Jessica tried to absorb this, to ferret out the subtext of what he was telling her. “Do you still feel that way?” she asked.
Byrne’s eyes cut more deeply into her than anyone ever had. For a second, it felt like he turned her arms and legs into cement. It appeared he might not answer. Then he said, simply: “Yes.”
An hour later they stopped by St. Joseph’s Hospital. Victoria Lindstrom was out of surgery and in ICU. Her condition was critical but stable.
A few minutes later they stood in the parking lot, in the hush of the predawn city. The sun was coming up soon, but Philly still slept. Somewhere out there, beneath the watchful eye of William Penn, between the peaceful flow of the rivers, amid the drifting souls of the night, the Actor was planning his next horror.
Jessica drove home to catch a few hours’ sleep, thinking about what Byrne had been through in the past forty-eight hours. She tried not to judge him. As far as she was concerned, up until the time Kevin Byrne left that cellar in North Philly for Fairmount Park, what had happened down there was between him and Julian Matisse. There had been no witnesses, and there would be no investigation into Byrne’s conduct. Jessica was relatively certain that Byrne had not told her every detail, but that was all right. The Actor was still loose in their city.
They had work to do.
59
THE SCARFACE TAPE was rented at an independent video outlet in University City. For once, Eugene Kilbane did not own the store. The man who rented the tape was Elian Quintana, who worked as a night security guard at the Wachovia Center. He had watched the doctored video with his daughter, a sophomore at Villanova, who had fainted at the sight of the real murder. She was currently sedated under doctor’s orders.
In the edited version of the film, a bruised and battered and screaming Julian Matisse is seen handcuffed over a metal rod in the makeshift shower stall in the corner of the basement. A figure in a yellow rain slicker steps into the frame, takes a chain saw, and cuts the man virtually in half. It is spliced into the film at the moment when Al Pacino visits the Colombian drug dealer at the second-floor motel room in Miami. The young man who brought in the tape, an employee of the video store, had been questioned and released, as had Elian Quintana.
There were no other fingerprints on the tape. There were no fingerprints on the chain saw. There was no surveillance video of the tape being placed on the rack at the video store. There were no suspects.
WITHIN A FEW hours of the discovery of Julian Matisse’s body in the row house in North Philly, a total of ten detectives were assigned to the case.
Sales of camcorders had skyrocketed in the city, and the possibility of copycat crimes was very real. The task force had dispatched an undercover plainclothes detective to every independently owned video store in the city, the theory being that the Actor was choosing them because of the ease with which he could bypass the older security systems.
For the PPD, and the Philadelphia field office of the FBI, the Actor was now Priority One. The story had received international attention, and crime nuts, film nuts, and nuts of all trees were coming into the city.
From the moment the story broke, a near hysteria had taken place at video stores, both independent and chain, overrun with people renting graphically violent films. Channel 6 Action News set up crews to interview people coming out with armloads of VHS tapes.
“Of all the Nightmare on Elm Street tapes, I hope the Actor kills someone like Freddy does in Part Three—”
“I rented Se7en, but when I got to the part where the lawyer gets the pound of flesh removed, it was the same scene as in the original … bummer—”
“I’ve got The Untouchables … Maybe the Actor goes Louisville Slugger on some guy’s head in it like De Niro does.”
“I hope I see some of the murders like they have in—”
“Carlito’s Way—”
“Taxi Driver—”
“The Public Enemy—”
“The Getaway—”
“M—”
“Reservoir Dogs—”
To the department, the possibility of someone not coming forward with a tape—opting to keep it or sell it on eBay—was as disturbing as it was possible.
Jessica had three hours until the task force meeting. Word was she might be heading the task force, and the notion was more than a little daunting. There was an average of ten years’ experience in the unit for every detective assigned to the task force, and she would be directing them.
She began to gather her files and notes when she saw the pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT slip. Faith Chandler. She had not yet returned the woman’s phone call. She had forgotten all about her. The woman’s life was tattered by grief and pain and loss and Jessica had neglected to follow up. She picked up the phone, dialed. After a few rings, a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Chandler, this is Detective Balzano. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you.”
Silence. Then: “This is … I’m Faith’s sister.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jessica said. “Is Faith in?”
More silence. Something was wrong. “Faith isn’t … Faith is in the hospital.”
Jessica felt the floor drop away. “What happened?”
She heard the woman sniffle. After a moment, “They don’t know. They say it might be acute alcohol poisoning. There were a lot of … well, that’s what they said. She’s in a coma. They say she probably won’t make it.”
Jessica recalled the bottle on the TV table when they had visited Faith Chandler. “When did this happen?”
“After Stephanie … well, Faith has a bit of a problem with alcohol. I guess she just couldn’t stop. I found her early this morning.”
“Was she home at the time?”
“Yes.”
“Was she alone?”
“I guess so … I mean, I don’t know. She was when I found her. Before that, I just don’t know.”
“Did you or anyone call the police?”
