21
THE MARINE UNIT of the Philadelphia Police Department had been in operation for more than 150 years, its charter having evolved over time from one of assisting the commerce of marine traffic up and down the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers to one of patrol, recovery, and rescue. In the 1950s the unit added diving to its duty roster, and since that time had become one of the elite aquatic divisions in the nation.
Essentially, the Marine Unit was an extension and supplement to the PPD patrol force whose job it was to respond to any and all water-related emergencies, as well as recoveries of persons, property, and evidence from the water.
They had begun dragging the river at first light, starting at an area just south of the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. The Schuylkill River was murky, with no visibility from the surface. The process would be slow and methodical, with divers working a grid along the banks in fifty-foot segments.
By the time Jessica arrived on the scene at just after eight, they had cleared a two-hundred-foot section. She found Byrne standing on the bank, silhouetted against the dark water. He had his cane with him. Jessica’s heart nearly broke. She knew he was a proud man, and a concession to weakness—any weakness—was hard. She made her way down to the river, a pair of coffees in hand.
“Good morning,” Jessica said, handing Byrne a cup.
“Hey,” he said. He hoisted the cup. “Thanks.”
“Anything?”
Byrne shook his head. He put his coffee on a bench, lit a cigarette, glanced at the bright red matchbook. It was from the Rivercrest Motel. He held it up. “If we don’t find anything, I think we should take another run at this dump’s manager.”
Jessica thought about Karl Stott. She didn’t like him for the murder, but she didn’t think he was telling the full truth, either. “Think he’s holding out?”
“I think he has a hard time remembering things,” Byrne said. “On purpose.”
Jessica looked out over the water. Here, on this gentle bend of the Schuylkill River, it was hard to reconcile what happened just a few blocks away at the Rivercrest Motel. If she was right about her hunch—and there was an overwhelming chance she was not—she wondered how such a beautiful place as this could host such horror. The trees were in full bloom; the water gently rocked the boats at the dock. She was just about to respond when her two-way radio crackled to life.
“Yeah.”
“Detective Balzano?”
“I’m here.”
“We found something.”
THE CAR WAS a 1996 Saturn, submerged in the river a quarter mile from the Marine Unit’s own mini station on Kelly Drive. The station was only manned during daywork so, under cover of darkness, no one would have seen someone driving or pushing the car into the Schuylkill. The car had no plates on it. They would run it off the VIN, the vehicle identification number, providing it was still in the car and intact.
When the car breached the surface of the water, all eyes on the riverbank turned to Jessica. Thumbs-up all around. She found Byrne’s eyes. In them, she saw respect, and no small measure of admiration. It meant everything.
THE KEY WAS still in the ignition. After taking a number of photographs, a CSU officer removed it, opened the trunk. Terry Cahill and half a dozen detectives crowded around the car.
What they saw inside would live with them for a very long time.
The woman in the trunk had been destroyed. She had been stabbed repeatedly and, because of her time submerged in the water, most of the smaller wounds had puckered and closed. The larger wounds—a few in particular on the woman’s stomach and thighs—oozed a brackish brown liquid.
Because she had been in the trunk of the car, and not fully exposed to the elements, her body was not covered with debris. This might make the medical examiner’s job a little easier. Philadelphia was bounded by two large rivers; the ME’s office had a good deal of experience with floaters.
The woman was nude, positioned on her back, her arms out to the sides, her head turned to the left. The stab wounds were too numerous to count at the scene. The cuts were clean, indicating that no animals or river life had been at her.
Jessica forced herself to look at the victim’s face. Her eyes were open, shocked with red. Open, but totally void of expression. Not fear, not anger, not sorrow. Those were emotions for the living.
Jessica thought about the original scene in Psycho, the way the camera backed up from a close-up of Janet Leigh’s face, how pretty and intact the actress’s face had looked in that shot. She looked at the young woman in the trunk of this car and thought about what a difference reality makes. No makeup artist here. This was what death really looked like.
The two detectives gloved up.
“Look,” Byrne said.
“What?”
Byrne pointed to the waterlogged newspaper on the right side of the trunk. It was a copy of the Los Angeles Times. He gently opened the paper with a pencil. Inside were wadded-up rectangles of paper.
“What is that, fake money?” Byrne asked. Bunched up inside the paper were a few stacks of what looked like photocopied hundred-dollar bills.
“Yeah,” Jessica said.
“Oh, this is great,” Byrne said.
Jessica leaned in, looked a little more closely. “How much do you want to bet there’s forty thousand dollars in funny money in there?” she asked.
“I’m not following,” Byrne said.
“In Psycho, Janet Leigh’s character steals forty grand from her boss. She buys a Los Angeles newspaper and stashes the money inside. In the movie it’s the Los Angeles Tribune, but that paper’s defunct.”
Byrne stared at her for a few seconds. “How the hell do you know this?”
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
“The Internet,” he said. He leaned over, poked at the phony money again, shook his head. “This guy’s a real fucking piece of work.”
At this point, Tom Weyrich, the deputy medical examiner, arrived with his photographer. The detectives stood back and let Dr. Weyrich in.
