The skin Gods jbakb-2

by Richard Montanari

  "How long has she been dead?"

  "No idea. ME's on the way there now," Buchanan said. "But here's the kicker. Ted Campos started going through her desk. Found her pay stubs. She works for a company called Alhambra LLC."

  Jessica felt her pulse quicken. "What's her name?"

  Chavez looked at his notes. "Her name is Erin Halliwell."

  Erin Halliwell's apartment was a funky collection of mismatched furniture, faux-Tiffany lamps, film books, and posters, along with an impressive array of healthy houseplants.

  It smelled of death.

  As soon as Jessica poked her head into the bathroom, she recognized the setting. It was the same wall, the same window treatment as the Fatal Attraction tape.

  The woman's body had been taken from the tub and was on the bathroom floor, on a rubber sheet. Her skin was puckered and gray, the wound in her chest had tightened to a small hole.

  They were getting closer, and the feeling was energizing the detectives, all of whom had been averaging four or five hours' sleep a night.

  The CSU team was dusting the apartment for prints. A pair of task force detectives were following up on the pay stubs, visiting the bank from which the funds were drawn. The full force of the PPD was bearing down on this case, and it was starting to bear fruit. Byrne stood in the doorway. Evil had crossed this threshold.

  He watched the buzz of activity in the living room, listened to the sound of the camera's motor drive, smelled the chalky scent of the print powder. He had missed the chase these past months. The CSU officers were looking for minute traces of the killer, inaudible whispers of this woman's violent end. Byrne put his hands on the doorjambs. He was looking for something much deeper, much more ethereal.

  He stepped into the room, snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He walked the scene, feeling that-she thinks they are going to have sex. He knows they are not. He is here to fulfill his dark purpose. They sit on the couchfor a while. He toys with her long enough to get her interested. Had the dress been hers? No. He bought the dress for her. Why had she put it on? She wanted to please him. The Actor is fixated on Fatal Attraction. Why? What is it about the movie he needs to re-create? Earlier they stood beneath huge lights. The man touches her skin. He wears many looks, many disguises. A doctor. A minister. A man with a badge… Byrne stepped over to the small desk and began the ritual of sifting through the dead woman's belongings. Her desk had been gone over by the primary detectives, but not with an eye toward the Actor.

  In a large drawer he found a portfolio of photographs. Most were of the "soft touch" card variety: Erin Halliwell at sixteen, eighteen, twenty years old, sitting on the beach, standing on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, sitting at a picnic table at a family function. The last folder he looked in spoke to him in a voice the others had not. He called Jessica over.

  "Look," he said. He held forth the eight-by-ten picture.

  The photograph was taken in front of the art museum. It was a black- and-white group shot of maybe forty or fifty people. In the second row was a smiling Erin Halliwell. Next to her was the unmistakable face of Will Par- rish.

  Inscribed on the bottom, in a flourish of blue ink, was the following:

  ONE DOWN, MANY MORE TO COME. YOURS, IAN.

  62

  The reading terminal market was a huge, bustling market located at Twelfth and Market streets in Center City, just a block or so from city hall. Opened in 1892, it was home to more than eighty vendors and covered nearly two acres.

  The task force had learned that Alhambra LLC was a company established exclusively for the production of The Palace. The Alhambra was a famous palace in Spain. Quite often, production companies form a separate enterprise to handle payroll, permits, and liability insurance for the duration of the shoot. Quite often they take a name or a phrase from the film and name the company office for it. It allows the production office to open without a lot of hassles from would-be actors and paparazzi.

  By the time Byrne and Jessica reached the corner of Twelfth and Market, a number of large semitrucks had already parked there. The film crew was setting up to shoot a second-unit sequence inside. The detectives were only there for a few seconds when a man approached them. They were expected.

  "Are you Detective Balzano?"

  "Yes," Jessica said. She held up her badge. "This is my partner, Detective Byrne."

