The Doll Maker (45 page)

‘Can you help Maria play hostess until I get there?’ Byrne asked.

‘I guess so,’ she said. ‘I just think—’

‘Thanks,’ Byrne said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘When do you think that will be?’

‘After midnight,’ he said.

‘
Midnight?
I’ll probably be—’

‘I’m getting behind the wheel now.’

‘Okay,’ Jessica said. ‘If you need me to—’

Marseille pressed the button, ending the call.

‘I want you to call this desk sergeant. Tell her that when Anabelle comes to the lobby to call you at this number.’

Byrne gave Marseille the number for the desk at the Roundhouse. Marseille dialed, put the phone on speaker. When the call was answered, Byrne gave the desk sergeant at the Roundhouse – a veteran named Tina Willis – the information.

They waited.

Byrne knew how agonizingly slow the wheels could turn at times. He couldn’t tell Paul DiCarlo to hurry this up. It would certainly have raised suspicions in a man suspicious by nature. Byrne was certain that Jessica had only bought half the loaf he was selling.

A full five minutes later, the phone rang. Byrne nearly jumped from his chair. They both looked at the readout. It said: ‘Unknown Caller.’

Marseille tapped the icon to answer. He put the phone on speaker.

‘This is Kevin,’ Byrne said.

‘Detective Byrne, this is Sergeant Willis.’

‘Hey, Tina. Thanks for calling back.’

‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ve got Cassandra White right here.’

Byrne knew how this was going to sound, but he had to ask it anyway. ‘Are we on speaker there, Tina?’

As expected, a pause. ‘No, detective.’

‘Okay, thanks. Put her on please?’

A few seconds later, from the phone: ‘Mr Marseille?’

Byrne could hear the anticipation in her voice. She sounded like a child.

‘Yes.’

It was clear that the young woman had begun to cry.

‘Please don’t cry,
mon cœur
,’ Marseille said.

‘Okay. It’s just that …’

‘It’s just that what?’

‘We’ve never been apart this long. Ever.’

‘I’m going to give you an address to which I want the police to take you. They’ll know where it is.’

Byrne heard the address. It was one block south of his house.

What is this man preparing to do?
Byrne wondered.

‘
Au revoir
,’ the girl on the phone said.

‘
A bientôt
.’

Marseille ended the call, took out his weapon. ‘It is not always easy to do the right thing.’

‘You think this – all of this – is the right thing?’ Byrne asked.

‘It will all be over soon, detective.’

Jessica decided to drink only mixers, for any number of reasons. Not the least of which was that she didn’t know where this night was going to take her.

She didn’t buy for a second Byrne’s story. Something was wrong. He wanted her to
know
something was wrong, but she felt he was hamstrung from telling her so.

She’d put in a call to Paul DiCarlo and had gotten his voicemail.

The next call was to the Special Victims Unit. As she suspected, Byrne had not stopped there this evening.

The next went to the Roundhouse. What she learned was disturbing, but not surprising. They had released Cassandra White.

Dana did not know the details, but the lead investigator, Kevin Byrne, and an attorney from the DA’s office, Paul DiCarlo, had signed off on it and that, as they say, was that.

For almost any detective, that would be enough.

Unless you were Lt. Peter Giovanni’s daughter.

Jessica Giovanni Balzano knew something was wrong.

Even though Byrne said he would not be home until after midnight, every few minutes Jessica stepped onto the porch, watching for his car.

By eleven o’clock the party was in full raucous swing. There had to be forty people milling around the house. Sophie had found a new best friend in Maria Caruso’s niece, Jennifer. They were stuck in a corner, gossiping like loopy fishwives, talking about God only knows what.

Both Paddy Byrne and Colleen were there. Paddy, being the default elder statesman – not to mention the ranking clan Byrne family member – was the
de facto
party chief and bartender in lieu of his son. He was in his glory.

Jessica looked at her watch for the hundredth time, found a space along the wall next to the fireplace in the front room. She stood next to a young man in his late twenties, a civilian who worked at the forensic lab. She could not recall his name or his discipline.

