The Stolen Ones (12 page)

In his dreams.

Months later, when the flowers were put into the ground, when Luther saw the blackened flesh that had been Dr Kirsch wheeled away, he closed his eyes, and entered the dream arcade.

He never walked out.

Luther followed the man from the bodega and took him in an alley behind a block of row houses. In the dream the sledgehammer had been in a barn, a fragrant clapboard structure smelling of damp hay and manure.

In the dream Luther found it on the construction site just a few blocks from the man’s house.

‘It has been a long time,’ the man said. He sat in a wooden chair in the center of the field. It had begun to snow.

‘Yes,’ Luther said.

‘The doctor is dead, you know.’

‘I know.’

The man hung his head for a moment. At first Luther thought he was going to cry, but instead he began to whisper. Was it a prayer? Perhaps. Luther had heard this before. He had never prayed, would not know whom to pray to, but he never begrudged a person this moment of grace at the very end. There was dignity in all death.

‘Why now?’ the man finally asked.

‘Because the digging machines are here,’ Luther said. ‘The digging machines are here and they will unearth all the secrets.’

The man dropped his head into his hands, and this time he did begin to cry.

Luther took off his overcoat. The man glanced up, saw the old sack-cloth suit, its many bloodstains. He also saw what Luther had in his right hand.

‘Do you know me?’ Luther asked.

The man nodded. ‘You are Eduard Kross, of course.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I am Toomas Sepp. I always knew that, when this day came, I would be Sepp.’

Luther handed the man the railroad spike. Moments later, as snowflakes glistened his hair, Robert Freitag held the spike to the back of his head.

Luther lifted the sledgehammer high into the air and brought it down with all of his strength. First there was the sound of metal striking metal, iron on iron.

Then there was nothing. Just the silence of sleep, the warm and comforting solace of the womb.

It was just after nine p.m., and street traffic was light.

Luther watched lights flicker on, flicker off in the houses on the street, people finishing their dinners, preparing their baths, retiring to their living rooms to watch television, descending to their basements to engage in their hobbies, their perversions, shielded from the streets by cement and glass block.

Luther glanced back at the three-story row house with which he was concerned.

What did he know? He knew the name and profession of the man who lived there. He knew that the man was divorced. He knew that the man had one son, aged seven. He knew that on Tuesday nights around seven p.m., the boy would perform one of his chores, that being the taking out of the garbage.

On his many visits to the small park across the street, Luther had observed the boy through his bedroom window on the second floor, had seen the posters on the boy’s wall, as well as a bookcase which held a number of action figures.

There were two obstacles.

Luther walked across the street, looked closely at the iron gate that led to the rear of the row house. The gate looked new, a rather gaudy scroll-top portal that appeared to be constructed of cold rolled steel. It seemed to be of the same manufacture as the bars over the front windows, both first and second stories, but not the third. Luther had noticed the first time he paid a visit that, although there were bars on the front windows, there were none on the side windows. Apparently the homeowner, the man with whom Luther had business, surmised that this rather expensive gate was enough to keep intruders from the rear of the property.

Penny wise
, Luther thought.

No, the gate was not his obstacle. It had been years since he had encountered a lock mechanism he could not best. There were, however, two other barriers. He could see that there was an alarm system rigged to the gate. If it was not opened and closed with a key, the alarm would trigger. There were also motion detectors at the rear of the property.

Luther knew his way around this.

The other obstacle, the one that would take a little more cunning to overcome, was represented by the two scuffed plastic bowls at the end of the short driveway.

Luther shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. He misted himself into the night, already formulating the medications he would need.

First he would deal with the old woman, then he had a date with a boy who liked a comic book character named the Spectre.

The smell was nauseating, a bitter redolence of burned fabric, upholstery ticking, melted plastic, charred wood. It enveloped the entire block.

The flames had reached the south wall of the row house, where firefighters had broken out the windows. Everything was wet and blackened and scorched. The heat, which might have been welcome on a cold and rainy March afternoon, was heavy with acrid smoke.

