Broken Angels (18 page)

46

“I’m Detective Balzano.”

The man waiting for Jessica in the lobby was in his mid-fifties—rust flannel shirt, tan Levi’s, duck boots. He had thick fingers, bushy eyebrows, a complexion that complained of too many Philly Decembers.

“My name is Frank Pustelnik,” he said, extending a callused hand.

Jessica shook it. “I own a restaurant supply business on Flat Rock Road.” “What can I do for you, Mr. Pustelnik?”
“I’ve been reading about what happened at the old warehouse. And

then of course I’ve seen all the activity over there.” He held up a videocassette. “I have a surveillance camera on my lot. The lot that faces the building where ...you know.”

“That’s a surveillance tape?”
“Yes.”
“What’s on it, exactly?” Jessica asked.
“I’m not really sure, but I think there’s something you may want to

see.”

“When was the tape recorded?”

Frank Pustelnik handed Jessica the cassette. “It’s from the day the body was found.”

they stood behind Mateo Fuentes in the editing bay of the AV Unit. Jessica, Byrne, and Frank Pustelnik.

Mateo popped the tape into a time-lapse VCR. He forwarded the tape. The images sped by. Most surveillance video machines recorded at a much slower speed than a regular VCR, so when they were played back on a consumer machine they were far too fast to watch.

The static, nightimages rolled. Finally the picture got a little lighter. “Right about there,” Pustelnik said.
Mateo stopped the tape, hit play. It was a high-angle shot. The time

code indicated 7:00 am.

In the far background was the parking lot of the crime-scene warehouse. The image was fuzzy, sparsely lighted. On the left side of the screen, near the top, was a small, light-colored blur near the area where the parking lot sloped down to the river. The image sent a shiver through Jessica. The blur was Kristina Jakos.

At the 7:07 am mark, across the top of the screen, a car entered the parking lot. It moved right to left. It was impossible to tell the color, let alone the make or model. The car pulled around the back of the building. They lost sight of it. A few moments later a shadow lurched across the top of the screen. It appeared that someone was crossing the lot, heading toward the river, toward Kristina Jakos’s body. Soon after, the dark shape blended into the darkness of the trees.

Then the shadow detached from the background, moved again. This time, quickly. Jessica deduced that whoever had driven in had crossed the lot, spotted Kristina Jakos’s body, and then returned to his or her vehicle at a run. Seconds later, the car circled out from behind the building and sped for the exit onto Flat Rock Road. Then the surveillance video returned to its static status. Just the small light-colored smear near the river, the smudge that had once been a human life.

Mateo rewound the tape until the point just before the car drove away. He hit play and let it run until they had a good angle on the rear of the automobile as it turned onto Flat Rock Road. He froze the image.

“Can you tell what kind of car that is?” Byrne asked Jessica. Her years in the Auto Unit made her the resident automobile expert. Although she didn’t know some of the 2006 and 2007 models, she was good with luxury cars over the past decade. The auto unit dealt with a lot of stolen luxury cars.

“Looks like a BMW,” Jessica said.
“Can we move in on that?” Byrne asked.
“Does
ursus americanus
defecate in its natural habitat?” Mateo asked. Byrne glanced at Jessica, shrugged. Neither of them had any idea

what Mateo was talking about. “I suppose it does,” Byrne said. Sometimes you had to humor Officer Fuentes.

Mateo worked his dials. The image increased in size, but did not become significantly clearer. It was definitely the BMW logo on the car’s trunk.

“Can you tell what model that is?” Byrne asked.
“It looks like a 525i,” Jessica said.
“What about the plate?”
Mateo shifted the image, pulled back some. The image was just a

whitish gray rectangle of a smear, and there was only half of it at that. “That’s it?” Byrne asked.
Mateo glowered at him. “What do you think we do down here,

Detective?”
“I’ve never been quite sure,” Byrne said.
“You need to stand back to see it.”
“How far back?” Byrne asked. “Camden?”
Mateo centered the image on the screen, zoomed in. Jessica and

Byrne took a few steps back, squinted at the resulting image. Nothing. A few more steps. They were now out in the hallway.
“What do you think?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t see anything,” Byrne said.
They moved back as far as they could. The image on the screen was
highly pixilated, but it was starting to take shape. It looked like the first
two letters were HO.
HO.
HORNEE1, Jessica thought. She tossed a glance at Byrne, who said
aloud what she was thinking:
“Son of a
bitch.
”

47

David Hornstrom sat in one of the four interrogation rooms in the homicide unit. He had come in under his own power, and that was a good thing. If they had gone to pick him up for questioning an entirely different dynamic would have been in place.

