Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (105 page)

“Oh, yeah. With icing.”

“Why do you think she was posed on the bank? Why not just dump her in the river?”

“Good question. Maybe she’s supposed to be looking at something. Maybe it’s a ‘special place.’ ”

Jessica could hear the acid in Byrne’s voice. She understood. There were times, in their job, when you wanted to take the unique cases—the sociopaths some people in the medical community wanted to preserve and study and quantify—and throw them off the nearest bridge.
Fuck
your psychosis.
Fuck
your rotten childhood and your chemical imbalance.
Fuck
your whack-job mother who put dead spiders and rancid mayonnaise in your underwear. If you’re a PPD homicide cop and somebody kills a citizen on your beat, you’re going down—horizontal or vertical, it didn’t much matter.

“Have you run across this amputation MO before?” Jessica asked.

“I’ve seen it,” Byrne said, “but not as an MO. We’ll run it, see if anything flags.”

She looked back at her camera’s screen, at the victim’s outfit. “What do you make of the dress? I suppose the doer dressed her like that.”

“I don’t want to think about that yet,” Byrne said. “I really don’t. Not before lunch.”

Jessica knew what he meant. She didn’t want to think about it either, but of course they both knew they would have to.

DELAWARE INVESTMENT PROPERTIES,
Inc. was in a freestanding building on Arch Street, a three-story steel and glass box with mirrored windows, and something resembling modern sculpture out front. The company employed about thirty-five people. Their main focus was buying and selling real estate, but in the past few years had branched out into riverfront development. At the moment, the prize in Philadelphia was the carrot of casino development, and it seemed that anyone with a Realtor’s license was rolling the dice.

The man in charge of the Manayunk property was David Hornstrom. They met in his second-floor office. The walls were covered with pictures of Hornstrom on various mountaintops around the world, sunglasses in place, climbing gear in hand. One picture frame bore an MBA from Penn State.

Hornstrom was in his late twenties, dark hair and eyes, well dressed and a little too confident, the poster boy for energetic junior executive types. He wore a two-button charcoal suit, expertly tailored, white shirt, blue silk tie. His office was small, but well appointed with contemporary furniture and furnishings. In one corner was a rather expensive-looking telescope. Hornstrom sat on the edge of his sleek metal desk.

“Thanks for taking the time to see us,” Byrne said.

“Always happy to help Philly’s finest.”

Philly’s finest?
Jessica thought. She didn’t know anyone under fifty who used that phrase.

“When was the last time you were at the Manayunk property?” Byrne asked.

Hornstrom reached over to a desk calendar. Considering the wide-screen monitor and desktop computer, you’d think he wouldn’t be using a paper calendar, Jessica mused. He looked the BlackBerry type.

“About a week ago,” he said.

“And you haven’t been back?”

“No.”

“Not even just to drive by and check on things?”

“No.”

Hornstrom’s answers were coming a little too fast and a little too pat, not to mention curt. Most people were at least somewhat rattled by a visit from the homicide police. Jessica wondered why this man was not.

“The last time you were there, was there anything out of the ordinary?” Byrne asked.

“Not that I noticed.”

“Were those three abandoned vehicles on the lot?”

“Three?” Hornstrom asked. “I remember two. Is there another one?”

Byrne flipped back his notes, for effect. Old trick. This time it didn’t work. “You’re right. My mistake. Were the two vehicles there last week?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to make the call to get them towed. Is that something you guys can take care of for me? That would be super.”

Super.

Byrne glanced at Jessica, back. “We’re with the police department,” Byrne said. “I may have mentioned that earlier.”

“Ah, okay.” Hornstrom leaned over, made a note on his calendar. “No problem at all.”

Cocky little bastard,
Jessica thought.

“How long have the cars been there?” Byrne asked.

“I really don’t know,” Hornstrom said. “The man who was handling that property recently left the company. I’ve only had the listing for a month or so.”

“Is he still in the city?”

“No,” Hornstrom said. “He’s in Boston.”

“We’ll need his name and contact information.”

Hornstrom hesitated a second. Jessica knew that if someone was going to start to resist this early in an interview, and over something seemingly minor, they might be in for a battle. On the other hand, Hornstrom did not look stupid. The MBA on his wall confirmed his education. Common sense? Another story.

“That’s doable,” Hornstrom finally said.

“Has anyone else from your company visited the property in the past week?” Byrne asked.

“I doubt it,” Hornstrom said. “We have ten agents and over one hundred commercial sites in the city alone. If another agent had shown the property I would know about it.”

“Have
you
shown the property recently?”

“Yes.”

Awkward moment number two. Byrne sat, pen poised, waiting for more information. He was the Irish Buddha. No one Jessica had ever met could outlast him. Hornstrom tried to match his gaze, failed.

