Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  Jessica made a few notes, asked: “Then why would any motel buy them?”

  “Between you, me, and the switchboard operator, the only kind of motels that might install these fixtures are the ones where people don’t tend to stay overnight, if you know what I mean.”

  They knew exactly what he meant. “Have you sold any of these recently?” Jessica asked.

  “Depends on what you mean by recently.”

  “In the last few months.”

  “Let me see.” He hit a few keys on his computer keyboard. “Yeah. I’ve got a small order three weeks ago from … Arcel Management.”

  “How small of an order?”

  “They ordered twenty shower rods. The aluminum L-style. Just like your picture.”

  “Is the company local?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the order delivered?”

  Hudak smiled. “Of course.”

  “What does Arcel Management do exactly?”

  A few more keystrokes. “They manage apartments. A few motels, I think.”

  “Motels of the by-the-hour variety?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m a married man, Detective. I’d have to ask around.”

  Jessica smiled. “That’s okay,” she said. “I think we can handle that.”

  “My wife thanks you.”

  “We’ll need their address and phone number,” Byrne said.

  “You got it.”

  WHEN THEY GOT back to Center City they stopped at Ninth and Passyunk, flipped a coin. Heads meant Pat’s. Tails, Geno’s. It was heads. At Ninth and Passyunk, lunch was easy.

  When Jessica returned to the car with the cheesesteaks, Byrne shut his phone, said: “Arcel Management manages four apartment complexes in North Philly, as well as a motel on Dauphin Street.”

  “West Philly?”

  Byrne nodded. “Strawberry Mansion.”

  “And I suppose it’s a five-star property with European spa and championship golf course,” Jessica said, slipping into the car.

  “Actually, it’s a no-tell called the Rivercrest Motel,” Byrne said.

  “Did they order those shower rods?”

  “According to the very accommodating, honey-voiced Miss Rochelle Davis, they did indeed.”

  “And did the very accommodating, honey-voiced Miss Rochelle Davis happen to tell the probably-old-enough-to-be-her-father Detective Kevin Byrne how many rooms there are at the Rivercrest Motel?”

  “She did.”

  “How many?”

  Byrne started the Taurus, pointed it west. “Twenty.”

  12

  SETH GOLDMAN SAT in the elegant lobby of the Park Hyatt, the graceful hotel that occupied a few of the upper floors of the historic Bellevue Building at Broad and Walnut streets. He reviewed the day’s call sheet. Nothing too heroic. They had met with a reporter from Pittsburgh Magazine for a brief interview and photo session, and had immediately returned to Philadelphia. They were due on set within an hour. Seth knew that Ian was somewhere in the hotel, and that was a good thing. Although Seth had never known Ian to miss a shot, he did have a habit of disappearing for hours on end.

  At just after four o’clock Ian got off the elevator, followed by his child’s nanny Aileen, who was holding Ian’s six-month-old son, Declan, in her arms. Ian’s wife, Julianne, was in Barcelona. Or Florence. Or Rio. It was hard to keep track.

  Aileen was trailed by Ian’s production manager, Erin.

  Erin Halliwell had been with Ian for less than three years, but Seth had long ago decided to keep an eye on her. Prim and curt and highly efficient, it was no secret that Erin wanted Seth’s job, and were it not for the fact that she was sleeping with Ian—thereby unwittingly creating a glass ceiling for herself—she would probably have it.

  Most people think that a production company like White Light employed dozens, maybe scores, of full-time employees. The truth was, there were only three: Ian, Erin, and Seth. This was all the staff necessary until a film went into production; then the real hiring began.

  Ian spoke briefly with Erin, who spun on her highly polished sensible heels, threw an equally polished smile at Seth, and stepped back onto the elevator. Ian then ruffled little Declan’s fluffy red hair, crossed the lobby, glanced at one of his two watches—the one on local time. The other was set to Los Angeles time. Math was not Ian Whitestone’s strong suit. He had a few minutes. He poured a cup of coffee, sat across from Seth.

