The skin Gods jbakb-2

by Richard Montanari

  "What about videotapes?" Byrne asked.

  "Videotapes and DVDs, too."

  "Which is why they hand them to you on the other side of those-"

  "Pedestals," Mateo said. "Right. Exactly. Both types of tags work on an RF frequency. If the tag hasn't been removed, or if it hasn't been desensitized, and you walk past the pedestals, the beepers go off. Then they tackle you."

  "And there's no way around that?" Jessica asked.

  "There's always a way around everything."

  "Like how?" Jessica asked.

  Mateo lifted a solitary brow. "Plan on doing a little shoplifting, Detective?"

  "I've got my eye on a sweet pair of black linen Blahniks."

  Mateo laughed. "Good luck. Stuff like that is protected better than Fort Knox."

  Jessica snapped her fingers.

  "But with these dinosaur systems, if you wrap the whole item in aluminum foil, it could possibly fool the old security sensors. You could even put the item against a magnet."

  "Coming and going?"

  "Yes."

  "So someone who wrapped a videotape in aluminum foil, or put it up against a magnet, could get it out of the store, keep it for a while, then rewrap it and sneak it back in?" Jessica asked.

  "It's possible."

  "All without being detected?"

  "I believe so," Mateo said.

  "Great," Jessica said. They had been concentrating on people who had rented the tape. Now the possibilities opened up to just about everyone in Philadelphia with access to Reynolds Wrap. "What about a tape from one store going into a different store. Say, a Blockbuster tape being sneaked into a West Coast Video?"

  "The industry isn't standardized yet. It's pushing for what they call tower-centric systems as opposed to tag-centric setups so that detectors can read multiple tag technologies. On the other hand, if people knew that these detectors only catch about sixty percent of the thefts, they might get a little bolder."

  "What about taping over a prerecorded tape?" Jessica asked. "Is that difficult?"

  "Not in the least," Mateo said. He pointed to a small indentation on the back of the videocassette. "All you have to do is put something over this."

  "So if a person took the tape out of the store wrapped in foil, they could take it home and record over it-and if no one tried to rent it for a few days, no one would know it was gone," Byrne said. "Then all they would have to do is rewrap it in foil and sneak it back in."

  "That's probably true."

  Jessica and Byrne looked at each other. They weren't just back to square one. They weren't even on the board yet.

  "Thanks for making our day," Byrne said.

  Mateo smiled. "Hey, do you think I would call you down here if I didn't have something good to show you, capitan, mi capitan?"

  "Let's see it," Byrne said.

  "Check this out."

  Mateo spun in his chair and hit a few buttons on the dTective digital console behind him. The dTective system converted standard video to digital, and allowed technicians to manipulate the image directly from the hard drive. Instantly, Psycho began to roll on the monitor. On the monitor, the bathroom door opened and the old woman entered. Mateo rewound it until the room was empty again, then hit PAUSE, freezing the image. He pointed to the upper left-hand corner of the frame. There, on the top of the shower rod, was a gray splotch.

  "Cool," Byrne said. "A smudge. Let's put out an APB."

  Mateo shook his head. "Usted de poca fe." He began to enlarge the image, which was fuzzy to the point of near obscurity. "Let me sharpen this a little."

  He hit a sequence of keys, his fingers blazing over the keyboard. The picture became slightly sharper. The small smudge on the shower rod was now a little more recognizable. It appeared to be a rectangular white label with black ink on it. Mateo hit a few more keys. The image became larger by about 25 percent. It began to look like something.

  "What is it, a boat?" Byrne asked, squinting at the image.

  "A riverboat," Mateo said. He brought the picture to a slightly higher degree of clarity. It was still very blurred, but it became apparent that there was a word beneath the graphic. A logo of some sort.

  Jessica took out her glasses, slipped them on. She leaned closer to the monitor. "It says… Natchez?"

  "Yes," Mateo said.

  "What is Natchez?"

  Mateo spun around to a computer, one hooked up to the Internet. He typed in a few words, hit ENTER. In an instant, the monitor showed a website displaying a much clearer version of the graphic on the other screen: a highly stylized riverboat.