“I showed it last week,” Hornstrom finally said. “A commercial plumbing company out of Chicago.”

“Do you think anyone from that company has been back?”

“Probably not. They weren’t too interested. Besides, they would have called me.”

Not if they were dumping a mutilated body,
Jessica thought.

“We’ll also need their contact information,” Byrne said.

Hornstrom sighed, nodded. Whatever cool he may have projected at Center City happy hours, whatever Sporting Club macho he floated with the Brasserie Perrier crowd, he was no match for Kevin Byrne.

“Who has keys to the building?” Byrne asked.

“There are two sets. I have one, the other set is kept in a safe here.”

“And everyone here has access?”

“Yes, but like I said—”

“When was the last time that building was operational?” Byrne asked, interrupting him.

“Not for a few years.”

“And all the locks were changed since then?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll need to look inside.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Byrne pointed to one of the photographs on the wall. “You’re a climber?”

“Yeah.”

In the photograph, Hornstrom stood alone on a mountaintop, with a bright blue sky behind him.

“I’ve always wondered, is all this gear heavy?” Byrne asked.

“Depends on what you bring,” Hornstrom said. “If it’s a one-day climb you can get away with the minimum. If you’re camping at base camps, it can get cumbersome. Tents, cooking gear, et cetera. But, for the most part, it’s designed to be as lightweight as possible.”

“What do you call this?” Byrne pointed at the photograph, to a belt-like loop hanging from Hornstrom’s jacket.

“That’s called a dogbone sling.”

“It’s made out of nylon?”

“I believe it’s called Dynex.”

“Strong?”

“
Very
strong,” Hornstrom said.

Jessica knew where Byrne was headed with this line of apparently innocent, conversational questioning, even though the belt around the victim’s neck had been a light gray, and the sling in the photograph was a vibrant yellow.

“Thinking about climbing, Detective?” Hornstrom asked.

“
God,
no,” Byrne said with his most winning smile. “I have enough trouble with the stairs.”

“You should try it sometime,” Hornstrom said. “It’s good for the soul.”

“Maybe one of these days,” Byrne said. “If you can find me a mountain with an Applebee’s halfway up.”

Hornstrom laughed his corporate laugh.

“Now,” Byrne said, standing, buttoning his coat. “About getting into the building.”

“Sure.” Hornstrom shot his cuff, looked at his watch. “I can meet you out there, say, around two o’clock. Would that be okay?”

“Actually,
now
would be much better.”

“Now?”

“Yeah,” Byrne said. “Is that something you can take care of for us? That would be
super
.”

Jessica stifled a laugh. Hornstrom, clueless, looked to her for help. He found none.

“Can I ask what this is all about?” he asked.

“Give me a ride, Dave,” Byrne said. “We’ll talk on the way.”

BY THE TIME
they reached the crime scene the victim had been moved to the medical examiner’s office on University Avenue. Tape circled the parking lot, down to the riverbank. Cars slowed, drivers gawked, were waved on by Mike Calabro. The food-service truck across the street was gone.

Jessica watched Hornstrom closely as they ducked under the crime scene tape. If he was in any way involved in the crime, or had any knowledge of it whatsoever, there would almost certainly be a tell, a behavioral tic that would give him away. She saw nothing. He was either good or innocent.

David Hornstrom unlocked the back door of the building. They stepped inside.

“We can take it from here,” Byrne said.

David Hornstrom held up a hand as if to say, “Whatever.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

THE LARGE FRIGID
space was all but empty. A few fifty-gallon drums were scattered about, a few stacks of wooden pallets. Cold daylight peered in through the cracks in the plywood over the windows. Byrne and Jessica roamed the floor with their Maglites, the thin shafts of light being swallowed by the darkness. Because the space had been secure, there was no evidence of break-ins or squatting, no telltale signs of drug use—needles, foil, crack vials. Moreover, there was nothing to indicate a woman had been murdered in this building. In fact, there was little evidence that any sort of human activity had
ever
taken place in this building.

Satisfied, at least for the moment, they met at the rear entrance. Hornstrom was just outside, still on his cell. They waited until he clicked off.

“We may need to get back inside,” Byrne said. “And we’re going to have to seal the building for the next few days.”

Hornstrom shrugged. “It’s not like the tenants are lining up,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “If there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”

The standard crock,
Jessica thought. She wondered how cocky he would be if they dragged him down to the Roundhouse for a more detailed interview.

Byrne gave David Hornstrom a business card and repeated his request for contact information for the previous agent. Hornstrom grabbed the card, jumped into his car, and sped away.

The last image Jessica had of David Hornstrom was the license plate on his BMW as he turned onto Flat Rock Road.

HORNEE
1.

Byrne and Jessica saw it at the same moment, looked at each other, then shook their heads and headed back to the office.