Play Dead (30 page)

Jessica stepped back to where Byrne stood, report in hand. “We have a hit on the car’s VIN,” she said.
The VIN, or vehicle identification number, was the seventeencharacter number used to uniquely identify American vehicles, post1980.

“What do we have?” Byrne asked.

Jessica looked at the ground, the buildings, the sky. Everywhere but at her partner.
“What is it, Jess?”
Jessica finally looked him in the eye. She didn’t want to, but she had no choice.
“The car belonged to Eve Galvez.”

SIXTY-THREE
T

hey referred to it as the wire. It was flexible, malleable, need not run in a straight line. In fact, it most often did not. It could snake beneath things, coil itself around other things, bury itself beneath a wide variety of surfaces. It was not tangible, but it was felt.

For all the homicides that had ever been committed, from the moment Cain raised his hand to Abel, there had been a wire. A time, a place, a weapon, a motive, a killer. It wasn’t always obvious—indeed, all too often it was never discovered—but it was always there.

As detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne stood in the duty room of the homicide unit, the wire revealed itself. Jessica held one end. She spoke first.

She spoke of her meeting with Jimmy Valentine. She spoke of her growing obsession with Eve Galvez. Not just Eve’s case, but the woman herself. She spoke of visiting Enrique Galvez, and her admittedly insane visit to the Badlands the night before. She spoke of Eve’s diary, and her own tears.

Byrne listened. He did not judge her. He held the other end of the wire.
“Did you read all the files?” he asked.
“No.”
“Do you have the flash drive with you?”
“Yes.”
Moments later Jessica had the drive hooked up to a laptop. She navigated to the folder containing the scanned files.
“How many of these have you read?”
“Less than half,” Jessica said. “I couldn’t take much more.” “These are all her files?”
“Yes.”
“Open the last two.”
Jessica clicked on the next to last file.

SIXTY-FOUR

JUNE 30, 2008
They call him Mr. Ludo, though no one can describe him. I’ve been a detective for years. How is this possible? Is he a ghost? A shadow?

No. Everyone can be found. Every secret can be discovered. Think of the word “discover.” It means to take off the cover. To reveal.
One girl said she knew a girl who had been to Mr. Ludo’s house once and escaped. Someone named Cassandra.
I am going to meet Cassandra tomorrow.
The picture is on my wall. She was just another statistic, another cold body, another victim. Killadelphia some call it. I don’t believe it. This is my city. This was someone’s daughter. She was an innocent.
Perhaps it is because she was from a small town. Perhaps it is because she wears a lilac backpack. My favorite color.
She was just a child. Like me. She
was
me.
Caitlin O’Riordan.
I cannot let this rest.
I will not let this rest.

SIXTY-FIVE
E

ven before they opened the last file, they knew what it was going to be. The file contained the scanned copies of the three missing interviews from the O’Riordan case binder. Eve Galvez had taken Freddy Roarke’s notes from the binder, scanned them, kept the file on her flash drive, along with the rest of her life.

“The case Jimmy Valentine was talking about,” Jessica said. “The case he told me Eve was obsessed with. It was the Caitlin O’Riordan case. Eve stole the notes out of the binder. She was investigating it on her own. She was tracking him. He got to her first.”

Byrne turned twice, fists raised, looking for something to slam, something to break.
“Eve was a runaway,” Jessica said. “She’d lived the life. I guess she saw Caitlin’s murder as one too many. She went deep- end on it.”
They’d both seen it before. A detective who had taken a case too personally. They’d both been there themselves.
They read the missing interviews. Starlight, Govinda, and Daria. All three kids said they had met a man. A man who had tried to bring them back to his house. A man who identified himself by a strange name.
Mr. Ludo.

Byrne told his story, his end of the wire. When he was done, he left the room.

Minutes later he was back upstairs with the strongbox he had taken from Laura Somerville’s apartment. In the other hand he had a cordless drill, courtesy of one of the crew working on the renovation on the first floor. In moments he had the box open.

