"May I use your bathroom?" Jessica asked. She had grown up in an almost identical row house, and knew that the bathroom was on the second floor. That was the point of her question.
Faith looked at her, her face a blank screen, as if she hadn't understood. She then nodded and pointed at the staircase.
Jessica walked up the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. To her right was a small bedroom; straight ahead, the bathroom. Jessica glanced down the steps. Faith Chandler, entranced by her grief, was still sitting on the couch. Jessica slipped into the bedroom. The framed posters on the wall indicated that it was Stephanie's room. Jessica opened the closet. Inside were half a dozen pricey suits, as many pairs of good-quality shoes. She checked the labels. Ralph Lauren, Dana Buchman, Fendi. All full labels. It appeared that Stephanie wasn't an outlet shopper, where many times the tags were cut in half. On the top shelf were few pieces of Tumi luggage. It appeared that Stephanie Chandler had good taste and a budget to support it. But where was the money coming from?
Jessica gave a quick glance around the room. On one wall was a poster from Dimensions, the Will Parrish supernatural thriller. That, and the Ian Whitestone book in her desk at the office, proved that she was a fan of either Ian Whitestone or Will Parrish, or both.
On the dresser was a pair of framed photos. One was of a teenaged Stephanie with her arm around a pretty brunette, who was about the same age. Friends forever kind of pose. The other picture was a younger Faith Chandler sitting on a bench in Fairmount Park, holding an infant.
Jessica went quickly through Stephanie's drawers. In one she found an accordion file of paid bills. She found Stephanie's four most recent Visa bills. She laid them out on the dresser, took out her digital camera, and took a photo of each. She did a quick scan of the list of posted charges, looking for high-end stores. Nothing. Nor were there charges to saksfifthavenue.com, nordstrom.com, or even any of the online discounters that sold high-end goods: bluefly.com, overstock.com, smart bargains.com. It was a good bet she wasn't buying these designer clothes herself. Jessica put her camera away, then slipped the Visa bills back into the file. If anything she discovered on the bills turned into a lead, she would be hard-pressed to say how she got the information. She'd worry about that later.
In another slot in the file, she found the documents Stephanie had signed when she signed up for her cell phone service. There were no monthly bills detailing minutes used and numbers called. Jessica copied down the cell phone number. She then took out her own cell phone, dialed Stephanie's number. It rang three times, then switched over to voice maiclass="underline"
Hi… this is Steph… please leave your message at the beep and I'll get back to you.
Jessica clicked off. The call had established two things. Stephanie Chandler's cell phone was still active, and it wasn't located in her bedroom. Jessica called the number again, got the same result.
I'll get back to you.
Jessica thought about how, when Stephanie made that cheerful greeting, she'd had no idea what was coming her way.
Jessica put everything back where she had found it, padded back down the hallway, stepped into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, ran the water in the sink for a few moments. She descended the stairs.
"… all her friends," Faith said.
"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Stephanie?" Byrne asked. "Someone who may have had a grudge against her?"
Faith just shook her head. "She didn't have enemies. She was a good person."
Jessica met Byrne's eyes again. Faith was hiding something, but now was not the moment to press her. Jessica nodded slightly. They would take a run at her later.
"Again, we're terribly sorry for your loss," Byrne said.
Faith Chandler fixed them in a blank stare. "Why… why would someone do something like this?"
There were no answers. None that would suffice, or even begin to salve this woman's grief. "I'm afraid we can't answer that," Jessica said. "But I can promise you that we'll do everything we can to find who did this to your daughter."
Like her offer of condolences, this seemed to ring hollow in Jessica's mind. She hoped it sounded sincere to the grief-stricken woman sitting in the chair by the window.
They stood on the corner. They looked in two directions, but were of one mind. "I've got to get back and brief the boss," Jessica finally said. Byrne nodded. "I'm officially off for the next forty-eight, you know." Jessica heard the sadness in that statement. "I know." "Ike is going to tell you to keep me out of the loop." "I know."
"Call me if you hear anything."
Jessica knew she couldn't do that. "Okay."
25
Faith Chandler sat on her dead daughter's bed. Where had she been when Stephanie had smoothed the bedspread for the last time, creasing it beneath the pillow in her precise and dutiful way? What had she been doing when Stephanie had placed her menagerie of plush animals in a perfect row against the headboard?
She had been at work, as always, dogging the end of another shift, her daughter a constant, a given, an absolute.
Can you think of anyone who might have wanted hurt Stephanie?
She had known the moment she opened the door. The pretty young woman and the tall, confident-looking man in the dark suit. They had a look about them that said they did this often. Brought heartache to the door like carryout.
It was the young woman who told her. She had known it would be. Woman-to-woman. Eye-to-eye. It was the young woman who had cut her in two.
Faith Chandler glanced at the corkboard on her daughter's bedroom wall. Clear plastic pushpins prismed rainbows in the sun. Business cards, travel brochures, newspaper clippings. It was the calendar that hurt the most. Birthdays in blue. Anniversaries in red. Future past.
She had thought about slamming the door in their faces. Maybe that would have kept the pain from entering. Maybe that would have kept the heartache out there with the people in the papers, the people on the news, the people in the movies.
Police learned today that…
This just in…
An arrest has been made…
Always in the background as she made dinner. Always someone else. Flashing lights, white-sheeted gurneys, grim-faced spokesmen. Over at six thirty.
Oh, Stephie love.
She drained her glass, the whiskey in search of the sorrow within. She picked up the phone, waited.
They wanted her to come down to the morgue and identify the body. Would she know her own daughter in death? Wasn't it life that made her Stephanie?
Outside, the summer sun dazzled the sky. The flowers would never be brighter or more fragrant; the children, never happier. All the time in the world for hopscotch and grape drink and rubber pools.
She slipped the photograph out of the frame on the dresser, turned it over in her hands, the two girls in it forever frozen at life's threshold. What had been a secret all these years now demanded to be free.
She replaced the phone. She poured another drink.
There would be time, she thought. God willing.
There would be time.
26
Phil Kessler looked like a skeleton. In all the time Byrne had known him, Kessler had been a hard drinker, a two-fisted glutton, at least twenty-five pounds overweight. Now his hands and face were gaunt and pallid, his body a brittle husk.