The Doll Maker (29 page)

‘I’ve got it,’ Jessica said. ‘Can you take Sophie home?’

‘No problem,’ Byrne said. ‘I have to make a stop at my house. I’ll get her there in an hour or so.’

When Jessica arrived at Woodside – a standalone building in a commercial complex near Pennsport – she met with the managing director, a woman named Jane Grasson. Grasson was in her late fifties.

Jessica gave the woman a brief rundown of what had happened, and what brought her to Woodside, that being the suicide of David Solomon. They met in the woman’s small, cluttered office.

‘What a terrible thing,’ Grasson said. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

‘Yes,’ Jessica replied, echoing the sentiment. She gave it a moment. ‘How long did you know Mr Solomon?’

‘Not very long. Just a few years.’

‘You met him when he came to be associated with Woodside?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you say you knew him well?’

She thought about this. ‘As well as you might know anyone in a workplace setting. Other than the occasional birthday or holiday party, I never socialized with him.’

‘Did you ever visit him at his home, or did he ever come to yours?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever meet his wife?’ Jessica asked.

‘No, but he talked about her a lot.’

‘How so?’

‘Not anything specific, but I could tell he was deeply in love with her. You know how some people sound so cruel when they talk about their spouses? Like they can’t say anything nice about them?’

‘I do.’

‘David Solomon was just the opposite. He always talked about his wife and baby daughter in the most loving way.’

‘You’re referring to Nicole?’

‘Yes,’ Grasson said. ‘She was born when David worked here.’

Jessica made a note. ‘What about his work here? What can you tell me about it?’

‘As you might expect, when you work in the mental health field, you come in contact with all kinds of people. More than once David spoke of one particularly difficult patient or another – never in detail, of course – and the possibility that he might not be giving that person the proper treatment or advice.’

‘In what way?’

Jane Grasson appeared to be looking for the proper way to put what she had to say next. ‘As you know, Woodside does some work for the city and the county, as well as the department of corrections. And while this is not
pro bono
work, it
is
offered for what amounts to little more than expenses – travel costs, meals, et cetera.

‘In doing this work, especially for a licensed clinical social worker, the patients present with a wide spectrum of conditions. Everything from mild depression to bipolar disorders. By law, and by training, there is only so much an LCSW can do.’

‘And Mr Solomon had concerns about his safety?’

‘I would have to say he did. More than once I heard him wonder whether or not one of his patients, upon their release from custody or rehab facility, might come looking for him. There are all kinds of transference.’

While far from having a deep understanding of the phenomenon, Jessica knew that, in a therapy context,
transference
referred to the rerouting of a patient’s feelings for a significant person in that person’s life to the therapist.

‘Do you recall if Mr Solomon ever referred to a specific patient with whom he was having doubts or fears?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘But you believe he feared for the safety of his family.’

‘Yes,’ Jane Grasson said. ‘I believe he did.’

When Byrne turned the corner onto his street his mind was a deadfall of questions.

First and foremost was the elusive wire that led from Nicole Solomon directly to the Gillen boys. They did not yet have a link between them. The victims did not attend the same schools or churches or social clubs and, as far as they knew, the families did not know each other. The connection between Judge Gillen and David Solomon had not been established, if indeed it was Michael Gillen who Solomon meant to reach.

Before leaving the hospital Byrne learned that, at the request of the homicide unit, the ER doctor had taken a blood sample from Miss Emmaline, and by the end of the day they would know if the psilocin in Miss Emmaline’s bloodstream – if indeed it was used in the tea – matched the substance found in Nicole Solomon’s bloodstream.

As he neared his address Byrne saw a pair of pickup trucks parked at the curb a half block south. One Ford F150; one Dodge 1500. One of the trucks had folded scaffolding in the back, the other had a plastic bed liner with a bay in which to lock your tools.

Seeing these trucks was a positive thing. If other people on the street were keeping up with their repairs, and doing basic remodeling and rehabilitation work, it was good for the block.

Byrne pulled into his drive, parked the car.

‘Oh, my gosh!’ Sophie said. ‘Your house is so cool!’

‘Thanks.’