Inside was a sheaf of papers. Postcards, ticket stubs in at least ten languages, going back fifty years. And photographs.
They were photographs of a magician on a stage. The man looked like the man in the videos, but thinner, taller. Many of the photographs were yellowed with age. Byrne flipped one over. In a woman’s handwriting it read
Vienna, 1959.
Another photo, this of the man with three large linking steel rings.
Detroit, 1961.
In each photo a beautiful young woman stood next to the man.
“
Behold the lovely Odette,
” the man on the video had said.
The photographs in the strongbox made it clear. Odette was his stage assistant.
Odette was Laura Somerville.

SIXTY-SIX
S

wann drove to Center City. He would not deny that Lilly had stirred him in a way that he had not felt in a long time. He’d had his share of lovers in his time, but they had never been to Faerwood, they had never glimpsed his soul.
He did not think of Lilly as a potential paramour. Not really. She

was Odette. She was his assistant and confederate. One could not go through life without confederates.

He had been terribly afraid he would never see her again. But he knew that the night children were creatures of habit. He knew there were only so many places where she could blend in, even in a city as large as Philadelphia.

When she told him her story, and he offered to help her, he knew that she would be his. When he saw her standing on the corner of Eighth and Walnut, he knew it was destiny.

And now that she was in his car, he began to relax. She would be his finale after all.

As they got onto the boulevard, Swann took out his cell phone, hit a speed- dial button, put it to his ear. Earlier he had put the phone on silent, in case he got a call at such a crucial moment as this. He could not have his phone ringing while he was supposed to be talking on it.

He reached forward, turned down the music.
“Hello, my darling,” he said to silence. “Yes ...yes. No, I have not forgotten. I will be home in just a few minutes.” Swann turned and looked at the girl, rolled his eyes. She smiled.

“The reason I’m calling is to tell you we have a guest. Yes. A young lady named Lilly.” He laughed. “I know. The very same name. Yes, she has a bit of a problem, and I told her we would be most willing to help her solve it.”

He covered the mouthpiece.
“My wife loves intrigue.”
Lilly smiled.
Swann clicked off.
When they turned onto Tenth Street he reached into his coat

pocket, and palmed the glass ampoule.
It would not be long now.
SIXTY-SEVEN
A

t 11:45 pm, the team started assembling in the duty room. In addition to the homicide detectives, a call had gone out to off- duty members of the Five Squad. They also had a call in to a man named Arthur Lake, president of the Philadelphia chapter of the International Brotherhood of Magicians.

Tony Park had been working the computer for more than four hours. “Detectives.”
Jessica and Byrne crossed the room.
“What’s up, Tony?”
“There’s a new video on his GothOde page.”
“Have you run it?”
“I have not. I was waiting for you.”
They gathered around a computer terminal. Tony Park clicked on

the last image. The screen changed to an individual page. “This last one was uploaded twenty minutes ago,” Park said. “It al
ready has two hundred viewings. This guy has a following.” “Play it.”
Park turned up the volume, clicked on the video. It was the same
man in the other videos, dressed in an identical manner. But this time
he was standing on a dark street. Behind him was City Hall. “Life is a puzzle,
n’est- ce pas
?” he began, speaking directly to the
camera. “If you are watching this, then you know the game is on. “You have seen the first four illusions. There are three to go. Seven
Wonders in all.”
On the video, there was a special effect. Three smaller screens appeared below him. On the smaller screens were three teenage girls. All
sat in darkened rooms.
“One illusion at 2:00 am. One illusion at 4:00 am. And the grand finale at 6:00 am. This is going to be spectacular. It will light up the
night.” The man leaned forward slightly. “Can you solve the puzzle in
time? Can you find the maidens? Are you
good enough
?”
One by one the small screens went black.
“Here is a clue,” the man said. “He flies between Begichev and
Geltser.”
The man then turned and pointed toward City Hall. “Watch the clock. The dance begins at midnight.”
He waved a hand, and disappeared. The video ended. “What does he mean, watch the clock?” Jessica asked.

