by The Echo Man
Lucy shuddered. 'What do you mean, killed? Like an accident or something?'
'No. Like killed killed.'
'What are you saying? She was murdered?'
'Yeah.' Amanda wiggled her fingers at Lucy, made spooky Halloween noises. 'They say her ghost walks these very halls.'
'Stop it.'
Amanda giggled. 'You're so easy.'
'How old was the girl?'
Amanda shrugged, peeled off another section of tangerine, offered it to Lucy. Lucy declined. 'Not sure. But not too old, though. Ten or eleven, maybe.'
'How did she ... you know.'
'How did she die?' Amanda shrugged. 'No idea. But I don't think they ever caught the guy that did it.'
As creepy as Lucy already felt today, the feeling had just doubled.
'I think it's one of the cases this bunch of nut jobs who are staying here this week are investigating,' Amanda said. 'Or talking about investigating. God only knows what they do.'
Lucy was speechless for the moment. Amanda stood up, threw her tangerine peels in the nearby Dumpster.
'So, are we on?' Amanda asked.
At first Lucy didn't know what Amanda was talking about. Then she remembered. She had told Amanda that she would go out with her for a drink at Fluid, a dance club on Fourth Street, on Halloween Eve Night - always a crazy time in Philly, to say the least - and, according to Amanda, a ton of cute college guys always showed up. This year they were probably all going to be dressed up like Robert Pattinson.
'Yeah,' Lucy said. 'Why not?'
'Awesome. And you are definitely going to let me do something with your hair. We've got to babe you up, chica. Maybe get you laid.'
'Amanda.'
Amanda giggled. 'I'll be by your mansion around eight.'
'Cool beans.'
Amanda walked back into the hotel but Lucy stayed put. She couldn't stop thinking about the little girl Amanda had mentioned. Murdered. At the place Lucy worked. She had to find out more about it, although she wasn't sure why. Maybe because there was a dead zone in her own life. Maybe it was because for the past nine years she had felt a dark kinship with all young girls who had been touched by evil. They were her sisters.
They say her ghost walks these very halls.
Thanks, Amanda, Lucy thought. Thanks a lot.
Chapter 29
Doylestown was a quaint township of about eight thousand in Bucks County. The Ulrich Art Supply store was a standalone building, a converted ivy-veined coach house on North Main Street, across the road from the Mercer Square Shopping Center. The front windows held a display of paints, canvases, brushes, easels. Halloween decorations ringed the window and door.
On the way to Doylestown Jessica and Byrne decided not to approach the store in any official capacity. Because this was the only store within reach of the city that carried the paper used in these homicides, there was a chance that they might tip their hand by approaching the store as law-enforcement officers looking for information. If someone in the store was acquainted with the killer they might get on the phone the minute they left. If Plan A failed, they could always come in with guns and badges blazing.
They watched the store for a few minutes. There was a woman behind the counter, working on a small display rack. No one entered the store and they did not see anyone else working.
'Looks like you're up,' Jessica said.
'I thought you were the undercover queen.'
'I am,' Jessica said. 'But I think metrosexual is out of my range.'
'What did we say about that word?'
'Sorry.'
Byrne took a moment, scoping the terrain. 'Who am I again?'
Jessica gave it some thought. 'I'm thinking Bennett Strong.'
Byrne nodded. It was a good choice. Tough but suitably fey, given the venue. 'Where was the show?'
Jessica turned her iPhone so that Byrne could see it. She had searched the web on the way into Doylestown and found a recent print show in Philadelphia. She had also looked up the art supply store's website. There she found the owner's name. Alicia Webster.
Byrne pulled his badge from his belt, along with his weapon and his holster, put it all in the back seat. He took off his jacket.
'Want some hair gel?' Jessica asked.
Byrne just gave her a look.
Alicia Webster was in her mid to late thirties. She wore a beige knit cardigan and black corduroy slacks. Her eyeglasses hung around her neck on a rawhide lace.
She glanced up as Byrne entered the store accompanied by a ring of a bell. 'May I help you?' she asked. Pleasant smile, bright eyes.
