Jessica opened the journal. There was something under the back cover. She peeled it back gently. There was a second photograph there, an old Polaroid, a long shot of a window in a huge stone building. In the window was a figure. It was impossible to see who it was, but it looked like a slender woman. On the back of the photograph was one word scrawled in red pencil.
Hell.
Before Jessica could get the photograph back into the journal she heard someone approaching, footfalls on hard gravel. She turned.
The fist came from nowhere, connecting with the right side of her face in a dull thud. She staggered back, saw stars. The journal flew out of her hands. The second blow was more glancing, but it carried enough force to knock her to the ground. She had enough presence to roll onto the side where she had her weapon holstered.
Through the haze she saw her assailant. White-blond hair, filthy jeans, laceless sneakers. She didn't recognize him. Not by sight, not at first. When he spoke again, she knew. And there was no mistaking those eyes.
'I think we have some unfinished business, Detective Balzano,' Lucas Anthony Thompson said. 'Or should I say Detective Cunt Balzano.'
Jessica rolled to her right, worked the Glock from her holster, but she was too slow. Thompson stepped forward, kicked the weapon from her hand.
'You shoulda shot me when you had the fucking chance, bitch. Ain't gonna happen today.'
When Thompson took another step toward her, Jessica saw movement at the back of the parking lot. A shadow slithered along the pavement.
Someone was standing behind Thompson.
And then everything went gray.
Chapter 49
The Philadelphia Orchestra began life in 1900. Over the next century it held many distinctions, not the least of which was the 'Philadelphia Sound', a legacy that, under conductor Eugene Ormandy, became known for its clarity and skilled execution, its warm tonality and precise timing.
The orchestra also had a unity of artistic leadership virtually unknown in the world of great orchestras, with only seven musical directors in its entire history. Two men, Leopold Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy, held the reins from 1912 to 1980.
It was on the occasion of Ormandy's leaving that the Philadelphia Orchestra found itself at a crossroads and, perhaps in an attempt to modernize its somewhat staid image, turned to a young firebrand, Neapolitan Riccardo Muti, as its new musical director. Darkly handsome, intensely serious to the point of almost never smiling on stage, Muti ushered in a new era, an era dominated by a man whose insistence on the letter of the musical law earned him the nickname — at least around the opera houses of Italy — of lo scerif, the sheriff.
In 1981, in a move still discussed in some circles, the orchestra rattled the classical musical world by hiring as its principal cellist a nineteen-year-old named Christa-Marie Schцnburg — a tempestuous wunderkind who was taking the world of strings by storm. Within a year her name became as synonymous with the Philadelphia Orchestra's as Muti's, and when the chamber orchestra toured Eastern Europe that summer Christa-Marie Schцnburg was the talk of the classical- music universe.
By the time she was twenty-two there was no doubt in the minds of the cognoscenti that she would surpass, in technical skill, pure artistry and, indeed, world-wide recognition, the only other woman to capture international fame on the cello, the tragic Jacqueline du Pre, the brilliant cellist whose career was cut short at the age of twenty-eight by multiple sclerosis.
And while Jacqueline du Pre made her most memorable recording with Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor, Christa-Marie put her imprimatur on the Bach suites.
For nearly a decade, from Vienna's Konzerthaus to Rotterdam's Grote Zaal, from the Royal Festival Hall in London to Avery Fisher Hall in New York City, Christa-Marie Schцnburg, with her tensile, passionate music, brought audiences to their feet.
On a cold autumn night in 1990 all of that changed.
Something tragic happened on that night when Christa-Marie returned home after a triumphant performance at the Academy of Music — a benefit attended by many of Philadelphia's elite society, a fund-raiser for Philadelphia's homeless children.
Although details of the last two hours remain unknown, it was believed that Christa-Marie returned to her Chestnut Hill house at approximately 11:45 p.m., delivered there by a car service. A few hours later, according to her housekeeper, there were sounds of an argument in the kitchen, a struggle, then a scream. The housekeeper called the police.
