‘Will you do this?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. If you don’t get hold of Mr Skolnik, I want you to be prepared, when you call me, to give me all of Mr Skolnik’s phone numbers, as well as his home address. Are you okay with this, Julie?’
A long pause. Too long.
‘Julie?’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I just … okay.’
‘What time do you have?’ Jessica asked.
‘It’s four-fifty.’
Jessica started the timer app on her iPhone. ‘Okay. I expect you or Mr Skolnik to call me within three minutes. Have you got that?’
‘I do.’
Two minutes later the desk phone rang. Jessica picked up the receiver, punched the blinking red button. ‘Homicide, Balzano.’
‘This is Julie Glassman over at Skolnik Powell Reedman.’
‘Yes, Julie.’
‘I got Mr Skolnik’s voicemail, on both his home phone and his cell.’
‘Did you leave the message we discussed?’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘I left your cell number, and told him to call you immediately.’
‘Fine,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ll need both his numbers, as well as his home address.’
This time the young woman hesitated again, but not nearly as long as the first time. She gave Jessica two phone numbers, as well as an address in Mt. Airy. Jessica wrote it all down.
‘You did the right thing here, Julie,’ Jessica said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Is Mr Skolnik going to be okay?’
‘I’m sure he’s just fine. Most of my job is just about taking precautions. You’ve been a big help.’
‘Okay.’
‘And if for some reason you talk to Mr Skolnik, and he didn’t get your voicemail, the message still stands. Have him call me immediately.’
‘I will.’
Jessica clicked off, punched the button for another line. She called dispatch.
Within seconds, four PPD sector cars would be heading to the Skolnik home.
56
When Andi opened the door, she was glad to see that the cleaning service had come to the house. It wasn’t as if they were slobs or anything – far from it. But things did tend to get untidy from time to time. Friday night was usually movie night in front of the sixty-inch plasma in the living room, and the popcorn bowls and soft drink cans and potato chip bags had a way of lingering on the end tables until Saturday night, or even Sunday morning, all depending on how much her stepmother had to drink.
Now the place looked pristine and Architectural Digest pretty: pillows fluffed, carpet vacuumed, glass sparkling, magazines cascaded.
‘What a lovely home,’ Mr Marseille said.
‘Thanks,’ Andi said. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
She flew up the stairs.
I could not seem to stop glancing at my pocket watch.
I looked out the front window. The street was calm and still. I expected that it would not remain so for long.
The home of Marvin Skolnik, Esquire was indeed lovely. A little too modern for my taste, but clearly well-appointed, with quality furnishings. In a small den off the large living room I noticed a beautiful mahogany desk. On it was an answering machine, red light blinking.
I glanced at the door at the top of the stairs, then stepped into the office, slipped on a single leather glove. I tapped the answering machine’s volume to low, then pressed the button to play the single unheard message.
From the machine, softly:
‘Andi, it’s Dad. I tried you on your cell phone, but got your voicemail. I’m terribly concerned about a call I received from the police. Please call me the moment you get this.’
I once more looked at my watch. We did not have much time.
I deleted the message, and walked to the foot of the stairs.
As Andi clanged through her closet, she suddenly wished she’d bought that skater dress.
Hanger after hanger: No, no no, no no.
In the end she selected a burgundy Lola dress, ran a brush through her hair, spritzed herself with two blasts of Houbigant Quelques Fleurs from an atomizer, slipped on her best heels.
Record time.
She was out of breath.
Before she could leave her room her cell phone beeped in her purse. She’d either gotten a text or a voice message. Whoever it was, they would have to wait.
Calm, Andi. She tried to remember her yoga practices, her Andrew Weill meditation courses. Zip. Her pulse was probably 120 and her blood pressure 200 over 190.
A few seconds later, when she walked down the steps, the young man who called himself Marseille was glancing through an issue of Travel & Leisure.
He looked up and smiled, put down the magazine, held out a hand.
‘Miss Andrea Skolnik,’ he said. ‘You are a living doll.’
57
The Skolnik home – a large, well landscaped stone colonial in West Mt. Airy – was lit by the flashing bar lights from a pair of sector cars deployed at the curb.
When Jessica and Byrne pulled up, Jessica saw Dana Westbrook standing on the sidewalk in front of the entry door. Next to her was a tall, tanned, well-dressed man of about fifty.
Jessica and Byrne clipped their badges to their coats.
‘Mr Skolnik, this is Detective Byrne and Detective Balzano,’ Westbrook said. They all shook hands. The fact that the first PPD personnel on scene – besides the patrol officers – was a supervisor, spoke not only of the seriousness of the possible crime, but also the community and political standing of Marvin Skolnik, Esq.
‘I was in meetings all afternoon,’ Skolnik said. ‘I had my phone off. I just got Julie’s message about five minutes ago. On the way I called Andi’s cell and the landline here. Nothing.’
‘Is there anyone else home now?’ Byrne asked.
Skolnik shook his head. ‘My wife and son are at our house in Key West.’
‘Where does your daughter work?’
‘At King of Prussia Mall.’
‘Which store?’
