'That's her.' He gestured to the inside of the store. 'Would you like to go inside where it's a little warmer?'
She held up her cigarette. 'I can't smoke in there. Ironic, huh?'
'I'm not sure what you mean.'
'I mean half the stuff in there already smells pretty funky,' she said. 'Is it okay if we talk out here?'
'Sure,' the man replied. He stepped through the doorway, closed the door. 'I just have a few more questions. I promise not to keep you too long.'
She almost laughed. Keep me from what? 'I've got nowhere to be,' she said. 'Fire away.'
'Actually, I have only one question.'
'Okay.'
'I was wondering about your son.'
The word caught her off guard. What did Jamie have to do with anything? 'My son?'
'Yes. I was wondering why you are going to put him out. Is it because he isn't pretty?'
At first she thought the man was making a joke-albeit a joke she didn't get. But he wasn't smiling. 'I'm not sure what you're talking about,' she said.
'The count's son is not nearly as fair as you think.'
She looked into his eyes. He seemed to look right through her. Something was wrong here. Something was way wrong. And she was all by herself. 'Do you think I might, like, see some identification or something?' she asked.
'No.' The man stepped toward her. He unbuttoned his coat. 'That won't be possible.'
Sa'mantha Fanning took a few steps backward. A few steps were all she had. Her back was already against the bricks. 'Have… have we met before?' she asked.
'Yes, we have, Anne Lisbeth,' the man said. 'Once upon a time.'
57
Jessica sat at her desk, worn out, the events of the day-the discovery of the third victim, coupled with the near miss with Kevin-having all but drained her.
Plus, the only thing worse than fighting Philly traffic was fighting Philly traffic on ice. It was physically exhausting. Her arms felt like she had gone ten rounds; her neck was stiff. On the way back to the Roundhouse she had narrowly avoided three accidents.
Roland Hannah had spent almost two hours with a book of mug shots. Jessica had also given him a sheet with five more recent photos, one of which was the visitor ID photograph of David Hornstrom. He had not recognized anyone.
The investigation into the murder of the victim found in the Southwest would soon be turned over to the task force, and new files would soon pile up on her desk.
Three victims. Three women strangled, left on a riverbank, all of them dressed in vintage dresses. One had been horribly mutilated. One had held a rare bird in her grasp. One had been found with a red plastic lily nearby.
Jessica turned to the evidence of the nightingale. There were three companies in New York, New Jersey, and Delaware that bred exotic birds. She decided not to wait for a call back. She picked up the phone. She got basically the same information from all three firms. She was told that with sufficient knowledge, and the proper conditions, a person could breed a nightingale. They gave her a list of books and publications. She hung up the phone, each time feeling she was at the foothills of a huge mountain of knowledge she did not have the energy to climb.
She got up to get a cup of coffee. Her phone rang. She answered, punched the button.
'Homicide, Balzano.'
'Detective, my name is Ingrid Fanning.'
It was the voice of an older woman. Jessica didn't recognize the name. 'What can I do for you ma'am?'
'I'm the co-owner of TrueSew. My granddaughter spoke to you earlier.'
'Oh, right, yes,' Jessica said. The woman was talking about Sa'mantha.
'I've been looking at the photographs you left,' Ingrid said. 'The photographs of the dresses?'
'What about them?'
'Well, for one thing, these are not vintage dresses.'
'They're not?'
'No,' she said. 'These are reproductions of vintage dresses. I would put the originals at around the second half of the nineteenth century. Closer to the end. Perhaps 1875 or so. Definitely a late Victorian silhouette.'
Jessica wrote down the information. 'How do you know they are reproductions?'
'A few reasons. One, much of the detailing is missing. They don't appear to be very well made. And two, if these were original, and in this kind of shape, they would sell for three to four thousand dollars each. Believe me, they would not be on the rack at a thrift store.'
'But reproductions might be?' Jessica asked.
'Oh, sure. There are a lot of reasons to reproduce clothing like this.'
'For instance?'
'For instance someone might be producing a play or a film. Someone might be recreating a particular event at a museum, perhaps. We get calls all the time from local theater groups. Not for anything like these dresses, mind you, but rather for more recent period clothing. Lots of calls for 1950s and 1960s stuff these days.'
'Has clothing like this ever passed through your store?'
'A few times. But what these dresses are is costuming, not vintage.'
Jessica considered the fact that she had been looking in the wrong places. She should have concentrated on theatrical supply. She would begin now.
'I appreciate the call,' Jessica said.
'It's quite all right,' the woman replied.
'Say thanks to Sa'mantha for me.'
'Well, my granddaughter's not here. When I came in the store was locked and my great-grandson was in his crib in the office.'
'Is everything all right?'
'I'm sure it is,' she said. 'She probably ran out to the bank or something.'
Jessica hadn't thought Sa'mantha the type to up and leave her son alone. On the other hand, she didn't really know the young woman at all. 'Thanks again for calling,' she said. 'If you think of anything else, please give us a ring.'
'I will.'
Jessica thought about the date. The late 1800s. What was the reason? Was the killer obsessed with that time period? She made notes. She would look up important dates and events in Philadelphia around that time. Perhaps their psycho was fixated on some incident that took place on the river in that era.
Byrne spent the late afternoon doing background checks on everyone even remotely connected with Stiletto- bartenders, parking attendants, night cleaners, delivery people. Although they were not the most savory lot, none of them had anything on their records to indicate the kind of violence unleashed in the river killings.
He walked over to Jessica's desk, sat down.
'Guess who came up blank?' Byrne asked.
'Who?'
'Alasdair Blackburn,' Byrne said. 'Unlike his father, he has no record. And the odd thing is that he was born here. Chester County.'
This was a little surprising to Jessica. 'He sure gives the impression he's from the old country. 'Aye' and all that.'
'Exactly my point.'
'What do you want to do?' she asked.
'I think we should take a ride to his house. See if we can catch him out of his element.'