As Jessica pulled off her gloves and breathed in the fresh air of a new day, she felt pretty good about her hunch paying off. This was no longer about the gauzy specter of a murder committed in two dimensions on a television screen, the ethereal notion of a crime.
They had a body. They had a homicide.
They had a case.
LITTLE JAKE’S NEWSSTAND was a fixture on Filbert Street. Little Jake sold all the local papers and magazines, as well as the Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, Erie, and Allentown papers. In addition, he carried a selection of out-of-state dailies and a selection of adult magazines, discreetly displayed behind him, and covered with squares of cardboard. It was one of the few places in Philadelphia where the Los Angeles Times was for sale over the counter.
Nick Palladino went with the recovered Saturn and the CSU team. Jessica and Byrne interviewed Little Jake while Terry Cahill canvassed the immediate area up and down Filbert.
Little Jake Polivka had gotten his nickname due to the fact that he was somewhere in the neighborhood of six three and three hundred pounds. He was always slightly stooped over inside the kiosk. With his bushy beard, long hair, and hunched posture, he reminded Jessica of the Hagrid character in the Harry Potter movies. She had always wondered why Little Jake simply didn’t buy or build a bigger kiosk, but had never asked.
“Do you have any regulars who buy the Los Angeles Times?” Jessica asked.
Little Jake thought for a few moments. “Not that I can think of. I only get the Sunday edition, and only four of them at that. Not a big seller.”
“Do you get them on the day they’re published?”
“No. I get them maybe two or three days late.”
“The date we’re interested in was from two weeks ago. Can you remember who you might have sold the paper to?”
Little Jake stroked his beard. Jessica noticed there were crumbs in it, remnants of this morning’s breakfast. At least, she assumed it was this morning’s. “Now that you mention it, a guy did come by and ask for it a few weeks ago. I was out of the paper at the time, but I’m pretty sure I told him when they were coming in. If he came back and bought one, I wasn’t here. My brother runs the shop two days a week now.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?” Byrne asked.
Little Jake shrugged. “Hard to remember. I see a lot of people here. And it’s usually just this much.” Little Jake squared his hands into a rectangular shape, like a movie director, framing the opening in his kiosk.
“Anything you can remember would be very helpful.”
“Well, as I recall he was about as ordinary as you can get. Ball cap, sunglasses, maybe a dark blue jacket.”
“What kind of cap?”
“Flyers, I think.”
“Any markings on the jacket? Logos?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Do you remember his voice? Any accent?”
Little Jake shook his head. “Sorry.”
Jessica made her notes. “Do you remember enough about him to talk to a sketch artist?”
“Sure!” Little Jake said, clearly animated over the prospect of being part of a real-life investigation.
“We’ll arrange it.” She handed Little Jake a card. “In the meantime, if you think of anything, or if you see this guy again, give us a call.”
Little Jake handled the card with reverence, as if she had handed him a Larry Bowa rookie card. “Wow. Just like on Law and Order.”
Exactly, Jessica thought. Except on Law & Order they usually solved everything in about an hour. Less, when you cut out the commercials.
JESSICA, BYRNE, AND Terry Cahill sat in Interview A. The photocopied money and issue of the Los Angeles Times were at the lab. A sketch of the man Little Jake described was in the works. The car was on its way to the lab garage. It was that downtime between the discovery of the first concrete lead and the first forensic report.
Jessica looked at the floor, found the piece of cardboard Adam Kaslov had been nervously toying with. She picked it up, started twisting it and untwisting it, finding that it was indeed therapeutic.
Byrne took out a matchbook, turned it over and over in his hands. This was his therapy. You couldn’t smoke anywhere in the Roundhouse. The three investigators considered the day’s events in silence.
“Okay, who the hell are we looking for here?” Jessica finally asked, more as a rhetorical question, due to the anger that had begun to roil inside her, fueled by the image of the woman in the trunk of the car.
“You mean, why did he do it, right?” Byrne asked.
Jessica considered this. In their line of work, the who and the why were so closely linked. “Okay. I’ll settle for why,” she said. “I mean, is this just a case of someone trying to be famous? Is this an instance of a guy just trying to get on the news?”
Cahill shrugged. “Hard to say. But if you spend any time at all with the folks from Behavioral Science, you know that ninety-nine percent of cases like this go way deeper than that.”
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked.
“I mean it takes a hell of a profound psychosis to do something like this. So deep that you could find yourself sitting next to the killer and never know it. This kind of stuff can be buried big time.”
“When we ID the vic, we’ll know a lot more,” Byrne said. “Let’s just hope it’s personal.”
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked again.
“If it’s personal, it’s going to end here.”
Jessica knew that Kevin Byrne was of the shoe-leather school of investigation. You hit the street, you question, you intimidate the lowlifes, you get answers. He did not discount the academics. It just wasn’t his style.
“You mentioned Behavioral Science,” Jessica said to Cahill. “Don’t tell my boss, but I’m not sure exactly what they do.” She had gotten her degree in criminal justice, but it didn’t encompass much from the field of criminal psychology.
