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?”

“Paulette 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?”

“This was Angel Blue?”

“I think so.”

“Died how?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was her real name?”

“I have no idea. There are people I’ve made ten movies with, I don’t know their names. It’s that kind of business.”

“And you never heard any specifics about the girl’s death?”

“Not that I can recall.”

She was playing them, Jessica thought. She sat on the edge of the table. Woman-to-woman now. “Come on, Paulette,” she said, using the woman’s stage name. Maybe it would help them bond. “People talk. There had to be scuttlebutt about what happened.”

Roberta looked up. In the harsh fluorescence she looked every one of her years and then some. “Well, I heard she was using.”

“Using what?”

Roberta shrugged. “Not sure. Smack, probably.”

“How do you know?”

Roberta frowned at Jessica. “Despite my youthful appearance, I’ve been around the block, Detective.”

“Was there a lot of drug use on the set?”

“There’s a lot of drug use in the whole business. Depends on the person. Everybody’s got their disease, everybody’s got their cure.”

“Besides Bruno Steele, do you know the other guy who was in Philadelphia Skin?”

“I’d have to see it again.”

“Well, unfortunately, he wears a mask the whole time.”

Roberta laughed.

“Did I say something funny?” Jessica asked.

“Sweetie, there’s other ways of recognizing guys in my business.”

Chavez poked his head in. “Jess?”

Jessica instructed Nick Palladino to take Roberta down to AV and show her the film. Nick straightened his tie, smoothed his hair. There would be no hazard pay requested for this duty.

Jessica and Byrne stepped out of the room. “What’s up?”

“Lauria and Campos caught a case in Overbrook. It looks like it might dovetail with the Actor.”

“Why?” Jessica asked.

“First off, the vic is a white female, late twenties, early thirties. Shot once in the chest. Found at the bottom of her bathtub. Just like the Fatal Attraction killing.”

“Who found her?” Byrne asked.

“Landlord,” Chavez said. “She lives in a twin. Her neighbor came home after being out of town for a week, heard the same music playing over and over and over. Some kind of opera. Knocked on her door, got no answer, called the landlord.”

“How long has she been dead?”

“No idea. ME’s on the way there now,” Buchanan said. “But here’s the kicker. Ted Campos started going through her desk. Found her pay stubs. She works for a company called Alhambra LLC.”

Jessica felt her pulse quicken. “What’s her name?”

Chavez looked at his notes. “Her name is Erin Halliwell.”

         

ERIN HALLIWELL’S APARTMENT was a funky collection of mismatched furniture, faux-Tiffany lamps, film books, and posters, along with an impressive array of healthy houseplants.

It smelled of death.

As soon as Jessica poked her head into the bathroom, she recognized the setting. It was the same wall, the same window treatment as the Fatal Attraction tape.

The woman’s body had been taken from the tub and was on the bathroom floor, on a rubber sheet. Her skin was puckered and gray, the wound in her chest had tightened to a small hole.

They were getting closer, and the feeling was energizing the detectives, all of whom had been averaging four or five hours’ sleep a night.

The CSU team was dusting the apartment for prints. A pair of task force detectives were following up on the pay stubs, visiting the bank from which the funds were drawn. The full force of the PPD was bearing down on this case, and it was starting to bear fruit.

         

BYRNE STOOD IN the doorway. Evil had crossed this threshold.

He watched the buzz of activity in the living room, listened to the sound of the camera’s motor drive, smelled the chalky scent of the print powder. He had missed the chase these past months. The CSU officers were looking for minute traces of the killer, inaudible whispers of this woman’s violent end. Byrne put his hands on the doorjambs. He was looking for something much deeper, much more ethereal.

He stepped into the room, snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He walked the scene, feeling that—

—she thinks they are going to have sex. He knows they are not. He is here to fulfill his dark purpose. They sit on the couch for a while. He toys with her long enough to get her interested. Had the dress been hers? No. He bought the dress for her. Why had she put it on? She wanted to please him. The Actor is fixated on Fatal Attraction. Why? What is it about the movie he needs to re-create? Earlier they stood beneath huge lights. The man touches her skin. He wears many looks, many disguises. A doctor. A minister. A man with a badge …

Byrne stepped over to the small desk and began the ritual of sifting through the dead woman’s belongings. Her desk had been gone over by the primary detectives, but not with an eye toward the Actor.