  “Who’s up?” Seth asked.

  “You are.”

  “Okay,” Seth said. “Name two films that each starred two actors who were both Oscar-winning directors.”

  Ian smiled. He crossed his legs, ran a hand over his jaw. He was looking more and more like the fortyish Stanley Kubrick all the time, Seth thought. The deep-set eyes, backed by a mischievous twinkle. The expensive, casual wardrobe.

  “Good one,” Ian said. They had been playing this trivia game on and off for nearly three years. Seth had yet to stump the man. “Four Oscar winning actor-directors. Two films.”

  “Right. But keep in mind they won their Oscars for directing, not acting.”

  “Post-1960?”

  Seth just glared. As if he would supply a clue. As if Ian would need a clue.

  “Four different people?” Ian asked.

  Another glare.

  “Okay, okay.” Hands up in surrender.

  The rules were as follows: The person asking the question gave the other person five minutes to answer. There would be no consulting with a third party, no Internet access allowed. If you could not answer the question in five minutes, you owed the other person dinner at the restaurant of his choice.

  “Give?” Seth asked.

  Ian glanced at one of his watches. “With three minutes to go?”

  “Two minutes and forty seconds,” Seth corrected.

  Ian looked at the ornate vaulted ceiling, rummaging his memory. It appeared as if Seth had finally bested him.

  With ten seconds to go Ian said: “Woody Allen and Sydney Pollack in Husbands and Wives. Kevin Costner and Clint Eastwood in A Perfect World.”

  “Damn.”

  Ian laughed. He was still batting a thousand. He rose, grabbed his shoulder bag. “What is Norma Desmond’s phone number?”

  Ian always said is in regard to film. Most people used the past tense. To Ian, film was always in the moment. “Crestview 5-1733,” Seth replied. “What name did Janet Leigh sign in under at the Bates Motel?”

  “Marie Samuels,” Ian said. “What is Gelsomina’s sister’s name?”

  This was an easy one, Seth thought. He was familiar with every frame of Fellini’s La Strada. He had first seen it at the Monarch Art when he was ten years old. He still got teary when he thought of it. All he needed was to hear the mournful wail of that trumpet in the opening credits and he started to bawl. “Rosa.”

  “Molto bene,” Ian said with a wink. “See you on set.”

  “Sí, maestro.”

  SETH GRABBED A cab and headed to Ninth Street. As they drove south, he watched the neighborhoods change, from the bustle of Center City to the sprawling urban enclave of South Philadelphia. Seth had to admit that he liked working in Philadelphia, Ian’s hometown. Despite all the pressure to formally move the offices of White Light Pictures to Hollywood, Ian had resisted.

  Within minutes they came across the first police cars and street barricades. The production had closed down Ninth Street for two blocks in each direction. By the time Seth arrived on the set, everything was in place—the lights, the sound package, the security presence needed for any shoot in a major metropolitan area. Seth showed his ID, skirted the barricades, and slipped into Anthony’s. He ordered a cappuccino and stepped back onto the sidewalk.

  Everything was running like clockwork. All they needed was their leading man, Will Parrish.

  Parrish, the star of the hugely successful 1980s prime-time ABC comedy-action series Daybreak, was riding the crest of a comeback of sorts, his second. In the 1980s he had been on every magaz
ine cover, on every TV talk show, on virtually every transit ad in every major city. His smirking, wisecracking Daybreak character was not all that different from his own, and by the late 1980s he was the highest-paid actor on television.

  Then came Kill Game, an action film that catapulted him to A-list status, the film grossing nearly $270 million worldwide. It was followed by three equally successful sequels. In between, Parrish made a number of romantic comedies and small dramas. Then there was a slump in big-budget action films and Parrish wasn’t getting the scripts. Almost a decade passed before Ian Whitestone put him back on the map.

  In The Palace, his second film with Whitestone, he played a widowed surgeon treating a young boy who’d been badly burned in a fire set by the boy’s mother. Parrish’s character, Ben Archer, was performing skin-graft operations on the boy while slowly discovering that his patient was clairvoyant, and that nefarious government agencies wanted to get their hands on him.

