"Using what?"
Roberta shrugged. "Not sure. Smack, probably."
"How do you know?"
Roberta frowned at Jessica. "Despite my youthful appearance, I've been around the block, Detective."
"Was there a lot of drug use on the set?"
"There's a lot of drug use in the whole business. Depends on the person. Everybody's got their disease, everybody's got their cure."
"Besides Bruno Steele, do you know the other guy who was in Philadelphia Skin?"
"I'd have to see it again."
"Well, unfortunately, he wears a mask the whole time."
Roberta laughed.
"Did I say something funny?" Jessica asked.
"Sweetie, there's other ways of recognizing guys in my business."
Chavez poked his head in. "Jess?"
Jessica instructed Nick Palladino to take Roberta down to AV and show her the film. Nick straightened his tie, smoothed his hair. There would be no hazard pay requested for this duty.
Jessica and Byrne stepped out of the room. "What's up?"
"Lauria and Campos caught a case in Overbrook. It looks like it might dovetail with the Actor."
"Why?" Jessica asked.
"First off, the vic is a white female, late twenties, early thirties. Shot once in the chest. Found at the bottom of her bathtub. Just like the Fatal Attraction killing."
"Who found her?" Byrne asked.
"Landlord," Chavez said. "She lives in a twin. Her neighbor came home after being out of town for a week, heard the same music playing over and over and over. Some kind of opera. Knocked on her door, got no answer, called the landlord."
"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."