"Still think you know me?" Byrne asked.
Byrne dropped a piece of paper into Matisse's lap. It was the grocery list he had taken from the floor of the backseat of Edwina Matisse's car. Seeing his mother's delicate handwriting broke Matisse's will.
"Where is Victoria?"
Matisse struggled against the duct tape. When he'd exhausted himself he fell limp and spent. "No more."
"Answer me," Byrne said.
"She's… she's in Fairmount Park."
"Where?" Byrne asked. Fairmount Park was the largest urban park in the country. It covered four thousand acres. "Where?"
"Belmont Plateau. By the softball field."
"Is she dead?"
Matisse didn't answer. Byrne cracked another ammonia cap, then picked up the small butane blowtorch. He positioned it an inch from Matisse's right eye. He poised his lighter.
"Is she dead?"
"I don't know!"
Byrne backed off, wrapped Matisse's mouth tightly in duct tape. He checked the man's hands and legs. Secure.
Byrne gathered his tools, put them in the bag. He exited the house. Heat shimmered the asphalt, ringing the sodium streetlamps with a carbon-blue aura. North Philly raged with a manic energy this night, and Kevin Byrne was its soul.
He slipped into his car and headed to Fairmount Park.
51
Nicci Malone was one Hell of an actress. Of the few times Jessica had gone undercover, she had always been a little concerned about getting made as a cop. Now, seeing Nicci work the room, Jessica was almost envious. The woman had a certain confidence, an air that said she knew who she was and what she was doing. She got inside the skin of the role she was playing in a way that Jessica never could.
Jessica watched the crew adjust the lighting between takes. She didn't know much about film production, but this entire operation looked like a high-budget undertaking.
It was the subject matter that she found troubling. The story appeared to be about a pair of teenaged girls being dominated by a sadistic grandfather type. At first, Jessica had thought the two young actresses were about fifteen years old, but as she milled around the set, drawing closer, she saw that they were probably twenty.
Jessica imagined the girl in the Philadelphia Skin video. That had been set in a room not unlike this one.
What had happened to that girl?
Why did she look familiar?
Watching the filming of a three-minute scene turned Jessica's stomach. In the scene, the man in the master mask verbally humiliated the two girls. They wore filmy, soiled negligees. He tied them back-to-back on the bed, circling them like a giant vulture.
He struck them repeatedly as he interrogated them, always with an open hand. It took everything in Jessica's being to stop herself from stepping in. It was clear that the man was making contact. The girls were reacting with what sounded like real screams and looked like real tears, but when Jessica saw the girls laughing between takes, she realized that the blows were not hard enough to cause injury. Maybe they even enjoyed it. In any event, for Detective Jessica Balzano, it was hard to believe that crimes were not being committed here.
The toughest part to watch came at the scene's end. The man in the mask left one of the girls tied, spread-eagle, on the bed, while the other was on her knees before him. Looking down at her, he took out his switchblade, flicked it open. He cut her negligee off in shreds. He spat on her. He made her lick his boots. Then he put the knife to the girl's throat. Jessica and Nicci looked at each other, both ready to rush in. It was here, mercifully, that Dante Diamond had yelled: "Cut."
Fortunately, the man in the mask did not take this directive literally.
Ten minutes later, Nicci and Jessica stood by the small, makeshift buffet table. Dante Diamond may have been a lot of things, but he wasn't cheap. The table held a number of pricey tidbits: crudites, shrimp toast, scallops in bacon, mini quiche Lorraine.
Nicci grabbed some food and took a walk up to the set just as one of the older actresses approached the buffet table. She was in her forties, in great shape. Henna-red hair, elaborate eye makeup, painfully high stilettos. She was dressed like a strict schoolmaster. The woman had not been in the earlier scene.
"Hi," she said to Jessica. "My name's Bebe."
"Gina."
"Are you in the production?"
"No," Jessica said. "I'm here as Mr. Diamond's guest."
She nodded, popped a pair of shrimp into her mouth.
"Ever work with Bruno Steele?" Jessica asked.
Bebe picked a few items from the buffet table, put them onto a Styrofoam plate. "Bruno? Oh, yeah. Bruno's a doll."
"My director really would like to hire him for a film we're putting together. Hard S and M. We just can't seem to find him."
"I know where Bruno is. We were just partying with him."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah," she said. She grabbed a bottle of Aquafina. "Like, a couple of hours ago."
"No shit."
"He told us to stop back around midnight. I'm sure he wouldn't mind you coming with."
"Cool," Jessica said.
"I've got one more scene, then we'll get out of here." She adjusted her outfit, grimaced. "This corset is fucking killing me."
"Is there a ladies' room?" Jessica asked.
"I'll show you."
Jessica followed Bebe across part of the warehouse floor. They went down a service hallway to a pair of doors. The ladies' room was huge, built to accommodate a full shift of women when the building had been a manufacturing plant. A dozen stalls and sinks.
Jessica stood at the mirrors with Bebe.
"How long have you been in the business?" Bebe asked.
"About five years," Jessica said.
"Just a baby," she said. "Don't stay too long," she added, echoing Jessica's father's words about the department. Bebe put her lipstick back into her clutch. "Give me half an hour."
"Sure thing."
Bebe left the bathroom. Jessica waited a full minute, poked her head out into the hallway, walked back into the bathroom. She checked all the stalls, stepped into the last cubicle. She spoke directly into her body microphone, hoping she wasn't so deep into the brick building that the surveillance team didn't pick up a signal. She was not equipped with an earpiece or receiver of any sort. Her communication, if any, was oneway.
"I don't know if you heard all that, but we've got a lead. A woman said she was partying with our suspect and she's going to take us there in about thirty minutes. That's three-oh minutes. We may not be going out the front entrance. Heads up."
She thought about repeating what she said, but if the surveillance team didn't hear her the first time, they wouldn't hear her the second. She didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. She adjusted her clothes, stepped out of the stall, and was just about to turn and leave when she heard the click of the hammer. Then she felt the steel of the barrel against the back of her head. The shadow on the wall was huge. It was the gorilla from the front door. Cedric. He had heard every word. "You're not going anywhere," he said.
52
Thereis a moment in every film where the main character finds himself unable to return to his former life, that part of his continuum that existed before the opening of the narrative. Generally, this point of no return occurs at the midway point of the story, but not always.
I have passed that point.
Tonight it is 1980. Miami Beach. I close my eyes, find my center, hear the salsa music, smell the salt air.
My costar is handcuffed over a steel rod.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I could tell him but-as all the books on screenwriting say-it is much more effective to show than tell. I check the camera. It is on a mini tripod, poised on a milk crate.
Perfect.
I put on the yellow rain slicker, hook it closed.