Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (80 page)

“I don’t know,” Kilbane said. “But I know the people who distributed the film. If anyone can find him, they can.”

P
HILADELPHIA
S
KIN
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.

O
N THE WAY
out of the Roundhouse, Jessica crossed the parking lot and nearly ran into someone. She looked up. It was Nigel Butler.

“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.

J
ESSICA 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.

J
ESSICA 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.

A
T 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.

D
ETECTIVE
N
ICOLETTE
M
ALONE
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.

A
FTER
J
ESSICA
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,” Cahill 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.

A
T 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.

E
UGENE
K
ILBANE 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.

“You don’t understand. These people can be dangerous.”

Jessica glared at Kilbane. “Um, that’s pretty much the
point,
Eugene.”

Kilbane looked from Jessica to Nicci to Nick Palladino to Eric Chavez. Sweat gathered on his upper lip. He wasn’t getting out of this.

“Shit,” he said. “Let’s just go.”

45

K
EVIN
B
YRNE UNDERSTOOD
the rush of crime. He knew well the adrenaline surge of larcenous or violent or antisocial behavior. He had arrested many a suspect still in the flush of the moment and knew that, in the grip of that rarefied feeling, criminals seldom considered what they had done, its consequence to the victim, its consequence to themselves. There was, instead, a bitter glow of accomplishment, a feeling that society had prohibited this behavior and they had done it anyway.

As Byrne prepared to leave his apartment—the ember of this feeling igniting inside him, against his better instincts—he had no idea how this evening would conclude, whether he would end up with Victoria safe in his arms, or with Julian Matisse at the end of his pistol sight.

Or, he was afraid to admit, neither.

Byrne pulled a pair of workman’s overalls from his closet, a grimy jumpsuit belonging to the Philadelphia Water Department. His uncle Frank had recently retired from the PWD, and Byrne had gotten the overalls from him once when he needed to go undercover a few years earlier. Nobody looks at the guy working on the street. City workers, like street vendors, panhandlers, and the elderly, are part of the urban curtain. Human scenery. Tonight Byrne needed to be invisible.

He looked at the figurine of Snow White on his dresser. He had handled it carefully when he removed it from the hood of his car, placing it in an evidence bag as soon as he slipped back behind the wheel. He didn’t know if it ever would be needed as evidence, or if Julian Matisse’s fingerprints would be on it.

Nor did he know which side of the legal process he would come down on by the time this long night was over. He put the jumpsuit on, grabbed his toolbox, and left.

H
IS CAR WAS
bathed in darkness.

A group of teenagers—all about seventeen or eighteen, four boys and two girls—stood half a block away, watching the world go by, waiting for their shot at it. They smoked, shared a blunt, sipped from a pair of brown-paper-clad forties, snapped the dozens on each other, or whatever they called it these days. The boys competed for the girls’ favors; the girls primped and preened, above it all, missing nothing. It was every urban summertime corner. Always had been.

Why was Phil Kessler doing this to Jimmy? Byrne wondered. He had stopped at Darlene Purify’s house that afternoon. Jimmy’s widow was a woman not yet beyond the reach of the tendrils of grief. She and Jimmy had divorced more than a year before Jimmy’s death, but she had not stopped caring. They had shared a life. They shared the lives of three children.