Richard Montanari (41 page)

    'Is
Liam still keeping the peace down there?'

    
Down
there,
Byrne thought. Curtin made it sound like the boondocks. He was
referring to Judge Liam McManus, who everyone knew was going to run for the
Philadelphia Supreme Court in a year.

    'We're
lucky to have him,' Byrne said. 'Rumor is he won't be there for much longer.
Next thing you know he'll be living in Chestnut Hill.'

    Curtin
smiled. But Byrne knew it was his professional smile, not one that held any
warmth. The attorney gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk. Both
men sat down.

    'Can
Charlotta get you anything? Coffee? Tea?'

    'I'm
fine, thanks.'

    Curtin
nodded. The door behind Byrne was closed.

    'So,
what brings you here to visit Ms. Schönburg, detective?'

    'I'm
afraid I can't really get into anything too specific, but I will say that she
may have information about an open investigation being conducted by the
Philadelphia Police Department.'

    Curtin
looked slightly amused. 'I'm intrigued.'

    'How
so?'

    'Well,
as I'm sure you're aware, Ms. Schönburg no longer lives a public life. She is
by no means a recluse, but, as I'm sure you can appreciate, she does not
circulate in any of the social circles to which she once belonged.'

    'I
understand.'

    'She
has almost constant companionship here, so I'm afraid I don't see how she could
possibly be involved in anything that has taken place recently in
Philadelphia.'

    'That's
what I'm here to determine, Mr. Curtin. But I have a few questions before I
meet with her.'

    'Is
she suspected of a crime?'

    'No,'
Byrne said. 'Absolutely not.'

    Curtin
stood, walked to the window, looked out. He continued to speak without turning
around. 'I must tell you that in the few years she has been out of prison there
have been no fewer than a hundred requests for interviews with her. She is
still very much the object of fascination not only with people in the world of
classical music but also with the basest denizens of the tabloid world.'

    'I'm
not here to write something for the
Enquirer
,' Byrne said.

    Curtin
smiled again. Practiced, mirthless, mechanical. 'I understand. What I'm saying
is, all these requests have been presented to Christa-Marie and she has
categorically turned them all down.'

    'She
contacted
me
, Mr. Curtin.'

    Byrne
saw Curtin's shoulders tense. It appeared that he had not known this. 'Of
course.'

    'I
need to ask her a few questions, and I want to know what her general mental
state is. Is she lucid?'

    'Most
of the time, yes.'

    'I'm
not sure what that means.'

    'It
means that much of the time she is rational and fully functional. She really
would not have any problem living on her own, but she chooses to have a
full-time psychiatric nurse on the premises.'

    Byrne
nodded, remained silent.

    Curtin
walked slowly back to the desk, eased himself into the sumptuous leather chair.
He placed his forearms on the desk, leaned forward.

    'Christa-Marie
has had a hard life, detective. From the outside, one might think she led a
life of glamour and privilege and, up until the incident, she
did
enjoy
the many rewards of her talent and success. But after that night, from the
interrogations and subsequent allocution, to her eighteen months at Convent
Hill, to her incarceration at Muncy, she—'

    The
words dropped like a Scud missile. 'Excuse me?'

    Curtin
stopped, looked at Byrne.

    'You
said Convent Hill?' Byrne asked.

    'Yes.'

    Convent
Hill Mental Health Facility was a massive state-run mental hospital in central Pennsylvania.
It had been closed under a cloud of suspicion in the early 1990s after nearly
one hundred years of operation.

    'When
was Christa-Marie at Convent Hill?'

    'She
was there from the time she was sentenced until it closed in 1992.'

    'Why was
she sent there?'

    'She
insisted on it.'

    Byrne's
mind reeled. 'You're telling me that Christa-Marie insisted on being sent to
Convent Hill? It was her
choice?'

    'Yes.
As her attorney I fought against it, of course. But she hired another firm and
made it happen.'

    'And
you say she was there for eighteen months?'

    'Yes.
From there she went to Muncy.'

    Byrne
had had no idea that Christa-Marie had spent time at the most notoriously
brutal mental-health facility east of Chicago.

    While
Byrne was absorbing this news a woman walked into the room. She was about forty
and wore a smart navy blue suit, white blouse.

    'Detective,
this is Adele Hancock,' Curtin said. 'She is Christa- Marie's nurse.'

    Byrne
rose. They shook hands.

    Adele
Hancock was trim and athletic, had a runner's body, close- cropped gray hair.

    'Miss
Schönburg will see you now,' the woman said.

    Curtin
stood, grabbed his coat, his briefcase. He rounded the desk, handed Byrne a
linen business card. 'If there is anything else I can do for you, please do not
hesitate to call me.'

    'I
appreciate your time, sir.'

    'And
give Liam my best.'

    
Sure,
Byrne thought. At the next curling match
.

    Benjamin
Curtin nodded to Adele Hancock and took his leave.