Jessica and Byrne compared notes and strategies. They entered the small, battered space, which was not much bigger than a walk-in closet. Jessica sat, Byrne stood behind Hornstrom. Tony Park and Josh Bontrager observed through the two-way mirror.

“We just need to clear a few things up,” Jessica said. This was standard cop-speak for
We don’t want to have to chase you all over the city if it turns out you are our doer.

“Couldn’t we have done this at my office?” Hornstrom asked.

“Do you like to work out of your office, Mr. Hornstrom?” Byrne asked.
“Of course.”
“So do we.”
Hornstrom just stared, bested. After a few moments he crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap. “Are you any closer to finding out what happened to that woman?” Conversational, now. This was standard creep-speak for
I have something to hide, but I firmly believe that I am smarter than you are.
“I believe we are,” Jessica said. “Thanks for asking.”
Hornstrom nodded, as if he had just scored a point with the police. “We’re all kind of freaked out down at the office.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not every day that something like this happens. I mean, you guys run into it all the time. We’re just a bunch of salesmen.”
“Have you heard anything from your colleagues that might help with our investigation?”
“Not really.”
Jessica looked daggers, waiting. “Would that be not really, or no?”
“Well, no. That was just a figure of speech.”
“Ah, okay,” Jessica said, thinking,
You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. That’s another figure of speech.
She flipped back through her notes. “You stated that you had not been back to the Manayunk property for a week prior to our first interview.”
“That’s correct.”
“Were you in town that week?”
Hornstrom thought for a moment. “Yes.”
Jessica slid a large manila envelope onto the table. For the moment she left it closed. “Are you familiar with the Pustelnik Restaurant Supply Company?”
“Sure,” Hornstrom said. The color was starting to rise in his face. He leaned back slightly, putting a few extra inches between himself and Jessica. The first sign of defense.
“Well, it turns out they’ve had a theft problem there for quite some time,” Jessica said. She undid the clasp on the envelope. Hornstrom didn’t seem able to take his eyes off it. “A few months ago the owners installed surveillance cameras on all four sides of the building. Were you aware of that?”
Hornstrom shook his head. Jessica reached into the nine-by-twelve envelope, extracted a photograph, placed it on the scarred metal table.
“This is a still photograph taken from the surveillance tape,” she said. “The camera was the one on the side facing the warehouse where Kristina Jakos was found.
Your
warehouse. It was taken the morning Kristina’s body was discovered.”
Hornstrom glanced casually at the photograph. “Okay.”
“Would you take a closer look at it, please?”
Hornstrom picked up the photograph, scrutinized it. He swallowed hard. “I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be looking for.” He put the photograph back down.
“Can you read the time stamp in the lower right-hand corner?” Jessica asked.
“Yes,” Hornstrom said. “I see it. But I don’t—”
“Can you see the automobile in the upper right-hand corner?”
Hornstrom squinted. “Not really,” he said. Jessica could see the man’s body language shift to an even more defensive posture. Arms crossed. Jaw muscles tightened. He began to tap his right foot. “I mean I can see
something.
I guess it could be a car.”
“Maybe this will help,” Jessica said. She took out another photograph, this one an enlargement of the automobile. It showed the left side of the trunk and a partial license plate. The BMW logo was somewhat clear. David Hornstrom paled immediately.
“That’s not
my
car.”
“That’s the model you drive,” Jessica said. “A black 525i.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Mr. Hornstrom, I spent three years in the Auto Unit. I can tell the difference between a 525i and a 530i in the dark.”
“Yeah, but there are lots of these on the road.”
“That’s true,” Jessica said. “But how many have that license plate?”
“To me it looks like HG. That’s not necessarily HO.”
“Don’t you think we ran every black BMW 525i in Pennsylvania looking for registered plates that might be similar?” The truth was, they hadn’t. But David Hornstrom didn’t have to know that.
“This...this doesn’t mean anything,” Hornstrom said. “Anyone with Photoshop could have done this.”
It was true. It would never stand up in court. The reason Jessica put it on the table was to rattle David Hornstrom. It was starting to work. On the other hand, he looked like a man about to ask for a lawyer. They needed to back off a little.
Byrne pulled out a chair, sat down. “How about astronomy?” he asked. “Are you into astronomy?”
The shift was abrupt. Hornstrom took a moment. “I’m sorry?”
“Astronomy,” Byrne said. “I noticed you had a telescope in your office.”
Hornstrom looked even more confused.
Now what?
“My telescope? What about it?”
“I’ve always wanted to get one. What kind is yours?”
It was the type of question David Hornstrom could probably have answered while in a coma. But here, in the homicide unit interrogation room, it didn’t seem to come to him. Finally: “It’s a Zhumell.”
“A good one?”
“Pretty good. Far from top-of-the-line, though.”
“What do you watch with it? The stars?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ever gaze at the moon, David?”
The first thin beads of sweat opened on Hornstrom’s forehead. He was either just about to admit something or shut down completely. Byrne downshifted. He reached into his briefcase, pulled out an audiocassette.