“No. I called nine-one-one.”
Jessica glanced at her watch. “Stay right there. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
FAITH’S SISTER SONYA was an older, heavier version of Faith. But where Faith’s eyes were soul-weary, threaded with sorrow and exhaustion, Sonya’s were clear and alert. Jessica and Byrne talked to her in the small kitchen at the back of the row house. There was a single glass in the strainer by the sink, rinsed and already dry.
THE MAN SAT on a stoop two doors down from Faith Chandler’s row house. He was in his seventies. He had wild gray hair down to his shoulders, a five-day stubble, and sat in what looked like a motorized wheelchair from the 1970s—bulky, jury-rigged with cup holders, bumper stickers, radio antennae, and reflectors, but very well maintained. His name was Atkins Pace. He spoke with a deep Louisiana drawl.
“Do you sit out here a lot, Mr. Pace?” Jessica asked.
“Just about every day when it’s nice, chère. I got my radio, I got my iced tea. What more could a man want? ’Cept maybe a pair a legs to chase pretty girls with.”
The twinkle in his eyes said he was just making light of his situation, something he had probably done for years.
“Were you sitting out here yesterday?” Byrne asked.
“Yessir.”
“What time?”
Pace looked at the two detectives, summing up the situation. “This is about Faith, isn’t it?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because I seen the paramedics take her away this morning.”
“Faith Chandler is in the hospital, yes,” Byrne replied.
Pace nodded, then made the sign of the cross. He was nearing an age where folks fit into one of three categories. Already, just about, and not quite yet. “Can you tell me what happened to her?” he asked.
“We’re not sure,” Jessica replied. “Did you see her at all yesterday?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I seen her.”
“When?”
He looked skyward, a
s if gauging the time by the position of the sun. “Well, I’ll bet it was in the afternoon. Yes’m. I’d say that was most accurate. After twelve noon.”
“Was she coming or going?”
“Coming home.”
“Was she alone?” Jessica asked.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. She was with a fella. Nice looking. Looked like a schoolteacher maybe.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
Back up to the sky. Jessica was starting to think this man used the heavens as his own private PDA. “Nope. New one to me.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“The ordinary?”
“Were they arguing, anything like that?”
“No,” Pace said. “It was pretty much business as usual, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t. Tell me.”
Pace looked left, then right. Stoop gossip coming. He leaned forward. “Well, she looked to be in her cups. Plus, they was carrying a few more bottles. I don’t like to tell tales, but you asked, and there you have it.”
“Would you be able to describe the man who was with her?”
“Oh yeah,” Pace said. “Right down to his shoelaces if you want.”
“Why is that?” Jessica asked.
The man fixed her with a knowing smile. It erased a few years from his furrowed face. “Young lady, I’ve been in this chair over thirty years. Watching people is what I do.”
He then closed his eyes and rattled off everything Jessica was wearing, right down to her earrings and the color of the pen in her hand. He opened his eyes, winked.
“Very impressive,” she said.
“It’s a gift,” Pace replied. “Not one I asked for, but I most definitely have it, and I try to use it for the good of humankind.”
“We’ll be right back,” Jessica said.
“I’ll be right here, chère.”
Back inside the row house, Jessica and Byrne stood in the center of Stephanie’s bedroom. At first they’d believed that the answer to what had happened to Stephanie was contained in these four walls—her life as it stood on the day she left it. They had examined every item of clothing, every letter, every book, every trinket.
As Jessica looked at the room now, she noticed that everything was exactly the same as it had been a few days earlier. Except for one thing. The picture frame on the dresser—the one that had held a photograph of Stephanie and her friend—was now empty.
60
IAN WHITESTONE WAS a man of highly cultivated habit, a creature of such detail and precision and economy of thought that those around him were often treated like items on an agenda. In all the time he’d known Ian, Seth Goldman had never seen the man exhibit a single emotion that seemed to come to him naturally. Seth had never known a man with a more icily clinical approach to personal relationships. Seth wondered how he would take the news.
The climactic sequence of The Palace was to be filmed in a virtuoso, three-minute shot, filmed at the Thirtieth Street train station. It would be the final shot of the film. It was the shot that would secure the nomination for best director, if not best picture.
The wrap party was going to be held at a fashionable nightclub on Second Street called 32 Degrees, a Euro bar named for its fashion of serving shots in glasses made of solid ice.
Seth stood in the hotel bathroom. He found he could not look at himself. He held the photograph by the edge, flicked his lighter. In seconds, the picture caught the flame. He dropped it into the hotel bathroom’s sink. In an instant, it was gone.
Two more days, he thought. It was all he needed. Two more days and they could leave the sickness behind.
Until it all began again.
61
JESSICA HEADED THE task force, her first. Her number one priority was to coordinate resources and manpower with the FBI. Second, she would liaison with the brass, give status reports, prepare a profile.
