Authors: The Echo Man
Jessica
then crossed the street, leaned against the car next to Byrne's open window,
went back to pretending to be on the phone. Ten long minutes later another man came
out of the building.
'This
is him,' Jessica said.
'How
do you know?'
'I
know.'
Jessica
walked across the sidewalk, gave her hair a quick fluff. 'Is that
Joseph?
The man turned around. He was tall, broad-shouldered, in his mid-thirties. He
had brown hair nearly to his shoulders, a fashionable one-day growth of beard.
He wore a dark overcoat. His skin was alabaster pale.
'Do I
know you?' he asked. His posture betrayed neither aggression nor retreat.
Instead, he looked pleasantly curious.
Jessica
continued toward him. 'We met last year. You're Joseph Novak, right?'
The
man offered a half-smile but not one that fully committed himself to this
conversation. 'I am. But I must confess I don't remember your name.'
'My
name is Jessica Balzano.' She produced her ID, held it up. 'I just need to talk
to you for a few moments.'
Joseph
Novak looked at her badge, then back into her eyes. In this light his eyes were
a pale blue, almost colorless. 'We've never met, have we?'
'No,'
Jessica said. 'That was just a bold subterfuge on my part.'
The
man smiled. 'Well played. But I can't imagine what it is I could tell you.' He
looked over her shoulder. 'Or your partner.'
It
was Jessica's turn to smile. She always had to remind herself that she and
Byrne were not that hard to make as cops. 'It won't take a minute.'
Novak
held up a #10 envelope. 'I just need to post this.' He pointed a half-block
away, at a mailbox on the corner. He turned back to Jessica. 'I promise not to
run.'
Jessica
glanced at the envelope. It did not look like the paper found at the crime
scenes. 'In that case, I promise not to chase you.'
Another
smile. 'If you'll excuse me.'
'Of
course.'
Novak
threw one more glance at Byrne, then turned on his heels and walked toward the
mailbox. Byrne got out of the car, crossed the street.
'That
was good,' he said.
'I
know.'
Novak
mailed the letter and, as promised, began to walk back up the block. His size
and bearing made for a striking silhouette in the afternoon light.
'Why
don't you call Josh, tell him where we are?' Byrne said.
Jessica
got on her cell, filled Bontrager in. She closed her phone just as Novak
returned to the steps in front of his apartment building. Novak turned his attention
to Byrne.
'I am
Joseph Novak.'
'Kevin
Byrne,' Byrne said.
'How
can I help?' Novak asked.
Jessica
pointed at the door to Beau Rive. 'Do you think we could chat inside? As I
said, we won't take up too much of your time.'
Novak
did not answer right away. When he saw that these two police officers were not
about to leave, he relented. He gestured to the door. 'Please.'
At
the rear of the building, Joseph Novak's apartment was a large two-bedroom flat
with ten-foot ceilings and an open floor plan. The furniture was modern, mostly
brushed aluminum and leather. Against one wall, nearly floor-to-ceiling, were
CDs in custom-made birch shelves. There had to be a thousand of them. Jessica
noticed that they were sectioned off by category: Classical, Electronica, New
Age, Jazz. There were also subcategories by composer, artist, era. Brahms,
Beethoven, Bach, Enya, Parker, Mingus, Tyner, Mulligan, Chemical Brothers. The
effect of sunlight streaming through the windows, playing off the crystal cases
in rainbow hues, was dizzying.
Upon
entering the apartment Novak immediately crossed the room to the large desk at
the other side and lowered the screen on his laptop, clicked it shut.
'We
won't take up too much of your time,' Byrne said.
'Not
at all,' Novak replied. 'Whatever I can do to help.'
'Do
you know why we're here, Mr. Novak?' Byrne asked.
Novak
sat at the desk, crossed his long legs. 'I'm afraid I do not.'
Byrne
placed a sheet with six photographs on the desk in front of Novak. Kenneth
Beckman's picture was in the upper right-hand corner. They decided to start
this way, inquiring about Beckman as if they were looking for a witness.
Jessica
watched Novak closely as his gaze fell on the photo lineup. If the man
instantly recognized Beckman there was no indication.
'Do
you recognize any of these people?' Byrne asked.
Novak
gave the process a few seconds. 'No,' he said. 'Sorry.'
'No
problem.' Byrne left the photo array on the desk. He leaned against the wall
near the large window, looking around the room, especially at the rack of
complicated-looking electronic equipment and what might have been a sound
mixing board.
'May
I ask what it is that you do for a living?' Byrne asked.
'I am
a recording engineer by trade,' Novak said. 'But I keep my hand in with all
aspects of the music world. I review for jazz and classical publications.'
'Interesting,'
Byrne said. 'I'm a fan of classic blues, myself.'
Novak
smiled. 'I have a small but rather interesting collection of old blues. My
treasure is the box set of 78s with early recordings of Mary Johnson, Scrapper
Blackwell and Kokomo Arnold.'
'Sweet.
Any Roosevelt Sykes?'
'Not
yet.'
Jessica
stepped forward. In a situation like this, she and her partner liked to
tag-team the person they were interviewing. If you split the person's attention
it gave your partner the opportunity to look around, checking the small details
of the room. One wall had a series of shelves with
objets d'art
on it.