  The man was in his late thirties. He wore a stylish navy blazer, white shirt, khakis. He had an air of competence about him, if not secretive- ness. Narrow-set eyes, light brown hair, eastern European features. He carried a black leather binder and two-way radio.

  "Nice to meet you," the man said. "Welcome to the set of The Palace." He extended his hand. "My name is Seth Goldman." THEY SAT AT a coffee bar inside the market. The myriad aromas wreaked havoc with Jessica's willpower. Chinese food, Indian food, Italian food, seafood, Termini's bakery. She had eaten a peach yogurt and banana for lunch. Yum. It was supposed to last her until dinner.

  "What can I say?" Seth said. "We're all terribly shaken by the news."

  "What was Ms. Halliwell's position?"

  "She was production manager."

  "Were you very close to her?" Jessica asked.

  "Not in the social sense," Seth said. "But we were working on our second film together, and during a shoot you work very closely, sometimes spending sixteen, eighteen hours a day together. You eat meals together, you travel in cars and on planes."

  "Were you ever romantically involved with her?" Byrne asked.

  Seth smiled, sadly. Apropos of the tragic occasion, Jessica thought. "No," he said. "Nothing like that."

  "Ian Whitestone is your employer?"

  "That's correct."

  "Was there ever any kind of romantic involvement between Ms. Halli- well and Mr. Whitestone?"

  Jessica saw the slightest tic. It was quickly covered, but it was a tell. Whatever Seth Goldman was about to say wasn't going to be the complete truth.

  "Mr. Whitestone is a happily married man."

  Hardly answers the question, Jessica thought. "Now, we may be nearly three thousand miles from Hollywood, Mr. Goldman, but we've heard that sometimes folks from that town have been known to sleep with folks other than their spouse. Hell, it's probably even happened out here in Amish country once or twice."

  Seth smiled. "If Erin and Ian ever had a relationship other than professional, I was not aware of it."

  I'll take that as a yes, Jessica thought. "When was the last time you saw Erin?"

  "Let's see. I believe it was three or four days ago."

  "On the set?"

  "At the hotel."

  "Which hotel?"

  "The Park Hyatt."

  "She was staying at the hotel?"

  "No," Seth said. "Ian maintains a suite there when he's shooting in town."

  Jessica made a few notes. One of them was to remind herself to chat with some of the hotel personnel about whether or not they had seen Erin Halliwell and Ian Whitestone in a compromising position.

  "Do you recall what time that was?"

  Seth thought about this for a few moments. "We had a shot in South Philly that afternoon. I left the hotel at maybe four o'clock. So it was probably right around that time."

  "Did you see her with anybody?" Jessica asked.

  "No."

  "And you haven't seen her since?"

  "No."

  "Did she take a few days off?"

  "It was my understanding she called in sick."

  "You spoke with her?"

  "No," Seth said. "I believe she sent a text message to Mr. White- stone."

  Jessica wondered if it was Erin Halliwell or her killer who sent the text message. She made a note to have Ms. Halliwell's cell phone dusted.

  "What is your exact position in this company?" Byrne asked.

  "I'm Mr. Whitestone's personal assistant."

  "What sort of things does a personal assistant do?"

  "Well, my job is everything from keeping Ian on schedule, to helping h
im with creative decisions, to scheduling his day, to driving him to and from the set. It can entail just about anything."

  "How does a person get a job like this?" Byrne asked.

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "I mean, do you have an agent? Do you apply through industry want ads?"

  "Mr. Whitestone and I met a number of years ago. We share a passion for film. He asked me to join his team and I was thrilled to do so. I love my job, Detective."

  "Do you know a woman named Faith Chandler?" Byrne asked.

  It was a planned shift, an abrupt change. It clearly caught the man off guard. He recovered quickly. "No," Seth said. "The name doesn't ring a bell."

  "How about Stephanie Chandler?"

  "No. I can't say I know her, either."

  Jessica took out a nine-by-twelve envelope, extracted a photograph, pushed it along the counter. It was an enlargement of the photograph from Stephanie Chandler's desk at work, the picture of Stephanie and Faith in front of the Wilma Theater. Stephanie's crime scene photo would come next, if needed. "This is Stephanie on the left; her mother, Faith, on the right," Jessica said. "Does it help?"