As Byrne exited the car, and turned to head down the driveway, his heart plummeted.

There was a cloud of smoke rising into the sky, coming from behind his house.

‘Stay here,’ he said to Sophie.

She got back in the car.

In his time on the police force, especially as a rookie patrol officer in a sector car, he had run into countless buildings, not having any idea the depth of the danger to be found within. Part of the job was not thinking about it.

As he sprinted down the driveway towards the garage, he fully expected to see the back porch, maybe even the rear of his house – a more than ninety-year-old, dry-as-kindling house – fully engulfed in flames.

By the time he rounded the corner he had the
nine
and the
one
punched in to the touchpad of his iPhone. He stopped at the end of the driveway.

His house was not on fire.

Instead, in his backyard, were fifteen or so men. Men who, for some bizarre reason, all seemed to be dressed identically – straw hats, overalls, and work boots. They all had beards, except for one. They were sitting on the ground in a loose semicircle, and they were all smoking pipes.

Corncob
pipes.

Byrne was just about to say something – all the while pledging to hop on the wagon, now and forever – when one of the men stood up. He was the only one without a beard.

‘Kevin!’ the man said.

Somehow the man’s voice was familiar, but his face was not. Then the man took off his straw hat.

It was Josh Bontrager.

‘Josh,’ Byrne said. ‘What’s … what’s going on?’

Bontrager gestured to the group of men. ‘I’d like you to meet the guys.’

He started at one end of the semicircle. ‘This is Caleb, Abram, Isaac.’ As he counted them off, each man removed the pipe from his mouth and nodded a greeting at Byrne, only to replace the pipe between his lips and continue to silently puff. ‘Over here we have another Caleb – we call him Eli’s Caleb – and next to him is Mark, Lemuel, and John.’

When he got to the last man – who looked to be about 350 pounds, at least one third of that beard – he stopped, and said: ‘And, saving the best for last, this is Silo Mervin.’

‘Gentlemen, I’m pleased to meet you all,’ Byrne said. ‘Welcome to my home.’

Bontrager crossed the yard, stood next to Byrne. He put the straw hat back on his head, shoved his hands into the pockets of his overalls, and rocked back on the heels of his work boots. Byrne imagined he looked every bit the country boy he had been growing up in Berks County. It was now clear that these men were family, or friends of the family.

‘So,’ Bontrager said. ‘What do you think?’

Byrne was just about to ask what he was talking about when it hit him. The trucks out front, the scaffolding in the bed of the F150, the flecks of white paint on the men sitting in his backyard. He took a step back and looked at his house, the first time since arriving home.

His house was completely and expertly painted. All of it. Every square inch, from the finial on the gable end, to the soffits, from the back porch all the way around to the side door, it was a bright and gleaming white.

‘Josh,’ Byrne said. ‘I don’t—’

Bontrager held up a hand, stopping him. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’

‘I was only gone a couple of hours,’ Byrne said.

Bontrager looked at his watch. ‘Four hours and forty minutes to be exact.’

‘How did you guys manage to do this so quickly?’

Byrne heard one of the men chuckle. It might’ve been Caleb. Or Eli’s Caleb.

‘This is a spectacular crew, even by Amish standards,’ Bonrager said. He glanced at one of the men, the one called Abram. ‘Tell him the record, Abram.’

Abram took the pipe from his lips. ‘Seven barns in six days.’

Byrne was almost speechless. ‘Wait. You’re saying you painted seven barns in six
days
?’

‘We
built
seven barns in six days,’ Abram said. ‘Plus a silo.’

‘We had to do a little patching around the upstairs windows,’ Bontrager said. ‘Luckily the boys had some caulk with them. She should be airtight and draft free for a while. But you’re going to want new windows in those rooms over the garage.’

Byrne hadn’t even concerned himself with whatever was over the garage. It was way down the list. ‘Can I talk to you for a second, Josh?’

‘Sure.’

The two men stepped over to the garage.

‘Whatever these guys charge is not going to be enough,’ Byrne said. ‘This job is as professional a job as I’ve ever seen. They should get paid what a union crew gets. More. You tell me, and I’ll write the check.’

