Broken Angels jbakb-3

by Richard Montanari

  "Yeah, but there are lots of these on the road."

  "That's true," Jessica said. "But how many have that license plate?"

  "To me it looks like HG. That's not necessarily HO."

  "Don't you think we ran every black BMW 525i in Pennsylvania looking for registered plates that might be similar?" The truth was, they hadn't. But David Hornstrom didn't have to know that.

  "This… this doesn't mean anything," Hornstrom said. "Anyone with Photoshop could have done this."

  It was true. It would never stand up in court. The reason Jessica put it on the table was to rattle David Hornstrom. It was starting to work. On the other hand, he looked like a man about to ask for a lawyer. They needed to back off a little.

  Byrne pulled out a chair, sat down. "How about astronomy?" he asked. "Are you into astronomy?"

  The shift was abrupt. Hornstrom took a moment. "I'm sorry?"

  "Astronomy," Byrne said. "I noticed you had a telescope in your office."

  Hornstrom looked even more confused. Now what? "My telescope? What about it?"

  "I've always wanted to get one. What kind is yours?"

  It was the type of question David Hornstrom could probably have answered while in a coma. But here, in the homicide unit interrogation room, it didn't seem to come to him. Finally: "It's a Zhumell."

  "A good one?"

  "Pretty good. Far from top-of-the-line, though."

  "What do you watch with it? The stars?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Ever gaze at the moon, David?"

  The first thin beads of sweat opened on Hornstrom's forehead. He was either just about to admit something or shut down completely. Byrne downshifted. He reached into his briefcase, pulled out an audiocassette.

  "We have the 911 call, Mr. Hornstrom," Byrne said. "And by that I mean, specifically, the 911 call that alerted the authorities to the fact that there was a dead body behind the warehouse on Flat Rock Road."

  "Okay. But what does-"

  "If we run some voice recognition tests on it, I have a distinct feeling it's going to match your voice." This was also unlikely, but it always sounded good.

  "That's crazy," Hornstrom said.

  "So, you're saying you did not place that call to 911 emergency?"

  "No. I did not go back to the property, and I did not call 911."

  Byrne held the younger man's gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time. Eventually Hornstrom looked away. Byrne set the tape on the table. "There's also some music on the 911 tape. Whoever placed that call forgot to turn off the music before they dialed. The music is faint, but it's there."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Byrne reached over to the small boom box on the table, selected CD, hit PLAY. In a second, a song began to play. It was "I Want You" by Savage Garden. Hornstrom looked up in immediate recognition. He jumped to his feet.

  "You had no right to go into my car! That is a clear violation of my civil rights!"

  "What do you mean?" Byrne asked.

  "You had no search warrant! That is my property!"

  Byrne stared at Hornstrom until the man saw the wisdom of sitting down. Byrne then reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a CD crystal case, and a small plastic bag from Coconuts Music. He also pulled out a receipt time-coded from one hour earlier. A receipt for Savage Garden's self-titled 1997 album.

  "No one went into your car, Mr. Hornstrom," Jessica said.

  Hornstrom looked at the bag, the CD case, the receipt. And knew. He had been played.

  "Now, here's a suggestion," Jessica began. "Take it or leave it. At this moment, you are an important witness in a homicide investigation. The dividing line between witness and suspect-even at the best of times-is a thin one. Once you cross that line your life changes forever. Even if you turn out not to be the guy we're looking for, your name, in certain circles, is forever connected to words like 'murder investigation,' 'suspect,' 'person of interest.' Do you hear what I'm saying?"

  A deep breath. On the exhale: "Yes."

  "Good," Jessica said. "So, here you are, in a police station, with a critical choice to make. You can answer our questions honestly and we will get to the bottom of things. Or you can choose to play a dangerous game. Once you get a lawyer, we're done, the DA's office takes over and, let's face it, they're not the most flexible people in town. They make us look downright friendly."

  The cards were dealt. Hornstrom appeared to weigh his options. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  Jessica held up the photograph of the car leaving the Manayunk parking lot. "This is you, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "You pulled into the parking lot that morning at approximately 7:07?"

