The Doll Maker Read online

  21

  The newel cap was loose.

  Byrne turned it, thinking about the last days and hours and moments of the children who had entered this house, never to leave alive again.

  He’d known the moment he crossed the threshold ten years earlier. Maybe before. Perhaps he even knew as he drove down the street, a short lane on the northwest side of city; a pair of weed-choked vacant lots on either side. He had the feeling he was being drawn to the end of the street, iron shavings toward a magnetic field.

  He knew the sensation the way he knew any emotion that gathered inside him – anger, jealousy, or the envy he sometimes felt when he saw new, freshly minted police officers, straight from the academy, their badges bright and polished, their eyes clear.

  This feeling was darker. It was one he got sometimes, a damp chill across his shoulder blades, rising to the back of his neck. It sometimes brought the understanding, the mindset of the people who committed murder, a murky second sight he acquired more than twenty-five years earlier, a brief and hellish moment when he had been declared dead only to come back a minute later.

  The knack had come and gone over the years, and was mostly gone now. He’d been wrong about things far more times than he had been right. But he had been right often enough to know that it was something he could not discount.

  He never discussed this ability – if indeed an ability was what it was – with anyone. Not his family, his co-workers, even a cadre of psychiatrists and social workers he’d been mandated to see over the years. He had not even discussed it in depth with Jessica, the person to whom he felt closest in his life.

  In the time since his death incident he had tried many things to come to an understanding. For a brief period he had suffered migraines, and in the aura that accompanied the malady he thought he had visions. He had been to a number of therapists, had even visited a regression therapy group, hoping to return to that moment.

  But here, in this place, a house where malevolence once lived, he felt something new. Not a hunch or intuition, but rather a kinship.

  It was as unnerving a feeling as he had ever felt.

  What happened here, Valerie?

  For Thomas Rule, for Thaddeus Woodman – and all the others – he had to know the truth.

  Before he could stop himself he took out his phone, and made the call.

  22

  It was Saturday. It was time for our thé dansant.

  I was beside myself with anticipation.

  Mr Marseille was dressed smartly. He wore a dark suit, subtly striped, starched white shirt, and a claret tie. His shoes, as always, were highly polished.

  There were so many things to consider. Not the least of which was what I would wear.

  Mr Marseille, as always, was in charge of making the tea. Heaven only knows where he gets the ingredients – he sometimes disappeared for hours on end, causing me no end to worry. I had once thought about asking after this, but I decided against it.

  Sometimes magic should remain in the realm of the magician.

  Where do the birds come from?

  Where does the rabbit go?

  Magic was such fun. Perhaps we would do a magic themed tea one day.

  Wouldn’t that be the best?

  There had been a time, the longest time, when we stopped giving parties. I was saddened by this, but all things happen for a reason. At least, I’ve been led to think so. If there was no master plan, what would be the point of living?

  I sat at my sewing machine, the sunlight streaming through the dormer window. Whenever I made clothes I did all the stitching, making sure to back stitch. Some use glue guns to make their clothes, but I think that is cheating.

  I put the last stich in the skirt, turned it right side out. I gave it a quick press with the steam iron. I arranged the outfit on the bed, and looked at the photograph of the original.

  I thought it was perfect, but perhaps that was immodest of me. I do so hate to be boastful.

  ‘Mr Marseille?’

  Mr Marseille entered from the parlor, crossed the room. He had just finished shaving and smelled wonderfully of lavender. He bought all his products through the mail; all imported from France. He was quite strict about this. There was a time, last year, when he let his whiskers grow for five or six days when there was a delay in his order.

  Needless to say, he did not appear in public that way.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  He studied my work for a few moments. For me it was agony.

  ‘I think you are an artiste, dear heart,’ he said. ‘Nonpareil.’

  He often said things like this, but I believed him to be sincere.

  ‘À votre bon cœur!’ I replied.

  Mr Marseille laughed. I laughed, too.

  ‘Do we have everything we need for the dance?’ I asked.

  ‘We do. I acquired suitable transportation this morning. I don’t think the van will be missed until Monday morning, and by that time it will be back where I found it.’

  ‘With gasoline to replace what we’ve used, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  With a spring in my step I crossed the room. I held open the door. ‘It is time to dress,’ I said.

  Mr Marseille took out his pocket watch, flipped it open. ‘We have forty-one minutes if we are to keep to our schedule.’

  ‘Then I won’t tarry.’

  Mr Marseille left the room, closed the door behind him. There was no need for me to turn the key in the lock. If there are two things I know about Mr Marseille – and there is no one in the world who knows him better than I – it is that he is fiercely loyal and, beyond all else, a gentleman.

  Fifteen minutes later I stepped from my room. My outfit today was a blue dress I had made about a year earlier, but never worn. I’m happy to say I am exactly the same size, and the gown required no alteration.

  ‘How do I look?’

  Mr Marseille took my hand in his. ‘You look beautiful.’

  I stood on the corner, in the shadows, as Mr Marseille crossed the street. My heart was fluttering as it always did at moments like this, just before an invitation.

