The Stolen Ones (13 page)

Byrne glanced at his watch. He repositioned himself to the approximate place they had been standing when the woman yelled from the basement. Byrne hit a button on his watch. ‘I’ll be right up,’ he said, echoing the woman. They stood in silence for a full minute, while CSU officers made their way in and out of the house. It was not the ideal atmosphere to attempt to re-create those crucial few minutes, but it would have to do.

Byrne looked at his watch, hit a button.

‘He was already down there, Jess. He was fucking down there waiting for her. He was probably down there when we were across the street.’

The thought sent a shiver through Jessica. The idea of walking through your house, doing common everyday chores, not knowing that in the shadow, or closet, there was someone hiding, waiting to commit unspeakable violence.

‘Let’s assume, for the moment, that he
was
down there waiting for her,’ Jessica said. ‘During those two minutes he subdues her, threatens to kill her if she doesn’t come with him.’

‘Okay.’

‘But how does he get away? How does he get her out of the house?’

Byrne pointed to the short hallway leading to the back door, a section that was now cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. ‘It’s not possible. I would have seen them. The answer is in the basement. It has to be.’

Jessica agreed. But they wouldn’t be able to go down there until the entire structure was cleared for safety, and that could be days.

‘You didn’t look away, even for a few seconds?’ Jessica asked.

Byrne said nothing.

They would process every square centimeter between the basement steps and the back door. If ever there was a case where the law of transference mattered – the basic premise being that wherever people go, they carry some physical evidence with them, and leave some behind – this was it.

‘We didn’t get here soon enough,’ Byrne said.

‘Kevin.’

‘It’s our job, Jess. Jesus
Christ
, we were right here.’

They stood in the small kitchen, preparing to leave. Before they could button their coats, and prepare for the rain, they both looked at the kitchen table. They saw it at the same time.

There, on the table, was a bowl with a mug upside down in the center. Next to it, on the right, was a tarnished silver spoon.

‘Was this here before?’ Jessica asked.

‘No.’

Jessica took out her phone, scrolled through the photographs she had taken of Robert Freitag’s small eating area. She found the picture she wanted. It was the same setup. ‘Look.’

‘Identical,’ Byrne said.

‘Same spoon.’

‘Same spoon.’

With a gloved hand Jessica picked up the spoon by the tip of the handle. She looked at the inscription. As with the spoon at Robert Freitag’s house, it was too worn to read.

‘It’s definitely silver,’ Jessica said. ‘And it definitely is some sort of commemorative.’

‘This was set up after we left,’ Byrne said. ‘This fucker came back. He came back to burn the place down.’

Jessica slipped the spoon into a paper evidence bag.

‘Let’s take a ride.’

The fourth pawnshop they visited was an old three-ball on Germantown Avenue, near East York Street. The front windows were jammed full of radios, acoustic guitars, speakers, inexpensive watches, even an old instrument that looked like a zither. Just about everything had the word ‘Sale’ on it, as if it would be any other way.

Jessica had visited Mr Gold Pawn many times when she was young, with her father, who had once been a patrol officer in the district. The original owner – Moises Gold – had always been good for a free water ice.

The shop was now run by the late Moises Gold’s sons, twin brothers, Sam and Sanford Gold.

Announced by a bell over the door, Jessica and Byrne entered the shop. To Jessica, it smelled exactly the same as it had when she was ten years old, a combination of glass cleaner, strawberry air freshener and Lemon Pledge, with a top note of bottom-shelf cologne.

Perched behind the counter at the back of the shop was Sammy Gold. Probably in his fifties now, Sammy was shaped like a huge Bosc pear – small head, narrow shoulders, broad chest, corpulent waist. Jessica almost did a double-take when she saw him. Sammy Gold had turned into his father, right down to the black polo shirt, dusted with dandruff, and a hound’s-tooth sport jacket. It might have even been the same jacket.

Sammy looked up from his
Daily News.
‘Oh my God. As I live and wheeze.’

‘Sammy,’ Jessica said. ‘How are you?’

‘One foot in the grave, the other on a banana peel.’

His father used to say the same thing twenty-five years ago
, Jessica thought.
You go with what works
.

‘This is my partner, Kevin Byrne.’

The two men shook hands.

‘What can I do you out of?’ Sammy asked, folding his paper and putting it on the counter.

Jessica took out the evidence bag containing the spoon. ‘We’re trying to track down where this came from.’