Byrne proffered a business card. On it was simply a name - no phone number, no address, no email, no website. He had a stack of them in his briefcase. Ten different names. You never knew.
'My name is Bennett Strong,' he said. 'I am the owner of Strong Galleries, New York City.'
The woman's face lit up.
'You are Miss Webster?'
The woman looked surprised that he knew her name.
'I am.' She held up her left hand, wiggled her ring finger. 'But it's Mrs.'
Byrne put a hand to his heart. 'Mea culpa.' He smiled at her. 'Mrs. Of course.'
A blush. 'How can I help you, Mr. Strong?'
'I love your store, by the way. Did I see Kolinsky sables on the way in?' It was something Byrne had seen on the store's website. He knew that the woman carried the brushes.
'Yes,' she said. 'You know your brushes.'
'And now to the point. I recently attended the PortPhilio show in Philadelphia. Did you manage to make it to the affair?'
Say no, Byrne thought. Please say no.
'No. I wanted to, but I'm all alone here since my son went back to school. I couldn't get away.'
'It was fabulous.'
The door opened behind them, ringing the bell again. A woman entered the store. Alicia's eyes flicked over to the new customer, then back.
'Anyway, I met a man there, a printmaker, who recommended your shop. He showed me some of his work and it was fantastic.'
'How nice.'
'I would really like to contact him, but I'm afraid I lost his card and I don't remember his name.'
'And he said he purchased supplies here?'
'Yes.'
'He was from Doylestown?'
'I don't know.'
'What did the man look like?'
Shit, Byrne thought. He had no idea what to say. He didn't even know if it was a man. He aimed for the middle, culling from a standard profile. 'I'm terrible at these things. But I'd say he was thirty to forty. Medium height and weight. I'm not sure of his hair because he was wearing a ball cap.' This was as vague as Byrne could get. He smiled at Alicia. 'I'm a lot better with remembering women.'
Another blush. 'Well, that's not too much for me to go on.'
'Maybe this will help. During the course of our conversation he mentioned his printmaking technique, and said he was enamored of a certain brand of paper. An Italian paper. Quite expensive.'
'Do you remember the line?'
'I do not. But he showed me a sample and the watermark was Venus de Milo.'
'Atriana.'
Byrne snapped his fingers. 'That's it.'
The woman frowned. 'That's not an item we generally keep in stock. I've only sold a few dozen sheets in the past year or so.'
Alicia turned to her computer, tapped a few keys. In a moment a screen came up. Byrne could see the reflection in her glasses. It was a database program and she had found an entry. She nodded, perhaps remembering the man.
'I'm afraid I can't give you anyone's name. Our mailing list is confidential, of course.'
'Of course.'
'If you'd like, I could take your information and have them get in touch with you.'
'That would be great.'
Just then there was a loud crash at the back of the store. Alicia spun around to see a woman at the rear, next to a toppled display rack of oil paints.
'Shoot!' the woman at the back e
xclaimed.
'Oh my,' Byrne said. 'Look, why don't you tend to this terribly clumsy woman and I'll stop back in a few minutes. I have to hit the ATM, anyway.'
'That would be fine.'
As Alicia walked to the rear of the store to help Jessica pick up the spilled merchandise, Byrne spun the LCD monitor to face him. His eyes scanned the screen. The problem was that he was not wearing his glasses. The customer's name was a little larger than the rest of the entry. He got that with no problem. It was a company called Marcato LLC.
Beneath that: Attention JP Novak. Byrne looked at the bottom. Philadelphia. In between, it was mostly a blur.
He spun the monitor back, turned on his heels, and left the store.
They pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to route 611.
'Did we get it?'
'I got the name,' Byrne said. 'And a partial address.'
'A partial address?'
Byrne fell silent.
'You weren't wearing your glasses.'
Byrne plowed forward. He checked the notes that he'd scribbled after leaving the store. 'The paper was purchased by a company called Marcato LLC. Contact name is JP Novak. The address is in Philly. Something something something something Ashingdale Road. Or Arlington. I think the number was 8180 or 5150. Maybe 6160.'
