“But it can be a rough business.”
She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t get sloppy, missy,” he warned. “It’s gotten you in trouble before.”
Was that a veiled reference to the basement mess? How would he know about that? She let it go. “I’ll be careful.”
“Want me to accompany you and cover your back?” he asked.
He couldn’t do that. Could he? Again, she didn’t want to know. “Keep working the case from here. See if you can come up with any other local links. You made more progress today than your partner. All I did was piss off a prof, then aggravate somebody’s shrink and get thrown out of his office by his receptionist.”
“I’ll keep at it,” Creed said.
“What time are they expecting me at this studio?”
“They’re shooting all day, so it’s pretty wide open.”
“Did you give them a name? What’s our company’s name?”
“Capital City Venture Group.”
“My name?”
“I didn’t know if you’d be going alone or what you had for ID, so I left that and a whole lot of other particulars up in the air.”
“And they were okay with that?”
“They want our money.”
“If they ask for ID, I’ve got something I can whip out.”
“I figured as much. But just in case…” He opened the top drawer of his desk and fished out a handful of business cards. “Feel free to use these.”
She took them and read: Capital City Venture Group. “From an old undercover assignment?”
“Real old.”
She eyed the name on the card. “Chris Udahl. That’s a good gender-neutral name. Works for me. But what about the phone number?”
“Rings to one of the cells in my desk. My voice mail will pick it up.”
“Still works?”
“Far as I know. If it doesn’t, who cares? This is a one-time-only visit to the set, right?”
“I sure as hell hope so. This whole water porn thing is…” She searched for the right word.
“Icky,” he offered.
She took her coat off the back of her chair and stuffed the business cards inside the pocket. “I’ll go home and change and drive over there right now. Get it over with.”
“Take a bureau car,” he said.
“Jeez,” she said, slipping her coat on. “You’re starting to sound just like Garcia.”
“Since you brought up his name…Aren’t you going to get permission from our ASAC for this little expedition to the netherworld?”
She still hadn’t briefed Garcia on the bums-in-the-basement fiasco. She’d save that treat for later. “I’ll give him a holler while I’m on the move.”
BERNADETTE CALLED Garcia on her cell while walking to her loft.
“How’d the visit with the shrink go?” he asked.
“He wouldn’t give me a thing.”
“No surprise. Patient privacy, right?”
“I think he’s more worried about getting sued by Klein’s family,” she said. “I left him my card, in case he changed his mind.”
She told him where she was headed next and why, and briefed him on the story she was using to gain access to the studio. Because she was afraid it would freak him out, she omitted the fact that Creed had actually set it up. Garcia was surprisingly receptive and offered to join her.
“Aren’t you busy pulling together the surveillance?” she asked.
“Everything’s set,” he said. “You’ve got the second shift. Since he’d recognize you, I figured late would be better. He should be all tucked in.”
“Who drew the short straw in partnering with me?”
“I did.”
She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “Great,” she said evenly.
“I’ll meet you at this porn place,” he said. “We’ll say I’m another one of the players in this…What’s it called again?”
“Capital City Venture Group.”
“Why does that sound familiar?”
“Uh…”
“How did you come up with it?”
“Yeah—uh…I found some old cards in Creed’s desk.”
“Creed. I remember that sting.” Silence on his end. Then: “Did he—”
“Here’s the address,” she interrupted. “Oh, and don’t dress like a fed, Tony.”
SHE FOUND a forest-green suit in the back of her closet and tried it on with a cream-colored silk blouse and black pumps. The short skirt exposed more leg than she liked and the low-cut blouse revealed some cleavage, but the ensemble did make her appear less federal. To complete the nongovernmental look, she ran a bead of bronze gloss over her lips, dusted her cheeks with blush, and put on a gold chain. When she slipped back into her coat and leather gloves, however, she realized her clothing change had been for naught. Her outerwear screamed FBI. The Crown Vic would do the same.
She steered her Ford Ranger onto Shepard Road and glanced at the Mississippi River on her left, taking in the citrus-colored fall landscape while she had the chance. Autumn in Minnesota came and went in a heartbeat. In a couple of weeks everything would be brown and gray. Then winter would settle in for its interminable stay. She didn’t mind. She’d lived long enough in states that seemed to have minimal change from one season to the next.
After five miles of moderate traffic, she merged onto Minnesota 5 going west and took that to 494 heading west. The interstate was a parking lot, and it wasn’t even rush hour yet. She slowed behind a semi and then came to a dead stop behind the wall of metal. Punching on the radio, she was just in time to catch a news report on the latest drowning.
“…this afternoon identified the dead woman as twenty-three-year-old Kyra Klein, a student at the University of Minnesota. She was the second university coed found dead in her home this week. On Monday, the body of twenty-year-old Shelby Hammond was discovered by her housemates. The Hennepin County medical examiner is conducting autopsies to determine how the young women died.”
Bernadette turned up the volume and held her breath, waiting for the report to mention that bathtubs figured in each of the deaths.
