Текст книги "The Echo Man"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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Chapter 54

    Lucy stood in front of the door to Room 1208, her heart pounding. She wanted to go in, but she was afraid, as frightened as she had ever been in her life. She had done a little sleuthing on her own. She knew that everyone on this floor was a member of Société Poursuite. The group had a seminar in the Crystal Room that day, a seminar that was scheduled to run from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., when they would break for lunch. Lucy figured that the floor would be empty from about 9:30 a.m. until perhaps 2:00 p.m.

    Earlier in the day she had stood on the mezzanine and watched everyone file into the Crystal Room. Ever since she had been kidnapped, with everyone she met she was always looking for something, some gesture, some familiar posture, a word, an inflection, an accent that would draw her back to those three lost days and what had happened to her.

    Once, in Carlisle, she had heard a woman's high-pitched laughter, and it had drawn her memory to a room – not necessarily a room in which she had been held, but a room that had served as a stop along the way. When she had turned to look at the woman – a doughy redhead of forty with cigarette-stained lips – the feeling had gone. She understood then that the feeling would come and go. She only needed it to stay for a moment, during which she could take a snapshot. And remember.

    Right now she had a job to do.

    Lucy lifted her hand to knock but found she couldn't do it. Her arms felt weak and a little too light all of a sudden. She tried again.

    'Housekeeping,' she said, knocking. She soon realized it had come out in a mousy whisper.

    A louder knock. 'Housekeeping.'

    Nothing.

    Now or never.

    She took out her section card, swiped the lock, and stepped into Room 1208.

    The room was empty.

    She wasn't supposed to close the door, but sometimes they closed on their own and her supervisor was well aware of this. This was one of those times. Except that Lucy closed it herself.

    She had lugged everything she needed into the room and had piled it on the bed. She breezed through her checklist. She had never worked so fast in her life.

    This was crazy. What was she doing? This was all in her head. She had created a fantasy here – from the moment she'd heard about the Dreamweaver it had all been some crazy dream. The fact that a girl had been killed in this room was just a sick and tragic and horrible coincidence.

    Mr. Adrian Costa had no special abilities, no special powers. The man was a charlatan, and he was lying to her. Just another long con.

    Lucy flew through the rest of her duties, clocking the room at something superhuman, like fifteen minutes. When she was finished she felt a little better. A clean fresh room had that effect on her. Now she could leave.

    On the way out she saw that the bottom drawer in the dresser was slightly open. She looked at the door, then back.

    Before she could stop herself she eased open the drawer. Inside were three folded dress shirts. There was something glossy beneath them. She pushed the shirts aside, and saw it.

    At the bottom of the drawer was a picture of her mother.

Chapter 55

    Byrne sat in his van. On the way to Chestnut Hill he had planned it all out: how he would present himself, how he would talk to Christa-Marie, how he would get the information he needed from her. He would walk in, the veteran investigator, Mr. Cool, Master of the Universe, and walk out with what he needed.

    He had failed miserably.

    He was leaving without one shred of information. He wondered what his next move would be. He could talk to Michael Drummond or Paul DiCarlo in the DA's office. They, in turn, would get in touch with Benjamin Curtin, and the request would be made to have Christa– Marie come into the city for a formal statement.

    Byrne could all but see the attendant circus.

    As soon as he started the van he saw Adele Hancock crossing the wide driveway. Byrne lowered his window as she approached.

    'She wanted you to have this.'

    Adele Hancock handed him a sealed CD. The cover photo was a picture of Christa-Marie at a cafe in Italy. Behind her was the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore.

    'She told me to tell you that if you want to know her, you should listen to this.'

    'What do you think she means by that?'

    Hancock offered a thin smile. 'If you have a few years to spare, I could probably scratch the surface of that question for you.'

    Fifteen minutes later Byrne found himself on the expressway. He couldn't head back to the city. Not yet. He had another stop to make.

    Inside his head the urges combusted. One urge told him what he had to do, what he should do. The other told him what he ultimately would do.

    Heading west, he opened the CD and pushed it into the player. In moments his world was filled with the soaring majesty of Christa– Marie Schönburg's cello.

Chapter 56

    Tommy Archer had never gotten used to the smell. Probably never would. This did not bode well for someone with a dream of one day owning his own beauty salon.

    Today's offending odor – there were so many from which to choose in this line of work – was the cloying aftermath of the perm he had just finished doing on old Mrs. Smith. The perm smell was mostly ammonia, which, if he remembered correctly from his chemistry classes, came from ammonium thioglycolate.