“We have the 911 call, Mr. Hornstrom,” Byrne said. “And by that I mean, specifically, the 911 call that alerted the authorities to the fact that there was a dead body behind the warehouse on Flat Rock Road.”
“Okay. But what does—”
“If we run some voice recognition tests on it, I have a distinct feeling it’s going to match your voice.” This was also unlikely, but it always sounded good.
“That’s
crazy,
” Hornstrom said.
“So, you’re saying you did not place that call to 911 emergency?”
“No. I did not go back to the property, and I did not call 911.”
Byrne held the younger man’s gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time. Eventually Hornstrom looked away. Byrne set the tape on the table. “There’s also some music on the 911 tape. Whoever placed that call forgot to turn off the music before they dialed. The music is faint, but it’s there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Byrne reached over to the small boom box on the table, selected CD, hit play. In a second, a song began to play. It was “I Want You” by Savage Garden. Hornstrom looked up in immediate recognition. He jumped to his feet.
“You had no right to go into my car! That is a clear violation of my civil rights!”
“What do you mean?” Byrne asked.
“You had no search warrant! That is my property!”
Byrne stared at Hornstrom until the man saw the wisdom of sitting down. Byrne then reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a CD crystal case, and a small plastic bag from Coconuts Music. He also pulled out a receipt time-coded from one hour earlier. A receipt for Savage Garden’s self-titled 1997 album.
“No one went into your car, Mr. Hornstrom,” Jessica said.
Hornstrom looked at the bag, the CD case, the receipt. And knew. He had been played.
“Now, here’s a suggestion,” Jessica began. “Take it or leave it. At this moment, you are an important witness in a homicide investigation. The dividing line between witness and suspect—even at the best of times—is a thin one. Once you cross that line your life changes forever. Even if you turn out not to be the guy we’re looking for, your name, in certain circles, is forever connected to words like ‘murder investigation,’ ‘suspect,’ ‘person of interest.’ Do you hear what I’m saying?”
A deep breath. On the exhale: “Yes.”
“Good,” Jessica said. “So, here you are, in a police station, with a critical choice to make. You can answer our questions honestly and we will get to the bottom of things. Or you can choose to play a dangerous game. Once you get a lawyer, we’re done, the DA’s office takes over and, let’s face it, they’re not the most flexible people in town. They make us look downright friendly.”
The cards were dealt. Hornstrom appeared to weigh his options. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Jessica held up the photograph of the car leaving the Manayunk parking lot. “This is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You pulled into the parking lot that morning at approximately 7:07?”
“Yes.”
“You saw Kristina Jakos’s body, and you left?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I...couldn’t take the chance.”
“What chance? What are you talking about?”
Hornstrom took a few moments. “We have a lot of important clients, okay? The market is very volatile now, and one hint of scandal could topple the whole thing. I panicked. I’m ...I’m
sorry.
”
“Did you place the 911 call?”
“Yes,” Hornstrom said.
“From an old cell phone?”
“Yes. I just changed carriers,” he said. “But I
did call
. Doesn’t that tell you something? Didn’t I do the right thing?”
“So what you’re saying is, you want some sort of commendation for doing the most basically decent thing imaginable? You find a dead woman on a riverbank and you think calling the police is some sort of noble act?”
Hornstrom buried his face in his hands.
“You lied to the police, Mr. Hornstrom,” Jessica said. “This is something that is going to be with you for the rest of your life.”
Hornstrom remained silent.
“Ever been to Shawmont?” Byrne asked.
Hornstrom looked up. “Shawmont? I guess I have. I mean I’ve driven
through
Shawmont. What does—”
“Ever been to a club called Stiletto?”
Pale as a sheet now.
Bingo.
Hornstrom leaned back in his chair. It was clear that he was about to shut down.
“Am I under arrest?” Hornstrom asked.
Jessica was right. Time to slow down.
“We’ll be back in a minute,” Jessica said.
They stepped out of the room, closed the door. They entered the small alcove with the two-way mirror looking into the interrogation room. Tony Park and Josh Bontrager had been observing.
“What do you think?” Jessica asked Park.
“I’m not convinced,” Park said. “I think he’s just a player, a kid who found a body and saw his career going in the toilet. I say cut him loose. If we need him later, he might still like us enough to come in under his own power.”
Park was right. Hornstrom didn’t strike any of them as a stone killer.
“I’m going to take a ride up to the DA’s office,” Byrne said. “See if we can’t get a little closer to Mr. HORNEE1.”
They probably did not have enough to get a search warrant of David Hornstrom’s house or vehicle yet, but it was worth a try. Kevin Byrne could be very persuasive. And David Hornstrom deserved to have the thumbscrews applied.
“Then I’m going to meet with some of the girls from Stiletto,” Byrne added.
“Let me know if you need backup on that Stiletto detail,” Tony Park said, smiling.
“I think I can handle it,” Byrne said.
“I’m going to hole up with those library books for a few hours,” Bontrager said.
“I’ll get on the street and see if I can track down anything about these dresses,” Jessica said. “Whoever our boy is, he had to get them somewhere.”

