The Doll Maker (3 page)

‘Look,’ the young lady began. ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. But thanks anyway.’ She glanced at her watch, then back at Mr Marseille. ‘I’m afraid I have a ton of homework.’

With a lightning fast move Mr Marseille took the girl by both wrists, and spun her into the alleyway. Mr Marseille is quite the athlete, you see. I once saw him catch a common housefly in midair, then throw it into a hot skillet, where we witnessed its life vanish into an ampersand of silver smoke.

As he seized the girl I watched her eyes. They flew open to their widest: counterweights on a precious Bru. I noticed then, for the first time, that her irises had scattered about them tiny flecks of gold.

This would be a challenge for me, for it was my duty – and my passion – to re-create such things.

We sat around the small table in our workshop. At the moment it was just Nicole, Mr Marseille, and me. Our friends had yet to arrive. There was much to do.

‘Would you like some more tea?’ I asked.

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Our special tea often had this effect. Mr Marseille and I never drank it, of course, but we had seen its magical results on others many times. Nicole had already had two cups, and I could only imagine the colors she saw; Alice at the mouth of the rabbit hole.

I poured more tea into her cup.

‘There,’ I said. ‘I think you should let it cool for a time. It is very hot.’

While I made the final measurements, Mr Marseille excused himself to make ready what we needed for the gala. We were never happier than at this moment, a moment when, needle in hand, I made the closing stiches, and Mr Marseille prepared the final table.

We parked by the river, exited the car. Before showing our guest to her seat, Mr Marseille blindfolded me. I could barely conceal my anticipation and delight. I do
so
love a tea.

Mr Marseille does, as well.

With baby steps I breached the path. When Mr Marseille removed my scarf, I opened my eyes.

It was beautiful. Better than beautiful.

It was
magic
.

Mr Marseille had selected the right color. He often labored over the decision for days, but each time, after the disposing of the rollers and trays and brushes, after the peeling away of the masking tape, it was as if the object of his labors had always been so.

Moments later we helped the girl – Nicole Solomon was her full name – from the car. Her very presence at our table made her absent from another. Such is the way of all life.

As Mr Marseille removed the stockings from the bag, I made my goodbye, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, thinking that Mr Shakespeare was surely wrong.

There is no sweetness in parting.

Only sorrow.

I returned to where Mr Marseille stood, and pressed something into his gloved hand.

‘I want her to have this,’ I said.

Mr Marseille looked at what I had given him. He seemed surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

I was not. But I’d had it so long, and loved it so deeply, I felt it was time for the bird to fly on its own.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’

Mr Marseille touched my cheek and said, ‘My dearest heart.’

Under the bright moon, as Philadelphia slept, we watched the shadow of the girl’s legs cast parallel lines on the station house wall, just like the double
l
in Anabelle and Mr Marseille.

They always come back.

If there was one truth known to Detective Kevin Francis Byrne – as well as any veteran law enforcement officer, anywhere in the world – it was that criminals always come back for their weapons.

Especially the expensive ones.

There were, of course, mitigating circumstances that might prevent this. The criminal being dead, to mention one happy outcome. Or being incarcerated. Not as joyous, but serviceable.

Even though there was always the distinct possibility that the police knew where you had stashed the weapon, and might be watching that spot in case you came back, in Kevin Byrne’s experience, that had never stopped them.

Not once.

There were some who believed that the police, as a rule, were stumbling oafs who only managed to catch the dumb criminals. While the argument for this was persuasive, to some, it was not true. For Kevin Byrne, as well as most of the lifers he knew, the saying was a little different.

You catch the dumb ones
first
.

It was the second full day of surveillance and Byrne, who had enough years under his badge to have passed it off to a younger detective, volunteered to take last out, the shift that went from midnight to eight a.m. There were two reasons for this. One, he had long ago given in to his insomnia, working on the theory that he was one of those people who only needed four or five hours of sleep per night to function. Two, there was a much better chance that the man for whom they were looking – one Allan David Trumbo – would come for the weapon in the middle of the night.

If there was a third reason, it was that Byrne had a dog in this fight.