“Well, primarily they study behavior and motivation, mostly in the area of training and research,” Cahill said. “It’s a far cry from the excitement of The Silence of the Lambs, though. Most of the time it’s pretty dry, clinical stuff. They study gang violence, stress management, community policing, crime analysis.”
“They must see the worst of the worst,” Jessica said.
Cahill nodded. “When the headlines die down about a grisly case, these guys go to work. It may not look all that exciting to the average law enforcement professional, but a lot of cases get made down there. VICAP wouldn’t be what it is without them.”
Cahill’s cell phone rang. He excused himself, stepped out of the room.
Jessica thought about what he had said. She replayed the Psycho shower scene in her mind. She tried to imagine the horror of that moment from the victim’s point of view—the shadow on the shower curtain, the sound of the water, the rustle of the plastic as it was being whisked back, the gleam of the knife. She shivered. She twisted her piece of cardboard tighter.
“What’s your gut on this?” Jessica asked. As sophisticated and high-tech as Behavioral Science and all the federally funded task forces might be, she would trade them all for the instincts of a detective like Kevin Byrne.
“My gut says that this is no thrill killing,” Byrne said. “This is about something. And whoever he is, he wants our undivided attention.”
“Well, he’s got it.” Jessica unrolled the piece of twisted cardboard in her hands, fully intending to twist it back up. She never got that far. “Kevin.”
“What?”
“Look.” Jessica carefully flattened the bright red rectangle on the battered table, avoiding putting her fingerprints on it. The look on Byrne’s face said it all. He put his matchbook down next to the piece of cardboard. They were identical.
The Rivercrest Motel.
Adam Kaslov had been to the Rivercrest Motel.
22
HE CAME BACK to the Roundhouse voluntarily, and that was a good thing. They certainly did not have enough to pick him up or hold him. They had told him that they simply needed to clear up a few loose ends. A classic ruse. If he caved during the interview, they had him.
Terry Cahill and ADA Paul DiCarlo observed the interview through the two-way mirror. Nick Palladino stuck with the car. The VIN was obscured, so identifying the owner was going to take a little while.
“So how long have you lived in North Philadelphia, Adam?” Byrne asked. He sat across from Kaslov. Jessica stood with her back to the closed door.
“About three years. Ever since I moved out of my folks’ house.”
“Where do they live?”
“Bala Cynwyd.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“Yes.”
“What does your dad do, if I may ask?”
“He’s in real estate.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s, you know, a housewife. Can I ask—”
“Do you like living in North Philly?”
Adam shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Spend a lot of time in West Philly?”
“Some.”
“How much would that be exactly?”
“Well, I work there.”
“At the theater, right?”
“Yes.”
“Cool job?” Byrne asked.
“I guess,” Adam said. “Doesn’t pay much.”
“But at least the movies are free, right?”
“Well, the fifteenth time you have to sit through a Rob Schneider movie it doesn’t seem like a bargain.”
Byrne laughed, but it was clear to Jessica that he didn’t know Rob Schneider from Rob Petrie. “That theater is on Walnut, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Byrne made a note, even though they knew all this. It made it look official. “Anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there any other reason you go to West Philly?”
“Not really.”
“What about school, Adam? Last time I checked, Drexel was in that part of town.”
“Well, yeah. I go there for school.”
“Are you a full-time student?”
“Just part-time in summer.”
“What are you studying?”
“English,” Adam said. “I’m an English major.”
“Any film classes?”
Adam shrugged. “A couple.”
“What sort of things do you study in those classes?”
“Theory and criticism mostly. I just don’t see what—”
“Are you a sports fan?”
“Sports? Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Hockey maybe. You like the Flyers?”
“They’re okay.”
“You have a Flyers cap by any chance?” Byrne asked.
This seemed to spook him, as if he thought the police might be following him. If he was going to shut down, it would begin now. Jessica noticed one of his shoes begin to tap the floor. “Yeah, why?”
“We just have to cover all bases.”
This made no sense, of course, but the ugliness of this room, and the proximity of all these police officers, stayed Adam Kaslov’s objections. For the moment.
“Ever been to a motel in West Philly?” Byrne asked.
They watched him closely, looking for the tic. He looked at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but Kevin Byrne’s jade eyes. Finally, he said, “Why would I go to a motel there?”
Bingo, Jessica thought.
“Sounds like you’re answering a question with a question, Adam.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “No.”
“You’ve never been to a place called the Rivercrest Motel on Dauphin Street?”
Adam Kaslov swallowed hard. Again, his eyes roamed the room. Jessica gave him something on which to focus his attention. She dropped the unrolled matchbook on the table. It was flattened in a small evidence bag. When Adam saw it, his face drained of all color. He asked: “Are you telling me that the … the incident on the Psycho tape was done at the … this Rivercrest Motel?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that I—”
“Right now we’re just trying to sort out what happened. That’s what we do,” Byrne said.
“But I’ve never been there.”
“Never?”
“No. I … I found those matches.”
“We have a witness who puts you there.”
When Adam Kaslov had arrived at the Roundhouse, John Shepherd had taken a digital photograph of him, creating for him a visitor ID badge. Shepherd had then headed out to the Rivercrest, where he had shown the picture to Karl Stott. Shepherd called in and said that Stott recognized Adam as someone who had been to the motel at least twice in the past month.