It was the relentless rain that the PFD captain on scene, a lifer named Mickey Dugan, said might have helped saved the entire block.

The cause of the blaze was under investigation. According to the two PPD patrol officers who had secured the scene, front and back, no one came in or out of the premises after detectives Byrne and Balzano left for Priory Park.

Investigators had not yet found any identification on the body found on the creek bank, but both Jessica and Byrne made what would suffice as a positive identification for the time being, pending the woman’s brother making it official at the morgue later in the day.

In each hand, beneath the stones, had been a dried, white flower. Both had been collected and sent to the FBI for identification.

They did not find the woman’s iPhone. Repeated calls to her number were directed to the woman’s voicemail box. It was not possible to tell if the phone was simply turned off, had its SIM card replaced, or had been destroyed.

By three p.m. police had set up a perimeter around the block of row houses where Joan Delacroix had lived.

Jessica and Byrne stood on the corner, amid the growing crowd. Because this street in Brewerytown was quite narrow, a number of residents on both sides of the street had been evacuated until the blaze had been brought under control.

While they waited to be cleared to reenter Joan Delacroix’s house, Jessica and Byrne compared notes. They agreed that, from the moment they entered the house – and the victim had called out from the basement – to the moment Byrne descended the steps, could not have been more than two minutes.

How had the victim been spirited away, right under their noses, in that amount of time?

Before they could begin to address that question, Jessica looked up to see James Delacroix come around the corner. Jessica wondered if the man had perhaps continued to search the neighborhood in ever-widening circles.

When he saw the police and fire trucks he ran across the street, ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape, and attempted to enter his sister’s house. He was stopped by two young patrol officers.

Byrne stepped forward, took James Delacroix aside.

‘What… what happened?’ Delacroix asked.

Byrne made eye contact with Jessica, led Delacroix a few houses away. He squared himself in front of the man. ‘Mr Delacroix, I’m afraid I have some terrible news for you.’

‘About Joan?’

‘Yes,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that your sister is dead.’

Byrne caught the man as he was about to sag to the ground. He got the attention of one of the firefighters.

‘Mr Delacroix,’ Byrne said, ‘this man is going to look after you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Byrne saw the man’s eyes begin to roll back into his head. For a moment it looked as if he might be going into shock. He kept a hand on the man’s arm until the firefighter met his eye, giving him a look that both Jessica and Byrne knew well, one that said everything was under control.

Six detectives from the homicide unit conducted the neighborhood interviews. Many of the people were still on the street, having been prevented from entering their houses. Slowly they were being given permission to do so.

In addition to being the scene of a fire, the area was also the scene of an abduction, a kidnapping that ultimately ended in murder.

While the neighborhood interviews continued, Jessica and Byrne combed the long alleyway that ran behind the row houses and retail establishments on the street.

They saw a man standing at the end of the alley, arms folded, waiting impatiently. A stocky Asian man, he wore a chef’s jacket and a look of annoyance.

Byrne introduced himself and Jessica. The man’s name was Winston Kuo. He was the owner of the Saigon Garden Restaurant, a small place four doors down from Joan Delacroix’s house.

‘Is this about the fire?’ Kuo asked.

‘Yes and no,’ Byrne said.

The man just nodded.

‘Did you know the woman in the third house from the end of the block?’

Kuo thought for a few moments. ‘Older woman? Caucasian?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not really. I mean, I’d see her from time to time, and we’d nod hello. That sort of thing. I’d see her in the alley when we both were taking out trash.’

‘Do you remember when the last time you saw her was?’

‘A few days, at least. Maybe a week.’

‘You didn’t see her today?’

‘No.’

Jessica glanced down the street. There were two young busboys huddling in a doorway, trying to keep warm as they waited. ‘Do those young men work for you?’

Kuo looked over, back. ‘Yes.’

‘We’d like to speak to them, if we could.’

‘That wouldn’t be a problem. Unfortunately, they don’t speak English.’

