Their gazes met in silent understanding. Byrne flicked a glance toward the front door. She would take the door. He would take Novak.
They were out of the living room for just a few seconds, but it was long enough. They heard a loud noise. When they returned, the chair in front of the desk was on its back. Novak was gone.
'Fuck,' Byrne yelled.
He went for the window and the fire escape beyond. Jessica ran to the door.
She peeked out into the hallway. It was not that long — there were only four apartments on this floor — and there were stairs at only one end. She hurried over to the elevator. Silence. Novak would not have had time to call the elevator, and make it even one floor. She ran down to the stairs, eased open the door, her hand on the butt of her weapon.
The stairwell was empty.
Jessica moved silently down the stairs, her weapon held out front, low. She turned a corner, carried on circling downward, her ears tuned to the sounds around her. Traffic outside, television noise coming from an apartment on the first floor. No footsteps.
She had to make a decision when she came to the first-floor landing. Continue on to the basement or check the first floor? She opted for the first floor. She eased open the door. It led to a short hallway. The lobby was straight ahead. She still-hunted down the hall. When she came to the lobby she saw Joseph Novak sitting uneasily on one of the chairs. His right foot was tapping nervously.
Jessica stepped fully into the lobby and was just about to raise her weapon when she sensed another presence. She looked over. It was Josh Bontrager. He was leaning against the front door, a hoagie in one hand, his weapon in the other. He smiled, winked at Jessica just as Byrne came barreling into view in front of the building.
Byrne entered the lobby, caught his breath. Josh Bontrager ate his sandwich. Jessica stepped forward, holstered her weapon, and took Joseph Novak into custody.
Chapter 32
Lucy found herself standing in front of the door, the small red door with the tarnished golden key on it. She didn't even remember walking to Cherry Street. All she remembered was clocking out for lunch and then, magically, there she was.
Lucy walked down the hallway. It was a lot quieter than it had been the day before, or maybe that was because it was so noisy inside her head.
In a few moments she was in front of the Dreamweaver's door. This time it was closed. She knocked, waited. She heard music coming from inside, some kind of classical music. She didn't know anything about classical music. She knocked again. The music stopped. Then she heard some light footsteps. The door opened.
'Lucinda.'
She was instantly taken aback by his appearance. She might have even made some kind of involuntary noise. Mr. Costa seemed younger. Not younger as in he looked like a younger man, but more animated, quicker in his movements. His hair was combed, parted in a perfectly straight line on the right side. He wore what looked like a fresh white shirt. His shoes were newly polished. He smelled of good soap.
Lucy found herself trembling as she walked into his room. She turned slightly as she passed through the doorway, but found that the photograph — the one she was certain was the one of her house when she'd been growing up, the picture that was hanging just above the light switch — had been replaced with a different photograph, this one of a valley full of flowers and a small cabin with smoke curling out of the chimney.
Had she imagined it?
Mr. Costa closed the door behind her. They walked together into the front room.
If the man looked more youthful, his place also looked improved. He had straightened it up a little. He had even dusted.
Mr. Costa gestured to the green chair. Lucy took off her coat, sat down.
'I trust you slept well?' he asked.
'Not really,' Lucy said. 'I'm not sure I slept at all.'
'Understandable.'
'I think maybe you were right.'
'In what way?'
Lucy put down her purse, arranged herself in the chair. It too seemed different. Larger, somehow. She felt like a little kid sitting in it, or maybe Alice through the looking glass. 'When you said I may have opened a door yesterday. I think maybe I did.'
Mr. Costa smiled. 'This is wonderful news. What leads you to think this?'
On the way over, Lucy had debated whether or not to tell Mr. Costa about the man in the hotel. She decided to wait until after this session, to wait and see what, if anything, she got out of it. 'I'm not sure,' she said. 'It's just a feeling.'
The look on Mr. Costa's face indicated that he might not have believed her completely, but that it was okay. Lucy had the feeling that a lot of people said things like this to him — half-truths about their lives, their feelings.
'Are you comfortable?' he asked.
As comfortable as I have ever been, Lucy thought. For some reason.
'Yes,' she said. 'I'm fine.'
'Did you bring the notepad with you? The hotel notepad?'
Lucy reached into her bag, took out the notepad. She handed it to Mr. Costa but he put out his hands, palms toward her. 'No, this is for you to write on. Do you have a pen?'
'No,' Lucy said. 'Sorry.'
Mr. Costa reached into his coat pocket, took out a beautiful old fountain pen, uncapped it, handed it to Lucy. 'You will write something on the pad a little later.'
'Okay.'
'Are you ready to begin our session?'
'I am.'
'Now, I want you to close your eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice.'
Lucy was not floating above the town this time. This time she was sitting. No, she was kneeling, sort of. She was on her knees but leaning back on her heels. And she was afraid.
Where are you?
I'm in the dark. I have a blindfold on.
Do you know where you are?
No.
Are you inside or outside?
I'm inside. Inside a building.
Is the room large or small?
Small. It feels like a closet or something.
Where is the man?
I don't know.
Has he hurt you in any way?
I don't think so.