Byrne slammed on the brakes as he pulled the car over into the center of the intersection of North Broad and Arch streets, about a block away from city hall. It was approximately the same vantage point as the killer in the last video.

He and Jessica got out of the car. The flashing dashboard light strobed across the tall buildings. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the clock tower at City Hall. Not at first.

Then it happened.
At the stroke of midnight the huge clock face turned bloodred. “Oh my God,” Jessica said.
The sky over Philadelphia flashed with lightning. Detective Kevin

Byrne looked at his partner, at his watch.

It was just after midnight. If this monster was telling the truth— and there was absolutely no reason to doubt him—they had less than two hours to save the first girl.

III
D E A T H C L O C K

In the cool of the night time The clocks pick off the points...
—Carl Sandburg, Interior
SIXTY- EIGHT
12:26 AM
T

wenty- two detectives from the Philadelphia Police Department’s homicide unit met in the briefing room on the first floor of the Roundhouse. They ranged in age from thirty- one to sixty- three, in experience from just a few months in the unit to more than thirty years. Eight of these detectives had been on duty for more than fourteen hours—including Kevin Byrne and Jessica Balzano. Six had been called from home. The other ten were already on last- out, but were no longer working cases or leads. Half of this raucous group had to be called in from the street.

For these twenty- two men and women there was only one case at the moment.
An unidentified man with four confirmed kills was threatening the lives of three other people; three females who investigators believed to be under the age of eighteen.
They did not yet have ID on any of the potential victims.
The whiteboard was divided into seven columns. From left to right:

Elise Beausoleil. The Garden of Flowers. Monica Renzi. The Girl Without a Middle. Caitlin O’Riordan. The Drowning Girl. Katja Dovic. The Girl in the Sword Box.

The next three columns were blank.
282 R ICHAR D MONTANAR I
At 12:35 am Captain Lee Chapman walked into the briefing room. A man stood next to him.

“This is Mr. Arthur Lake,” Chapman said. “He is the president of the Philadelphia chapter of the International Brotherhood of Magicians. He has graciously agreed to help us.”

In his early sixties, Arthur Lake was well- dressed in a tan cotton blazer, dark chocolate slacks, polished loafers. His hair was a little long, a pewter gray. In addition to his duties at the IBM, he was an investment counselor at Wachovia.

After the introductions were made, Byrne asked, “Have you seen the videos?”
“I have,” Lake said. “I found them most disturbing.”
He would get no argument from anyone in the room.
“I’ll be happy to answer any and all questions you may have,” Lake added. “But I need to say something first.”
“By all means, sir.”
Lake took a moment. “My hope is that this . . . these
events
do not reflect on my profession, my community, or any of the people within it.”
Byrne knew where the man was going. He understood. “I can assure you: no one in this room thinks that. No one in the department thinks that.”
Lake nodded. He seemed a little more at ease. For the moment.
“What can you tell us about what you’ve seen on these videos?” Byrne asked.
“Two things, really,” Lake said. “One I think will help at this moment, the other I’m afraid will not.”
“Good news first.”
“Well, first off, I recognize all four illusions, of course. There’s nothing really different or exotic going on here. Blackstone’s Garden of Flowers, Houdini’s Water Torture Cell, or a variation on it, the Sword Box, the Girl Without a Middle. They’ve been known by different names, have had many variations over the years, but the effects are very similar. They are performed all over the world. From small cabarets and clubs to the biggest venues in Las Vegas.”