  Seth picked up the photograph, studied it. "No," he repeated. "Sorry."

  "Stephanie Chandler was also murdered," Jessica said. "Faith Chandler is clinging to life in the hospital."

  "Oh my." Seth put his hand to his heart momentarily. Jessica didn't buy the gesture. From the look on Byrne's face, neither did he. Hollywood shock.

  "And you are absolutely certain you've never met either of them?" Byrne asked.

  Seth looked at the photo again. He feigned deeper scrutiny. "No. We've never met."

  "Could you excuse me for a second?" Jessica asked.

  "Of course," Seth said.

  Jessica slid off her stool, took out her cell phone. She took a few steps away from the counter. She dialed a number. In an instant, Seth Goldman's phone rang.

  "I've got to take this," he said. He took out his phone, looked at the caller ID. And knew. He slowly raised his eyes and met Jessica's eyes. Jessica clicked off.

  "Mr. Goldman," Byrne began. "Can you explain why Faith Chandler-a woman you've never met, a woman who just happens to be the mother of a homicide victim, a homicide victim who just happened to visit the set of a film your company is producing-called your cell phone twenty times the other day?"

  Seth took a moment to compose his answer. "You must understand, in the film business there are a lot people who will do just about anything to get into the movies."

  "You're not exactly a receptionist, Mr. Goldman," Byrne said. "I would think there would be a number of layers between you and the front door."

  "There are," Seth said. "But there are some very determined, very clever people out there. Consider this. A call went out for extras on the set piece we're shooting soon. Huge, very complicated shot at the Thirtieth Street train station. The call was for one hundred fifty extras. We had more than two thousand people show up. Besides, we have a dozen phones allocated for this shoot. I don't always have this particular number."

  "And you're saying that you do not recall ever having spoken to this woman?" Byrne asked.

  "No."

  "We'll need a list of the names of the people who may have had this particular phone."

  "Yes, of course," Seth said. "But I hope you don't think anyone connected with the production company had anything to do with these… these…"

  "When can we expect the list?" Byrne asked.

  Seth's jaw muscles began to work. It was clear that this man was used to giving orders, not taking them. "I'll try and get it to you later today."

  "That would be fine," Byrne said. "And we'll also need to talk to Mr. Whitestone."

  "When?"

  "Today."

  Seth reacted as if he were a cardinal and they had requested an impromptu audience with the pope. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

  Byrne leaned forward. He got to within a foot or so of Seth Goldman's face. Seth Goldman began to fidget.

  "Have Mr. Whitestone call us," Byrne said. "Today."

  63

  The canvass near the row house where Julian Matisse was killed produced nothing. Nothing was really expected. In that North Philly neighborhood amnesia, blindness, and deafness were the rule, especially when it came to talking to the police. The hoagie shop attached to the house had closed at eleven, and no one had seen Matisse that night, nor had anyone seen a man carrying a chain saw case. The property had been foreclosed upon, and if Matisse had been living there-and there was no evidence that he had-he had been squatting.

  Two detectives from SIU had been tracking down the chain saw found at the scene. It had been purchased in Camden, New Jersey, by a Philadelphia tree service company, and reported stolen a week earlier. It was a dead end. There were still no leads on the embroidered jacket.

  As of five o'clock, Ian Whitestone had not called. There was no denying the fact that Whitestone was a celebrity, and handling celebrities in a police matter was a delicate thing. Still, the reasons for talking to him were strong. Every detective on the case wanted to just pick him up for questioning, but it was not that simple. Jessica was just about to call Paul DiCarlo back to press him on the protocol when Eric Chavez got her attention, waving the handset of his phone in the air.

  "Call for you, Jess."

  Jessica picked up her phone, punched the button. "Homicide. Balzano."

  "Detective, this is Jake Martinez."

  The name walked the edge of her recent memory. She couldn't immediately place it. "I'm sorry?"

