‘I didn’t know,’ Jessica said. It sounded weak and incomplete. ‘I had no idea that your boys were in danger when I came to your house. I was only there because of that phone call. You’ve got to believe me.’
The officer still held the woman tightly. The woman kept hyperventilating, but she had stopped struggling for the moment. There was spittle dribbling from her chin. Her eyes were red with rage.
‘I don’t fucking believe you,’ she said. ‘My boys are dead. My life is over.’
Jessica made eye contact with the officer. She nodded again. Reluctantly the officer eased his grip on the woman. Mary Gillen sprang forward and try to rain blows on Jessica again, but Jessica stepped in close and got hold of the woman, and held her until the woman’s volcanic anger began to subside.
‘It’s okay,’ Jessica said. ‘It’s okay.’
At this moment, standing in the parking lot of the Roundhouse, holding onto this woman who was as much a victim as the three victims of homicide were, she knew two things.
One. It was never going to be okay for Mary Gillen, ever again.
Two. Jessica would do everything and anything she could to catch the person who took this woman’s life away.
After icing her face, and calming down her husband – he felt deeply for the woman’s terrible loss, but his sense of protection for his wife took over when he saw Jessica’s swollen eye – she poked at some food, poured herself a rare double-shot of Jameson, stared past some inane sitcom.
All she could think about was the terrible cocoon of loss and grief in which Mary Gillen must be trapped, and how it would forever be connected to Jessica’s life. Every homicide she had ever investigated had, in some way, taken up residence in her heart and mind. She remembered something about each of them.
Four dead.
Nicole Solomon. David Solomon. Robert and Edward Gillen.
There was something that connected all of them to each other, just as they were forever connected to Jessica Balzano.
She would find it.
31
‘Sorry,’ Donna said.
‘It’s okay,’ Byrne said. ‘I was just kind of lost in thought.’
‘I remember it well.’
Byrne took a step back, drank in his ex-wife’s nearness. He thought he had prepared himself for her proximity. He had not.
‘You cut your hair,’ was all he could muster.
Donna raised her hand, smoothed the back of her long, elegant neck. ‘I did,’ she said. ‘Do you like it?’
Byrne hesitated for a second. No, it wasn’t a second. It wasn’t even close to a second. It was that nearly infinitesimal length of time measured by people – mostly women – who either are or were in an intimate relationship, the span of time coming right after a loaded question, but before the man can answer.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I like it a lot.’
‘No you don’t. You hate it.’
‘I don’t hate it. It looks good on you.’
‘What you really mean to say is, it looks good on a woman my age.’
Since the day Kevin Byrne met the seventeen-year-old Donna Sullivan, next to a 7-Eleven in South Philly, he had yet to meet a woman he found more beautiful. She still managed to loose the butterflies in his stomach every time he saw her.
‘I’m going to go on the record here,’ Byrne said. ‘Your new hairstyle is very flattering. It makes you look prettier than ever. Younger.’
Donna smiled. It was the smile he remembered well, the one that all but said she knew that he was slinging the Irish charm, but that, for the moment, she would let him get away with it.
They were now inside the dimly lit parlor of Valerie Beckert’s house. ‘Well, to put it mildly, and for so many reasons, I was surprised to get your call.’
Since their divorce, Donna had worked as a realtor. Over the years she moved through some of the smaller, mom-and-pop neighborhood agencies, but four years ago landed a job with the largest realtor in the city of Philadelphia, handling mostly Center City properties.
She was also licensed to show any multiple listing. If she made the sale, she would split the commission with the agent of record.
‘Well, I haven’t made any decisions,’ Byrne said. ‘I just wanted to get the details on this house.’
Donna looked at him skeptically for a few seconds. She had always been able to read him well, far more accurately than he had been able to read her. Near the end of their marriage it was his job – the long irregular hours, the anger, the way the detectives of the homicide unit bonded even more closely with each other than they did with their families – that brought their relationship to a close. Donna had probably shut off her feelings two years before Byrne noticed the first touch of frost.
Some detective.
Donna walked over to the front window, which was caked with a decade of soot and grime. She looked for a clean spot to put down her briefcase and, not finding one, held it out to Byrne. Byrne held it aloft while she opened it, took out a folder. She snapped it shut, put the strap over her shoulder.
‘Let’s see,’ she began. She opened the folder, pulled out a thin sheaf of documents. ‘The property is four thousand square feet, with six bedrooms, four full plus one half-bath, three-car garage, eat-in kitchen, full basement.’ Donna flipped the page, continued. ‘The lot size is 8049 square feet, house built in 1928, shows as colonial style but as you probably noticed it is more Tudor. Stucco walls, hardwood floors.’
Byrne looked down. The worn and stained carpeting beneath his feet was probably a deep burgundy at one time. ‘There’s a floor under here?’
‘That’s the prevailing theory,’ Donna said. She glanced again at the document. ‘Public water, public sewer, hot water is natural gas, nice backyard, and the ultimate in luxury, a marble fireplace, which, unfortunately, is bricked in.’
‘Who needs heat in Philadelphia?’ Byrne asked.
