back to her before she reached her office door where I knew she would turn to see if I’d been watching her legs.
CHAPTER 11
I worked my way onto Race Street and headed east over the Ben Franklin and into New Jersey. The water in the Delaware River looked steel gray. The heater in the rental was still not caught up and I could imagine how cold the water was running below and the thought made me shiver.
Contrary to widely held and denigrating opinions of the depressed city of Camden, the sky does not grow instantly darker over there. It held the same shade of light shale, but without as many towers and skyscrapers to break up the monotony. I took the Admiral Wilson and spiraled through the next interchange to get on the Marlton Turnpike. From there I used the driving directions Mrs. Mott had read me over the phone. By the time I found the Majestic Ice Arena I was late for my appointment with Colin O’Shea’s ex-wife.
It took another ten minutes to find a parking spot between all the SUVs and minivans. Inside the corrugated metal building the temperature difference was negligible. I could still see my breath as I walked the front aisle between the protective glass of the rink and the rising stands. On the ice was a haphazard spray of tiny hockey players shuffling in various directions and trying to keep their balance with their sticks. I worked my way toward a group of women who were only occasionally interrupting their conversations with a “Good job, Jimmy!” or “That’s OK, Paul. Get up!”
I stood for a full minute in their view and was one step from going up to announce myself to the entire group when she stood and made her way down the stands.
“Mr. Freeman?”
“Janice?” I said, extending my hand. Hers was covered with a knit mitten and I shook it. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a description over the phone so you would know what I looked like.”
“You look like a cop,” she said, and I looked into her face to see if that agitated her.
“With a tan,” she added and tried to smile.
I showed her my ID and P.I. license.
“Should we wait until your son is done?” I said, nodding out to the ice.
“Hell, no. They’ll be out there another forty minutes,” she said and pointed back toward the entrance. “Let’s go have coffee.”
I liked her already.
We sat at a table in a small snack bar area, both of us with our hands wrapped around large Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. Kids were running in and out for pizza and sodas and candy and screeching and laughing and arguing. The chaos didn’t seem to faze her. It was giving me a monumental headache.
“You said you were a friend of Colin’s?” she started.
“We worked District Ten around the same time. He grew up near Eighth and Tasker and my parents were down around Snyder.”
“Eighth and Mountain,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Colin was Eighth and Mountain. My family lived a couple blocks away, on Cross.”
“Ah, South Philly girl,” I said, trying to soften her face. I was guessing mid-thirties. Her hair was still black and her dark eyes had a hardness that appeared to have been earned. She was wearing tasteful makeup in the middle of a school week and had on the reddest lipstick I think I’ve ever seen. It marked the edge of her cup with a heavy stain.
“Janice Carlucci,” she said. “My maiden name. I met Colin when we were kids. I was told to stay away from the Irish so, go figure. I do exactly what my Italian parents say I can’t do.” She shrugged. “Shakespeare. Ya know?”
“I’m familiar,” I said, sipping my coffee, letting her go.
“We got married after he passed the academy. If you’re from the neighborhood, you know. Cop, fireman, your father’s plumbing business. Job for life.”
She was right, I just didn’t like the condescension in her voice.
“It wasn’t exactly what you wanted,” I said.
She shook her head.
“I matured, Mr. Freeman. I saw something on the other side of the river.” She raised her palm.
When she’d taken her mittens off I’d ranked the rock on her finger. It was practically up there with Meagan’s. I’d already noted the expensive, fur-lined coat.
“Colin was stuck between proving himself in South Philly, being the tough Irish cop, or getting the hell out, go to college, be something more. Or, no offense, Mr. Freeman, be something different,” she said.
“He ever take that