  Handguns scare me terribly, but Mr Marseille is very clever and skilled with them. Years ago, we took some of the naughtier children to the forest. Mr Marseille set them on a log. One by one they fell, like kewpies at the carnival.

  He knew what to bring to the invitation.

  Nobody accessorized like Mr Marseille.

  At the precise moment, I stepped from the shadows.

  The boys looked at me with something close to awe. I felt enormously flattered. I’ve never been very confident in my appearance – far from it, really, I’ve always felt myself the boudoir doll never taken down from the shelf – but at this moment I felt the prettiest girl at the dance.

  The two boys stopped, looked at each other, then back at me.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the taller of the two asked.

  ‘Anabelle.’

  ‘Awesome,’ the shorter of the two boys said. ‘I’m Robert, and this is Edward. Our friends call us Bobby and Teddy, though.’

  I gave them my best smile. ‘Might you consider me a new friend?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Then may I say it is a pleasure to meet you, Bobby and Teddy.’

  Bobby looked me up and down, perhaps searching for a clue as to how he should proceed. ‘Where do you go to school?’

  ‘Oh my,’ I said. ‘I’m done with school.’

  The boys were of an age when an older girl might be seen as an insurmountable challenge. Bobby, clearly the more confident of the two, moved forward.

  He looked over his shoulder, back at me, leaned forward, as if proffering a conspiracy of the heart. ‘We have some beer.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘A twelve-pack. It’s Sam Adams.’

  ‘I’ve never had beer,’ I said.

  This wasn’t entirely true. I once had a sip
from Mr Marseille’s glass, and I thought I might choke. I don’t know how or why people drink it. It seems the nastiest of habits.

  ‘Sam Adams is great,’ Teddy added. ‘You’ll like it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My dad’s out of town,’ Bobby said. ‘We have the whole house.’

  ‘You are quite young to have your own house.’

  Teddy smiled. ‘We’re older than we look.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Paris, France.’

  It was a white lie.

  ‘Wow,’ Bobby said. ‘We’ve never met anyone from Paris, France before.’

  ‘We are all quite French there,’ I replied with a giggle, quite the coquette.

  Bobby and Teddy laughed with me.

  ‘So, what do you think, Anabelle? Do you want to party with us?’ Teddy asked.

  I’ve never fully understood the use of the word party as a verb. I suppose it is now part of the lexicon, the lingua franca that bridges the gap between the young and the not-quite-so young.

  ‘Where is the party?’ I asked.

  ‘Not far,’ Bobby said. ‘My dad’s house is only a couple of blocks away.’

  I glanced up the alleyway, pointed in that direction. ‘I just need to get my things. Will you escort me?’ I asked. ‘A girl can’t be too careful these days.’

  ‘Sure!’ Teddy said.

  ‘No problem!’ added Bobby.

  We strolled down the alley; Robert to one side, Edward on the other. I felt quite the debutante. We soon came upon the white van.

  ‘My book bags are inside that van,’ I said. ‘In the back.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ both boys said in unison.

  The boys sprinted to the van, opened the back, climbed in, just as Mr Marseille stepped from the shadows, gun in hand.

  It was time for tea.

  23

  The Aquatic and Fitness Center on Grant Avenue was a huge complex that boasted the largest indoor pool in the city.

  Today’s event was the first city-wide competition of the fall/winter season, for swimmers ten to fourteen years old.

  A few years earlier, while watching television with Sophie – Jessica recalled the moment exactly, it was during a butterfly stroke competition on ESPN– Sophie hit the mute on the remote, turned to her mother and, in the solemn way she had, said:

  ‘I want to be a swimmer.’

  Jessica glanced at the TV, at the young men in Speedos. ‘Well, that Ryan Lochte is pretty cute,’ she said, nudging her daughter.

  ‘Mom.’

  Sophie was at that age where any mention of boys produced either a nervous giggle or a full body blush. Sometimes both.

  Thus began an odyssey that took the distaff half of the Balzano household to pools, both indoor and outdoor, both sanitary and less so, both Center City and suburban, in the quest to get proper and affordable instruction in the aquatic arts, as well as a rhythm that coincided with Jessica’s workload, Sophie’s school schedule, as well as all the motivating factors that go into keeping a twelve-year-old girl focused, motivated, and reminded of the sacrifice being made by her long-suffering mother.

  Not so surprisingly, Sophie had taken to swimming – competitive swimming – with a great deal of skill and enthusiasm. It was not unexpected to Jessica, because a few years before the swimming craze Sophie had wanted to take up the study of the flute. She had since won a number of competitions, and was actually making music of her own.

  Since Sophie had taken up swimming she had gotten stronger and better at the sport, and now had her sights set on medals.

  Now, at just after ten on a Saturday morning, Jessica and Sophie were at the Aquatic and Fitness Center preparing for Sophie’s two competitive events.

  While Jessica was waiting for Sophie’s first meet, her phone rang. It was Vincent.

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Her first race is coming up. She’s got her game face on.’