Donna flipped a few more pages, found nothing of interest, put everything back into the folder. ‘You probably know this, but I’ll say it out loud anyway. There’s a rule of thumb in real estate, and that is, if you’re moving into a halfway decent neighborhood, and you’re looking to rehabilitate a property, you want the worst house on the block.’ She handed Byrne the folder. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘You definitely found it.’
Byrne took the folder. ‘So, what do you really think of the place?’
‘I think you should lace up your Nikes and run from this place as fast and as far as you can.’
‘Now, see, you’re just trying to get me to raise my offer so you can get a bigger commission.’
Donna gave him a sideways glance, and a half smile, the one that demolished his heart so many years ago. ‘You haven’t made an offer, detective.’
‘What do you think I could get it for?’
‘I think you can do a lot better than even the foreclosure price.’
Byrne looked around, as if he might be thinking about it. It was just a stall, and he knew it. He’d made up his mind the minute he walked through the door. There was no choice.
‘Let’s do it.’
32
Jessica and Byrne spent the morning – wasted the morning was more accurate, if Jessica were asked – by visiting toy stores in an attempt to find a doll similar to the one found at the Gillen crime scene, or someone with some knowledge who might point them in the right direction.
They had done a few Internet searches, found similar dolls and figurines, but that did not give them a direction as to where the doll was purchased. Sometimes shoe-leather police work trumped anything that computers could offer.
As they caught a quick coffee in Center City, Jessica told Byrne about the Nutshell studies. When she showed him the pictures on her iPhone, he was as impressed as she had been when she’d first seen them.
The double homicide of the two Gillen boys was being led by Josh Bontrager and Maria Caruso. While Jessica and Byrne followed up on the doll, the other two detectives interviewed stu
dents at the boys’ school.
They would meet with command later in the day and compare notes. There was no doubt that the homicides were related.
The fifth store of the morning, a place called The Toy Chest, was located in a converted row house on Germantown Avenue in the Chestnut Hill section of the city. The storefront offered a bright array of the store’s wares: Games, puzzles, dolls, action figures, models.
Byrne put the car in park, cut the engine. As he walked around the car, and waited for traffic to cross the road, he said:
‘Kevin, I’d like you to meet the thousand-pound gorilla in the room. Gorilla, this is Kevin.’
Jessica closed her car door. ‘So, what you’re saying is, you want to know about the black eye.’
‘Not really,’ Byrne said. ‘My partner shows up looking like she went two rounds in a cage match, and it doesn’t really cross my mind.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I told myself I’d give it until noon. It’s ten after. You should be proud of me.’
‘Always,’ Jessica said.
‘Dish.’
Jessica told him about the encounter with Mary Gillen. Byrne knew her well enough to know that she had not made a decision about what, if anything, she was going to do in response. He didn’t press her.
The man stocking the shelves was in his late twenties. He was tall and rail thin, had sandy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a red flannel shirt, black Levi’s, black Doc Martens.
The man looked up from his task. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ Jessica replied. ‘I’m—’
Before she could continue, the young man interrupted her.
‘Wow. That’s one heck of a shiner. I hope the other guy looks worse.’
Byrne suddenly got interested in an item on the shelf, a strange-looking board game called Oh, Gnome You Don’t. He couldn’t look at his partner.
‘The other guy is in Laurel Hill,’ Jessica said.
Laurel Hill was one of the oldest and largest cemeteries in Philadelphia. Flannel shirt got the message.
‘Awesome,’ he said.
Jessica noted his nametag. Florian.
‘What can I show you?’ Florian asked.
Jessica produced her ID. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
The look on Florian’s face said small-time pot bust. The look Jessica returned said not to worry.
Yet.
Florian gestured to the counter at the rear of the store. ‘Right this way,’ he said.
On the way back, Jessica took note of the inventory on the shelves of The Toy Chest – Winnie-the-Pooh, Raggedy Ann, Curious George and Kewpie dolls, as well as Sesame Street characters, Thomas the Tank Engine, Fancy Nancy. There were also craft kits, costumes, castles, trains, rockets, even old-fashioned paper dolls.
Jessica made a mental note to never bring Sophie here. She had enough money troubles. This place would bankrupt her.
Florian walked around, behind the counter, folded his hands, looked up, clearly not knowing what to expect.
Byrne took out a photograph of the doll found at the Gillen crime scene. ‘We’re trying to determine where this doll was purchased.’
Florian took the photo, looked closely at it, clearly a concerned citizen. ‘This is pricey.’
‘You’ve seen it before?’ Byrne asked.
‘Not this particular doll, but I go to all the shows.’ He gestured to the store. ‘Most of my inventory is newer, but I’m always looking. I do a little eBay on the side.’
‘Why do you say this is pricey?’
‘There’s a lot of money in dolls, collectible dolls that is. This is probably an antique. It looks like bisque.’
‘Not sure what that is,’ Jessica said. ‘I know what the soup is, but not the doll.’
‘Okay, well, bisque is a type of porcelain. Unglazed, I think. It’s what a lot of the older dolls are made of.’