In a large drawer he found a portfolio of photographs. Most were of the “soft touch” card variety: Erin Halliwell at sixteen, eighteen, twenty years old, sitting on the beach, standing on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, sitting at a picnic table at a family function. The last folder he looked in spoke to him in a voice the others had not. He called Jessica over.

“Look,” he said. He held forth the eight-by-ten picture.

The photograph was taken in front of the art museum. It was a black-and-white group shot of maybe forty or fifty people. In the second row was a smiling Erin Halliwell. Next to her was the unmistakable face of Will Parrish.

Inscribed on the bottom, in a flourish of blue ink, was the following:

ONE DOWN, MANY MORE TO COME.

YOURS, IAN.

62

THE READING TERMINAL Market was a huge, bustling market located at Twelfth and Market streets in Center City, just a block or so from city hall. Opened in 1892, it was home to more than eighty vendors and covered nearly two acres.

The task force had learned that Alhambra LLC was a company established exclusively for the production of The Palace. The Alhambra was a famous palace in Spain. Quite often, production companies form a separate enterprise to handle payroll, permits, and liability insurance for the duration of the shoot. Quite often they take a name or a phrase from the film and name the company office for it. It allows the production office to open without a lot of hassles from would-be actors and paparazzi.

By the time Byrne and Jessica reached the corner of Twelfth and Market, a number of large semitrucks had already parked there. The film crew was setting up to shoot a second-unit sequence inside. The detectives were only there for a few seconds when a man approached them. They were expected.

“Are you Detective Balzano?”

“Yes,” Jessica said. She held up her badge. “This is my partner, Detective Byrne.”

The man was in his late thirties. He wore a stylish navy blazer, white shirt, khakis. He had an air of competence about him, if not secretiveness. Narrow-set eyes, light brown hair, eastern European features. He carried a black leather binder and two-way radio.

“Nice to meet you,” the man said. “Welcome to the set of The Palace.” He extended his hand. “My name is Seth Goldman.”

         

THEY SAT AT a coffee bar inside the market. The myriad aromas wreaked havoc with Jessica’s willpower. Chinese food, Indian food, Italian food, seafood, Termini’s bakery. She had eaten a peach yogurt and banana for lunch. Yum. It was supposed to last her until dinner.

“What can I say?” Seth said. “We’re all terribly shaken by the news.”

“What was Ms. Halliwell’s position?”

“She was production manager.”

“Were you very close to her?” Jessica asked.

“Not in the social sense,” Seth said. “But we were working on our second film together, and during a shoot you work very closely, sometimes spending sixteen, eighteen hours a day together. You eat meals together, you travel in cars and on planes.”

“Were you ever romantically involved with her?” Byrne asked.

Seth smiled, sadly. Apropos of the tragic occasion, Jessica thought. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

“Ian Whitestone is your employer?”

“That’s correct.”

“Was there ever any kind of romantic involvement between Ms. Halliwell and Mr. Whitestone?”

Jessica saw the slightest tic. It was quickly covered, but it was a tell. Whatever Seth Goldman was about to say wasn’t going to be the complete truth.

“Mr. Whitestone is a happily married man.”

Hardly answers the question, Jessica thought. “Now, we may be nearly three thousand miles from Hollywood, Mr. Goldman, but we’ve heard that sometimes folks from that town have been known to sleep with folks other than their spouse. Hell, it’s probably even happened out here in Amish country once or twice.”

Seth smiled. “If Erin and Ian ever had a relationship other than professional, I was not aware of it.”

I’ll take that as a yes, Jessica thought. “When was the last time you saw Erin?”

“Let’s see. I believe it was three or four days ago.”

“On the set?”

“At the hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“The Park Hyatt.”

“She was staying at the hotel?”

“No,” Seth said. “Ian maintains a suite there when he’s shooting in town.”

Jessica made a few notes. One of them was to remind herself to chat with some of the hotel personnel about whether or not they had seen Erin Halliwell and Ian Whitestone in a compromising position.

“Do you recall what time that was?”

Seth thought about this for a few moments. “We had a shot in South Philly that afternoon. I left the hotel at maybe four o’clock. So it was probably right around that time.”

“Did you see her with anybody?” Jessica asked.

“No.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

“No.”

“Did she take a few days off?”

“It was my understanding she called in sick.”

“You spoke with her?”

“No,” Seth said. “I believe she sent a text message to Mr. Whitestone.”

Jessica wondered if it was Erin Halliwell or her killer who sent the text message. She made a note to have Ms. Halliwell’s cell phone dusted.

“What is your exact position in this company?” Byrne asked.