The man looked gutted. He didn’t know. He said so.
‘Are you certain she’s not here?’ Byrne asked.
‘I looked,’ Skolnik said. ‘She’s not home. But she was just here, I know that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I checked her room. She’s usually pretty neat and tidy. Plus, I can smell her favorite perfume. She only wears it for special occasions. It’s expensive.’
‘Do you know if she had a party, or maybe a wedding to attend?’ Byrne asked.
‘No. We have a big calendar in the mud room. One of those dry erase white boards. We all put down things we have planned on there. We have a different color for each of us. Andi uses red. There’s nothing on the calendar for today.’
‘Can you call your wife and ask her about this?’
‘I just did,’ Skolnik said. ‘I got voicemail. I tried my son, too. Same result. They’re probably at a show.’
‘Would it be all right if we gave a quick look around the house, inside and out?’ Byrne asked.
‘Of course.’
Jessica, Byrne, Bontrager and Maria Caruso entered the home. Jessica and Maria went upstairs, Byrne and Josh took the first floor.
Upstairs were four bedrooms and two full baths. Everything seemed to be in place. Jessica saw what Marvin Skolnik meant about Andi’s room. There were a few items of clothing on the floor. Jessica picked up a dark, long-sleeved crewneck sweater. On it was attached a nametag from American Apparel.
Jessica took out her iPhone. She quickly got the number for American Apparel at King of Prussia Mall. She dialed, heard:
‘Thank you for calling American Apparel. This is Martina. How can I help you?’
‘Martina, my name is Jessica Balzano, I’m with the Philadelphia Police Department. No cause for alarm, but I have a couple of quick questions for you.’
‘Um, okay.’
‘I’m trying to reach Andrea Skolnik,’ Jess
ica said. ‘Is she there, by any chance?’
‘Andi? No, she got off at, I think, four. Let me check.’
Jessica heard the tapping of keyboard keys.
‘Yeah. She got off at four. She’ll be here tomorrow at noon. Can I give her a message?’
‘Did you see her at all today?’
‘I did, actually. I got to the mall around two. I had some shopping to do.’
‘And you saw Andrea?’
‘I did. She was sitting in the food court.’
‘Was she by herself?’
‘No,’ Martina said. ‘She was with this cute guy.’
‘Can you describe him for me?’
‘Dark hair, good-looking. And he was wearing a suit. Real dreamboat.’
‘Have you ever seen him before?’
‘The guy? No way. I’d remember.’
‘Did you see them leave together?’
‘No. When I came into the store at around quarter to four Andi was in the back. When she came out I was with a customer. We just waved. I was going to ask her about Mr Movie Star, but she was gone.’
‘I’m going to give you my number,’ Jessica said. ‘If you hear from Andrea, please ask her to give me a call.’
‘Sure.’
Jessica gave the girl her cell number, clicked off. She looked around the girl’s room. A feeling of dread began to creep slowly up her spine.
She was with this cute guy.
Where are you, Andrea Skolnik? What’s happening to you? What are you doing at this very second?
When Jessica looked up, and saw Byrne standing in the doorway, she knew.
58
There was a section of Center City, Philadelphia – from approximately Seventeenth to Eighteenth Streets, from Walnut to Sansom – that was known as the French Quarter. Although not an officially designated neighborhood, around 1999 the area was recognized by the city with orange signs bearing its name.
Contained within the area were French restaurants, French cultural societies, as well as Sofitel, one of the French upscale chain hotels.
Jessica and Byrne parked at Eighteenth and Moravian Streets, about a half-block from where the sector car was deployed. A group of PPD personnel were gathered at the mouth of an alley. They had learned on the way that John Shepherd had been assigned the case.
Shepherd was partnered with a young detective named Bình Ngô. Bình was second generation Vietnamese American. Different homicide detectives bring different skills and assets to the job. Among other skills – including obvious language assets – Bình was one of the best at diffusing tense situations when two warring parties were about to escalate their disagreement. Quiet and observant, Bình was proving himself a more than capable investigator.
When Jessica ducked under the yellow tape at the mouth of the alley, she was once more struck by how dreamlike the setting was.
At the end of the alley, just beneath a security light in a mesh cage, was a bench. Even from twenty feet away Jessica could see that it was painted a pale yellow.
The girl lay across the bench, her hands folded across her chest. Beneath her head was a pillow. It smelled of gardenia perfume.
Between her hands was a small container of what looked like strawberries.
While Byrne was briefed by John Shepherd, Jessica approached, hugging the wall. When she got to about ten feet from the bench she stopped. The victim was pretty, had light blond hair, nails painted a pastel pink. Jessica took out the picture they had been given by Marvin Skolnik. There was no doubt.
Beneath the bench were four objects, each with a yellow crime scene marker next to it, each tented by a piece of white paper, paper put there by CSU officers to preserve the integrity of the evidence, and to shield it from the elements.
Jessica heard someone approaching from behind her. It was Bình.
‘What do we have there?’ Jessica asked, pointing to the objects.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Bình said. He crouched down, lifted the small paper tent. Underneath was a bird.
‘It’s a seagull?’
