The Doll Maker Read online

  While Byrne logged the evidence from the Shawmont scene, Jessica followed up on the phone call made by David Solomon. She parked in the driveway, walked up the walk, rang the doorbell.

  After a few moments a woman opened the door. She looked to be in her late thirties, athletic and conservatively dressed in cinnamon tweed slacks and a beige pullover.

  ‘Are you the police?’ the woman asked.

  Jessica held up her ID. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said. ‘My name is Jessica Balzano.’

  ‘Mary Gillen.’

  If Jessica were pressed on the point, she would say that the look on Mary Gillen’s face was not one of fear or consternation, but one of the bemusement.

  The woman opened the door, stepped to the side.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jessica stepped into the house. It was very well furnished, all leather and natural cherry. The living room alone was about the same square footage of the first floor of Jessica’s row house.

  ‘It was a man who called and left a message on my cell,’ Mary Gillen said. ‘A Detective …’

  ‘Byrne. He’s my partner.’

  ‘Ah, okay,’ she said. ‘He didn’t really say anything about what this is about.’

  ‘All routine. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Okay,’ the woman repeated. She didn’t sound convinced. Jessica understood. Unless you had every single of your loved ones in front of you, living and breathing and happy, there would be some doubt.

  Jessica flipped a page on her notebook. ‘Do you know a man named David Solomon?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she asked. ‘Could you repeat that name, please?’

  ‘David Solomon.’

  Jessica watched the woman’s face. While Mary Gillen was thinking, she looked up and to the right. Although it was far from foolproof, it sometimes indicated whether or not someone was genuinely trying to remember something, as opposed to a stall during which time they could cook an answer. Generally speaking, when people look down and to the left, they are telling somewhat less than the pure truth. Not always, but it was a pretty good barometer.

  The woman looked back at Jessica.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jessica said. ‘Do you work outside the home?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘May I ask where you work?’

  ‘I work for The Vanguard Group.’

  ‘It’s a big company. Is it possible that Mr Solomon might be a casual work acquaintance at Vanguard?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Mary said. ‘I just don’t recognize the name. May I ask what this is all about?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ll get to that in a moment, if I may.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Were you home at about eleven o’clock this morning?’

  Another glance up and to the right. ‘No, I was shopping. At about eleven o’clock I was at Whole Foods. The one on Pennsylvania Avenue.’

  At this, the woman pointed toward her kitchen, a reflexive action Jessica had seen about a million times on the job. It was usually at the point in the interview when people began to get defensive about whether or not the police believed what they were saying. Mary Gillen was pointing at the bags on the countertop, bags with the Whole Foods logo on the side.

  Jessica turned to the page in her notebook where she had printed the phone number they had gotten from David Solomon’s phone. She showed it to Mary Gillen. ‘Is this your phone number?’

  Now the woman looked a bit confused. ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘And this is a landline?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And is your voicemail a feature of your telephone provider?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘What I mean is, do you get your voicemail by calling a number, or do you have an answering machine here in the house?’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘We have an answering machine.’ Once again she pointed toward the kitchen. ‘It’s on the small desk in the kitchen.’

  ‘Have you played back any messages today?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. Then, perhaps anticipating Jessica pressing her on this point, she continued. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t often look to see if there are messages on that machine.’ She reached into her bag sitting on the arm of the sofa. She extracted an iPhone. ‘I get about ninety percent of my calls on my cell. I mention this number on the outgoing message on the machine.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jessica said. ‘We’re going to need to listen to your messages on that machine, if there are any. But just the ones from today.’

  The woman was just about to say something, and Jessica was certain she knew what it was. She cut her off.

  ‘To answer your question from earlier, this is merely a routine part of a matter currently under investigation. As I said, there’s no reason to be alarmed.’

  ‘And this has something to do with this … Solomon person?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica said. ‘It does.’

  ‘Did he do something wrong?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re just following up on some phone calls that Mr Solomon made earlier today.’

  ‘And you’re saying he called here?’

  ‘It appears that he did.’

  ‘Interesting,’ she said, perhaps meaning something else. She seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. The moment drew out.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Jessica asked. ‘Do you think we could check your answering machine now?’

  The woman snapped back to the moment. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The two women crossed the living room and stepped through the archway into the kitchen. If the living room was tastefully appointed, the kitchen was right out of Architectural Digest. Viking oven, Subzero refrigerator and freezer, a half-dozen high-tech smaller appliances on the granite countertops. The small desk to which the woman had referred earlier was really a knee-hole desk in a small alcove off the breakfast eating area.

  As Jessica had hoped, the small digital answering machine showed a flashing red light, and the number 2 flashing next to it. There were two messages. Or, at least, there were two calls.

  ‘I’m so embarrassed,’ the woman said. ‘I do check it now and then. I’ve just been so busy today.’

  ‘I understand. May I ask who else lives here?’