  "Natchez, Inc., manufactures plumbing and bathroom fixtures," Mateo said. "I believe this is one of their shower rods."

  Jessica and Byrne exchanged a glance. After a morning of chasing shadows, this was a lead. Small, but a lead nonetheless.

  "So do all the shower rods they make have that logo there?" Jessica asked.

  Mateo shook his head. "No," he said. "Look."

  He clicked over to the catalog page for shower rods. The rods themselves had no logos or markings on them of any kind. "My guess is that what we're looking at is some kind of tag that identifies the item to the installer. Something they're supposed to peel off when they're done putting it up."

  "So what you're saying is that this shower rod was recently installed," Jessica said.

  "That would be my deduction," Mateo said in his strange, precise manner. "If it had been in there awhile, you'd think the steam from the shower might have made it slip off. Let me get you a printout." Mateo hit a few more keys, starting the laser printer.

  While they were waiting, Mateo poured a cup of soup from his thermos. He opened a Tupperware container in which he had two neatly stacked columns of saltines. Jessica wondered if he ever actually went home.

  "I hear you're working with the suits on this," Mateo said.

  Jessica and Byrne exchanged another glance, this one suffixed with a grimace. "Where did you hear that?" Jessica asked.

  "From the suit himself," Mateo said. "He was down here about an hour ago."

  "Special Agent Cahill?" Jessica asked.

  "That would be the suit."

  "What did he want?"

  "Only everything. He asked a lot of questions. He wanted deep background on this."

  "Did you give it to him?"

  Mateo looked mortified. "I'm not that easy of a lay, Detective. I told him I was working on it."

  Jessica had to smile. PPD uber alles. Sometimes she loved this place and everyone in it. Still, she made a mental note to rip Agent Opie a new asshole the first chance she got.

  Mateo reached over, retrieved the photo printout of the shower rod. He handed it to Jessica. "I know it isn't much, but it's a start, si?"

  Jessica kissed Mateo on the top of the head. "You rock, Mateo."

  "Tell the world, hermana."

  The largest plumbing supply company in Philadelphia was Standard Plumbing and Heating on Germantown Avenue, a fifty-thousand-square- foot warehouse of toilets, sinks, bathtubs, shower stalls, and just about every other conceivable fixture. They carried high-end lines such as Por- cher, Bertocci, and Cesana. They also carried less expensive fixtures like those manufactured by Natchez, Inc., a company based, not surprisingly, in Mississippi. Standard Plumbing and Heating was the only distributor in Philadelphia to carry the product.

  The sales manager's name was Hal Hudak.

  "That's the NF-5506-L. A one-inch OD aluminum L-style," Hudak said. He was looking at a printout photograph taken from the videotape. It was now cropped to show only the top of the shower rod.

  "And it's made by Natchez?" Jessica asked.

  "That's correct. But it's a fairly low-end fixture. Nothing too fancy." Hudak was in his late fifties, balding, puckish, as if everything had the potential to amuse. He smelled like Cinnamon Altoids. They were in his paper-besieged office overlooking the chaotic warehouse floor. "We sell a lot of Natchez fixtures to the federal government for its FHA housing."

&nbs
p; "What about hotels, motels?" Byrne asked.

  "Sure," he said. "But you won't find this in any of the expensive or midrange hotels. Not even in the Motel 6 variety, either."

  "Why is that?"

  "Mainly because the fixtures in those popular economy motels get a lot of use. It doesn't make good business sense to use budget fixtures. They'd be replacing them twice a year."

  Jessica made a few notes, asked: "Then why would any motel buy them?"

  "Between you, me, and the switchboard operator, the only kind of motels that might install these fixtures are the ones where people don't tend to stay overnight, if you know what I mean."

  They knew exactly what he meant. "Have you sold any of these recently?" Jessica asked.

  "Depends on what you mean by recently."

  "In the last few months."

  "Let me see." He hit a few keys on his computer keyboard. "Yeah. I've got a small order three weeks ago from… Arcel Management."

  "How small of an order?"

  "They ordered twenty shower rods. The aluminum L-style. Just like your picture."

  "Is the company local?"

  "Yes."

  "Was the order delivered?"

  Hudak smiled. "Of course."

  "What does Arcel Management do exactly?"

