Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (18 page)

 The image of Ski Mask continued to plague Donovan, but as he scrolled down to the R’s, a name jumped out at him like a slap to the face, and another image took center stage.

 Reed. Tony Reed.

 Sara’s brother. Part-time video director, full-time rich boy. Except for a minor pot bust when he was seventeen, Reed’s record was clean. Despite this, Donovan had managed to get warrants to search both of Reed’s houses, had even hauled him in for questioning, but came up empty each time.

 Even though Reed was clearly distressed over the condition of his sister, he’d somehow managed to come across as a personable, even likable guy. Sure, he’d cop to occasional phone conversations with Sara—she
was
family, after all—but he claimed no knowledge of Gunderson’s activities.

 “I like his politics even less than I like him,” Reed had said.

 Still, Donovan had sensed a nervousness beneath the surface that reminded him of the hundreds of suspects he’d interviewed over the years. At the slightest provocation, this guy would bolt. No question about it. Politics or not, he knew a lot more than he was willing to say.

 Donovan remembered standing in Reed’s living room a few days after the robbery, leg bandaged and throbbing like a mother, thinking,
He’s been here.
 

 
Gunderson’s been here.
 

 He’d just never been able to prove it. Two weeks’ worth of surveillance turned up nothing, and Donovan had reluctantly closed the book on Reed. But now, as he punched a button and Reed’s profile filled the screen, he wondered if he’d been too hasty.

 A shot of Tony from
Rolling Stone
accompanied the profile. Rachel glanced at it skeptically. “Him again? He’s too good-looking to be a bad guy.”

 “You’ve said that more than once.”

 “It bears repeating.”

 “Careful, Rache, your hormones are showing.”

 Rachel gave him a good-natured scowl and returned her attention to the road. She did, however, have a point. With his wiry, rock-star good looks, Reed didn’t strike the casual observer as a threat, and he certainly didn’t fit the physical characteristics of Ski Mask. But what if Ski Mask was a red herring? Every case had its share of those.

 “Got your cell phone handy?”

 Rachel gestured to the floor near his feet. “Purse.”

 Donovan snatched it up, dug around until he found the phone, then dialed Sidney’s number.

 Waxman picked up after two rings.

 “Hey, Sidney.”

 “Jesus Christ, Jack, I just got a call from the hospital. What the hell are you up to?”

 “I’m en route to Reed Communications. I want you to meet me there.”

 “The brother? How many times have we talked to that idiot?”

 “Doesn’t hurt to try again.”

 “Come on, Jack, do you have any idea what’s going on out here? That little aquatics demonstration you pulled didn’t exactly convince the boys from D.C. you’re firing on all cylinders.”

 “Fuck ’em,” Donovan said. “I don’t have time for their bullshit. Now get your ass in gear and meet me at Reed Communications.”

 Waxman sighed. “You’re killing me, kemo sabe. Why the hell aren’t you still in bed?”

 “Would you be?”

 A momentary pause, then Waxman said, “Point taken,” and hung up.

 Donovan snapped the cell phone shut, turned to Rachel. “Make a left at the signal.”

33

R
EED COMMUNICATIONS WAS
housed in a large, weathered warehouse smack in the middle of an industrial side street. The front of the place was crowded with cars, equipment-laden pickup trucks, a catering van, and a big-rig tractor-trailer with the letters
RC
discreetly painted on the side.

 Rachel and Donovan pulled to the curb directly across the street and waited a full ten minutes before Sidney showed up in his tan Buick. As Waxman pulled in behind them, Donovan popped the door, turned to Rachel.

 “Go on home. I’ll catch a ride with Sidney.”

 Rachel shook her head. “We came to the party together, we leave that way.”

 “I’m fine, Rache. Go home.”

 “You look like hell,” she said, and Donovan knew it was true. Rachel never pulled punches. “You go on in there, do your thing, and I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready to go back to the hospital.”

 “That could be a long time.”

 “I’m a patient woman. Don’t you know that by now?”

 Donovan wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, so he just shrugged and started to climb out of the car. He was halfway to his feet when he realized he was still a little lightheaded.

