The Doll Maker (24 page)

Thaddeus seemed quite the opposite. He was a quiet boy. He was very polite.
 

The police had come by just a few hours after the boy went missing – he lived just three streets over – and asked their questions.
 

The officers were a contrast in age and experience. One young, one older. It was raining that day.
 

‘Can I help you?’ Valerie asked.
 

One of the officers, the younger of the two, touched a finger to the brim of his cap. Valerie appreciated his gallantry. His cap was covered by a clear plastic rain cover. ‘Ma’am, we’re sorry to bother you. We’re looking for a boy.’
 

‘A boy?’
 

‘Yes ma’am. His name is Thaddeus Woodman. He’s six years old. Do you know him by any chance?’
 

Valerie tried to look as if she were thinking about this. She was no actress, and she was certain the police officers would see through her ruse, especially the older of the two, who seemed to be looking at her with some suspicion. Maybe it was her imagination. ‘Could you repeat that name for me please?’
 

‘Thaddeus,’ the young officer said. ‘Thaddeus Woodman.’
 

‘I don’t think I know him,’ Valerie said. ‘Is he a neighborhood child?’
 

‘Yes.’
 

‘Oh, my goodness,’ Valerie said. ‘Where are my manners? Would you like to come inside, out of the rain?’
 

In the house, Valerie heard a banging noise. It was coming from a locked room on the second floor, and was surely that Nancy Brisbane. Whenever Nancy felt neglected – which was almost constantly – she would take to stamping her feet on the floor. Valerie looked closely at the officers. They didn’t seem to hear it. Maybe the sound was masked by the passing traffic.
 

‘No, ma’am,’ the young officer said. ‘But thank you.’ Held up a photograph. It, too, was wrapped in clear plastic.
 

‘May I?’ she asked.
 

‘Please.’
 

Valerie took the photo, looked carefully at it. It was a school picture of Thaddeus. In it he wore a white shirt and a thin black neck tie. Somehow, his mother had managed to tame that cowlick. ‘This is the missing boy?’
 

‘Yes, ma’am.’
 

Valerie pored over the photograph a few more seconds, handed it back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him.’
 

The younger officer pocketed the photo. He took out a small notepad.
 

‘May I have your name, ma’am?’
 

‘My name is Valerie,’ she said. ‘Valerie Beckert.’
 

He wrote this down. ‘Didn’t someone else live here recently?’
 

The banging grew louder. Valerie was certain the older officer reacted to it. He glanced over her shoulder, into the darkness of the foyer.
 

‘That was my aunt Josephine,’ Valerie said. ‘She passed away recently.’
 

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ the officer said. He handed her a card. ‘My name is Officer Cooper. My number is on that card. If you see Thaddeus, I’d appreciate it if you give me a call.’
 

Valerie took the card. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’
 

‘I’m sure he’s just fine,’ the officer said. ‘He’s probably playing with friends and just lost track of the time. You know how kids can be.’
 

Oh, I do, Valerie thought.
 

‘I’ll keep a watchful eye out the window,’ she said. ‘If I see anything, I’ll be sure to give you a call.’
 

A few moments later, as Valerie watched the two policeman walk down to the sidewalk, she heard Nancy Brisbane begin to bang on the floor again. Valerie wanted to be cross with her, but she just couldn’t.
 

Instead, even though it was before supper, and would surely spoil their appetites, she went into the kitchen and made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies.
 

Byrne stood on the porch for a long time after his ex-wife drove away. He tried to remember the last time they had made love.

He could not. He certainly recalled the first time, but he could not remembered the last.

As they’d drifted away from each other in the last months and weeks of their marriage they had stopped sleeping in the same bed, had all but ceased even the most casual of human contact.

Byrne could smell her perfume on the collar of his shirt.

What did this mean? He had no idea.

But whatever the house he’d just bought originally meant to him, it had just come to mean something else. He firmly believed that a space was the sum total of the events and energies that had been spent between its walls – days, weeks, years, centuries – and these energies remained.

There were now new echoes.