Sammy reached beneath the counter and unfurled a long black-velvet jewelry roll. Jessica put the spoon on it.

Sammy Gold didn’t have to look at it too long.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know this spoon.’

‘You’ve seen it before?’

‘Yeah, but it’s been awhile.’ He pointed to the bottom of the handle, where the engraving was. ‘See this here? It’s a commemorative. We get a lot of them.’

Sammy turned around, pulled a long walnut box off the shelf. He placed it on the counter, opened it. Inside were a few dozen spoons of various sizes and finishes. Some gold, some silver.

‘Commemoratives are generally not worth that much,’ Sammy said. ‘They’re more for collectors and completists.’ He picked up a short round spoon, gold plated. ‘This one is for Penn House. I think it’s dated seventeen seventy-six.’

Jessica saw the small sticker on the back: $95.00.

Sammy picked up a second spoon, this one with an oddly shaped bowl that seemed to be two spoons welded together.

‘What is this?’ Jessica asked.

Sammy smiled. ‘This is a mustache spoon.’ He pointed to the lip on the bowl of the spoon. ‘This here? It was designed to keep your mustache out of the soup.’

The rest of the spoons were a variety of different types – coin spoons, spoons with faces engraved on the handles, a few with flowers painted on the bowls.

‘Like I said, this stuff ain’t worth all that much. I could let you have this whole box for four hundred.’

‘I think we’ll pass on that for now,’ Jessica said.

Sammy shrugged.
Worth a shot.

Jessica picked up the spoon they had taken from Joan Delacroix’s house. ‘So you’re sure you’ve had spoons like this one pass through here?’

‘Well, not one hundred per cent. Like I said, not much money in them. A Rolex I would know. A Fender Strat in a beat.’

Jessica pointed to the engraving in the handle. ‘Do you know where this is from? What it commemorates?’

Sammy reached into a drawer, took out a lighted jeweler’s loupe, put it to his right eye, looked closely at the handle of the spoon. ‘Can’t make it out. Sorry.’ He held up a finger. ‘Let me ask my brother. He remembers everything.’

‘I thought he retired,’ Jessica said.

‘So did I.’

Sammy took a few steps toward the curtain separating the front of the store from the back. ‘Sandy!’

A few moments later Sanford Gold came out from the back of the store, a huge, half-eaten hoagie in his hand.

Sanford Gold was the butterfly-wing replica of his brother. Right down to the part in his hair (Sanford left, Sammy right) and the gold pinkie ring on his finger (Sanford left, Sammy right).

‘You remember Jessica Giovanni, right?’ Sammy asked.

Sanford just stared.

‘She’s a police officer now. A
detective
.’

Sanford stopped chewing, clearly guilty of some sort of misdemeanor.

Sammy held up the spoon. ‘We’ve had these in before, haven’t we?’

Resigned to dealing with the task at hand, Sandy put his sandwich down on the counter, wiped his hands on his shirt. He pulled up his glasses, scrutinized the spoon.

‘Well?’ Sammy asked. ‘We’ve seen these before, yes?’

Sanford just nodded.

‘Do you remember who brought them in?’

‘It was that Lenny character,’ Sanford said.

‘Lenny Pintar brought these in?’

‘Yeah. The retarded kid.’

‘Sandy, he’s not retarded.’

Sanford Gold shrugged, hitched his belt. ‘So what’s the right word now? I can’t keep up with the right words any more. Who the fuck can keep up?’ He looked at Jessica. ‘Sorry.’

Jessica nodded.

Sammy thought for a few beats. ‘Okay, Lenny probably
is
retarded, but you’re not supposed to say so.’

‘Why not?’

Sammy looked at Jessica and Byrne, then back at his brother. ‘You’re just supposed to say he’s a little…’

‘Challenged,’ Byrne said.

Sammy snapped his fingers. ‘Challenged. Thank you.’

Jessica took out her notepad. ‘What can you tell me about this Leonard…?’

‘Pintar,’ Sammy said.

‘Can you spell that for me please?’

Sammy did.

‘How do you know him?’

Sammy looked at his brother. ‘How did we first meet him, Sandy?’

As soon as Sammy asked the question, Sandy took another bite of his sandwich. Jessica wanted to handcuff him and body-slam him on the glass. And if that’s what she wanted to do, Byrne probably wanted to shoot him. Cooler heads prevailed for the moment.