    Tommy just called it skunk.

    He always told his customers that, seeing as the perm solution was very alkaline, the best way to get rid of the smell was with an acid– based product like tomato juice. He told them to apply it to their hair, leave it on for ten to twenty minutes, then shampoo and rinse.

    His customers all thought he was some kind of genius when he explained this to them, but it was pretty basic science. Still, he let them believe what they wanted to believe. In his twenty-six years there hadn't been too many people who considered Tommy Archer a genius. Especially his father. On the other hand, considering what he had once done for his father, he had earned the man's undying gratitude, if not his respect. Not that the man would ever show it.

    While getting the perm smell out of hair was one thing, getting the smell out of the tiny shop, the sum total of six hundred square feet that made up Country Cutz (inarguably the worst salon name in the history of the business), was something else.

    Even though the temperature was around forty-five degrees, Tommy opened the two windows overlooking the street. Mrs. Smith had been his last customer for the day.

    Tommy popped a tape into the player behind the register and began to sweep up. He felt a chill cross the salon. It was getting near the holiday season, which meant more work, more money, but it also meant that the loneliness would begin to descend again. He was the poster boy for Seasonal Affective Disorder.

    He was not allowed to smoke in the shop. After the floor was swept and the sinks rinsed, with combs and brushes cleaned, he stepped outside and lit a cigarette. Dark already. The main street of the town was all but deserted. The lights from Patsy's Diner two blocks away and the Aamco shop across the street were all that were on.

    'Are you still open?'

    Tommy nearly jumped a foot. He turned to locate the source of the voice. There was a man standing right next to him. As in right next to him. He hadn't heard him walk up the sidewalk.

    The man wore a dark overcoat.

    Tommy glanced at his watch. 'Actually, we close in about five minutes.'

    The man ran a hand over the back of his hair. 'I was hoping to get a quick trim. You see, I have a wedding reception tonight – I'm the cool uncle, the one with the big wallet – and, while I could probably show up in a rainbow wig, I do like to make an entrance.'

    Tommy looked again at his watch, as if the answer was going to be there. He liked the man's style, though, and the big wallet reference was clearly meant to imply some sort of huge tip. Plus, it wasn't like he had anywhere to go. His little hamlet didn't exactly have a thriving gay community, or even a seedy part of town. All he had to look forward to was a bottle of cheap Orvieto and the DVD box set of the second season of Jericho. Thank God for Netflix.

    He glanced at the man. Nice eyes. Nice smile.

    'Just a trim?'

    'Yes,' the man said. 'And I'm willing to pay double the going rate.'

    'That won't be necessary,' Tommy said. 'Besides, what would I do with all that money in a dump like this town?'

    The man didn't really need too much work, but if Tommy understood anything – about both himself and most of the people he had ever styled – it was that personal grooming was just that. Personal. Everyone had a right to look exactly the way he or she wanted.

    'Nice little town you have here,' the man offered.

    Tommy snorted. 'Yeah, well, it is if you don't mind living in a place where you call the wrong number and end up talking to that person for an hour anyway.'

    The man laughed. 'I'll bet it's not that bad.'

    Tommy took out his hair dryer, blew the hair from the man's shoulders. When he was done he dusted the man's neck with powder.

    'So, you're going to a wedding reception?' Tommy asked.

    'Yes,' the man said.

    'Whereabouts? Over at the Legion Hall?' Tommy took off the cape. He picked up his brush, brushed off the last stray hairs from the man's shoulders and neck.

    'No,' the man said. 'This is at the Crystal Room.'

    Tommy had never heard of the Crystal Room. 'Is that around here somewhere?'

    'It's in Philadelphia.'

    Tommy shrugged. He figured that the man was on his way across the state. They got a lot of travelers here, being so close to the Flight 93 memorial. Tommy wondered how the man had managed to find the shop.

    The man stood up, straightened the crease in his trousers. 'I really appreciate this. I feel like a new man.'

    A new man, Tommy thought. I wish.

    'It was my pleasure.'

    The man slipped on his coat. 'How much do I owe you?'

    Tommy told him. The man doubled the price, as promised.

    At just after eight Tommy locked the shop. As per his explicit instructions, he left the register open, drawer out, under a solitary spotlight.

    He walked quickly to the parking lot. The temperature had dropped in the past hour or so.

    'Thomas?'

    He spun around. He saw no one, just the long-shadowed street.

