The Stolen Ones (8 page)

The house was located on a narrow street in the Brewerytown section of North Philadelphia, a neighborhood pleated between the east bank of the Schuylkill River and 25th Street. To the north was Cecil B. Moore Avenue; to the south, Parrish Street. An unofficial district, Brewerytown got its nickname from the many breweries that flourished along the river during the late nineteenth century.

The house was a painted brick trinity with a white wrought-iron railing leading up the two steps to the small porch.

When Jessica rang the doorbell she noticed holes drilled above and below the two windows to the right of the door. It appeared there had, at one time, been bars over the windows. While the area was not a high crime area, she didn’t believe it was gentrified to the point where dropping your guard was a good idea.

After ringing the bell for the third time, Jessica and Byrne took a step back, checked the upstairs and downstairs windows for movement. They found none.

Seeing as the row house was the second address from the corner, they walked to the cross street, then left, and found an alley running between the houses. They headed down the alley and saw a gate leading to the back of Delacroix’s house. In the tiny back patio was a man with earbuds firmly in place, working on what appeared to be a container garden. The air was thick with the smell of compost.

Jessica knocked on the gate, even though she was certain the man could not hear her. He didn’t. She waved a hand until she caught his eye. He immediately looked over and removed the earbuds. Even from a few feet away Jessica heard that he was listening to some heavy metal rock. The man was in his fifties, fighting the good fight against a paunch, had a receding hairline. He wore faded Levi’s and an orange down vest. At first Jessica thought the music sounded a little young for him, but then had to remind herself that the seventies was forty years ago. The truth was, some people who listened to AC/DC looked like this guy.

‘Hi,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t see you standing there.’

‘Not a problem,’ Jessica said. ‘We rang the bell a few times.’

The man nodded. He gestured to the seven or eight redwood planters on the ground in front of him. ‘Just getting the soil ready for the season,’ he said. He then pointed at the rather intricate trellis that grew up the north side of his small terrace. It was constructed out of electrical conduit and what appeared to be fishing line. ‘The plight of the Philadelphia gardener,’ he added. ‘Vertical gardening.’

Jessica was familiar with the technique. Growing up on Catharine Street with their minuscule backyard, her father grew his tomatoes and cucumbers on stakes that seemed to reach the clouds. Of course, she was much smaller then.

‘Are you Mr Delacroix?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I am.’ He took off his gardening gloves and unlatched the gate. ‘What can I do for you?’

Jessica produced her ID. ‘My name is Detective Jessica Balzano. This is my partner, Detective Byrne.’

The man looked between them a few times. ‘Police?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’

The man turned in place, looking for somewhere to put his gloves. There were two small tables where he could’ve put them, but he seemed a little flustered. Not felony flustered, but rather not used to talking to police flustered.

‘May we come in?’ Jessica asked.

The man returned to the moment. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. He opened the gate. ‘Please, please.’

Jessica and Byrne walked a few feet across the back patio, and into the house. Like many row houses of this type, they entered a small kitchen, which gave way to a short hallway leading to the dining room and living room beyond. They gathered in the living room.

‘May I ask your full name, sir?’ Jessica asked.

‘James Delacroix,’ the man said.

‘Is there a middle name?’

‘Sorry. It’s Charles,’ he said. ‘I rarely use it.’

Jessica made a note, underlined it. JCD.

‘Mr Delacroix, are you acquainted with a man named Robert Freitag?’ As she asked the question, Jessica watched the man for some tic of recognition. She saw none.

‘I’m sorry,’ Delacroix said, ‘could you repeat that name for me, please?’

‘Freitag,’ Jessica said. ‘Robert Freitag.’ She spelled the last name for him.

Delacroix looked up and slightly to the right. It was an indicator that he really was thinking about his answer, not trying to cook one.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That name is not familiar to me.’

‘May I ask where you are employed, Mr Delacroix?’

‘I work at the FlexPro Group.’

‘What is your position there?’

‘I work in Quality and Compliance.’

‘Have you ever worked for, or with, a company called CycleLife?’

Again, a look at the ceiling, and to the right. He shook his head.