  "Yes."

  "You saw Kristina Jakos's body, and you left?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you call the police?"

  "I… couldn't take the chance."

  "What chance? What are you talking about?"

  Hornstrom took a few moments. "We have a lot of important clients, okay? The market is very volatile now, and one hint of scandal could topple the whole thing. I panicked. I'm… I'm sorry."

  "Did you place the 911 call?"

  "Yes," Hornstrom said.

  "From an old cell phone?"

  "Yes. I just changed carriers," he said. "But I did call. Doesn't that tell you something? Didn't I do the right thing?"

  "So what you're saying is, you want some sort of commendation for doing the most basically decent thing imaginable? You find a dead woman on a riverbank and you think calling the police is some sort of noble act?"

  Hornstrom buried his face in his hands.

  "You lied to the police, Mr. Hornstrom," Jessica said. "This is something that is going to be with you for the rest of your life."

  Hornstrom remained silent.

  "Ever been to Shawmont?" Byrne asked.

  Hornstrom looked up. "Shawmont? I guess I have. I mean I've driven through Shawmont. What does-"

  "Ever been to a club called Stiletto?"

  Pale as a sheet now. Bingo.

  Hornstrom leaned back in his chair. It was clear that he was about to shut down.

  "Am I under arrest?" Hornstrom asked.

  Jessica was right. Time to slow down.

  "We'll be back in a minute," Jessica said.

  They stepped out of the room, closed the door. They entered the small alcove with the two-way mirror looking into the interrogation room. Tony Park and Josh Bontrager had been observing.

  "What do you think?" Jessica asked Park.

  "I'm not convinced," Park said. "I think he's just a player, a kid who found a body and saw his career going in the toilet. I say cut him loose. If we need him later, he might still like us enough to come in under his own power."

  Park was right. Hornstrom didn't strike any of them as a stone killer.

  "I'm going to take a ride up to the DA's office," Byrne said. "See if we can't get a little closer to Mr. HORNEE1."

  They probably did not have enough to get a search warrant of David Hornstrom's house or vehicle yet, but it was worth a try. Kevin Byrne could be very persuasive. And David Hornstrom deserved to have the thumbscrews applied.

  "Then I'm going to meet with some of the girls from Stiletto," Byrne added.

  "Let me know if you need backup on that Stiletto detail," Tony Park said, smiling.

  "I think I can handle it," Byrne said.

  "I'm going to hole up with those library books for a few hours," Bontrager said.

  "I'll get on the street and see if I can track down anything about these dresses," Jessica said. "Whoever our boy is, he had to get them somewhere."

  48

  There lived a young woman named Anne Lisbeth. She was a beautiful girl, with gleaming teeth, shiny hair, and a pretty complexion. One day she had a child of her own, but her son was not very pretty, so he was sent to live with others.

  Moon knows all about this.

  While a laborer's wife brought up her chil
d, Anne Lisbeth went to live at the count's castle, surrounded by silk and velvet. No breath was allowed to blow on her. No one was allowed to speak to her.

  Moon watches Anne Lisbeth from the back of the room. She is as fair as the fable. She is surrounded by the past, by all that has lived before. In this room dwells the echo of many stories. It is a place of discarded things.

  Moon knows about this, as well.

  In the story, Anne Lisbeth lived for many years, became a woman of respect and station. The people in her village called her Madame.

  Moon's Anne Lisbeth will not live this long.

  She will wear her dress today.

  49

  There were about one hundred secondhand clothing and thrift-type stores in Philadelphia, Montgomery, Bucks, and Chester Counties, including those small boutiques that had sections devoted to consignment clothing.

  Before she could plot her itinerary, Jessica got a call from Byrne. He had struck out on a search warrant for David Hornstrom. Plus, there was no manpower available to put a tail on the man. For the time being, the DA's office had decided not to move forward with a charge of obstruction. Byrne would keep the pressure on.

