‘What can I do you out of?’ Sammy asked, folding his paper and putting it on the counter.
Jessica took out the evidence bag containing the spoon. ‘We’re trying to track down where this came from.’
Sammy reached beneath the counter and unfurled a long black-velvet jewelry roll. Jessica put the spoon on it.
Sammy Gold didn’t have to look at it too long.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know this spoon.’
‘You’ve seen it before?’
‘Yeah, but it’s been awhile.’ He pointed to the bottom of the handle, where the engraving was. ‘See this here? It’s a commemorative. We get a lot of them.’
Sammy turned around, pulled a long walnut box off the shelf. He placed it on the counter, opened it. Inside were a few dozen spoons of various sizes and finishes. Some gold, some silver.
‘Commemoratives are generally not worth that much,’ Sammy said. ‘They’re more for collectors and completists.’ He picked up a short round spoon, gold plated. ‘This one is for Penn House. I think it’s dated seventeen seventy-six.’
Jessica saw the small sticker on the back: $95.00.
Sammy picked up a second spoon, this one with an oddly shaped bowl that seemed to be two spoons welded together.
‘What is this?’ Jessica asked.
Sammy smiled. ‘This is a mustache spoon.’ He pointed to the lip on the bowl of the spoon. ‘This here? It was designed to keep your mustache out of the soup.’
The rest of the spoons were a variety of different types – coin spoons, spoons with faces engraved on the handles, a few with flowers painted on the bowls.
‘Like I said, this stuff ain’t worth all that much. I could let you have this whole box for four hundred.’
‘I think we’ll pass on that for now,’ Jessica said.
Sammy shrugged. Worth a shot.
Jessica picked up the spoon they had taken from Joan Delacroix’s house. ‘So you’re sure you’ve had spoons like this one pass through here?’
‘Well, not one hundred per cent. Like I said, not much money in them. A Rolex I would know. A Fender Strat in a beat.’
Jessica pointed to the engraving in the handle. ‘Do you know where this is from? What it commemorates?’
Sammy reached into a drawer, took out a lighted jeweler’s loupe, put it to his right eye, looked closely at the handle of the spoon. ‘Can’t make it out. Sorry.’ He held up a finger. ‘Let me ask my brother. He remembers everything.’
‘I thought he retired,’ Jessica said.
‘So did I.’
Sammy took a few steps toward the curtain separating the front of the store from the back. ‘Sandy!’
A few moments later Sanford Gold came out from the back of the store, a huge, half-eaten hoagie in his hand.
Sanford Gold was the butterfly-wing replica of his brother. Right down to the part in his hair (Sanford left, Sammy right) and the gold pinkie ring on his finger (Sanford left, Sammy right).
‘You remember Jessica Giovanni, right?’ Sammy asked.
Sanford just stared.
‘She’s a police officer now. A detective.’
Sanford stopped chewing, clearly guilty of some sort of misdemeanor.
Sammy held up the spoon. ‘We’ve had these in before, haven’t we?’
Resigned to dealing with the task at hand, Sandy put his sandwich down on the counter, wiped his hands on his shirt. He pulled up his glasses, scrutinized the spoon.
‘Well?’ Sammy asked. ‘We’ve seen these before, yes?’
Sanford just nodded.
‘Do you remember who brought them in?’
‘It was that Lenny character,’ Sanford said.
‘Lenny Pintar brought these in?’
‘Yeah. The retarded kid.’
‘Sandy, he’s not retarded.’
Sanford Gold shrugged, hitched his belt. ‘So what’s the right word now? I can’t keep up with the right words any more. Who the fuck can keep up?’ He looked at Jessica. ‘Sorry.’
Jessica nodded.
Sammy thought for a few beats. ‘Okay, Lenny probably is retarded, but you’re not supposed to say so.’
‘Why not?’
Sammy looked at Jessica and Byrne, then back at his brother. ‘You’re just supposed to say he’s a little…’
‘Challenged,’ Byrne said.