    Thomas? Who the hell called him Thomas? The last person to call him Thomas had been his ex, Jeremy. But that had been in York, and that was three years ago.

    'Hello?'

    Silence.

    Tommy stepped back around the corner. A car trundled past, one person inside, never glancing his way. He looked both ways down the street. And saw him. The man he had just given the trim to. Except now the man was wearing a dark jumpsuit, zipped to the throat.

    'Benvenuto al carnevale.'

    The man lifted something into the air, an object about the size and shape of a large old-school garage-door opener. Tommy heard a loud crackling sound, smelled something burning. Then his legs went south.

    In a van. Moving.

    Tommy blanked out. Came back.

    He could not move his head.

    The van was stopped. The man climbed into the back, put on a pair of thin latex gloves, shut the doors. Classical music was playing on the car stereo. Violins or something.

    Tommy heard something else. It sounded like a drill.

    Tommy screamed.

Chapter 57

    Byrne stopped for coffee in North Philly. He washed his face and hands in the bathroom. Fatigue was a shambling monster within. When he slipped back into the van he turned on his cellphone and saw that he had five messages. All from Jessica. He called her. 'Where are you?' Byrne asked.

    'I'm at Jefferson Hospital,' Jessica said.

    Jefferson? Why?'

    'I ran into an old friend of mine today.'

    'What are you talking about? Who?'

    'Lucas Anthony Thompson.'

    'What? How?'

    Jessica gave him a brief recap, starting with the suicide of Joseph Novak, the voicemail from the dead, the existence of Novak's journal, and the assault by Lucas Thompson on her. Byrne took a moment to absorb it all.

    'Man, I leave the city for one minute,' he said.

    'Tell me about it.'

    'Is Thompson in custody?'

    'No,' Jessica said. 'He's dead. And Novak's journal is gone.' She filled him in on the rest of the details.

    'Where did it happen?'

    Jessica told him.

    'That was the Kimmelman crime scene, wasn't it?' 'Yeah.'

    'Have they moved him yet?'

    'Yeah. CSU is all over the place.'

    'I'm going to stop there,' Byrne said. 'When did they say you could get out of there?'

    'About an hour or so. Vincent is with Sophie. Can you pick me up?' 'I'll be there.'

Chapter 58

    Byrne arrived in front of the hospital at about nine-thirty.

    Jessica was waiting, forced to sit in a wheelchair – which made everything seem so much worse than it was. Spotting his van, she got out of the chair, crossed the driveway, and slid into the passenger seat.

    'You look okay,' Byrne said.

    'I am okay. You know how it is. You break a fingernail and they want to do exploratory surgery. Keeps the premiums up.'

    'What did they say?'

    'I'm fine. No concussion. They said I'll have a headache for a day or so. They want to see me again in two weeks.'

    Byrne drove slowly before pulling into the small temporary parking lot. He put the van in park. 'Tell me more about this.'

    Jessica tried to organize her thoughts. It was a little difficult after getting her brain scrambled. She told Byrne what she remembered about Joseph Novak's diary.

    'He wrote that he was beholden to someone,' she said.

    'His word? Beholden?'

    Jessica nodded. 'He wrote: All Saints Day. It is done. I know now that I will be forever beholden to him.'

    'All Saints Day. November 1st.'

    'Yeah.'

    Jessica also told him about the photograph in the back of the journal.

    'Any idea who the woman was or where it was taken?' Byrne asked.

    'None. I didn't recognize the place.'

    'And the word hell was on the back?'

    'Yeah. Just that. Hell.'

    They fell silent.

    'Now it's your turn,' Jessica said. 'What happened up in Chestnut Hill?'

    Byrne told her about his conversation with Christa-Marie. Jessica had the feeling that her partner was not telling her everything, but that was his way. He would tell her only what she needed to know at this moment.

    'She said there are going to be more killings,' Byrne said. 'She said that she could help us.'

    'And that was it? No details?'

    'No details.'

    'Did she sound ... how do I put this ...'

    'Nuts?'

    'Yeah. That.'

    'I'm not sure,' Byrne said. 'Yeah, I suppose she did. A little. But I'd like to talk to her one more time before all hell breaks loose with her. You know as well as I do that the second I put this on the record they're going to send a half-dozen shrinks up there. She'll shut down completely.'

    The rain picked up again. For a few moments there was only the sound of the music from the stereo and the staccato impact of raindrops on the roof of the van.

    Byrne turned in his seat, put his hand on hers. 'You sure you're okay?'