  Jessica began her canvass on Market Street. The shops closest to Center City tended to be more expensive, specializing in consignment of designer clothes, or offering versions of whatever vintage style was popular du jour. Somehow, by the time Jessica reached the third store, she had picked up an adorable Pringle cardigan. She hadn't meant to. It had just happened.

  She left her credit card and cash locked in her car after that. She was supposed to be conducting a homicide investigation, not building a wardrobe. She had with her photographs of both the dresses that had been found on the victims. So far, no one had recognized them.

  The fifth store she visited was on South Street, tucked between a used record shop and a hoagie shack.

  It was called TrueSew.

  The girl behind the counter was about nineteen, blond and delicately pretty, fragile. The music was some kind of Euro trance, volume low. Jessica showed the girl her ID.

  "What's your name?" Jessica asked.

  "Sa'mantha," the girl said. "With an apostrophe."

  "And where would I put that apostrophe?"

  "After the first a."

  Jessica wrote Samantha. "Got it. How long have you worked here?"

  "About two months. Almost three."

  "Good job?"

  Sa'mantha shrugged. "It's okay. Except for when we have to go through the stuff that people bring in."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, some of it can be pretty skanky, right?"

  "Skanky how?"

  "Well, one time I actually found a moldy salami sandwich in the back pocket of a pair of overalls. I mean, okay, one, who puts a frickin' sandwich in their pocket? No baggie, just the sandwich. And a salami sandwich at that."

  "Yuck."

  "Yuck squared. And, like, two, who doesn't even bother to look in the pockets of something before they sell it or donate it? Who would do that? Makes you wonder what else this guy donated, if you know what I mean. Can you imagine?"

  Jessica could. She had seen her share.

  "And another time we found like a dozen dead mice at the bottom of this big box of clothes. Some of them were baby mice. I freaked. I don't think I slept for a week." Sa'mantha shuddered. "I may not sleep tonight. So glad I remembered that."

  Jessica looked around the store. It looked totally disorganized. Clothes were piled on top of the circular racks. Some of the smaller items-shoes, hats, gloves, scarves-were still in cardboard boxes, scattered around the floor, prices written on the sides in black crayon. Jessica imagined that it was all part of a twenty-something Bohemian charm to which she no long subscribed. A pair of men browsed at the rear of the store.

  "What sort of things do you sell here?" Jessica asked.

  "All sorts," Sa'mantha said. "Vintage, Goth, jock, military. Some Riley."

  "What's Riley?"

  "Riley is a line. I think they're out of Hollywood. Or maybe that's just the buzz. They take vintage and recycled stuff and embellish it. Skirts, jackets, jeans. Not really my scene, but kinda cool. Mostly for women, but I've seen some kid's things."

  "Embellish how?"

  "Ruffles, embroidery, things like that. Pretty much one-of-a-kind merch."

  "I'd like to show you some pictures," Jessica said. "Would that be okay?"

  "Sure."

  Jessica opened an envelope, produced photocopies of the dresses found on Kristina Jakos and Tara Grendel, along with a picture of David Hornstrom, the one taken for his Roundhouse visitor ID.

  "Do you recognize this man?"

  Sa'mantha looked at the photograph. "I don't think so," she said. "Sorry."

  Jessica then put the photographs of the dresses on the counter. "Have you sold anything like these to anyone recently?"

  Sa'mantha scanned the pictures. She brought them into better light, took her time. "Not that I remember," she said. "These are pretty sweet dresses, though. Outside of the Riley line, most of the stuff we get in here is pretty basic. Levi's, Columbia Sportswear, old Nike and Adidas stuff. These dresses look like something out of like Jane Eyre or something."

  "Who owns this store?"

  "My brother. But he's not here right now."

  "What's his name?"

  "Danny."

  "Any apostrophes?"

  Sa'mantha smiled. "No," she said. "Just regular old Danny."

  "How long has he owned the place?"

  "Maybe two years. But my grandmother owned the place like forever before that. She still does, technically, I think. Loan-wise. She's the one you want to talk to. In fact, she'll be here later. She knows everything there is to know about vintage stuff."

