The Doll Maker (44 page)

Lost in my reverie of things past, I almost did not see the headlights wash the front of the house.

A guest had arrived early.

I surveyed the parlor and dining room. All appeared as it should. I put the Finnigan’s Wake cap back on my head, a smile on my face.

The doorbell rang.

I made sure my handgun could not be seen.

I crossed the foyer, and reached for the door.

Jessica waited at the door, impatient for any number of reasons. She knew it was a big night for her partner. He deserved every happiness.

She also knew that the weight of the cases was heavy on his shoulders, on all their shoulders. They were both on call this night, in case there was a significant break. Or, God forbid, another killing.

Jessica’s cousin Angela was watching Carlos. Vincent promised to stop by later, provided the drug dealers of North Philadelphia could behave themselves for a few hours. Jessica was not going to hold her breath on that one.

She thought about what her life might be like – indeed, the life of her family, as well – if and when she ever joined the district attorney’s office. For at least the first few years there would be irregular and uncertain hours. In Philadelphia, there had to be a handful of ADAs on call twenty-four hours a day for arraignments.

Still, even if she was on call for the DA’s office on a night like this, the disposition of the justice would not involve weapons and arrest procedures, and all the danger that lies within.

She put her hand on the doorknob, called out.

‘Ready?’

Jessica glanced up to see Sophie come down the stairs, looking adorable in a blue velvet, empire waist dress, even though there was nothing much yet to
empire
, thank God. No heels yet either, also thank God. Strappy shoes.

‘How do I look?’ Sophie asked.

Jessica had to bite her lip. Like a grown-up, she thought.

‘You look beautiful, honey.’

Two minutes later Jessica started the car, pulled away from the curb, and headed to Kevin Byrne’s house in Wynnefield.

Byrne listened to the sounds, his head swimming in the colors and textures around him. The room was lit by candles, and as the flames danced, the wall of dolls around him seemed to move.

No, he thought, they
were
moving.

The dolls on the shelf to his left glared at him, each with Valerie Beckert’s eyes.

All about him he heard the rustling of crinoline and satin, the tick of plastic and bisque arms and legs moving, saw tiny hands and feet try to grasp the air.

‘Whenever Papa fired a new doll, I could hear it. I could hear it being born,’ said the small doll just to his left. Byrne glanced over. The doll wore a paisley shawl, had feathered eyebrows, painted upper and lower lashes.

Byrne closed his eyes to the hallucination, tried to will it away. How much of the mushroom had he taken? There had only been a few inches of whiskey in his glass. It couldn’t have been much.

When he opened his eyes the doll who had spoken to him was replaced by Nicole Solomon. In his mind’s eye Byrne saw the silk stocking around the doll’s neck growing ever tighter, heard the hyoid bone begin to crush, saw her eyes fill with blood.

‘Why couldn’t you save my father?’ the doll asked. The voice was young, trusting. A tear shone on her porcelain cheek.

‘I didn’t know,’ Byrne replied. ‘I tried.’

When he looked back the Nicole doll’s eyes were closed. On either side were Robert and Edward Gillen.

‘We were only twelve,’ they said in unison.

‘I know,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Time passed.

Byrne heard the wind in the eaves. It was as mournful and terrible a sound as he could ever remember hearing.

Around him, the broken dolls began to sing.

Byrne knew the song.

It was ‘These Foolish Things.’

His cousin Paul, dead these many years, sat on the floor in front of him, cross-legged, his back to the door. Long before anyone in the neighborhood ever heard the word ‘yoga’ Paulie sat like this. It wasn’t a mannerism, it was how Paulie sat on the floor. He was always taller, always skinnier, always more limber than any of them. He couldn’t play touch football for shit, but he was fast.

‘Never got laid, Kev,’ he said. ‘Only got drunk that one time with you.’

‘Wild Irish Rose,’ Byrne said. He could still taste it.

Paulie smiled. He had no teeth. He’d lost them in the accident, along with the rest of his face. Not to mention that steering column through his chest. ‘King of the bum wines.’

Paulie got clipped at 26th and Lombard. He was only sixteen. They say the guy in the Camaro was doing sixty or seventy per, blasted through the red. They also said that Paulie died instantly. For those who loved Paulie, that was the good news. The bad news was that Byrne was supposed to be driving Paulie to work that night.