“Authorities refused to comment on whether the two deaths are related. A source within the Minneapolis Police Department said that at least one of the women could have died from an accidental overdose of prescription medication but declined to release further information.”
“Feed ’em shit and keep ’em in the dark,” Bernadette said to the radio. She was pleased the police had kept the details under wraps.
“Student leaders and university officials are holding a joint press conference in Morrill Hall this afternoon to address student safety concerns. University police have already announced additional patrols.”
“Like that’s going to do any good,” Bernadette muttered.
“The two deaths come on the heels of a series of suicides that rocked the university and sent demonstrators into the streets. Since April, four young women have drowned in the Mississippi River at the Minneapolis campus. Claiming a serial killer may have murdered the young women, students and relatives of the victims demanded that the investigations into those deaths be reopened. There is no word yet on whether authorities plan to do that.”
Bernadette waited for the report to raise the possibility that the two most recent deaths were linked to the ones in the river.
“In sports, the Minnesota Wild have a—”
Relieved, Bernadette reached over and punched off the radio. The truck in front of her rolled ahead, and she did the same. She plucked the directions off the seat and glanced at them. Her exit was about a mile up. The studio wasn’t far from the freeway.
THE DIRECTIONS LANDED her in a parking lot adjacent to a building that resembled one of those windowless, big-box wholesale clubs. The only thing missing was the cart corral. She saw no signs, but the address stenciled on the glass double doors matched the one on the printout. She pulled into a park
ing spot between a silver Mercedes sedan and a black BMW convertible. She got out and leaned against the back bumper of the truck, waiting for her business associate.
Minutes later Garcia pulled in with his heap and parked in a far corner of the lot. She was glad he hadn’t driven a bureau car. As he walked toward her, she saw he’d ditched his trench and was wearing a white shirt without a tie. The dark slacks and blazer were still government issue, but they worked.
He came up next to her with his hands in his pants pockets. “I didn’t have time to change, so I did some editing. What do you think?”
She looked around the lot and saw no video cameras. She reached behind her neck and undid her chain. “Turn around.”
“I’m gonna look like a lizard,” he whined as she clasped the necklace behind him.
“That’s what we’re after,” she said. “Unbutton another button, too. Show a little chest hair.”
He did as he was told. “Now how do I look?”
“Like a g-man wearing jewelry.”
As they walked up to the entrance, they passed more luxury vehicles. Garcia looked longingly at a white Hummer that was as big as a house. “If this FBI gig doesn’t work out, maybe we should seriously invest in the porn industry,” he said.
“Probably has better fringe benefits,” she said.
Passing through the glass doors, they immediately stepped into a compact lobby furnished with black leather furniture, fake palm trees, and glass-topped tables. She eyed the magazines scattered on a coffee table, expecting to find copies of Playboy and Penthouse. Instead, she saw Bowhunting World and the latest Cabela’s catalog. Were they in the right building?
As they approached the long, glossy reception desk at the back of the lobby, however, she was reassured. The woman behind the desk wore a fuzzy fuchsia sweater over breasts the size and shape of muskmelons. Her long feathered hair was silver-blond, and her earrings were loops as big as bracelets. Bernadette cast a sideways glance at Garcia and decided he looked a little too happy about this assignment.
Bernadette took off her trench, draped it over her arm, and went up to the counter with a smile stretched across her face. Garcia stayed back, taking in the mountainous scenery. “Hello. We’re with Capital City Venture Group.”
“Oh, yes. They’re expecting you.” The woman jiggled out from behind the desk, displaying long legs barely contained by a short black spandex skirt and fuchsia stilettos. “Follow me to the set.”
Bernadette felt like a midget librarian in her green suit as she jogged to keep pace with the twenty-something woman. Garcia continued to bring up the rear, and Bernadette knew why.
The trio went down a long hall lined with framed poster-size photos of young women posing like vintage pinups. Busty blonde on ice skates, falling on her butt. Busty blonde hanging upside down on a trapeze, her short skirt flying. Two busty blondes having a pillow fight. Busty blonde cowgirl wielding a six-shooter. Busty blonde Mrs. Santa in furry red boots. Busty blonde in a stars-and-stripes bikini bottom, tossing a sailor’s cap in the air. Bernadette bet that in the original posters, however, the girls weren’t wearing nipple rings.
“Uh…no brunettes,” noted Garcia, struggling to come up with a neutral comment about the artwork.
“I never noticed,” said the busty blonde in the tight sweater.
“Actually, they all look like you. Is that you?” Bernadette asked.
The young woman giggled. “I wish. Someday maybe. I’ve got to work on my look.”
“You’re gorgeous,” said Bernadette, and she meant it.
“I need a nose job, and I’ve got to drop ten,” she said. “My ass is as wide as the back of a school bus.”
“That sounds like a jerk boyfriend talking,” said Garcia as they walked.
“Yeah…well…it is.” She pushed open one side of a metal double door and held it for the two visitors. “My boyfriend is the director.”
“Which one is he?” asked Bernadette, looking toward a brightly illuminated cluster of people and equipment moving around in back of the warehouselike space.