“Who said I was there?” Adam asked.
“Not important, Adam,” Byrne said. “What is important is that you just lied to the police. That’s something we never recover from.” He glanced at Jessica. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“That’s correct,” Jessica said. “It hurts our feelings, and then we have a very hard time trusting you.”
“She’s right. We don’t trust you now,” Byrne added.
“But why … why would I bring the tape to you if I had anything to do with it?”
“Can you tell us why someone would kill somebody, videotape the murder, then insert the footage onto a prerecorded tape?”
“No,” Adam said. “I can’t.”
“Neither can we. But if you can accept that someone actually did that, it’s not much of a leap to think that the same person would bring the tape in just to taunt us. Crazy is crazy, right?”
Adam looked at the floor, remained silent.
“Tell us about the Rivercrest, Adam.”
Adam rubbed his face, wrung his hands. When he looked up, the detectives were still there. He spilled. “Okay. I’ve been there.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.”
“Why do you go there?” Byrne asked.
“I just did.”
“What, for a vacation or something? Did you book it through your travel agent?”
“No.”
Byrne leaned forward, lowered his voice. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Adam. With or without your help. Did you see all those people on the way up here?”
After a few seconds, Adam realized that an answer was expected. “Yes.”
“See, those people never go home. They have no social or family lives whatsoever. They are on the job twenty-four hours a day, and nothing gets by them. Nothing. Take a moment to think about what you’re doing. The very next thing you say may be the most important thing you ever say in your life.”
Adam looked up. His eyes were shiny. “You can’t tell anybody about this.”
“That depends on what it is you have to tell us,” Byrne said. “But if it doesn’t figure into this crime, it won’t leave this room.”
Adam looked at Jessica, then quickly looked away. “I went there with somebody,” he said. “A woman. She’s a woman.”
He said this emphatically, as if to say that suspecting him of murder was one thing. Suspecting him of being gay was far worse.
“Do you remember what room you stayed in?” Byrne asked.
“I don’t know,” Adam said.
“Try real hard.”
“I … I think it was room ten.”
“Both times?”
“I think so.”
“What kind of car does this woman drive?”
“I really don’t know. We never went in her car.”
Byrne leaned back. No need to come at him hard for the moment. “Why didn’t you just tell us this earlier?”
“Because,” Adam began, “because she’s married.”
“We’re going to need her name.”
“I … can’t tell you that,” Adam said. He glanced from Byrne to Jessica, then at the floor.
“Look at me,” Byrne said.
Slowly, reluctantly, Adam complied.
“Do I strike you as the kind of person who’s going to accept that as an answer?” Byrne asked. “I mean, I know we don’t know each other, but take a quick glance around this place. Do you think it looks this shitty by accident?”
“I … I don’t know.”
“Okay. Fair enough. Here’s what we’ll do,” Byrne said. “If you don’t tell us this woman’s name, you’re going to force us to poke around in your life. We’re going to get the names of all the people in your classes, all your professors. We’re going to drop in at the dean’s office and ask them about you. We’re going to talk to your friends, family, coworkers. Is that what you really want?”
Incredibly, instead of caving in, Adam Kaslov just looked at Jessica. For the first time since she’d met him she thought she saw something in his eyes, something sinister, something that said he was not just some scared kid in over his head. There might have even been the hint of a smile on his face. Adam asked: “I need a lawyer, don’t I?”
“I’m afraid we really can’t advise you on something like that, Adam,” Jessica said. “But I will say that, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.”
If Adam Kaslov was as big a film and TV buff as they suspected he was, he had probably seen enough scenes exactly like this one to know he had every right to stand up and walk out of the building without saying another word.
“Can I go now?” Adam asked.
Thanks again, Law & Order, Jessica thought.
JESSICA CONSIDERED LITTLE Jake’s description: Flyers cap, sunglasses, maybe a dark blue jacket. A uniformed officer had looked through the windows of Adam Kaslov’s car while Adam was being questioned. None of these items was in plain sight, nor was there a gray wig, a housedress, or a dark cardigan.
Adam Kaslov had a direct connection to the murder tape, he had been to the murder scene, and he had lied to the police. Was it enough for a search warrant?
“I don’t think so,” Paul DiCarlo said. When Adam had said his father was in real estate, he had neglected to mention that his father was Lawrence Kaslov. Lawrence Kaslov was one of the biggest developers in eastern Pennsylvania. If they moved too soon on this kid, there would be a wall of pin-striped suits up in a second.
“Maybe this will tip it,” Cahill said, entering the room. He had a fax in hand.
“What is it?” Byrne asked.
“Young Mr. Kaslov has a record,” Cahill replied.
Byrne and Jessica exchanged a glance. “I ran him,” Byrne said. “He was clean.”
“Not squeaky.”
They all glanced at the fax. At fourteen, Adam Kaslov was arrested for videotaping his neighbor’s teenaged daughter through her bedroom window. He received counseling and community service. He served no time in a juvenile facility.