Jessica shook her head. 'You know, those glasses do serve a purpose.'
'I don't see you wearing yours all the time.'
'Mind your own business, Mr. Strong. Now, drive the car and let me start sleuthing.'
On the way back to Philadelphia Jessica called in the name. There was no phone listing for a JP Novak, nor anyone with that name in PCIC with a criminal record. They found more than three dozen listings for Novaks with J as an initial: John, Joseph, Jerry, Jerszy, Jacob, Joshua.
She also looked up Marcato and did not find any company with that name, LLC or otherwise. She did find a definition of the word and found that it was Italian for marked, and when it was applied to music it meant performing the note with an 'attack' and a sustain of two-thirds of the original written length, followed by an audible counted rest.
According to one source the marcato sound was 'a rhythmic thrust followed by a decay of the sound.'
Who would name their company this? Jessica wondered.
When they returned to the Roundhouse they searched every database for a JP Novak, as well as for Philadelphia streets named Ashingdon or dozens of possible permutations. They asked everyone on the floor if they knew of any Philly streets or courts or lanes by that name or similar names. There were a few close matches but nothing exact.
After twenty minutes of strikeouts Jessica stood, began to peruse the large paper map on the wall. You could only look at a computer screen for so long before going six-eyed with fatigue. Somehow she put her finger on two possibilities.
'Look at this,' she said. 'There's a street in West Philly called Abingdon.'
Byrne shot to his feet. 'That's it.' 'There's also one called Ashingdale.' 'Shit.'
Josh Bontrager grabbed his coat. 'I'll take Ashingdale.' Jessica and Byrne headed to the door. 'Kevin?'
'What?'
'Bring your glasses.'
Chapter 30
The addresses on Abingdon Road stopped at 7000, so this eliminated the chance of the address being 8180. Jessica and Byrne drove to the far end of the street, worked back from 5150. This was a body shop called D & K Motor Cars. No one inside knew anyone named Novak, nor a company called Marcato LLC.
The address at 6160 was a gentrified apartment building called the Beau Rive, perhaps at one time a warehouse. The front had recently been stuccoed, and all four apartments in the front had leaded-glass bay windows.
Byrne pulled over, cut the engine.
'Hang on,' Jessica said.
She got out of the car, walked up the steps to the apartment building. She walked into the small lobby and looked at the mailboxes. There were six suites. She scanned the names. The second to last name, in apartment 204, was Joseph Paul Novak.
Bingo.
She tried the buzzer twice. No response.
Jessica walked out of the building, across the street. She got back in the car. 'There's a Joseph Novak in apartment 204. I buzzed. Nothing.'
Byrne checked his side mirror, then did a U-turn, pulling up on the opposite side of the street in front of a Thai takeout. They had not stopped for lunch and the aromas were enticing. He put the Taurus in park, cut the engine. 'Want to stake it out for a little while?'
'Sure,' Jessica said.
They watched the pedestrian traffic up and down Abingdon Road. After ten minutes or so Jessica got restless. She got out of the car, crossed the street, leaned against a light pole, took out her cell. She pretended to have a conversation. Cellphones were, hands down, the best surveillance prop ever invented.
Finally the door to the Beau Rive opened. The first person to walk out the building was a woman in her sixties, well-dressed and accessorized. When she reached the sidewalk she stopped, rummaged through her purse, then turned around in disgust, stormed back inside. She'd obviously forgotten something.
The second person to emerge was a man. He was black, in his late twenties, in a real hurry. He came out of the door buttoning a white chef's jacket. Jessica leaned back against the lamppost, called out:
'Joseph?'
No reaction. He didn't even acknowledge her. A few minutes later the woman reemerged and walked the other way down the street, a little more urgency to her stride. As a woman who forgot something at home every day, Jessica sympathized.
Jessica then crossed the street, leaned against the car next to Byrne's open window, went back to pretending to be on the phone. Ten long minutes later another man came out of the building.
'This is him,' Jessica said.
'How do you know?'
'I know.'
