The skin Gods jbakb-2

by Richard Montanari

  Byrne flicked the baton out, stepped from the shadow. The snick of the baton reaching its full length caught the man's attention. He turned to Byrne, a questioning look on his face. It was too late. Byrne swung the twenty-one-inch tactical steel rod as hard as he could. It caught the man perfectly, just below the right knee. Byrne heard the cartilage rip. The man barked once, then crumbled to the floor.

  "What the… Jesus!"

  "Shut up."

  "Fuck… you." The man began to rock, holding his knee. "Motherfucker."

  Byrne pulled the SIG. He dropped onto Darryl Porter with all his weight. Both knees on the man's chest, two-hundred-plus pounds. The blow knocked the air out of Porter. Byrne pulled off his ball cap. Recognition alit on Porter's face.

  "You," Porter said between gasps. "I fuckin'… knew I knew you from somewhere."

  Byrne held up the SIG. "I've got eight rounds in here. Nice even number, am I right?"

  Darryl Porter just glared.

  "Now, I want you to think about how many things you have on your body that comes in pairs, Darryl. I'm going to start with your ankles, and every time you fail to answer my question, another pair is mine. And you know where I'm heading with this."

  Porter gasped for air. Byrne's weight on his chest didn't help.

  "Here we go, Darryl. These are the most important moments of your rotten, pointless life. No second chances. No makeup exams. Ready?"

  Silence.

  "Question one: Did you tell Julian Matisse I was looking for him?"

  Cold defiance. This guy was way too tough for his own good. Byrne put the barrel against the Porter's right ankle. Upstairs, the music pounded.

  Porter squirmed, but the weight on his chest was too much. He couldn't move. "You're not gonna fucking shoot me," Porter yelled. "You know why? You know how I know that? I'm gonna tell you how I know that, motherfucker." His voice was high and crazy. "You're not gonna shoot me because-"

  Byrne shot him. The blast was deafening in this small confined space. Byrne hoped the music covered it. Either way, he knew he had to wrap this up fast. The bullet had only grazed Porter's ankle, but Porter was way too jazzed to know that. He was sure Byrne had blown his foot off. He screamed again. Byrne put the barrel of the weapon against Porter's temple.

  "Know what? I've changed my mind, shitbag. I am going to kill you after all."

  "Wait!"

  "I'm listening.

  "I tuh-told him."

  "Where is he?"

  Porter gave him an address.

  "He's there now?" Byrne asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Give me a reason not to kill you."

  "I… didn't do anything."

  "What, you mean today? You think that matters to someone like me? You're a pedophile, Darryl. A white slaver. A pimp and a pornographer. I think the city can survive without you."

  "Don't!"

  "Who's going to miss you, Darryl?"

  Byrne pulled the trigger. Porter screamed, then fainted. The chamber was empty. Byrne had emptied the rest of the magazine before coming down into the cellar. He didn't trust himself.

  As Byrne mounted the steps, the mixture of smells nearly made him dry-heave. The reek of just-burned gunpowder mixed with that of mold and wood rot and the sugar of cheap booze. Beneath that, the smell of fresh urine. Darryl Porter had pissed in his pants.

  It was five minutes after Kevin Byrne left that Darryl Porter was able to get to his feet. Partially because the pain was off the charts. Partially because he was certain that Byrne was waiting for him just outside the door, ready to finish what he had started. Porter really thought that the man had taken his foot off. He steadied himself for a moment or two, hobbled to the exit, and meekly poked out his head. He looked both ways. The alley was empty.

  "Hey!" he yelled.

  Nothing.

  "Yeah," he said. "You better run, bitch."

  He jerked his way up the stairs, one tread at a time. The pain was mind-scrambling. He finally reached the top step thinking that he knew people. Oh, he knew lots of people. People that made him look like a goddamn Boy Scout. Because, cop or no cop, this fucker was going down. You don't pull this shit on Darryl Lee Porter and get away with it. Hell no. Who said you can't kill a detective?

  As soon as he got upstairs he would drop a dime. He glanced out onto the street. A police sector car sat on the corner, probably having responded to some bar disturbance. He didn't see an officer. Never around when you need them.