“We can’t use this,” Jessica said.
Cahill shrugged. He knew as well as anyone else in the room that juvenile records are supposed to be sealed. “Just FYI.”
“We’re not even supposed to know this,” Jessica added.
“Know what?” Cahill asked with a wink.
“Teen voyeurism is a long way from what was done to that woman,” Buchanan said.
They all knew this was true. Still, every piece of information, regardless of how it was obtained, helped. They just had to be careful about the official path that took them to the next step. Any first-year law student could get a case thrown out based on illegally obtained records.
Paul DiCarlo, who was doing his best not to listen, on purpose, continued: “Right. So. When you ID the victim, and you put Adam within a mile of her, I’ll be able to sell a search warrant to a judge. But not until then.”
“Should we put a tail on him?” Jessica asked.
Adam was still sitting in Interview Room A. But not for long. He had already asked to leave, and every minute the door stayed locked nudged the department toward a problem.
“I can give it a few hours,” Cahill said.
Buchanan looked encouraged by this. It meant the bureau would be picking up the tab for overtime on a detail that probably would not produce anything.
“You sure?” Buchanan asked.
“Not a problem.”
A few minutes later, Cahill caught up to Jessica by the elevators. “Look, I really don’t think this kid is going to amount to much. But I’ve got a few ideas about the case. How about after your tour I buy you a cup of coffee? We’ll kick it around.”
Jessica looked at Terry Cahill’s eyes. There was always a moment with a stranger—an attractive stranger, she was loath to admit—when the innocent-sounding comment, the ingenuous offer had to be examined. Was he asking her out? Was he making a move? Or was he actually asking her for a cup of coffee to discuss a homicide investigation? She had scanned his left hand the moment she met him. He wasn’t married. She, of course, was. However tenuously.
Jesus, Jess, she thought. You’ve got a friggin’ gun on your hip. You’re probably safe.
“Make it a scotch and you’re on,” she said.
FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER Terry Cahill left, Byrne and Jessica met in the coffee room. Byrne read her mood.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Jessica held up the evidence bag with the Rivercrest Motel matchbook. “I didn’t read Adam Kaslov right the first time,” Jessica said. “And it bugs the shit out of me.”
“Don’t worry about it. If he’s our boy—and I’m not convinced he is—there are a hell of a lot of layers between the face he shows the world and the nutcase on that tape.”
Jessica nodded. Byrne was right. Still, she prided herself on her ability to translate people. Every detective brought specials skill to the table. Hers were the ability to organize, and her acumen at reading people. Or so she thought. She was just about to say something when Byrne’s phone rang.
“Byrne.”
He listened, his intense green eyes shifting back and forth for a moment. “Thanks.” He snapped shut his phone, the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth, something Jessica had not seen in a while. She knew the look. Something was breaking.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“That was CSU,” he said, heading out the door. “We’ve got an ID.”
23
THE PSYCHO VICTIM’S name was Stephanie Chandler. She was twenty-two years old, single, by all accounts a friendly, outgoing young woman. She lived with her mother on Fulton Street. She worked at a Center City public relations firm called Braceland Westcott McCall. They had identified her through the vehicle identification number on her car.
The preliminary report from the medical examiner’s office was in. The manner of death, as expected, was ruled a homicide. Stephanie Chandler had been underwater approximately one week. The murder weapon was a large, nonserrated knife. She had been stabbed eleven times and, although he would not testify to it, at least at this point, because it was not his purview, Dr. Tom Weyrich believed that Stephanie Chandler was indeed killed on the videotape.
The tox screen revealed no evidence of illegal drugs in her system; a trace amount of alcohol. The ME had also run a rape kit. It was inconclusive.
What the reports could not say was why Stephanie Chandler was in a run-down motel in West Philly in the first place. Or, most important, who with.
A fourth detective, Eric Chavez, was now on the case, partnered with Nick Palladino. Eric was the fashion plate of the Homicide Unit, always turned out in an Italian suit. Single and available, if Eric wasn’t talking about his new Zegna tie, he was talking about the newest Bordeaux in his wine rack.
As far as the detectives could piece together, the last day of Stephanie’s life had gone like this:
Stephanie, a vibrant, petite young woman who favored tailored suits and Thai food and Johnny Depp movies, left for work, as always, at just after 7:00 AM, driving her champagne-colored Saturn from the Fulton Street address to her office building on South Broad Street, where she parked in an underground garage. That day she and a few of her co-workers had gone down to Penn’s Landing at lunchtime to watch a film crew set up for a shot along the riverfront, hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or two. At five thirty, she took the elevator down to the garage, drove out the Broad Street exit.
Jessica and Byrne would visit the Braceland Westcott McCall offices while Nick Palladino, Eric Chavez, and Terry Cahill headed down to Penn’s Landing to canvass.
THE RECEPTION AREA of Braceland Westcott McCall was decorated in a modern Scandinavian style—straight lines, light cherry desks and bookcases, metal-edged mirrors, frosted-glass panels, and well-framed poster art that heralded the company’s upscale clients: recording studios, advertising agencies, clothing designers.
