Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands
Page 57
They met on Germantown Avenue, near Broad Street. The aroma of simmering barbecue and hickory smoke from Dwight’s Southern permeated the air with its fatty sweet tang. It made Kevin Byrne salivate. It made Sammy DuPuis nauseous.
“What, not a big fan of soul food?” Byrne asked.
Sammy shook his head, hit his Camel hard. “How do people eat that shit? It’s all fuckin’ fat and gristle. You might as well just put it into a needle and shoot it into your heart.”
Byrne glanced down. The gun was laid out on a black velvet cloth between them. There was something about the scent of oil on steel, Byrne thought. There was a terrible power in that smell.
Byrne picked it up, checked the action, sighted the barrel, mindful of the fact that they were in a public place. Sammy generally worked out of his house in East Camden, but Byrne didn’t have time to cross the river today.
“I can do it for six fifty,” Sammy said. “And that is a bargain for such a beauty-full weapon.”
“Sammy,” Byrne said.
Sammy was silent for a few moments, conveying poverty, oppression, destitution. It didn’t work. “Okay, six,” he said. “And I’m losing money.”
Sammy DuPuis was a gun dealer who never dealt to drug dealers or anyone in a gang. If there was a backroom small-arms dealer with scruples, it was Sammy DuPuis.
The item for sale was a SIG-Sauer P-226. It may not have been the prettiest handgun ever made—far from it—but it was accurate, reliable, and rugged. And Sammy DuPuis was a man of deep discretion. On this day, these were Kevin Byrne’s main concerns.
“This better be cold, Sammy.” Byrne put the weapon in his coat pocket.
Sammy wrapped the other guns in the cloth, said: “Like my first wife’s ass.”
Byrne pulled his roll, peeled off six hundred-dollar bills. He handed them to Sammy. “You bring the bag?” Byrne asked.
Sammy looked up immediately. His forehead was corrugated with thought. As a rule, getting Sammy DuPuis to stop counting money was no small feat, but Byrne’s question stopped him cold. If what they were doing was outside the law—and it broke at least half a dozen laws that Byrne could think of, both state and federal—what Byrne was suggesting broke just about every other.
But Sammy DuPuis did not judge. If he did, he wouldn’t be in the business he was in. And he wouldn’t cart around the silver case he carried in the trunk of his car, the valise that held instruments of such dark purpose that Sammy only spoke of their existence in hushed tones.
“You sure?”
Byrne just stared.
“Okay, okay,” Sammy said. “Sorry I asked.”
They got out of the car, walked to the trunk. Sammy looked up and down the street. He hesitated, fumbling with his keys.
“Checking for the cops?” Byrne asked.
Sammy laughed a nervous little twitter. He opened the trunk. Inside was a group of canvas bags, attaché cases, duffels. Sammy moved a few of the leatherette cases to the side. He opened one. Inside was an array of cell phones. “Sure you don’t want a clean cell instead? A PDA, maybe?” he asked. “I can put you in a BlackBerry 7290 for seventy-five bucks.”
“Sammy.”
Sammy hesitated again, then zipped up the leatherette satchel. He cracked another case. This one was ringed with dozens of amber vials. “How about pills?”
Byrne thought about it. He knew Sammy had amphetamines. He was exhausted, but the uppers would just make things worse.
“No pills.”
“Fireworks? Porno? I can get you a Lexus for ten G’s.”
“You do remember I have a loaded weapon in my pocket, don’t you?” Byrne asked.
“You’re the boss,” Sammy said. He pulled out a sleek Zero Halliburton suitcase, dialed the three digits, subconsciously shielding the operation from Byrne. He opened the case, then stepped away, lit another Camel. Even for Sammy DuPuis, the contents of this case were hard to look at.
44
GENERALLY THERE WERE no more than a few officers in the AV Unit in the basement of the Roundhouse at any given time. This afternoon there were half a dozen detectives crowded around the monitor in the small editing bay next to the control room. Jessica was certain that the fact that a hard-core porno movie was running had nothing to do with it.
Jessica and Cahill had driven Kilbane back to Flickz, where he had gone into the adult section and retrieved an X-rated title called Philadelphia Skin. He had emerged from the back room like a covert government operative retrieving secret enemy files.
The movie opened with a stock footage view of the skyline of Philadelphia. The production values seemed fairly high for an adult title. Then the film cut to the inside of an apartment. This footage looked standard—bright light, slightly overexposed digital video. Within seconds there was a knock at the door.
A woman entered the frame, answered the door. She was young and delicate, a gaminelike body in a pale yellow teddy. Barely legal by all appearances. When she opened the door fully, a man stood there. He was of average height and build. He wore a blue satin bomber jacket and leather face mask.
“You call for a master plumber?” the man asked.
A few of the detectives laughed, then quickly stowed it. The possibility existed that the man asking the question was their killer. When he turned away from the camera, they saw that he was wearing the same jacket as the man in the surveillance video: dark blue with an embroidered green dragon.
“I’m new to this city,” the girl said. “I haven’t seen a friendly face in weeks.”