  For a fleeting moment Darryl thought about going to the hospital, but how was he going to pay for it? There wasn't exactly a benefits package working at the X Bar. No, he'd patch himself up the best he could, check it in the morning.

  He dragged himself behind the building then up the wobbly wrought- iron stairs, stopping twice to catch his breath. Most of the time, living in two cramped, shitty rooms above the X Bar was a pain in the ass. The smell, the noise, the clientele. Now it was a blessing, because it took all his strength just to make it to his front door. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, made his way to the bathroom, flipped on the fluorescent light. He poked around his medicine chest. Flexeril. Klonopin. Ibupro- fen. He took two of each, then started to fill the tub. The pipes rattled and clanked, spewing forth a gallon or so of rusty, briny-smelling water into the scum-ringed tub. When it ran as clear as it was going to run, he put the stopper in, turned the hot water on full blast. He sat on the edge of the tub, checked his foot. The blood had stopped flowing. Barely. His foot was starting to turn blue. Hell, it was turning black. He touched the area with a forefinger. The pain shot to his brain in a fiery comet.

  "You are so fuckin' dead." He'd make the call as soon as he'd soaked his foot.

  A few minutes later, after having eased his foot into the hot water, after the various drugs had started their magic, he thought he heard someone outside his door. Or did he? He turned the water off for a moment, listened, cocking his head toward the back of the apartment. Had that fucker followed him up? He glanced around the immediate area for a weapon. A crusty Bic disposable razor and a stack of porno mags.

  Great. The closest knife was in the kitchen and that was ten agonizing steps away.

  The music from the bar downstairs rumbled and thundered again. Had he locked the door? He thought so. Although, in the past, he had left it open a few drunken nights only to have a few of the fucking head cases who frequented the X Bar come waltzing in, looking for a place to rut. Fucking lowlifes. He had to get a new job. At least in the strip clubs, the spill wasn't bad. The only thing he could hope to pick up at closing time at the X was a dose of herpes or a pair of Ben Wa balls up the ass.

  He turned off the water, which was already running cold. He eased himself to his feet, slowly extricated his foot from the tub, spun around, and was more than a little shocked to see another man standing in his bathroom. A man who seemed to have no footsteps.

  This man had a question for him, too.

  When he answered, the man said something Darryl did not understand. It sounded like a foreign language. It sounded like it might be French.

  Then, in a motion almost too fast to detect, the man grabbed him by the neck. His hands were terribly strong. In a blur the man pushed his head beneath the surface of the filthy water. One of Darryl Porter's last sights was the corona of a tiny red light, burning in the dim radiance of his dying.

  The tiny red light of a video camera.

  49

  The warehouse was huge and solid and sprawling. It seemed to take up most of a block. It was formerly a ball-bearing manufacturing company, and after that it had served as a warehouse for some of the Mummers' floats.

  A chain-link fence surrounded the enormous parking lot. The lot was cracked and strangled with weeds, scattered with debris and discarded tires. A smaller, private lot hugged the building's north side, near the main entrance. In that lot were a pair of vans and a handful of late- model cars.

  Jessica, Nicci, and Eugene Kilbane drove in a rented Lincoln Town
Car. Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez followed in a surveillance van on loan from Narcotics. The van was state of the art, fitted with antennae disguised as a roof rack, and a periscope camera. Both Nicci and Jessica were outfitted with wireless body units that had the ability to transmit up to three hundred feet. Palladino and Chavez parked the van on a side street, with a straight line of sight to the windows on the north side of the building.

  Kilbane, Jessica, and Nicci stood near the front door. The tall windows on the first floor were covered, on the inside, with a black opaque material. To the right of the door were a speaker and a button. Kilbane rang the intercom. After three rings, a voice came on.

  "Yeah."

  The voice was deep, nicotine-ravaged, menacing. Backwater-crazy. As a friendly greeting, it meant go the fuck away.

  "I have an appointment with Mr. Diamond," Kilbane said. Despite his best effort to sound as if he still carried some juice at this level, he sounded scared shitless. Jessica almost-almost-felt sorry for him.

  From the speaker: "There's nobody here by that name."

  Jessica looked up. The surveillance camera above them scanned left, then right. Jessica winked at the lens. She wasn't sure if there was enough light for the camera to see it, but it was worth a shot.

