Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (98 page)

Kevin Byrne gently took her hands in his, and eased the gun out.

94

B
YRNE KNEW THAT
Jessica had saved him. He would never forget. He would never be able to pay her in full.

No one has to know …

Byrne had held his gun to the back of Ian Whitestone’s head, mistakenly believing he was the Actor. When he had shot the lights out, there had been noises in the darkness. Crashes. Stumbling. Byrne had been disoriented. He couldn’t risk firing again. When he lashed out with the butt of the pistol he had connected with flesh and bone. When he turned the overhead light on, the monk was on the floor in the center of the room.

The images he had gotten were from Whitestone’s own blackened life—what he had done to Angelika Butler, what he had done to all the women on the tapes they had found in Seth Goldman’s hotel room. Whitestone had been bound and gagged beneath his mask and robe. He had tried to tell Byrne who he was. Byrne’s gun had been empty, but a full magazine was in his pocket. If Jessica had not come through that door …

He would never know.

At that moment a battering ram crashed through the painted picture window. Dazzlingly bright daylight flooded the room. Within seconds a dozen very nervous detectives spilled in after, weapons drawn, adrenaline raging.

“Clear!” Jessica yelled, holding her badge high. “We’re
clear
!”

Eric Chavez and Nick Palladino stormed through the opening, got between Jessica and the mass of divisional detectives and FBI agents who looked a little too eager to cowboy up this detail. The two men held up their hands, stood protectively on either side of Byrne and Jessica and the now prostrate, sobbing Ian Whitestone.

The blue womb. They were sheltered. No harm could come to them now.

It really was over.

T
EN MINUTES LATER,
as the machine that was a crime scene investigation began to rev up around them, as the yellow tape unspooled and the CSU officers began their solemn ritual, Byrne caught Jessica’s eye, the one question he needed to ask on his lips. They huddled in a corner, at the foot of the bed. “How did you know Butler was behind you?”

Jessica glanced around the room. Now, in the bright sunlight, it was obvious. The interior was covered in a silken dust, the walls patchworked with cheaply framed photographs of a long-faded past. Half a dozen padded stools lay on their sides. And then there were the signs.
WATER ICE. FOUNTAIN DRINKS. ICE CREAM. CANDY.

“It isn’t Butler,” Jessica said.

The seed had been planted in her mind when she read the report of the break-in at Edwina Matisse’s house, when she had seen the name of the responding officers. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. She had all but known the moment she had talked to the old woman next to the former candy store. Mrs. V. Talman.

Van!
the old woman had yelled. It wasn’t her husband she was yelling for. It was her grandson.

Van. Short for Vandemark.

I came close once.

He had taken the battery from her two-way radio. The dead body in the other room was Nigel Butler.

Jessica walked over, peeled back the mask on the dead man in the monk’s robe. Although they would wait for the ME’s ruling, there was no doubt in Jessica’s mind, or anyone else’s for that matter.

Officer Mark Underwood was dead.

95

B
YRNE HELD HIS
daughter. Someone had mercifully cut the rope from her hands and feet and put a suit coat over her shoulders. She shivered in his arms. Byrne thought of the time she had defied him when they had gone to Atlantic City one unseasonably warm April. She had been about six or seven. He had told her that, just because the air temperature was seventy-five, it didn’t mean the water was warm. She had run into the ocean anyway.

When she’d come out, just a few minutes later, she had been a pastel blue. She had quivered and quaked in his embrace for almost an hour, teeth chattering, signing
I’m sorry, Dad,
over and over again. He had held her then. He vowed to never stop.

Jessica knelt down next to them.

Colleen and Jessica had become close after Byrne had been shot that spring. They had spent many an afternoon waiting out his coma. Colleen had taught Jessica a number of handshapes, including the basic alphabet.

Byrne looked between them, and sensed their secret.

Jessica raised her hands, spelled the words in three clumsy handshapes:

He’s behind you.

With tears in his eyes, Byrne thought about Gracie Devlin. He thought about her life force. He thought about her breath still inside him. He glanced at the body of the man who had brought this latest evil to his city. He glimpsed his own future.