As the camera moved closer to her, Jessica could see that the young woman wore a delicate pink feathered mask, but Jessica could see her eyes—haunted, scared eyes, portals to a deeply damaged soul.
The camera then panned to the right, following the man down a short hallway. At this point, Mateo freeze-framed it, made a Sony print of the image. Although the freeze-frame from the surveillance tape, at this size and resolution, was quite fuzzy, when the two images were put side by side the results were all but conclusive.
The man in the X-rated movie and the man putting the tape back on the shelf at Flickz appeared to be wearing the same jacket.
“Anyone recognize this design?” Buchanan asked.
No one did.
“Let’s check it against gang symbols, tattoos,” he added. “Let’s find tailors who do embroidery.”
They watched the rest of the video. Another man in a mask was in the film also, along with a second girl in a feather mask. The movie was of the S&M, rough-sex vintage. It was hard for Jessica to believe that the S&M aspects of the film were not causing the young women severe pain or injury. It looked like they were being seriously beaten.
When it was over, they watched the meager “credits.” The film was directed by someone named Edmundo Nobile. The actor in the blue jacket’s name was Bruno Steele.
“What’s the actor’s real name?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t know,” Kilbane said. “But I know the people who distributed the film. If anyone can find him, they can.”
PHILADELPHIA SKIN WAS distributed by a Camden, New Jersey, company called Inferno Films. Inferno Films had been in business since 1981, and in that time had released more than four hundred films, mostly hard-core adult titles. They sold their product wholesale to adult bookstores, as well as retail through their websites.
The detectives decided that a full-on approach to the company—search warrant, raid, interrogations—might not yield the desired results. If they went in with badges flashing, the chances of the company circling the wagons, or suddenly getting amnesia about one of their “actors,” were high, as were the chances that they might tip the actor and therefore put him in the wind.
They decided that the best way to handle this was through a sting operation. When all eyes turned to Jessica, she knew what it meant.
She would be going undercover.
And her guide into the netherworld of Philadelphia porn would be none other than Eugene Kilbane.
“Hello, Detective,” Butler said. “I was just coming up to see you.”
“Hi,” she said.
He held up a plastic bag. “I put together a few books for you. They might help.”
“You didn’t have to bring them down,” Jessica said.
“It wasn’t a problem.”
Butler opened the bag and took out three books, all oversize paperback editions. Shots in the Mirror: Crime Films and Society, Gods of Death, and Masters of Mise en Scene.
“This is very generous. Thanks very much.”
Butler glanced at the Roundhouse, looked back at Jessica. The moment drew out.
“Is there anything else?” Jessica asked.
Butler grinned. “I was kind of hoping for a tour.”
Jessica glanced at her watch. “Any other day it would be no problem.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Look. You’ve got my card. Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll set something up.”
“I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I’ll call when I return.”
“That will be great,” Jessica said. She held up the bag of books. “And thanks again for these.”
“Bonne chance, Detective.”
Jessica walked to her car, thinking about Nigel Butler in his ivory tower, surrounded by well-framed posters from movies where the guns all had blanks, the stuntmen fell onto air mattresses, and the blood was fake.
The world she was about to enter was about as far from academia as she could imagine.
JESSICA MADE A pair of Lean Cuisine dinners for her and Sophie. They sat on the couch and ate off TV trays, one of Sophie’s favorite things. Jessica flipped on the TV, cruised the channels, and settled on a movie. Mid-1990s fare with clever dialogue and sizzling action. Background noise. As they ate their dinner, Sophie detailed her day in preschool. In honor of the upcoming birthday of Beatrix Potter, Sophie told Jessica, her class had made rabbit hand puppets out of lunch bags. The afternoon was devoted to a climate study via the learning of a new song called “Drippy the Raindrop.” Jessica had the feeling she’d know all the words to “Drippy the Raindrop” in short order, whether she wanted to or not.
Just as she was about to clear their plates, Jessica heard a voice. A familiar voice. The recognition brought her attention back to the movie. The film was Kill Game 2, the second in the popular series of Will Parrish action movies. This one was about a South African drug lord.
But it wasn’t Will Parrish’s voice that caught Jessica’s attention—indeed, Parrish’s gravelly drawl was as recognizable as that of just about any actor working. Instead, it was the voice of the beat cop who was covering the back of the building.
“We’ve got officers at all the exits,” the beat cop said. “These scumbags are ours.”
“No one gets in or out,” Parrish replied, his formerly white dress shirt covered in Hollywood blood, his feet bare.
“Yes, sir,” the officer said. He was a little taller than Parrish, had a strong jawline, ice-blue eyes, slender build.
Jessica had to look twice, then twice more, just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She was not. There could be no question about it. As hard as it was to believe, it was true.
The man playing the beat cop in Kill Game 2 was Special Agent Terry Cahill.
JESSICA GOT ON her computer, onto the Internet.
What was the database with all the movie information? She tried a few acronyms and came up with IMDb in short order. She entered Kill Game 2 and clicked on “Full Cast and Crew.” She scrolled down and there, near the bottom, playing “Young Cop,” was his name. Terrence Cahill.