  "Jackie Boris sent me," Kilbane said. It sounded like a question. Kilbane looked at Jessica and shrugged. After nearly a full minute, the buzzer buzzed. Kilbane opened the door. They all stepped inside.

  Inside the main entrance, to the right, was a tired, paneled reception area, probably last remodeled in the 1970s. Along the window wall were a pair of stained cranberry velveteen couches. A pair of upholstered chairs sat opposite. Between them was a square chrome-and-smoked-glass coffee table in the Parsons style, covered with ten-year-old Hustler magazines.

  The only thing that looked like it had been created in the past twenty or so years was the door into the main warehouse. This was steel and had both a dead bolt and an electronic lock.

  In front of it sat a very large human.

  He was broad-shouldered and solid, like a bouncer at the gates of hell. He had a shaved head, a creased scalp, a huge rhinestone earring. He wore a black mesh T-shirt and charcoal dress slacks. He sat in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair, reading a copy of Motocross Action. He looked up, bored and put out by these new visitors to his little fief- dom. As they approached, he stood, extended a hand, palm out, stopping them.

  "My name is Cedric. Know this. If you are, in any way, wrong, you will deal with me."

  He let that sentiment settle in, then picked up an electronic wand, ran it over them. When he was satisfied, he punched in a code on the door, turned a key, and opened it.

  Cedric led them down a long, stiflingly hot corridor. On either side were eight-foot sections of cheap paneling, obviously erected to partition off the rest of the warehouse. Jessica couldn't help but wonder what was on the other side.

  At the end of the maze, they emerged into the body of the first floor. The enormous room was so large that the lights from the movie set in the corner seemed to reach into the darkness fifty or so feet, then to be swallowed by the gloom. Jessica noticed a few fifty-gallon drums in the murk- iness; a forklift loomed like a prehistoric beast.

  "Wait here," Cedric said.

  Jessica watched Cedric and Kilbane walk toward the set. Cedric's hands were out to his sides, prevented from closer contact with his body by his huge upper arms. He had that odd, bodybuilder duck waddle.

  The set was brightly lit, and from where they stood looked to be a young girl's bedroom. On the walls were posters of boy bands; on the bed, a collection of pink stuffed animals and satin pillows. At the moment, there were no actors on the set.

  After a few minutes, Kilbane and another man returned.

  "Ladies, this is Dante Diamond," Kilbane said.

  Dante Diamond was surprisingly normal looking, considering his profession. A youthful sixty, he had formerly blond hair, now touched with silver, the de rigueur goatee, a small hoop earring. He had a UV tan and veneered teeth.

  "Mr. Diamond, this is Gina Marino and Daniela Rose."

  Eugene Kilbane was playing his role well, Jessica thought. She was somewhat impressed with the man. However, she was still glad she'd punched him.

  "Charmed." Diamond shook their hands. Very professional and warm, soft-spoken. Like a bank manager. "You are both extraordinary-looking young ladies."

  "Thank you," Nicci said.

  "Where might I have seen your work?"

  "We did a few films for Jerry Stein last year," Nicci said. The two vice detectives with whom Jessica and Nicci had talked before the detail had given them all the names they would need. Or so Jessica hoped.

  "Jerry is an old friend," Diamond said. "Does he still drive that gold 911?"

  Another test, Jessica thought. Nicci looked over at her, shrugged. Jessica shrugged back. "Never went on a picnic with the man," Nicci replied, smiling. When Nicci Malone smiled at a man, it was game, set, and match.

  Diamond returned the smile, a twinkle in his eye, bested. "Of course," he said. He gestured toward the set. "We're getting ready to shoot. Please join us on the set. There's a full bar and buffet. Make yourselves at home."

  Diamond walked back over to the set, chatting softly with a young woman smartly dressed in a white linen pantsuit. She made notes on a clipboard.

  If Jessica didn't know what these people were doing, she would have a hard time differentiating between a porno movie shoot and wedding planners setting up for a reception.

  Then, in a nauseating instant, she was reminded where she was when a man walked out of the darkness, and onto the set. He was big, and wore a sleeveless rubber vest and a leather master mask.

  In his hand was a switchblade.