Sammy snapped his fingers. ‘Challenged. Thank you.’
Jessica took out her notepad. ‘What can you tell me about this Leonard…?’
‘Pintar,’ Sammy said.
‘Can you spell that for me please?’
Sammy did.
‘How do you know him?’
Sammy looked at his brother. ‘How did we first meet him, Sandy?’
As soon as Sammy asked the question, Sandy took another bite of his sandwich. Jessica wanted to handcuff him and body-slam him on the glass. And if that’s what she wanted to do, Byrne probably wanted to shoot him. Cooler heads prevailed for the moment.
Sammy turned his attention away from his brother. ‘He’s come in here off and on for years.’
‘About how long ago did he start coming in?’ Jessica asked.
‘Maybe fifteen years or so. But he doesn’t come in that often.’
‘Has he pawned a lot of merchandise over the years?’
‘No,’ Sammy said. ‘It’s not like that. He would bring stuff in, usually just junk. I kind of feel for the guy, because he is a little, you know, challenged, like you say. He would come in with things, and we’d throw him a couple of bucks. My old man liked him.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
Sammy glanced at his brother once again, then, realizing this was a lost cause, gave it some thought. ‘Got to be maybe a year now. Easy. About a year.’
‘Is that when he brought in the spoons?’
‘No, got to be longer than that. Maybe a couple of years.’
Jessica made the note. ‘Why do you say he’s challenged?’
‘Well, it’s just the way he acts and talks. If you ever meet him you’ll know what I mean. You just kind of know, right?’
‘Yeah, I do,’ Jessica said. She didn’t, not exactly, but she needed to move on. ‘Do you know if Lenny has ever been in jail?’
‘You know, now that you mention it, I think he was once. I think he mentioned something about the food being crappy.’
‘Are we talking county jail or prison?’
‘Can’t say for sure.’
Jessica jotted a few more notes. ‘Do you have a fax machine?’
At this, Sanford Gold perked up. He swallowed hard, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘What do you need? Standalone, all-in-one, color? Inkjet, laser, ribbon?’
‘Actually,’ Jessica said. ‘I was just —’
‘We’ve got Brother, HP, Panasonic, Samsung —’
Jessica held up a hand, like a traffic cop. ‘What I meant was, do you have a fax machine, as in a fax machine on which I can receive a fax right now?’
Sanford look crestfallen. But not for long. He grabbed his sandwich, and disappeared through the curtain into the back room. No sale, no interest.
‘What are you gonna do?’ Sammy asked. ‘Can’t shoot him.’
‘Sure you can,’ Jessica said.
Sammy laughed, reached into his pocket, pulled out an engraved sterling-silver business card case, flipped it open, thumbed out a card. ‘The fax number is at the bottom.’
Jessica took out her phone, called the office, asked for a check on one Leonard Pintar, requesting any results to be faxed to the pawn shop. Within a minute, the fax machine at the back of the shop clicked to life.
Sammy walked to the back of the store, pulled out the two pages. Jessica figured it took every fiber in the man’s considerable bulk not to read the fax. He handed the pages to Jessica.
Jessica skimmed the file, handed it to Byrne. As it turned out, Lenny did have a record, but only a minor one. He had been arrested
on a disorderly conduct charge two years earlier, but it was determined that he had stopped taking his medications, and engaged in what was probably just a misunderstanding with the rookie patrol officer. He spent less than thirty-six hours in lockup, and was released to the Pennsylvania Department of Welfare. A quick call to the agency revealed that Leonard Pintar was no longer a ward of the commonwealth, and they had no forwarding address. They suggested contacting the Department of Human Services.
‘Do you have any idea where we could locate Leonard right now?’ Jessica asked.
Sammy thought for a few moments. ‘Yeah. He works at Reading Terminal Market.’
‘At one of the counters?’ Jessica asked.
‘Not really,’ Sammy said. ‘From what I understand he kinda stands around and hands out fliers. I think he hangs around the door closest to Filbert. He’s got his own style. You’ll see.’
‘Got it.’
