The Stolen Ones Read Free Page A

the street from the original Bookbinder’s. As Jessica ate her cheesesteak she watched in something close to awe as defense lawyers, prosecutors and judges – even a future Pennsylvania supreme court justice – all mingled in the smoky, storied bar, many of them stopping by the table to chat with her father.
    On that day the scheme was set in motion: Michael would be the police officer; Jessica would be the ADA. That was the plan. Theirs would be the South Philly version of
Law & Order.
Peter Giovanni – one of the most decorated officers in the history of the PPD, who eventually retired with the rank of lieutenant – would play the crusty former cop who tended his San Marzano tomatoes in the garden, supplying moral support and pithy wisecracks.
    Everything went according to blueprint, until that horrible day in 1991 when Michael was killed in Kuwait, a Marine fighting in Desert Storm.
    In that instant Michael Giovanni, Jessica’s beautiful brother – her protector, confidante and greatest hero – was gone.
    Jessica recalled sitting with her father the night they learned of Michael’s death, how mightily her father tried not to cry in front of her. A week later, as she knelt next to Michael’s casket, she knew that her dreams of being a lawyer would be put on hold, perhaps for ever, that
she
would be the one to follow in her father’s footsteps. Over the ensuing years she had never regretted her decision to enter the academy, not once, but she knew that if she was ever going to get her law degree, now was the time.
    She wasn’t certain she would even take the bar exam upon completion of her studies, but she knew that, at the very least, she owed it to her brother to try.
    Jessica started her car, glanced at her watch. It was five minutes to noon. She had five minutes to get to the Roundhouse. In Philly traffic. She opened the glove compartment, found a Twix. High calorie, nutrient-free sugar.
    Yes
.
    Candy bar in hand, Detective Jessica Balzano pulled out into the traffic on Broad Street thinking: if God was smiling down on her this day – and she was blessed in so many ways that she couldn’t expect anything else from God, not anytime soon – she would be home and in bed around midnight.
    God wasn’t listening.

3
    When Jessica reached the Roundhouse, the police administration building at Eighth and Race streets, the duty room was all but deserted. Homicide detectives working day work, the shift from seven a.m. to four p.m., were out on the street. The few who remained were working the phones, the fax machine, the computers, or just trying to look busy to the day watch commander, having hit dead ends in their investigations.
    By the time Jessica removed her coat and sat down she saw Sergeant Dana Westbrook walking purposefully across the duty room in her direction. A former Marine, still in her early fifties, Westbrook cut an imposing figure, despite her five-foot-four frame. Since taking over the job as day watch supervisor from the retired Ike Buchanan she had proven herself more than capable in what was, and would most likely always be, a boys’ club. The fact that Dana Westbrook could bench press her own weight plus twenty didn’t hurt.
    As Westbrook got closer, Jessica saw the look on her boss’s face. It was a look that said:
job
.
    No rest for the righteous
, Jessica thought.
    Other than a few loose ends that needed to be clipped and sorted on a murder case she and her partner had just closed, there was nothing on her plate.
    That, it appeared, was about to change.
    ‘Hey, Sarge,’ Jessica said.
    ‘Morning, Jess.’
    Jessica stole a glance at the wall clock. It was technically afternoon. She wondered if Dana Westbrook was taking a shot, or just offering that greeting out of habit. ‘What’s up?’
    Westbrook held up a thin folder, a folder that looked curiously like a binder. The binder – often referred to as the murder book – was the Bible of a homicide investigation. A fresh binder was