Play Dead (21 page)

“I know this is terribly difficult for you,” she said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Jessica sat down, adjusted herself on the chair, extracted her notebook. A personal notebook. “When was the last time you saw your sister?”
“As I told the other detectives, we had dinner,” Enrique said. “On the day she went missing. At the Palm.”
“It was just the two of you?”
“Yes.”
“Did Eve say or do anything out of the ordinary?”
Enrique shook his head. “The only thing ordinary about my sister was her potential for the extraordinary.”
“Did she mention anything about a case she was working on?”
Enrique thought for a few moments. “Eve never talked much to me about her work. She knew that I found such things quite . . . upsetting.”
Jessica shifted tack. “You are originally from Peru?” she asked.
“I am. I was born in a small village near Machu Picchu, as was my sister. We were three and five years old when we came here.”
“You came with your parents?”
A moment’s hesitation, Jessica noticed.
A family problem?
Enrique glanced out the front window. Jessica followed his gaze. Across the street, a pair of six- year- old girls—clumsy and stick- figured and giggling in their matching lime- green little- girl bikinis—ran back and forth through a sprinkler.
“Yes,” he finally said. “My father was an engineer. He worked for TelComCo in Peru. In 1981 they gave him the opportunity to come to America, to Philadelphia, and he took it. He brought his family soon after.”
“Did you ever hear from your sister in all the time she was missing?”
Enrique shook his head. “I did not.”
It appeared Enrique wanted to continue. Jessica remained silent.
“For these past two months I wondered, of course,” he said. “I questioned. And yet it is the kind of thing you know, yes?”
Jessica nodded, despite her best efforts not to.
“It is the kind of thing you
know,
” he repeated. “But still, always, you hope it is not true. The hope is something that burns inside of you, a small flame that fights the darkness of what you know in your heart.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jessica said. She was now afraid the conversation was slipping away. She put her notebook away, glanced once more around the room. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help?”
“Well, I have not touched her apartment. The other detectives were there yesterday, I believe.”
“Would it be okay if I stopped by?” Jessica knew she would definitely and irretrievably cross the line if she did this.
“Yes, of course.” He crossed the room, opened a drawer, pulled out a single key. He wrote down an address on a small pad, handed both to her. “You can just leave the key there. One day, one day soon, I will . . .”
Enrique stopped. His eyes began to rim with tears.
“I understand,” Jessica said, knowing her words were inadequate. “Thank you.”

Five minutes later, as Jessica backed into the street, she realized that somehow, in some way, this little visit was going to come back and haunt her. If Ike Buchanan found out that she had come here to talk to a victim’s brother without logging the interview, or clearing it with the primary detectives on the case, she would get her ears boxed, or worse. No detective liked an interloper on their patch. Homicide detectives especially.

As she drove away she turned to look at the small house one last time. Before she reached the corner she saw that the porch light was on. It was probably habit, she thought, one that Enrique Galvez was not ready to break.

A small flame that fights the darkness of what you know in your heart.
Enrique Galvez was still waiting for his sister.
THIRTY-FIVE
S
wann sat on the park bench. It was a glorious morning. He nibbled on a raspberry scone he had purchased from a new bakery on Pine Street.
Across his knees was a metal detector, a Bounty Hunter Tracker II.

He watched them for the better part of an hour. Five teenagers, a strange number for many reasons. Two boys and three girls. At this age, there was always a peculiar dynamic at play with an odd number. Loud, physical, bounding with energy, they challenged each other. There would always be a hierarchy established at times like this, a ladder based on the reason they had assembled in the first place. Later on it would be money and power and position. But in Swann’s experience, at this age, it was usually beauty and strength that won the day.

Their vehicle was a red minivan, doors open, music playing at a respectful level. They teased for a while, shared cigarettes and soda. Eventually watches were consulted, goodbyes uttered, trash thrown into receptacles.

When the van left, it was as he expected. One girl was left behind. To his eyes she was by far the prettiest, but she did not belong to this group for other reasons. She was clearly a stray.

As the van rounded a bend, the girl waved, tossed a finger, a smile. But Swann could see desolation in her smile. Alone now, the girl drank from her water bottle, even though she knew it was empty. Girls her age often repeated tasks like that. The energy had to go somewhere.

Swann got up from the bench, turned on the detector. It was showtime. He walked along the side of the road, brow furrowed, deep in concentration. When he positioned himself about twenty yards behind the girl, the detector alerted him. She heard, turned to watch.

