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

by Richard Montanari

  BYRNE RETURNED TO the Tick Tock. Victoria was standing near the ladies’ room, chewing on a fingernail. He made his way over. The music was pounding.

  “What happened?” Victoria asked.

  “Nothing,” Byrne said. “Let’s go.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “No,” he said.

  Victoria gave him the eye. “Something happened. Tell me, Kevin.”

  Byrne took her by the hand. He led her toward the door.

  “Let’s just say I hit the Wahl.”

  THE X BAR was in the basement of an old furniture depot on Erie Avenue. A tall black man in a yellowing white linen suit stood at the door. He wore a Panama hat and red patent-leather shoes, a dozen or so gold bangle bracelets on his right wrist. Two doorways west, partially shadowed, stood a shorter but far more muscular man—shaved head, sparrow tats on his massive arms.

  The cover charge was twenty-five dollars each. They paid a pretty young woman in a pink leather fetish dress just inside the door. She slipped the money through a metal slot in the wall behind her.

  They entered and went down a long, narrow staircase to an even longer hallway. The walls were painted a glossy raspberry enamel. The thumping rhythm of a disco song got louder as they neared the end of the corridor.

  The X Bar was one of the few hard-core S&M clubs left in Philadelphia, a throwback to the hedonistic 1970s, a pre-AIDS world in which anything went.

  Before they made the turn into the main room, they encountered a niche built into the wall, a deep alcove in which a woman sat on a chair. She was middle-aged, white. She wore a leather master mask. At first, Byrne wasn’t sure if she was real or not. The skin on her arms and thighs looked waxen, and she sat absolutely still. When a pair of men approached, the woman stood up. One of the men wore a full-torso straitjacket and a dog collar attached to a leash. The other man roughly yanked him to the woman’s feet. The woman took out a riding crop and lightly flailed the one in the straitjacket. Soon he began to cry.

  As Byrne and Victoria made their way across the main room, Byrne saw that half the people were in S&M costumes: leather and chains, spikes, catsuits. The other half were the curious, the hangers-on, the parasites on the lifestyle. At the far end was a small stage with a lone spotlight on a wooden chair. No one was on the stage at the moment.

  Byrne walked behind Victoria. He watched the reactions she aroused. The men immediately spotted her: her sexy figure, the smooth confident gait, that mane of black shiny hair. When they saw her face they did a double take.

  But in this place, in this lighting, she was exotica. All styles were served here.

  They made their way to the back bar, where a bartender was wiping down the mahogany. He wore a leather vest, no shirt, a studded collar. He had greasy brown hair, swept back from his forehead, a deep widow’s peak. Each forearm held an elaborate spider tattoo. At the last second, the man looked up. He saw Victoria and smiled a mouthful of yellow teeth, topped by grayish gums.

  “Hey, baby,” he said.

  “How are you?” Victoria replied. She slipped onto the last stool.

  The man leaned over and kissed her hand. “Never better,” he replied.

  The bartender looked over her shoulder, saw Byrne, and his smile quickly faded. Byrne held his gaze until the man looked away. Byrne then glanced behind the bar. Next to the shelves of liquor were racks of books appealing to the BDSM culture—leather sex, fisting, tickling, slave training, spanking.

  “The place is crowded,” Victoria said.

  “You should see it on Saturday nights,” the man replied.

  I’ll pass, Byrne thought.

  “This is a good friend of mine,” Victoria said to the bartender. “Denny Riley.”

  The man was forced to officially acknowledge Byrne’s presence. Byrne shook hands with him. They had met before, but the man at the bar didn’t remember. His name was Darryl Porter. Byrne had been there the night Porter had been busted for procuring and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. The bust came at a party in Northern Liberties where a group of underaged girls were found partying with a pair of Nigerian businessmen. Some of the girls were as young as twelve. Porter, if Byrne remembered correctly, had done only a year or so on a plea bargain. Darryl Porter was a chicken hawk. For this and many other reasons, Byrne wanted to wash his hand.