28 3 BADL AN DS

“Do you recognize any of the devices?” Byrne asked. “What I mean by that is, do you know any of them by manufacturer?”
“I’d have to see the videos a few more times to tell you that. Bear in mind, almost all of the larger stage illusions are manufactured by rather small specialty companies. As you might imagine, there is not a lot of call for them, so they are not mass produced. When you get into smaller devices—devices used for coin, card, and silk magic, the staples of close- up—the demand grows. Stage magic devices are quite often extremely sophisticated, manufactured to highly detailed blueprints and exacting specifications. They are made in relatively small wood and machine shops all over the world.”
“Do any of these smaller manufacturers come to mind?” Byrne asked.
Lake rattled off four or five names. Tony Park and Hell Rohmer immediately began Internet searches.
“And the bad news?” Byrne asked.
“The bad news is that I cannot identify the illusionist. At least not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The world of magic is a vast but tightly knit network, Detective. In a short amount of time I can be in touch with magicians all over the world. There are hundreds of archivists in this network. If this person is or was a performer, someone will know him. In fact, there is a man here in Philadelphia who has one of the largest archives of Philadelphia magic history in the world.”
“Is there a magician working today that has all of these illusions in one act?”
Lake thought for a few moments. “No one comes to mind. Most of the well- known acts today are either full scale Vegas or television acts— David Blaine, Criss Angel, Lance Burton. On the stage, high- tech is the order of the day.”
“What about the term ‘The Seven Wonders?’ ” Byrne asked. “Have you heard of this?”
“The Seven Wonders does ring a bell, but I can’t place it. If it was an act, it was a small one.”
“So, after seeing these four illusions, are you saying that there is no

28 4 R ICHAR D MONTANAR I
way you can predict what might be next? What the next three might be?”

“I’m afraid not. I can make a list of other well- known illusions, but it would be many more than three. It would be in the dozens. Probably more.”

Byrne nodded. “One more thing. He said ‘Here’s a clue. He flies between Begichev and Geltser.’ Do these names mean anything to anyone?”

Everyone shook their heads, including Arthur Lake.
“Any idea how to spell those names?” Tony Park asked. “No,” Byrne said.
Park began to key in possibilities on the computer.
“Let me make a few calls, send a few e- mails,” Lake said. “I’ll get

you some answers. Is there somewhere I can do that?”
“Absolutely,” Byrne said. “But are you sure you’ll be able to make
contact at this hour?”
Arthur Lake smiled. “Magicians tend to be creatures of the night.” Byrne nodded, glanced at Hell Rohmer, who shot to his feet. “Right this way, sir.”
While Hell Rohmer led Lake to an office, Ike Buchanan stepped
forward.
Wiry and thin, gray- haired, he was now a thirty- five year veteran.
He’d been wounded in the late seventies, a working- class kid who had
clawed his way up to a command. He had more than once gone to bat
for Jessica. She was both happy and saddened that Sgt. Dwight
Buchanan was going to retire in less than a month. He could have
coasted to the end, but here he was in the midst of battle, as always. He
held in his hands an evidence bag. Inside was Monica Renzi’s necklace.
Jessica wondered if this was Ike Buchanan’s Cheerio.
He stood in front a large blowup map of North Philadelphia,
specifically the area known as the Badlands.
“I want ten detective teams on the street,” Buchanan said. He
pinned ten pushpins on the map. “The first five teams will be deployed
at the four corners of the Badlands—North Broad and Spring Garden,
North Broad and Erie, Erie and Front Street, Front Street and Spring
Garden, along with a team near Norris Square. The other five teams
will ring the center.
“If this is going down in East Division, I want gold badges at the
scene in ninety seconds or less. Sector cars from the Twenty- fourth and
Twenty- fifth will be patrolling and monitoring J- Band. Detective Park
and Sergeant Rohmer will work the computers. Any request for information should go directly to them. AV Unit will have eyes glued to the
cams.”
Buchanan scanned the sea of anxious faces, looking for questions,
comments. None came.
“It looks like there are three girls in jeopardy out there,” he said.
“They are our responsibility now. Find them. Find this man. Shut him
down.”

SIXTY- NINE
12:4 6 AM
T

he sounds came to her in waves. At first she thought it was Rip. When her dog had been a puppy he got out of his small plaid bed every morning at dawn, parked himself at the foot of her bed, tail in motion, thumping the side of the box spring. If that didn’t wake her, he jumped onto her bed and positioned himself, paws out front, right by her ear. He wouldn’t bark, wouldn’t growl, wouldn’t whine, but the sound of his breathing—not to mention the aroma of puppy breath— would eventually wake her up.

