"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."
"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.