Текст книги "The Echo Man"

Chapter 44

    Byrne couldn't sleep. The images of the four corpses rode a slow carousel in his mind. He got up, poured himself an inch of bourbon, flipped on the computer, logged onto the Net, launched a web browser. He cruised the headlines on philly.com, visited a few other sites, not really reading or comprehending.

    Have you found them yet? The lion and the rooster and the swan? Are there others? You might think they do not play together, but they do.

    He got onto YouTube. Once there, he typed in Christa-Marie Schönburg's name. Even before he was done typing, a drop-down window opened, listing a number of possibilities.

CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURG BACH

CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURG HAYDN

CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURG ELGAR

CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURGBRAHMS

    Byrne had no idea where to begin. In fact, he really had no idea what he was doing, or exactly what he was looking for. On the surface he imagined he was looking for a portal, admittedly obscure, to the case. Something that might trigger something else. Something that might begin to explain Christa-Marie's impenetrable note to him. Or maybe he was looking for a young detective who had walked into a house in Chestnut Hill in 1990 and there began a long, dark odyssey of bloodshed and tears and misery. Maybe he was really looking for the man he used to be.

    The final entry on the list was:

    Christa-Marie Schönburg Interview

    Byrne selected it. It was three minutes long, recorded on a PBS show in 1988. Christa-Marie was at the height of her fame and talent. She looked beautiful in a simple white dress, drop earrings. As she answered questions about her playing, her celebrity at such a young age, and what it was like to play for Riccardo Muti, she vacillated between confident career woman, shy schoolgirl, enigmatic artiste. More than once she blushed, and put her hair behind one ear. Byrne had always thought her an attractive woman, but here she was stunning.

    When the interview was complete Byrne clicked on the Bach entry. The browser took him to a page that linked to a number of other Christa-Marie Schönburg videos. Her entire public life was shown in freeze-frames down the right-hand side of the page – bright gowns and brighter lights.

    He clicked on Bach Cello Suite No. 1. It was a montage video, all still photographs. The photographs in the montage, one slowly dissolving into the next, showed Christa-Marie at a number of ages, a variety of poses and settings: in a studio, smiling at the camera, a side view on stage, a low-angle photograph of her at nineteen, a look of intense concentration on her face. The last photograph was Christa– Marie at nine years old, a cello leaning against the wall next to her, almost twice her size.

    Byrne spent most of the next hour watching the YouTube offerings. Many were collage-type videos, assembled by fans, but there were also live performances. The last video was Christa-Marie and a pianist in a studio, playing Beethoven's Sonata No. 3 in A. At the halfway point, in close-up, Christa-Marie looked up, straight at the lens, straight at Byrne.

    When the piece finished, Byrne went to the kitchen, took two Vicodin, chased it with a swig of Wild Turkey. Probably not the prescribed way, but you had to go with what worked, right?

    He looked out the window at the empty street below. In the distance was the glow of Center City. There was another body out there, another body waiting to be discovered, a raw, abraded corpse with a strip of blood-streaked paper around its head.

    He glanced at the kitchen clock, although he didn't need to.

    It was 2:52.

    Byrne grabbed his coat, his keys, and went back out into the night.

Chapter 45

    Lucy sat on the fire escape, wrapped in her dark blue afghan, one of the few things that had survived her childhood, one of the few things that she could stuff into a nylon duffel bag and take with her when she moved on, which she had done so many times in the past two years that she had nearly lost count.

    She looked in the window. She had rented this room, a third-floor room in a trinity on Fourth Street, about two months earlier. The family was very nice. An elderly couple with no children, they had welcomed her like a granddaughter, and for the first two weeks had invited her to dinner every night.

    Lucy, having had no experience with real family life, had begged off with a variety of excuses until the couple – Tilly and Oscar Walters – had gotten the hint.

    The night was calm, the sky was clear, and for the first time in a long while she could see a few stars. Maybe they had been there all the time and she had forgotten to look. Perhaps the darkness was inside her, had made its nest in her soul, and refused to leave, refused to let up.

    She wrapped the afghan more tightly around her, but she wasn't really all that cold. Maybe it was all those years in drafty apartments, all those years when the heat was turned off, all those years huddling around an electric stove in winter until the electricity too was turned off.

    Since the day the plane came out of the sky, she had tried everything to make the feeling go away. Drugs, alcohol, men, religion, yoga, all manner of self-destruction and abuse. Men. Quite often the men she chose – boys, really – filled in any small gaps in the abuse, making her hell complete.

    And now she was in trouble. She always knew she would eventually get caught shoplifting, even though she was good at it. Her mother had sent her into stores from the time she was only three years old. In the first few years she was only the diversion, doing the little-cutie bit to distract store owners while her mother boosted cigarettes or alcohol or, once in a great while, a treat for Lucy.

