The Doll Maker Read online

  Six, Byrne thought. He was six years old.

  Before Byrne could respond, Theresa continued. ‘And when she … dies, we may never know what happened.’

  ‘No,’ Byrne replied. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.

  They sat in silence for a while, the afternoon trade at Starbucks flowing around them. Every so often Byrne would glance at Theresa Woodman. He noticed that she watched the other women in the coffee shop – women who were about her age, all of whom wore wedding rings – with what looked like a mixture of envy and a terrible sense of longing. He noticed that Theresa did not make eye contact with these women. He understood this. The connection it might make – one that spoke of a shared bond, one that whispered the silent promise that exists between a mother and her child – would be too great to bear.

  In the end, Byrne thought, no matter how much you rely on others for support, the inconceivable tragedy of losing a child is something that takes up permanent residence in the darkest corner of your heart, and must be endured alone.

  14

  Mr Marseille enjoyed reading newspapers, and he took four of them on a daily basis – The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, USA Today and, of course, The Philadelphia Inquirer.

  Whenever there was something in which he thought I would be interested – generally speaking, something about fashion or music or theater – he would take out his scissors and carefully clip the article. Often, when he prepared my breakfast – usually something light like oatmeal, or perhaps a butter scone and tea, my favorites – there would be a small pile of articles just waiting for me to read them.

  It had been a full day since our gala with Nicole, and we were already preparing for our next tea dance, to be held this coming Saturday.

  ‘Here’s an interesting item,’ Mr Marseille said.

  I loved our mornings together. I always have.

  Mr Marseille read from the front section of the Inquirer.

  ‘Police say they have no leads in the investigation of the murder of Nicole Solomon.’

  ‘Murder?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘Why do they think she was murdered?’

  ‘It doesn’t say. But the article ends like this: “Police are requesting the public’s help. Anyone with information should call the tip-line listed below. All calls will be kept confidential”.’

  ‘Do you think we should call?’ I asked.

  Mr Marseille considered this for a few moments.

  ‘I’m not sure that what we could tell them that would be useful.’

  He was right, of course. The police tend to be a suspicious lot – and rightfully so, given their jobs – and anything we’d tell them might reflect poorly on Mr Marseille and me.

  As I cleared the morning dishes I thought about this strange turn of events. This sort of thing has happened before – not often, I must say, due to the fact that many of the dolls we have mended do not get their names in the newspaper – but whenever it does it fills me with the queerest sensation all day.

  Murder.

  I don’t like that word, and I’m certain Mr Marseille does not either.

  15

  Jessica spent the morning pushing through the search warrants they needed to follow up on other calls that David Solomon had made in the days leading up to his daughter’s murder, and his own suicide. Because the David Solomon case was not a homicide, these warrants were not given high priority.

  The process involved calling, leaving messages, getting voicemail, returning the call, faxing, waiting.

  It was maddeningly slow.

  While she waited for callbacks, she accessed ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Maintained by the FBI, ViCAP was the largest investigative repository of major violent crime cases in the U.S designed to collect and analyze information about homicides, sexual assaults, missing persons, and other violent crimes.

  Jessica put in details of the Nicole Solomon crime scene. And while there had been many homicides committed by strangulation in the past five or so years – a dozen or so using a stocking as a ligature – none included the signature of a painted bench, or the presence of a handwritten note.

  She made a note to try again as more forensic data came in.

  At ten o’clock, as Jessica and Byrne crossed the lobby of the Roundhouse, Jessica noticed a woman speaking to the desk sergeant. The woman looked familiar, but at first Jessica wasn’t sure where she knew her from. Then it registered. It was Annie Stovicek, the woman who had been their sole witness at the Shawmont crime scene. Today, instead of her jogging outfit, she wore a dark suit and overcoat.

  When the woman saw Jessica and Byrne she looked up, offered a nervous smile. Jessica and Byrne stepped through the security checkpoint, into the outer lobby.

  ‘Mrs Stovicek. What brings you here?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘I was coming to see you, actually.’

  ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘Well, after you left the other day, I took Miranda to her day care, then went to work. Needless to say, I didn’t get much done.’

  ‘That’s completely understandable.’

  ‘Later in the day I went to take a photo with my phone – we’re remodeling, and I take pictures of things like bathroom vanities and kitchen countertops I like and send them to my husband – and when I opened the folder that has my recent photos I saw a picture I’d forgotten I’d taken.’

  Jessica and Byrne just listened.

  Annie Stovicek continued. ‘You see, when we were down by the river, I took a picture.’

  ‘That morning?’

  ‘No. It was the night before. Late. I was with Ajax.’

  ‘Ajax?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Ajax is my dog. He’s a Sheltie.’

  ‘And you took a photograph of him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As I said, it was late. Maybe midnight. I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘You have the photo with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took out her cell phone, tapped an icon. ‘I didn’t notice it at first, I guess because I wasn’t looking for it.’