    'Good to go,' Jessica said. 'Never better.'

    Byrne just stared.

    'Okay, I may have been better once. I think it was the summer my cousin Angela had that Thai stick.'

    Byrne smiled. He squeezed her hand, put the van in reverse. Jessica leaned forward, turned up the stereo. 'This is beautiful. Is this who I think it is?'

    Byrne reached behind her seat, picked up the CD case, handed it to her.

    'This is what we're listening to?'

    Byrne nodded. 'Yeah. Christa-Marie's nurse gave me that. She said Christa-Marie wanted me to hear it.'

    Jessica looked at the CD player, saw it was track two. She looked at the case. Track two was Nocturne in G Major by Chopin.

    'It's incredible,' she said.

    When the track was over she played it a second time.

    As they pulled out of the parking lot, Jessica read the liner notes.

    'This was recorded here in Philly, you know,' she said. 'At the Prentiss Institute.'

    'That's the music school, right? The conservatory over on Locust?' 'I think so.'

    Jessica looked at the back of the CD. At the bottom was a brief list of credits.

    'Kevin.'

    Byrne looked over. Jessica handed him the CD, pointed to the last line of the liner notes.

    RECORDING ENGINEER: JOSEPH P. NOVAK.

Chapter 59

    Once a stately mansion, the Prentiss Institute of Music was an impressive early-1900s Georgian sandstone building, across from Rittenhouse Square on Locust Street. In the world of classical music it was considered by many to be Philadelphia's version of the Juilliard. Many members of the Philadelphia Orchestra had studied at Prentiss. While most of the courses of study were at the college level, they also maintained a prep school. A number of principal players of major orchestras around the world had gotten their training at Prentiss.

    Because of the prestige of the school, and the late hour, Byrne had put in a call to the DAs office. The office had then placed a call to the school and gotten Jessica and Byrne an appointment to speak with someone.

    The dean of the Prentiss Institute of Music was Frederic Duchesne. In his forties, Duchesne was tall and sharp-featured, had thinning blond hair, hazel eyes, and an air of rumpled elegance. He met them at the front door of the institute, locking it behind them, and escorted them to his office, a large white-paneled room off the reception area. The room was cluttered with sheet music on stands, stacks of CDs, as well as a variety of musical instruments in their velvet-lined cases.

    On the wall was a large framed copy of the school's charter. Duchesne offered coffee, which Jessica and Byrne declined. They sat.

    'We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us,' Byrne said. 'I hope we're not keeping you too late.'

    'Not at all. I sometimes don't leave here until midnight. Always something to do.' He absently straightened some papers on his desk, then stopped, perhaps realizing it was hopeless. He turned back. 'It's not often we get a visit from the police.'

    'We just have a few questions,' Byrne said.

    'I assume this has something to do with Joseph Novak.'

    'It does,' Byrne said.

    Duchesne nodded. 'I saw it on the news.'

    'What can you tell us about Novak?'

    'Well, as I understand it, Mr. Novak was loosely associated with Prentiss for ten years or so.'

    'He was an employee?'

    'No, no. He freelanced as an engineer for various recordings. The institute hires a number of different technicians based on the project.'

    Byrne held up the CD he had gotten from Christa-Marie. 'He worked on this project?'

    Duchesne put on his glasses. When he saw the CD he smiled fondly. 'That was recorded more than twenty years ago. Novak didn't record the original. He worked on the remastering.'

    'Were you acquainted with Joseph Novak?'

    'We met once or twice. I never worked with him personally, no.' Duchesne shook his head. 'Terrible tragedy what happened.'

    'When was the last time you saw him?'

    Duchesne thought for a moment. 'It must be two years now.'

    'You've had no contact since?'

    'None.'

    'Do you know how many recordings he worked on here?'

    'Not off hand,' Duchesne said. 'I can get that information for you.'

    Byrne glanced at his notes. 'I have just a few more questions. I'm afraid some of them are probably going to seem pretty basic.'

    Duchesne held up a hand. 'Please. This is a place of learning.'

    'Can you tell us a little bit about the institute?'

    'You want the tourist version or the potential-donor version?'

    'Tourist,' Byrne said. 'For now.'

    Duchesne smiled, nodded. 'The institute was founded in 1924 by a woman named Eugenie Prentiss Holzman, and is known worldwide as one of the leading conservatories. It's difficult to get into, but the tuition is free. A number of the current members of the Philadelphia Orchestra are faculty here, as well.'