  A few more keystrokes. "They manage apartments. A few motels, I think."

  "Motels of the by-the-hour variety?" Jessica asked.

  "I'm a married man, Detective. I'd have to ask around."

  Jessica smiled. "That's okay," she said. "I think we can handle that."

  "My wife thanks you."

  "We'll need their address and phone number," Byrne said.

  "You got it."

  When they got back to Center City they stopped at Ninth and Passyunk, flipped a coin. Heads meant Pat's. Tails, Geno's. It was heads. At Ninth and Passyunk, lunch was easy.

  When Jessica returned to the car with the cheesesteaks, Byrne shut his phone, said: "Arcel Management manages four apartment complexes in North Philly, as well as a motel on Dauphin Street."

  "West Philly?"

  Byrne nodded. "Strawberry Mansion."

  "And I suppose it's a five-star property with European spa and championship golf course," Jessica said, slipping into the car.

  "Actually, it's a no-tell called the Rivercrest Motel," Byrne said.

  "Did they order those shower rods?"

  "According to the very accommodating, honey-voiced Miss Rochelle Davis, they did indeed."

  "And did the very accommodating, honey-voiced Miss Rochelle Davis happen to tell the probably-old-enough-to-be-her-father Detective Kevin Byrne how many rooms there are at the Rivercrest Motel?"

  "She did."

  "How many?"

  Byrne started the Taurus, pointed it west. "Twenty."

  12

  Seth Goldman sat in the elegant lobby of the Park Hyatt, the graceful hotel that occupied a few of the upper floors of the historic Bellevue Building at Broad and Walnut streets. He reviewed the day's call sheet. Nothing too heroic. They had met with a reporter from Pittsburgh Magazine for a brief interview and photo session, and had immediately returned to Philadelphia. They were due on set within an hour. Seth knew that Ian was somewhere in the hotel, and that was a good thing. Although Seth had never known Ian to miss a shot, he did have a habit of disappearing for hours on end.

  At just after four o'clock Ian got off the elevator, followed by his child's nanny Aileen, who was holding Ian's six-month-old son, Declan, in her arms. Ian's wife, Julianne, was in Barcelona. Or Florence. Or Rio. It was hard to keep track.

  Aileen was trailed by Ian's production manager, Erin.

  Erin Halliwell had been with Ian for less than three years, but Seth had long ago decided to keep an eye on her. Prim and curt and highly efficient, it was no secret that Erin wanted Seth's job, and were it not for the fact that she was sleeping with Ian-thereby unwittingly creating a glass ceiling for herself-she would probably have it.

  Most people think that a production company like White Light employed dozens, maybe scores, of full-time employees. The truth was, there were only three: Ian, Erin, and Seth. This was all the staff necessary until a film went into production; then the real hiring began.

  Ian spoke briefly with Erin, who spun on her highly polished sensible heels, threw an equally polished smile at Seth, and stepped back onto the elevator. Ian then ruffled little Declan's fluffy red hair, crossed the lobby, glanced at one of his two watches-the one on local time. The other was set to Los Angeles time. Math was not Ian Whitestone's strong suit. He had a few minutes. He poured a cup of coffee, sat across from Seth.

  "Who's up?" Seth asked.

  "You are."

  "Okay," Seth said. "Name two films that each starred two actors who were both Oscar-winning directors."

  Ian smiled. He crossed his legs, ran a hand over his jaw. He was looking more and more like the fortyish Stanley Kubrick all the time, Seth thought. The deep-set eyes, backed by a mischievous twinkle. The expensive, casual wardrobe.

  "Good one," Ian said. They had been playing this trivia game on and off for nearly three years. Seth had yet to stump the man. "Four Oscar winning actor-directors. Two films."

  "Right. But keep in mind they won their Oscars for directing, not acting."

  "Post-1960?"

  Seth just glared. As if he would supply a clue. As if Ian would need a clue.

  "Four different people?" Ian asked.

  Another glare.

  "Okay, okay." Hands up in surrender.

  The rules were as follows: The person asking the question gave the other person five minutes to answer. There would be no consulting with a third party, no Internet access allowed. If you could not answer the question in five minutes, you owed the other person dinner at the restaurant of his choice.