  "Officer Jacob Martinez. I'm Mark Underwood's partner. We met at Finnigan's Wake."

  "Oh, right," she said. "What can I do for you, Officer?"

  "Well, I'm not sure what to make of this, but we're over in Point Breeze. We were working traffic while they tore down the set for the movie they're making, and the owner of one of the stores on Twenty- third flagged us. She said that there was a guy hanging around her store who matched the description of your suspect."

  Jessica waved Byrne over. "How long ago was this?"

  "Just a few minutes," Martinez said. "She's a little hard to understand. I think she might be Haitian or Jamaican or something. But she had the suspect sketch that was in the Inquirer in her hand, and she kept pointing at it, saying that the guy had just been in her store. I think she said her grandson might have mixed it up with the guy a little."

  The composite sketch of the Actor had run in that morning's paper. "Have you cleared the location?"

  "Yes. But there's no one in the store now."

  "Secured it?"

  "Front and back."

  "Give me the address," Jessica said.

  Martinez did.

  "What kind of store is it?" Jessica asked.

  "A bodega," he said. "Hoagies, chips, sodas. Kinda run-down."

  "Why does she think this guy was our suspect? Why would he be hanging around a bodega?"

  "I asked her the same thing," Martinez said. "Then she pointed to the back of the store."

  "What about it?"

  "They have a video section."

  Jessica hung up, briefed the other detectives. They had received more than fifty calls already that day, calls from people who claimed to have spotted the Actor on their block, in their yards, in the parks. Why should this one be any different?

  "Because there's a video section in the store," Buchanan said. "You and Kevin check it out."

  Jessica got her weapon from her drawer, handed a copy of the street address to Eric Chavez. "Find Agent Cahill," she said. "Ask him to meet us at this address."

  The Detectives stood in front of the location, a crumbling storefront deli called Cap-Haitien. Officers Underwood and Martinez, having secured the scene, had returned to their duties. The facade of the market was a patchwork of plywood panels of bright red, blue, and yellow enamel, topped by bright orange metal bars. Skewed, handmade signs in the window hawked fried plantains, grio, Creole fried chicken, along wi
th a Haitian beer called Prestige. There was also a sign proclaiming VIDEO AU LOYER.

  About twenty minutes had passed since the owner of the store-an elderly Haitian woman named Idelle Barbereau-had said the man had been in her market. It was unlikely that the suspect, if it was their suspect, was still in the area. The woman described the man just as he appeared in the sketch: white, medium build, wearing large tinted sunglasses, Flyers cap, dark blue jacket. She said he had come in the store, milled around the racks in the center, then drifted into the small video section at the back. He stayed there for a minute, then headed for the door. She said he came in with something in his hands, but was leaving without it. He didn't purchase anything. She'd had the Inquirer open to the page displaying the sketch.

  While the man was in the back of the store, she had called her grandson up from the cellar-a strapping nineteen-year-old named Fabrice. Fabrice had blocked the door and gotten into a pushing match with the subject. When Jessica and Byrne talked to Fabrice, he looked a little shaken.

  "Did the man say anything?" Byrne asked.

  "No," Fabrice replied. "Nothing."

  "Tell us what happened."

  Fabrice said he had blocked the doorway in the hope that his grandmother would have time to call the police. When the man tried to step around him, Fabrice grabbed the man by the arm, and within a second the man had him spun around, his own right arm pinned behind him. In another second, Fabrice said, he was on his way to the floor. He added that, on the way down, he lashed out with his left hand, striking the man, connecting with bone.

  "Where did you hit him?" Byrne asked, glancing at the young man's left hand. Fabrice's knuckles were slightly swollen.

  "Right over there," Fabrice said, pointing to the doorway.

  "No. I mean on his body."

  "I don't know," he said. "I had my eyes closed."

  "What happened then?"

  "The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, facedown. It knocked the wind out of me." Fabrice took a deep breath, either to prove to the police he was all right, or to prove to himself. "He was strong."