Kevin Byrne knew he was ready.

He exhaled.

He drew his daughter even closer. And it was in this way they comforted each other, and would for a long time to come.

In silence.

Like the language of film.

96

T
HE STORY OF
Ian Whitestone’s life and downfall was the stuff of movies, and at least two of them were in the preproduction stages even before the story hit the papers. In the meantime, the report of his having been involved in the porn industry—and perhaps involved in the death, accidental or otherwise, of a young porno starlet—was dripping red meat for the tabloid wolf packs. The story was surely being readied for publication and broadcast all around the world. How it would affect the box office of his next picture, along with his personal and professional life, was yet to be seen.

But that might not be the worst of it for the man. The district attorney’s office was looking into opening a criminal investigation into exactly what had caused the death of Angelika Butler three years earlier, and what role in her death Ian Whitestone might have played.

M
ARK
U
NDERWOOD HAD
been seeing Angelika Butler for almost a year when she had drifted into the life. The photo albums found at Nigel Butler’s house depicted a number of photographs of the two of them at family functions. When Underwood had kidnapped Nigel Butler, he had defaced the photos in the albums, as well as gluing all those photographs of movie stars onto Angelika’s body.

They would never know exactly what drove Underwood to do what he did, but it was clear that he knew from the start who was involved in the making of
Philadelphia Skin,
and whom he held responsible for Angelika’s death.

It was also clear that he blamed Nigel Butler for what
he
had done to Angelika.

There was a good chance that Underwood had been stalking Julian Matisse the night Matisse killed Gracie Devlin.
I secured a crime scene for him and his partner in South Philly a couple of years ago,
Underwood had said of Kevin Byrne at Finnigan’s Wake. On that night, Underwood had taken Jimmy Purify’s glove, soaked it in the blood, and held it, perhaps not knowing at the time what he would do with it. Then Matisse went away for twenty-five to life, Ian Whitestone became an international celebrity, and everything changed.

A year ago Underwood broke into Matisse’s mother’s house, stealing the gun and the blue jacket, putting his strange and terrible plan in motion.

When he learned that Phil Kessler was dying, he knew it was time to act. He had reached out to Phil Kessler, knowing the man was strapped for money to pay his medical bills. Underwood’s only chance of getting Julian Matisse out of prison was to trump a charge against Jimmy Purify. Kessler had jumped on the opportunity.

Jessica learned that Mark Underwood had volunteered to work the film shoot, knowing it would put him close to Seth Goldman, Erin Halliwell, and Ian Whitestone.

Erin Halliwell was Ian’s mistress, Seth Goldman was his confidant and co-conspirator, Declan was his son, White Light Pictures was a multimillion-dollar enterprise. Mark Underwood tried to take away everything that Ian Whitestone cared about.

He had come very close.

97

T
HREE DAYS AFTER
the incident, Byrne stood at the foot of the hospital bed, watching Victoria sleep. She looked so small beneath the covers. The doctors had removed all of the tubes. Only a single IV drip was left.

He thought about the night they had made love, how right she had felt in his arms. It seemed like so long ago.

She opened her eyes.

“Hi,” Byrne offered. He hadn’t told her anything of the events in North Philly. There would be time enough.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” Byrne asked.

Victoria weakly butterflied her hands. Not good, not bad. Her color had returned. “Could I have some water, please?” she asked.

“Are you allowed?”

Victoria glared at him.

“Okay, okay,” he said. He skirted the bed, lifted the glass with the straw to her mouth. She sipped, laid her head back on the pillow. Each movement caused her pain.

“Thank you.” She looked at him, the question poised on her lips. Her silver eyes were touched with hazel in the early-evening light streaming through the window. He had never noticed that before. She asked. “Matisse is dead?”

Byrne wondered how much he should tell her. He knew she would learn the full truth eventually. For now he said, simply: “Yes.”

Victoria nodded slightly, closed her eyes. She bowed her head for the moment. Byrne wondered what the gesture meant. He couldn’t imagine that Victoria was offering a blessing for the man’s soul—he couldn’t imagine that anyone would—but then again he knew that Victoria Lindstrom was a better person than he could ever hope to be.