Bình nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘There are four of them.’
‘All dead?’
‘All dead.’
Jessica pointed at the victim, at the container in her hands.
‘Are those strawberries?’
‘Believe it or not.’
Jessica was having a hard time believing any of it. It was clear that they had missed Andrea Skolnik’s killer by hours, if not minutes. What they had in their favor was that, in this part of Center City – an area that contained hotels, upscale restaurants, just a block or so from the city’s toniest addresses at Rittenhouse Square – there were the highest concentration of police and private surveillance cameras.
When Jessica returned to the street, John Shepherd was talking to a man in his thirties. The man wore a red vest over a long-sleeved white shirt. There was a nametag on his vest, Yves, and the logo for Sofitel.
He appeared to be badly shaken.
‘I’m here almost every night,’ Yves said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’
‘Why do you come down here?’ Shepherd asked.
‘I step out for a smoke when I’m on break,’ he said. ‘You’re not allowed to smoke within a hundred feet of the hotel. They’re really strict about it.’
‘You tend bar?’
The man nodded. ‘I work the lobby bar at Sofitel.’
‘Did you see anyone when you came down the alley?’
Yves shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Except for Jazzie.’
‘Jazzie?’
Yves pointed to a man – late fifties, clearly homeless – who was leaning against a sector car, talking to one of the patrolmen.
‘Where was Jazzie when you saw him?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Right about where he’s standing now. By the mouth of the alley.’
‘Was he walking in or out of the alley?’
‘Neither. He just kind of hangs out there. Sometimes he panhandles from the people coming in and out of the hotel. Management doesn’t really like it, but he’s not on hotel property. Besides, he’s harmless.’
‘Do you recognize the victim?’
‘No,’ Yves said. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘What time did you take your break today?’
‘Right at six o’clock. I only get fifteen minutes, so I was probably here at around 6:02.’
Shepherd made the note. ‘We might need to talk again tonight. What time do you get off?’
Jessica saw some color drain from the man’s face. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him that he had to go back to work after all this.
‘Eleven,’ he said. ‘I get off at eleven.’
Shepherd handed him a card. ‘Sorry you had to see this. If you think of anything else, call me immediately. My cell is on the back.’
The man put the card in his pocket, then pulled out a cigarette with a shaking hand.
Shepherd and Bình stood at the mouth of the alley, interviewing Jazzie. Jessica and Byrne observed.
Norman ‘Jazzie’ Garrett wore three or four sweaters, a pair of patched workpants, fingerless gloves.
‘Why do they call you Jazzie?’ Shepherd asked.
‘I used to play a little piano back in the day. Brubeck, Bill Evans, O.P. Mind you, this was back when Philly was a jazz town – not like now – back when a white boy with fat fingers could make a living.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘What, if anything, did you see tonight?’
‘Nothing, really. Same tune, different arrangement. I hang around here because sometimes he brings out food.’
‘Yves?’
‘Yeah. He’s a good guy.’
‘Did you see anyone come in or out of this alley?’ Shepherd asked.
‘No, sir,’ Jazzie said. ‘But my eyes ain’t what they used to be.’
Shepherd produced the subject sketch. ‘Did you see this man anywhere around here tonight?’
Jazzie squinted
at the drawing they had obtained as a result of interviewing Denny Wargo. The man called Mercy.
‘Yeah, yeah. I seen him. But only ’cause he walked right by me.’
‘Where?’
Jazzie pointed down Sansom Street.
‘Show me exactly where,’ Shepherd said.
Jazzie and the four detectives walked a half block down the street.
‘Right here?’ Shepherd asked.
Jazzie nodded.
‘What was he doing?’
‘Nothing,’ Jazzie said. ‘But he had one of those things with him.’
Shepherd stared at the man, as did the other detectives. When the man didn’t continue, Shepherd prodded. ‘He had what with him?’
‘One of those ladder things,’ he said. ‘But smaller.’
‘Like a stepstool?’
‘Yeah, but taller. When he came back he got into this red van.’
‘Where was the van?’
Jazzie pointed across the street.
‘Can you recall anything about the van?’
Jazzie shrugged. ‘It was rusty. No rims. Rims don’t last too long around here these days.’
‘Anything else?’
‘License plate said “Moochie.”’
‘Can you spell that for me?’ Shepherd asked.
Jazzie did. Bình Ngô opened his phone, stepped down the sidewalk a few paces, called it in.
‘And you say he came out of this other alley?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Yeah.’
Jessica and Byrne took out their Maglites, walked down the short passageway, a narrow corridor that met the end of the alley where Andrea Skolnik’s body was found. They ran the beam of their flashlights above eye level, along the brick window sills.
Halfway to the end, they saw them.
There, on the window ledge across the alley, looking down at the dark and grotesque tableau that was Andrea Skolnik’s body, were two porcelain dolls.
Boy dolls.
One wore a blue and red striped polo shirt. The other wore an identical shirt in solid green.
The dolls were Robert and Edward Gillen.
As they waited for the ME’s investigator to release the scene, Bình Ngô returned.
The Doll Maker Page 30