Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (118 page)

If she had not been his nightingale, she might have become his princess.

Today it is time for her to sing again.

25

Stiletto was an upscale—upscale for a Philly strip joint—“gentlemen’s club” on Thirteenth Street. Two levels of jiggling flesh, short skirts, and glossy lipstick catering to the horny businessman. One floor was a live strip club, one level was a noisy bar and restaurant with scantily clad barmaids and waitresses. Stiletto had a liquor license, so the dancing wasn’t full nude, but it was everything but.

On the way to the club, Byrne filled Jessica in. On paper, Stiletto was owned by a well-known former nose tackle for the Philadelphia Eagles, a high-profile, personable sports star who had made the Pro Bowl three times. The truth was there were four partners in all, including Callum Blackburn. The hidden partners were most likely the mob.

Mob. Dead girl. Mutilation.

I am sorry,
Kristina wrote.

Jessica thought:
Promising.

JESSICA AND BYRNE
walked into the bar.

“I’ve got to hit the bathroom,” Byrne said. “You going to be okay?”

Jessica stared at him for a moment, unblinking. She was a veteran police officer, a professional boxer, and she was armed. Still, it was kind of sweet. “I’ll be fine.”

Byrne went to the men’s room. Jessica took the last stool at the bar, the one next to the pass-through, the one in front of the lemon wedges, pimiento olives, and maraschino cherries. The room was decorated like a Moroccan brothel, all gold paint, red flocking, and velvet furniture with pinwheel cushions.

The place did a brisk business. Not surprising. The club was located close to the convention center. The sound system blared George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone.”

The stool next to her was empty, but the one beyond that was occupied. Jessica glanced over. The guy sitting there was right out of strip-club-creep central casting—fortyish, shiny flowered shirt, tight navy blue double-knit slacks, scuffed loafers, gold-plated ID bracelets on both wrists. His two front teeth overlapped, giving him a sort of clueless, chipmunk look. He smoked Salem Light 100s with the filters busted off. He was staring at her.

Jessica met his gaze, held it.

“Something I can do for you?” she asked.

“I’m the assistant bar manager here.” He slithered onto the stool next to her. He smelled like Old Spice stick deodorant and pork rinds. “Well, I will be in three months.”

“Congratulations.”

“You look familiar,” he said.

“Do I?”

“Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure we have.”

“Well, it’s certainly possible,” Jessica said. “I’m just not remembering it.”

“No?”

He said this like it was hard to believe. “No,” she said. “But you know what? I’m okay with that.”

Thick as a batter-dipped brick, he pressed on. “Have you ever danced? I mean, you know, professionally.”

Here we go,
Jessica thought. “Oh, sure.”

The guy snapped his fingers. “I
knew
it,” he said. “I never forget a beautiful face. Or a great body. Where did you dance?”

“Well, I was with the Bolshoi for a couple of years. But the commute was killing me.”

The guy cocked his head at a ten-degree angle, thinking—or whatever he did as a substitute for thinking—that the Bolshoi might have been a strip club in Newark. “I’m not familiar with that place.”

“I’m stunned.”

“Was that full nude?”

“No. They make you dress like a swan.”

“Wow,” he said. “Sounds hot.”

“Oh, it is.”

“What’s your name?”

“Isadora.”

“I’m Chester. My friends call me Chet.”

“Well, Chester, it was great chatting with you.”

“You leaving?” He made a slight move toward her. Spidery. Like maybe he was thinking about keeping her on the stool.

“Yeah, unfortunately. Duty calls.” She slipped her badge onto the bar. Chet’s face went drab. It was like showing a cross to a vampire. He backed off.

Byrne returned from the men’s room, locked stares with Chet.

“Hey, how ya doin’?” Chet asked.

“Never better,” Byrne said. To Jessica: “Ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

“See you around,” Chet said to her. Cool now, for some reason.

“I’ll count the minutes.”

ON THE SECOND
floor the two detectives, led by a pair of massive bodyguards, traversed a maze of hallways, the journey ending at a reinforced steel door, above which, encased in thick security plastic, was a CCTV camera. A pair of electronic locks graced the wall next to the hardware-free door. Thug One spoke into a handheld radio. A moment later the door inched open. Thug Two pulled it wide. Byrne and Jessica entered.

The large room was sparsely lighted with indirect spots, deep-orange sconces, pin-light cans recessed into the ceiling. An authentic-looking Tiffany lamp graced the colossal oak desk, behind which sat a man who, based on Byrne’s description, could only have been Callum Blackburn.

The man’s face lit up when he saw Byrne. “I don’t be
lieve
it,” he said. He arose, put both hands in front of him, handcuff-style. Byrne laughed. The men hugged, clapped each other on the back. Callum took a half step backward, did a second inventory of Byrne, hands on his hips. “You look well.”

“You too.”

“I cannae complain,” he said. “I was sorry to hear of your troubles.” His accent was broad Scots, tempered by a number of years in eastern Pennsylvania.

“Thank you,” Byrne said.

Callum Blackburn was a vigorous sixty. He had chiseled features, dark lively eyes, a pure silver goatee, salt-and-pepper hair swept back. He wore a well-tailored charcoal suit, white shirt, open collar, and a small hoop earring.

“This is my partner, Detective Balzano,” Byrne said.

