After a few seconds, Adam realized that an answer was expected. “Yes.”
“See, those people never go home. They have no social or family lives whatsoever. They are on the job twenty-four hours a day, and nothing gets by them. Nothing. Take a moment to think about what you’re doing. The very next thing you say may be the most important thing you ever say in your life.”
Adam looked up. His eyes were shiny. “You can’t tell anybody about this.”
“That depends on what it is you have to tell us,” Byrne said. “But if it doesn’t figure into this crime, it won’t leave this room.”
Adam looked at Jessica, then quickly looked away. “I went there with somebody,” he said. “A woman. She’s a
woman.
”
He said this emphatically, as if to say that suspecting him of murder was one thing. Suspecting him of being gay was far worse.
“Do you remember what room you stayed in?” Byrne asked.
“I don’t know,” Adam said.
“Try real hard.”
“I . . . I think it was room ten.”
“Both times?”
“I think so.”
“What kind of car does this woman drive?”
“I really don’t know. We never went in her car.”
Byrne leaned back. No need to come at him hard for the moment. “Why didn’t you just tell us this earlier?”
“Because,” Adam began, “because she’s married.”
“We’re going to need her name.”
“I . . . can’t tell you that,” Adam said. He glanced from Byrne to Jessica, then at the floor.
“Look at me,” Byrne said.
Slowly, reluctantly, Adam complied.
“Do I strike you as the kind of person who’s going to accept that as an answer?” Byrne asked. “I mean, I know we don’t know each other, but take a quick glance around this place. Do you think it looks this shitty by accident?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Okay. Fair enough. Here’s what we’ll do,” Byrne said. “If you don’t tell us this woman’s name, you’re going to force us to poke around in your life. We’re going to get the names of all the people in your classes, all your professors. We’re going to drop in at the dean’s office and ask them about you. We’re going to talk to your friends, family, coworkers. Is that what you really want?”
Incredibly, instead of caving in, Adam Kaslov just looked at Jessica. For the first time since she’d met him she thought she saw something in his eyes, something sinister, something that said he was not just some scared kid in over his head. There might have even been the hint of a smile on his face. Adam asked: “I need a lawyer, don’t I?”
“I’m afraid we really can’t advise you on something like that, Adam,” Jessica said. “But I will say that, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.”
If Adam Kaslov was as big a film and TV buff as they suspected he was, he had probably seen enough scenes exactly like this one to know he had every right to stand up and walk out of the building without saying another word.
“Can I go now?” Adam asked.
Thanks again,
Law & Order, Jessica thought.
* * *
JESSICA CONSIDERED LITTLE Jake’s description:
Flyers cap, sunglasses, maybe a dark blue jacket.
A uniformed officer had looked through the windows of Adam Kaslov’s car while Adam was being questioned. None of these items was in plain sight, nor was there a gray wig, a housedress, or a dark cardigan.
Adam Kaslov had a direct connection to the murder tape, he had been to the murder scene, and he had lied to the police. Was it enough for a search warrant?
“I don’t think so,” Paul DiCarlo said. When Adam had said his father was in real estate, he had neglected to mention that his father was Lawrence Kaslov. Lawrence Kaslov was one of the biggest developers in eastern Pennsylvania. If they moved too soon on this kid, there would be a wall of pin-striped suits up in a second.
“Maybe this will tip it,” Cahill said, entering the room. He had a fax in hand.
“What is it?” Byrne asked.
“Young Mr. Kaslov has a record,” Cahill replied.
Byrne and Jessica exchanged a glance. “I ran him,” Byrne said. “He was clean.”
“Not squeaky.”
They all glanced at the fax. At fourteen, Adam Kaslov was arrested for videotaping his neighbor’s teenaged daughter through her bedroom window. He received counseling and community service. He served no time in a juvenile facility.
“We can’t use this,” Jessica said.
Cahill shrugged. He knew as well as anyone else in the room that juvenile records are supposed to be sealed. “Just FYI.”
“We’re not even supposed to
know
this,” Jessica added.
“Know
what
?” Cahill asked with a wink.
“Teen voyeurism is a long way from what was done to that woman,” Buchanan said.
They all knew this was true. Still, every piece of information, regardless of how it was obtained, helped. They just had to be careful about the official path that took them to the next step. Any first-year law student could get a case thrown out based on illegally obtained records.
Paul DiCarlo, who was doing his best not to listen, on purpose, continued: “Right. So. When you ID the victim, and you put Adam within a mile of her, I’ll be able to sell a search warrant to a judge. But not until then.”
“Should we put a tail on him?” Jessica asked.
Adam was still sitting in Interview Room A. But not for long. He had already asked to leave, and every minute the door stayed locked nudged the department toward a problem.
“I can give it a few hours,” Cahill said.
Buchanan looked encouraged by this. It meant the bureau would be picking up the tab for overtime on a detail that probably would not produce anything.
“You sure?” Buchanan asked.
“Not a problem.”
A few minutes later, Cahill caught up to Jessica by the elevators. “Look, I really don’t think this kid is going to amount to much. But I’ve got a few ideas about the case. How about after your tour I buy you a cup of coffee? We’ll kick it around.”