Everyone in the Pocket said they heard the impact. Maybe it was legend.

‘You got close that one time with … what was her name?’ Byrne asked.

‘Linda,’ Paulie said. ‘Linda Vecchio.’

Linda Vecchio still wore that glittery nylon sleeveless shell, and a denim skirt. She had a tattoo on her right calf, an eighteen-wheeler with a big red tongue coming out. Rolling Stoned, LLC. She sat on the floor where Paulie had been sitting.

‘Fucking liar.’

Linda was now Deirdre Emily Reese, the prostitute found in the woods off I-476, her body next to Ezekiel Moss’s, the one with no eyes. She had eyes now, though. They were painted on.

‘That trucker said he had a bottle,’ Deirdre said. ‘All he had was a razor blade.’

Some time later, Byrne heard the door open and close. He looked up.

It was Marseille. For some reason, Byrne saw him as he had looked on the videotape, as a six-year-old boy, the tape he had seen at … what was the doctor’s name?

He couldn’t recall.

‘Do you like our tea?’

He was once again a young man. Byrne said nothing.

‘What did you see?’ Marseille asked.

Byrne opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t seem to speak.

‘This is the view from the shelf, detective.’

The young man was right.
Partially
right. For a moment Byrne saw the room from above.

Marseille was now behind him. Byrne tried to rise to his feet, but his legs were unsteady.

‘Are you familiar with Xanax?’ he asked.

The young man was now in front of him again. Byrne opened his mouth. This time a word emerged. ‘Yes.’

Marseille opened his hand. In it were two oval blue pills.

‘Do you trust me that this will help?’

Byrne did not. But he had no choice. ‘I do.’

‘Take them, please.’

Byrne took the pills, put them in his mouth, dry swallowed them.

‘Your guests have begun to arrive,’ Marseille said.

‘What are you telling them?’

‘I’m telling them the truth. That you have been detained.’

‘That’s not the truth.’

Marseille smiled. ‘They are helping themselves to your bounty. The one young lady – the pretty one with the dark eyes – said she will play hostess until I return.’

Maria Caruso, Byrne thought.

‘I will be back in one half-hour,’ Marseille said. ‘Then we will make that call.’

Byrne opened his eyes, fearful of what he might see.

He was alone. The room was mercifully silent. He looked at the candles, and noted that they had begun to burn down.

How much time had passed? He had no idea.

The dolls were no longer moving.

Somehow the man was sitting next to him.

‘How do you feel?’

Exhausted, Byrne thought. Sluggish from the Xanax. But better.

‘Fine.’

‘Did you go to a place of happiness or one of fear and regret?’

Byrne said nothing. The mushroom had opened a portal within him, a corridor through which he did not have the courage to pass.

Marseille stood up. ‘I think we should begin the process now,’ he said. ‘Unless you have decided you will not do so.’

Byrne knew there was no choice. If he said no, or in any way tipped off the cavalry in the process, there could be a bloodbath downstairs. He had to concentrate.

‘Okay,’ Byrne said.

‘How do we begin?’

‘My first call will be to Paul DiCarlo.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He is an assistant district attorney. He will have to sign off on Anabelle’s release.’

Marseille nodded. ‘What would be the step after that?’

‘Paul would then call the county sheriff’s office.’

‘Why them?’

‘The holding cells in the Roundhouse are their jurisdiction. As soon as Mr DiCarlo talks to a deputy sheriff, Anabelle will be released.’

Marseille thought for a few moments. ‘When you say released, what do you mean? Released where?’

‘What I mean is she would be free to go. She would walk out of the Roundhouse, and be free to go wherever she wants.’

‘That is across town from here.’

Byrne nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘I’m afraid Anabelle is not very worldly. She has always depended on me for such things.’

Not my problem
, Byrne wanted to say. Instead, he said nothing.

‘In addition, I am certain she has very little money for things like cab fare,’ he said. ‘None, in fact.’

‘I can have her driven to anywhere you say.’

Marseille nodded. ‘That is most kind.’

The man pulled up a chair, sat across from Byrne. Outside, just under the eaves, the wind whipped around, rattled the dormer windows, loose in their mullions.