Police arrived at around two-thirty. They found a man named Gabriel Thorne — a psychiatrist who had treated Christa-Marie for many years — sprawled on the kitchen floor, bleeding heavily from wounds to his abdomen and chest, the bloodied knife at his side. He was still alive. They called EMS, who tried to save him at the scene but failed. He was pronounced dead minutes after their arrival. The ME's office would eventually rule that Thorne bled out as a result of multiple stab wounds.
Christa-Marie Schцnburg never played another public concert.
Because she confessed to the crime there was no show trial, much to the disappointment of the burgeoning cable-TV court shows. Christa- Marie Schцnburg was as enigmatic as she was strikingly beautiful, and her relationship with Thorne was, for many years, cause for gossip and speculation.
The last time Byrne saw Christa-Marie Schцnburg was at her allocution, when she stood before a judge and admitted her guilt regarding the murder of Dr. Gabriel Thorne.
As Byrne drove north he thought of the Chestnut Hill house, how when people heard what had happened they began to gather across the street early the next morning, bringing with them flowers and stuffed animals, even sheet music. It was as if Christa-Marie had been the victim, not the perpetrator.
Byrne had thought of Christa-Marie often. It wasn't just that Christa-Marie Schцnburg had been his first case as the lead detective in a homicide. Something else about the woman haunted him. What drew him to her had never been entirely clear to him.
Maybe he would discover what that was today.
Chapter 50
'I'm fine,' Jessica said.
It was a lie, but she was sticking to it.
The paramedic shone his light into her eyes for the third time, took her blood pressure for the third time, took her pulse for the fifth time.
She had been punched on many occasions in the past — when you box in the ring, it kind of goes with the territory — and this had been a glancing blow, not really that hard. But it had caught her off guard. In the ring, you brace yourself for incoming blows, and the adrenalin that flows naturally at a moment like that works as a sort of neural shock absorber. No one on Earth can be prepared for a sucker punch, which, by definition, comes out of the blue. Her head throbbed a little but her vision was clear, and her energy level was high. She wanted back in the game but they were going to make her sit there like an invalid. She had seen it many times in her years on the job, had even been the purveyor of the unwelcome news to victims of assault.
Just sit there for a moment.
Not so for Vincent Balzano. When the sector cars showed up, she made the call, found Vincent only a dozen blocks away, working an investigation of his own. He broke every speed record getting to the scene. That was the easy part. Calming him down was another matter. At the moment he was pacing like a caged animal. Unfortunately for Vincent Balzano and his Italian temper, he was lacking a convenient punching bag. For now, at least.
Jessica's weapon had been recovered. It had not been fired.
All Jessica remembered was hearing other footsteps but she did not know whose they were. She did not mention the journal, which had not been recovered from the scene
'No one said anything?' Westbrook asked.
Jessica shook her head. It hurt. She stopped doing it. 'No. I heard footsteps approaching. I got clocked twice. There was a scuffle. Then I faded out.'
'What kind of scuffle?'
'Not sure. I heard at least two people grunting. Then the ringing in my ears took over.'
/> 'And you did not see the other person?'
'No, but I-'
Jessica suddenly looked at her watch, sprang to her feet. She felt dizzy for a moment, then it passed. Her anger did not.
'What is it?' Vincent asked.
'We missed it. We fucking missed it.' 'What?'
'The appointment at the Department of Human Services.'
'Jess.'
'Don't Jess me.'
'We'll work it out,' Vincent said. 'Don't worry.'
'Don't worry? This is why they turn you down, Vincent. This is the first big test. You don't show, you don't call, it's over.'
Vincent held her close. 'I think you have a pretty good excuse, babe. I think they'll understand.'
'They won't,' Jessica said, wiggling loose. 'Plus, they're not going to place Carlos in a home where his mother is in danger every day.'
'They know we're both cops. They know what we do.'
It all came out. The anger of this brutal case. The inability to conceive for two years. The indignity of being assaulted. All of it.