Jessica looked at Terry Cahill’s eyes. There was always a moment with a stranger— an attractive stranger, she was loath to admit— when the innocent-sounding comment, the ingenuous offer had to be examined. Was he asking her out? Was he making a move? Or was he actually asking her for a cup of coffee to discuss a homicide investigation? She had scanned his left hand the moment she met him. He wasn’t married. She, of course, was. However tenuously.
Jesus, Jess,
she thought.
You’ve got a friggin’ gun on your hip. You’re probably safe.
“Make it a scotch and you’re on,” she said.
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER Terry Cahill left, Byrne and Jessica met in the coffee room. Byrne read her mood.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Jessica held up the evidence bag with the Rivercrest Motel matchbook. “I didn’t read Adam Kaslov right the first time,” Jessica said. “And it bugs the shit out of me.”
“Don’t worry about it. If he’s our boy— and I’m not convinced he is— there are a hell of a lot of layers between the face he shows the world and the nutcase on that tape.”
Jessica nodded. Byrne was right. Still, she prided herself on her ability to translate people. Every detective brought specials skill to the table. Hers were the ability to organize, and her acumen at reading people. Or so she thought. She was just about to say something when Byrne’s phone rang.
“Byrne.”
He listened, his intense green eyes shifting back and forth for a moment. “Thanks.” He snapped shut his phone, the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth, something Jessica had not seen in a while. She knew the look. Something was breaking.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“That was CSU,” he said, heading out the door. “We’ve got an ID.”
23
THE
PSYCHO
VICTIM’S NAME WAS STEPHANIE CHANDLER. SHE was twenty-two years old, single, by all accounts a friendly, outgoing young woman. She lived with her mother on Fulton Street. She worked at a Center City public relations firm called Braceland Westcott McCall. They had identified her through the vehicle identification number on her car.
The preliminary report from the medical examiner’s office was in. The manner of death, as expected, was ruled a homicide. Stephanie Chandler had been underwater approximately one week. The murder weapon was a large, nonserrated knife. She had been stabbed eleven times and, although he would not testify to it, at least at this point, because it was not his purview, Dr. Tom Weyrich believed that Stephanie Chandler was indeed killed on the videotape.
The tox screen revealed no evidence of illegal drugs in her system; a trace amount of alcohol. The ME had also run a rape kit. It was inconclusive.
What the reports could not say was why Stephanie Chandler was in a run-down motel in West Philly in the first place. Or, most important, who with.
A fourth detective, Eric Chavez, was now on the case, partnered with Nick Palladino. Eric was the fashion plate of the Homicide Unit, always turned out in an Italian suit. Single and available, if Eric wasn’t talking about his new Zegna tie, he was talking about the newest Bordeaux in his wine rack.
As far as the detectives could piece together, the last day of Stephanie’s life had gone like this:
Stephanie, a vibrant, petite young woman who favored tailored suits and Thai food and Johnny Depp movies, left for work, as always, at just after 7:00 AM, driving her champagne-colored Saturn from the Fulton Street address to her office building on South Broad Street, where she parked in an underground garage. That day she and a few of her co-workers had gone down to Penn’s Landing at lunchtime to watch a film crew set up for a shot along the riverfront, hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or two. At five thirty, she took the elevator down to the garage, drove out the Broad Street exit.
Jessica and Byrne would visit the Braceland Westcott McCall offices while Nick Palladino, Eric Chavez, and Terry Cahill headed down to Penn’s Landing to canvass.
* * *
THE RECEPTION AREA of Braceland Westcott McCall was decorated in a modern Scandinavian style— straight lines, light cherry desks and bookcases, metal-edged mirrors, frosted-glass panels, and well-framed poster art that heralded the company’s upscale clients: recording studios, advertising agencies, clothing designers.
Stephanie’s boss was a woman named Andrea Cerrone. Jessica and Byrne met Andrea in Stephanie Chandler’s cubicle on the top floor of the Broad Street office building.
Byrne took the lead in the questioning.
“Stephanie was pretty trusting,” Andrea said, a bit unsteadily. “A little gullible, I guess.” Andrea Cerrone was clearly shaken by the news of Stephanie’s death.
“Was she seeing anyone?”
“Not that I know of. She got hurt pretty easily, so I think she was in shutdown mode for a while.”
Andrea Cerrone was not yet thirty-five, a short, wide-hipped woman with silver-streaked hair and pastel blue eyes. Although she was somewhat overweight, her clothes were tailored with an architectural precision. She wore a dark olive linen suit and a honey-colored pashmina.
Byrne moved on. “How long did Stephanie work here?”
“About a year. She came here right out of college.”
“Where did she go to school?”
“Temple.”
“Did she have any problems with anyone here at work?”
“Stephanie? Hardly. Everybody liked her and she liked everyone. I don’t remember a cross word ever coming out of her mouth.”
“What did you think when she didn’t show up for work last week?”
“Well, Stephanie had a lot of sick days coming. I thought she took the day off, even though it was unlike her not to call in. The next day I called her cell phone, left a few messages. She never got back to me.”
