The only thing Sophie was fussier about were her hair ornaments and accessories – bows, bands, clips, combs, and barrettes.
Today, to visit the doll shop, Sophie chose a pretty black acrylic clip with a French closure. The design was dancing flowers.
When Byrne stood up, and the light caught Sophie’s barrette, it dawned on her.
She made the first call, then called Byrne.
‘What’s up?’ Byrne asked.
‘Are you still with Sophie?’
‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘I was just about to drop her off. Vince is home.’
‘Look at her hair.’
‘What about it?’
‘Humor me,’ Jessica said. ‘What do you see in her hair?’
‘She has a hair clip or something. You know, a …’
‘Barrette,’ Sophie said in the background.
‘Right,’ Byrne said. ‘A barrette.’
‘Remember the Nicole Solomon crime scene? Remember what she was wearing?’
‘I do. Black sweater, black skirt, white blouse, black loafers.’
‘She was also wearing a barrette,’ Jessica said.
‘Yes, she was. It was in the shape of a swan.’
‘Exactly. So why is it the killer, who went through all that trouble to dress the Nicole doll, right down to the last button, zipper, and stitch, would he—’
‘Leave out the barrette.’
‘Right again.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t Nicole’s,’ Byrne said. ‘Maybe it belonged to someone else.’
‘My thoughts. I just called the ID Unit. Guess what one thing from that scene wasn’t processed?’
‘I’m going to go out on a limb and say the barrette for a thousand, Alex.’
‘Have you ever put a barrette on a kid?’ Jessica asked.
‘It’s on my bucket list.’
Jessica subconsciously wiggled the fingers on her right hand. ‘I’ve done it a million times, partner. More. Absolutely impossible to keep your fingers off the barrette.’
46
When Anabelle told me the news, I was initially distressed. It was no secret that I didn’t approve of her working in that shop at first, but I could see what it has meant to her over these few years.
We strolled through the park, arm in arm.
‘Please don’t be sad,’ I said.
‘I can’t help it,’ Anabelle replied through her tears.
As we headed to our car, I saw that we had drawn the attention of a pair of boys, perhaps sixteen. From their outward appearance they appeared to represent everything I disdain – slovenly appearance, poor hygiene, vulgar manners.
I took Anabelle’s hand. We began to walk further into the park. The sun was setting and it became chilly. I took off my coat and draped it over Anabelle’s shoulders.
‘Merci,’ she said. Her voice sounded so small, like a child’s. It broke my heart.
I glanced behind us. As I suspected, the two boys were following.
‘We are being followed,’ I said to Anabelle. I felt her tense.
One thing that might be known about me is that I’ve never been one to raise my voice. I’ve always believed that volume is a poor substitute for substance. If you do not have a valid point to make, you shout, hoping to bully your point home.
I detest bullies.
For as long as I have been shaving, I have used a straight razor. I have tried many, but my favorite is a Thiers-Issard Eagle with a 5/8 inch blade and tortoise handle. It is very light and agile, and extremely sharp.
As I turned on my heel I slipped the razor from my pocket, and under the cover provided by the gathering darkness, opened the blade.
The two boys continued toward us. I brushed the leaves from a bench for Anabelle. She sat down. I walked up the path and chose a spot under a copse of shedding maples. I greeted the boys.
They were no more than ten feet away.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
The boys looked at each other, as if they had never been referred to as gentlemen before. This was entirely understandable.
‘Gimme your cell phone, motherfucker,’ one of them said. ‘That’s what you can help me with.’ He wore a brown, hooded sweatshirt. There was some sort of sports team logo on the left front breast.
‘I’m afraid I don’t own a cell phone,’ I said. It was true. I can’t imagine a life so rubbled with useless information that one would be compelled to share it every second of every day.
‘I think you do,’ said the other boy. This one wore a black hooded sweatshirt with something that looked like FUBU written on it. ‘You look rich. Rich people got cell phones.’ As he said this he took a knife from his waistband. It was a fixed blade dagger with what looked to be a five inch blade.
I have had a keen interest – if you’ll allow the bon mot – in steel weaponry my whole life. The handle of my razor, which was open, rested against the backs of my curled fingertips, its length shielded by my right wrist.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I said. ‘And now, if we have no further business with which to attend …’
‘Fuck you, asshole.’
The boy with the knife closed the distance to where I stood in two quick strides. Leading with the knife in a forward grip – what is known as a modified saber grip, with one thumb on the side of the blade – he was ill-prepared for anything that might result from a failure to plunge the knife into my chest.
He, being large and oafish, and more than a few pounds overweight, stumbled past me. I managed to dodge the assault with ease. As he passed by I raised my right foot and brought it forcefully down to the back of the boy’s left knee.
He fell to the earth, face first, the wind momentarily stolen from his lungs.
I dropped a knee to the center of his back, pulled down his hood, and placed the blade of the straight razor against the center of his neck. Just this slight touch drew blood. I felt his body jitter.
‘Do not move,’ I whispered.
He did not.