‘Could you ask them if they saw Ms Delacroix today at all? Especially in the hour or so before the fire started?’

‘No problem.’

Kuo shouted to the two young men. A few seconds later the busboys came down the street. The looks of apprehension on their faces said that they might be thinking that Jessica and Byrne were from ICE.

Kuo spoke to them in rapid-fire Vietnamese.

The two boys listened, glanced at each other, then back at their boss. They both shook their heads. Kuo asked a second question, and was met with the same response. He dismissed them. Kuo turned back to the detectives.

‘They did not see anything. The younger of the two just started yesterday. I don’t think he’s ever seen Miss…?’

‘Delacroix,’ Byrne said. ‘Her name was Joan Delacroix.’

The tense of Byrne’s verb was not lost on Kuo. ‘Ms Delacroix. I don’t think he knows who she was.’

‘Have you noticed any comings or goings from Ms Delacroix’s house for the past few days or weeks?’ Byrne asked. ‘Any visitors? Anything unusual?’

Kuo gave it some thought. ‘I can’t say that I have. But I’m usually pretty busy here. Right now I’m the only one on the line.’

Byrne took out a card, handed it to the man, made the usual request. Before they left, Kuo pointed to the second floor of the building at the other side of the alley, a former commercial space on the corner.

‘You might want to check with Old Tony,’ Kuo said.

‘Old Tony?’ Byrne asked. He looked up and saw a silhouette in the window.

‘He sees everything.’

‘You’re saying he usually sits up there?’

Kuo nodded. ‘For a while I thought maybe it was a mannequin or something, you know? Day or night he’d be up there. He never moved. Then one night I saw the ember of a cigar. Trust me, Old Tony doesn’t miss much.’

The apartment was crowded with furniture, commercial fixtures, paraphernalia. In the corner was a large City of Philadelphia trash can. Next to it were two enormous corkboards. Pinned to the boards were coupons and flyers for everything from pizza to massage parlors to Tai Chi classes. There had to be hundreds.

The tenant of the second-floor corner space – Anthony Giordano – was in his mid-eighties. He was thin but still wiry, had a thick head of unruly white hair, chaotic eyebrows.

Byrne introduced himself and Jessica. They navigated their way to the corner where Old Tony kept neighborhood vigil. Winston Kuo was right. You could see a lot from up here.

‘I saw her with this guy,’ Tony said. ‘The car was around the corner, but I saw him pull away.’

‘Did you recognize the man?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I pretty much only saw the top of his head.’

‘White guy? Black guy?’

‘White.’

‘What about the car?’ Byrne asked. ‘Have you seen it before?’

‘Oh yeah. It’s been around here before.’

‘Can you describe it?’

Tony ran a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘Well, I’ve never been too good with make and model. I was never that into cars. Motorcycles were my thing.’

‘What color was the car?’

‘Easy. It was black. Big car. Not new.’

‘We’re talking old-school big here?’ Byrne asked. ‘Olds, Pontiac, Caddy?’

‘Caddy I would know.’

‘Anything distinguishing about it? Any dents, bumper stickers, primer?’

The old man thought for a few moments. ‘Can’t say as I recall.’

‘Now, Ms Delacroix, the woman who was with the man, did it seem that she was going with him willingly?’

‘You mean like they were friends?’

Byrne nodded.

‘I don’t think so. He had her by the arm. I thought at first she might have been the guy’s mother. You know how some young people treat their parents these days?’

‘I do.’

‘Yeah, well, like that. I wanted to slap him.’

Byrne made a few notes, picked up a photograph from the congested bookshelf. It was a picture of a much younger Anthony Giordano in uniform. He was standing between a pair of enormous marble columns. ‘You’re a vet?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tony said. ‘I was an MP. Nuremberg.’

‘At the trials?’

Tony nodded. ‘Deployed at the Palace of Justice. I got into the Army right at the end of the war. Too young to fight, too old for my ma’s house. There were nine of us.’

Byrne smiled. ‘Where were you in that lineup?’

‘Dead last. My hand-me-downs were throw-me-downs. Nothing ever fit.’