“I don’t see him right now,” said the woman. “Ask anyone and they can point him out. Skip Masterman. He looks like that model on the cover of all the romance books. Muscles and long hair. Big nose. What’s that hunk’s name?”
“Fabio,” Garcia volunteered.
She nodded. “That guy. Skip looks like that guy.”
While they talked, Bernadette kept her eyes on the commotion across the cavernous space. She saw men and women in jeans clambering around cameras, lights, and other equipment. They were all facing a pool of light. That was where the action was taking place. “If he’s that hunky, what’s your boyfriend doing behind the camera?” Bernadette asked distractedly.
“He’s been in adult films,” she said. “But the real money is in the directing and producing. He came home to do that.”
“He’s from Minnesota?” asked Garcia.
“Straight off the soybean field.” She paused. “But don’t get me wrong. Skip isn’t a Jethro. He’s smart. He has a degree in philosophy.”
So that’s what philosophy majors did after college: direct porn. “How is the money?” asked Bernadette.
“It’s coming,” said the young woman. “Some of his old high school buds are backing him on these fetish films.”
Bernadette was intrigued. A clique of country boys was interested enough in water porn to pour money into it. She turned to the fuchsia sweater. “We’re good if you need to get back to the desk.”
“You sure? I can take you over there,” she said, casting an interested glance at Garcia.
“We’re not shy.” Bernadette looked across the room. “We’ll find Skip and introduce ourselves.”
“Okay.” She jiggled out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“How do you know who Fabio is?” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.
He grinned. “Just shut up about it.”
“Let’s go into the light,” Bernadette said, and they made a straight line for the knot of activity.
Chapter 19
THE JERK’S GIRLFRIEND WASN’T EXAGGERATING. SKIP MASTERMAN could pass for Fabio—until he opened his mouth. He had long yellow teeth with a gap between the top set, scary choppers that gave him a wolflike appearance. Like everyone else, he was dressed in jeans and a T. The front of his shirt had a movie camera on it, and the words “I’m Famous in Europe.” A diamond studded his left lobe; the rock was the size of a thumbtack.
Standing at the elbow of a stocky woman armed with a tiara and a hand mirror, Masterman directed the positioning of a huge water tank that was being wheeled in front of the cameras and lights. Unlike the tanks Bernadette had viewed over the Internet, this one was horizontal. It resembled a giant aquarium.
“Right here,” he said, pointing with a pencil to an X chalked on the concrete floor. “Center it right here.”
The three men wheeling the tank missed the mark, positioning the tank to the right of the X.
Masterman marched over to the X and repeatedly stomped his foot on top of it. “Here! Here! Here!”
“This thing keeps…getting away from us,” said one of the crewmen, panting as he pushed the tank left toward the mark. The front of his jeans was wet from water splashing over the sides.
“The floor is sloped or something,” panted another of the trio.
Where was the diving diva? Scanning the crowd, Bernadette’s eyes landed on a large-breasted blonde wrapped in a bathrobe. The young woman didn’t seem the least bit nervous about the prospect of getting dunked naked into a tank of water. She was busy puffing on a cigarette, flicking the ash onto the floor as she watched the three struggling crewmen. “That must be the star,” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.
“Must be,” he said, his eyes locked and loaded.
“So you recognize her?”
“Yeah. No. I mean—” He saw her smirking. “Funny.”
Masterman stepped off the X and watched the trio
again miss the mark, this time wheeling the tank too far to the left. “Jesus H. Christmas,” he spat. “Why is this so difficult?”
“Is the water still warm?” the robed woman asked no one in particular.
“It’s perfect, Tiff,” Masterman answered without tearing his eyes off the X.
“It was cold yesterday,” she said, and flicked another ash onto the floor. “I froze my ass off.”
“You’ll feel like you’re back in the womb,” said a guy with a clipboard.
Masterman looked over at the clipboard guy with a grin. That’s when the director spotted Bernadette and Garcia. He tucked the pencil behind his ear and walked over with an outstretched hand. “Hello.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Masterman.” Bernadette accepted his big mitt while trying to imagine all the places it had been during the course of his career. She was glad she’d kept her leather gloves on her hands. “My partners e-mailed you earlier today.”
“Capital City Venture,” he said, shaking Garcia’s hand vigorously. “I’ve heard of your group. Impressive projects.”
Garcia fired back with a similar line of bullshit. “Your films are what’s impressive.”
Masterman turned around and addressed his crew. “Take ten, kids.”
The trio struggling with the tank started to walk away, digging their smokes out of their pockets.
“Not you, bozos,” Masterman yelled. “Keep working on positioning that water. X marks the spot.”
“I hate that X,” one of them groused, and the three of them returned to muscling the tank into place.
Masterman turned back to his visitors. “Which one is your favorite?”
Bernadette frowned. “What?”
“Which of my films is your favorite?”
Recognizing a lose-lose situation, Garcia kept his mouth shut. Bernadette thought back to the clip Creed had shown her. “The one with the fire hoses. The critics gave it four out of five, right?”
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