Stephanie’s boss was a woman named Andrea Cerrone. Jessica and Byrne met Andrea in Stephanie Chandler’s cubicle on the top floor of the Broad Street office building.
Byrne took the lead in the questioning.
“Stephanie was pretty trusting,” Andrea said, a bit unsteadily. “A little gullible, I guess.” Andrea Cerrone was clearly shaken by the news of Stephanie’s death.
“Was she seeing anyone?”
“Not that I know of. She got hurt pretty easily, so I think she was in shutdown mode for a while.”
Andrea Cerrone was not yet thirty-five, a short, wide-hipped woman with silver-streaked hair and pastel blue eyes. Although she was somewhat overweight, her clothes were tailored with an architectural precision. She wore a dark olive linen suit and a honey-colored pashmina.
Byrne moved on. “How long did Stephanie work here?”
“About a year. She came here right out of college.”
“Where did she go to school?”
“Temple.”
“Did she have any problems with anyone here at work?”
“Stephanie? Hardly. Everybody liked her and she liked everyone. I don’t remember a cross word ever coming out of her mouth.”
“What did you think when she didn’t show up for work last week?”
“Well, Stephanie had a lot of sick days coming. I thought she took the day off, even though it was unlike her not to call in. The next day I called her cell phone, left a few messages. She never got back to me.”
Andrea reached for a tissue, dabbed her eyes, perhaps now realizing why her phone never rang.
Jessica made a few notes. No cell phone had been found in the Saturn or near the crime scene. “Did you call her house?”
Andrea shook her head, her lower lip beginning to tremble. Jessica knew that the dam was about to break.
“What can you tell me about her family?” Byrne asked.
“I think there’s just her mother. I don’t recall her ever talking about her father, or any brothers or sisters.”
Jessica glanced at Stephanie’s desk. In addition to the pen caddy and neatly stacked file folders, there was a silver-framed five-by-six photograph of Stephanie and an older woman. In this picture—smiling, standing in front of the Wilma Theater on Broad Street—Jessica thought the young woman looked happy. She found it hard to reconcile the photo with the image of the brutalized corpse she had seen in the trunk of the Saturn.
“This is Stephanie and her mother?” Byrne asked, pointing to the photo on the desk.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever met her mother?”
“No,” Andrea said. She reached for a tissue from Stephanie’s desk. She dabbed at her eyes.
“Did Stephanie have a bar or a restaurant she liked to go to after work?” Byrne asked. “Anywhere she frequented?”
“Sometimes we’d go to the Friday’s next to the Embassy Suites on the parkway. If we felt like dancing we’d go to Shampoo.”
“I have to ask this,” Byrne said. “Was Stephanie gay or bi?”
Andrea almost snorted. “Uh, no.”
“Did you go down to Penn’s Landing with Stephanie?”
“Yes.”
“Did anything unusual happen?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Was anybody bothering her? Following her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you see her do anything out of the ordinary?” Byrne asked.
Andrea thought for a few moments. “No. We were just hanging around. Hoping maybe to see Will Parrish or Hayden Cole.”
“Did you see Stephanie talking to anyone?”
“I wasn’t really paying attention. But I think she did talk to a guy for a while. Men were always coming on to her.”
“Can you describe the guy?”
“White guy. Flyers cap. Sunglasses.”
Jessica and Byrne exchanged a glance. This fit with Little Jake’s recollection. “How old?”
“No idea. I really didn’t get that close.”
Jessica showed her a picture of Adam Kaslov. “Could this be the guy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just remember thinking that the guy wasn’t her type.”
“What was her type?” Jessica asked, flashing back to Vincent’s routine. She imagined everyone had a type.
“Well, she was pretty picky about the men she dated. She always went for the well-dressed guy. Chestnut Hill types.”
“Was this guy she was talking to part of the crowd, or was he part of the production company?” Byrne asked.
Andrea shrugged. “I really don’t know.”
“Did she say she knew this guy? Or maybe that she gave him her number?”
“I don’t think she knew him. And I’d be really surprised if she gave him her phone number. Like I said. Not her type. But then again, maybe he was just dressed down. I just didn’t get a really close look at him.”
Jessica made a few more notes. “We’ll need the names and contact information for everyone who works here,” she said.
“Sure.”
“Would you mind if we looked through Stephanie’s desk?”
“No,” Andrea said. “It’s okay.”
While Andrea Cerrone drifted back into the reception area, afloat on her wave of shock and grief, Jessica snapped on a pair of latex gloves. She began her invasion of Stephanie Chandler’s life.
The left-hand drawers held hanging files, mostly press releases and press clippings. A few folders were stuffed with proof sheets of black-and-white press photos. The photos were mostly of the stab-and-grab variety, the type of photo op where two people pose holding a check or a plaque or a citation of some sort.
The middle drawer held the nutrients of office life: paper clips, pushpins, mailing labels, rubber bands, brass brads, business cards, glue sticks.
In the top right-hand drawer was the urban survival kit of the young single workingwoman: a small tube of hand lotion, lip balm, a few samplers of perfume, mouthwash. There was also a spare pair of panty hose, a trio of books: The Brethren by John Grisham, Windows XP for Dummies, and a book titled White Heat, the unauthorized biography of Ian Whitestone, the Philadelphia-native director of Dimensions. Whitestone was directing the new Will Parrish movie, The Palace.