    'How many students do you have?'

    'Right now, around one hundred sixty.'

    'And this is all free?'

    'Well, not the private lessons.'

    'Expensive?'

    'Very,' Duchesne said. 'The hourly fee can be quite high.'

    Duchesne continued, relating how Prentiss recruited its students, what the general curriculum was. He also name-dropped some of the more famous alumni. It was an impressive list. When he finished he reached into his desk, produced a pair of large full-color booklets, handed one to Byrne, one to Jessica. The publication was called Grace Notes.

    'Prentiss publishes this quarterly,' Duchesne said. 'Inside you'll find all the background you need.'

    Jessica and Byrne thumbed through the booklets. Byrne held up his copy. 'Thanks.'

    Duchesne nodded.

    'I do have one last question, if I may,' Byrne added.

    'Of course.'

    'When it comes to orchestral music – symphonies – is there always a book?'

    'A book?'

    'Like in musical theater. Someone writes the book, someone writes the music, someone else writes the lyrics.'

    'I think I may know what you're asking. You want to know if symphonies have a story behind them. A narrative.'

    'Yes.'

    'It's a difficult question,' Duchesne said. 'And one that's been a topic for discussion and debate for a long time. I believe what you're talking about, insofar as instrumental music is concerned, is called program music.'

    'Program music has a story?'

    'Yes and no. In its purest form, program music can be a mere suggestion of a narrative.'

    'So a piece of music that follows a narrative approach might not be particularly coherent?'

    Duchesne smiled. 'Tell me, detective. Where did you study music?'

    'A little honky-tonk at the crossroads.'

    'With the esteemed Mr. Johnson.'

    'Yeah, well,' Byrne said. 'I made a different deal with the devil.'

    Duchesne took a moment, thinking. 'To answer your astute question, yes. For the most part. There are a few exceptions, one being Vivaldi's Four Seasons'

    Jessica tried to listen closely but the only sound she could hear was the conversation flying over her head. She knew that Byrne took cryptic but detailed notes. She hoped he was getting all this. She was completely lost when it came to classical music. Whenever someone mentioned The Barber of Seville she thought of Bugs Bunny.

    'Are there any symphonic poems, program music, that involve the use of animal imagery?'

    'My goodness. Many.'

    'Specifically a lion, a rooster, a swan, or a fish?'

    'Perhaps the most famous of all. Carnival of the Animals,' Duchesne said without a moment's hesitation. 'It is a musical suite of fourteen movements. Much beloved.'

    'The movements are all about animals?'

    'Not all,' Duchesne said.

    'Who was the composer?' Byrne asked.

    'Carnival of the Animals was written by a great proponent of the tone poem. A French Romantic composer named Camille Saint-Saens.'

    'Do you have information on this that you might let us borrow?' Byrne asked.

    'Of course,' Duchesne said. 'It will take me a little while to collate all of it. Do you want to wait?'

    'Can you fax it to us as soon as you have it all together?'

    'Sure,' Duchesne said. 'I'll get right on it.'

    Jessica and Byrne rose. 'We really appreciate this,' Byrne said, handing the man a business card.

    'Not at all,' Duchesne replied. He walked them to the door of his office, through the reception area, to the front doors.

    'Were you here when Christa-Marie Schönburg studied here?' Byrne asked.

    'No,' Duchesne said. 'I've been here for almost twenty years, but she had left by then.'

    'Did she teach here?'

    'She did. It was only for two years or so, but she was quite something, as I understand. The students were madly in love with her.'

    They descended the steps, reached the side door of Prentiss.

    'Perhaps this is something you are not at liberty to discuss, but does any of this have something to do with Ms. Schönburg?' Duchesne asked.

    'No,' Byrne said, the consummate liar. 'I'm just a fan.'

    Duchesne glanced over at the wall. Jessica followed his gaze. There, next to the door, mixed into a precise grouping of portraits of young musicians – violinists, pianists, flutists, oboists – was an expensively framed photograph of a young Christa-Marie Schönburg sitting in a practice room at Prentiss.

    On the way to the van – parked just off Locust Street on a narrow lane called Mozart Place – they walked in silence.

    'You saw it, didn't you?' Jessica finally asked.

    'Oh yeah.'

    'Same one?'

    'Same one.'

    In the decades-old photograph of Christa-Marie next to the door she wore a stainless steel bracelet with a large garnet stone inlaid.

    They had seen the same bracelet on the shelf at Joseph Novak's apartment.