  “So what brings you to our little slice of heaven?” Porter asked. He poured a glass of white wine and set it in front of Victoria. He didn’t even ask Byrne.

  “I’m looking for an old friend,” Victoria said.

  “Who would that be?”

  “Julian Matisse.”

  Darryl Porter furrowed his brow. Either he was a good actor or he didn’t know, Byrne thought. He watched the man’s eyes. Then—a flicker? Definitely.

  “Julian’s in jail. Greene, last I heard.”

  Victoria sipped her wine, shook her head. “He’s out.”

  Darryl Porter mugged, wiped down the bar. “First I’m hearing of it. I thought he was pulling the whole train.”

  “He’s out on some kind of technicality, I think.”

  “Julian’s good people,” Porter said. “We go back.”

  Byrne wanted to jump across the bar. Instead he glanced to his right. A short, bald man was sitting on the stool next to Victoria. The man was meekly giving Byrne the eye. He wore a Campfire Girl outfit.

  Byrne turned his attention back to Darryl Porter. Porter filled a few drink orders, returned, leaned over the bar, whispered something in Victoria’s ear, keeping eye contact with Byrne the whole time. Men and their fucking power trips, Byrne thought.

  Victoria laughed, tossed her hair over a shoulder. It made Byrne’s stomach flip to think she would in any way be flattered by the attentions of someone like Darryl Porter. She was so much more than that. Maybe she was just playing her part. Maybe it was jealousy on his part.

  “We’ve got to run,” Victoria said.

  “Okay, babe. I’ll ask around. If I hear anything, I’ll call you,” Porter said.

  Victoria nodded. “Cool.”

  “Where can I reach you?” he asked.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Victoria dropped a ten on the bar. Porter folded it up and handed it back to her. She smiled, slipped off her stool. Porter smiled back, went back to wiping down the bar. He didn’t look at Byrne again.

  On stage, a pair of women in blindfolds and gag ball trainers knelt before a huge black man in a leather mask.

  The man held a thong whip.

  BYRNE AND VICTORIA stepped out in the humid night air, no closer to finding Julian Matisse than they had been at the beginning of the night. After the madness of the X Bar, the city was shockingly still and quiet. It even smelled clean.

  It was nearly four o’clock.

  On the way to the car, they rounded a corner and saw two kids: young black boys, maybe eight and ten years old, patched jeans, ratty sneaks. They sat on a row house stoop behind a box full of mixed-breed puppies. Victoria looked over at Byrne, lower lip out, eyebrows aloft.

  “No, no, no,” Byrne said. “Unh-unh. No way.”

  “You should have a puppy, Kevin.”

  “Not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Tori,” Byrne said. “I have enough trouble taking care of myself.”

  She gave him a puppy look of her own then knelt down next to the box and surveyed the small sea of furry faces. She grabbed one of the dogs, stood, and held him up in the streetlight, like a chalice.

  Byrne leaned against the brick wall, propped his cane. He took the dog. The puppy’s rear legs freewheeled in the air as it began to lick his face.

  “He likes you, man,” the younger kid said. He was obviously the Donald Trump of this organization.

  As far as Byrne could tell, the puppy was a shepherd-collie mix, another child of the night. “If I were interested in buying this dog—and I’m not saying I am—how much would you want for it?” he asked.

  “Fi
ddy dollars,” the kid said.

  Byrne looked at the handmade sign on the front of the cardboard box. “It says twenty dollars on the box.”

  “That’s a five.”

  “That’s a two.”

  The kid shook his head. He stepped in front of the box, obscuring Byrne’s view. “Nunh-unh. These is thorobed dogs.”

  “Thorobeds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Most def.”

  “What kind are they exactly?”

  “They Philadelphia pit bulls.”

  Byrne had to smile. “Is that right?”

  “No doubt,” the kid said.

  “I’ve never heard of that breed.”