I tried to imagine a metaphor so great it could explain the way I felt.

I am no poet, no great wit – just ask Mr Marseille, he’ll tell you – and thus felt ill-equipped to describe the breathtaking vista before me.

I have many times stood on the western bank of the Delaware River (less frequently on the eastern bank, during my two trips to Camden, New Jersey), and have, more than once, had my breath stolen by the majesty of it all.

But to stand in front of the Atlantic Ocean – something about which I have dreamed my entire life – brought tears to my eyes. Mr Marseille anticipated this, as he has most of my moods for as long as I can remember, was at the ready with one of his soft white handkerchiefs.

I smiled through my tears of joy, dabbed at my eyes.

‘Where is it?’ I asked.

Mr Marseille knew what I was asking. He always did. Sometimes he surprised me with this ability, although this time I fear I was obvious. He pointed somewhat to his right.

‘Right there, I believe.’

I looked out over the water, squinted, as if this would help me see it.

‘How far away is it?’ I asked.

‘Three thousand six hundred fifty-two miles.’

This made me smile. ‘That sounds precise,’ I said.

‘There is no reason to be anything else.’

I looked at the ocean again, wondering if there was a boy and girl, at that very moment, standing on the sand in France, wondering the same things about America, having the same conversation.

I liked to think there was. I made a game of wondering what their names might be.

We drove back from Atlantic City. This time we were in our own car, a much older model that, according to Mr Marseille, had quite a robust and powerful engine. I loved to hear him talk of such things. Inside it was very quiet. We recited poetry to each other.

We stopped for our evening meal at a restaurant called Friendly’s, but neither Mr Marseille nor I found that the place lived up to its name.

When we arrived home, Mr Marseille pulled the big car into the garage we had long ago hired just a few blocks away from where we lived.

When he opened the trunk I heard the birds complain in their caw-caw manner, the sound climbing into the pitch black sky.

Were there seagulls in Philadelphia? Of course there were. But being so far inland, they did not fill the need.

That night, when I closed my eyes, I could still taste the salt on my tongue, and wondered about the French boy and girl.

The Home Depot on West Cheltenham Avenue was the closest location, geographically, to the Shawmont crime scene. There was no reason to think that the person responsible for the deaths of Robert and Edward Gillen, of Nicole Solomon, had purchased the rope, paint, and/or the section of two-by-eight common board pine at this store, but there was no reason not to.

If there was any facet common to the profile of a murderer it was that they tended to do things near their nest: shop, work, hunt.

Of the four items entered into evidence from that scene – the paint, the lumber, the hardware, and the rope – the one likely to yield a direction was the paint.

When Jessica and Byrne arrived, about ten a.m., the store was relatively empty. Home Depot opened at six a.m. on weekdays, and the contractors were in and out by seven-thirty or so.

When Jessica and Byrne approached the long stainless countertop there were two patrons ahead of them.

The paint sample they had gathered at the Nicole Solomon crime scene was a small piece cut from the seat of the bench. According to CSU, and their presumptive tests, the paint – an exterior flat latex – had been applied less than three hours before Nicole Solomon’s body had been found.

While they waited Jessica and Byrne looked at some of the folders located on the racks to the right of the counter. The number of colors available was staggering. There looked to be thousands.

They found a large brochure for Behr latex. Inside the color samples ranged from ultra pure white to something called Rosemary, which was a deep green. In between were colors such as Lemon Wedge, Pewter Gray, Crisp Celery, and Spicy Cayenne.

Byrne pointed to one of the paint samples on the third row of the large foldout brochure, something called Tranquil Retreat.

‘This looks pretty close,’ he said.

‘I think our sample is a little lighter,’ Jessica said. She pointed to a sample called Soft Feather. ‘Maybe this one.’

‘Welcome to Home Depot.’

Jessica and Byrne turned around. Before them stood a petite black woman, perhaps in her early forties. She wore a spotless Home Depot smock in the company’s favorite color, orange. Her name tag read
Tonya T
.

‘How may I help you today?’ she asked.