Bontrager looked toward the rear of the property, rocked back on his heels again. Byrne wondered if that was an affectation struck by all men who wore straw hats, overalls, and work boots. He looked back at Byrne. ‘I just have one question for you regarding this matter.’

‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you have any beer?’

When Byrne realized he’d almost forgotten about Sophie, he went out to his car. She was calmly sitting in the front seat, reading a book. He brought her inside, took a soda out of the fridge, put it on the counter. Sophie sat down at one of the two stools in the kitchen, opened her book.

‘Will you be okay for a few more minutes?’ Byrne asked.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘This house is
great
.’

Byrne opened his refrigerator door and was instantly reminded that he had not yet begun to think of this place as a residence. There was mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise, one half loaf of Italian bread – surely gone stale – and a sixpack of Yuengling. He picked up the sixpack, walked onto the back porch, looked at the congregation in his yard. He held up the beer.

‘This isn’t going to be enough, is it?’ he asked.

All the men, including Josh Bontrager, looked at Silo Mervin.

Silo Mervin shook his head.

‘So are all these guys Bontragers?’ Byrne asked as the two trucks pulled away. He’d made a quick run to a Wawa, and sent them off with three cases of Yuengling. There were smiles all around.

‘Oh my, no,’ Bontrager said. ‘There’s some Ringenbergs, Beachys, Albrechts, Troyers, a Schrock or two.’

‘To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if the Amish drank beer.’

Bontrager laughed. ‘Man. You’ve got to get out of the city a little more, detective.’

‘Hey, I saw
Witness
,’ Byrne said.
‘
I think it’s safer in Philadelphia.’

When they walked in the kitchen Sophie was still reading her book, the untouched soda on the counter next to her.

‘Hey, little darlin’,’ Bontrager said.

‘Hi, Josh.’

Byrne sat down next to Sophie. He noticed she was on the same page she was on a half-hour earlier. Something was wrong. ‘You okay?’

Sophie just nodded. Byrne knew better. He read the concern on her face.

‘Don’t worry about your mom,’ Byrne said. ‘She’s all right.’

‘Somebody punched her in the face the other day.’

‘I know,’ Byrne said. ‘That woman was just upset. It happens sometimes. I’ve been punched a lot.’

Sophie almost smiled, but decided against it. She said nothing.

‘Your mom is the toughest person I know,’ Bontrager said.

Byrne often thought about Sophie, about her unique situation, about what it might be like to have two detectives as parents. It couldn’t be easy.

‘I hear you’re a really good swimmer,’ Bontrager added.

Sophie shrugged, picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her sweater. ‘I came in second.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong about this, but that’s a silver medal, isn’t it? Most people never get anywhere near a silver medal. And you’re just getting started.’

Another shrug. ‘I guess.’

Byrne reached over, opened the can of soda, slipped a straw into it. Sophie took a small sip.

‘You have to have a party,’ Bontrager said to Byrne.

‘A party?’ Byrne asked.

‘Yeah Some kind of housewarming get-together.’

‘Yeah!’ Sophie said. ‘You could have a
huge
party here.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘All houses have to be blessed,’ Bontrager added. ‘Maybe Donna will come.’

Byrne felt himself redden. ‘How do you know about
that
?’

Bontrager gave him the look that reminded him that police departments were as bad as junior high schools when it came to gossip. Maybe worse.

Byrne looked at Sophie. ‘If I have a party, will you come?’ he asked.

‘Am I invited?’

‘Of
course
you’re invited,’ Byrne said. ‘What kind of party would it be without you?’

Sophie beamed. She was looking more and more like Jessica every day. ‘Not a very good one.’

They did a quick fist bump.

‘Will Colleen be here?’ Sophie asked.

It seemed the decision to have a party was made. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Colleen will be here.’

‘I’ll spread the word,’ Bontrager said. ‘Big board or small board?’

What Bontrager meant was, should he put a notice about the party up at the Roundhouse only, or on bulletin boards at all the district headquarters, as well.

‘Let’s keep it small board,’ Byrne said.

‘You got it.’