  ‘Just me and the boys.’

  ‘The boys?’

  ‘I have two sons. Twins. They’re twelve.’

  Jessica made this note on her notepad. The woman watched her write it, her skepticism – more accurately, at this point, her suspicion – growing.

  ‘And your husband?’ Jessica asked.

  What had only a second ago been skepticism morphed instantly into the stirrings of annoyance. The woman crossed her arms, a sure sign of shutting down.

  ‘We’re divorced,’ she said. Clipped, terse, final.

  ‘May I ask where the boys are now?’

  ‘Michael – that’s my ex-husband, Michael – has them for the week. They’re probably at soccer practice now.’

  ‘Might the call from Mr Solomon have been for one of the boys? Might he be one of their teachers, or perhaps one of their coaches?’

  The woman laughed. In the context of the conversation it was an odd sound. ‘I don’t mean to laugh, but I don’t think the boys have ever gotten a call on this phone. I’m sorry to say that they’ve had cell phones of their own since they were seven or eight.’

  ‘I have a five-year-old boy,’ Jessica said. ‘He’s already asked me for a cell.’ Small talk depleted, she closed her notebook. ‘Shall we listen to the messages now?’

  Mary crossed the kitchen, sat down at the small desk.

  ‘Are you familiar with how to work this answering machine?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘I think so. As I said, I don’t use it that much, but it’s pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Do you know how to save a message?’
r />   Mary opened a drawer, took out a pair of reading glasses. She slipped them on and looked closely at the answering machine. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After the message plays, you hit Delete if you want to erase the message. If you want to save it, you don’t do anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jessica said. ‘What I’d like to do, with your permission, is to let both of these messages play. In other words, I’d like to save them both.’

  ‘Okay. I don’t have a problem with that.’

  Jessica took out her own iPhone. ‘I have a memo application on my phone. When we play the messages for the first time, if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a recording of them.’

  The woman just shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  Jessica navigated through a few screens, found her memo app, touched it, beginning a recording. She saw the audio level needle jump a few times, letting her know that it was working.

  She put the phone down next to the answering machine.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘I am.’

  Jessica nodded. Mary Gillen pressed the button for playback.

  The robotic answering machine voice began:

  ‘You have two new messages. First new message, received today at 10:09 a.m.’

  The machine beeped.

  ‘This is a courtesy call from the Free Library. Items you requested are at the main branch of the library. They will be held there until November twenty-eight. Thank you for using the Free Library.’

  Beep.

  ‘I forgot about the library having this number,’ the woman said as the machine cycled to the second call. ‘I never bothered to update it with my cell phone number.’

  Jessica said: ‘We get the same message.’

  The answering machine continued:

  ‘Second new message, received today at 11:02 a.m..’

  At the sound of the second beep, Jessica found she was holding her breath. 11:02 a.m. was just moments before David Solomon put a steel revolver against the soft palate in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  At first, the only sound was static. This sometimes happened with cordless phones. If you were near high tension wires, it sometime interfered with the DECT signal. Jessica was afraid the whole message was going to be static. After a few moments the static died down and, beneath it, she heard a man’s voice say what sounded like:

  ‘… not now …’

  A few more seconds of static, then nothing.

  The machine beeped again, and the flashing red readout went to 0. There were no more messages.

  For a long, uncomfortable moment, neither woman said anything. It was Jessica who spoke first.

  ‘Did you recognize that voice?’ she asked.

  ‘I really didn’t hear much. But, no, it didn’t sound familiar.’

  ‘What about what he said. Not now. Does this have any significance to you?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s what he said. But to answer your question, it has no significance I can think of.’

  Mary Gillen was right. There was so much static, it was hard to tell what the caller said. ‘That’s okay,’ Jessica said.

  A few minutes later, Mary Gillen walked Jessica to the front door.

  ‘When you speak to your sons, and you ask them if the name David Solomon means anything to them, I would appreciate a call,’ Jessica said. She took out her business card case, thumbed out a card, handed it to the woman.

  ‘Homicide?’

  Jessica noticed a slight tremble had come to the woman’s hands. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘This. Your card. It says Homicide Division.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m a homicide detective.’

  The color seemed to leach from the woman’s face. ‘This is something bad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Were not really sure yet,’ Jessica said. ‘But there really isn’t any cause for concern. It’s quite possible that Mr Solomon misdialed a number. It’s quite possible he meant to call someone else.’

  The woman nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Before she could ask the next logical question – that being, whether or not Mr Solomon was dead – Jessica moved on.

  ‘It’s all probably much ado,’ Jessica said. ‘Again, when you talk to your sons, ask them if they recognize the name. And if you could call me one way or another, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I will.’

  As Jessica reached her car, she took her iPhone out of her pocket, and touched the icon for her memo application. This took her to her saved memos. She opened her car door, slipped inside, closed the door, then touched the selection to play back the recording she had made in Mary Gillen’s kitchen.

