Jessica was going to ask why the man was in jail, but all of that information would be on the record. No need to open that wound now, so soon after another tragedy. She made a note to look it up.
'Do you know of anyone who might want to do your brother harm?' Jessica asked.
Natalya laughed, but it was without humor. 'I don't know anyone who doesn't.'
'Do you have a recent picture of Kristina?'
Natalya reached onto the top shelf of a bookcase. She retrieved a wooden box. She shuffled the contents, produced a photograph, a shot of Kristina that looked to be a head shot from a modeling agency- slightly soft focus, provocatively posed, lips parted. Jessica again thought the young woman was very pretty. Perhaps not model- gorgeous, but striking.
'Can we borrow this photograph?' Jessica asked. 'We will return it.'
'No need to return,' Natalya said.
Jessica made a mental note to return the picture anyway. She knew from personal experience that as time passed the tectonic plates of grief, however thin, tended to shift.
Natalya stood, reached into a desk drawer. 'As I said, Kristina was moving into a new place. Here is the extra key to her new apartment. Maybe this will help.'
There was a white tag attached to the key. Jessica glanced at it. It bore an address on North Lawrence.
Byrne took out his card case. 'If you think of anything else that might help us, please give me a call.' He handed a card to Natalya.
Natalya took the card, then handed Byrne a card of her own. It seemed to come from nowhere, as if she already had it palmed and ready to produce. As it turned out, 'palmed' was probably the right word. Jessica glanced at the card. It read: Madame Natalya-Cartomancy, Fortune-Telling, Tarot.
'I think you have a great deal of sadness within you,' she said to Byrne. 'A great many unresolved issues.'
Jessica glanced at Byrne. He looked a little rattled, a rare state for him. She sensed her partner wanted to continue the interview alone.
'I'll get the car,' Jessica said. THEY STOOD IN the too-warm front room, silent for a few moments. Byrne glanced inside a small space off the parlor-round mahogany table, two chairs, a credenza, tapestries on the walls. There were candles burning in all four corners. He looked back at Natalya. She was studying him.
'Have you ever had a reading?' Natalya asked.
'A reading?'
'A palm reading.'
'I'm not exactly sure what that is.'
'The art is called chiromancy,' she said. 'It is an ancient practice in which the lines and markings of your hand are studied.'
'Uh, no,' Byrne said. 'Never.'
Natalya reached out, took his hand in hers. Immediately Byrne felt a slight electrical charge. Not necessarily a sexual charge, although he could not deny that was a component.
She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. 'You have a sense,' she said.
'Excuse me?'
'Sometimes you know things you should not know. Things that are not seen by others. Things that turn out to be true.'
Byrne wanted to take his hand back and run out of there as fast as he could, but for some reason he couldn't seem to move. 'Sometimes.'
'You were born with a veil?'
'A veil? I'm afraid I don't know anything about that.'
'You came very close to dying?'
Byrne was a little spooked by this, but he didn't let on. 'Yes.'
'Twice.'
'Yes.'
Natalya let go of his hand, looked deep into his eyes. Somehow, in the past few minutes, her eyes seemed to have changed from a soft gray to a glossy black.
'The white flower,' she said.
'I'm sorry?'
'The white flower, Detective Byrne,' she repeated. 'Take the shot.'
Now he really was spooked.
Byrne put his notebook away, buttoned his coat. He thought about shaking hands with Natalya Jakos, but decided against it. 'Once again, we're very sorry for your loss,' he said. 'We'll be in touch.'
Natalya opened the door. An icy blast of air greeted Byrne. Walking down the steps, he felt physically drained.
Take the shot, he thought. What the hell was that about?
When Byrne reached the car he glanced back at the house. The front door was closed, but every window now had a glowing candle in it.
Had the candles been there when they arrived?
9
Kristina Jakos's new apartment was not an apartment at all, but rather a two-bedroom brick townhome on North Lawrence. As Jessica and Byrne approached, one thing was clear. No young woman who worked as a receptionist could afford the rent, or even half the rent if she was sharing. These were pricey digs.
They knocked, rang the bell. Twice. They waited, cupped their hands on the windows. Sheer curtains. Nothing visible. Byrne rang one more time, then inserted the key in the lock, opened the door. 'Philly PD!' he said. No answer. They stepped inside.
If the outside was attractive, the inside was immaculate-heartwood pine floors, maple cabinets in the kitchen, brass fixtures. There was no furniture.
'I think I'm going to see if there are any receptionist jobs open,' Jessica said.
'Me too,' Byrne replied.
'You can work a switchboard?'
'I'll learn.'
Jessica ran a hand over the raised paneling. 'So, what do you think? Rich roommate or sugar daddy?'
'Two distinct possibilities.'
'Maybe an insanely jealous psychopathic sugar daddy?'
'A definite possibility.'
They called out again. The house appeared to be empty. They checked the basement, found a washer and dryer, still in the boxes, waiting to be installed. They checked the second floor. One bedroom held a folded futon; the other had a rollaway bed in the corner, a steamer trunk next to it.
Jessica returned to the foyer, picked up the pile of mail on the floor in front of the door. She sorted through the stack. One of the bills was addressed to a Sonja Kedrova. There was also a pair of magazines addressed to Kristina Jakos-Dance and Architectural Digest. There were no personal letters or postcards.
They stepped into the kitchen, opened a few drawers. Most were empty. Ditto on the lower cabinets. The cabinet beneath the sink held a collection of new apartment staples-sponges, Windex, paper towels, cleanser, bug spray. Young women always had a supply of bug spray.
She was just about to close the last cupboard door when they heard the creak of the floorboards. Before they could turn around they heard something that was far more ominous, far more lethal. The click of a revolver being cocked behind them.
'Don't… fucking… move,' came a voice from the other side of the room. It was a woman's voice. Eastern European accent and cadence. It was the roommate.
Jessica and Byrne froze, hands out to their sides. 'We're police officers,' Byrne said.