‘This Mr DiCarlo. Does he know your voice?’

The answer to this question, of course, was yes. Byrne had spoken to ADA DiCarlo hundreds of times, had been questioned on direct examination in a courtroom by him dozens of times. Byrne had to consider the play. If he said no, and Marseille placed the call, pretending to be Detective Kevin Byrne, DiCarlo would surely know something was wrong.

But DiCarlo, as streetwise an ADA as there was, would not know the play. Byrne couldn’t take the chance. There was only one option.

‘Yes,’ Byrne said. ‘He knows my voice.’

‘Will he be at the office at this hour?’

‘I don’t know,’ Byrne said. ‘But I have his cell number.’

‘Would he think it odd that you would be calling him at this hour, or that you would call him on his cell phone?’

‘No on both counts,’ Byrne said. ‘I’ve called him at all hours. I’ve also called him on his cell. We work well together. Providing we follow procedure, he will do what I ask.’

‘Are you ready to place the call?’

‘I am.’

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Byrne had not even considered the possibility that it would roll over to voicemail.

On the fourth ring Paul answered.

‘This is Paul.’

‘Paul, Kevin Byrne.’

‘Hey, detective. How’s the party?’

Byrne had forgotten that an invite went out to the ADAs, and that Paul had left a message, respectfully taking a rain check. ‘Two hours in and they’re already swinging from the chandeliers.’

DiCarlo laughed. ‘Sorry I can’t make it. I’m up to my ass in RICO alligators. And, needless to say, there’s a pall over the office about Marvin Skolnik’s daughter.’

‘I won’t keep you. The reason I’m calling is Cassandra White.’

As soon as Byrne said this, he considered that it might have been a mistake to call her Cassandra White and not Anabelle. He’d had no choice. Cassandra White was the name on the pending arrest warrant. Paul DiCarlo would have no idea who Anabelle was.

‘What about her?’ DiCarlo asked.

‘I want to cut her loose.’

Silence. Expected, but still a little unnerving. ‘What do you mean? Why?’

‘I don’t think we have anything that we can make stick. We’re already past six hours.’

According to the law, a person had to be charged or released within six hours.

DiCarlo hesitated a few moments. Then:

‘I’ll make the call.’

‘Thanks, Paul,’ Byrne said. ‘I owe you one.’

‘You want that on the big tab or the little tab?’

‘Be well,’ Byrne said.

‘You too.’

Marseille hit the button, ending the call. ‘Thank you, detective.’

Byrne said nothing.

‘What is the next step?’

‘In a few minutes I’ll call the desk sergeant. When Anabelle walks into the lobby she’ll be expecting her. I’ll tell her to have one of the patrol officers take Anabelle anywhere you’d like.’

Before Marseille could respond, Byrne’s cell phone rang.

Both Byrne and Marseille looked at the caller ID at the same moment.

It was Jessica.

‘If I don’t answer she’ll know something is wrong,’ Byrne said.

‘Perhaps she’ll think you’re busy and couldn’t get to the phone.’

‘You don’t know my partner. She won’t give up.’

Marseille considered this. ‘I needn’t tell you what’s at stake.’

‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘I know what’s at stake.’

Marseille pressed the button, answering the call. He then tapped the icon, putting the phone on speaker.

‘Hey, partner,’ Byrne said.

‘Hey yourself,’ Jessica said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Too late.’

‘Are you … at my house?’ Byrne asked. He winced. He’d almost asked if she was downstairs.

‘I’m about two blocks away. I’m with Sophie. Vince is going to try and stop by. Where are you?’

Byrne knew he couldn’t continue to avoid answering that question. ‘I’m on my way home in a bit. I’m at SVU.’

‘SVU? What’s going on?’

This was getting deeper. He should have said something else, something other than the Special Victims Unit. Jessica could check on this if she suspected something was wrong.

Byrne could sense the man with the gun getting agitated.

‘I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘I think we have a break.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ll drop Sophie at the party and head over.’

‘No,’ Byrne said, a little more forcefully than he wanted to. ‘I’m walking out the door now. This can wait. I’ll explain.’

Jessica was silent for a few moments.