'I'm not questioning your dedication to your job or your abilities. Every security system has a flaw, and the person who entered Emma's penthouse tonight found it. Now, can you hear the garage door open?'
'No.'
'Do you have someone posted inside the garage checking people as they come in?'
'No.'
'And if you were occupied with something else, like a delivery or a phone call, you wouldn't necessarily see someone who entered through the parking garage.'
'I guess it's possible.'
'And if I didn't have a garage door opener and was, say, hanging out around the corner of the building, I could sneak inside once the garage door went up, correct?'
'I suppose,' he said.
'Does the security camera inside the garage record what goes on in there?'
'Yes, it does.'
'Okay. Now if I was a resident, after I parked my car, how would I get to my unit? Do I have to come back out and come through the front door?'
'There's a private elevator inside the garage which takes you up to your floor.'
'That would be the delivery elevator I saw at the end of Emma's hallway.'
'Yes.'
'Is there a camera installed inside the elevator?'
'No.'
'What about on the individual floors?'
'We just monitor the outside of the building.' 'That's what I thought,' Darby said. 'Thank you for your help, Mr Marsh.'
16
Walter Smith woke during the early hours of Saturday morning trembling with anticipation. So much to do, so much to do; he threw off the covers and raced out of his room.
The spare bedroom, stacked with barbells and weight benches, was dark. The shades were always drawn to block out the sunlight. He didn't turn on the lights. He could see well enough.
For the next hour he worked out in the dark with the heavy weights slowly, feeling the muscles burn. Despite the scarring and multiple corrective surgeries, he had achieved decent definition in his chest, arms and shoulders. He thought his legs had improved dramatically.
Sweating and fatigued, he stepped into the dark bathroom and took a long shower. He dried himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist and stood on the damp bathmat.
This was the part he hated. Looking in the mirror always upset him.
Walter summoned his courage and turned on the light.
Ropes and mats of brown and maroon-coloured scars covered his entire chest. Scars did not have any elasticity; they had halted his best efforts at building significant muscle definition.
The fire had burned over ninety per cent of his body. The remaining healthy skin had been used to rebuild his eyelids. The plastic surgeons had done what they could.
Walter had replaced the toupee provided by the Shriners Burn Center with an expensive and realistic-looking hair system. His left ear had been rebuilt using pig cartilage. His left hand didn't work, the tendons permanently damaged, his fingers nothing more than a claw.
A wave of despair gripped him. His Blessed Mother reminded him that Hannah would never see most of these scars, just his face.
Still, his face needed a lot of work.
The makeup artist at Shriners was very patient. She had shown him the best methods to hide what he really was.
First, he applied a special moisturizer that provided oxygen to the skin. It was very important to let the medicine work its way into the scar tissue, so he sat down on the toilet and flipped through the latest issue of Details.
Walter studied the advertisements of good-looking male models posing in expensive underwear; in nice jeans and T-shirts; in suits. For inspiration he had taped some of the ads to the wall of his workout room.
As he flipped through the glossy pages, staring at the tanned faces with sharp jaw lines, perfect noses and piercing eyes, he wished for exercises to improve the appearance of his face. For that he had to rely on makeup.
Walter checked his watch. Half an hour had passed. He tossed the magazine on the floor, stood and grabbed the bottles he needed from the medicine cabinet.
The oil-based foundation took a long time to apply because he only had one good hand to work with. While the makeup dried, he took out a jar of American Crew pomade and worked the waxy substance through his black hair. The pomade gave his hair the same wet, messy look he had seen in the magazines. It took a bit of time, but the result was worth it.
To complete the transformation, he used a pressed-powder, applying it with a brush.
Walter stepped back from the mirror. The face staring back at him in the unforgiving light wasn't as scary. Not as good looking as the male models in the magazines, but not frightening. He looked human.
Walter fussed with his appearance for a few more minutes, studying his face from different angles, applying touch-ups where needed. He checked to make sure his hair covered his missing ear and then put on a pair of Diesel jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt. He checked himself in a full-length mirror that didn't show his face. He looked good. Very stylish. He slipped on a pair of black Coach loafers and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
The basement door was open. He could hear Hannah crying.
Walter so very badly wanted to go down there and hold Hannah, tell her everything was going to be okay. He hadn't meant to hurt her. What happened last night was an accident.
Mary told him to leave Hannah alone. It was best to wait, Mary said. Let Hannah cry and scream out her anger and fear, get it all out of her system.
He needed to pray for strength. He opened the closet door, got down on his knees and lit the candles. Dozens of statues of the Blessed Mother looked down on him, smiling, arms wide open, accepting. Walter made the sign of the cross, closed his eyes, and with his hands pressed firmly together, prayed to his Blessed Mother for thanks.
17
Saturday morning. Darby stood at her kitchen window, sipping coffee and watching a snowplough trudging its way down Cambridge Street under a bright, clear sky. According to the news, yesterday's storm dumped two and a half feet of snow along eastern and northern Massachusetts. New Hampshire got the worst of it – as much as three feet in some areas.
Coop was still in the shower. Darby checked her watch. It was almost noon. She was itching to get to the lab to see if AFIS, the FBI's Automated Fingerprint Indexing System, had found a match on the single latent print lifted from Emma Hale's jewellery box.
They had spent last night and a good part of the early morning hours examining every inch of Emma's home, paying close attention to the walk-in closet and the spare bedroom where the intruder had escaped. The only evidence the man had left was a wet shoeprint which Darby had lifted from the floor in front of the window.
How had the intruder gained access to the penthouse? Darby wondered if Bryson had discovered anything on the building's security tapes. Finding the man on one of the tapes would answer the question of how he had accessed the penthouse but it wouldn't explain what he was doing there or what he was looking for.