“I’m Mr. Whitestone’s personal assistant.”

“What sort of things does a personal assistant do?”

“Well, my job is everything from keeping Ian on schedule, to helping him with creative decisions, to scheduling his day, to driving him to and from the set. It can entail just about anything.”

“How does a person get a job like this?” Byrne asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean, do you have an agent? Do you apply through industry want ads?”

“Mr. Whitestone and I met a number of years ago. We share a passion for film. He asked me to join his team and I was thrilled to do so. I love my job, Detective.”

“Do you know a woman named Faith Chandler?” Byrne asked.

It was a planned shift, an abrupt change. It clearly caught the man off guard. He recovered quickly. “No,” Seth said. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“How about Stephanie Chandler?”

“No. I can’t say I know her, either.”

Jessica took out a nine-by-twelve envelope, extracted a photograph, pushed it along the counter. It was an enlargement of the photograph from Stephanie Chandler’s desk at work, the picture of Stephanie and Faith in front of the Wilma Theater. Stephanie’s crime scene photo would come next, if needed. “This is Stephanie on the left; her mother, Faith, on the right,” Jessica said. “Does it help?”

Seth picked up the photograph, studied it. “No,” he repeated. “Sorry.”

“Stephanie Chandler was also murdered,” Jessica said. “Faith Chandler is clinging to life in the hospital.”

“Oh my.” Seth put his hand to his heart momentarily. Jessica didn’t buy the gesture. From the look on Byrne’s face, neither did he. Hollywood shock.

“And you are absolutely certain you’ve never met either of them?” Byrne asked.

Seth looked at the photo again. He feigned deeper scrutiny. “No. We’ve never met.”

“Could you excuse me for a second?” Jessica asked.

“Of course,” Seth said.

Jessica slid off her stool, took out her cell phone. She took a few steps away from the counter. She dialed a number. In an instant, Seth Goldman’s phone rang.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said. He took out his phone, looked at the caller ID. And knew. He slowly raised his eyes and met Jessica’s eyes. Jessica clicked off.

“Mr. Goldman,” Byrne began. “Can you explain why Faith Chandler—a woman you’ve never met, a woman who just happens to be the mother of a homicide victim, a homicide victim who just happened to visit the set of a film your company is producing—called your cell phone twenty times the other day?”

Seth took a moment to compose his answer. “You must understand, in the film business there are a lot people who will do just about anything to get into the movies.”

“You’re not exactly a receptionist, Mr. Goldman,” Byrne said. “I would think there would be a number of layers between you and the front door.”

“There are,” Seth said. “But there are some very determined, very clever people out there. Consider this. A call went out for extras on the set piece we’re shooting soon. Huge, very complicated shot at the Thirtieth Street train station. The call was for one hundred fifty extras. We had more than two thousand people show up. Besides, we have a dozen phones allocated for this shoot. I don’t always have this particular number.”

“And you’re saying that you do not recall ever having spoken to this woman?” Byrne asked.

“No.”

“We’ll need a list of the names of the people who may have had this particular phone.”

“Yes, of course,” Seth said. “But I hope you don’t think anyone connected with the production company had anything to do with these … these …”

“When can we expect the list?” Byrne asked.

Seth’s jaw muscles began to work. It was clear that this man was used to giving orders, not taking them. “I’ll try and get it to you later today.”

“That would be fine,” Byrne said. “And we’ll also need to talk to Mr. Whitestone.”

“When?”

“Today.”

Seth reacted as if he were a cardinal and they had requested an impromptu audience with the pope. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Byrne leaned forward. He got to within a foot or so of Seth Goldman’s face. Seth Goldman began to fidget.

“Have Mr. Whitestone call us,” Byrne said. “Today.”

63

THE CANVASS NEAR the row house where Julian Matisse was killed produced nothing. Nothing was really expected. In that North Philly neighborhood amnesia, blindness, and deafness were the rule, especially when it came to talking to the police. The hoagie shop attached to the house had closed at eleven, and no one had seen Matisse that night, nor had anyone seen a man carrying a chain saw case. The property had been foreclosed upon, and if Matisse had been living there—and there was no evidence that he had—he had been squatting.

Two detectives from SIU had been tracking down the chain saw found at the scene. It had been purchased in Camden, New Jersey, by a Philadelphia tree service company, and reported stolen a week earlier. It was a dead end. There were still no leads on the embroidered jacket.