I looked at the other boy, who had been about to join the fray. He was now frozen in place.
‘This is a Thiers-Issard,’ I said. ‘It is French steel, inarguably one of the finest shaving instruments made. Aside from a DOVO, you cannot buy a better blade.’
I had taken the chance that the other boy was not equipped with a firearm. It was a calculated risk. I was right. He certainly would have produced it by now.
‘What will happen now is that I will count to three.’ I pointed to a light pole, perhaps forty yards away, down the path. ‘If you do not reach that pole by the time I count three, I will sever your colleague’s spinal cord. He will live, but not well. If you turn around, even once, I will cut his throat.’
The boy vibrated with fear.
‘I need to know that you understand. Say “I understand.”’
The boy said nothing. Instead, he just nodded. It was enough.
‘One.’
I did not need to count to three.
I eased the blade from my attacker’s neck, and smelled the unmistakable odor of urine. Before I let him up I picked up his knife. I threw the offensive weapon into the wooded area that bordered Kelly Drive. It was a thug’s pride, useful for nothing more than whittling.
‘Stand,’ I said.
The boy didn’t move.
‘I never say things twice.’
The boy slowly got up, but did not turn around.
‘If this were all about me, this moment would be where you and I part ways. But you have upset the person most important to me in the world.’
I pointed to where Anabelle sat.
‘We will now walk over there, and you will apologize to her.’
The boy didn’t know what to do.
‘You do know what an apology is, do you not?’
He nodded slowly, turned, glanced at my right hand, which still held the Thiers-Issard.
‘Let’s go,’ I said.
The boy ambled o
ver the bench. When he was ten feet or so from Anabelle, I touched his shoulder. He stopped.
‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ he said.
My heart bled with pathos. ‘When you called me that crass and vulgar name you were much louder than this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, this time a little louder.
‘To whom are you speaking?’ I asked.
The boy again tensed, not having any idea what was coming next.
‘You are speaking to a lady,’ I said. ‘You address her as “miss.”’
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ I said. I looked at Anabelle. ‘Dear heart?’
Anabelle looked up. ‘I accept.’
I turned the boy around. ‘And so,’ I said. ‘D’accord.’
With the boy facing me, the smell of urine was overbearing. I wanted nothing more than to conclude our business. I brought the razor up and across, the blade coming to rest a mere inch from the boy’s face.
‘Run.’
A few minutes later Anabelle and I sat in our car. We were silent for the longest time.
‘I lost my temper,’ I finally said. ‘I feel quite the ruffian.’
‘It’s okay,’ Anabelle replied. She patted my hand.
‘You’re not angry with me?’
‘Never.’
I started the car, turned the heat on low. Anabelle was always cold at this time of the year. I tapped my vest pocket.
‘It seems I dropped my pocket watch during the encounter.’
‘Oh no,’ Anabelle said. ‘The Verge Fusee?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you love it so.’
I looked out the driver’s side window, toward the park, back. ‘I think I know where it is,’ I said. ‘I’ll just run back there for it. You’ll be fine for just a minute?’
‘Yes. I’ll be fine.’
I opened the door, stepped out. ‘Lock the doors. I won’t be long.’
I found the boy sitting on a bench near the river. He smoked a cigarette with one trembling hand, held a cell phone in the other. Apparently he already had a cell phone, just as I had never dropped my watch.
We are defined by the breadth of our lies, n’est-ce pas?’
I was upon him before he could make a sound.
He had frightened Anabelle, and for that there was no clemency.
Twenty minutes later Anabelle and I pulled into the garage. I cut the engine. For a few moments the only sound was the click and clack of the cooling engine.
‘There are four dolls left to mend, then we’ll be done,’ I said.
Anabelle looked into the gloom of the dark garage, the weight of our small and cosseted world on her slight shoulders. ‘Then what will become of us?’ she asked. ‘Where will we go?’
‘We will go to Paris, and there live out our days.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We’ll live in a warm little chaumière and we will have many friends.’
Anabelle sat up straighter. I could see the visions of my plan capering in her eyes. I hadn’t the heart to tell her the truth.
‘We have so many preparations to make,’ she said.
‘Yes, we do.’
‘Our final tea will be our grandest ever!’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A grande fête.’
We exited the car, and walked the few blocks to our home.
I was pleased to see that we were not followed.
Safely home, I washed the last of the blood from my hands.
When I stepped from the bathroom, Anabelle was curled on the divan, reading a book on French country living. She looked up at me and smiled.
I loved to make my Anabelle smile.
47
In homicide investigations, a break in a case can come from any quarter. Sometimes, although rarely, a confession is gleaned. Sometimes a witness suddenly recalls a key detail omitted from an initial interview, or a previously unknown surveillance video surfaces. Most of the time, it comes from the science.
This time, it came from the ID Unit, the section that collects and compares fingerprints, and from IAFIS – the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System – maintained by the FBI.
One of the best officers in the ID Unit was Eddie Dunbar. He met with Jessica and Byrne by the first-floor elevators.