“Yes!” he exclaimed loud enough for the girl to hear. “Oh yes, yes, yes.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her considering him. Who was this strange man with this strange machine? Her teenage curiosity could not resist.
“Did you find something?” she asked.
He looked up, around, as if trying to determine from where the voice had come. He found her, pointed to the ground near his feet. “Eureka!”
Swann bent over, picked up a necklace. The necklace was cheap gold. It had been palmed in his hand the whole time. “I struck gold!”
He held it up. The necklace glittered in the morning sun. The girl got up to take a closer look. They always did.
“Oh man. Sweet,” she said. “Very cool.” Her eyes went from the necklace to the emblem on his jumpsuit. The patch looked official, as if he were part of the park service. Closer scrutiny would reveal nothing of the kind.
“You didn’t lose this by any chance, did you?” he asked, slight disappointment edging his voice.
The girl hesitated for a moment—Swann would have been deeply disappointed if she had not, the longer she hesitated the longer she had been on the road—then shook her head. “No. I
wish.
It’s really nice.”
Swann put the necklace into his bag. “You’d be amazed what I’ve been able to find over the years.”
“I’ll bet.” She shoved her hands into her jeans pockets. She wanted to talk. She was lonely. “What kinds of stuff?”
“Gosh, let’s see. Rings, bracelets, coins, barrettes. Lots and
lots
of barrettes.”
The girl laughed. “Kids.”
“Tell me about it. I buy my daughters barrettes by the case. They

17 9 B A D L A N D S
are always losing them.” He turned off the machine. “My name’s Ludo, by the way.”

“Ludo? Cool name. Mine’s Claire.” They shook hands. He did not remove his gloves. “Do you work here?” she asked.
“As little as possible.”
The girl laughed again. Swann turned the machine back on, stepped away, then stepped back. “Want to try?”
The girl shook her head. Shy now. “I don’t think I’d be any good at it.”
“Sure you would. Of
course
you would. There’s really nothing to it. If I can do it, you can do it.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll tell you what.”
“What?”
“Whatever you find you can keep.”
Her eyes lit up. It was like the best offer she’d ever had. “For real?”
Swann gave her a brief demonstration. She took the detector from him.
“Try near the entrance to the path,” he said, pointing to the asphalt- paved lane leading into the forest of trees. “A lot of times people will pull things out of their pockets right there—sweatbands, sunglasses, mosquito spray—and things can fly out and get lost in the leaves. It can be a real gold mine.”
“Okay. I don’t know. I’m not really... okay.” The girl began to scan where he told her to look. She waved the machine back and forth, back and forth, like a divining rod, settling the weight.
“A little slower,” he said.
“Okay.”
Left, left, left,
Swann thought. Stop.
“Right around here?”
“Yes.”
More to the left. Stop. Right. Stop.
The machine beeped.
Ye s .
“Hey! I think I found something! Does this mean I found something?” she asked.
“It does indeed.” “What do I do?” “I’ll show you.”

She modeled the bangle. “So this is really mine?”
“Finders, keepers.”
The paste jewelry sparkled in the sun. To the girl, it was a Tiffany

tennis bracelet.

He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. They only let me do this on my break. It was nice to meet you, Claire.” He pointed to the bracelet. “Very cool find, by the way. I think you’re a natural sleuth.”

He put the detector over one shoulder, and began to walk away. “ ’Scuse me.”
Joseph Swann stopped, turned. “Yes?”
“I was wondering something.”
“Okay.”
“Is there, I mean, do you guys have, like, campgrounds around

here?”
“Campgrounds? Sure,” he said. “About a mile up this way. Nice,
too.”
“I’m not with . . .” she trailed off, pointing back over her shoulder.
She meant she was not with anybody. She meant she was alone. He
knew this already.
“Don’t worry,” Swann said. “It’s okay. I’ll tell them you’re my
cousin or something. You won’t even need ID. I’ve got a little juice
around here. It’s a really nice place. Safe, too.”
“Cool.”
Claire Finneran smiled. Joseph Swann smiled back.
“It’s right up here,” he said. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
No hesitation now. She grabbed her bag.
They walked into the woods.

THIRTY-SIX
B

yrne sat in the car, watching. The man stood across the vacant lot, leaning against a half- demolished brick wall. The man had been there every day at the same time for the past three days, probably long before that. He wore the same clothes. He wore the same hat, the same expression. To Byrne he looked emptied, as if someone had scooped out everything that made him human and left just the shell, a brittle shell at that.