         

AS OF FIVE o’clock, Ian Whitestone had not called. There was no denying the fact that Whitestone was a celebrity, and handling celebrities in a police matter was a delicate thing. Still, the reasons for talking to him were strong. Every detective on the case wanted to just pick him up for questioning, but it was not that simple. Jessica was just about to call Paul DiCarlo back to press him on the protocol when Eric Chavez got her attention, waving the handset of his phone in the air.

“Call for you, Jess.”

Jessica picked up her phone, punched the button. “Homicide. Balzano.”

“Detective, this is Jake Martinez.”

The name walked the edge of her recent memory. She couldn’t immediately place it. “I’m sorry?”

“Officer Jacob Martinez. I’m Mark Underwood’s partner. We met at Finnigan’s Wake.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

“Well, I’m not sure what to make of this, but we’re over in Point Breeze. We were working traffic while they tore down the set for the movie they’re making, and the owner of one of the stores on Twenty-third flagged us. She said that there was a guy hanging around her store who matched the description of your suspect.”

Jessica waved Byrne over. “How long ago was this?”

“Just a few minutes,” Martinez said. “She’s a little hard to understand. I think she might be Haitian or Jamaican or something. But she had the suspect sketch that was in the Inquirer in her hand, and she kept pointing at it, saying that the guy had just been in her store. I think she said her grandson might have mixed it up with the guy a little.”

The composite sketch of the Actor had run in that morning’s paper. “Have you cleared the location?”

“Yes. But there’s no one in the store now.”

“Secured it?”

“Front and back.”

“Give me the address,” Jessica said.

Martinez did.

“What kind of store is it?” Jessica asked.

“A bodega,” he said. “Hoagies, chips, sodas. Kinda run-down.”

“Why does she think this guy was our suspect? Why would he be hanging around a bodega?”

“I asked her the same thing,” Martinez said. “Then she pointed to the back of the store.”

“What about it?”

“They have a video section.”

Jessica hung up, briefed the other detectives. They had received more than fifty calls already that day, calls from people who claimed to have spotted the Actor on their block, in their yards, in the parks. Why should this one be any different?

“Because there’s a video section in the store,” Buchanan said. “You and Kevin check it out.”

Jessica got her weapon from her drawer, handed a copy of the street address to Eric Chavez. “Find Agent Cahill,” she said. “Ask him to meet us at this address.”

         

THE DETECTIVES STOOD in front of the location, a crumbling storefront deli called Cap-Haitien. Officers Underwood and Martinez, having secured the scene, had returned to their duties. The façade of the market was a patchwork of plywood panels of bright red, blue, and yellow enamel, topped by bright orange metal bars. Skewed, handmade signs in the window hawked fried plantains, grio, Creole fried chicken, along with a Haitian beer called Prestige. There was also a sign proclaiming VIDEO AU LOYER.

About twenty minutes had passed since the owner of the store—an elderly Haitian woman named Idelle Barbereau—had said the man had been in her market. It was unlikely that the suspect, if it was their suspect, was still in the area. The woman described the man just as he appeared in the sketch: white, medium build, wearing large tinted sunglasses, Flyers cap, dark blue jacket. She said he had come in the store, milled around the racks in the center, then drifted into the small video section at the back. He stayed there for a minute, then headed for the door. She said he came in with something in his hands, but was leaving without it. He didn’t purchase anything. She’d had the Inquirer open to the page displaying the sketch.

While the man was in the back of the store, she had called her grandson up from the cellar—a strapping nineteen-year-old named Fabrice. Fabrice had blocked the door and gotten into a pushing match with the subject. When Jessica and Byrne talked to Fabrice, he looked a little shaken.

“Did the man say anything?” Byrne asked.

“No,” Fabrice replied. “Nothing.”

“Tell us what happened.”

Fabrice said he had blocked the doorway in the hope that his grandmother would have time to call the police. When the man tried to step around him, Fabrice grabbed the man by the arm, and within a second the man had him spun around, his own right arm pinned behind him. In another second, Fabrice said, he was on his way to the floor. He added that, on the way down, he lashed out with his left hand, striking the man, connecting with bone.

“Where did you hit him?” Byrne asked, glancing at the young man’s left hand. Fabrice’s knuckles were slightly swollen.

“Right over there,” Fabrice said, pointing to the doorway.

“No. I mean on his body.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had my eyes closed.”

“What happened then?”

“The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, facedown. It knocked the wind out of me.” Fabrice took a deep breath, either to prove to the police he was all right, or to prove to himself. “He was strong.”

