Anotherblush. 'Well, that's not too much for me to go on.'

    'Maybethis will help. During the course of our conversation he mentioned his printmakingtechnique, and said he was enamored of a certain brand of paper. An Italianpaper. Quite expensive.'

    'Doyou remember the line?'

    'I donot. But he showed me a sample and the watermark was Venus de Milo.'

    'Atriana.'

    Byrnesnapped his fingers. 'That's it.'

    Thewoman frowned. 'That's not an item we generally keep in stock. I've only sold afew dozen sheets in the past year or so.'

    Aliciaturned to her computer, tapped a few keys. In a moment a screen came up. Byrne couldsee the reflection in her glasses. It was a database program and she had foundan entry. She nodded, perhaps remembering the man.

    'I'mafraid I can't give you anyone's name. Our mailing list is confidential, ofcourse.'

    'Ofcourse.'

    'If you'dlike, I could take your information and have them get in touch with you.'

    'Thatwould be great.'

    Justthen there was a loud crash at the back of the store. Alicia spun around to seea woman at the rear, next to a toppled display rack of oil paints.

    'Shoot!'the woman at the back exclaimed.

    'Ohmy,' Byrne said. 'Look, why don't you tend to this terribly clumsy woman andI'll stop back in a few minutes. I have to hit the ATM, anyway.'

    'Thatwould be fine.'

    AsAlicia walked to the rear of the store to help Jessica pick up the spilledmerchandise, Byrne spun the LCD monitor to face him. His eyes scanned thescreen. The problem was that he was not wearing his glasses. The customer'sname was a little larger than the rest of the entry. He got that with noproblem. It was a company called Marcato LLC.

    Beneaththat: Attention JP Novak. Byrne looked at the bottom. Philadelphia. Inbetween, it was mostly a blur.

    Hespun the monitor back, turned on his heels, and left the store.

    Theypulled out of the parking lot and headed back to route 611.

    'Didwe get it?'

    'Igot the name,' Byrne said. 'And a partial address.'

    'Apartial address?'

    Byrnefell silent.

    'Youweren't wearing your glasses.'

    Byrneplowed forward. He checked the notes that he'd scribbled after leaving thestore. 'The paper was purchased by a company called Marcato LLC. Contact nameis JP Novak. The address is in Philly. Something something something somethingAshingdale Road. Or Arlington. I think the number was 8180 or 5150. Maybe6160.'

    Jessicashook her head. 'You know, those glasses do serve a purpose.'

    'Idon't see you wearing yours all the time.'

    'Mindyour own business, Mr. Strong. Now, drive the car and let me start sleuthing.'

    Onthe way back to Philadelphia Jessica called in the name. There was no phonelisting for a JP Novak, nor anyone with that name in PCIC with a criminalrecord. They found more than three dozen listings for Novaks with J as an initial:John, Joseph, Jerry, Jerszy, Jacob, Joshua.

    Shealso looked up Marcato and did not find any company with that name, LLC orotherwise. She did find a definition of the word and found that it was Italianfor marked, and when it was applied to music it meant performing thenote with an 'attack' and a sustain of two-thirds of the original writtenlength, followed by an audible counted rest.

    Accordingto one source the marcato sound was 'a rhythmic thrust followed by adecay of the sound.'

    Whowould name their company this? Jessica wondered.

    Whenthey returned to the Roundhouse they searched every database for a JP Novak, aswell as for Philadelphia streets named Ashingdon or dozens of possiblepermutations. They asked everyone on the floor if they knew of any Phillystreets or courts or lanes by that name or similar names. There were a fewclose matches but nothing exact.

    Aftertwenty minutes of strikeouts Jessica stood, began to peruse the large paper mapon the wall. You could only look at a computer screen for so long before goingsix-eyed with fatigue. Somehow she put her finger on two possibilities.

    'Lookat this,' she said. 'There's a street in West Philly called Abingdon.'

    Byrneshot to his feet. 'That's it.' 'There's also one called Ashingdale.' 'Shit.'

    JoshBontrager grabbed his coat. 'I'll take Ashingdale.' Jessica and Byrne headed tothe door. 'Kevin?'

    'What?'

    'Bringyour glasses.'

Chapter 30

    Theaddresses on Abingdon Road stopped at 7000, so this eliminated the chance ofthe address being 8180. Jessica and Byrne drove to the far end of the street,worked back from 5150. This was a body shop called D & K Motor Cars. No oneinside knew anyone named Novak, nor a company called Marcato LLC.

    Theaddress at 6160 was a gentrified apartment building called the Beau Rive,perhaps at one time a warehouse. The front had recently been stuccoed, and allfour apartments in the front had leaded-glass bay windows.

    Byrnepulled over, cut the engine.

    'Hangon,' Jessica said.

    Shegot out of the car, walked up the steps to the apartment building. She walkedinto the small lobby and looked at the mailboxes. There were six suites. Shescanned the names. The second to last name, in apartment 204, was Joseph PaulNovak.

    Bingo.

    Shetried the buzzer twice. No response.

    Jessicawalked out of the building, across the street. She got back in the car.'There's a Joseph Novak in apartment 204. I buzzed. Nothing.'

    Byrnechecked his side mirror, then did a U-turn, pulling up on the opposite side ofthe street in front of a Thai takeout. They had not stopped for lunch and thearomas were enticing. He put the Taurus in park, cut the engine. 'Want to stakeit out for a little while?'

    'Sure,'Jessica said.

    Theywatched the pedestrian traffic up and down Abingdon Road. After ten minutes orso Jessica got restless. She got out of the car, crossed the street, leanedagainst a light pole, took out her cell. She pretended to have a conversation.Cellphones were, hands down, the best surveillance prop ever invented.

    Finallythe door to the Beau Rive opened. The first person to walk out the building wasa woman in her sixties, well-dressed and accessorized. When she reached the sidewalkshe stopped, rummaged through her purse, then turned around in disgust, stormedback inside. She'd obviously forgotten something.

    Thesecond person to emerge was a man. He was black, in his late twenties, in areal hurry. He came out of the door buttoning a white chef's jacket. Jessicaleaned back against the lamppost, called out:

    'Joseph?'

    Noreaction. He didn't even acknowledge her. A few minutes later the womanreemerged and walked the other way down the street, a little more urgency toher stride. As a woman who forgot something at home every day, Jessicasympathized.

    Jessicathen 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 cameout of the building.

    'Thisis him,' Jessica said.

    'Howdo you know?'

    'Iknow.'

    Jessicawalked 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. Hehad brown hair nearly to his shoulders, a fashionable one-day growth of beard.He wore a dark overcoat. His skin was alabaster pale.

    'Do Iknow you?' he asked. His posture betrayed neither aggression nor retreat.Instead, he looked pleasantly curious.