Richard Montanari (30 page)

    Jessica
stepped fully into the lobby and was just about to raise her weapon when she
sensed another presence. She looked over. It was Josh Bontrager. He was leaning
against the front door, a hoagie in one hand, his weapon in the other. He smiled,
winked at Jessica just as Byrne came barreling into view in front of the
building.

    Byrne
entered the lobby, caught his breath. Josh Bontrager ate his sandwich. Jessica
stepped forward, holstered her weapon, and took Joseph Novak into custody.

    Lucy
found herself standing in front of the door, the small red door with the
tarnished golden key on it. She didn't even remember walking to Cherry Street.
All she remembered was clocking out for lunch and then, magically, there she
was.

    In a
few moments she was in front of the Dreamweaver's door. This time it was
closed. She knocked, waited. She heard music coming from inside, some kind of
classical music. She didn't know anything about classical music. She knocked
again. The music stopped. Then she heard some light footsteps. The door opened.

    'Lucinda.'

    She
was instantly taken aback by his appearance. She might have even made some kind
of involuntary noise. Mr. Costa seemed younger. Not younger as in he looked
like a younger man, but more animated, quicker in his movements. His hair was
combed, parted in a perfectly straight line on the right side. He wore what
looked like a fresh white shirt. His shoes were newly polished. He smelled of
good soap.

    Lucy
found herself trembling as she walked into his room. She turned slightly as she
passed through the doorway, but found that the photograph - the one she was
certain was the one of her house when she'd been growing up, the picture that
was hanging just above the light switch - had been replaced with a different
photograph, this one of a valley full of flowers and a small cabin with smoke
curling out of the chimney.

    
Had
she imagined it
?

    Mr.
Costa closed the door behind her. They walked together into the front room.

    If
the man looked more youthful, his place also looked improved. He had
straightened it up a little. He had even
dusted.

    Mr.
Costa gestured to the green chair. Lucy took off her coat, sat down.

    'I
trust you slept well?' he asked.

    'Not
really,' Lucy said. 'I'm not sure I slept at all.'

    'Understandable.'

    'I
think maybe you were right.'

    'In
what way?'

    Lucy
put down her purse, arranged herself in the chair. It too seemed different.
Larger, somehow. She felt like a little kid sitting in it, or maybe Alice
through the looking glass. 'When you said I may have opened a door yesterday. I
think maybe I did.'

    Mr.
Costa smiled. 'This is wonderful news. What leads you to think this?'

    On
the way over, Lucy had debated whether or not to tell Mr. Costa about the man in
the hotel. She decided to wait until after this session, to wait and see what,
if anything, she got out of it. 'I'm not sure,' she said. 'It's just a
feeling.'

    The
look on Mr. Costa's face indicated that he might not have believed her
completely, but that it was okay. Lucy had the feeling that a lot of people
said things like this to him - half-truths about their lives, their feelings.

    'Are
you comfortable?' he asked.

    
As
comfortable as I have ever been, Lucy thought. For some reason
.

    'Yes,'
she said. 'I'm fine.'

    'Did
you bring the notepad with you? The hotel notepad?'

    Lucy
reached into her bag, took out the notepad. She handed it to Mr. Costa but he
put out his hands, palms toward her. 'No, this is for you to write on. Do you have
a pen?'

    'No,'
Lucy said. 'Sorry.'

    Mr.
Costa reached into his coat pocket, took out a beautiful old fountain pen,
uncapped it, handed it to Lucy. 'You will write something on the pad a little
later.'

    'Okay.'

    'Are
you ready to begin our session?'

    'I
am.'

    'Now,
I want you to close your eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice.'

    
Where
are you
?

    I'm
in the dark. I have a blindfold on.

    
Do
you know where you are
?

    No.

    
Are
you inside or outside
?

    I'm
inside. Inside a building.

    
Is
the room large or small
?

    Small.
It feels like a closet or something.

    
Where
is the man
?

    I
don't know.

    
Has
he hurt you in any way
?

    I
don't think so.

    
Are
you alone
?

    Yes.
But I met someone else. A girl.

    
How
old is she
?

    She's
my age.

    
What
can you see
?

    When I
take off the blindfold I see a keyhole in the door. I can see out of the
keyhole. There's a table next to the sofa. There's something on it.

    
What
is on the table
?