  This day the shot was a relatively easy one, logistically speaking. Dr. Benjamin Archer walks out of a restaurant in South Philly and sees a mysterious man, a man in a dark suit. He follows.

  Seth took his cappuccino and stood on the corner. They were about half an hour from the shot.

  For Seth Goldman, the best part of a location shoot—any shoot, but especially a city location shoot—was the women. Young women, middle-aged women, rich women, poor women, housewives, college students, workingwomen—they stood on the other side of the barricades, enthralled at the glamour of it all, mesmerized by celebrity, lined up like sexy perfumed ducks at a gallery. In major cities, even the gaffers got laid.

  And Seth Goldman was far from a gaffer.

  Seth sipped his coffee, ostensibly marveling at the efficiency of the crew. What he was really marveling at was the blond woman standing on the other side of the barricade, right behind one of the police cars blocking the street.

  Seth edged his way over toward her. He spoke softly into his two-way radio, to no one at all. He wanted to get her attention. He moved closer and closer to the barricade, just a few feet from the woman now. He was wearing a Joseph Abboud navy blazer over a white, open-collar polo shirt. He oozed importance. He looked good.

  “Hi,” the young woman said.

  Seth turned, as if he hadn’t noticed her. She was even prettier up close. She wore a powder-blue dress and low white heels. She wore a string of pearls and matching earrings. She was about twenty-five. Her hair was gold-tipped by the summer sun.

  “Hi, there,” Seth replied.

  “Are you with …” She waved her hand at the crew, the lights, the sound truck, the set in general.

  “The production? Yes,” Seth said. “I’m Mr. Whitestone’s executive assistant.”

  She nodded, impressed. “This is really exciting.”

  Seth looked up and down the street. “Yes, it is.”

  “I was here for the other movie, too.”

  “Did you like the film?” Fishing, and he knew it.

  “Very much.” Her voice rose in pitch a little when she said this. “I thought Dimensions was one of the scariest movies I’ve ever seen.”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I want you to be completely honest with me.”

  She held her hand up in a three-finger pledge. “Girl Scout promise.”

  “Did you see the ending coming?”

  “Not in the least,” she said. “I was completely surprised.”

  Seth smiled. “You said the right thing. Are you sure you’re not from Hollywood?”

  “Well, it’s true. My boyfriend said he knew it all along, but I didn’t believe him.”

  Seth frowned dramatically. “Boyfriend?”

  The young woman laughed. “Ex-boyfriend.”

  Seth grinned at the news. This was going extremely well. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then thought better of it. Or at least, that was the scene he was playing. It worked.

  “What is it?” she asked, circling the hook.

  Seth shook his head. “I was going to say something, but I’d better not.”

  She cocked her head at a slight angle, began to color. Right on cue. “What were you going to say?”

  “You’ll think I’m being too forward.”

  She smiled. “I’m from South Philly. I think I can handle it.”

  Seth took her hand in his. She didn’t tense up or pull away. This was also a good sign. He looked into her eyes and said:

  “You have very pretty skin.”

  13

  THE RIVERCREST MOTEL was a tumbledown, twenty-unit pay and play on Thirty-third and Dauphin streets in West Philly, just a few blocks from the Schuylkill River. The motel was single-story, laid out in an L-shape with a weed-blotted parking lot and a pair of out-of-order soda machines flanking the door to the office. There were five cars in the lot. Two of them were on blocks.

  The manager of the Rivercrest Motel was a man named Karl Stott. Stott was a hard fifty, late out of Alabama, with an alcoholic’s damp lips, pitted cheeks, and a pair of navy tattoos on his forearms. He lived on the premises, in one of the rooms.

  Jessica handled the interview. Byrne hovered and glared. They had worked out this dynamic in advance.

  At just past four thirty, Terry Cahill arrived. He hung back in the parking lot, observing, making notes, walking the property.