‘Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell either.’ He leaned against the wall, but instead of crossing his arms – a classic signal of shutting down – he put his hands into his pockets. Backing off, but not shutting down. ‘I think this is the part in every cop show ever made where the guy asks what this is all about,’ he said with a nervous smile. ‘Am I allowed to ask what this is about?’

Jessica returned the smile. Half of it anyway. ‘Mr Delacroix, we’re with the homicide division, and we’re investigating a murder.’

The word reached him like a low-level electrical shock.

‘A murder?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of this Robert…’

‘Freitag,’ Jessica said. ‘Yes, Mr Delacroix. Robert Freitag was murdered in February.’

‘Why would you think I would know anything about this? I’ve never heard of the man.’

‘We’re getting to that, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘So, once again, the name CycleLife means nothing to you?’

‘No.’

‘Might you have run across CycleLife in your job at FlexPro? I understand your company is in the pharmaceutical business.’

With this, the repeat of the question he had answered earlier, he began to shut down. He crossed his arms.

‘I am abso
lutely
certain.’

Jessica believed him. While she was questioning Delacroix, Jessica saw Byrne looking around the living room. She caught his eye, and saw that he wanted to jump in. It was standard procedure for them. When a witness, even a potential witness, began to retreat, they tag-teamed him.

Byrne gestured to the photographs over the couch. They were large, professionally matted and framed black-and-white photographs, grouped into two rows of four. Jessica recognized most of the photographs as Philadelphia landmarks, shot at unique angles.

‘These are very good,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you the photographer?’

Jessica glanced at Delacroix. He kept his arms crossed, but she could see him begin to soften.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I dabble. A little.’

Byrne crossed the living room to get a closer look at the photographs. ‘These are much better than dabbling,’ he said. He pointed to the photograph in the upper right-hand corner, a low-angle shot of what looked like a pyramid. ‘Is this Beth Sholom?’

Delacroix uncrossed his arms. ‘Yes it is,’ he said. ‘You know the area?’

‘Philadelphia born and bred,’ Byrne said. ‘Although I don’t get out to Elkins Park as much as I’d like to.’

Delacroix crossed the room. ‘I shot this at high noon. The sun was dead center, and cast no shadow.’

For the next few minutes, as the two men discussed the photographs, Jessica glanced around the living room and dining room. The space was nowhere near as Spartan as Robert Freitag’s living quarters. This place was sloppy, but comfortable – books stacked in a corner, remote controls on the couch, a rolled-up bag of Doritos rubber-banded on the coffee table. Through the opening into the kitchen Jessica saw a day’s worth of dishes in the sink. She looked at the steps leading to the second floor. They were being watched by a rather portly tabby cat. Jessica usually smelled cat litter, but her nose was still filled with the scent of compost from the backyard.

‘You know, Beth Sholom was Frank Lloyd Wright’s only synagogue,’ Delacroix said.

‘I didn’t know that,’ Byrne replied.

Jessica glanced at Delacroix as he rocked back on his heels a little. Byrne had him. She knew this the way she knew that Byrne knew full well that morsel of Frank Lloyd Wright minutiae.

‘If you don’t mind my asking, what cameras do you use?’ Byrne asked. ‘I’m shopping for one for my daughter. Totally clueless.’

Now they were in Delacroix’s wheelhouse. ‘I have a few,’ he said. ‘My go-to is a Nikon D60. It’s not the newest, but it’s never let me down.’

‘Nice,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you all digital now?’

Delacroix smiled. ‘No, I’m still hanging on to my AE-1.’

‘The old Canon?’

‘That’s the one.’

Jessica had a feeling she knew where her partner was going with this. She was right.

‘What about Polaroids?’ Byrne asked.

Delacroix shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I donated a pair of Polaroids to the city schools about ten years ago. Digital photography has really made all photography instant photography. I was only keeping them as artifacts anyway.’

Byrne just nodded. He glanced at Jessica, effectively tossing her the ball.

‘Mr Delacroix, we don’t want to take up any more of your time. So, just so we’re sure, you’re positive you’ve never met a man named Robert Freitag?’

‘I just can’t remember that name. I’m sorry.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that, on an application for a position at CycleLife LLC, five years ago, Mr Freitag named you as an emergency contact?’

