Richard Montanari (28 page)

    On
the way to Doylestown Jessica and Byrne decided not to approach the store in
any official capacity. Because this was the only store within reach of the city
that carried the paper used in these homicides, there was a chance that they
might tip their hand by approaching the store as law-enforcement officers
looking for information. If someone in the store was acquainted with the killer
they might get on the phone the minute they left. If Plan A failed, they could
always come in with guns and badges blazing.

    They
watched the store for a few minutes. There was a woman behind the counter,
working on a small display rack. No one entered the store and they did not see
anyone else working.

    'Looks
like you're up,' Jessica said.

    'I
thought
you
were the undercover queen.'

    'I
am,' Jessica said. 'But I think metrosexual is out of my range.'

    'What
did we say about that word?'

    'Sorry.'

    Byrne
took a moment, scoping the terrain. 'Who am I again?'

    Jessica
gave it some thought. 'I'm thinking Bennett Strong.'

    Byrne
nodded. It was a good choice. Tough but suitably fey, given the venue. 'Where
was the show?'

    Jessica
turned her iPhone so that Byrne could see it. She had searched the web on the
way into Doylestown and found a recent print show in Philadelphia. She had also
looked up the art supply store's website. There she found the owner's name.
Alicia Webster.

    Byrne
pulled his badge from his belt, along with his weapon and his holster, put it
all in the back seat. He took off his jacket.

    'Want
some hair gel?' Jessica asked.

    Byrne
just gave her a look.

    She
glanced up as Byrne entered the store accompanied by a ring of a bell. 'May I
help you?' she asked. Pleasant smile, bright eyes.

    Byrne
proffered a business card. On it was simply a name - no phone number, no
address, no email, no website. He had a stack of them in his briefcase. Ten
different names. You never knew.

    'My
name is Bennett Strong,' he said. 'I am the owner of Strong Galleries, New York
City.'

    The
woman's face lit up.

    'You
are Miss Webster?'

    The
woman looked surprised that he knew her name.

    'I
am.' She held up her left hand, wiggled her ring finger. 'But it's Mrs.'

    Byrne
put a hand to his heart. 'Mea culpa.' He smiled at her. 'Mrs. Of course.'

    A
blush. 'How can I help you, Mr. Strong?'

    'I
love your store, by the way. Did I see Kolinsky sables on the way in?' It was
something Byrne had seen on the store's website. He knew that the woman carried
the brushes.

    'Yes,'
she said. 'You know your brushes.'

    'And
now to the point. I recently attended the PortPhilio show in Philadelphia. Did
you manage to make it to the affair?'

    
Say
no, Byrne thought. Please say no
.

    'No.
I wanted to, but I'm all alone here since my son went back to school. I
couldn't get away.'

    'It
was fabulous.'

    The
door opened behind them, ringing the bell again. A woman entered the store.
Alicia's eyes flicked over to the new customer, then back.

    'Anyway,
I met a man there, a printmaker, who recommended your shop. He showed me some
of his work and it was fantastic.'

    'How
nice.'

    'I
would really like to contact him, but I'm afraid I lost his card and I don't
remember his name.'

    'And
he said he purchased supplies here?'

    'Yes.'

    'He
was from Doylestown?'

    'I
don't know.'

    'What
did the man look like?'

    
Shit,
Byrne thought. He had no idea what to say. He didn't even know if it
was
a man. He aimed for the middle, culling from a standard profile. 'I'm terrible
at these things. But I'd say he was thirty to forty. Medium height and weight.
I'm not sure of his hair because he was wearing a ball cap.' This was as vague
as Byrne could get. He smiled at Alicia. 'I'm a lot better with remembering
women.'

    Another
blush. 'Well, that's not too much for me to go on.'

    'Maybe
this will help. During the course of our conversation he mentioned his printmaking
technique, and said he was enamored of a certain brand of paper. An Italian
paper. Quite expensive.'

    'Do
you remember the line?'

    'I do
not. But he showed me a sample and the watermark was Venus de Milo.'

    'Atriana.'

    Byrne
snapped his fingers. 'That's it.'

    The
woman frowned. 'That's not an item we generally keep in stock. I've only sold a
few dozen sheets in the past year or so.'

    Alicia
turned to her computer, tapped a few keys. In a moment a screen came up. Byrne could
see the reflection in her glasses. It was a database program and she had found
an entry. She nodded, perhaps remembering the man.

    'I'm
afraid I can't give you anyone's name. Our mailing list is confidential, of
course.'

    'Of
course.'

    'If you'd
like, I could take your information and have them get in touch with you.'

    'That
would be great.'

    Just
then there was a loud crash at the back of the store. Alicia spun around to see
a woman at the rear, next to a toppled display rack of oil paints.

