the ironing board. Tessa, as had Jessica, had surely learned the wisdom of turning her father’s work pants inside out to iron the pockets flat.
    Now, suddenly, Frank Wells lived alone. Instead of home-cooked leftovers, the refrigerator would be colonized by the half can of soup, the half container of chow mein, the half-eaten deli sandwich. Now Frank Wells would buy the individual serving