    'Is
there anything I should know before I meet with her?' Byrne asked.

    'No,'
Hancock said. 'But I can tell you that she has not spoken of anything else
since your call.'

    When
they reached the end of the hallway, the woman stopped, gestured to the room at
the end. Byrne stepped inside. It was a solarium of sorts, an octagonal room
walled by misted glass. There were scores of huge tropical plants. Music lilted
from unseen speakers.

    
Have
you found them? The lion and the rooster and the swan
?

    'Hello,
detective.'

    Byrne
turned to the sound of the voice. And saw Christa-Marie Schönburg for the first
time in twenty years.

    Jessica
looked out at the throng of police gathered in the parking lot across from
Joseph Novak's apartment. There were now two scenes to process - the murder
scene, and the scene where a police detective had been assaulted. Out of the
crowd walked Nick Palladino, notebook in hand. He spoke to Dana Westbrook for a
few moments. Every so often they glanced over at Jessica. Dino did most of the
talking. Westbrook did most of the nodding.

    Dino
came over when they were done, asked after Jessica's well- being. Jessica told
him that she was all right. But she could see by the look on his face that
things had just gotten worse.

    'What's
up?' Jessica asked.

    Dino
told her.

    Jessica
discovered that she was mistaken about there being two scenes to process. There
were three.

    It
didn't take long to determine the significance of the crime scene.

    Lucas
Anthony Thompson's body was found in the parking lot where Marcia Kimmelman's
body had been found. It fitted the killer's pattern. Another murderer dumped at
the scene of his crime.

    There
were already two teams watching Thompson's family members. If one of them was
an accomplice they would be targeted.

    Jessica
looked across the lot to see someone trying to get through the police cordon.
It was David Albrecht. He wanted to talk to Jessica. The uniformed officer held
him back, glanced over.

    'Let
him through,' Westbrook said.

    Albrecht
came running up, out of breath.

    'What
did you want to say?' Westbrook asked.

    'I
was across the street, getting exterior shots of the building when I saw
Detective Balzano come out of the front door.'

    Albrecht
gasped for breath. He held up a finger.

    'Take
your time,' Westbrook said. 'Would you like some water?'

    Albrecht
shook his head, gathered his wind, continued. 'Okay, okay. So I saw Detective
Balzano go into the diner, and a few minutes later she came out with a coffee,
and walked over here.' He indicated the parking lot, which was now teeming with
crime-scene personnel. 'At first, I didn't think there was a shot, you know? I
mean, a parking lot is a parking lot, right? Not the most exciting backdrop.
We're not talking Robert Flaherty here.'

    Albrecht
looked at Jessica and Dana Westbrook, perhaps expecting a reply or a reaction.
None was forthcoming. He continued.

    'So
anyway, I'm looking at the way the trees back here sort of frame the lot, the
way that half-wall sort of provides a horizon, and I saw Detective Balzano
pacing back and forth, and I thought it looked pretty good.'

    He
turned, pointed to his van across the street. 'I set the camera on my tripod,
framed the shot, locked it down, then went into the back of the van for a
filter. I wanted to use a Circular Polarizer because I wasn't getting much
contrast. It took me a few minutes to find it, and when I came back around she
was gone. Just papers blowing around in the wind. I looked and saw that her car
was still down the block, so I knew she didn't leave. I figured she either went
back into the diner or back into the apartment building. I figured I just
missed her. Then I looked next to the building and . . . and I saw her lying
there.' There was a slight hitch in Albrecht's voice.

    'And
you didn't see the assailant?' Westbrook asked.

    'No,
ma'am,' Albrecht said. 'I didn't. Not at first.'

    'What
do you mean, not at first?'

    'I mean
I didn't see him
live.''

    Westbrook
looked at Jessica, then back at Albrecht. 'I don't know what you mean.'

    'I
didn't realize I was rolling.'

    'Rolling?'
Westbrook asked, clearly getting a little agitated.

    'Yeah.
When I put the camera on the tripod I started shooting. I have to admit, I'm
just getting used to this camera. It's brand new. I hit the button by accident.
It's a little embarrassing, but that's what happened.'

    'What
are you saying?' Jessica asked.

    'What
I'm saying is, I just watched the replay, and I think we have it.'

    'Have
what?'

    David
Albrecht held up the camera. 'I think we have footage of the killer.'

    Christa-Marie
Schönburg sat in a large burgundy leather chair, her pale white hands folded in
her lap. Even from across the room, the first thing Byrne noticed were her
eyes. Not only were they a strikingly deep amber - he had noticed the same
thing twenty years earlier - but they had not changed. Two decades, two
difficult
decades of incarceration, psychiatric treatment and dealing with whatever
demons had possessed her to begin with had not hardened her eyes in the least.
They were a young woman's eyes, still as arresting as they'd been when she was
the brightest star in the classical-music firmament.