Delacroix looked shocked. ‘It would surprise me a great deal. I’m not sure why he would do that. I don’t know him.’

Jessica reached into her portfolio, and pulled out the fax they had been sent by Karen Jacobs. She handed it to Delacroix. He reached into one of his trouser pockets, retrieved an eyeglass case. He opened the case, slipped on his glasses, and his gaze began to move down the page.

‘It’s right at the bottom, Mr Delacroix,’ Jessica said.

Delacroix looked at the bottom of the page. He mumbled the last few lines until he got to his name and address. ‘Ah, okay. I see what happened here. This isn’t me.’

‘Sir?’

‘It says J. C. Delacroix. This is my sister: Joan Catherine.’

‘Your sister lives here?’

‘Yes. No. Well, she
used
to live here. It was right after her divorce, and she went back to her maiden name. I still get some of her mail.’

‘I take it that she never mentioned Mr Freitag to you, is that correct?’

‘No. But that’s not unusual. We don’t really move in the same circles.’

‘I see,’ Jessica said. She noticed a photograph on the wall next to the passageway to the kitchen. It was a picture of a younger James Delacroix and a woman, perhaps ten years older, who looked like a family member.

‘Is this your sister?’ Jessica asked, pointing to the photo.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was taken in Atlantic City.’

‘It’s very important we speak with her. Do you have her contact information handy?’

‘I can do better than that,’ Delacroix said. ‘She lives right across the street.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’s probably home now. I’ll give her a call.’

Before Jessica could step in and ask the man not to make the call – it was always better in situations such as this to catch a potential witness off guard – he had his cell phone on, flipped open, and a speed-dial number punched in. Jessica glanced at Byrne. He was already looking out the front window.

‘Hey, Joanie,’ Delacroix said. ‘You busy?’

Delacroix crossed the room and looked out the window with Byrne. Jessica could see the living-room lights on in the row house directly across the street.

‘Well, you’re not going to believe this, but the jig is finally up.’ Delacroix looked at Jessica, winked. ‘The police are here, and they’re asking questions.’ Delacroix listened for a few moments. In that time Jessica saw the curtains part across the street, and the silhouette of a woman appear. ‘Yes, it appears they have finally caught up with you.’ Delacroix looked out the window, waved. The woman across the street waved back. ‘No, it’s nothing serious. Okay. Sure.’

He handed the phone to Jessica. She took it.

‘Ms Delacroix?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Jessica Balzano; I’m with the Philadelphia Police Department. We just need a minute of your time. Would it be okay if we stopped by now?’

There was a slight hesitation, but not long enough for any bells to ring.

‘Yes, I suppose that would be okay,’ the woman said. ‘I’m just doing laundry.’

‘I understand. We promise not to keep you too long.’

‘We?’

‘My partner and I.’

Another pause. ‘Okay.’

‘Great,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ll see you in a bit.’

Jessica handed the phone back to James Delacroix. He put it to his ear for a moment, but said nothing. Apparently, his sister had hung up.

Jessica buttoned her coat. ‘Mr Delacroix, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. And again, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Most of our job is really rather routine. We have to cover all angles and all bases.’

‘I understand.’

‘If you’d like we could stop back after we speak to your sister.’

‘That would set my mind at ease.’

‘Happy to do it.’

Delacroix showed them to the door, and watched as they crossed the street.

While Jessica climbed the few steps, Byrne stood back, on the sidewalk, checking the front of the house. There were matching lace curtains in all the windows.

Jessica opened the screen, knocked. When she did, the door opened. It was already slightly ajar. She knocked again, inched the door open further. ‘Ms Delacroix? It’s Detective Balzano.’

‘Just come on in,’ a voice called out, perhaps from the basement. ‘I’m finishing a load. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.’

‘Thanks,’ Jessica said. She and Byrne stepped inside, closed the door.

Where James Delacroix’s house had been unmistakably masculine, Joan Catherine Delacroix’s house was clearly a woman’s house, but not frilly in any way. The furniture was slipcovered in a floral pattern; the walls were a pale yellow. The dining-room table – an older, well-preserved rosewood with curved legs that reminded Jessica of her grandmother’s table – bore a crystal bowl of waxed fruit.