Jessica walked across the sidewalk, gave her hair a quick fluff. 'Is that Joseph? The man turned around. He was tall, broad-shouldered, in his mid-thirties. He had brown hair nearly to his shoulders, a fashionable one-day growth of beard. He wore a dark overcoat. His skin was alabaster pale.
'Do I know you?' he asked. His posture betrayed neither aggression nor retreat. Instead, he looked pleasantly curious.
Jessica continued toward him. 'We met last year. You're Joseph Novak, right?'
The man offered a half-smile but not one that fully committed himself to this conversation. 'I am. But I must confess I don't remember your name.'
'My name is Jessica Balzano.' She produced her ID, held it up. 'I just need to talk to you for a few moments.'
Joseph Novak looked at her badge, then back into her eyes. In this light his eyes were a pale blue, almost colorless. 'We've never met, have we?'
'No,' Jessica said. 'That was just a bold subterfuge on my part.'
The man smiled. 'Well played. But I can't imagine what it is I could tell you.' He looked over her shoulder. 'Or your partner.'
It was Jessica's turn to smile. She always had to remind herself that she and Byrne were not that hard to make as cops. 'It won't take a minute.'
Novak held up a #10 envelope. 'I just need to post this.' He pointed a half-block away, at a mailbox on the corner. He turned back to Jessica. 'I promise not to run.'
Jessica glanced at the envelope. It did not look like the paper found at the crime scenes. 'In that case, I promise not to chase you.'
Another smile. 'If you'll excuse me.'
'Of course.'
Novak threw one more glance at Byrne, then turned on his heels and walked toward the mailbox. Byrne got out of the car, crossed the street.
'That was good,' he said.
'I know.'
Novak mailed the letter and, as promised, began to walk back up the block. His size and bearing made for a striking silhouette in the afternoon light.
'Why don't you call Josh, tell him where we are?' Byrne said.
Jessica got on her cell, filled Bontrager in. She closed her phone just as Novak
returned to the steps in front of his apartment building. Novak turned his attention to Byrne.
'I am Joseph Novak.'
'Kevin Byrne,' Byrne said.
'How can I help?' Novak asked.
Jessica pointed at the door to Beau Rive. 'Do you think we could chat inside? As I said, we won't take up too much of your time.'
Novak did not answer right away. When he saw that these two police officers were not about to leave, he relented. He gestured to the door. 'Please.'
Chapter 31
At the rear of the building, Joseph Novak's apartment was a large two-bedroom flat with ten-foot ceilings and an open floor plan. The furniture was modern, mostly brushed aluminum and leather. Against one wall, nearly floor-to-ceiling, were CDs in custom-made birch shelves. There had to be a thousand of them. Jessica noticed that they were sectioned off by category: Classical, Electronica, New Age, Jazz. There were also subcategories by composer, artist, era. Brahms, Beethoven, Bach, Enya, Parker, Mingus, Tyner, Mulligan, Chemical Brothers. The effect of sunlight streaming through the windows, playing off the crystal cases in rainbow hues, was dizzying.
Upon entering the apartment Novak immediately crossed the room to the large desk at the other side and lowered the screen on his laptop, clicked it shut.
'We won't take up too much of your time,' Byrne said.
'Not at all,' Novak replied. 'Whatever I can do to help.'
'Do you know why we're here, Mr. Novak?' Byrne asked.
Novak sat at the desk, crossed his long legs. 'I'm afraid I do not.'
Byrne placed a sheet with six photographs on the desk in front of Novak. Kenneth Beckman's picture was in the upper right-hand corner. They decided to start this way, inquiring about Beckman as if they were looking for a witness.
Jessica watched Novak closely as his gaze fell on the photo lineup. If the man instantly recognized Beckman there was no indication.
'Do you recognize any of these people?' Byrne asked.
Novak gave the process a few seconds. 'No,' he said. 'Sorry.'
'No problem.' Byrne left the photo array on the desk. He leaned against the wall near the large window, looking around the room, especially at the rack of complicated-looking electronic equipment and what might have been a sound mixing board.