Before closing the page she scrolled through the rest of the credits. Next to “Technical Adviser” was his name again.
Incredible.
Terry Cahill was in the movies.
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, Jessica dropped Sophie off at Paula’s, then hit the shower. She dried her hair, put on lipstick and perfume, slipped into a pair of black leather pants and a red silk blouse. A pair of sterling-silver drop earrings completed the look. She had to admit, she didn’t look too bad. A little slutty perhaps. But after all, that was the point, wasn’t it?
She locked the house, walked over to the Jeep. She had parked in the driveway. Before she could slip behind the wheel, a carload of teenaged boys drove by the house. They honked the horn and whistled.
I’ve still got it, she thought with a smile. At least in Northeast Philly. Besides, while she was on IMDb, she had looked up East Side, West Side. Ava Gardner was only twenty-seven in that movie.
Twenty-seven.
She got into the Jeep and headed into the city.
DETECTIVE NICOLETTE MALONE was petite, tanned, and toned. Her hair was an almost silver blond, and she wore it in a ponytail. She wore tight, faded Levi’s, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. On loan from Narcotics, around Jessica’s age, she had followed a path to a gold badge that was strikingly similar to Jessica’s: She came from a cop family, had spent four years in uniform, three years as a divisional detective.
Although they had never met, they were aware of each other by reputation. More so on Jessica’s part. For a brief period, earlier in the year, Jessica had been convinced that Nicci Malone was having an affair with Vincent. She wasn’t. It was Jessica’s hope that Nicci had heard nothing about her schoolgirl suspicions.
They met in Ike Buchanan’s office. ADA Paul DiCarlo was present.
“Jessica Balzano, Nicci Malone,” Buchanan said.
“How ya doin’?” Nicci said, extending a hand. Jessica took it.
“Nice to meet you,” Jessica said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I never touched him. I swear to God.” Nicci winked, smiled. “Just kidding.”
Shit, Jessica thought. Nicci knew all about it.
Ike Buchanan looked appropriately confused. He went on. “Inferno Films is essentially a one-man outfit. The owner is a guy named Dante Diamond.”
“What’s the play?” Nicci asked.
“You are casting a new hard-core movie and you want this Bruno Steele to be in it.”
“How are we going in?” Nicci asked.
“Lightweight body microphones, wireless, remote taping capability.”
“Armed?”
“That will be your choice,” DiCarlo said. “But there’s a good chance you will be searched or go through metal detectors at some point.”
When Nicci met Jessica’s eyes, they silently agreed. They would go in unarmed.
AFTER JESSICA and Nicci were briefed by a pair of veterans from the vice squad—including names to float, terms to use, along with a variety of tells—Jessica waited in the duty room of the Homicide Unit. Before long Terry Cahill entered. When she was sure that he had noticed her, she struck a tough-guy pose, hands on hips.
“We’ve got officers at all the exits,” Jessica said, mimicking the line from Kill Game 2.
Cahill looked at her for moment, questioningly; then it registered. “Uh-oh,” he said. He was dressed casually. He was not going to be on this detail.
“How come you didn’t tell me that you’ve been in the movies?” Jessica asked.
“Well, there’ve only been two, and I like to keep my two lives separate. For one thing, the FBI isn’t crazy about it.”
“How did you get started?”
“It started when the producers of Kill Game 2 called the bureau asking for some technical assistance. Somehow the ASAC knew I was a movie nut and recommended me for the job. As much as the bureau is secretive about its agents, it’s also desperate to have itself portrayed in an accurate light.”
The PPD wasn’t much different, Jessica thought. A number of television shows had been produced that focused on the department. It was rare when they got things right. “What was it like working with Will Parrish?”
“He’s a great guy,” C
ahill said. “Very generous and down to earth.”
“Are you in the movie he’s making now?”
Cahill looked around, lowered his voice. “Just a walk-on. But don’t tell anyone around here. Everybody wants to be in showbiz, right?”
Jessica zipped her lips.
“In fact, we’re shooting my little part tonight,” Cahill said.
“And for that you’re giving up the glamour of a stakeout?”
Cahill smiled. “It’s dirty work.” He stood, glanced at his watch. “Have you ever done any acting?”
Jessica almost laughed. Her one brush with the legitimate stage had come when she was in second grade at St. Paul’s. She had been a co-star in a lavish production of the nativity scene. She played a sheep. “Uh, not that you’d notice.”
“It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know those lines I had in Kill Game 2?” Cahill asked.
“What about them?”
“I think we did thirty takes.”
“How come?”
“You have any idea how hard it is to say ‘these scumbags are ours’ with a straight face?”
Jessica tried it. He was right.
AT NINE O’CLOCK, Nicci walked into the Homicide Unit, turning the head of every male detective on duty. She had changed into a sweet little black cocktail dress.
One at a time she and Jessica went into one of the interview rooms, where they were fitted with wireless body microphones.
EUGENE KILBANE PACED nervously around the parking lot of the Roundhouse. He wore a powder-blue suit and white patent-leather loafers, the kind with the silver chain across the upper. He lit each cigarette with the previous one.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Kilbane said.
“You can do this,” Jessica said.