A sketch of the man who was seen walking down the street with Faith Chandler was in the works. Two detectives were following the chain saw used to kill Julian Matisse. Two detectives were following the embroidered jacket worn by Matisse in Philadelphia Skin.
The first task force meeting was scheduled for 4:00 PM.
THE VICTIM PHOTOGRAPHS were taped to a whiteboard: Stephanie Chandler, Julian Matisse, and a photograph taken from the Fatal Attraction video of the still-unidentified female victim. There had not yet been a missing-person report matching the woman’s description. The medical examiner’s preliminary report on the death of Julian Matisse was due any minute.
The request for a search warrant for Adam Kaslov’s apartment had been denied. Jessica and Byrne were certain it had a lot more to do with the fact that Lawrence Kaslov was plugged in at some pretty high levels than a lack of circumstantial evidence. On the other hand, the fact that no one had seen Adam Kaslov for days seemed to indicate that his family had whisked him out of town, or even out of the country.
The question was: Why?
JESSICA RECAPPED THE case from the moment Adam Kaslov had brought the Psycho tape to the police. Except for the tapes themselves, they had little to go on. Three bloody, arrogant, nearly public executions, and they had nothing.
“It’s pretty clear that the Actor is fixated on the bathroom as a crime scene,” Jessica said. “Psycho, Fatal Attraction, and Scarface all have murders committed in the bathroom. We’re cross-referencing murders that have taken place in the bathroom in the past five years right now.” Jessica pointed to the collage of crime scene photographs. “The victims are Stephanie Chandler, twenty-two; Julian Matisse, forty; and an as-yet-unidentified female, who appears to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Two days ago we thought we had him. We thought Julian Matisse, who also went by the name of Bruno Steele, was our doer. Matisse, instead, was responsible for the kidnapping and attempted murder of a woman named Victoria Lindstrom. Ms. Lindstrom is in critical condition at St. Joseph’s.”
“What did Matisse have to do with the Actor?” Palladino asked.
“We don’t know,” Jessica said. “But whatever the motive is for the murder of these two women, we have to assume it applies to Julian Matisse. Connect Matisse to these two women, we’ll have our motive. If we can’t tie these people together, we have no way of knowing where he’s going to strike next.”
There was no disagreement about the fact that the Actor would strike again.
“There is usually a depression phase in the cycle of a killer like this,” Jessica said. “We’re not seeing it here. This is a spree, and according to all the research, he is not going to stop until he fulfills his plan.”
“What’s the link that put Matisse in this?” Chavez asked.
“Matisse was in an adult film called Philadelphia Skin,” Jessica said. “And it’s clear that something happened on the set of that movie.”
“What do you mean?” Chavez asked.
“Philadelphia Skin seems to be the center of everything. Matisse was the actor in the blue jacket. The man returning the tape to Flickz wore the same or a similar jacket.”
“Do we have anything on the jacket?”
Jessica shook her head. “It wasn’t found where we found Matisse’s body. We’re still canvassing tailor shops.”
“How does Stephanie Chandler figure into it?” Chavez asked.
“Not known.”
“Could she have been an actress in the film?”
“It’s possible,” Jessica said. “Her mother said she had been a little wild in college. She didn’t elaborate. The time frame would match up. Unfortunately, everyone in that movie wears a mask.”
“What were the actresses’ stage names?” Chavez asked.
Jessica consulted her notes. “One name is listed as Angel Blue. The other is Tracy Love. Again, we’ve run the names, no hits. But we might be able to get more of what happened on that shoot from the woman we met at Tresonne.”
“What was her name?”
“Paul
ette St. John.”
“Who is that?” Chavez asked, seemingly concerned that the task force was interviewing porno actresses and he had been left out of the loop.
“An adult-film actress. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try,” Jessica said.
Buchanan said: “Get her in here.”
HER REAL NAME was Roberta Stoneking. In the daytime, she looked like a hausfrau, a plain, albeit busty, thirty-eight-year-old thrice-divorced New Jersey mother of three with more than a nodding acquaintance with Botox. Which is precisely who she was. Today, instead of a low-cut leopard-print dress, she wore a hot pink velour tracksuit and new cherry-red running shoes. They met in Interview A. For some reason, there were a lot of male detectives observing this particular interview.
“It may be a big city, but the adult-film business is a small community,” she said. “Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
“Like we said, this has nothing to do with anybody’s livelihood, okay? We’re not concerned with the adult-film business per se,” Jessica said.
Roberta turned an unlit cigarette over and over. It appeared that she was deciding how much to say, and how to say it, probably to place herself as far away from any culpability as possible. “I understand.”
On the table was a printout close-up of the young blond girl from Philadelphia Skin. Those eyes, Jessica thought. “You mentioned that something happened during the shoot of this film.”
Roberta took a deep breath. “I don’t know much, okay?”
“Whatever you can tell us will be helpful.”
“All I heard was that a girl died on the set,” she said. “Even that might have been half the story. Who knows?”
Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands Page 62