There lived a young woman named Anne Lisbeth. She was a beautiful girl, with gleaming teeth, shiny hair, and a pretty complexion. One day she had a child of her own, but her son was not very pretty, so he was sent to live with others.

Moon knows all about this.
While a laborer’s wife brought up her child, Anne Lisbeth went to live at the count’s castle, surrounded by silk and velvet. No breath was allowed to blow on her. No one was allowed to speak to her.
Moon watches Anne Lisbeth from the back of the room. She is as fair as the fable. She is surrounded by the past, by all that has lived before. In this room dwells the echo of many stories. It is a place of discarded things.
Moon knows about this, as well.
In the story, Anne Lisbeth lived for many years, became a woman of respect and station. The people in her village called her Madame.
Moon’s Anne Lisbeth will not live this long.
She will wear her dress today.

There were about one hundred secondhand clothing and thrift-type stores in Philadelphia, Montgomery, Bucks, and Chester Counties, including those small boutiques that had sections devoted to consignment clothing.

Before she could plot her itinerary, Jessica got a call from Byrne. He had struck out on a search warrant for David Hornstrom. Plus, there was no manpower available to put a tail on the man. For the time being, the DA’s office had decided not to move forward with a charge of obstruction. Byrne would keep the pressure on.

jessica began her canvass on Market Street. The shops closest to Center City tended to be more expensive, specializing in consignment of designer clothes, or offering versions of whatever vintage style was popular du jour. Somehow, by the time Jessica reached the third store, she had picked up an adorable Pringle cardigan. She hadn’t meant to. It had just happened.

She left her credit card and cash locked in her car after that. She was supposed to be conducting a homicide investigation, not building a wardrobe. She had with her photographs of both the dresses that had been found on the victims. So far, no one had recognized them.

The fifth store she visited was on South Street, tucked between a used record shop and a hoagie shack.
It was called TrueSew.

the girl behind the counter was about nineteen, blond and delicately pretty, fragile. The music was some kind of Euro trance, volume low. Jessica showed the girl her ID.

“What’s your name?” Jessica asked.
“Sa’mantha,” the girl said. “With an apostrophe.”
“And where would I put that apostrophe?”
“After the first
a
.”
Jessica wrote
Samantha
. “Got it. How long have you worked here?” “About two months. Almost three.”
“Good job?”
Sa’mantha shrugged. “It’s okay. Except for when we have to go