Fabrice went on to say that the man then ran out of the store. By the time his grandmother was able to get out from behind the counter, and onto the street, the man was gone. Idelle then saw Officer Martinez directing traffic and told him about the incident.

Jessica glanced around the store, at the ceilings, at the corners.

There were no surveillance cameras.

         

JESSICA AND BYRNE searched the market. The air was dense with the pungent aromas of chilies and coconut milk, the racks were filled with standard bodega items—soups, canned meats, snacks, along with cleaning products and a variety of cosmetic sundries. In addition, there was a large display of candles and dream books and other assorted products associated with Santería, the Afro-Caribbean religion.

At the rear of the store was a small alcove bearing a few wire racks of videotapes. Above the racks were a pair of faded film posters—L’Homme sur les Quais and The Golden Mistress. In addition, smaller images of French and Caribbean movie stars, mostly magazine cutouts, were attached to the wall with yellowing tape.

Jessica and Byrne stepped into the niche. There were about one hundred videotapes in all. Jessica scanned the spines. Foreign titles, kids’ titles, a few six-month-old major releases. Mostly French-language films.

Nothing spoke to her. Did any of these films have a murder committed in a bathroom? she wondered. Where was Terry Cahill? He might know. Jessica was starting to think the old woman was imagining things, and that her grandson had gotten body-slammed for nothing, when she saw it. There, on the bottom rack on the left, was a VHS tape with a rubber band doubled-banded around the center.

“Kevin,” she said. Byrne walked over.

Jessica pulled on a latex glove and picked up the tape without thinking. Although there was no reason to think that there might be an explosive device attached to it, there was no telling where this murderous crime spree was headed. She chastised herself immediately after picking up the tape. This time she had dodged the bullet. But there was something attached.

A pink Nokia cell phone.

Jessica carefully turned the box over. The cell phone was turned on, but there was nothing visible on the small LCD screen. Byrne held open a large evidence bag. Jessica slipped the videocassette box in. Their eyes met.

They both had a pretty good idea whose phone it was.

         

A FEW MINUTES later they stood in front of the secured store, waiting for CSU. They looked up and down the street. The film crew were still gathering the tools and detritus of their craft—spooling cables, storing lights, breaking down craft service tables. Jessica scanned the workers. Was she looking at the Actor? Could one of these people walking up and down the street be responsible for these horrible crimes? She glanced back at Byrne. He was locked on the façade of the market. She got his attention.

“Why here?” Jessica asked.

Byrne shrugged. “Probably because he knows we’re watching the chain stores and the independents,” Byrne said. “If he wants to get a tape back on the shelf, he’s got to come somewhere like this.”

Jessica considered this. It was probably the case. “Should we be watching the libraries?”

Byrne nodded. “Probably.”

Before Jessica could respond, she received a transmission on her two-way radio. It was garbled, unintelligible. She pulled it off her belt, adjusted the volume. “Say again.”

A few seconds of static, then: “Goddamn FBI don’t respect nothin’.”

It sounded like Terry Cahill. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? If it was, she had to have heard him wrong. She exchanged a glance with Byrne. “Say again?”

More static. Then: “Goddamn FBI don’t respect nothin’.”

Jessica’s stomach dropped. The line was familiar to her. It was a phrase that Sonny Corleone says in The Godfather. She had seen the movie a thousand times. Terry Cahill wasn’t kidding around. Not at a time like this.

Terry Cahill was in trouble.

“Where are you?” Jessica asked.

Silence.

“Agent Cahill,” Jessica said. “What is your twenty?”

Nothing. Dead, icy silence.

Then they heard the gunshot.

“Shots fired!” Jessica yelled into her two-way radio. Instantly she and Byrne had their weapons drawn. They looked up and down the street. No sign of Cahill. The rovers had a limited range. He couldn’t be far.

Within seconds an officer needs assistance call went out on the radio dispatch, and by the time Jessica and Byrne got to the corner of Twenty-third and Moore there were four sector cars already there, parked at all angles. The uniformed officers were out of their cars in a flash. They all looked to Jessica. She directed the perimeter as she and Byrne began to make their way down the alley that cut behind the stores, weapons drawn. There was no further communication from Cahill’s two-way.

When did he get here? Jessica wondered. Why didn’t he checked in with us?

They moved slowly down the alley. On either side of the passageway were windows, doorways, niches, alcoves. The Actor might have been in any one of them. Suddenly a window flew open. A pair of Hispanic boys, six or seven years old, probably drawn by the sound of the sirens, popped out their heads. They saw the weapons, and their expressions changed from surprise to fear to excitement.