'You weren't there, Vincent. I was there. I saw how Carlos was living. I saw the dog shit and the fucking hypodermic needles all over the place. I saw the cockroaches and rats in the sink, the rotting food. I saw him hiding under a fucking garbage bag. You don't know what a hell hole it was, how bad his life was. They are not going to hand him over to us so we can make it worse.'
She tried to walk it off. The rage was a breathing thing within her.
Soon Jessica calmed down and let the investigation begin. It was going to be a long day — and it was just getting started.
Chapter 51
Chestnut Hill was an affluent neighborhood in the Northwest section of Philadelphia, originally part of the German Township laid out by Francis Daniel Pastorius. One of the original 'railroad suburbs,' the area contained a wide variety of nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century residences designed by many of the most prominent Philadelphia architects.
Before leaving Center City, Byrne had called ahead to schedule a time to meet with Christa-Marie. He was directed to Christa-Marie's attorney, a man named Benjamin Curtin. Reluctant at first, Curtin arranged to meet Byrne at the estate at one p.m.
As Byrne turned down St. Andrews Road he saw the house for the second time in his life. He had not been back since the night of the murder.
It was a massive, sprawling Tudor building with a circular driveway accented with cobblestones, a large gabled entrance. To the right, partially hidden by trees, was a stable, next to a pair of tennis courts. A high wrought-iron fence encircled the property.
Byrne parked his van and, even though he was wearing his best suit, suddenly felt underdressed. He also realized that he had been holding his breath. He got out of the vehicle, straightened his tie, smoothed the front of his overcoat, and rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a woman in her sixties. Byrne announced himself, and the woman led him through the high, arched doorway. Ahead was a carved mahogany winding staircase; to the right were thick fluted pillars leading to a formal dining room. To the left was the great room, with a view of the pool and the manicured grounds beyond. Byrne's heels echoed in the massive space. The woman took his coat and led him into a study off the enormous foyer.
The room was darkly paneled, clubby, with a pair of large bookcases built in and a vaulted open-trussed ceiling. A fire burned in the fireplace. The mantel was arrayed with pine cones and other autumn decorations. Above the mantel was a large portrait of Christa-Marie. In the painting she sat in a velvet chair. It had to have been painted right around the time Byrne met her, that dark night in 1990.
A few moments later the door opened and a man entered.
Benjamin Curtin was in his early fifties. He had thick gray hair, swept straight back, a strong jaw. His suit was tailored to perfection and might well have cost what Byrne made in a month. Curtin was probably twenty pounds heavier than he looked.
Byrne introduced himself. He did not produce his identification. He was not there in any official capacity. Not yet.
'It's a pleasure to meet you, detective,' Curtin said, perhaps to remind Byrne what he did for a living. Curtin had a Southern accent. Byrne pegged him as Mississippi money.
'And you, counselor.'
There, Byrne thought. Everyone knows their jobs.
'Is Liam still keeping the peace down there?'
Down there, Byrne thought. Curtin made it sound like the boondocks. He was referring to Judge Liam McManus, who everyone knew was going to run for the Philadelphia Supreme Court in a year.
'We're lucky to have him,' Byrne said. 'Rumor is he won't be there for much longer. Next thing you know he'll be living in Chestnut Hill.'
Curtin smiled. But Byrne knew it was his professional smile, not one that held any warmth. The attorney gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk. Both men sat down.
'Can Charlotta get you anything? Coffee? Tea?'
'I'm fine, thanks.'
Curtin nodded. The door behind Byrne was closed.
'So, what brings you here to visit Ms. Schцnburg, detective?'
'I'm afraid I can't really get into anything too specific, but I will say that she may have information about an open investigation being conducted by the Philadelphia Police Department.'
Curtin looked slightly amused. 'I'm intrigued.'
'How so?'
'Well, as I'm sure you're aware, Ms. Schцnburg no longer lives a public life. She is by no means a recluse, but, as I'm sure you can appreciate, she does not circulate in any of the social circles to which she once belonged.'