Sammy turned his attention away from his brother. ‘He’s come in here off and on for years.’

‘About how long ago did he start coming in?’ Jessica asked.

‘Maybe fifteen years or so. But he doesn’t come in that often.’

‘Has he pawned a lot of merchandise over the years?’

‘No,’ Sammy said. ‘It’s not like that. He would bring stuff in, usually just junk. I kind of feel for the guy, because he is a little, you know,
challenged
, like you say. He would come in with things, and we’d throw him a couple of bucks. My old man liked him.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Sammy glanced at his brother once again, then, realizing this was a lost cause, gave it some thought. ‘Got to be maybe a year now. Easy. About a year.’

‘Is that when he brought in the spoons?’

‘No, got to be longer than that. Maybe a couple of years.’

Jessica made the note. ‘Why do you say he’s challenged?’

‘Well, it’s just the way he acts and talks. If you ever meet him you’ll know what I mean. You just kind of know, right?’

‘Yeah, I do,’ Jessica said. She didn’t, not exactly, but she needed to move on. ‘Do you know if Lenny has ever been in jail?’

‘You know, now that you mention it, I think he was once. I think he mentioned something about the food being crappy.’

‘Are we talking county jail or prison?’

‘Can’t say for sure.’

Jessica jotted a few more notes. ‘Do you have a fax machine?’

At this, Sanford Gold perked up. He swallowed hard, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘What do you need? Standalone, all-in-one, color? Inkjet, laser, ribbon?’

‘Actually,’ Jessica said. ‘I was just —’

‘We’ve got Brother, HP, Panasonic, Samsung —’

Jessica held up a hand, like a traffic cop. ‘What I meant was, do you have a fax machine, as in a fax machine on which I can receive a fax right now?’

Sanford look crestfallen. But not for long. He grabbed his sandwich, and disappeared through the curtain into the back room. No sale, no interest.

‘What are you gonna do?’ Sammy asked. ‘Can’t shoot him.’

‘Sure you can,’ Jessica said.

Sammy laughed, reached into his pocket, pulled out an engraved sterling-silver business card case, flipped it open, thumbed out a card. ‘The fax number is at the bottom.’

Jessica took out her phone, called the office, asked for a check on one Leonard Pintar, requesting any results to be faxed to the pawn shop. Within a minute, the fax machine at the back of the shop clicked to life.

Sammy walked to the back of the store, pulled out the two pages. Jessica figured it took every fiber in the man’s considerable bulk not to read the fax. He handed the pages to Jessica.

Jessica skimmed the file, handed it to Byrne. As it turned out, Lenny did have a record, but only a minor one. He had been arrested on a disorderly conduct charge two years earlier, but it was determined that he had stopped taking his medications, and engaged in what was probably just a misunderstanding with the rookie patrol officer. He spent less than thirty-six hours in lockup, and was released to the Pennsylvania Department of Welfare. A quick call to the agency revealed that Leonard Pintar was no longer a ward of the commonwealth, and they had no forwarding address. They suggested contacting the Department of Human Services.

‘Do you have any idea where we could locate Leonard right now?’ Jessica asked.

Sammy thought for a few moments. ‘Yeah. He works at Reading Terminal Market.’

‘At one of the counters?’ Jessica asked.

‘Not really,’ Sammy said. ‘From what I understand he kinda stands around and hands out fliers. I think he hangs around the door closest to Filbert. He’s got his own style. You’ll see.’

‘Got it.’

‘By the way, if you ever run into this again, you can just put the spoon in an aluminum pan full of boiling water, add salt, and
voila
. No tarnish.’

‘That easy, huh?’

‘Yeah. Pan has to be aluminum, though.’ He handed the spoon to Byrne.

‘Good to know,’ Jessica replied, knowing full well that the knowledge had just passed through her mind like a luge sled. She almost heard it rush by. Chemistry was not her forte. She handed Sammy a card. ‘If you find out anything, please give me a call.’

Sammy took out a leather card case, slipped the card inside. ‘Sure thing,
Detective
.’ He said the last word with a smile, shook his head. ‘I can’t believe how grown up you are.’

‘Yeah, unfortunately, it’s a byproduct of aging.’

Sammy laughed. ‘Don’t I know it. Say hi to your dad for me.’

‘I will,’ Jessica said. She held up the fax. ‘And thanks for this.’

‘On the house.’