“Please get back inside,” Byrne said. They immediately shut the window, drew the curtains.

Jessica and Byrne continued down the alley, every sound drawing their attention. Jessica fingered the volume on the rover with her free hand. Up. Down. Back up. Nothing.

They turned a corner, into a short lane that led to Point Breeze Avenue. And they saw him. Terry Cahill was sitting on the ground, his back to the brick wall. He was holding his right shoulder. He had been shot. There was blood beneath his fingers, scarlet spreading onto the sleeve of his white shirt. Jessica rushed over. Byrne called in their location, kept an eye out, scanning the windows and rooftops above them. The danger had not necessarily passed. Within a few seconds, four uniformed officers arrived, Underwood and Martinez among them. Byrne directed them.

“Talk to me, Terry,” Jessica said.

“I’m good,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s a flesh wound.” A slight amount of fresh blood tipped his fingers. The right side of Cahill’s face was starting to swell.

“Did you see his face?” Byrne asked.

Cahill shook his head. He was clearly in a world of pain.

Jessica communicated the information that the suspect was still at large into her two-way. She heard at least four or five more sirens approaching. You sent out an officer needs assistance call in this department, and everyone and his mother came.

But even with twenty cops combing the area, it became clear, after five minutes or so, that their suspect had slipped away. Again.

The Actor was in the wind.

         

BY THE TIME Jessica and Byrne returned to the alley behind the market, Ike Buchanan and half a dozen detectives were on the scene. Paramedics were attending to Terry Cahill. One of the EMS techs found Jessica’s eyes, nodded. Cahill would be okay.

“There goes my shot at the PGA tour,” Cahill said as they loaded him onto a stretcher. “Want my statement now?”

“We’ll get it at the hospital,” Jessica said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Cahill nodded, winced in pain as they lifted the gurney. He looked at Jessica and Byrne. “Do me a favor, will you guys?”

“Name it, Terry,” Jessica said.

“Take this fucker down,” he said. “Hard.”

         

THE DETECTIVES MILLED around the perimeter of the crime scene where Cahill had been shot. Although no one said it, they all felt like rookies, like a group of green recruits fresh out the academy. CSU had set up a perimeter of yellow tape and, as always, a crowd was gathering. Four CSU officers began to comb the area. Jessica and Byrne stood against the wall, lost in their thoughts.

Granted, Terry Cahill was a federal agent, and quite often there was an intense rivalry between agencies, but he was nonetheless a law enforcement officer working a case in Philadelphia. The grim faces and steely looks on all concerned spoke to the outrage. You don’t shoot a cop in Philadelphia.

After a few minutes, Jocelyn Post, a veteran of CSU, held up a pair of tongs, smiling from ear to ear. Between the tips was a spent bullet.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Come to Mama J.”

Although they had found the discharged slug that had hit Terry Cahill in the shoulder, it was not always easy to determine the caliber and type of bullet when it had been fired, especially if the lead had struck a brick wall, which it had in this case.

Nonetheless, this was very good news. Anytime a piece of physical evidence was found—something that could be tested, analyzed, photographed, dusted, traced—it was a step forward.

“We’ve got the slug,” Jessica said, knowing that this was a baby step in the investigation, happy to have the lead nonetheless. “It’s a start.”

“I think we can do better than that,” Byrne said.

“What do you mean?”

“Look.”

Byrne crouched down, picked up a metal rib from a broken umbrella lying in a pile of trash. He lifted the edge of plastic garbage bag. There, next to the Dumpster, partially hidden, was a small-caliber handgun. A banged-up, cheap black .25. It looked like the same weapon they had seen in the Fatal Attraction video.

This was no baby step.

They had the Actor’s gun.

64

THE VIDEOTAPE FOUND in Cap-Haitien was a French film, released in 1955. The title was Les Diaboliques. In it, Simone Signoret and Vera Clouzot—who portray the wife and former mistress of a thoroughly rotten man played by Paul Meurisse—murder Meurisse by drowning him in a bathtub. Like the rest of the Actor’s masterpieces, this tape had a re-created murder replacing the original crime.

In this version of Les Diaboliques, a barely glimpsed man in a dark satin jacket with a dragon embroidered on the back pushes a man beneath the surface of the water in a grungy bathroom. Again, a bathroom.

Victim number four.

