items was in plain sight, nor was there a gray wig, a housedress, or a dark cardigan.
Adam Kaslov had a direct connection to the murder tape, he had been to the murder scene, and he had lied to the police. Was it enough for a search warrant?
'I don't think so,' Paul DiCarlo said. When Adam had said his father was in real estate, he had neglected to mention that his father was Lawrence Kaslov. Lawrence Kaslov was one of the biggest developers in eastern Pennsylvania. If they moved too soon on this kid, there would be a wall of pin-striped suits up in a second.
'Maybe this will tip it,' Cahill said, entering the room. He had a fax in hand.
'What is it?' Byrne asked.
'Young Mr. Kaslov has a record,' Cahill replied.
Byrne and Jessica exchanged a glance. 'I ran him,' Byrne said. 'He was clean.'
'Not squeaky.'
They all glanced at the fax. At fourteen, Adam Kaslov was arrested for videotaping his neighbor's teenaged daughter through her bedroom window. He received counseling and community service. He served no time in a juvenile facility.
'We can't use this,' Jessica said.
Cahill shrugged. He knew as well as anyone else in the room that juvenile records are supposed to be sealed. 'Just FYI.'
'We're not even supposed to know this,' Jessica added.
'Know what?' Cahill asked with a wink.
'Teen voyeurism is a long way from what was done to that woman,' Buchanan said.
They all knew this was true. Still, every piece of information, regardless of how it was obtained, helped. They just had to be careful about the official path that took them to the next step. Any first-year law student could get a case thrown out based on illegally obtained records.
Paul DiCarlo, who was doing his best not to listen, on purpose, continued: 'Right. So. When you ID the victim, and you put Adam within a mile of her, I'll be able to sell a search warrant to a judge. But not until then.'
'Should we put a tail on him?' Jessica asked.
Adam was still sitting in Interview Room A. But not for long. He had already asked to leave, and every minute the door stayed locked nudged the department toward a problem.
'I can give it a few hours,' Cahill said.
Buchanan looked encouraged by this. It meant the bureau would be picking up the tab for overtime on a detail that probably would not produce anything.
'You sure?' Buchanan asked.
'Not a problem.'
A few minutes later, Cahill caught up to Jessica by the elevators. 'Look, I really don't think this kid is going to amount to much. But I've got a few ideas about the case. How about after your tour I buy you a cup of coffee? We'll kick it around.'
Jessica looked at Terry Cahill's eyes. There was always a moment with a stranger-an attractive stranger, she was loath to admit-when the innocent-sounding comment, the ingenuous offer had to be examined. Was he asking her out? Was he making a move? Or was he actually asking her for a cup of coffee to discuss a homicide investigation? She had scanned his left hand the moment she met him. He wasn't married. She, of course, was. However tenuously.
Jesus, Jess, she thought. You've got a friggin' gun on your hip. You're probably safe.
'Make it a scotch and you're on,' she said.
Fifteen minutes after Terry Cahill left, Byrne and Jessica met in the coffee room. Byrne read her mood.
'What's wrong?' he asked.
Jessica held up the evidence bag with the Rivercrest Motel match- book. 'I didn't read Adam Kaslov right the first time,' Jessica said. 'And it bugs the shit out of me.'
'Don't worry about it. If he's our boy-and I'm not convinced he is-there are a hell of a lot of layers between the face he shows the world and the nutcase on that tape.'
Jessica nodded. Byrne was right. Still, she prided herself on her ability to translate people. Every detective brought specials skill to the table. Hers were the ability to organize, and her acumen at reading people. Or so she thought. She was just about to say something when Byrne's phone rang.
'Byrne.'
He listened, his intense green eyes shifting back and forth for a moment. 'Thanks.' He snapped shut his phone, the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth, something Jessica had not seen in a while. She knew the look. Something was breaking.
'What's up?' she asked.
'That was CSU,' he said, heading out the door. 'We've got an ID.'
23
The psycho victim's name was Stephanie Chandler. She was twenty-two years old, single, by all accounts a friendly, outgoing young woman. She lived with her mother on Fulton Street. She worked at a Center City public relations firm called Braceland Westcott McCall. They had identified her through the vehicle identification number on her car.
The preliminary report from the medical examiner's office was in. The manner of death, as expected, was ruled a homicide. Stephanie Chandler had been underwater approximately one week. The murder weapon was a large, nonserrated knife. She had been stabbed eleven times and, although he would not testify to it, at least at this point, because it was not his purview, Dr. Tom Weyrich believed that Stephanie Chandler was indeed killed on the videotape.
The tox screen revealed no evidence of illegal drugs in her system; a trace amount of alcohol. The ME had also run a rape kit. It was inconclusive.
What the reports could not say was why Stephanie Chandler was in a run-down motel in West Philly in the first place. Or, most important, who with.
A fourth detective, Eric Chavez, was now on the case, partnered with Nick Palladino. Eric was the fashion plate of the Homicide Unit, always turned out in an Italian suit. Single and available, if Eric wasn't talking about his new Zegna tie, he was talking about the newest Bordeaux in his wine rack.
As far as the detectives could piece together, the last day of Stephanie's life had gone like this:
Stephanie, a vibrant, petite young woman who favored tailored suits and Thai food and Johnny Depp movies, left for work, as always, at just after 7:00 AM, driving her champagne-colored Saturn from the Fulton Street address to her office building on South Broad Street, where she parked in an underground garage. That day she and a few of her coworkers had gone down to Penn's Landing at lunchtime to watch a film crew set up for a shot along the riverfront, hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or two. At five thirty, she took the elevator down to the garage, drove out the Broad Street exit.
Jessica and Byrne would visit the Braceland Westcott McCall offices while Nick Palladino, Eric Chavez, and Terry Cahill headed down to Penn's Landing to canvass.
The Reception Area of Braceland Westcott McCall was decorated in a modern Scandinavian style-straight lines, light cherry desks and bookcases, metal-edged mirrors, frosted-glass panels, and well-framed poster art that heralded the company's upscale clients: recording studios, advertising agencies, clothing designers.
Stephanie's boss was a woman named Andrea Cerrone. Jessica and Byrne met Andrea in Stephanie Chandler's cubicle on the top floor of the Broad Street office building.
Byrne took the lead in the questioning.
'Stephanie was pretty trusting,' Andrea said, a bit unsteadily. 'A little gullible, I guess.' Andrea Cerrone was clearly shaken by the news of Stephanie's death.
'Was she seeing anyone?'
'Not that I know of. She got hurt pretty easily, so I think she was in shutdown mode for a while.'
Andrea Cerrone was not yet thirty-five, a short, wide-hipped woman with silver-streaked hair and pastel blue