  “They the best, man. They do they bidness outside, they guard the house, they don’t eat that much.” The kid smiled. Killer charm. He was headed all the way in one direction or the other.

  Byrne glanced at Victoria. He was starting to soften. Slightly. He tried his best to conceal it.

  Byrne slipped the puppy back into the box. He looked at the boys. “Isn’t it a little late for you guys to be out?”

  “Late? Nah, man. It’s early. We up early. We businessmen.”

  “All right,” Byrne said. “You guys stay out of trouble.” Victoria took his arm as they turned and walked away.

  “Don’t you want the dog?” the kid asked.

  “Not tonight,” Byrne said.

  “Forty for you,” the kid said.

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “They might be gone tomorrow.”

  “Me, too,” Byrne said.

  The kid shrugged. And why not?

  He had a thousand years to go.

  WHEN THEY REACHED Victoria’s car on Thirteenth Street, they saw a van across the street being vandalized. Three teenaged boys broke the driver’s window with a brick, setting off the alarm. One of them reached in, grabbed whatever was on the front seat. It looked like a pair of thirty-five-millimeter cameras. When the kids spotted Byrne and Victoria, they took off down the street. In a second they were gone.

  Byrne and Victoria shared a glance, a shake of the head. “Hang on,” Byrne said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He crossed the street, turned 360, making sure he was not being observed, and, after wiping it down with his shirttail, dropped Gregory Wahl’s driver’s license into the burglarized vehicle.

  VICTORIA LINDSTROM LIVED in a small apartment in the Fishtown section. It was decorated in a very feminine style: French provincial furniture, gauzy scarves on the lamps, floral wallpaper. Everywhere he looked he saw an afghan or a knitted throw. Byrne envisioned many a night when Victoria sat here alone, needles in hand, a glass of Chardonnay at her side. Byrne also noted that, with every light on, it was still dim. All the lamps had low-watt bulbs. He understood.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She poured him three inches of bourbon, handed him the glass. He sat on the arm of her couch.

  “We try again tomorrow night,” Victoria said.

  “I really appreciate this, Tori.”

  Victoria waved him off. Byrne read a lot in the wave. Victoria had a stake in getting Julian Matisse off the street again. Or, perhaps, off the world.

  Byrne gulped half the bourbon. Almost instantly it met the Vicodin in his system and produced a warm glow inside. He had held off drinking alcohol all night for that very reason. He glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He had taken more than enough of Victoria’s time.

  Victoria walked him to the door.

  At the door, she put her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. She had kicked off her shoes and, without them, she seemed small. Byrne had never really realized how petite she was. Her spirit always made her seem larger than life.

  After a few moments, she looked up at him, her silver eyes nearly black in the dim light. What began as an affectionate hug and a kiss on the cheek, the parting of two old friends, suddenly became something else. Victoria pulled him close and kissed him deeply. Afterward, they pulled back and looked at each other, not so much out of lust as, perhaps, surprise. Had this always been in them? Had this feeling been simmering just below the surface for fifteen years? The look on Victoria’s face told Byrne he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She smiled as she began to unbutton his shirt.

  “What exactly are your intentions here, Miss Lindstrom?” Byrne asked.

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “Yes you will.”

  More buttons. “What makes you think so?”

  “I happen to be a very skilled lawman,” Byrne said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Will you take me into a small room?” She unbuttoned a few more buttons.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you make me sweat?”

  “I’ll certainly do my best.”

  “Will you make me talk?”

  “Oh, there’s no question about that. I am a seasoned interrogator. KGB.”

  “I see,” Victoria said. “And what is KGB?”

  Byrne held up his cane. “Kevin Gimp Byrne.”

  Victoria laughed as she slid his shirt off, and led him to the bedroom.

  AFTERWARD, AS THEY lay in the afterglow, Victoria took one of Byrne’s hands in hers. The sun was just beginning to breach the horizon.