         

THERE WAS A clean print on the gun, a .25 ACP Raven manufactured by Phoenix Arms, a popular junk gun on the streets. You could pick up a Raven .25 anywhere in the city for under a hundred dollars. If the shooter was in the system, they would soon have a match.

There had been no slug recovered at the Erin Halliwell scene, so they would not know for certain if this weapon was used to kill her, even though the ME’s office had presumptively concluded that her single wound was consistent with a small-caliber weapon.

Firearms had already determined that the Raven .25 was the gun used to shoot Terry Cahill.

As they had thought, the cell phone attached to the videocassette belonged to Stephanie Chandler. Although the SIM card was still active, everything else had been erased. There were no calendar entries, no address book listings, no text or e-mail messages, no logs of calls made or received. There were no fingerprints.

         

CAHILL GAVE HIS statement while getting patched up at Jefferson. The wound was a flesh wound, and he was expected to be released within a few hours. In the ER waiting room, half a dozen FBI agents congregated, giving a visiting Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne their backs. Nobody could have prevented what happened to Cahill, but tightly knit squads never looked at it that way. According the suits, the PPD had fucked up, and one of their own was now in the hospital.

In his official statement, Cahill said that he had been in South Philly when he had received the call from Eric Chavez. He had then monitored the channel and heard that the suspect was perhaps in the area of Twenty-third and McClellan. He had begun a search of the alleyways behind the storefronts when his assailant had come up behind him, put the gun to the back of his head, and forced him to say the lines from The Godfather into the two-way radio. When the suspect reached for Cahill’s weapon, Cahill knew he had to make his move. They struggled, and the assailant punched him twice—once in the small of the back, once on the right side of his face—then the suspect’s gun discharged. The suspect then fled down the alley, leaving his weapon behind.

A brief canvass of the area near the shooting yielded little. No one had seen or heard a thing. But now the police had a firearm, and that opened up a broad avenue of investigation to them. Guns, like people, had a history.

         

WHEN THE TAPE of Les Diaboliques was ready to be screened, ten detectives assembled in the studio room of the AV unit. The French-language film ran 122 minutes. At the point where Simone Signoret and Vera Clouzot drown Paul Meurisse, there is a crash edit. When the film changes over to the new footage, the new scene is a filthy bathroom—grimy ceiling, peeling plaster, filthy rags on the floor, stacked magazines next to dirty toilet. A bare-bulb fixture next to the sink casts a dim, sickly light. A large figure on the right side of the screen holds the thrashing victim underwater with clearly powerful hands.

The camera shot is stationary, meaning that the camera was most likely on a tripod, or perched on something. To date there had been no evidence of a second suspect.

When the victim stops thrashing, his body floats to the surface of the dirty water. The camera is then picked up and moved in for a close-up. It was there that Mateo Fuentes froze the image.

“Jesus Christ,” Byrne said.

All eyes turned to him. “What, you know him?” Jessica asked.

“Yeah,” Byrne said. “I know him.”

         

DARRYL PORTER’S APARTMENT above the X Bar was as sleazy and ugly as the man. All the windows were painted shut, and the hot sun on the glass gave the cramped space a cloying, dog-kennel smell.

There was an old avocado-colored sleeper couch covered with a filthy bedspread, a pair of stained armchairs. The floor, tables, and shelves were covered with water-stained magazines and newspapers. The sink offered a month of dirty dishes and at least five species of scavenging insects.

On one of the bookshelves over the TV were three sealed DVD copies of Philadelphia Skin.

Darryl Porter was in his bathtub, fully clothed, fully dead. The filthy bathwater had shriveled and leached Porter’s skin a cement-gray color. His bowels had released into the water, and the stench in the confines of the small bathroom was overpowering. A pair of rats had already begun to seek out the gas-bloated corpse.

The Actor had now claimed four lives, or at least four of which they were aware. He was getting bolder. It was a classic escalation, and no one could predict what was coming next.

As the CSU set up to process yet another crime scene, Jessica and Byrne stood in front of the X Bar. They both looked shell-shocked. It was a moment where the horrors were flying fast and fleet and words were hard to come by. Psycho, Fatal Attraction, Scarface, Les Diaboliques—what the hell was coming next?

Jessica’s cell phone rang, bringing with it the answer.

“This is Detective Balzano.”

The call was from Sergeant Nate Rice, head of the Firearms Unit. He had two pieces of news for the task force. One was that the gun recovered from the scene behind the Haitian market was very likely the same make and model as the gun on the Fatal Attraction videotape. The second piece of news was a lot harder to digest. Sergeant Rice had just spoken to the fingerprint lab. They had a match. He gave Jessica the name.