  The receipt for getting older, Jessica thought. She looked on the floor behind the counter, noticed a baby bounce chair. It had a toy bar across the front, one with brightly colored circus animals. Sa'mantha saw her looking at the chair.

  "That's for my little boy," she said. "He's asleep in the back office now."

  There was a sudden sadness to Sa'mantha's voice. It sounded like her situation was a legal thing, not necessarily a matter of the heart. Not Jessica's business, either.

  The phone behind the counter rang. Sa'mantha answered. When she turned her back, Jessica noticed a pair of red and green streaks in her blond hair. Somehow, it suited this young woman. After a few moments Sa'mantha hung up.

  "I like your hair," Jessica said.

  "Thanks," Sa'mantha said. "Kind of my Christmas groove. Probably time to change it."

  Jessica gave Sa'mantha a pair of business cards. "Would you ask your grandmother to call me?"

  "Sure," she said. "She loves intrigue."

  "I'll leave these photographs here, too. If you think of anything else, feel free to get in touch."

  "Okay."

  When Jessica turned to leave, she noticed that the two people who'd been at the back of the store had gone. No one had passed her going to the front door.

  "Do you have a back door here?" Jessica asked.

  "Yeah," Sa'mantha said.

  "You don't have a problem with shoplifting?"

  Sa'mantha pointed to a small video monitor and VCR under the counter. Jessica hadn't noticed them before. It showed an angle on the hallway leading to the rear entrance. "This used to be a jewelry store, believe it or not," Sa'mantha said. "They left the cameras and everything. I've been watching those guys the whole time we were talking. Not to worry."

  Jessica had to smile. Outflanked by a nineteen-year-old. You never knew about people. BY EARLY AFTERNOON Jessica had seen her share of Goth kids, grunge kids, hip-hop kids, rock and rollers, and homeless people, along with a contingent of Center City secretaries and receptionists looking for that Versace pearl in the oyster. She stopped at a small restaurant on Third, grabbed a quick sandwich, called in. Among the messages she had received was one from a thrift store on Second Street. Somehow the informat
ion that the second victim had been dressed in a vintage outfit had leaked to the press and it seemed that everyone who had ever even seen a thrift store was coming out of the woodwork.

  The unfortunate possibility existed that their killer had purchased these items online, or had picked them up in a thrift store in Chicago, or Denver, or San Diego. Or maybe he'd simply had them in a steamer trunk for the past forty or fifty years.

  She entered the tenth thrift store on her list, the Second Street location from which someone had called and left her a message. Jessica badged the young man at the register-a particularly alert looking kid in his early twenties. He had about him the wide-eyed, buzzy look of one two many Von Dutch energy drinks. Or maybe it was something a little more pharmaceutical. Even his spiky hair looked amped. She asked him if he had called the police, or knew who had. After looking everywhere but into Jessica's eyes, the young man said he knew nothing about it. Jessica wrote the call off as another crank. The oddball calls were starting to pile up on this case. After the Kristina Jakos story hit the papers and the Internet they had gotten calls from pirates, elves, fairies-even from the ghost of someone who had died at Valley Forge.

  Jessica glanced around the long, narrow store. It was a clean, well-lit space. It smelled of a new coat of latex paint. In the front window was a step display of small appliances-toasters, blenders, coffeemakers, space heaters. Along the back wall were board games, vinyl LPs, a few framed art reproductions. To the right was furniture.

  Jessica made her way down the aisles to the women's apparel. There were only five or six racks of clothing, but it all seemed to be clean and in decent shape, certainly organized, especially when compared to the inventory at TrueSew.

  When Jessica had attended Temple University, and the ripped designer jeans fad had been in its first blossom, she had frequented the Salvation Army and secondhand stores looking for just the right pair. She had probably tried on hundreds. On a rack in the middle of the store she saw a pair of black Gap jeans for $3.99. The right size, too. She had to stop herself.

  "Can I help you find anything?"

  Jessica turned to see the man asking the question. It was more than a little odd. He sounded like he worked at Nordstrom or Saks. She was not used to getting waited on in a thrift store.