  ‘Notice what?’

  She turned the phone to face the two detectives. The photo was a medium close-up of a young Sheltie. Behind the dog was parked a white, late model Honda Accord.

  ‘Can you enlarge this a little?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Annie said. She pinched two fingers, spread them. The photo, which was of a high resolution, enlarged. In the moonlight, the car’s license plate was perfectly readable. It was an up-to-date Pennsylvania tag. Jessica wrote down the number.

  ‘Did you notice if anyone was in the car at the time?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. And you didn’t see anyone near it?’

  ‘No. We were only down there a few seconds.’

  Jessica recalled walking the site the morning after the picture was taken. When she had gone down to the river there was no car parked there. She glanced again at the photograph on the phone. There did not appear to be anything on the ground near the driver’s side.

  Still, it was worth checking. ‘I’ll call it in,’ Byrne said. He headed across the main lobby, took out his phone.

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember about the car?’ Jessica asked. ‘Did you see it arrive? Did you see it leave?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘No. To be honest, I don’t really remember it even being there. I remember seeing it for the first time when I saw that picture.’

  ‘And you don’t recall seeing it before or since?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Jessica said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Byrne crossing the lobby. She knew his stride. He had something. Jessica turned back to the woman. ‘Mrs Stovicek, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. Not everyone would be this civic-minded.’

  ‘Do you think that car – or the person who was in that car – had anything to
do with …’

  ‘Probably not,’ Jessica replied. ‘But we have to rule out everyone and everything.’

  Jessica took out a card, wrote her business email on the back. ‘When you have a moment, could you send me that picture?’

  She took the card. ‘Sure. No problem.’ Annie Stovicek buttoned her coat, slipped on her gloves. ‘Okay, then. Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  A little awkwardly, as if she might have been waiting to be dismissed, Annie Stovicek turned on her heels and walked through the double doors, out into the rear parking lot.

  ‘Did she remember anything else?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘No.’ Jessica turned to her partner. ‘We have something, don’t we?’

  ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Byrne cleared his throat, consulted his notebook. ‘The tag is registered to one Jeffrey Claude Malcolm, twenty-one, currently residing on Nineteenth Street in South Philly.’

  ‘Any wants or warrants?’

  ‘Funny you should ask. Mr Malcolm is currently out on bail.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He attempted to lure an underage girl into his car in September.’

  16

  The building was a newer three-story rehab in an older block of row houses on Nineteenth Street near Reed Street. Because the city had mandated off-street parking for some new construction, a number of newer row homes had been built with single car garages.

  The address for which Jessica and Byrne were looking had a narrow garage as its first floor, essentially replacing what had one time been a front porch. Jessica and Byrne parked about a block away, scanned the street for their target car. They did not see it.

  On the way they had called dispatch and requested a pair of sector cars to troll the streets and commercial parking lots for two blocks in all directions. None had spotted a white Honda Accord with the corresponding license plate.

  As they approached the address, Jessica peeked into the window of the attached garage. It was empty. A quick scan of the second and third floors showed white honeycomb blinds, all lowered.

  Byrne stepped up to the front door, put his ear near the jamb. Apparently hearing nothing, he rang the bell. After a few moments the door opened.

  Jeffrey Malcolm looked younger than twenty-one. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and wore the vest and trousers from a well tailored suit, white shirt, burgundy tie. Before saying anything the man looked at Byrne, then around the big man at Jessica.

  He knew.

  ‘Are you Jeffrey Malcolm?’ Byrne asked.

  Through the screen door. ‘Do I need my lawyer?’

  Byrne gave it a few seconds. ‘You need a lawyer to figure out whether or not you’re Jeffrey Malcolm?’

  Malcolm looked down for a moment, at his highly polished shoes. He looked up. ‘What is this about?’

  Even though it was clearly unnecessary, Byrne produced his badge, introduced himself and Jessica. ‘For the second and final time,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you Jeffrey Malcolm?’

  ‘Yes,’ Malcolm said. ‘But my preliminary hearing is next week. I’m sure whatever this is about can—’

  ‘This is another matter,’ Byrne said. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

  Malcolm’s shoulders sagged. He opened the door wide. Jessica and Byrne stepped inside. The front room was empty, save for a number of movers’ boxes stacked against the far wall.

  ‘Moving in or out?’ Jessica asked. She knew the answer to her question – if Malcolm was moving in there was only a slight chance that this address would have flagged when they ran the license plate.

  ‘Moving out,’ he said. ‘I found a place up in Bustleton.’

  Already answering questions that hadn’t been asked, Jessica thought.

  ‘Do you own a white Honda Accord, Mr Malcolm?’ she asked.

  Another pause. ‘May I ask what this is about?’

  ‘We’ll get to that in just a second.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Can you tell us where the car is right now?’

  ‘Of course.’ He pointed in a generally southern direction. ‘It’s in my garage.’