‘We just have a few questions about paint,’ Byrne said.

‘Then Tonya T is your girl,’ the woman said. ‘If it’s about paint, and I don’t know it, then it ain’t about paint.’

Byrne gestured to the long rack of sample cards. ‘Are all these colors really available?’

Tonya T nodded. ‘And then some.’

‘And you mix them all here in the store?’

‘We mix them all back
here
,’ she said, pointing to a computer mixing machine behind the stainless steel counter.

‘I imagine getting the shade exactly right is a challenge,’ Byrne said.

‘Well, the computer does most of that. What the computer cannot do is tell you what color you’re going to like in a few years.’

‘I understand.’

Tonya T took a half-step back, looked Jessica and Byrne up and down. ‘Now, see, I deal with a lot of couples such as yourself,’ she said. ‘Most of the time Tonya T maintains harmony. But once in a while the devil rears his ugly head in the Paint Pit.’

‘Bad?’ Byrne asked.

‘Oh
laws
, yes,’ she said. ‘The discussions are usually over color selection or techniques of application, but I once saw a woman throw a can of Satin Espresso Rustoleum 2X at her man over nothing more than the quality of a drop cloth. Can you imagine?’

‘I can see it happening,’ Byrne said. ‘Drop cloth choice is a personal thing.’

Tonya T just nodded. Apparently, Byrne was right. ‘Caught him right in the kisser, too. I hope he has dental.’

‘So, if we wanted to get some paint and have it match a paint sample
exactly
, how would we go about that?’ Byrne asked.

‘Well, if you still have the can, and the lid, you just bring it to Tonya T, and I can scan the code on the lid. If you don’t have the lid, I can match from whatever paint is left in the can.’

‘And it’s fairly accurate?’

Tonya T took a step backward. Apparently, this was a personal affront. ‘It’s
always
accurate.’

Byrne held up a hand in surrender. He reached into his shoulder bag, retrieved the piece of wood, a four-by-four-inch section cut from the material on which Nicole Solomon had been seated. It had been processed, so there was no reason to handle it with care.

‘We’re looking to match this,’ Byrne said.

Tonya T put on her glasses, took the material from Byrne. She took a few long moments to scrutinize it.

‘Yeah. All right,’ she said. ‘I know this color. It’s called Candlelight.’

‘You could tell just by looking at it?’

Tonya T took off her glasses, if for no other reason than to glare at Kevin Byrne.

‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘Fair enough.’

Tonya T smiled. ‘Where are you thinking about using this?’

‘We’re not sure yet.’

Tonya T took a full step back. ‘You two ain’t married, are you?’

‘No, ma’am,’ Byrne said. He next took out his shield wallet.

Tonya T shook her head. ‘I
thought
you had the look about you.’

‘The look?’

‘My daddy was a
po
lice. Big strong man like yourself. Thirty-six years.’

‘Here in Philly?’ Byrne asked.

‘No, in South Carolina. He was a statie. He passed in ’02.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The reason we’re here is that the sample you have there turned up in a current investigation,’ Byrne said. ‘We’d like to know if someone has had it mixed recently.’

‘And you want to find that person.’

‘Very much so.’

‘I can certainly tell you whether or not we recently mixed this color. But it will only be in this store, and only in the last ten days,’ she said. ‘We only keep the records for ten days.’

‘All good,’ Byrne said.

Another smile. ‘This ain’t
Undercover Boss
, is it?’

‘Ma’am?’

Tonya T winked at Jessica. ‘Come on over to the Paint Pit.’

Before she could take a step Byrne asked: ‘Do you need to run this by your manager on duty?’

Eyebrows up, along with hackles. ‘Tonya T
runs
this here department. I don’t need to ask no damn MOD for permission to do nothin.’ Especially for the PPD.’

While Tonya T searched through the records, looking for a recent order of Candlelight, Jessica and Byrne stood near one of the self-service checkout lanes.

Even with the store mostly empty there were a lot of people. Jessica began to feel that this line of inquiry was an even longer shot than she had thought on the way in.