Are you alone?
Yes. But I met someone else. A girl.
How old is she?
She's my age.
What can you see?
When I take off the blindfold I see a keyhole in the door. I can see out of the keyhole. There's a table next to the sofa. There's something on it.
What is on the table?
It's shiny. It's kind of oval-shaped.
What is it? What is the shiny object?
It's a badge. A policeman's badge.
What are you wearing?
A dress. He put a dress on me.
What kind of dress?
A spangly dress. A grown-up dress. And he calls me Eve.
Eve? Who is Eve? Someone you know?
No. He means Eve in the Garden of Eden. Eve who was tempted by the apple.
Can you see his face?
No. Not yet. But I can see his hand. He wears a big ring.
What kind of ring?
It looks like a snake. It looks like a ring in the shape of a snake.
Suddenly, in her dream world, Lucy Doucette felt herself falling. She sensed that someone was trying to save her. Someone or something.
No. It was the darkness itself. She reached out — a ring in the shape of a snake… the snake in the Garden of Eden -
— and let the darkness take her.
Chapter 33
Joseph Novak sat in Interview A, one of the two cramped and oppressive interrogation rooms at the homicide unit. They did not have much, and they probably wouldn't have been able to bring him in without his consent, but he'd run. People don't realize that once you run from the police it opens a big can of possibilities. It immediately establishes a hostile relationship. What might once have been a conversation that moved gently from casual to mild inquisitiveness now began with doubt and suspicion.
> Even if you had to cut people loose, sometimes you got lucky. A lot of it had to do with the nature of the case itself, the heat generated not only within the department and the district attorney's office but also with the public. If a case broke open in the public consciousness, pressure was brought to bear on law enforcement to produce results, therefore detectives put the pressure on DAs, who worked a little harder on judges, and as a result search warrants and body warrants were granted with a little more leeway. When you searched a house or car you never knew what the search would produce. Warrants were the handmaidens of criminal charges, even when you had no idea what you were looking for.
They let Novak simmer in Interview A for a few minutes. Interview A at the unit didn't look anything like the interrogation rooms on TV. On TV the rooms had soft gray walls, dramatic lighting, clean carpeting, expensive furnishings, and were usually the size of an average living room. In reality, at least in Philly homicide, the real room was about six by eight, not much bigger than your average jail cell — which was not an accident of design.
There were no windows, just the two-way mirror, which was not much bigger than a magazine. Then there were the bright fluorescent lights overhead, the bolted-down chairs, and the short-legged table. No matter how often the room was cleaned, or even painted, it held onto the faint odors of urine and bleach. All in all, it was the Philadelphia equivalent of a visit to George Orwell's Room 101. Or so the Homicide Unit hoped.
If you had claustrophobia issues and you heard that door close, the bolt slide on the other side, you started to come apart. More than one tough guy had blurted a confession after an hour or two inside Hotel Homicide.
Jessica sat across from Novak. Byrne stood, leaning against the wall next to the observation window. Novak sat dispassionately in the bolted- down chair, his face void of all expression.
Byrne put the large file box on the table. It was almost empty but Novak didn't need to know that. Novak glanced at the box, then turned his attention back to Byrne.
'Now, where were we?' Byrne said.
Novak said nothing.
'We were having such a nice conversation. Why did you run?'
Novak still said nothing.
'Where were you heading?'
Silence.
Byrne let the questions float for a few moments, then reached out his hand. Jessica handed him her iPhone. Byrne turned the screen toward Novak and began to scroll through the series of pictures Jessica had taken of Novak's bedroom.
Novak scanned the photos, remained impassive.
'This is quite an interesting collage,' Byrne said.
Novak took a moment. 'Is it common practice for the police to be invited into someone's home, then to take covert photographs?'
'Common?' Byrne asked. 'No, I don't suppose it is.'
'I'm sure there are a number of privacy laws that have been violated here. My attorneys will have a lot of fun with this. Search and seizure, for one.'
'It's my recollection that you invited us into your home, Mr. Novak.' Byrne turned to Jessica. 'Is that how you remember it, detective?'
'It is.'
'There were no jackbooted thugs kicking in your door, no one rappelling down the side of your building and smashing in your windows. Just three people talking, two of whom were invited in.' Byrne tapped the photos on the cellphone screen. 'All of this was in plain view.'
Novak didn't react.
'Anything you'd like to share with us?' Byrne asked.
'Such as?'
'Such as why you have a room dedicated to the history of homicide in the City of Brotherly Love?'
Novak hesitated. 'It's research. I am a fan of true crime stories.'
'As you might imagine, so am I,' Byrne said. He indicated one of the photos. 'I remember many of these. In fact, I worked some of the cases.'
Novak said nothing.
Byrne tapped the iPhone screen, selecting another photograph. This one displayed a section of the room devoted to the Antoinette Chan case. It was a collage of clippings from the original stories in the Inquirer, Daily News and the tabloid Report, as well as from follow-up stories when Kenneth Beckman had been brought in for questioning.
'I see you are following the Antoinette Chan case,' Byrne said.