‘By the way, if you ever run into this again, you can just put the spoon in an aluminum pan full of boiling water, add salt, and voila. No tarnish.’
‘That easy, huh?’
‘Yeah. Pan has to be aluminum, though.’ He handed the spoon to Byrne.
‘Good to know,’ Jessica replied, knowing full well that the knowledge had just passed through her mind like a luge sled. She almost heard it rush by. Chemistry was not her forte. She handed Sammy a card. ‘If you find out anything, please give me a call.’
Sammy took out a leather card case, slipped the card inside. ‘Sure thing, Detective.’ He said the last word with a smile, shook his head. ‘I can’t believe how grown up you are.’
‘Yeah, unfortunately, it’s a byproduct of aging.’
Sammy laughed. ‘Don’t I know it. Say hi to your dad for me.’
‘I will,’ Jessica said. She held up the fax. ‘And thanks for this.’
‘On the house.’
24
Of all the big box stores, Luther enjoyed Home Depot the most. He loved the massive main corridors, the wide aisles, the high shelves, the colors and textures – plumbing, electrical, lumber, paint, bath, doors and windows – each lane a dazzling assortment of items.
By far, Luther’s favorite section was tools. Over the years he had accumulated a wide variety of tools, a chest that would be the envy of not only the homeowner who indulged his significant other in the occasional home remodeling job, but even the serious and dedicated tradesman.
He parked the Toronado at the end of one of the aisles, leaving an empty space on either side. It was one of his foibles, one he had long ago resigned himself to bear. Today he wore a dark blue tradesman’s jumpsuit buttoned all the way to the neck, along with a Phillies ball cap. Over the left breast pocket was a white oval, with the name Preston embroidered in red thread.
Upon entering the store he was greeted by an orange-aproned Home Depot employee, a pretty Hispanic girl in her twenties.
Luther smiled, and nodded a greeting.
Today his needs were specific, although just by entering the store he was almost viscerally compelled to browse. But he could not. There was work to do.
Because the store did not provide handled shopping baskets, Luther picked up one of the bright orange buckets, then rethought it. He placed it back inside the others in the stack, returned to the lobby, and retrieved a shopping cart.
Ten minutes later he found himself in the aisle with the painter’s supplies, a section with which he was quite familiar. He found what he needed – a large, plastic painter’s drop cloth – then navigated over to the aisle that offered chains, rope and wire.
Five minutes later he steered his cart to one of the checkout lanes. While a lot of people were taking advantage of the self-serve checkout counters, Luther waited in a long line, behind a man with a dozen sheets of exterior plywood on a trolley.
Luther always paid cash.
He looked at the photograph of the man, the smiling picture he had found in a discarded pamphlet for the doctors’ conglomerate at which the man worked. His smile was engaging, bright and exceedingly white.
Before cleaning the bloodied gloves he had used on the old woman, Luther prepared a sandwich, then put away the new supplies.
As he stepped into the main corridor he sensed a presence behind him.
Träumen Sie?
Yes.
What do you see?
Through the fog I see the shape of a man, a heavyset man, with his arms outstretched. We are standing in the Baldone Forest, not far from Riga. It is early spring, and the air is chilly and damp.
Who is this man?
He is a businessman, the owner of a small construction company. His specialty is electrical work. His name is Juris Spalva. His pockets are filled with stones.
How do you know him?
I don’t know him. I know of his deeds.
What has he done?
Like the man who killed my sister he is a predator. He often brought young girls to this part of the forest. He would tie their hands with wire, and make them lie down on the mossy ground.
Does the man know why you have brought him here?
Yes. I told him the reason. I showed him a picture of my sister.
What will become of him?
He will stand until his legs no longer support him. Then his flesh will know the cut of the wire.
Träumen Sie?
Yes, Doctor. I dream.
25
Rachel Anne Gray stood in the arched entryway to the kitchen, wondering if it was too late to buy a backhoe and level the house. She glanced at her watch. There was plenty of time. All she had to do was get up a good head of steam, take out one of the load-bearing walls, and: voila!