    It's
shiny. It's kind of oval-shaped.

    
What
is it? What is the shiny object
?

    It's
a badge. A policeman's badge.

    
What
are you wearing
?

    A
dress. He put a dress on me.

    
What
kind of dress
?

    A
spangly dress. A grown-up dress. And he calls me Eve.

    
Eve?
Who is Eve? Someone you know
?

    No. He
means Eve in the Garden of Eden. Eve who was tempted by the apple.

    
Can
you see his face
?

    No.
Not yet. But I can see his hand. He wears a big ring.

    
What
kind of ring
?

    It
looks like a snake. It looks like a ring in the shape of a snake.

    Suddenly,
in her dream world, Lucy Doucette felt herself falling. She sensed that someone
was trying to save her. Someone or something.

    No.
It was the darkness itself. She reached out—

    - 
a
ring in the shape of a snake . . . the snake in the Garden of Eden
-

    —and
let the darkness take her.

    Joseph
Novak sat in Interview A, one of the two cramped and oppressive interrogation
rooms at the homicide unit. They did not have much, and they probably wouldn't
have been able to bring him in without his consent, but he'd run. People don't
realize that once you run from the police it opens a big can of possibilities.
It immediately establishes a hostile relationship. What might once have been a
conversation that moved gently from casual to mild inquisitiveness now began
with doubt and suspicion.

    Even
if you had to cut people loose, sometimes you got lucky. A lot of it had to do
with the nature of the case itself, the heat generated not only within the
department and the district attorney's office but also with the public. If a
case broke open in the public consciousness, pressure was brought to bear on
law enforcement to produce results, therefore detectives put the pressure on
DAs, who worked a little harder on judges, and as a result search warrants and
body warrants were granted with a little more leeway. When you searched a house
or car you never knew what the search would produce. Warrants were the
handmaidens of criminal charges, even when you had no idea what you were looking
for.

    There
were no windows, just the two-way mirror, which was not much bigger than a
magazine. Then there were the bright fluorescent lights overhead, the
bolted-down chairs, and the short-legged table. No matter how often the room
was cleaned, or even painted, it held onto the faint odors of urine and bleach.
All in all, it was the Philadelphia equivalent of a visit to George Orwell's
Room 101. Or so the Homicide Unit hoped.

    If
you had claustrophobia issues and you heard that door close, the bolt slide on
the other side, you started to come apart. More than one tough guy had blurted
a confession after an hour or two inside Hotel Homicide.

    Byrne
put the large file box on the table. It was almost empty but Novak didn't need
to know that. Novak glanced at the box, then turned his attention back to
Byrne.

    'Now,
where were we?' Byrne said.

    Novak
said nothing.

    'We
were having such a nice conversation. Why did you run?'

    Novak
still said nothing.

    'Where
were you heading?'

    Silence.

    Byrne
let the questions float for a few moments, then reached out his hand. Jessica
handed him her iPhone. Byrne turned the screen toward Novak and began to scroll
through the series of pictures Jessica had taken of Novak's bedroom.

    Novak
scanned the photos, remained impassive.

    'This
is quite an interesting collage,' Byrne said.

    Novak
took a moment. 'Is it common practice for the police to be invited into
someone's home, then to take covert photographs?'

    'Common?'
Byrne asked. 'No, I don't suppose it is.'

    'I'm
sure there are a number of privacy laws that have been violated here. My
attorneys will have a lot of fun with this. Search and seizure, for one.'

    'It's
my recollection that you invited us into your home, Mr. Novak.' Byrne turned to
Jessica. 'Is that how you remember it, detective?'

    'It
is.'

    'There
were no jackbooted thugs kicking in your door, no one rappelling down the side
of your building and smashing in your windows. Just three people talking, two
of whom were invited in.' Byrne tapped the photos on the cellphone screen. 'All
of this was in plain view.'

    Novak
didn't react.

    'Anything
you'd like to share with us?' Byrne asked.

    'Such
as?'

    'Such
as why you have a room dedicated to the history of homicide in the City of
Brotherly Love?'

    Novak
hesitated. 'It's research. I am a fan of true crime stories.'

    'As
you might imagine, so am I,' Byrne said. He indicated one of the photos. 'I
remember many of these. In fact, I worked some of the cases.'

    Novak
said nothing.