Novak crossed his hands in his lap, began to rub a finger over his left fist. A classic self-touch gesture. They were getting into a discomfort zone. 'It is an interesting case. One of many. I have research going back one hundred years. I'm sure you'll agree, this city has no shortage of crimes against persons.'
Byrne held up his hands, surrendering the point. 'You'll get no argument here,' he said. 'But let's talk about current cases first, okay?'
Nothing.
'What did you find interesting about the Chan case?' Byrne asked.
Novak leaned back in his chair, looked down, breaking eye contact with Byrne. A disconnect. 'It was particularly brutal, I thought. The weapon used was a claw hammer, if I remember correctly.'
'That's correct.'
'It seems an intimate act, using such a weapon,' Novak said, looking up briefly, then quickly away. 'A lot of passion.'
'Do you know a man named Kenneth Beckman?' Byrne asked.
'No.'
The answer came way too fast. As soon as it left his lips, Jessica saw that Novak knew it was the wrong move.
'But you went to grade school with him,' Byrne said. 'Little Kenny was in your class from second through sixth grades.'
'He was?'
'No,' Byrne said. 'At least, I don't think he was. The point is, based on your quick answer he might have been someone you knew, yet you said no without even giving it a moment's thought. Why was that?'
Novak shifted in his seat. 'This man you're asking me about — I take it he was in the photo lineup you showed me at my apartment?'
'Yes.'
'I don't know anyone by that name.'
Byrne reached into the box, slid the photo lineup across the table. Novak looked at it, his eyes carefully roaming across the six faces. This was clearly for show. He shook his head.
Byrne jabbed the photo on the iPhone screen, enlarging it. It was a news clipping of the Antoinette Chan case. 'You said you were doing research. What kind of research?'
'I'm writing an opera.'
'An opera?'
'Yes,' Novak said. He shifted his weight again in what Jessica knew to be an uncomfortable steel chair. 'It is an epic story of crime and punishment in this city. It covers more than a hundred years. What you are looking at here is my research.'
'Some of your research into the Antoinette Chan case named Kenneth Beckman as a suspect.'
Novak hesitated. 'I can't remember every person's name. Real names are not important to the theme of my work.'
'What is the theme of your work?'
'Crime, punishment, guilt, redemption.'
'Kenneth Beckman is dead.'
Nothing. No reaction.
'He was murdered,' Byrne continued. 'His body was found at the same crime scene where Antoinette Chan was found.'
Novak remained silent.
'Hell of a twist, no?' Byrne said. 'I'm seeing that as the end of the first act.'
Novak looked up, a smug look on his face. It was not the look of someone with nothing to hide but rather of one who has very carefully hidden everything.
'If he was involved in the murder of Antoinette Chan, I might make reference to karma, fate, all that. None of it has anything to do with me.'
'So the name Kenneth Beckman means nothing to you?'
'Nothing.'
'What about the name Sharon Beckman?'
'Is that his wife?'
Byrne just stared.
Novak fashioned a thin smile, shook his head. 'Is this the part where you say "Did I say wife? I didn't say wife. How did you know it wasn't his daughter or sister?" Is this where you say these things, detective?' Novak clasped his hands in his lap. 'I saw Sleuth. The original film, that is. The one with-'
'Laurence O
livier and Michael Caine.'
This time Novak's look said touche.
'You still haven't answered my question,' Byrne said.
Novak stared at the floor.
'Mr. Novak? Does the name Sharon Beckman mean anything to you?'
Novak looked up. 'No.'
Byrne let the exchange settle for a few moments. Then he removed the clear plastic evidence bag containing the sample of Atriana paper.
'Do you recognize this?' Byrne asked.
Novak took the evidence bag from Byrne, held it up to the fluorescent light. The edge of the distinctive watermark was clear.
'I do.'
'Where do you recognize it from?'
'I'm familiar with the line. It's called Atriana.'
'What is Marcato LLC?'
Pause. 'It's a publishing company.'
'Books? Magazines?'
'Music.'
Byrne nodded. 'And you use this paper?'
'Yes,' Novak said. 'I use the paper to bind special editions.'
'Where would I find a copy of one of these editions?'
'They are all over the world.'
'When was the last time you purchased this paper?' Byrne asked.
'I don't recall.'
'If we search your apartment will we find this paper? Maybe cut into five-inch-wide strips?'
'No,' Novak said. 'All the paper I had was stolen. Someone broke into my house.'
'Oh yeah? When was this?'
'Six months ago.'
'Did you report it to the police?'
'Yes.'
Novak was certainly smart enough to know that they would look this up. He probably would not have said this if it weren't true. 'What else was taken?'
'A watch, an MP3 player.'
'And paper,' Byrne added.
No reply.
Byrne stared at the man for a few moments, as if commiserating with him over the strange state of the world. 'Well, I was at your place this morning, and I have to say that if I had broken in I would've found a few more items of value than just a wristwatch, a Nano, and some paper. Some of your audio equipment would go for more than a few bucks on the corner, don't you think? Pioneer Elite, Mcintosh. This is serious jelly.'
'I didn't have all that equipment then.'
The Echo Man jbakb-5 Page 18