Instant rubble.
She assessed the fleapit of a kitchen in front of her, still aghast. Three of the cabinet doors were missing, ripped unceremoniously from their hinges. The vinyl flooring had on it a patina of rancid grease, topped with a layer of cat hair. The coffeemaker on the counter contained a few inches of what might have been coffee at one time, but was now dotted with small lily ponds of mold.
In the corner of the living room – which was piled high with dirty clothes, taped moving boxes, and used red Solo cups – was what looked like a small pile of dog shit. Old dog shit.
Rachel looked at her watch again. She now had ten minutes. If she was going to do something, she had to get moving.
She unzipped her leather tote bag and almost laughed at the sight of her roll of paper towels, Dustbuster and a can of Pledge. These were her side arms, and usually all she needed to do a quick cleanup of properties she had to show.
They would do her little good in this place.
She reached to the bottom of the bag and found the pair of rubber gloves she kept for emergencies, slipped them on. She then grabbed the roll of paper towels, and crossed the living room. As it turned out, there was more than one pile of dog shit. Some of it had begun to turn white. She took a deep breath, held it, gagged anyway. She tried again, and quickly scooped up the droppings. She all but ran back to the kitchen, opened the cabinet door under the sink.
Of course there was no garbage bag. Why would you need a garbage bag when you can just leave your garbage on the floor?
God, she hated renters.
Rachel heard a car door slam out front. The only thing she hated more than renters were buyers who showed up early.
She put the dog crap in one of the drawers, snapped off the rubber gloves, stashed them in her tote bag, then sprinted to the front door and peered through the small window.
The worst. The couple, who were in their mid-fifties, were ambling up the walk – woman out front, man staring up at the gutters (falling off), the roof (missing shingles) and the tuck pointing around the second-floor windows (non-existent). He already had a scowl on his face.
What they didn’t know was that the exterior of the house was its best feature.
Smile, Rachel.
She opened the door, stepped through, onto the (slanted) porch.
&nb
sp; ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘You must be Mr and Mrs Gormley. I’m Rachel Gray, Perry–Hayes Realty. So nice to meet you.’
The woman stepped forward, extended her (limp fish) hand. They shook. The man grunted something unintelligible in Rachel’s direction, following it with: ‘When the hell were those photographs on your website taken?’
Rachel knew she was going to get this question. She’d heard it a lot. Many of the photos her company received were in the house’s earlier days, its best days, not unlike those head shots of fading B-actors on IMDb.
‘A few years ago, I think,’ Rachel said. ‘The house has been on the market for a while, which is why the seller is highly motivated.’
‘It looks a hell of a lot better online,’ the man mumbled. ‘If we knew it was this bad we would’ve stayed home.’
Rachel bit her tongue.
‘It needs a little work,’ she said, stepping to the side, ushering the couple in. Of course, saying this house needed a little work was like saying Joan Rivers once had a nip and tuck.
Rachel closed the door, realizing, not for the first time, that it was much better in situations like this to just stop talking. There was nothing here to sell.
‘Holy shit,’ the man said.
The shit’s in the kitchen drawer, Rachel wanted to say. Then they could have a good laugh and move on down the road. Instead she said: ‘The house is one thousand square feet, three bedrooms, one bath. As you can see, the ceilings are high. Washer and dryer are included.’
‘Nine-eighty-eight,’ the man said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s not a thousand square feet. It’s nine-eighty-eight. Says so right in your listing.’
Rachel just stared for a few seconds. ‘Yes, of course,’ she finally said. ‘My mistake. Let’s go upstairs.’
She led them up the steps, gazing straight ahead, hoping they would too. The carpeting on the stairs was filthy, cratered with cigarette burns. The hand rail was loose. Overhead were water stains from a leak that probably occurred during the Truman administration.
‘We have three bedrooms up here, including the master suite,’ Rachel said. ‘The other two bedrooms are a Jack and Jill.’
The Stolen Ones Page 14