 Rachel grabbed his hand, squeezed it. “Careful,” she said.

 He looked in at her, saw the concern in her dark eyes. Two years together and this woman was still a mystery. He promised himself that when all of this was over and done with, he’d take some time to explore that mystery.

 He squeezed back, then got out and shut the door. He trudged toward Waxman’s car as Sidney climbed out and looked him over.

 “Don’t say a word,” Donovan told him.

T
HEY HEARD THE
faint sound of music as they approached the warehouse. More of a vibration, actually. A deep bass. A driving beat.

 Donovan felt naked without his Glock. He’d lost it to the river and hadn’t thought to have Sidney bring him a spare. There was no reason to think he’d need it here, but he felt vulnerable.

 The guy posted at the side entrance wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, but there was no question that he was a guard. When he noticed Donovan and Waxman headed his way, he came to attention and ditched the cigarette he’d been sucking on. “Can I help you boys?”

 Waxman showed him his badge. “We’re here to see Tony.”

 The guard unclipped a radio from his belt and was about to flick the call button when Waxman grabbed his wrist.

 “No need to announce us.” He twisted the radio out of the guard’s hand and dropped it in his pocket. “You’ll get it back when we leave.”

 They pushed past him, pulled open a heavy, padded door, and were immediately buffeted by a dark wall of noise, an industrial-techno beat and gut-chugging guitars that, to Donovan, felt more like nails being pounded into his head than music. Unused theatrical flats formed a makeshift corridor just inside the doorway, flickering light playing at its far end. They navigated the narrow space and moved toward the light.

 For a moment, Donovan was transported to another place and time, an odd sense of déjà vu overcoming him. Vague images formed in a corner of his mind but refused to surface. A sickly sense of trepidation rolled over him.

 Had he been here before?

 He shook off the feeling and forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. The flats narrowed at the far end, and he and Sidney continued single file, Sidney in the lead. A moment later, they emerged to find—

 —a vision of hell.

 On a raised platform at the center of the cavernous warehouse was a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno: a network of shadowy caves, intermittent bursts of fire. Sweaty female bodies, in torn fishnet and skintight leather, shook and shimmied to the driving beat, as a guy strapped into a Steadicam rig lovingly recorded them with his Arriflex. Strobe lights flickered, giving the entire scene a kinetic hyperreality.

 In the middle of it all, a bare-chested, leather-clad rocker with tousled dark hair—and horns—thrust his hips to the beat of the music as he mouthed the brutish and not particularly inspiring lyrics that played over a loudspeaker:

Give me what I want, baby

 
Give me what I need
 

 
Do it till we burn, baby
 

 
Do it till we bleed
 

He was simulating sex with a diaphanous, winged beauty on her hands and knees in front of him, her wings fluttering with each and every thrust.

 Donovan and Waxman exchanged glances.

 This was certainly a first.

 Sidney leaned in close. “Reminds me of college,” he said, and the warm breath against Donovan’s ear pulled him away again, churning up something he couldn’t quite put words to.

 Something dangerous.

 When he looked again at the scene before them, he was jolted by what he saw:

 The rocker was
Gunderson
, eyes black as death, a malevolent smile fixed on his face as he assaulted the angel in front of him.

 He turned those eyes on Donovan, the smile growing wider, the forked tip of a serpent’s tongue flicking between his teeth. For a moment, Donovan felt as if he were staring into a fun-house mirror. Somewhere in those black eyes, he could see himself.

 
Give us a kiss
, Gunderson mouthed.

 Donovan sucked in a sharp breath as the squawk of a megaphone sliced through it all.

 “Cut! Cut! Kill the music! Give me some light!”

 The music abruptly stopped as a bank of overhead lights came on, and before Donovan could blink—

 Gunderson was gone. History.

 The rocker was just a rocker. A tousled-haired punk drenched in sweat.

 The residue of that brief moment, however, spread through Donovan’s body like a malignant growth and settled in the pit of his stomach—hard and sour, a terminal case of acid reflux.