    But today she had gotten caught, and she was going to go to jail. Even though Detective Byrne said that wasn't going to happen, she wasn't so sure. She had wanted to tell him about the man in 1208, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to do it.

    And now, sitting on this rusting fire escape, she began to cry. It was the first time for years. She tasted the salt on her lips. She felt pathetic.

    It was worse for the little girl who'd been killed. Little Stacy Pennell. Sergio had told her the story.

    In 1999 a ten-year-old girl, whose family had lived in Le Jardin when it had been an apartment building, had been down in the laundry room with her older sister Cyndy. Cyndy, whose job it was to watch her runt of a sister, couldn't be bothered, it seemed. When Cyndy wasn't looking, Stacy had grabbed the keys from on top of the dryer and snuck out of the laundry room.

    Sergio said that when Stacy got off the elevator she probably did not notice the man standing in the stairwell at the end of the hall, just a few feet from the entrance to the Pennell apartment.

    When they found Stacy later she had been brutally murdered, her throat cut from ear to ear. Sergio said her body had bite marks on it.

    It had happened in Room 1208.

    It couldn't have been coincidence, Lucy thought. It just couldn't. The man in 1208 had been there for a reason. Some other little girl was going to be hurt.

    Was the man who killed Stacy Pennell the same man who had kidnapped her?

    Lucy was suddenly cold. She slipped back inside, shut the window. She walked over to the closet, opened the door, sat down, and waited for the night to embrace her.

    Fifteen feet below, in the gloom of the stairwell beneath the fire escape, a man stepped into the shadows and joined Lucinda Doucette in darkness.

Chapter 46

    Friday, October 29

    In the shower Jessica thought about the previous night. Vincent had listened to her entire well-planned speech. He had been surprisingly receptive to the idea of adopting Carlos, considering that he was not the most open-minded person she had ever met.

    They made love a second time, this time sweet, married love, and halfway through she saw something in Vincent's dark eyes that told her they might actually do this. Later Vincent told her, in the twilight before sleep, that he wanted to meet Carlos first before even thinking about making any decision, of course. Maybe he wanted to do a little male bonding, Jessica thought. Take the kid to a Flyers game, do a few Jager Bombs, leaf through a copy of the new Maxim.

    As she was getting dressed, she realized that Vincent had made the bed – a first. She also noticed a flower on her pillow. Granted, it was a silk flower, and Vincent had taken it from the arrangement on the dining-room table. But it was the thought that counted.

    Marcel's Costume Company was a storefront on Market Street near Third. Established in 1940, Marcel's carried a full line of Halloween outfits, professional make-up, wigs, and accessories. Marcel's also created costumes for local television shows and was quite often hired for supplemental wardrobe for Philadelphia's booming film-production industry.

    But today it was all about Halloween. Marcel's was open twenty– four hours a day this week, and even at 7:30 a.m. the store was half full.

    When Jessica and Sophie walked in, Jessica saw Rory behind the counter. Rory Bianchi was a kid from the old neighborhood who had always had a crush on Jessica, and ever since ninth grade they'd had the sort of relationship where the flirting went on but never went anywhere.

    'The two prettiest girls in Philly,' Rory said. 'In my shop!'

    'Hi, Rory!' Sophie said.

    'Hey little darlin',' he said. 'Ready for the big night?'

    Sophie nodded. A kid in a costume shop. Outside of a candy story, there was nothing cooler. Jessica remembered coming into Marcel's when she was a girl and Wonder Woman had been the rage.

    'I have it for you right here,' Rory said.

    Of all the costumes available – including Disney characters like Ariel from The Little Mermaid, which was Sophie's favorite movie – Sophie had picked something called the Snowflake Fairy. Jessica had tried to explain that Halloween was a fall holiday, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. Unlike her mother, Sophie loved the winter, especially snowflakes. Come December Sophie was endlessly cutting them out of construction paper and dotting the house with them.

    'Do you want the wings and the wand, too?' Rory asked.

    It was a dumb question, but Jessica looked at Sophie anyway. Sophie seemed to be in a fairy trance, the reflection of white satin in her big brown eyes.

    'Sure,' Jessica said.

    'I take it you'll want the tiara as well.'

    Jessica took out her credit card as fast as she could, in case there was anything else.

    Sophie floated out to the parking lot, still in a daze, the dress clutched tightly in her hands, as if Monica Quagliata might be lurking behind the next SUV – Monica with designs on the Snowflake Fairy costume.

    When they got to the car, Sophie supervised the hanging of the costume on the hook in the back, pronounced it safely stowed for the few-mile journey. She slipped into the seat next to it, buckled in.

