Glass Houses

F
OR OVER A YEAR
, P
HILADELPHIA HAS
I been plagued by a serial killer dubbed the Plate Glass killer by the media. But finally, the police think they've caught a break—a man has been arrested at the site of the most recent murder, covered in the victim's blood. The man taken into custody is Henry Tyder, the scion of one of the most socialy) prominent families on Philadelphia's Main Line, a family that possesses the largest tracts of real estate in the city. He's also a hopeless alcoholic, frequently homeless, and often estranged from his family.

Although Tyder has apparently confessed to the crime, his attorney believes him to be too disordered to be capable of actually commiting the crimes and asks Gregor Demarkian, retired head of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit, to look into che case. Gregor, however, has other things on his mind—after having been away for nearly a year without a word to him, his live-in girlfriend, Bennis Hannatford, has returned to Cavanaugh Street. And everyone seems to have seen her but Gregor. While he waits for Bennis to finally appear, Gregor finds himself enmeshed in the complex case ot the Plate Glass Killer. Specifically, what would have driven Tyder to confess to crimes he was seemingly incapable of committing, and, more important, it Tyder isn't the killer, then who really is behind the murders of the Plate Glass Killer?

G
LASS
H
OUSES

T
HE
G
REGOR
D
EMARKIAN
B
OOKS BY
J
ANE
H
ADDAM

Not a Creature Was Stirring

Precious Blood

Quoth the Raven

A Great Day for the Deadly

Feast of Murder

A Stillness in Bethlehem

Murder Superior

Dead Old Dead

Festival of Deaths

Bleeding Hearts

Fountain of Death

And One to Die On

Baptism in Blood

Deadly Beloved

Skeleton Key

True Believers

Somebody Else's Music

Conspiracy Theory

The Headmasters Wife

Hardscrahble Road

Glass Houses

J
ANE
H
ADDAM

ST. MARTIN'S MINOTAUR
NEW YORK

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

GLASS HOUSES.
Copyright © 2007 by Orania Papazoglou. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Haddam, Jane, 1951-

Glass houses/Jane Haddam. 1st ed.

        p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-34307-1

ISBN-10: 0-312-34307-8

1. Demarkian, Gregor (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private
investigators—Pennsylvania—Philadelphia—Fiction. 3. Serial
murderers—Fiction. 4. Philadelphia—Fiction. 5. Armenian
Americans—Fiction. 6. Alcoholics—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3566.A613 G57 2007

813'.54—dc22

2006048904

First Edition: April 2007

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FOR
George Sotirios Papazoglou
November 14, 1919-August 26, 2006

and

Xenophon George Papazoglou
June 14, 1954-September 20,2006

 

 

G
LOSS
H
OUSES

Since the cause of crime is the decision of criminals to commit it,
what goes on in their minds is not irrelevant
.

—THEODORE DALRYMPLE

 

 

S
ometimes Henry Tyder thought
that the real problem would always be the blood. Bodies could be stashed under tables or cut up and put into trunks. You could take pieces off them or settle for pieces of clothing instead, in case you were worried about how you were going to smell on the bus. Evidence was nothing at all. Evidence was what you made it be. If you wanted it, you went and got it. If you wanted to get rid of it, you had only to point out that you were who and what you were: living on the street half the time; drunk to the gills half the time; out of your mind half the time. No, it was the blood that was the problem because blood went everywhere.

It was five o'clock on the evening of March 23rd, and not as cold as it should have been. A fine drizzling rain had been coming down most of the day. The streets were slick and wet and shiny under streetlamps that were just going on. Down at the end of the block, half a dozen people were huddled near the curb, hoping for taxis. This was not Henry's ordinary neighborhood. It was not a place where he felt safe.

He checked out the people one more time and then retreated to the narrow alley between two brick buildings. They were the kind of buildings he remembered from his childhood, with stoops at the front and tall windows that looked out onto the city. It was as if the people who lived inside cared not at all about who could see them. On the alley side, though, there were no windows, except one very high up on the fifth or sixth floor. That would have been a maid's room in the old days. Now it was probably a place where a law firm stowed the kind of files it expected nobody to ever want to see again.

