"We're not even supposed to know this," Jessica added.
"Know what?" Cahill asked with a wink.
"Teen voyeurism is a long way from what was done to that woman," Buchanan said.
They all knew this was true. Still, every piece of information, regardless of how it was obtained, helped. They just had to be careful about the official path that took them to the next step. Any first-year law student could get a case thrown out based on illegally obtained records.
Paul DiCarlo, who was doing his best not to listen, on purpose, continued: "Right. So. When you ID the victim, and you put Adam within a mile of her, I'll be able to sell a search warrant to a judge. But not until then."
"Should we put a tail on him?" Jessica asked.
Adam was still sitting in Interview Room A. But not for long. He had already asked to leave, and every minute the door stayed locked nudged the department toward a problem.
"I can give it a few hours," Cahill said.
Buchanan looked encouraged by this. It meant the bureau would be picking up the tab for overtime on a detail that probably would not produce anything.
"You sure?" Buchanan asked.
"Not a problem."
A few minutes later, Cahill caught up to Jessica by the elevators. "Look, I really don't think this kid is going to amount to much. But I've got a few ideas about the case. How about after your tour I buy you a cup of coffee? We'll kick it around."
Jessica looked at Terry Cahill's eyes. There was always a moment with a stranger-an attractive stranger, she was loath to admit-when the innocent-sounding comment, the ingenuous offer had to be examined. Was he asking her out? Was he making a move? Or was he actually asking her for a cup of coffee to discuss a homicide investigation? She had scanned his left hand the moment she met him. He wasn't married. She, of course, was. However tenuously.
Jesus, Jess, she thought. You've got a friggin' gun on your hip. You're probably safe.
"Make it a scotch and you're on," she said.
Fifteen minutes after Terry Cahill left, Byrne and Jessica met in the coffee room. Byrne read her mood.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Jessica held up the evidence bag with the Rivercrest Motel match- book. "I didn't read Adam Kaslov right the first time," Jessica said. "And it bugs the shit out of me."
"Don't worry about it. If he's our boy-and I'm not convinced he is-there are a hell of a lot of layers between the face he shows the world and the nutcase on that tape."
Jessica nodded. Byrne was right. Still, she prided herself on her ability to translate people. Every detective brought specials skill to the table. Hers were the ability to organize, and her acumen at reading people. Or so she thought. She was just about to say something when Byrne's phone rang.
"Byrne."
He listened, his intense green eyes shifting back and forth for a moment. "Thanks." He snapped shut his phone, the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth, something Jessica had not seen in a while. She knew the look. Something was breaking.
"What's up?" she asked.
"That was CSU," he said, heading out the door. "We've got an ID."
23
The psycho victim's name was Stephanie Chandler. She was twenty-two years old, single, by all accounts a friendly, outgoing young woman. She lived with her mother on Fulton Street. She worked at a Center City public relations firm called Braceland Westcott McCall. They had identified her through the vehicle identification number on her car.
The preliminary report from the medical examiner's office was in. The manner of death, as expected, was ruled a homicide. Stephanie Chandler had been underwater approximately one week. The murder weapon was a large, nonserrated knife. She had been stabbed eleven times and, although he would not testify to it, at least at this point, because it was not his purview, Dr. Tom Weyrich believed that Stephanie Chandler was indeed killed on the videotape.
The tox screen revealed no evidence of illegal drugs in her system; a trace amount of alcohol. The ME had also run a rape kit. It was inconclusive.
What the reports could not say was why Stephanie Chandler was in a run-down motel in West Philly in the first place. Or, most important, who with.
A fourth detective, Eric Chavez, was now on the case, partnered with Nick Palladino. Eric was the fashion plate of the Homicide Unit, always turned out in an Italian suit. Single and available, if Eric wasn't talking about his new Zegna tie, he was talking about the newest Bordeaux in his wine rack.
As far as the detectives could piece together, the last day of Stephanie's life had gone like this:
Stephanie, a vibrant, petite young woman who favored tailored suits and Thai food and Johnny Depp movies, left for work, as always, at just after 7:00 AM, driving her champagne-colored Saturn from the Fulton Street address to her office building on South Broad Street, where she parked in an underground garage. That day she and a few of her coworkers had gone down to Penn's Landing at lunchtime to watch a film crew set up for a shot along the riverfront, hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or two. At five thirty, she took the elevator down to the garage, drove out the Broad Street exit.
Jessica and Byrne would visit the Braceland Westcott McCall offices while Nick Palladino, Eric Chavez, and Terry Cahill headed down to Penn's Landing to canvass.
The Reception Area of Braceland Westcott McCall was decorated in a modern Scandinavian style-straight lines, light cherry desks and bookcases, metal-edged mirrors, frosted-glass panels, and well-framed poster art that heralded the company's upscale clients: recording studios, advertising agencies, clothing designers.
Stephanie's boss was a woman named Andrea Cerrone. Jessica and Byrne met Andrea in Stephanie Chandler's cubicle on the top floor of the Broad Street office building.
Byrne took the lead in the questioning.
"Stephanie was pretty trusting," Andrea said, a bit unsteadily. "A little gullible, I guess." Andrea Cerrone was clearly shaken by the news of Stephanie's death.
"Was she seeing anyone?"
"Not that I know of. She got hurt pretty easily, so I think she was in shutdown mode for a while."
Andrea Cerrone was not yet thirty-five, a short, wide-hipped woman with silver-streaked hair and pastel blue eyes. Although she was somewhat overweight, her clothes were tailored with an architectural precision. She wore a dark olive linen suit and a honey-colored pashmina.
Byrne moved on. "How long did Stephanie work here?"
"About a year. She came here right out of college."
"Where did she go to school?"
"Temple."
"Did she have any problems with anyone here at work?"
"Stephanie? Hardly. Everybody liked her and she liked everyone. I don't remember a cross word ever coming out of her mouth."
"What did you think when she didn't show up for work last week?"
"Well, Stephanie had a lot of sick days coming. I thought she took the day off, even though it was unlike her not to call in. The next day I called her cell phone, left a few messages. She never got back to me."
Andrea reached for a tissue, dabbed her eyes, perhaps now realizing why her phone never rang.
Jessica made a few notes. No cell phone had been found in the Saturn or near the crime scene. "Did you call her house?"
Andrea shook her head, her lower lip beginning to tremble. Jessica knew that the dam was about to break.
"What can you tell me about her family?" Byrne asked.
"I think there's just her mother. I don't recall her ever talking about her father, or any brothers or sisters."
Jessica glanced at Stephanie's desk. In addition to the pen caddy and neatly stacked file folders, there was a silver-framed five-by-six photograph of Stephanie and an older woman. In this picture-smiling, standing in front of the Wilma Theater on Broad Street-Jessica thought the young woman looked happy. She found it hard to reconcile the photo with the image of the brutalized corpse she had seen in the trunk of the Saturn.