This had become Robert O’Riordan’s vigil, the same as a deathwatch, even though his daughter had already died. Or perhaps she had not, in his mind. Perhaps he expected her to appear in one of the windows, like some spectral Juliet. Or maybe his desires were more earthbound, and practical. Maybe he expected Caitlin’s killer to return to the scene of the crime, as killers were wont to do.

What would he then do? Byrne wondered. Was he armed? Did Caitlin’s father have the nerve to pull the trigger or launch the blade, based on a suspicion?

Byrne had talked to hundreds of fathers in his time on the job, men who had lost a son or daughter to violence. Each faced the darkness in his own way.

Byrne glanced at the man. There was no reaching him. Not now.

He started the car. But before he could pull out into traffic his phone rang. It was Jessica.
“We’ve got something,” she said. “Meet me at the lab.”

THIRTY-SEVEN
T

racy McGovern was deputy director of the crime lab. A tall, slender woman of fifty, she had silver, shoulder-length hair, bluntcut bangs. She favored shapeless black suits, rock- and- roll T-shirts, and Ecco walkers. Tracy had spent nearly ten years working with the FBI’s Mitochondrial DNA Unit—a division that examines items of evidence associated with cold cases, as well as small pieces of evidence containing little biological material—before returning to her hometown of Philadelphia. According to her colleagues, she had the unique ability to sleep three twenty- minute stretches per twenty- four- hour period, right at her desk, and continue working on a case until the perpetrator was caught. Tracy McGovern was not so much a bloodhound as she was a greyhound.

The three boxes from the Shiloh Street crime scene were on the floor. In the harsh light of the lab they looked even brighter, more colorful. It was hard to reconcile this with the purpose for which they had been used.

“There were no prints on the boxes,” Tracy said. “They’ve been rather thoroughly wiped down with a common household cleaning solution.”

Byrne again noted the craftsmanship that went into the design and construction of these boxes. The mitered edges were almost invisible.
“These hinges look expensive,” Byrne said.

18 3 B A D L A N D S

“They are,” Tracy said. “They’re made by an Austrian company called Grass. They’re available from only a few dozen companies on the Internet. You might want to check them out.” Tracy handed Byrne a printout of specialty hardware websites.

“We’re still collecting trace evidence from the boxes, but there is something else I wanted to show you.”
Tracy walked across the lab, returned with a large paper evidence bag. “I didn’t work on this last time, so I thought I’d give it a look.”
She reached in the evidence bag and removed Caitlin O’Riordan’s backpack.
“Detective Pistone emptied the bag on scene, brought everything back in pieces, I’m afraid. I hate to speak ill of the retired, but it was sloppy work. The exterior got dusted, the interior vacuumed and cleared, and then it got stuck on a shelf. We’ve reprocessed the bag for prints only,” Tracy said. “The only exemplars belong to Miss O’Riordan. We’ll get on hair and fiber again later today.”
Tracy unzipped the bag.
“I went poking around inside,” she said. “There’s a plastic insert on the bottom that flips up.”
Tracy turned the backpack inside out. The inside flap was torn along one edge. “I looked inside here and found something. It was a section of a magazine cover.”
“It was underneath?” Jessica asked.
“It was slid inside along this tear,” Tracy said, pointing to the seam. The plastic lining had come away from the hard cardboard insert. “I’m inclined to believe Miss O’Riordan may have put it in there for safekeeping.”
“Where is the magazine cover now?” Jessica asked.
“It’s being processed for prints.” Tracy took out two photocopies of photographs, front and back of the evidence.
The images were of about a third of a page of a magazine cover, torn diagonally. It was
Seventeen Magazine,
the May 2008 issue. Written on the back was a phone number. The last five numbers were obscured, perhaps with water damage, but the area code was clear enough.
“Has Hell Rohmer seen this?” Jessica asked.
“He gets it next,” Tracy said. “He’s already pacing upstairs.”
Jessica picked up the photocopy, angled it toward the light. “Eight- five- six area code,” she said. “Eight- five- six,” Byrne echoed. “Camden.”

The fingerprint lab found three distinct sets of prints on the glossy surface of the magazine cover. One belonged to Caitlin O’Riordan. One exemplar was not in the system. One set—thumb and forefinger— were ten point exemplars. They ran the prints through a local database, as well as AFIS. The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was a national database used to match unknown prints against known, using either the newer Live Scan technologies—which employed a laser scanning device—or the old method of prints taken in ink.