The body was halfway between the two ends of the alley. It was the body of a young woman in a red cloth coat, with fingernails painted to look like American flags. Henry crouched down next to it. His mind was clear. It really was. He'd been living “at home” for weeks now—or at least he'd been living with Elizabeth and Margaret, which was as close as he came to home. He was cold
and his bones ached, but he thought he understood what he was doing. The young woman must have been one of those people who liked to call attention to herself. The coat would have stood out in a crowd. The fingernails would have started conversations. Maybe that was what she had wanted. Maybe she had hoped that somebody would make a comment about her nails, some man, and they would talk, and the talk would lead to other things.

Henry got down closer, and looked into her face. Her eyes were open, staring blankly, the way they did when the person who owned them was dead. The side of her face was all cut up. The glass that had been used to do it—thin, wide jagged plates from a glass window, broken God only knew where—was lying around her as if it had fallen from the sky like snow. The glass was covered with blood, and so was the face, and so was the collar of the coat. Blood was in the puddles at the body's sides, diluted and spread by the falling rain. Henry put his hand out and rubbed his palm across the body's face. When he took his hand away, it was red and sticky and smelled like something that made his stomach churn.

From here to the end, it was an easy thing: it was just a question of finding a policeman and bringing him here. It would have been easier in the days before most policemen rode around in cars. He picked up one of the small plates of glass and turned it over in his hands. He put it down and picked up another. He picked up the woman's purse and opened it. She had twenty-six dollars and change in her wallet. He took that and put it in his pockets. She wouldn't need it anymore, and he did. If he could find some money someplace, he wouldn't have to face his sisters until he was ready to.

He stood up and looked around. He knew how the woman had died. She'd been strangled from behind with a thin nylon cord people used to tie some kinds of packages for mailing. You found the stuff all the time in Dumpsters. He bent down again and felt around her neck. The cord was buried deeply into the high collar of her jersey turtleneck. It was folded back on itself, but not tied. The cords were never tied. He remembered that from the news-papers. He pulled at it until it came loose in his hands. Then he put it into his pocket with the change.

The drizzle was turning into something heavier. It was so very warm for March, but still cold enough for wet to be something he did not want to be. He leaned over one more time and put his hands in the blood again. He liked the feel of it under the tips of his fingers. He stood up and turned his hands over and let the rain fall on them. The blood washed to the edges, but it did not wash clean.

Henry put his hands in his pockets and started for the street. It was better to go to the street than to the back courtyards after dark. The courtyards were unused and uncared for and often without working lights. Kids hung out in
them when they wanted to do drugs and make trouble. He felt the money one more time to make sure it was still there. He came out onto the sidewalk where the people were and looked around.

It was another woman in a red coat who saw him first, an older woman this time, somebody paying attention. Most people didn't look at Henry Tyder at all.

“Oh, my God,” the woman said, backing away from him toward the stoops. She caught the back of her leg on a step and stumbled. “Oh, my God,” she said again. “Oh, my God.”

A man in a dark raincoat stopped to see if he could help her. “Is there something wrong?” he said. “Is there something I can get for you?”

Nothing succeeds like success, Henry thought. If you looked pretty much all right, everybody in the neighborhood wanted to help you.

That was when the woman started screaming.

P
hillipa Lydgate couldn't say
she hadn't known what to expect when she came to America, because she'd been to America twice before, once only a year before this one. She'd even spent considerable time here, back in 1999, when she'd been posted to Washington to cover the Clinton impeachment trial. She had America pegged, she was sure of that. She knew all about Red States and Blue States and creationists and the death penalty and gun violence and the people who simply sat out and starved in the streets because there was no welfare state to take care of them. She knew all about the conformity, too, which she had always contended was the most salient feature of American life. Americans were conformists. There was nothing else that needed to be said about them. They were also mental defectives, but that didn't need to be said at all. She had been pointing all this out, in the pages of the
Watchminder,
for at least the last fifteen years.

Now her cab pulled up at the curb outside a large, new-looking church, and Phillipa had to admit that she was nervous. She had never actually been to a Red State before, and although Pennsylvania wasn't quite that—it had voted Democratic for president in the last election—it was close enough to make her wish she hadn't insisted on coming alone. The whole assignment had been her idea from the beginning, and she wondered if that hadn't been a foolish thing. Go to America. Get out of the Washington-New York-Hollywood axis. Live for six to eight weeks among the
real
people. Write about it in weekly dispatches. Come back to London and do all the chat shows when it was over. It was a brilliant assignment, really. If she did it right, she'd be famous when it was through.