  “I think those shower rods were installed two weeks ago,” Stott said, lighting a cigarette, his hands a little shaky. They were in the motel’s small, shabby office. It smelled like warm salami. On the walls were posters of some of Philadelphia’s major attractions—Independence Hall, Penn’s Landing, Logan Square, the art museum—as if the clientele who frequented the Rivercrest Motel were tourists. Jessica noted that someone had drawn a miniature Rocky Balboa on the art museum steps.

  Jessica also noticed that Karl Stott already had a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the counter.

  “You’ve got one going already,” Jessica said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You’ve already got one lit,” Jessica repeated, pointing to the ashtray.

  “Jesus,” he said. He butted out the old one.

  “A little nervous?” Byrne asked.

  “Well, yeah,” Stott said.

  “Why is that?”

  “What, you kidding? You’re from Homicide. Homicide makes me nervous.”

  “Have you murdered someone recently?”

  Stott’s face contorted. “What? No.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” Byrne said.

  They would run a check on Stott anyway, but Jessica red-lined it in her notebook. Stott had done time, she was sure of it. She showed the man a still photograph of the bathroom.

  “Can you tell if this picture was taken here?” she asked.

  Stott squinted at the photo. “It sure looks like one of ours.”

  “Can you tell which room it might be?”

  Stott snorted. “You mean like, is it the presidential suite?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He gestured at the dilapidated office. “This look like the Crowne Plaza to you?”

  “Mr. Stott, I have a deal for you,” Byrne said, leaning across the counter. He got to within a few inches of Stott’s face. His granite gaze held the man there.

  “What’s that?”

  “Lose the attitude, or we will shut this place down for the next two weeks while we examine every tile, every drawer, every switch plate. We will also record the license plate of every car that pulls into this lot.”

  “That’s a deal?”

  “Believe it. And a good one, too. Because right now, my partner wants to bring you down to the Roundhouse and stick you in a holding cell,” Byrne said.

  Another laugh, but not nearly so derisive this time. “What is this, good cop, bad cop?”

  “No, this is bad cop, worse cop. Those are the only choices you’re going to get.”

  Stott stared at the floor
for a few moments, leaning slowly back, extricating himself from Byrne’s orbit. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little—”

  “Nervous.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you said. Now, back to Detective Balzano’s question.”

  Stott drew a deep breath, then replaced the fresh air with a lung-rattling draw on his cigarette. He stared at the photograph again. “Well, I can’t really tell which room it is, but the way the rooms are laid out, I’d say this was an even-numbered room.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the toilets are back-to-back here. If this was an odd-numbered room, the tub would be on the other side.”

  “Can you narrow it down at all?” Byrne asked.

  “When people check in for, you know, a few hours, we try to give them rooms five through ten.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because they’re on the other side of the building from the street. Lots of times, people like to be discreet.”

  “So if the room in this photograph is one of those, it would be six, eight, or ten.”

  Stott looked at the water-stained ceiling. He did some serious ciphering in his head. It was clear that Karl Stott had a few problems with math. He looked back at Byrne. “Yeah.”

  “Do you recall any problems with your guests in those rooms over the past few weeks?”

  “Problems?”

  “Anything unusual. Arguments, disagreements, any loud behavior.”

  “Believe it or not, this is a relatively quiet place,” Stott said.

  “Are any of those rooms occupied right now?”

  Stott looked at the corkboard with the keys on it. “No.”

  “We’re going to need the keys to six, eight, and ten.”

  “Sure,” Stott said, hooking the keys off the board. He handed them to Byrne. “Can I ask what this is all about?”

  “We have reason to believe that a serious crime was committed in one of your motel rooms in the past two weeks,” Jessica said.

  By the time the detectives reached the door Karl Stott had lit another cigarette.

  ROOM NUMBER SIX was a close, musty space: lopsided queen-size bed with a busted frame, splintered laminate nightstands, stained lamp shades, cracked plaster walls. Jessica noticed a ring of crumbs on the floor around the small table by the window. The worn, dirty oatmeal-colored carpeting was mildewed and damp.