Like most people who worked in the science divisions, he strode to his own rhythms. He was a sheet or two to starboard, leaning against the wall for balance, but still rocking steady to the music.

‘You’re Detective Baldacci, right?’ he asked.

‘Balzano.’

The young man went cherry red. For a moment it looked as if he thought this might be a firing offense. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Not a problem.’

He stuck out a hand. ‘Ronnie Meldrum. I work in the drug lab.’

Jessica shook hands. They’d met before, but there was no reason to get into that now.

Meldrum held up his beer, tipped the neck toward the stereo.

‘Clapton,’ he said.

‘What about him?’ Jessica asked.

‘I didn’t know there was a live version of this. This is
awesome
. I’m going to have to get this.’

Jessica listened closely. She knew the song, but just couldn’t place it. ‘What song is this again?’

‘
After Midnight
,’ Meldrum said. ‘It was originally on Clapton’s first solo album, I think, but he didn’t write it. I think it’s a JJ Cale tune.’

‘Ah, okay,’ Jessica said.

After Midnight.
Odd coincidence that Byrne would say that he would be there
after midnight
, and it would be one of the songs on his playlist. Then it hit her.

When she’d spoken to Byrne, she’d been a full two blocks from the house. Yet she’d heard the Clapton song. She’d heard music through the
phone
.

It was faint, but it was there.

Now she was certain.

Byrne was in the house.

With the party raging below, Jessica reached the top step. It creaked under her weight. She walked the length of the hall, edging open each of the doors. Most of the rooms were empty; two of the rooms had some boxes stacked in the corners.

None of the other partygoers had ventured up.

After checking all the rooms, Jessica got to the end of the hall. She opened the door, expecting to find a bathroom, or maybe yet another bedroom, but instead found a linen closet.

She looked up, saw the attic door. Would he really be in the attic?

Anything was possible.

She was just about to go downstairs and try to covertly sneak a chair on which to stand out of the dining room, when she sensed movement to her right. She spun around, the image of any number of bogeymen in her mind – this house did give her the creeps – only to find that it was the cat, precariously perched on the railing.

‘You scared the
shit
out of me.’

The cat looked at her, nonplussed. It soon jumped off the rail, and paced around her legs, nuzzling. A few seconds later Tuck jumped onto the bottom shelf of the closet. He turned twice, sat down, glanced up at Jessica.

‘Come on,’ Jessica said. ‘Get out of there. I’m sure Kevin doesn’t need you on his face towels. Let’s go.’

No dice. The cat dug in.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Do you have a toy in here?’

Jessica poked through the towels and washcloths on the top shelf. Nothing.

The middle shelf held a six-pack of bath soap, shampoos, a Water-Pik in a box.

The cat spun again. This time he pawed the back of the closet.

Jessica got down on her hands and knees. Something didn’t look right, but she wasn’t sure what it was. Then she saw it. A pair of large hinges, painted white to match the inside of the closet.

Jessica pulled on the left side of the shelf unit. Nothing. She planted her feet and pulled again. The shelving began to move. Seconds later it swung open.

It was a door.

Ahead was a long hallway.

Jessica thought for a moment of going downstairs and getting Maria to come with her, but she didn’t want to alarm anyone at the party.

She wasn’t certain there was anything to be alarmed
about
yet.

Jessica stepped into the hallway, felt for a light switch. A few steps in she found one. She flipped it on.

‘You have
got
to be kidding me,’ she said under her breath. Ahead, lighted by a half-dozen sconces, was a corridor of dolls, floor to ceiling. They were bolted and screwed to the walls – baby dolls, adult dolls, dolls of every race, size, material. Hundreds and hundreds.

When she got to the end there was a door. At the top and bottom were two barrel bolts, thick steel slide bolts. From behind the door Jessica heard pounding.
Loud
pounding. When she slid the upper bolt to the left the noise stopped.

She put her ear to the door, heard nothing, then gently pushed back the bottom bolt.

A few seconds later she stood to the side, nudged open the door with her foot. She could see that this room was lit with candles. She took one cautious step in, and heard the sound of broken glass under foot. She looked down. It wasn’t glass, but broken porcelain. She saw that this room, too, was lined with dolls, but many of them were broken – half-faced dolls, dolls with smashed limbs and skulls.