  50

  Byrne parked a block away from the address Darryl Porter had given him. It was a busy street in North Philly. Almost every house on the street was occupied and had the lights on. The house that Porter had directed him to was dark, but it was attached to a hoagie shop that was doing a brisk business. Half a dozen teenagers lounged on cars out front, eating their sandwiches. Byrne was sure he would be seen. He waited as long as he could, got out of the car, slipped behind the house, picked the lock. He stepped inside, drew the SIG.

  Inside, the air was dense and hot, clogged with the smell of rotting fruit. Flies buzzed. He stepped into the small kitchen. Stove and fridge to the right, sink to the left. A kettle sat on one of the burners. Byrne felt it. Cold. He reached behind the fridge, unplugged it. He didn't want the light carrying into the living room. He eased open the door. Empty, save for a pair of moldering pieces of bread and a box of baking soda.

  He cocked his head, listened. The jukebox was playing in the hoagie shop next door. The house was silent.

  He thought about his years on the force, about how many times he had entered a row house, never knowing what to expect. Domestic disturbances, breaking and entering, home invasions. Most row houses had a similar layout, and if you knew where to look, you would rarely be surprised. Byrne knew where to look. As he moved throughout the house, he checked the likely niches. No Matisse. No signs of life. He walked up the stairs, weapon out front. He searched the two small bedrooms and closets on the second floor. He descended the two flights to the basement. An abandoned washer, a long-rusted brass bed frame. Mice scurried in the beam of his Maglite.

  Empty.

  Back to the first floor.

  Darryl Porter had lied to him. There was no food trash, no mattress, no human sounds or smells. If Matisse had ever been here, he was gone now. The house was vacant. Byrne holstered the SIG.

  Had he really cleared the basement? He'd look again. He turned to descend the steps. And that's when he felt the shift in the atmosphere, the unmistakable presence of another human being. He felt the tip of the blade at the small of his back, felt a slight trickle of blood, and heard the familiar voice say:

  "We meet again, Detective Byrne."

  Mati
sse pulled the SIG from the holster on Byrne's hip. He held it up in the streetlight streaming through the window. "Sweet," he said. Byrne had reloaded the weapon after leaving Darryl Porter. It had a full magazine. "Doesn't look like department issue, Detective. Naughty, naughty." Matisse put the knife on the floor, keeping the SIG at the small of Byrne's back. He continued to pat him down.

  "I kind of expected you a little earlier," Matisse said. "Darryl doesn't really strike me as the sort to stand up to too much punishment." Matisse frisked Byrne's left side. He took a small roll of bills out his pant pocket. "Did you have to hurt him, Detective?"

  Byrne remained silent. Matisse checked his left jacket pocket.

  "And what have we here?"

  Julian Matisse removed the small metal box from Byrne's left coat pocket, keeping the weapon to Byrne's spine. In the dark, Matisse did not see the thin wire running up Byrne's sleeve, around the back of his jacket, then down the right sleeve to the button in his hand.

  When Matisse stepped to the side to get a better look at the object in his hand, Byrne pressed the button, sending sixty thousand volts of electricity into Julian Matisse's body. The Taser, one of two he had purchased from Sammy DuPuis, was a state-of-the-art device, fully charged. As the Taser sparked and bucked, Matisse shrieked, reflexively discharging the handgun. The slug missed Byrne's back by only a few inches, slamming into the dry wood floor. Byrne pivoted, threw a hook toward Matisse's midsection. But Matisse was already on the floor, the effects of the Taser making his body spasm and jerk. His face was locked in a silent scream. The smell of singed flesh drifted up.

  When Matisse settled down, docile and spent, his eyes blinking rapidly, the reek of fear and defeat coming off him in waves, Byrne knelt next to him, removed the weapon from his limp hand, got very close to his ear, and said:

  "Yes, Julian. We meet again."

  Matisse sat in the chair in the center of the basement. There had been no response to the sound of the gunshot, no one banging on the door. This was, after all, North Philly. Matisse's hands were duct-taped behind him; his feet, to the legs of the wooden chair. When he came around, he didn't struggle against the tape, didn't flail about. Perhaps he did not have the strength. He calmly assessed Byrne with his predator's eyes.