  Static. Then: ‘Not now.’

  Was this even David Solomon’s voice? Jessica wondered.

  It had to be. The timeline was a lock. She had little doubt. These were David Solomon’s final words.

  Not now.

  13

  The last time Byrne saw Theresa Woodman was eight years earlier. He had visited her at her home two years after her son Thaddeus had gone missing, two years after Byrne had plotted a map of Valerie’s potential crimes.

  On Theresa Woodman’s refrigerator was a calendar, each terrible, passing day crossed off in red.

  At that time Theresa was twenty-six years old, a slender, attractive brunette with light brown eyes. On that day, as this day, it was her posture that disclosed her sadness. Eight years earlier Theresa Woodman walked through the world with a weight on her shoulders, the burden of the unknowing. At that time – even though the numbers were not in her and her son’s favor – she still anticipated that every knock, every doorbell, every stranger who approached would bring the news that her son had been found, alive and healthy, and was waiting for her at a police station.

  Now the weight was different. It was just as full, perhaps even more so, but clearly one of resignation, a millstone of unimaginable grief.

  Byrne had nearly forgotten that he had arranged to meet the woman. Being next up on the wheel, he’d had a pretty good idea that he would catch a case on this day, but he had not anticipated – nor could he have – the events surrounding David Solomon’s suicide.

  He’d thought about calling Theresa to reschedule, but in the end knew he would not. While the murder of Nicole Solomon had cut a fresh wound across his city, the disappearance of Thaddeus Woodman was no less terrible.

  Byrne had told Theresa Woodman on the phone that there had been no news of her son, and had debated with himself about whether or not he would bring her the news he did have, and whether or not it would help.

  When he found himself at a table at the Starbucks on Arch Street, a block or so away from where Theresa worked at the Comcast Center, he thought it might have been a mistake to do this. When she entered the coffee shop, and he saw her eyes, he knew it was so.

  It had been ten years since Theresa Woodman had last seen her little boy.

  Theresa hugged him, sat down. Despite her burden, she now seemed to float above her chair.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m … I’m fine. Thank you.’

  Byrne saw that she had in her hands a wad of damp paper towels, already shredded.

  He reached into his bag, took out the document. He had clipped the article from the Inquirer, and made a photocopy of it.

  ‘I didn’t know whether or not you had seen this,’ he said. He unfolded the photocopy, slid it across the table. He watched as she read the piece.

  When she was done, she dabbed at her moist eyes, took a few moments, pointed at the document. ‘The date,’ she said. ‘This is less than three weeks from now.’

  She was referring to the date of Valerie Beckert’s scheduled execution. Byrne just nodded.

  Theresa put down the article, looked out the window. Byrne could all but see the conflict doing battle inside her. He understood. The death penalty, and all its attendant emotions – political, spiritual, human – was, and forever would be, a war
fought on the fields of the heart.

  Theresa turned back to Byrne. ‘Are we absolutely sure she had something to do with Thad’s …’

  Byrne wanted to finish her sentence for her. There were only two words. One was disappearance. The other was murder.

  He used neither.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s still only a hunch on my part.’

  This wasn’t true. It was more than that. It was a belief.

  ‘But the DNA,’ she said, as if for the first time. ‘In her car.’

  There were a number of explanations as to why Thaddeus Woodman’s DNA had been found in Valerie’s car, none of which Byrne, or any other cop, would buy. The boy’s DNA was lifted from four strands of his hair on the upholstery in the back seat.

  Byrne had first visited Theresa and her husband John the month after Valerie had been arrested. He had also visited the parents of eight of the twelve other children who had gone missing. During these visits Byrne had requested a personal item belonging to each of the missing children, something from which a DNA test could be run. He did not concern himself, at that time, with the four children who had lived at foster homes, as their clothing, hairbrushes and other personal items were almost always shared, therefore contaminating the sample.

  Because the processing of these DNA control models were not part of an active investigation, the city would not authorize – or pay for – the analyses. Byrne had paid for the testing out of his own pocket. There had only been one match.

  Thaddeus Woodman.

  Byrne turned his coffee cup on the table, searching for the right words. ‘I would like to say I know how your son’s hair got there, but I can’t, Theresa. There’s no proof that Thaddeus was ever in Valerie’s car, or her house, or even in her company.’ He thought about taking a sip of coffee, stalling even longer, but he knew the coffee was cold. ‘It’s possible that Thaddeus came in contact with Thomas Rule somehow, that Thomas introduced the DNA into the car. Maybe the transference took place that way.’

  Byrne could hear the uncertainty in his own voice, his disbelief in this implausible theory, and it made him feel dirty.

  ‘But how would that be possible? They didn’t know each other,’ Theresa said. ‘They went to different schools. We went to different churches, different stores. My God, Thad was only …’