"You believe that?"
Detective Orr paused. "I don't know what to believe."
"In 1970, if I had told you that there were a group of guys that got their jollies off by trading pictures of grown men having sex with little boys and that there was an underground market for it, would you have believed me?"
An awkward pause. William had him. "No," Orr admitted, his voice wearing a tinge of defeat.
"And why not?"
"People just.. " He hesitated. "People didn't just believe that kind of shit existed back then."
"Same rules apply here," William said. He leaned over his desk, resting his elbows on the mahogany surface. "Remember that thing in the news not too long ago about that woman who was convicted of cruelty to animals? She'd been stomping on mice with high heels for a series of porno films. Remember that?"
"Yeah," Detective On said. The tone of his voice told Billy that the detective remembered the incident clearly. For all he knew, On had inside information on the case.
"A guy was busted with her," William continued. "They had been making what are known as'crush videos' for a select number of clients. People pay anywhere from fifty to a few hundred bucks to collect videotapes of women crushing small animals with their high heels. Don't you think that if there are people that get their sexual jollies off on that, there might be even sicker people out there who get off on watching people die?"
`I understand your argument, William, but-'
"I know it's hard for you to believe, but this shit is real. I believe Lisa Miller. She's not the type of person who takes to flights of fancy. I believe that what she saw, that what almost happened to her, really happened. I believe that what happened to her is odd, yeah; I admit that. By all accounts, these guys target runaways that people won't miss. They don't go after people with families, people that will leave behind loved ones. I think the reason why the FBI is saying snuff films don't exist is because they can't penetrate the subculture that deeply. I believe the real audience for this stuff is less than a few thousand worldwide. When you stack that up against those crush films or bestiality films or other hardcore S&M films, that's nothing. I think that's why the FBI says they don't exist-the market hardly registers on their pulse. Know what I mean?"
"In other words, the market's so small it's not worth pursuing."
"Exactly."
"That's bullshit, and you know it: Detective Orr said. "If people are being killed-"
"Who's being killed? Some junkie in Harlem who's been living on the streets for ten years who has no family, no place to go? 'There's thousands of people like that in this country with no family, no parents, no support system. They come from foster homes, from institutions, whatever. Nobody gives a shit about them and you know it. Whatever family support they might have had is gone when they get into the streets. Maybe some of them do have somebody out there who loves them, who wonders where their son or daughter is, the wayward child who was perhaps a little too rebellious at home and left one night after a fit of anger. Happens all the time. Not all of these people get ground up and spit out for the camera; most of them OD, or they die of hypothermia, or they get knifed in a mugging or something. Or they die of AIDS. Some of them do get cleaned up. But there's probably a small number of them, say one percent, who simply disappear, never to be seen again by anybody."
"You're talking about the kinds of people who fall prey to serial killers," Detective Orr said.
"Serial killers and hustlers out to make a buck off their misery." William flipped through the papers on his desk, searching for something. He found it. "Listen to this. I printed this off a Web site yesterday. It's an article that details the illegal pornography industry, as well as the child porn market. And it stated here that something like seventy-five percent of the kids that wind up in low-budget porn-"
"I'm not interested in statistics, William," Detective Orr said, his voice becoming curt. "Look, I'm sorry, but there's nothing much I can go on. We've got a blowup of the suspect who kidnapped and stole Lisa Miller's money. That suspect and the Tim Murray character are being sought for kidnapping and extortion, and that's it. Same with the Al Pressman character. We can't make a case for murder until we get more evidence or if one of them confesses."
William Grecko sighed. His head was pounding. He needed coffee and he needed it bad. "Okay," he said. "What's on the agenda for today?"
"Just hang tight. We're still running a vehicle check on the van. We're also doing some checking on the homeless woman, the one Lisa identified as Alicia. We had a sketch artist work up a composite based on Lisa's description, and we're putting that over the wire. We're also working with the broadcast news media and some of the local papers in running the photo. Maybe somebody will recognize her and we can get a positive ID. If we can find her, that might answer a lot of questions"
"And what if you don't find her?" William asked. He got up and walked to the coffeepot, poured himself a cup. "What if Lisa's story checks out? What if this ex-boyfriend of Alicia's decides to grow a heart and calls and everything he tells you checks out? Then what?"
'We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Detective Orr said.
Than was resting his muscular six-foot-six frame on the king-sized bed, a cup of coffee within easy reach on the nightstand. The Jets were on, pounding the hell out of Philly, and he had three hundred bucks on the game. He was following the game, his mind mostly on the last twenty-four hours. The reports that had come back from security had been negative. There was no news of anybody resembling Tim Murray, Al Pressman, or Jeff. Their descriptions had been given out to all of hotel security, and the spooks that manned the cameras in the casinos were also instructed to keep their eyes peeled for them. So far, nothing.
That was fine with Titan. As long as the Millers stayed in their room, they were safe. Than or somebody else from the security team was always on hand, twenty-four seven, right across the hall. And somebody was always armed. Than knew that the minute anybody resembling the suspects walked into the hotel, he or John would get a call. He'd gotten five calls between yesterday morning and last night, all of them turning out to be false leads. In each case, they had dispatched one of their men down to intercept the suspect and tail them. The report always came back the same: "Guy looks like the dude in the sketch, but it isn't him. This guy looks like a tourist, and he's got a wife and five kids trailing along behind him."
So much for that.
Titan yawned and reached for his coffee just as there was a knock on his door.
He looked at the door, annoyed. John Panozzo had gone down to the kitchen to bring the Millers their roomservice breakfast three minutes ago. The knock came again, light yet persistent. Titan swung his legs over the bed and got up, ambling toward the door.
When he peered through the spyglass he saw a little old lady, looking forlorn and lost. She looked like she could be between sixty-five and ninety, and was wearing a blue plaid dress, had short, wispy white hair, her thin frame looking both grandmotherly and kind.
Titan opened the door. "Can I help you?"
The old lady turned to him, her watery blue eyes wide with confusion. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice wavering. Her hands were shaking, as if she were a victim of Parkinson's. "I got separated from my… my church group. We took separate elevators and…" She licked her lips. She looked terrified-and no wonder, for an old white lady like this one, confronting Titan-six foot six, muscular, shaved head, ebony skin-was probably giving her a heart attack.".. I'm lost. Can I… can I use your phone, please?"