'I said, let's go.'
Clarke put the gun to Byrne's right temple. Byrne closed his eyes. Colleen, he thought. Colleen.
'We're going to take a ride,' Clarke said. 'You and me. If you don't get in my car, I will kill you right here.'
Byrne opened his eyes, turned his head. Across the river, the man was gone.
'Mr. Clarke, this is the end of your life,' Byrne said. 'You have no idea the world of shit you've just stepped into.'
'Don't say another word. Not one. Do you hear me?'
Byrne nodded.
Clarke stepped behind Byrne, put the gun's barrel against the small of his back. 'Let's go,' he said once more. They walked to the car. 'Do you know where we're heading?'
Byrne did. But he needed Clarke to say it out loud. 'No,' he said.
'We're going to the Crystal Diner,' Clarke replied. 'We're going to the place where you killed my wife.'
They reached the car. They slipped inside at the same moment- Byrne into the driver's seat, Clarke directly behind him. 'Nice and slow,' Clarke said. 'Drive.'
Byrne started the car, put on the wipers, the defrosters. His hair and face and clothes were soaked, his pulse was thrumming in his ears. He wiped the rain from his eyes, and then headed toward the city.
51
Jessica Balzano and Roland Hannah sat in the small back room of the thrift shop. The walls bore a number of Christian posters, a Christian calendar, framed inspirational sayings in needlepoint, pictures drawn by children. In one corner was an orderly pile of painting supplies- cans, rollers, pans, drop cloths. The walls in the back room were a pastel yellow.
Roland Hannah was lanky, light-haired, trim. He wore faded jeans, worn Reeboks, and a white sweatshirt with a slogan on the front, printed in black letters:
LORD, IF YOU CAN'T MAKE ME SKINNY, MAKE ALL MY FRIENDS FAT.
There were flecks of paint on his hands.
'Can I offer you a coffee or tea? A soda perhaps?' he asked.
'I'm fine, thanks,' Jessica said.
Roland sat down at the table, across from Jessica. He folded his hands, knitted his fingers together. 'How can I help you?'
Jessica opened her notebook, clicked a pen. 'You said that you called the police.'
'That's correct.'
'Can I ask why?'
'Well, I read the account of these terrible murders,' Roland said. 'The detail of the vintage clothing caught my eye. I just figured I might be able to help.'
'How so?'
'I've been at this quite a while, Detective Balzano,' he said. 'Although this store has only recently opened, I have served the community and the Lord in some capacity for many years. And as far as the ministry thrift shops in Philadelphia are concerned, I know just about everyone. I know a number of the Christian ministers in New Jersey and Delaware also. I figured I might be able to facilitate introductions, things like that.'
'How long have you been at this location?'
'We just opened our doors here about ten days ago,' Roland said.
'Have you gotten a lot of customers?'
'Yes,' Roland said. 'The good word is spreading.'
'Do you know many of the people who come here to shop?'
'Quite a few,' he said. 'The location has been printed in our church bulletin for some time now. Some of the alternative papers here have even included us in their listing sections. On the day we opened we had balloons for the children, along with cake and punch for all.'
'What sort of things do the customers buy mostly?'
'Depends on their ages, of course. The married couples tend to look at the furniture and children's clothes. Young people, such as yourself, tend to head right for the jeans and denim jackets. They always think there'll be the Juicy Couture or Diesel or Vera Wang article of clothing buried amid the Sears and JCPenney's. I can tell you that it rarely happens. Most of the designer items are snatched up before they reach our shelves, I'm afraid.'
Jessica looked closely at the man. If she had to guess, she would say he was a few years younger than she was. 'Young people such as me?'
'Well, yes.'
'How old do you think I am?'
Roland scrutinized her, hand on chin. 'I'd say twenty-five or twenty- six.'
Roland Hannah was her new best friend. 'Can I show you some photographs?'
'Certainly,' he said.
Jessica took out the pictures of the two dresses. She put them on the table. 'Have you ever seen these dresses before?'
Roland Hannah looked closely at the pictures. Soon, recognition seemed to dawn on his face. 'Yes,' he said. 'I think I've seen these dresses.'
After a frustrating day of dead ends, the words almost didn't register. 'You sold these dresses?'
'I'm not sure. I may have. I think I remember unpacking them and placing them on display.'
Jessica's pulse galloped. It was that feeling all investigators get when the first solid clue falls from the sky. She wanted to call Byrne. She checked the impulse. 'How long ago was this?'
Roland thought for a moment. 'Let's see. We've been open for maybe ten days or so, like I said. So I'd reckon it was about two weeks ago that I would have put them on the rack. I think we had them when we opened. So, about two weeks.'
'Do you know the name David Hornstrom?'
'David Hornstrom?' Roland asked. 'I'm afraid I don't.'
'Do you recall who might have bought the dresses?'
'I'm not sure I remember. But if I saw some photographs, I might be able to tell you. Pictures might jog my memory. Do the police still do that?'
'Do what?'
'Have people look through mug shots? Or is that something they only do on TV?'
'No, we do a lot of that,' Jessica said. 'Would you be willing to come down to the Roundhouse right now?'
'Of course,' Roland said. 'Anything I can do to help.'
52
The traffic on Eighteenth Street was snarled. Cars were slipping and sliding. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the sleet was relentless.
A million thoughts raced through Kevin Byrne's mind. He thought about the other times in his career when he had faced a gun. He wasn't getting any better at it. His stomach was tied in steel knots.
'You don't want to do this, Mr. Clarke,' Byrne said again. 'There's still time to call this off.'
Clarke remained silent. Byrne glanced into the rearview mirror. Clarke had the thousand-yard stare in place.
'You don't get it,' Clarke finally said.
'I do get it.'