  "Give?" Seth asked.

  Ian glanced at one of his watches. "With three minutes to go?"

  "Two minutes and forty seconds," Seth corrected.

  Ian looked at the ornate vaulted ceiling, rummaging his memory. It appeared as if Seth had finally bested him.

  With ten seconds to go Ian said: "Woody Allen and Sydney Pollack in Husbands and Wives. Kevin Costner and Clint Eastwood in A Perfect World."

  "Damn."

  Ian laughed. He was still batting a thousand. He rose, grabbed his shoulder bag. "What is Norma Desmond's phone number?"

  Ian always said is in regard to film. Most people used the past tense. To Ian, film was always in the moment. "Crestview 5-1733," Seth replied. "What name did Janet Leigh sign in under at the Bates Motel?"

  "Marie Samuels," Ian said. "What is Gelsomina's sister's name?"

  This was an easy one, Seth thought. He was familiar with every frame of Fellini's La Strada. He had first seen it at the Monarch Art when he was ten years old. He still got teary when he thought of it. All he needed was to hear the mournful wail of that trumpet in the opening credits and he started to bawl. "Rosa."

  "Molto bene," Ian said with a wink. "See you on set."

  "Si, maestro."

  Seth grabbed a cab and headed to Ninth Street. As they drove south, he watched the neighborhoods change, from the bustle of Center City to the sprawling urban enclave of South Philadelphia. Seth had to admit that he liked working in Philadelphia, Ian's hometown. Despite all the pressure to formally move the offices of White Light Pictures to Hollywood, Ian had resisted.

  Within minutes they came across the first police cars and street barricades. The production had closed down Ninth Street for two blocks in each direction. By the time Seth arrived on the set, everything was in place-the lights, the sound package, the security presence needed for any shoot in a major metropolitan area. Seth showed his ID, skirted the barricades, and slipped into Anthony's. He ordered a cappuccino and stepped back onto the sidewalk.

  Everything was running like clockwork. All they needed was their leading man, Will Parrish.

  Parrish, the star of the hugely successful 1980s prime-tim
e ABC comedy-action series Daybreak, was riding the crest of a comeback of sorts, his second. In the 1980s he had been on every magazine cover, on every TV talk show, on virtually every transit ad in every major city. His smirking, wisecracking Daybreak character was not all that different from his own, and by the late 1980s he was the highest-paid actor on television.

  Then came Kill Game, an action film that catapulted him to A-list status, the film grossing nearly $270 million worldwide. It was followed by three equally successful sequels. In between, Parrish made a number of romantic comedies and small dramas. Then there was a slump in big- budget action films and Parrish wasn't getting the scripts. Almost a decade passed before Ian Whitestone put him back on the map.

  In The Palace, his second film with Whitestone, he played a widowed surgeon treating a young boy who'd been badly burned in a fire set by the boy's mother. Parrish's character, Ben Archer, was performing skin-graft operations on the boy while slowly discovering that his patient was clairvoyant, and that nefarious government agencies wanted to get their hands on him.

  This day the shot was a relatively easy one, logistically speaking. Dr. Benjamin Archer walks out of a restaurant in South Philly and sees a mysterious man, a man in a dark suit. He follows.

  Seth took his cappuccino and stood on the corner. They were about half an hour from the shot.

  For Seth Goldman, the best part of a location shoot-any shoot, but especially a city location shoot-was the women. Young women, middle- aged women, rich women, poor women, housewives, college students, workingwomen-they stood on the other side of the barricades, enthralled at the glamour of it all, mesmerized by celebrity, lined up like sexy perfumed ducks at a gallery. In major cities, even the gaffers got laid.

  And Seth Goldman was far from a gaffer.

  Seth sipped his coffee, ostensibly marveling at the efficiency of the crew. What he was really marveling at was the blond woman standing on the other side of the barricade, right behind one of the police cars blocking the street.

  Seth edged his way over toward her. He spoke softly into his two-way radio, to no one at all. He wanted to get her attention. He moved closer and closer to the barricade, just a few feet from the woman now. He was wearing a Joseph Abboud navy blazer over a white, open-collar polo shirt. He oozed importance. He looked good.