The third set rang every bell in the system. It belonged to a man named Ignacio Sanz. The detectives checked his name on PCIC and NCIC and found that Ignacio had a long sheet, had twice been arrested, tried, and convicted for gross sexual imposition and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. He had done two stretches at Curran- Fromhold, the last being eighteen months, a sentence ending this past April.

Jessica glanced at Byrne as they read the sheet. They were definitely of the same mind: Ignacio Sanz was a creep, a deviant, and he was on the street right around the time Caitlin O’Riordan was murdered in May.

Byrne got on the phone, reached out to Sanz’s parole officer. Within an hour they had a home address and a work address.
THIRTY-EIGHT
T

he Shrimp Dock was a seafood take- out restaurant in East Camden, New Jersey, a slanted grease- box scaled in salmoncolored tile and torn, sea green awnings, nestled between a boarded- up Dunkin’ Donuts and a Dominican barber shop.

Jessica and Byrne walked in, scanned the restaurant, then the area behind the counter. There was no sign of Ignacio Sanz. He wasn’t working the register, nor was he bussing tables or sweeping up.

The service window was double- thick security plastic. Behind it stood a pretty young Hispanic girl in a blue and red tricot uniform and hat, looking about as bored as a human being could look and still register a pulse. She snapped her gum. Byrne showed her tin, even though it was unnecessary.

“Ignacio around?” Byrne asked.

The girl didn’t answer. That would’ve required the expending of energy. Instead, she nodded to a door next to the counter, the one marked em ye s on y.

Twenty seconds later, sufficient time to remind Byrne and Jessica just where they were, the girl buzzed them back.

Ignacio Sanz wasn’t on anybody’s list of babysitters. Now in his late twenties, a two- time loser, he was allegedly on the path to respectability. The state had gotten him a job working the fry baskets at the Shrimp Dock, and a room at a halfway house nearby.
When Jessica and Byrne stepped into the back room of the restaurant, the first thing they noticed was that the door was wide open. The second thing they noticed was that a man—without question, Ignacio Sanz—was running across the back parking lot, full tilt.

Jessica, who had dressed in one of her better suits—a nice twobutton Tahari she had gotten from Macy’s—looked at her partner.
Byrne pointed to his right leg. “Sciatica.”
“Ah,
shit.
”
By the time Jessica tackled Ignacio Sanz, he was halfway to Atlantic City.

They were in a small, cramped space at the rear of the Shrimp Dock, in what passed for an employee break room. On the walls were curling posters for the tempting bill of fare: light blue haddock, gray coleslaw, hoary fries.

Iggy was short and spindly, with a caved chest and acne- pitted cheeks. He seemed to be coated in a slick film of fish grease, giving his skin an unnatural sheen. He also had the smallest feet Jessica had ever seen on a grown man. He wore neon aqua cross- trainers and black silk dress socks. Jessica wondered if he was wearing women’s shoes.

He also sported the same red and blue tricot smock the girl out front was wearing, but instead of a hat he wore a hairnet that reached down to just over his eyebrows. All of which was now covered with dust and gravel, due to his recent visit to the ground, courtesy of the Philadelphia Police Department.