Byrne pointed at the photograph. ‘What was it like there?’

‘Bastards on trial ate better than we did. And we ate pretty good.’

Byrne put the photograph back.

‘Was your father in the war?’ Tony asked.

‘Between them,’ Byrne said. ‘He served, though.’

‘Good man.’

‘He is.’

‘Still with us?’

‘Both feet.’

Tony nodded. ‘Let me ask you something. This guy with the car?’

‘What about him?’

‘He do something bad to that lady?’

‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m afraid he did.’

Tony nodded. He pointed at the carbine mounted on the wall. To Jessica, it looked to be fully functioning. ‘Tell you what. If I see the son of a bitch again, can I take him out? I can still draw a bead.’

‘It would be better if you just gave me a call,’ Byrne said. He handed the man his business card. ‘Me or my partner. We’ll take it from there.’

Tony nodded, considering his options. He smiled at Jessica. ‘Okay.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Tony pinned the card on the cork board, dead center in the mass of offers for gutter cleaning, bathtub resurfacing and unlimited indoor tanning.

When Jessica and Byrne returned to Joan Delacroix’s house, PFD was just wrapping up, securing the building. Captain Mickey Dugan noticed the two detectives, stepped forward. He and Byrne had known each other almost thirty years, and there was no need to stand on ceremony.

‘You can go in,’ Dugan said. ‘First floor only, and then only the north side. We’ve got it roped off in there. The basement is off limits.’

‘Okay,’ Byrne said.

‘Kevin, I’m serious. You walk upstairs and fall through I’m here all fucking night.’

As they prepared to enter the house, Byrne took Jessica aside. He spoke softly. ‘Jess, I think we should —’

Jessica held up a hand, stopping him. She knew what was coming. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘You do?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Look, these cases are linked. There’s no question about that.’

‘I know,’ Byrne said. ‘But you’re SIU now. You have another life. You have school.’

‘So?’

It was the lamest response possible, Jessica thought, especially to someone who knew her as well as her partner did.

‘So you can’t put in the time on both cases.’

‘I’ll make up the classes,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ll find the time.’

‘And what if you can’t?’

Jessica was afraid he would ask this. She’d had her answer locked and loaded, although she was certain it wouldn’t come out the way she’d rehearsed it. It did not. ‘Then I’ll just recycle until next semester, Kevin. It’s no big deal.’

Byrne knew this wasn’t true, of course, just as he knew there was no point trying to talk her out of it. It
was
a big deal. It was also her choice.

The conversation, for the moment, was over.

Jessica and Byrne stood near the bottom of the stairs as the CSU officers began taking photographs. There were no bloody footprints, no blood spatter on the stairs, or in the short hallway leading to the back door. When it was dark enough, they would perform a Luminol test, the process by which investigators could detect trace evidence of blood all but invisible to the naked eye.

‘Why didn’t we hear anything?’ Jessica asked.

Byrne didn’t answer right away. Perhaps there was no answer to that question. But one thing Jessica knew was that, as soon as this made it to the press, their lives were going to be pure hell. A woman is kidnapped and murdered while two homicide detectives were standing in her living room.

It was a public relations nightmare.

Jessica and Byrne couldn’t think about that now. Right now they had to protect this crime scene, and put in motion the investigation.

‘Come with me,’ Byrne said.

Jessica followed Byrne down the short hallway to the living room. They positioned themselves in exactly the same place they were standing when Byrne began calling Joan Delacroix’s name.

‘We were right here, right?’ Byrne asked.

Jessica found her spot on the floor. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Exactly.’

Byrne turned his body, blading it toward the hallway that led to the stairs and the kitchen. He was at a forty-five-degree angle to the opening, his left side pointing to the rear of the row house.

‘I was facing this way,’ Byrne said, ‘right?’

‘Right.’

‘How long would you say it was between the time she yelled “I’ll be right up” and the time I went down the stairs?’

Jessica thought about it. ‘I think it was about two minutes, max.’