Jessica made the note. ‘You mentioned that there is a lot of money in collecting dolls.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘How much is a lot?’
‘As you can see, we don’t specialize, but I get all the trade magazines, too. Barbie is always hot. You’d be amazed how many editions of Barbie are out there. The folks at Mattel are smart.’
‘How much would a rare Barbie go for?’ Byrne asked.
Florian reached behind the counter, sorted through a stack of magazines. He found what he was looking for, riffled through it, set it on the counter, turned it to face the two detectives. On one page was a picture of a Barbie wearing a little black dress, with a necklace clearly made of precious stones. To the right was an article.
‘This is the Canturi Barbie,’ Florian said. ‘One of a kind.’
Jessica scanned the article, found the price. ‘Seriously? Five hundred thousand dollars?’
‘And change,’ Florian said. ‘Now, if you took away the diamonds, of course, she’d be just another Barbie. As far as the doll itself goes, an original, unadorned Barbie – as in Barbie Number One – goes for around eight grand.’
‘A bargain,’ Byrne said.
‘Modern boy dolls go for a lot less. An original G.I. Joe – sealed in the package – might fetch eight hundred or so. They took it off the market around 1978.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘But when they discontinued it the figure measured around eleven inches tall. When they brought it back in 1983 it was around three-and-a-half. I wish I had a box of the originals, I can tell you that much. But those are VHTF.’
Jessica stopped writing. ‘I’m sorry?’ she asked. ‘VHTF?’
‘That means—’
‘Very Hard To Find,’ Byrne said. ‘Can you think of a place in Philly that might specialize in this sort of thing?’
Clearly Byrne had had enough of driving around Philly looking for doll data.
Florian once again picked up the photo, scrutinized it, his small pot stash perhaps energizing him to cooperate fully and quickly with police.
Jessica took the opportunity to catch Byrne’s eye and mouth the words, Very Hard To Find?
Byrne smiled, shrugged.
The man turned back to them. ‘I don’t know of anywhere in Philly. You might have to go to New York for this.’ He handed back the photo. ‘There’s always the internet. Check eBay.’
As a homicide detective, Jessica had many times tried to track a sale across the World Wide Web. The effort to get the warrants needed to compel an online merchant to turn over records made her feel exhausted just thinking about it.
Before they left the store her phone rang, and Peter Giovanni’s daughter Jessica had her belief in shoe-leather police work once again renewed.
Jessica met Bethany Quinn at the door to her house. Somehow, the young woman looked even more pregnant than the last time Jessica had seen her.
‘We found this in my grandfather’s steamer trunk,’ she said.
‘In the attic?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You didn’t go up there yourself, did you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I made my husband do it.’
‘They do come in handy sometimes.’
‘He knew about you coming over, of course. When I mentioned your father’s name, he was up there in a flash. Your dad’s kind of a legend on the force.’
‘Please, don’t tell him that.’
Bethany smiled, zipped her lips.
Jessica glanced at the card. It was oversized, filigreed, quite fancy as business cards go, definitely from another era.
The address was in West Philly. The name of the shop was The Secret World.
‘Do you know if they’re still around?’ Jessica asked.
‘No idea,’ Bethany said. ‘But my husband saw some old sales receipts from there in the trunk. So, I’m pretty sure my grandfather bought some of his dolls from them.’
Jessica held up the card. ‘This was very kind of you.’
‘Oh, no problem.’
‘Best of luck.’
‘Yes,’ Jessica said. ‘Tell him thanks, too.’
‘He said to mention that his dream is to one day work in the homicide unit.’
Jessica smiled. In her mind she heard the sound of one hand washing the other. She envied this woman her youth, her faith. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Danny,’ she said. ‘P/O Daniel Joseph Quinn. He’s in the Third District.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Jessica said.
On the way back to the car Jessica called the number on the business card. She got a voicemail greeting that told her that the shop was open Monday, Thursday and Saturday from two p.m. to eight p.m.
She looked at her watch. It was ten to two on a Thursday.
They drove to West Philly.
33
The address on Lancaster Avenue, in the Spruce Hill section of West Philadelphia, was between a number of buildings either in repair, or in dire need. The doll shop was fairly well preserved. It reminded Jessica of stores in her South Philly neighborhood when she was growing up – hobby shops, model shops, variety stores. A few still remained.
As they approached The Secret World Jessica took in the window display. It was like nothing she’d ever seen. There were dolls in chairs, dolls sitting on small dressers, dolls at a table, dolls at a picnic. There was one doll, still in its box, wearing an elaborate satin ball gown.
The entire display window was a cutaway version of a doll house, with pink doors on each side that swung wide.
When they entered, a bell over the door chimed. Jessica noted that the doll house motif continued inside the shop. The space was long and narrow, with a glass counter to the left, shelves floor to ceiling on the right. On them were dolls of every color, every ethnicity. There were baby dolls, child dolls, fashion dolls, boudoir dolls, dolls of every profession – teachers, nurses, ballerinas.
At the back of the shop, over the counter, was an old weathered sign: E. Rose, Prop.
The Doll Maker Page 17