There were no notes, no threatening letters, nothing to tie Stephanie to the horror of what had happened to her on the videotape.
It was the picture on Stephanie’s desk of her and her mother that had already begun to haunt Jessica. Not the fact that, in the picture, Stephanie was so vibrant and alive, but rather what the picture represented. A week earlier it was an artifact of a life, the proof of a living, breathing young woman, a human being with friends, ambition, sorrows, thoughts, and regrets. A human being with a future.
Now it was a document of the dead.
24
FAITH CHANDLER LIVED in a plain but well-maintained brick-front row house on Fulton Street. Jessica and Byrne met with the woman in her small living room overlooking the street. Outside the window, a pair of five-year-olds played hopscotch under the watchful eyes of their grandmothers. Jessica wondered what the laughing children sounded like to Faith Chandler on this, the darkest day of her life.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Chandler,” Jessica said. Even though she had had occasion to say these words a number of times since joining the Homicide Unit in April, it appeared that it was not going to get any easier to say them.
Faith Chandler was in her early forties, a woman who had the creased look of late nights and early mornings, a working-class woman who suddenly found herself the statistic of another demographic, that of victim of violent crime. Old eyes in a middle-aged face. She was employed as a night waitress at the Melrose Diner. In her hands was a scratched plastic tumbler with an inch of whiskey. Next to her, on a TV tray, was a half-full bottle of Seagram’s. Jessica wondered how far into the process the woman was.
Faith didn’t respond to Jessica’s offer of condolence. Perhaps the woman thought that, if she didn’t respond, if she didn’t acknowledge Jessica’s offer of sympathy, it might not be true.
“When was the last time you saw Stephanie?” Jessica asked.
“Monday morning,” Faith said. “Before she left for work.”
“Was there anything unusual about her that morning? Anything different about her mood or her routine?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Did she say that she had plans for after work?”
“No.”
“When she didn’t come home Monday night, what did you think?”
Faith just shrugged, dabbed at her eyes. She sipped her whiskey.
“Did you call the police?”
“Not right away.”
“Why not?” Jessica asked.
Faith put her glass down, knitted her hands in her lap. “Sometimes Stephanie would stay with friends. She was a grown woman, independent. I work nights, you see. She works days. Sometimes we really didn’t see each other for days on end.”
“Did she have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“What about her father?”
Faith waved a hand, snapping back to the moment, by way of her past. They’d hit a nerve. “He hasn’t been part of her life for years.”
“Does he live in Philadelphia?”
“No.”
“We learned from her coworkers that Stephanie had been dating someone until recently. What can you tell us about him?”
Faith studied her hands again for a few moments before answering. “You have to understand that Stephanie and I were never close that way. I knew she was seeing someone, but she never brought him around. She was a secretive girl in a lot of ways. Even when she was small.”
“Is there anything else you can think of that might help?”
Faith Chandler looked at Jessica. In Faith’s eyes was that burnished look Jessica had seen many times, a shell-shocked look of anger and pain and grief. “She was kind of a wild girl when she was a teenager,” Faith said. “Right through college.”
“Wild how?”
Faith shrugged again. “Willful. Ran with a pretty fast crowd. Lately she had settled down, gotten this good job.” Pride battled sorrow in her voice. She sipped her whiskey.
Byrne caught Jessica’s eye. He then quite deliberately directed his gaze at the entertainment center, and Jessica followed the line of sight. The unit, which stood in one corner of the living room, was one of those entertainment-center-cum-armoires. It looked like expensive wood—rosewood, perhaps. The doors were slightly ajar, and it was obvious from across the room that inside was a flat-screen TV; above it, a rack of expensive-looking audio and video equipment. Jessica glanced around the living room while Byrne continued to ask questions. What had struck Jessica as tidy and tasteful when she’d arrived was now clearly tidy and expensive: A Thomasville dining room set and living room suite, Stiffel lamps.
“May I use your bathroom?” Jessica asked. She had grown up in an almost identical row house, and knew that the bathroom was on the second floor. That was the point of her question.
Faith looked at her, her face a blank screen, as if she hadn’t understood. She then nodded and pointed at the staircase.
Jessica walked up the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. To her right was a small bedroom; straight ahead, the bathroom. Jessica glanced down the steps. Faith Chandler, entranced by her grief, was still sitting on the couch. Jessica slipped into the bedroom. The framed posters on the wall indicated that it was Stephanie’s room. Jessica opened the closet. Inside were half a dozen pricey suits, as many pairs of good-quality shoes. She checked the labels. Ralph Lauren, Dana Buchman, Fendi. All full labels. It appeared that Stephanie wasn’t an outlet shopper, where many times the tags were cut in half. On the top shelf were few pieces of Tumi luggage. It appeared that Stephanie Chandler had good taste and a budget to support it. But where was the money coming from?
