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."
Matisse 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.