Small sculptures, Maori carvings, as well as a unique stainless steel bracelet
with a single garnet stone inlaid.
Jessica
turned her attention back to the CDs. 'This
is
quite an impressive
collection of music you have here,' Jessica said.
'Thank
you,' Novak said. 'I've been at it for quite a while. But I did not purchase
most of them. Receiving free and promotional CDs for review is one of the perks
of being a music critic.'
'What's
the downside?'
'Listening
to terrible music.'
Jessica
scanned the wall. 'So, from all of this music, do you have a favorite
composer?'
Novak
smiled again. 'I imagine that is like asking an Eskimo if he has a favorite
snowflake. If pressed, for me there is Johann Sebastian Bach, and then there is
everyone else.'
'I'm
sorry to impose, but do you think I might use your restroom?' Jessica asked.
This
was another old ploy for investigators. It gave you the opportunity to see a
little more of a person's dwelling while they were talking with your partner.
Not to mention the opportunity to check out their medicine cabinet and perhaps
discover what meds they were taking. Someone's medications could tell you a lot
about them. Plus, it was a hard thing for people to say no to.
Novak
hesitated. His stare shifted to the hallway, then back. The question hung in
the air.
'Yes,
of course,' he said finally. 'The second door on your right.'
'Thanks.'
Jessica
walked down the hallway. The kitchen was on the left, the bathroom on the
right. At the end of the hall was the bedroom, its door slightly ajar.
Jessica
stepped into the bathroom. It was spotless. On one wall was a large print, a
black and white photograph of a man conducting an orchestra. The man was
dark-haired, darkly handsome. He wore white tie and tails. Jessica looked at
the caption: riccardo muti, 1986. Muti was the Italian conductor who had
replaced Eugene Ormandy as the musical director of the Philadelphia Orchestra
in 1980.
Jessica
peeked into the bamboo wastebasket to the right of the toilet. Empty. She
opened the medicine cabinet gently. Gently, because she had once opened a
medicine cabinet in a similar situation, without thinking, only to have a few
bottles crash loudly into the sink.
In
the cabinet were an array of skincare products. No meds. If Joseph Novak took
any medications, he did not keep them in his bathroom.
When
she had exhausted her search, Jessica flushed the toilet. She washed her hands
anyway, to keep up the illusion, and because it was a deeply ingrained habit.
She
stepped out of the bathroom, listened. Byrne and Novak were still talking. She
stepped to her right, inched open the bedroom door. The bedroom continued the
rather industrial look of the apartment. There was a king-size platform bed, a
pair of night stands bearing stainless steel lamps with rectangular linen
shades.
But
it wasn't the furnishings that nearly took Jessica's breath away. The entire
room was covered in paper. She had to look closely to believe what she was
seeing. At first she thought it might have been some kind of creative
wallpaper. It was not. What she'd at first thought was wall-covering was really
hundreds and hundreds of photographs, articles, magazine covers, newspaper
clippings, drawings. All of them seemed to be about one subject. Murder.
Her
eyes were drawn to a large corkboard. To it were pinned a number of tabloid
pages. The page on top stopped her cold. It was a tear sheet from the sleazy
local newspaper
The Report.
The headline read:
Pummeled
in Pennsport
!
The
article was about a brutal murder in 2002. March 21, 2002 to be exact.
The
photograph was of a smiling Antoinette Chan.
Jessica
looked back down the hall, saw no one coming. She took her iPhone out of her pocket,
stepped fully into the bedroom, and began to photograph the walls, hoping there
was enough light. Then she walked back down the hall. She stepped into the
living room, held up her phone.
'Detective?'
Both
Byrne and Novak turned to look at her.
'I'm
sorry to interrupt, but there's a call for you.'
Byrne
got up, walked across the living room, took a few steps down the hall. Jessica
gestured to the opened bedroom door. Byrne stepped to the opening, took in the
room. He stepped back.
Their
gazes met in silent understanding. Byrne flicked a glance toward the front
door. She would take the door. He would take Novak.
They
were out of the living room for just a few seconds, but it was long enough.
They heard a loud noise. When they returned, the chair in front of the desk was
on its back. Novak was gone.
'Fuck
,'
Byrne yelled.
He
went for the window and the fire escape beyond. Jessica ran to the door.
She peeked
out into the hallway. It was not that long - there were only four apartments on
this floor - and there were stairs at only one end. She hurried over to the
elevator. Silence. Novak would not have had time to call the elevator, and make
it even one floor. She ran down to the stairs, eased open the door, her hand on
the butt of her weapon.
The
stairwell was empty.
Jessica
moved silently down the stairs, her weapon held out front, low. She turned a
corner, carried on circling downward, her ears tuned to the sounds around her.
Traffic outside, television noise coming from an apartment on the first floor.
No footsteps.
She
had to make a decision when she came to the first-floor landing. Continue on to
the basement or check the first floor? She opted for the first floor. She eased
open the door. It led to a short hallway. The lobby was straight ahead. She
still-hunted down the hall. When she came to the lobby she saw Joseph Novak
sitting uneasily on one of the chairs. His right foot was tapping nervously.