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."
"Let's go." Before Jessica could grab her coat her phone rang. She answered. It was Ingrid Fanning again.
"Yes, ma'am," Jessica said. "Did you remember something else?"
It wasn't something else Ingrid Fanning had remembered. It was something else altogether. Jessica listened for a few moments, a little incredulous, and said, "We'll be there in ten minutes." She hung up the phone.
"What's up?" Byrne asked.
Jessica took a moment. She needed it to process what she'd just heard. "That was Ingrid Fanning," she said. She gave Byrne a brief recap of her earlier conversation with the woman.
"Does she have something for us?"
"I'm not sure," Jessica said. "She seems to think someone has her granddaughter."
"What do you mean?" Byrne asked. He was on his feet now. "Who has her granddaughter?"
Jessica took another moment before responding. It wasn't nearly enough time. "Somebody named Detective Byrne."
58
Ingrid Fanning was a tough seventy-thin, wiry, vigorous, dangerous in her youth. Her cloud of white hair was tied into a ponytail. She wore a long blue wool skirt and cream cashmere turtleneck. The store was empty. Jessica noticed that the music had changed to Celtic. She also noticed that Ingrid Fanning's hands were shaking.
Jessica, Byrne, and Ingrid stood behind the counter. Beneath the counter was an older model Panasonic VHS machine and a small black- and-white monitor.
"After I called you the first time I began to straighten up a bit behind here, and I noticed that the videotape had stopped," Ingrid said. "It's an old machine. It's always doing that. I rewound it some, and I accidentally hit PLAY instead of RECORD. I saw this."
Ingrid played the tape. When the high-angle image appeared on the screen it showed an empty hallway leading to the back of the store. Unlike most surveillance systems, this was nothing very sophisticated, just an ordinary VHS cassette machine, set on SLP. It probably provided six hours of real-time coverage. There was also audio. The view of the empty hallway was underscored by the faint sounds of traffic passing on South Street, the occasional car horn, the same music Jessica recalled from her visit.
After a minute or so a figure walked up the hallway, peering briefly through a doorway to the right. Jessica immediately recognized the woman as Sa'mantha Fanning.
"That's my granddaughter," Ingrid said. Her voice was trembling. "The room on the right is where Jamie was."
Byrne glanced at Jessica, shrugged. Jamie?
Jessica pointed to the baby in the crib behind the counter. The baby was fine, fast asleep. Byrne nodded.
"She would go out back to smoke a cigarette," Ingrid continued. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Whatever was coming was not good, Jessica thought. "She told me she quit, but I knew."
On the tape, Sa'mantha continued down the hallway to the door at the end. She opened it, allowing a wedge of gray daylight to spill down the corridor. She closed it behind her. The hallway remained empty, silent. The door stayed closed for forty-five seconds or so. It then opened about a foot. Sa'mantha poked her head in, listening. She closed the door once more.