    Before Jessica could start the car, a family crossed the street in front of them – mom, dad, two boys, two girls. Jessica looked over at Sophie.

    'Do most of your friends have brothers and sisters?' Jessica asked. It was a rhetorical question, but one that Jessica needed to ask to get the conversation started.

    Sophie didn't give this too much thought. She just nodded.

    'Do you ever wish you had brothers and sisters?'

    A shrug. 'Sometimes.'

    'What would you think about having a brother?'

    'A brother?'

    'Yeah.'

    'A boy?'

    Jessica laughed. 'Yeah. A boy, sweetie.'

    Sophie thought for a moment. 'Boys are okay. A little bossy, but okay, I guess.'

    Jessica dropped Sophie off at school, stopped at Old City Coffee on Church Street. Outside, she picked up an Inquirer and a free copy of The Report, Philly's sleaziest tabloid – and that was saying something. As expected, the current spate of murders was splashed across the cover.

    Philly Noir, the Geometry of Vengeance, screamed the headline.

    Jessica tossed the Report in the trash, tucked the Inquirer under her arm. She got into her car, wondering how Byrne was faring.

    Have you found them yet? The lion and the rooster and the swan? Are there others?

    What did Christa-Marie Schönburg have to do with all this?

    She checked her cellphone. No calls from Byrne.

    The primary role of the Department of Human Services was to intervene and protect neglected, abused or abandoned children, as well as to guarantee their well-being when there were immediate threats or impending dangers in their lives.

    The Children and Youth Division provided youth and family-centered services to more than 20,000 children and their families each year.

    Although the main offices were located at 1515 Arch Street there were various facilities throughout the city – temporary shelters and foster-care centers.

    Jessica arrived at Hosanna House, a stand-alone brick building on Second Street. She signed in and walked to the day room at the back. She was immediately assaulted by the sound of a dozen toddlers in full morning mania. The place smelled like orange juice and crayons.

    Carlos sat at a table with two little girls and a young woman of about twenty. He wore a red cardigan. He looked adorable.

    Jessica watched him for a few minutes. Kids were unbelievably resilient, she thought. Just two weeks earlier this little boy's life had been hell on Earth.

    But Jessica knew enough, had seen enough cases of abused and neglected children to know that many times there was residual grief and anger and fear. Most of the people she had arrested in the past five years were, almost to a man or woman, products of broken homes.

    Carlos looked up and saw her. He got out of his chair, rocketed across the room, and threw his arms around her. He ran back, got a piece of paper from the table, ran back to Jessica, handed it to her.

    It was a crayon drawing of a room, possibly the living room where Carlos had lived with his mother. There was something that looked like a chair and a table, and a woman in the corner with wild dark hair, eyes the size of her whole head. Patricia Lentz, Carlos's biological mother, had blonde hair, almost white.

    It didn't take Jessica long to realize the figure in the drawing just might be her. Right behind her was a bright sun. Jessica's heart felt ready to beat its way out of her chest.

    She looked at the table in Carlos's drawing. On the table was something that Jessica had no trouble recognizing. It was a two-year– old boy's rendition of a gun.

    Jessica suddenly felt a paralyzing wave of sadness. She fought it.

    'Can I have this?' she asked Carlos.

    Carlos nodded.

    'Stand up tall – let me look at you.'

    Carlos stood at attention. His hair was combed, his face scrubbed. His sweater and pants looked new.

    'This is a beautiful sweater,' Jessica said.

    Carlos giggled, looked down, toyed with a button, perhaps thought better of messing with it. He was two. He knew his limitations.

    'Where did you get your new clothes?'

    Carlos turned toward the table, held out his tiny hand. Jessica walked over, hand in hand with Carlos. He sat down and tucked into a new drawing.

    'Hi,' Jessica said.

    The young woman at the plastic picnic table looked up. 'Hi.'

    Jessica pointed to the drawing in her hand. 'This is pretty good for a two-year-old. I couldn't draw a straight line then. Still can't.'

    The young woman laughed. 'Join the club.' She looked over at Carlos, smoothed his hair. 'He's such a beautiful boy.'

    'Yes, he is,' Jessica said.

    'I'd kill for those eyelashes.'

    'Are you a counselor here?'

    'No, no,' the young woman said. 'I just help out. I volunteer one day a week.'

    Jessica nodded. The young woman had about her an air of competence, but also an air of sadness. Jessica felt the same way about herself sometimes. It was hard to see the things she saw every day and not be affected. Especially the kids. Jessica glanced at her watch. Her tour was starting.

    'It was nice talking to you,' Jessica said.

    'Same here.'

    Jessica extended her hand. 'My name is Jessica, by the way.'

    The young woman stood, shook her hand. 'Lucy,' she replied. 'Lucy Doucette.'