Byrne sat across from him. Jessica stood behind him. This did not sit well with Ignacio. He was afraid of Jessica. With good reason.
“My name is Detective Byrne. I’m with Philly Homicide.” He pointed over Ignacio’s shoulder. “This is my partner, Detective Balzano. You may remember her. She’s the one who bodychecked you against that Chevy van.”
Ignacio sat stock- still.
“I want you to give her twenty dollars,” Byrne said.
Iggy looked punched. “What?”
“You owe her a pair of pantyhose. Give her twenty dollars.”
Jessica looked down. When she flipped Iggy onto the ground she tore a big hole in the right knee of her hose.
“Pantyhose cost twenty
dollars
?” Iggy asked.
Byrne stuck his face an inch from Iggy’s face. Iggy shrunk measurably. “Are you saying my partner doesn’t deserve the best?”
Trembling, without another word, Iggy dug around in his pockets, came up with a wad of damp bills, counted them out. Fourteen dollars. He flattened them on the table, stacked them, then handed them to Jessica, who took them without hesitation, even though she wondered where the hell they had recently been.
“You could, you know, come back for the rest later,” Iggy said. “I get paid today. I’ll have the rest later.”
“Come back?” Byrne said. “What makes you think you’re not coming with us?”
This had not occurred to Iggy. “But I didn’t
do
nothing.”
Byrne laughed. “You think that matters to someone like me?”
This also had not occurred to him. But the implications were far more serious. Iggy stared at the floor, remained silent.
“Now, my partner is going to speak to you,” Byrne said. “I want you to give her your full attention and your full respect.”
Byrne stood up, held the chair. Jessica sat down, her right knee poking through her torn pantyhose, thinking,
Does anything look skankier than this?
“I’m going to ask you some simple questions,” Jessica said. “And you’re going to tell me the truth. Right, Iggy?”
It was clear that Ignacio Sanz had no idea what was coming his way. After a lifetime of crime, courts, cops, public defenders, jail, parole, probation, and rehab, it could be anything. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jessica reached into her portfolio, put a folder on her lap.
“First of all, we know all about you and Caitlin O’Riordan,” Jessica said. “So don’t even think about insulting our intelligence with a denial.” The truth was, they didn’t know anything of the sort. But with people like Iggy, this was the best approach. “This is not even an option.”
“Who?”
Jessica took out a photograph of Caitlin. She showed it to Iggy. “Caitlin Alice O’Riordan. Remember her?”
Iggy looked at the picture. “I don’t know this girl.”
“Look a little more closely.”
Iggy did, opening his eyes wide, perhaps believing this would let in more information. He shook his head again. “No. I’ve never seen her. She could be anybody.”
“No she can’t. That’s not possible. She has to be
this person.
She
is
this person. Or at least she was. You follow me?”
Iggy bug- eyed for a few seconds, then nodded slowly.
“Good. Here’s the 411. We have you, Iggy. We have you in Philly in May, out on the street. And the icing, the part with the little candy sprinkles, is that we also have a beautiful set of your fingerprints on something Caitlin had in her backpack.”
Iggy reacted as if he had just grabbed a hot copper wire. He rose slowly from his chair, shuddering with panic. “Whatever she says I did, I didn’t do it, man,” he pleaded. “I swear on my mother’s eyes. My mother’s
grave.
”
“Caitlin’s not saying anything. That’s because she’s dead. She’s been dead for four months. But you already know that, right?”
“
What?
” Iggy screamed. “Oh
no, no, no, no. Uh- uh.
”
“Well, here’s what I’m willing to do for you, Iggy. First off, I’m willing to cut your hospital stay by a hundred percent.”
Iggy, already hyperventilating, began to breathe even faster. “My hospital stay?”
“Yeah,” Jessica said. “What I mean by that is, if you don’t sit down right now, I’m going to break both of your arms. Sit . . . the fuck
... down.
”
Iggy complied. Jessica picked up the magazine cover in the clear plastic evidence envelope. She held it up.
“Tell me why your prints are on this magazine, Iggy. Start right now.”
Iggy’s eyes darted side to side, vibrating, like a lemur’s. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I remember. It’s embezzled in my mind.”
“Embezzled?”
“Yeah. I found that magazine.”
Jessica laughed. “So, let me ask you, did you find it in the big pile of guns, knives, crack, jewelry, and wallets, or the small one?”
Iggy mangled his face again.
Huh?
“Where did you find it, Iggy?”
“I found it in my house. It was my mother’s.”
“This was your mother’s magazine?”
Iggy shook his head. “It was her
house.
It was my
sister’s
magazine.” “This magazine belonged to your sister? She gave it to you?”
“Well, no,” he said. “But we share, you know? We family and everything. I like to look at this magazine.”
“Because there are teenaged girls in it?”
Iggy just stared.
“How did this magazine get into Caitlin O’Riordan’s backpack?”
Iggy took a few moments, apparently calculating that this next answer was going to be crucial. The smell of hot, fishy grease began to fill the back room. The Shrimp Dock was gearing up for lunch. “I don’t know.”
“We’re going to need to talk to your sister.”
“I can help you with that,” Iggy said, snapping his fingers, suddenly full of vigor. “I can most
definitely
help you with that.”
Jessica glanced at Byrne, wondering if they would spend the rest of the day driving around Camden in ninety- degree heat, looking for a phantom.
“You’re saying you know where we can find your sister right now?” Jessica asked.
“Absolutely,” Iggy said. He smiled. Jessica immediately wished he hadn’t. In addition to the five- car pileup that was his dental work, she caught a blast of his breath: a combo of menthol cigarettes and deep fried hush puppies. “She’s standing right behind you.”