    'Shoot!'
the woman at the back exclaimed.

    'Oh
my,' Byrne said. 'Look, why don't you tend to this terribly clumsy woman and
I'll stop back in a few minutes. I have to hit the ATM, anyway.'

    'That
would be fine.'

    As
Alicia walked to the rear of the store to help Jessica pick up the spilled
merchandise, Byrne spun the LCD monitor to face him. His eyes scanned the
screen. The problem was that he was not wearing his glasses. The customer's
name was a little larger than the rest of the entry. He got that with no
problem. It was a company called Marcato LLC.

    Beneath
that:
Attention JP Novak.
Byrne looked at the bottom. Philadelphia. In
between, it was mostly a blur.

    He
spun the monitor back, turned on his heels, and left the store.

    'Did
we get it?'

    'I
got the name,' Byrne said. 'And a partial address.'

    'A
partial
address?'

    Byrne
fell silent.

    'You
weren't wearing your glasses.'

    Byrne
plowed forward. He checked the notes that he'd scribbled after leaving the
store. 'The paper was purchased by a company called Marcato LLC. Contact name
is JP Novak. The address is in Philly. Something something something something
Ashingdale Road. Or Arlington. I think the number was 8180 or 5150. Maybe
6160.'

    Jessica
shook her head. 'You know, those glasses do serve a purpose.'

    'I
don't see you wearing yours all the time.'

    'Mind
your own business, Mr. Strong. Now, drive the car and let me start sleuthing.'

    She
also looked up Marcato and did not find any company with that name, LLC or
otherwise. She did find a definition of the word and found that it was Italian
for
marked
, and when it was applied to music it meant performing the
note with an 'attack' and a sustain of two-thirds of the original written
length, followed by an audible counted rest.

    According
to one source the
marcato
sound was 'a rhythmic thrust followed by a
decay of the sound.'

    
Who
would name their company this? Jessica wondered.

    After
twenty minutes of strikeouts Jessica stood, began to peruse the large paper map
on the wall. You could only look at a computer screen for so long before going
six-eyed with fatigue. Somehow she put her finger on two possibilities.

    'Look
at this,' she said. 'There's a street in West Philly called Abingdon.'

    Byrne
shot to his feet. 'That's it.' 'There's also one called Ashingdale.' 'Shit.'

    Josh
Bontrager grabbed his coat. 'I'll take Ashingdale.' Jessica and Byrne headed to
the door. 'Kevin?'

    'What?'

    'Bring
your glasses.'

    The
addresses on Abingdon Road stopped at 7000, so this eliminated the chance of
the address being 8180. Jessica and Byrne drove to the far end of the street,
worked back from 5150. This was a body shop called D & K Motor Cars. No one
inside knew anyone named Novak, nor a company called Marcato LLC.

    The
address at 6160 was a gentrified apartment building called the Beau Rive,
perhaps at one time a warehouse. The front had recently been stuccoed, and all
four apartments in the front had leaded-glass bay windows.

    Byrne
pulled over, cut the engine.

    'Hang
on,' Jessica said.

    She
got out of the car, walked up the steps to the apartment building. She walked
into the small lobby and looked at the mailboxes. There were six suites. She
scanned the names. The second to last name, in apartment 204, was Joseph Paul
Novak.

    
Bingo
.

    She
tried the buzzer twice. No response.

    Jessica
walked out of the building, across the street. She got back in the car.
'There's a Joseph Novak in apartment 204. I buzzed. Nothing.'

    Byrne
checked his side mirror, then did a U-turn, pulling up on the opposite side of
the street in front of a Thai takeout. They had not stopped for lunch and the
aromas were enticing. He put the Taurus in park, cut the engine. 'Want to stake
it out for a little while?'

    'Sure,'
Jessica said.

    They
watched the pedestrian traffic up and down Abingdon Road. After ten minutes or
so Jessica got restless. She got out of the car, crossed the street, leaned
against a light pole, took out her cell. She pretended to have a conversation.
Cellphones were, hands down, the best surveillance prop ever invented.

    Finally
the door to the Beau Rive opened. The first person to walk out the building was
a woman in her sixties, well-dressed and accessorized. When she reached the sidewalk
she stopped, rummaged through her purse, then turned around in disgust, stormed
back inside. She'd obviously forgotten something.

    The
second person to emerge was a man. He was black, in his late twenties, in a
real hurry. He came out of the door buttoning a white chef's jacket. Jessica
leaned back against the lamppost, called out:

    'Joseph?'

    No
reaction. He didn't even acknowledge her. A few minutes later the woman
reemerged and walked the other way down the street, a little more urgency to
her stride. As a woman who forgot something at home every day, Jessica
sympathized.