“What?” Jessica asked. She knew she had heard Rice correctly, but her brain was not prepared to process the data.

“I said the same thing,” Rice replied. “But it’s a ten-point match.”

A ten-point match, police were fond of saying, was name, address, Social Security number, and high school picture. If you had a ten-point, you had your man.

“And?” Jessica asked.

“And there’s no doubt about it. The print on the gun belongs to Julian Matisse.”

65

WHEN FAITH CHANDLER had shown up at the hotel, he knew it was the beginning of the end.

It was Faith who had called him. Called to tell him the news. Called to ask for more money. It was now only a matter of time until all the pieces began to fall into place for the police, and everything would be exposed.

He stood, naked, considering himself in the mirror. His mother stared back, her sad, liquid eyes judging the man he’d become. He brushed his hair, gently, using the beautiful brush Ian had bought for him at Fortnum & Mason, the exclusive British department store.

Don’t make me give you the brush.

He heard activity outside the door to his hotel room. It sounded like the man who came around each day at this time to replenish the mini-bar. Seth looked at the dozen empty bottles scattered around the small table near the window. He was barely drunk. He had two bottles left. He could use more.

He pulled the tape out of the cassette housing, allowing it to pool on the floor at his feet. Next to the bed were already a dozen empty cassettes, their plastic hulls stacked like crystalline bones.

He looked next to the television. There were only a few more to go. He would destroy them all, then, perhaps, himself.

There came a knock at his door. Seth closed his eyes. “Yes?”

“Mini bar, sir?”

“Yeah,” Seth said. He was relieved. But he knew it was only temporary. He cleared his throat. Had he been crying? “Hang on.”

He slipped on his robe, unlocked the door. He stepped into the bathroom. He really didn’t want to see anyone. He heard the young man enter, replace the bottles and snacks in the mini bar.

“Enjoying your stay in Philadelphia, sir?” the young man called from the other room.

Seth almost laughed. He thought about the past week, about how it had all come apart. “Very much,” Seth lied.

“We hope you’ll return.”

Seth took a deep breath, scrambled his courage. “Take two dollars from the dresser,” he called out. For the moment, his volume masked his emotions.

“Thank you, sir,” the young man said.

A few moments later Seth heard the door close.

Seth sat on the edge of the tub for a full minute, his head in his hands. What had he become? He knew the answer, but he just could not admit it, even to himself. He thought about the moment that Ian Whitestone had walked into the car dealership so long ago, how they had talked well into the night. About film. About art. About women. About things so personal that Seth had never shared the thoughts with anyone else.

He ran the tub. After five minutes or so he toed the water. He cracked one of the two remaining little bottles of bourbon, poured it into a water glass, drank it in one gulp. He stepped out of his robe, slipped into the hot water. He had thought about a Roman death, but had quickly ruled it out. Frankie Pentangeli in The Godfather: Part II. He didn’t have the courage for such a thing, if courage was indeed what it took.

He closed his eyes, just for a minute. Just for a minute, then he would call the police and start talking.

When had it begun? He wanted to examine his life in terms of grand themes, but he knew the simple answer. It began with the girl. She had never shot heroin before. She had been scared, but willing. So willing. As they all had been. He remembered her eyes, her cold dead eyes. He remembered loading her into the car. The terrifying ride into North Philly. The filthy gas station. The guilt. Had he slept through the night even once since that terrible evening?

Soon, Seth knew, there would be another knock at the door. The police would want to talk to him in earnest. But not just yet. Just a few minutes.

Just a few.

Then, faintly, he heard … moaning? Yes. It sounded like one of the porno tapes. Was it in the adjoining hotel room? No. It took a moment, but Seth soon realized that the sound was coming from his hotel room. From his television.

He sat up in the tub, his heart racing. The water was warm, not hot. He had been out for a while.

Someone was in the hotel room.

Seth craned his neck, trying to look around the bathroom door. It was ajar, but the angle was such that could not see more than a few feet into the room. He looked up. There was a lock on the bathroom door. Could he get out of the tub quietly, slam shut the door and lock it? Maybe. But then what? What would he do then? He had no cell phone in the bathroom.

Then, from right outside the bathroom door, just inches away, he heard a voice.

Seth thought of T. S. Eliot’s line from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

Till human voices wake us …

“I’m new to this city,” the voice outside his door said. “I haven’t seen a friendly face in weeks.”

And we drown.