There was a large shadow to her left.

She drew weapon more out of instinct than a sense of danger.

It was Byrne. He had dug halfway through the wood lath and plaster with the body of a broken doll. He was covered in plaster dust.

As Byrne brushed himself off, Jessica noticed a large poster on the back of the door. It was for a nightclub in New Orleans, and featured a singer named Josie Giroux, the
Fleur de Paris
, who had made a recording of the standard, ‘These Foolish Things.’

‘Valerie’s aunt Josephine,’ Byrne said. ‘That was her maiden name.’

‘The embroidery on the murder weapons,’ she said. ‘The FdP.’

‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘It was all hers – the stockings, the old cigarettes.’

Jessica took out her phone. She called Maria Caruso.

‘This is Maria.’

‘Maria, it’s Jess. I need you to not react in any way to what I’m going to tell you.’

‘Sure.’

‘Our subject is in the house. Martin White. He’s wearing a Finnigan’s Wake polo shirt and cap.’

‘Okay,’ she said, sounding upbeat. ‘Sounds great.’

Jessica could hear that Maria was moving from the living room, away from the music.

‘Do you see him?’ Jessica asked.

The music grew fainter and fainter.

‘He left,’ Maria said.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. I saw him leave.’

‘Do you know how long ago?’

‘Maybe ten minutes?’

‘Watch the front of the house. Ask John Shepherd to watch the back. Our suspect does not come inside.’

‘We need the rest of those lyrics,’ Byrne said.

‘Hang on, Maria.’

Jessica made a search on her iPhone for the lyrics of ‘These Foolish Things.’ She found them
.
It seemed the killers had made some sort of reference to every verse in the song.

Except two.

‘I need you to call in the entire department,’ Jessica said to Maria, filling her in. She gave her an address on Delancey. ‘Send half to Delancey Place, we’ll take the other.’

As Byrne walked to one of the bedrooms on the second floor, retrieving his weapon and shield, Jessica looked around the room. On one crowded corkboard were what looked like hundreds of photographs, large and small, new and older.

There were many of the front of this house. Some had older cars, circa 1985 parked out front. Some were of people standing on the porch. As Jessica reached the last photo in the stack, she sensed Byrne standing behind her.

He saw the photo at the same moment she did.

We stood across the street from the house, the home that had been ours for more than ten years. Anabelle held my hand, but I could feel her trembling. She knew we would never be coming back.

I had changed back into my best suit. I wore a navy blue cashmere coat.

We observed the people at the party, the young and the old, watched the children play their games of tag, weaving through the adults as if they were trees in a forest. We watched the handful of teenagers, adrift on their sea of angst. We watched the young woman speaking in sign language.

We saw them all.

‘She seems so sad,’ Anabelle finally said.

‘Yes.’

Anabelle put her head on my shoulder. ‘She is beautiful.’

‘“The beauty that is Spring’s,”’ I said.

I could not see my Anabelle’s face, but I knew this made her smile. Our song, ‘These Foolish Things,’ always did.

I looked at my pocket watch. ‘It is time to go.’

I saw the single tear course down Anabelle’s cheek. She pointed at the form silhouetted in the window. ‘Shall we bring her with us?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She is
numéro seize
. The last Sauveterre.’

The photograph was of Colleen Byrne standing on the porch of the house. She was talking to Byrne. The picture was no more than a few days old.

Before Jessica could say a word, Byrne was out of the room, and down the hall. She heard him on the stairs before she made it out of the doorway.

By the time Jessica reached the bottom of the stairs Byrne had woven his way through the crowd, into the kitchen. Jessica moved through the partygoers, trying her best not to alarm them. When she reached the kitchen, she saw Colleen Byrne in her father’s arms.

Colleen was safe.

A few seconds later John Shepherd, perhaps sensing that something was wrong, opened the back door.

‘Our subject?’ Byrne asked.

‘Haven’t seen him,’ Shepherd said.

‘I need you to shut this down.’

‘The party?’