Six days earlier, Allan Wayne Trumbo – a two-time loser with two armed robbery convictions and a manslaughter conviction under his belt – walked into a convenience store near the corner of Frankford and Girard, put a gun to the head of the night clerk, and demanded all the money in the register. The man behind the counter complied. Then, as surveillance footage showed, Trumbo took a step back, leveled the weapon and fired.

The man behind the counter, Ahmed Al Rashid, the owner of Ahmed’s Grocery, died on his feet. Trumbo, being the criminal mastermind that he is, then took off his ski mask in full view of the surveillance camera, reached into a rack, and took a package of TastyKake mini donuts. Coconut Crunch, to be exact.

By the time Trumbo stepped out onto the street, sector cars from the 26th District were already en route, just a few blocks away. The police pole camera on the corner of Marlborough and Girard showed the man dumping his weapon into a city trashcan just inside an alley, half a block west of Second Street.

Although it was not Byrne’s case, he knew Ahmed, having visited the bodega many times when he was a young patrol officer. Byrne didn’t know a single cop who had ever had to pay for a cup of coffee at Ahmed’s. His brimming tip jar was testament to his generosity.

Trumbo took that money, too.

Rule number one for any homicide detective was to never take any case personally. In the case of the cold-blooded murder of Ahmed Al Rashid, Byrne decided to disregard this rule, as he had many times before.

Byrne knew that Trumbo would come back for the weapon. He just didn’t think it would take this long.

At the request of the PPD, the Sanitation Division of the Philadelphia Streets Department had not touched that particular trashcan since the incident. It had been under surveillance, in one manner or another, from the moment Trumbo walked away.

Investigators also had the AV Unit make a big show of taking down the two cameras that covered this end of the block – three police vans at noon, taking three times as long taking down the cameras than it took to put them up. If you were watching, and if you paid attention to such things, you would think that, for the time being, Big Brother was not watching this small corner of Philadelphia.

If you were stupid, that is.

Detectives from the Firearms Unit had taken the .38 Colt from the trashcan within an hour or so of Trumbo having dumped it and, with their mobile unit parked a block away, removed the firing pin, rendering the gun inoperable. They did this on the outside chance that, if this operation went south, they would not be putting a functioning handgun back on the street, in the hands of someone who had already committed murder with it.

While they’d had the weapon, the ID Unit took the chance to dust the gun for latents, and were happy to report that Allan Wayne Trumbo’s prints were all over it.

Byrne glanced at his watch. Three-ten a.m. Even this part of the city was asleep. He was parked in a nondescript black Toyota, borrowed from the Narcotics Unit. Nobody had uglier, more invisible cars than the narcos.

Ahmed’s Grocery had reopened, still braving the twenty-four-hour schedule. Even in light of the terrible tragedy, bills had to be paid. The rear door was now locked, but Byrne had a key, just in case he needed to use the restroom, which was just inside the back door.

At three-fifteen he needed to use the restroom.

Byrne got out of the car, locked it, walked to the rear entrance to the bodega.

A few minutes later he walked out the back door of the sandwich shop. Before stepping into the light he glanced at his car, its video app running. His iPhone was still propped on the dash where he’d left it. If Trumbo had come to rescue his now-disabled weapon from the trashcan, Byrne would at least know about it.

Seeing the alley just as he’d left it, Byrne headed to his car. He didn’t take three steps before he heard the unmistakable sound of the hammer being drawn back on a revolver.

Byrne turned slowly, hands out to his sides, and came face to face with Allan Wayne Trumbo. In Trumbo’s hand was a Smith and Wesson .22.

‘You 5-0?’ Trumbo asked.

Byrne just nodded.

‘Homicide?’

Byrne said nothing.

Trumbo stepped behind Byrne, reached around, removed Byrne’s sidearm from his holster. He placed it on the ground, kicked it toward the wall. He stepped back around to face Byrne, standing more than a few feet away. Trumbo had, of course, done this a few times. You don’t stand within arm’s length. That only happened in the movies, and only when the hero slapped the gun from the bad guy’s hand.

Byrne was no hero.