  Victoria gently kissed his fingertips, one by one. She then took his right forefinger and slowly traced the scars on her face.

  Byrne knew that, after all these years, after they had finally made love, what Victoria was doing right then was far more intimate than sex. He had never felt closer to a human being in his life.

  He thought about all the stations of her life to which he had been present—the teenaged firebrand, the victim of a horrible attack, the strong, independent woman she had become. He realized that he had long harbored a great and mysterious well of feelings for her, a cache of emotion he had never been able to identify.

  When he felt the tears on her face, he knew.

  All this time, the feelings had been love.

  21

  THE MARINE UNIT of the Philadelphia Police Department had been in operation for more than 150 years, its charter having evolved over time from one of assisting the commerce of marine traffic up and down the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers to one of patrol, recovery, and rescue. In the 1950s the unit added diving to its duty roster, and since that time had become one of the elite aquatic divisions in the nation.

  Essentially, the Marine Unit was an extension and supplement to the PPD patrol force whose job it was to respond to any and all water-related emergencies, as well as recoveries of persons, property, and evidence from the water.

  They had begun dragging the river at first light, starting at an area just south of the Strawberry Mansion Bridge. The Schuylkill River was murky, with no visibility from the surface. The process would be slow and methodical, with divers working a grid along the banks in fifty-foot segments.

  By the time Jessica arrived on the scene at just after eight, they had cleared a two-hundred-foot section. She found Byrne standing on the bank, silhouetted against the dark water. He had his cane with him. Jessica’s heart nearly broke. She knew he was a proud man, and a concession to weakness—any weakness—was hard. She made her way down to the river, a pair of coffees in hand.

  “Good morning,” Jessica said, handing Byrne a cup.

  “Hey,” he said. He hoisted the cup. “Thanks.”

  “Anything?”

  Byrne shook his head. He put his coffee on a bench, lit a cigarette, glanced at the bright red matchbook. It was from the Rivercrest Motel. He held it up. “If we don’t find anything, I think we should take another run at this dump’s manager.”

  Jessica thought about Karl Stott. She didn’t like him for the murder, but she didn’t think he was telling the full truth, either. “Think he’s holding out?”

  “I think he has a hard time remembering thing
s,” Byrne said. “On purpose.”

  Jessica looked out over the water. Here, on this gentle bend of the Schuylkill River, it was hard to reconcile what happened just a few blocks away at the Rivercrest Motel. If she was right about her hunch—and there was an overwhelming chance she was not—she wondered how such a beautiful place as this could host such horror. The trees were in full bloom; the water gently rocked the boats at the dock. She was just about to respond when her two-way radio crackled to life.

  “Yeah.”

  “Detective Balzano?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We found something.”

  THE CAR WAS a 1996 Saturn, submerged in the river a quarter mile from the Marine Unit’s own mini station on Kelly Drive. The station was only manned during daywork so, under cover of darkness, no one would have seen someone driving or pushing the car into the Schuylkill. The car had no plates on it. They would run it off the VIN, the vehicle identification number, providing it was still in the car and intact.

  When the car breached the surface of the water, all eyes on the riverbank turned to Jessica. Thumbs-up all around. She found Byrne’s eyes. In them, she saw respect, and no small measure of admiration. It meant everything.

  THE KEY WAS still in the ignition. After taking a number of photographs, a CSU officer removed it, opened the trunk. Terry Cahill and half a dozen detectives crowded around the car.

  What they saw inside would live with them for a very long time.

  The woman in the trunk had been destroyed. She had been stabbed repeatedly and, because of her time submerged in the water, most of the smaller wounds had puckered and closed. The larger wounds—a few in particular on the woman’s stomach and thighs—oozed a brackish brown liquid.

  Because she had been in the trunk of the car, and not fully exposed to the elements, her body was not covered with debris. This might make the medical examiner’s job a little easier. Philadelphia was bounded by two large rivers; the ME’s office had a good deal of experience with floaters.