Jessica gave a quick glance around the room. On one wall was a poster from Dimensions, the Will Parrish supernatural thriller. That, and the Ian Whitestone book in her desk at the office, proved that she was a fan of either Ian Whitestone or Will Parrish, or both.
On the dresser was a pair of framed photos. One was of a teenaged Stephanie with her arm around a pretty brunette, who was about the same age. Friends forever kind of pose. The other picture was a younger Faith Chandler sitting on a bench in Fairmount Park, holding an infant.
Jessica went quickly through Stephanie’s drawers. In one she found an accordion file of paid bills. She found Stephanie’s four most recent Visa bills. She laid them out on the dresser, took out her digital camera, and took a photo of each. She did a quick scan of the list of posted charges, looking for high-end stores. Nothing. Nor were there charges to saksfifthavenue.com, nordstrom.com, or even any of the online discounters that sold high-end goods: bluefly.com, overstock.com, smart bargains.com. It was a good bet she wasn’t buying these designer clothes herself. Jessica put her camera away, then slipped the Visa bills back into the file. If anything she discovered on the bills turned into a lead, she would be hard-pressed to say how she got the information. She’d worry about that later.
In another slot in the file, she found the documents Stephanie had signed when she signed up for her cell phone service. There were no monthly bills detailing minutes used and numbers called. Jessica copied down the cell phone number. She then took out her own cell phone, dialed Stephanie’s number. It rang three times, then switched over to voice mail:
Hi … this is Steph … please leave your message at the beep and I’ll get back to you.
Jessica clicked off. The call had established two things. Stephanie Chandler’s cell phone was still active, and it wasn’t located in her bedroom. Jessica called the number again, got the same result.
I’ll get back to you.
Jessica thought about how, when Stephanie made that cheerful greeting, she’d had no idea what was coming her way.
Jessica put everything back where she had found it, padded back down the hallway, stepped into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, ran the water in the sink for a few moments. She descended the stairs.
“… all her friends,” Faith said.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Stephanie?” Byrne asked. “Someone who may have had a grudge against her?”
Faith just shook her head. “She didn’t have enemies. She was a good person.”
Jessica met Byrne’s eyes again. Faith was hiding something, but now was not the moment to press her. Jessica nodded slightly. They would take a run at her later.
“Again, we’re terribly sorry for your loss,” Byrne said.
Faith Chandler fixed them in a blank stare. “Why … why would someone do something like this?”
There were no answers. None that would suffice, or even begin to salve this woman’s grief. “I’m afraid we can’t answer that,” Jessica said. “But I can promise you that we’ll do everything we can to find who did this to your daughter.”
Like her offer of condolences, this seemed to ring hollow in Jessica’s mind. She hoped it sounded sincere to the grief-stricken woman sitting in the chair by the window.
THEY STOOD ON the corner. They looked in two directions, but were of one mind. “I’ve got to get back and brief the boss,” Jessica finally said.
Byrne nodded. “I’m officially off for the next forty-eight, you know.”
Jessica heard the sadness in that statement. “I know.”
“Ike is going to tell you to keep me out of the loop.”
“I know.”
“Call me if you hear anything.”
Jessica knew she couldn’t do that. “Okay.”
25
FAITH CHANDLER SAT on her dead daughter’s bed. Where had she been when Stephanie had smoothed the bedspread for the last time, creasing it beneath the pillow in her precise and dutiful way? What had she been doing when Stephanie had placed her menagerie of plush animals in a perfect row against the headboard?
She had been at work, as always, dogging the end of another shift, her daughter a constant, a given, an absolute.
Can you think of anyone who might have wanted hurt Stephanie?
She had known the moment she opened the door. The pretty young woman and the tall, confident-looking man in the dark suit. They had a look about them that said they did this often. Brought heartache to the door like carryout.
It was the young woman who told her. She had known it would be. Woman-to-woman. Eye-to-eye. It was the young woman who had cut her in two.
Faith Chandler glanced at the corkboard on her daughter’s bedroom wall. Clear plastic pushpins prismed rainbows in the sun. Business cards, travel brochures, newspaper clippings. It was the calendar that hurt the most. Birthdays in blue. Anniversaries in red. Future past.
She had thought about slamming the door in their faces. Maybe that would have kept the pain from entering. Maybe that would have kept the heartache out there with the people in the papers, the people on the news, the people in the movies.
Police learned today that …
This just in …
An arrest has been made …
Always in the background as she made dinner. Always someone else. Flashing lights, white-sheeted gurneys, grim-faced spokesmen. Over at six thirty.
Oh, Stephie love.
She drained her glass, the whiskey in search of the sorrow within. She picked up the phone, waited.
They wanted her to come down to the morgue and identify the body. Would she know her own daughter in death? Wasn’t it life that made her Stephanie?
Outside, the summer sun dazzled the sky. The flowers would never be brighter or more fragrant; the children, never happier. All the time in the world for hopscotch and grape drink and rubber pools.
She slipped the photograph out of the frame on the dresser, turned it over in her hands, the two girls in it forever frozen at life’s threshold. What had been a secret all these years now demanded to be free.
She replaced the phone. She poured another drink.
There would be time, she thought. God willing.
There would be time.