  ‘The attached garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you out in the car late Friday night or early Saturday morning?’

  ‘This past Friday and Saturday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ Malcolm said. ‘I just flew in from Atlanta. I got in about five-thirty this morning.’

  ‘And you parked your car at the airport?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s too expensive. I took a cab.’

  Jessica made the note. ‘And you say you were in Atlanta?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was this business or pleasure?’

  Another pause. ‘Business. I work for Aetna.’

  ‘How long were you in Georgia?’

  ‘Five days,’ he said. ‘I usually fly out from Philly Sunday night, and come back either Friday night or Saturday morning. I couldn’t get a flight out Saturday.’

  More information unasked yet answered, Jessica thought. ‘And there are people who can confirm this?’

  Jessica saw that Malcolm was about to get angry with the intrusion, but checked himself. Anyone out on bail with a pending hearing – especially for a charge of Attempting to Lure – knew that a sense of outrage with law enforcement was best held in check. In the end he said, simply: ‘Yes.’

  To that end Malcolm reached – slowly – into his pocket, produced a US Airways boarding pass, handed it to Byrne. Byrne scanned it, nodded at Jessica, handed it back to Malcolm.

  ‘You say this is a weekly routine for you?’ Jessica asked.

  He nodded. ‘For the past five months, yes.’

  What had begun with promise – Jeffrey Malcolm’s car being spotted a few yards from a murder scene, its owner out on bail pending a sex crimes charge – was beginning to look less so. Still, it did not mean he was not involved.

  ‘And you say your car is in your garage right now?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s been there all week?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As far as I know.’

  Jessica glanced up. ‘As far as you know? Why would you say that?’

  ‘What I meant was, the car has been there the whole time I was gone.’

  ‘Why not just say that?’

  Apparently, Malcolm had no response to this. He said nothing.

  ‘Did you loan your car to someone during this past week?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you mind if we take a look in your garage?’

  Again, Malcolm appeared to want to object. He once more decided against it. ‘No problem.’

  Jessica gestured to the front door. They walked outside, Malcolm leading the way, down the steps, then over to the garage. Malcolm opened the garage door. It wasn’t locked.

  The garage was empty.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Malcolm.

  Both Jessica and Byrne gave this so-called revelation a few moments.

  ‘You seem surprised,’ Jessica said.

  ‘I am,’ Malcolm said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw your car?’ Jessica asked.

  Malcolm thought for a few moments. ‘Last Sunday. I went to the mall in the afternoon to pick up a few things for the week.’

  ‘And you put the car back into this garage at that time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About what time on Sunday?’

  ‘Maybe seven o’clock.’

  ‘In the evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was the garage door locked all week?’

  Malcolm shook his head, pointed at the locking mechanism, a spring actuated assembly. The slide was missing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The lock has been broken since I moved in.’

  ‘Was the car locked?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘I can’t remem
ber.’

  ‘Who else has keys to your car?’

  Malcolm thought about this a little too long. ‘No one. Just me.’

  ‘And where are those keys now?’

  Malcolm made a show of digging in his pants pockets. He came up empty. ‘They must be inside. Do you want me to get them?’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ll go with you.’

  As they walked back to the house, Jessica made eye contact with Byrne. Somehow, two and two were not equaling four, at least as it related to Jeffrey Malcolm and his mysterious car.

  By the time they reached the porch, they had their answer.

  Before Byrne could step across the threshold, Malcolm pivoted and slammed the door in Byrne’s face, then turned the deadbolt. It took only three attempts for Byrne to shoulder open the door. He drew his weapon, ran across the living room, into the kitchen. He called out to Jessica.

  ‘The back door’s wide open,’ Byrne yelled. ‘He’s running. Call it in.’

  While Byrne sprinted out the back door, Jessica took out her phone, called dispatch. She gave them their location, and a description of Jeffrey Malcolm. She ran out the front door, then north on Nineteenth Street, toward Wharton. When she came around the corner, she saw Malcolm cross the intersection running at a high rate of speed. He had something in his hands, although he was moving far too quickly for Jessica to see what it was. It was silver in color.

  A few seconds later, with Jessica gaining on him, Malcolm headed down the crowded sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. He glanced over his shoulder. He saw how close Jessica was.

  Byrne was nowhere in sight.

  Of all the things at which Kevin Byrne was adept, running – especially in street shoes – was not his forte. She had many times been surprised at his physical strength. Never once by his speed.

  At the moment Jessica caught up to Malcolm, at the corner of Wharton and Dorrance, Malcolm cut to his right, between two parked cars, running full bore. He never made it across the street. A white delivery van, moving somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five miles per hour, caught Malcolm on his left hip and propelled the man a dozen feet into the air. The sound of Malcolm’s body hitting the pavement was all but masked by the sound of metal on metal, of glass shattering, as the van crashed into a pair of cars parked on the south side of the street.