 Then Tony Reed stepped out from behind a towering light stand, the megaphone tucked under an arm. “As much as I appreciate the sight of a very lovely nipple,” he said, loud enough for his entire cast and crew to hear, “the key phrase is Standards and Practices, folks, and I doubt very much that MTV will be as appreciative as I am.”

 The cast and crew chuckled obediently. Tony gestured to a mousy woman on the sidelines, then pointed to the nameless supermodel who played the part of the angel. The model’s left breast was in full view, its containment apparently hampered by her costume’s shortcomings and her enthusiasm for the part. Looking down, she sighed and popped the offending orb back into place.

 “Sorry,” she said, offering Reed a wan smile.

 “Maggie,” Reed said to the mousy woman, “do us all a favor and break out the duct tape.”

T
ONY REED CONSIDERED
himself a patient man, but that patience was wearing thinner with each and every setback he was forced to endure. Sure, an exposed tit was nothing to cry about, but this was merely the latest in a long string of screwups that had made this shoot nearly unbearable.

 The band he’d been hired to immortalize—a neophyte group of techno-metal punks who called themselves Scream, of all things—had about as much talent as Justin Timberlake’s evil twin. The song they’d chosen for their debut video was a weak imitation of Nine Inch Nails—as was their entire act—and Tony had little tolerance for imitators, no matter what style they chose to rip.

 But, as usual, the record company embraced such larceny as if it were the second coming of Nirvana. The publicity machine had been pumped up so hard and high that it would be nearly impossible for the band to recover from the inevitable letdown of their first release. By this time next year, they’d be back at their jobs painting cars or rehauling transmissions or doing whatever the hell it was they did before fate threw them a nice, juicy bone.

 While Tony didn’t care about the band or their music, he did care about his vision. Working with new, untested acts like this one allowed him greater creative freedom than he’d get with older, established artists. Now, if he could just keep the screwups to a minimum—which had so far proved impossible—and get this thing on film, he could retire to his office where the real creativity was born: in the editing room.

 Summoning up every bit of patience he had left, he waited as Maggie crossed to Naomi with a roll of duct tape and got to work. He had no doubts that when Maggie was finished, the game of peekaboo would be over, but he couldn’t help wondering what the next screwup would be.

 “Hey, Tony.”

 Swiveling his head, Tony looked off toward the left side of the warehouse where the flats were stored and saw two familiar figures walking toward him.

 Oh, goody. Agents Donovan and Waxman.

 What an unexpected thrill.

 “You got a minute?” Waxman was doing the talking, which wasn’t surprising. Donovan looked like he’d been stomped on, then run over by a truck. Tony had no idea what had happened to the guy, but he thought about Sara chained to those machines in Saint Margaret’s Convalescent Center and sent up a silent thank-you. At least somebody had gotten it right today.

 “We need to chat,” Waxman said.

 Tony sighed and threw a forlorn glance at his assistant director, who stood nearby, jotting something on a clipboard. “Take ten, Jimmy.”

 The AD pulled his own megaphone out from under his arm and repeated the command to the rest of the crew.

 Tony smiled at the two agents. “Let’s go to my office.”

O
N REED’S OFFICE
wall was a framed poster for Francis Ford Coppola’s
One From the Heart
, an obscure little gem that few people had ever heard of. In some circles it was believed to be a cinematic masterpiece. Donovan had seen the movie with his ex-wife, Joanne—Jessie’s mom—who had promptly labeled it a pretentious piece of crap.

 He could clearly remember her saying this with a dour look on her face that, in later years, was as permanent as her smile had once been.

 He also remembered being dazzled by the film, but would now be hard-pressed to tell you what it was about. It was
different
, he knew that much. And he figured the poster on Reed’s wall was a way of saying, I’m different, too. I’m an independent.

 Joanne would undoubtedly label Reed a pretentious piece of crap as well.

 This all, of course, shot through Donovan’s mind like grease through a hot pipe as Reed escorted them into the office. Donovan was still reeling after that moment of darkness he’d encountered back on the soundstage. The blackness of Gunderson’s eyes haunted him, along with the feeling that—for just an instant—he had been staring at himself.