‘I’ve got some interesting news and some strange news,’ Eddie said.
Jessica looked at Byrne, back at Eddie. ‘In my experience those are often the same thing,’ she said.
‘Not this time.’
‘Okay,’ Jessica said. ‘You pick.’
‘We’ve got a hit on your print.’
‘Wait,’ Jessica said. ‘You mean the print?’
‘I’m pretty sure I do.’
‘The one we lifted from Nicole Solomon’s barrette?’
‘The very one.’
‘And, of course, we compared it to Nicole’s prints and her father’s prints,’ Jessica said. ‘We ruled them out.’
In police work, when you were stating the obvious, you often used we. That way, the other cop knew that you knew you were stating the obvious, but still giving them an out in case it slipped by them. If they screwed up, the blame would be spread around.
‘Yes, we did.’
Eddie was a lifer. He understood.
Jessica felt her pulse begin to race. It was the break they were waiting for. ‘Dish, big man.’
Eddie looked at the fax in his hand. ‘The print – a beautiful eight-pointer, by the way, the kind I love to testify about – belongs to a woman name Crystal Anders. Thirty-two, Caucasian, pretty lengthy record. Mostly drugs and prostitution.’ He tapped the fax. ‘She was probably kind of hot before she got hit by the Meth Express. Maybe she still is. But, then again, I’m not that picky.’
‘Please tell me we have a current address,’ Jessica said.
‘The most current there is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s in custody.’
The best news just got better. ‘Whoa.’ They high-fived. ‘Dinner at home.’
‘I haven’t gotten to the strange part.’
Nothing could dampen Jessica’s spirit. ‘I don’t care how strange it is, this is good news,’ she said. ‘Hit me with your best shot.’
‘She’s in custody in Cleveland.’
48
The Cleveland Police Department operated out of the Justice Center, a 26-story monolithic building located on Superior Avenue, near the heart of the city. Covering five districts, the 1500-member force was only slightly younger than the Philadelphia PD. It was established in 1890.
The flight from Philadelphia lasted just under an hour and, as the plane banked over the city, Jessica was amazed at the size of the lake. She’d been to the ocean many times, had experienced the Delaware at its widest, but this was her first Great Lake. She’d never seen anything like it from the air.
Byrne slept through the whole thing.
The special operations division of the CPD was similar to that of the Philadelphia Police Department. The units – arson, fraud, theft, narcotics, and special victims/sex crimes – were the same. The major difference was that the homicide unit of the CPD was folded into a robbery/homicide division.
In a city of roughly 500,000, the per capita ration of citizen to officer was about the same, but the land mass covered by patrol was much larger in Philly. The PPD had jurisdiction over all of Philadelphia County. The CPD worked only a small portion of Cuyahoga County.
After signing in in the lobby of the Justice Center Jessica and Byrne took the elevator up to the fifth floor.
No matter how many times Jessica visited other big city Police Departments, she was always amazed by the similarities. The same dismal walls, the same crappy elevators, the same smells – a prying blend of sweat, disinfectant, and cherry air freshener.
The man who came around the corner looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, good-looking in a beat-up city cop way.
He wore a blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, a navy blue striped tie, good watch.
The man saw Byrne first. At six-three, it happened to Byrne all the time.
‘Are you Detective Byrne?’ the man asked.
‘I am,’ Byrne said. ‘And it’s Kevin.’
‘Kevin it is,’ the man said. ‘Jack Paris. Welcome to Cleveland.’
‘Thanks.’
The two men shook hands. Byrne stepped to the side.
‘This is my partner,’ Byrne said. ‘Jessica Balzano.’
‘It’s a real pleasure,’ Paris said. ‘Welcome.’
Jessica shook hands with Detective Paris.
Paris gestured to the room around them. ‘As glamorous as the stories, right?’
Byrne mugged. ‘The cabbie gave us a mini-tour on the way in,’ he said. ‘I like your town.’
‘Never been?’
‘Never had the pleasure.’
‘I hope he didn’t take you to Lake County.’
‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘I asked him to give us the nickel tour. I always like to get a feel.’
‘I’m the same way,’ Paris said. ‘I haven’t been to Philly in years. We used to go to Wildwood every summer when I was a kid. We’d always stop for cannoli at this place in South Philly.’
‘Termini’s,’ Jessica said.
‘Man,’ Paris said. ‘Corbo’s on the Hill here is good, but I might have to return to your fair city.’
‘You are welcome any time.’
‘Are you staying over?’ Paris asked.
‘No,’ Byrne said. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got a flight back in five hours or so.’
‘Then let’s get to it.’
The documents sat on a holy mess of a desk, as did a framed photograph of a pretty young woman.
‘My daughter, Melissa,’ Paris said.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Jessica said.
‘She is my light.’
‘Grandkids?’ Byrne asked.
Paris smiled. ‘Bite your tongue, brother,’ he said. ‘I mean, I want them, but just not tomorrow.’
Byrne held up both hands in surrender. ‘Couldn’t agree more.’
The Doll Maker Page 24