After a moment, she looked back up at him. “They say I can go home tomorrow. Will you be here?”

“I’ll be here,” Byrne said. He peeked into the hallway for a moment, then stepped forward, opened the mouth of the mesh bag over his shoulder. A wet snout poked through the opening; a pair of lively brown eyes peered out. “He will be, too.”

Victoria smiled. She reached out. The puppy licked her hand, his tail thrashing around inside the bag. Byrne had already decided on a name for the puppy. They would call him Putin. Not for the Russian president, but rather Rasputin, because the dog had already proven himself a holy terror around Byrne’s apartment. Byrne had resigned himself to buying his slippers by the case from now on.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watched Victoria as she drifted off to sleep. He watched her breathe, grateful for every rise and fall of her chest. He thought about Colleen, how resilient she was, how strong. He had learned a great deal about life from Colleen in the past few days. She had reluctantly agreed to enter a program of victim’s counseling. Byrne had arranged for a counselor who was fluent in sign language. Victoria and Colleen. His sunrise and sunset. They were so much alike.

Later, Byrne looked at the window, surprised to find that it had gotten dark. He saw their reflection in the glass.

Two damaged people. Two people who found each other by touch. Together, he thought, they might make one whole person.

Maybe that was enough.

98

T
HE RAIN WAS
slow and steady, the type of gentle summer storm that could last all day. The city felt clean.

They sat by the window overlooking Fulton Street. A tray sat between them. A tray bearing a pot of herbal tea. When Jessica had arrived, the first thing she noticed was that the bar cart she had seen the first time she had visited was now empty. Faith Chandler had spent three days in a coma. Doctors had slowly brought her out of it, and predicted no lasting effects.

“She used to play right out there,” Faith said, pointing to the sidewalk beneath the rain-dappled window. “Hopscotch, hide and seek. She was a happy little girl.”

Jessica thought of Sophie. Was her daughter a happy little girl? She thought so. She hoped so.

Faith turned to look at her. She may have been gaunt, but her eyes were clear. Her hair was clean and shiny, pulled back into a ponytail. Her color was better than the first time they’d met. “Do you have children?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jessica said. “One.”

“A daughter?”

Jessica nodded. “Her name is Sophie.”

“How old is she?”

“She’s three.”

Faith Chandler moved her lips slightly. Jessica was sure the woman had silently said
three,
perhaps recalling the toddling Stephanie running through these rooms; Stephanie singing her
Sesame Street
songs over and over, never quite hitting the same note twice; Stephanie asleep on this very couch, her little pink face angelic in slumber.

Faith lifted the pot of tea. Her hands were shaking, and Jessica considered helping the woman, then decided against it. When tea was poured, and sugar stirred, Faith continued.

“My husband left us when Stephie was eleven years old, you know. He left a house full of debts, too. Over a hundred thousand dollars.”

Faith Chandler had allowed Ian Whitestone to buy her daughter’s silence for the past three years, silence about what happened on the set of
Philadelphia Skin.
As far as Jessica knew, there were no laws broken. There would be no prosecution. Was it wrong to take the money? Perhaps. But it was not Jessica’s place to judge. These were shoes in which Jessica hoped never to walk.

On the end table was Stephanie’s high school graduation picture. Faith picked it up, ran her fingers gently over her daughter’s face.

“Let a broken-down old waitress give you a piece of advice.” Faith Chandler looked at Jessica, a gentle sorrow in her eyes. “You may think you have a long time with your daughter, a long time until she grows up and hears the world calling her. Believe me, it will happen before you know it. One day the house is full of laughter. The next day it’s just the sound of your heart.”

A lone teardrop fell onto the glass picture frame.

“And if you have the choice between talking to your daughter, or listening,” Faith added. “Listen. Just … listen.”

Jessica didn’t know what to say. She could think of no response to this. No verbal response. Instead, she took the woman’s hand in hers. And they sat in silence, listening to the summer rain.