  It was true. Sophie was sitting by herself, at the far end of the pool, her thousand-yard stare in place. She was practicing her square breathing, another recent interest.

  ‘I found your magic mushroom dealer,’ Vince said. ‘Word is, if you want the kind of high-end psychedelics found in your victim, he’s the man to see. We’ve got a meet set up.’

  Yes, Jessica thought. ‘You know, you just might have a future in this narco thing.’

  ‘Tell my captain to give me a raise.’

  ‘I’m having a late lunch with my father,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ll bring home something for dinner. We won’t be late.’

  She clicked off, looked at her watch. There was still another half-hour to go before Sophie’s race.

  After the first few six-hour meets, Jessica discovered that one of the best ways to stay awake was to become a timer.

  At most meets there were three people, usually mothers of the competitors, who volunteered to time the competitions. Each were given stopwatches, and positioned at the center, as well as each side of the starting/finish line.

  The reason for having three different timers was that the judges would take an average of each score, thereby softening the possibility of bias or cheating. As if the parent of a child athlete would ever do such a thing.

  In her second event, the fifty meter breaststroke, Sophie came in second. It was her best finish ever.

  The three women tasked with timing gathered at the official’s table. The numbers were added, an average was taken.

  Before the final tallies were posted on the digital board, Jessica sensed a woman standing close to her. A little too close to her. It seemed that the woman was scrutinizing Jessica’s recorded times.

  ‘Um, excuse me?’ the woman asked.

  Jessica turned. The woman standing next to her was about her own age, a little shorter and heavier, and apparently shopped at Carmela Soprano’s garage sales. The woman was a study in three different shades of aqua. She probably figured it went with the water.

  ‘Yes?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘You have my daughter winning by 2.5 seconds,’ the woman said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t think so, hon.’

  Hon? Hon? The only people Jessica let call her hon were her husband and any diner waitress over fifty. Miss Paramus Outlet 1992 was neither.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Jessica asked, knowing she was baiting the woman, trying to find a way to care. ‘Are you saying it was closer than that? I can make it closer.’

  The woman snorted. ‘It was more like 4.5 seconds. You need to change it.’

  Jessica took a half-step back. ‘You’re taking a tone with me,’ she said. ‘You have no cause to take a tone with me.’

  The woman squared her shoulders, balled her fists. ‘What are you, a friggin’ cop?’

  Jessica bit her tongue. Literally. She thought she tasted a little blood.

  ‘Please tell your daughter congratulations for us,’ Jessica said. The woman, whose name was Vicki Alberico, turned around, looking for her precious little fish.

  Jessica pointed to the other side of the room.

  ‘She’s right over there,’ Jessica said, putting a towel around Sophie’s shoulders. ‘She’s the one puking pool water in the corner.’

  They sat on the bench outside the girls’ locker room. Sophie was crushed. Jessica combed the tangles from her daughter’s hair.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Jessica knew, but she wasn’t sure how to handle this one. She knew that Sophie liked to win, probably even more than her mother, which was saying a lot.

  ‘You did great, baby girl. I’m really proud of you.’

  Sophie Balzano would not be consoled.

  ‘I came in second,’ she said.

  ‘What? Are you kidding? Second is awesome. That’s better than everybody in the world, except for one person. Eight billion people is a lot of people to b
eat.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sophie said. ‘Except for Angie Alberico.’

  ‘Okay. Except for Angie Alberico. But there’s always next time, right? And think of how sweet it’s going to be when you blow past her to win. Think about that scrunched-up little lemon face she’s going to have.’

  It took a few moments, but Sophie beamed. ‘It will be sweet, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Chlorine is my perfume.’

  Jessica smiled. ‘Go get dressed. We’ll stop at Capogiro.’

  Capogiro was an artisanal gelato shop on Thirteenth Street.

  ‘Before lunch?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘What are you, a cop?’

  Sophie laughed, and headed to the locker room.

  Jessica sat at the light at Fifth and Washington. She had dropped Sophie at home. It was her afternoon off, but there was paperwork piling up on her. She intended to stop by the office for an hour.

  The city had other ideas.

  Jessica’s phone rang. She thought about letting it go to voicemail, but she saw it was Byrne. She answered.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Byrne asked.

  Jessica was so distracted she had to look at the street signs. ‘Fifth and Washington,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Meet me at Fifth and Christian. I’ll pick you up.’

  Jessica knew her partner’s tone. This was not good. ‘Don’t tell me there’s another body.’

  ‘Times two.’

  24

  There was little doubt as to which building on this blighted block of the Strawberry Mansion section of North Philadelphia was the crime scene.

  Once home to jazz legend John Coltrane, the community was bounded by Fairmount Park to the west, Lehigh Avenue to the north, Sedgley Avenue and the SEPTA rail tracks to the east, and Cecil B. Moore Avenue to the south.

  At one time a mixed-income, mostly Jewish enclave, over the past fifty years the neighborhood had gone through a steep decline, although signs of gentrification were occurring on the southern end of the large neighborhood, mostly as it transitioned into Brewerytown.