'I understand.'
'She has almost constant companionship here, so I'm afraid I don't see how she could possibly be involved in anything that has taken place recently in Philadelphia.'
'That's what I'm here to determine, Mr. Curtin. But I have a few questions before I meet with her.'
'Is she suspected of a crime?'
'No,' Byrne said. 'Absolutely not.'
Curtin stood, walked to the window, looked out. He continued to speak without turning around. 'I must tell you that in the few years she has been out of prison there have been no fewer than a hundred requests for interviews with her. She is still very much the object of fascination not only with people in the world of classical music but also with the basest denizens of the tabloid world.'
'I'm not here to write something for the Enquirer,' Byrne said.
Curtin smiled again. Practiced, mirthless, mechanical. 'I understand. What I'm saying is, all these requests have been presented to Christa-Marie and she has categorically turned them all down.'
'She contacted me, Mr. Curtin.'
Byrne saw Curtin's shoulders tense. It appeared that he had not known this. 'Of course.'
'I need to ask her a few questions, and I want to know what her general mental state is. Is she lucid?'
'Most of the time, yes.'
'I'm not sure what that means.'
'It means that much of the time she is rational and fully functional. She really would not have any problem living on her own, but she chooses to have a full-time psychiatric nurse on the premises.'
Byrne nodded, remained silent.
Curtin walked slowly back to the desk, eased himself into the sumptuous leather chair. He placed his forearms on the desk, leaned forward.
'Christa-Marie has had a hard life, detective. From the outside, one might think she led a life of glamour and privilege and, up until the incident, she did enjoy the many rewards of her talent and success. But after that night, from the interrogations and subsequent allocution, to her eighteen months at Convent Hill, to her incarceration at Muncy, she-'
The words dropped like a Scud missile. 'Excuse me?'
Curtin stopped, looked at Byrne.
'You said Convent Hill?' Byrne asked.
'Yes.'
Convent Hill Mental Health Facility was a massive state-run mental hospital in central Pennsylvania. It had been closed under a cloud of suspi
cion in the early 1990s after nearly one hundred years of operation.
'When was Christa-Marie at Convent Hill?'
'She was there from the time she was sentenced until it closed in 1992.'
'Why was she sent there?'
'She insisted on it.'
Byrne's mind reeled. 'You're telling me that Christa-Marie insisted on being sent to Convent Hill? It was her choice?'
'Yes. As her attorney I fought against it, of course. But she hired another firm and made it happen.'
'And you say she was there for eighteen months?'
'Yes. From there she went to Muncy.'
Byrne had had no idea that Christa-Marie had spent time at the most notoriously brutal mental-health facility east of Chicago.
While Byrne was absorbing this news a woman walked into the room. She was about forty and wore a smart navy blue suit, white blouse.
'Detective, this is Adele Hancock,' Curtin said. 'She is Christa- Marie's nurse.'
Byrne rose. They shook hands.
Adele Hancock was trim and athletic, had a runner's body, close- cropped gray hair.
'Miss Schцnburg will see you now,' the woman said.
Curtin stood, grabbed his coat, his briefcase. He rounded the desk, handed Byrne a linen business card. 'If there is anything else I can do for you, please do not hesitate to call me.'
'I appreciate your time, sir.'
'And give Liam my best.'
Sure, Byrne thought. At the next curling match.
Benjamin Curtin nodded to Adele Hancock and took his leave.
Byrne was led down a long dark-paneled hallway past a room that held a grand piano. On that night twenty years ago he had not visited this wing of the house.
'Is there anything I should know before I meet with her?' Byrne asked.
'No,' Hancock said. 'But I can tell you that she has not spoken of anything else since your call.'
When they reached the end of the hallway, the woman stopped, gestured to the room at the end. Byrne stepped inside. It was a solarium of sorts, an octagonal room walled by misted glass. There were scores of huge tropical plants. Music lilted from unseen speakers.
The Echo Man jbakb-5 Page 24
