Play dead

EIGHTY-EIGHT

5:11 AM

Galerie Cygne was located in the Marketplace Design Center at Twenty-fourth and Market streets. It was a large building, overlooking the Schuylkill River, home to more than fifty exclusive showrooms offering antiques, building products, AV systems, lighting, and wall coverings.

Jessica buzzed the night security guard. She badged him, he let her in. He was in his late fifties, ex-PPD. His name was Rich Gardener. He knew Jessica's father.

Cutting the cop dance short, Jessica got to the point. "What can you tell me about this Galerie Cygne?"

"Not much. Nice-looking stuff. Custom cabinetry, one of a kind furniture. Tables and dressers that cost what I make in a year. It's one of the smaller showrooms here."

"Can I see the place?"

Gardener squared his shoulders, then gestured to the elevators, looking pretty pumped about being back in the game. "Right this way, Detective."

Jessica and Gardener stood in the hallway in front of the long glass wall that was Galerie Cygne. The interior was immaculately clean. The space was sliced with spotlights, highlighting cabinets, armoires, chairs, tables.

"Do you know the owner?" Jessica asked.

"Never met him."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"No. Sorry."

"Do you have a home address for him?"

The man hesitated. "I know you're on the job and all, but I have a job, too, right? I mean, I've run a few warrants in my time. Do you mind if I make a call?"

Jessica glanced at her watch. The team would be taking Logan Circle soon. She would be missed. "Please make it fast." Two minutes later, down in the lobby, Gardener looked up from his computer monitor. "Believe it or not, all correspondence with the owner goes to a post office box."

"There's no home address or other business address?"

"No."

"Is there a name at least?"

"No," Gardener said. "There's usually a page with emergency contact information, stuff like that. In case there's a fire, flood, act of God. But, for some reason, it's gone."

"Gone."

"As in erased. I know that there was an address here, because sometimes FedEx and UPS would have a delivery and the owner had to have it sent to his or her house."

"You're saying that the page has been deleted?"

"Yeah. But I've talked to one of the drivers who went out there once. Real horror-movie nut. Scared of his own shadow. Says the place is really spooky."

"Spooky how?"

"Said it's the old Coleridge place. I think they call it Faerwood or something. Said it's haunted."

"Where is this Faerwood?"

"No idea."

Jessica pointed to the monitor. "Can we get on the Internet?" Rich Gardener looked at his watch, over his shoulder, back. "We are not supposed to. But seeing as you're Pete Giovanni's daughter and all."

Jessica found the reference immediately on one of the wiki sites. Artemus Coleridge (1866-1908) was an engineer and a draftsman. He worked for the Pennsylvania Railroad. In 1908 he hanged himself from a roof beam at the huge North Philadelphia house he had built eight years earlier, a twenty-two-room Victorian mansion called Faerwood.

Click here to see a photograph of Faerwood, the webpage teased. Jessica clicked. The image ran ice through her veins. She'd been there.