‘I didn’t shoot that old man,’ Trumbo said.

‘What old man?’

‘Don’t
fuck
with me, motherfucker. I know why you’re here.’

Byrne squared off, never taking his eyes from Trumbo’s eyes. ‘You need to think about this.’

Trumbo looked down the alley, at no one at all, then back at Byrne. It was street theater, starring, as always, the man with the gun. ‘Ex
cuse
me?’

Byrne watched the barrel of the weapon, looking for the slightest shake that would signal trouble. For the moment the man’s hands were steady.

‘What I mean to say is, you need to reconsider the next few minutes of your life.’

‘Is that right?’

‘It is,’ Byrne said. ‘We have you in that store, Trumbo. Two cameras. Front and side. Not sure why you took off the mask, but that’s your business.’ Byrne lowered his hands slightly. ‘It was bad enough you killed Ahmed, and you
will
go down for that. But if you kill a police officer, I guarantee you that you don’t sleep fifteen minutes straight for the rest of your life. You need to think about this. Your life starts now.’

Trumbo looked at the weapon in his hand, back at Byrne. ‘You’re telling
me
what
I
need to do? Maybe
you
catch a hot one tonight.’

‘Maybe.’

Trumbo cocked the .22 Byrne felt an icy drop of sweat trickle down his spine. He’d pushed this too far.

‘Let’s just call it friendly advice,’ Byrne said with a lot more confidence than he felt.

‘Oh, you my
friend
now?’

Byrne said nothing.

Trumbo nodded at the Chevy parked at the turnoff in the alley. ‘That yours?’

Byrne nodded.

‘Nice car,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Keys in it?’

Byrne looked down and to his left. ‘In my left front pocket.’

‘Okay, then. Slow – and I mean slow like I fuck your wife – and with two fingers, I want you to get me them keys.’

Before Byrne could move, the night air was sliced by the sound of a young woman’s laugh. The sound was so odd, in this scenario, at this late hour, that both men froze.

An instant later they turned to see two rather inebriated people – a young man and a young woman – walking toward them up the alley, arm in arm.

Byrne closed his eyes, waited for the three gunshots, one of which would certainly end his life. When he didn’t hear them, he opened his eyes.

The man entering the alley was in his thirties, fair haired, with a droopy Fu Manchu mustache. He wore faded Levi’s and a short denim jacket. He had his arm around a dark-eyed beauty – tight black jeans, hoop earrings. She was a few years younger. When the young woman saw the man with the gun she stopped, her eyes wide with fear.

She stepped behind Fu Manchu, doing her best not to look at the man with the gun.

‘
Whoa
,’ Fu Manchu said, slowly putting his hands up and out front.

‘D’fuck you
doing
?’ Trumbo asked, his hands now trembling. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

Byrne saw that the woman had already managed to slip out of her heels.

Nobody did anything.

‘Wait,’ the woman began. ‘You’re saying I can go?’

‘You deaf? I
said
get the fuck
out
of here.’

The young woman backed up a few paces, now keeping her eyes on the man with the gun, then turned and ran down the alley, to the corner, and disappeared.

While Trumbo was momentarily distracted, Byrne inched toward his weapon on the ground.

‘You too,’ Trumbo said to Fu Manchu. ‘This ain’t your business.’

The young man kept his hands out to his sides. ‘I hear you, boss,’ he said. ‘No problem.’

‘Just back up and follow your bitch.’’

A look came over Fu Manchu’s face, one Byrne recognized as acknowledgment. ‘I know you,’ the young man said.

‘You
know
me?’ Trumbo asked.

The young man smiled. ‘Yeah. We met in ’09. Summer.’

‘I don’t know you, man,’ Trumbo said. The gun hand began to tremble. Never a good sign, in Byrne’s experience, and he had enough experience in situations like this for three lifetimes.

‘Yeah. You’re Mickey’s cousin. Mickey Costello.’

‘I know who my fucking cousin is,’ Trumbo said. ‘How you know Mickey?’

‘Same way I know you, bro. We did that body shop up on Cambria. Me and Mickey took the door; you and Bobby Sanzo drove the van.’