Lilly realized it wasn’t Rip. She wasn’t home.
She was in Hell.
The last thing she remembered was getting in the man’s car. He

called his wife. Then there was a strong chemical smell, and everything went black. Had they been in an accident? She did a quick inventory of arms and limbs. She wasn’t hurt.

Opening her eyes, the first thing she saw was a bronze chandelier hanging from some sort of plaster medallion on the ceiling. She was in a bed, covered with a white down comforter. The room was dim and hot. It felt like night. She threw off the covers, tried to sit up. Her head felt ready to fall off. She lay back down, and it all came back to her. He had drugged her somehow. She had trusted him, and he had drugged her. She felt the nausea rise in her throat, but battled it back.

She looked around the room, gauging distances, heights. The two windows were both covered in dark green drapes. There were also two doors. One had locks. The other must be a closet. There was a dresser with a mirror, two nightstands, one lamp. A big painting on the wall. That was it.

She was about to try sitting up once again when she heard quickmoving footsteps outside the door. She pulled the comforter up to her neck, half- closed her eyes.

Keys turned in the locks. Moments later, he entered the room, turned on a lamp. It cast the room in a warm ginger glow. Lilly did not stir. She wanted him to think she was still out of it.

When his back was to her, she risked opening her eyes. She watched him fuss and straighten things—the vase on the dresser, the hem of the down comforter, the pleats of the drapes. He adjusted the painting for what seemed like the dozenth time. She wanted to jump from the bed, claw his fucking eyes out, but she was far too weak to try anything at the moment. She needed a clear head. She needed to think straight. She might only get one shot.

She kept her breathing slow and steady, her eyes almost completely shut. He stood at the foot of the bed for the longest time, just watching her. It was so quiet she could hear her heartbeat in the down pillow.

After a few minutes, he checked his appearance in the mirror, opened the door, stepped through, and closed it. Lilly heard a key turn in a lock, then a second key. Footsteps padding down the hall.

Then, silence.
SEVENTY
12:5 9 AM
P

eople lined the streets of North Philly. Rain was intermittent, mosquitoes swarmed in dense clouds, music played on car stereos, blunts were cupped and hidden. Those gathered on Broad Street, some with binoculars in hand, would every so often point at the bright red clock face on the City Hall tower. What
next,
Philly?

The story had been splashed across all the local television stations, starting with a break- in during the late- night talk shows. Two stations had set up three cameras each, with a live feed to their websites. Every so often there would be a cutaway shot to the red clock on the tower at City Hall. It was like a demented version of New Year’s Eve with Dick Clark.

Jessica was always amazed at how fast the media got the down and dirty on things. She wondered how glib and hip these reporters and announcers would be if it were their daughters out there in the hands of a vicious psychopath, just how willing they would be then to play their stupid and dangerous ratings games.

They drove north on Fifth Street, past Callowhill and Spring Garden, past Fairmount, Poplar, and Girard. Jessica scanned the corners, the faces, the hands.

Was he among them? Was their killer standing on a street corner, blending into the urban canvas, awaiting the precise moment for his
28 9 BADL AN DS
next play? Had he already
made
his play, and was simply planning his reveal? And if this was the case, how was he going to let them know?

A representative of the mayor’s office, along with the police commissioner, the chief inspector of the homicide unit, and the district attorney herself had met in an emergency session at the Roundhouse, discussing, first and foremost, the advisability of shutting down power to the clock. A technician was standing by at City Hall, waiting for word.

Until the girls were found, the consensus was to leave the clock alone. If this madman was in North Philadelphia, and he could see the tower, there was no telling what horrors might be triggered if his plan went awry.

However, there had yet to be any indication that he wanted anything—other than an audience. There had been no demands for ransom, no demands for acquiescence of any kind. Until there was, or until he was identified, there could be no avenue of negotiation.