Callum straightened, turned fully toward Jessica, dipped his chin in greeting. Jessica had no idea what to do. Was she supposed to curtsy? She stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

Callum took her hand, smiled. For a white-collar criminal, he
was
kind of charming. Byrne had filled her in on Callum Blackburn. His stretch had been for credit-card fraud.

“The pleasure is mine,” Callum said. “If I knew that detectives were so beautiful these days, I would nae have given up my life of crime.”

“Have you?” Byrne asked.

“I am just a humble businessman from Glasgow,” he said with a glimmer of a smile. “Soon to be an auld father, at that.”

One of the first lessons Jessica had learned on the street was that there was always subtext in conversations with criminals, an almost certain inversion of the truth.
I never met him
generally meant
We grew up together. I was never there
usually meant
It happened at my house. I am innocent
almost always meant
I did it.
When Jessica had first joined the force, she’d felt as if she needed a Criminal-to-English dictionary. Now, after nearly a decade, she could probably have taught Criminalese.

Byrne and Callum went way back, it seemed, which meant that the conversation would probably ring a little closer to the truth. Once someone puts you in handcuffs and watches you walk into a prison cell, it’s harder to play tough guy.

Still, they were here to get information from Callum Blackburn. For the time being, they had to play his game. Small talk before big talk.

“How is your bonny wife?” Callum asked.

“Still bonny,” Byrne said, “but no longer my wife.”

“This is such sad news,” Callum said, looking genuinely surprised and disheartened. “What did you do?”

Byrne sat back, crossed his arms. Defensive. “What makes you think
I
screwed it up?”

Callum lifted one eyebrow.

“Okay,” Byrne said. “You’re right. It was the job.”

Callum nodded, perhaps accepting that he himself—and those of his ilk and criminal persuasion—had been part of “the job,” and therefore partly responsible. “We have a saying in Scotland. ‘Clippet sheep will growe again.’ ”

Byrne looked at Jessica, back at Callum. Did the man just call him a sheep? “Truer words, eh?” Byrne said, hoping to move on.

Callum smiled, winked at Jessica, knitted his fingers. “So,” he said. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“A woman named Kristina Jakos was found murdered yesterday,” Byrne said. “Did you know her?”

Callum Blackburn’s face was unreadable. “I’m sorry, what is her name again?”

“Kristina Jakos.”

Byrne put the photograph of Kristina on the desk. Both detectives watched Callum as he glanced at it. He knew they were watching him, and he betrayed nothing.

“Do you recognize her?” Byrne asked.

“Aye.”

“How so?” Byrne asked.

“She recently came into my employ,” Callum said.

“You hired her?”

“My son Alex does all the hiring.”

“She worked as a receptionist?” Jessica asked.

“I will let Alex explain.” Callum stepped away, took out a cell phone, made a call, clicked off. He turned back to the detectives. “He will be here shortly.”

Jessica glanced around the office. It was well appointed, if not a little gaudy: faux-suede wallpaper, gold filigreed-framed oils of landscapes and hunting scenes, a fountain in the corner that looked like a trio of golden swans. Talk about your irony, she thought.

The wall to the left of Callum’s desk was the most impressive. On it were ten flat-screen monitors hooked into closed-circuit cameras, showing various angles on the bars, the stages, the front door, the parking lot, the cash room. On six of the screens were dancing girls in varying stages of undress.

While they waited, Byrne stood in front of the display, transfixed. Jessica wondered if he was aware that his mouth hung open.

Jessica walked over to the monitors. Six sets of breasts jiggled, some more than others. Jessica counted them off. “Fake, fake, real, fake, real, fake.”

Byrne was horrified. He looked like a five-year-old boy who had just learned the cold hard truth about the Easter Bunny. He pointed to the last monitor, one showing a dancer, an impossibly leggy brunette. “Those are fake?”

“Those are fake.”

While Byrne gawked, Jessica perused the books on the shelves, mostly by Scottish writers—Robert Burns, Walter Scott, J. M. Barrie. She then noticed a single wide-screen monitor on its own, built into the wall behind Callum’s desk. It showed a screensaver of sorts, a small golden box that continually opened to reveal a rainbow.

“What’s this?” Jessica asked Callum.

“That is a closed-circuit feed to an unusual club,” Callum said. “It is on the third floor. It is called the Pandora Lounge.”

“Unusual how?”

“Alex will explain.”

“What goes on up there?” Byrne asked.

Callum smiled. “The Pandora Lounge is a special place for special girls.”

26

For once Tara Lynn Greene had made it on time. She had risked a speeding ticket—one more and her license would definitely be suspended—and she had parked in the expensive lot down the street from the Walnut Street Theater. These were two things she couldn’t afford.

On the other hand, this was a casting call for
Carousel
and Marc Balfour was directing. The coveted role was Julie Jordan. Shirley Jones had played the part in the 1956 film and she had parlayed the role into a lifelong career.

Tara had just come off a successful run of
Nine
at the Centre Theater in Norristown. A local reviewer had called her “fetching.” For Tara, “fetching” was about as good as it was going to get. She caught her reflection in the front window of the theater lobby. At twenty-seven, she was no newcomer, and hardly the ingenue.
Okay, twenty-eight,
she thought.
But who’s counting?

She walked the two blocks back to the indoor parking lot. A freezing wind whistled down Walnut. Tara rounded the corner, looked at the sign on the small kiosk and calculated her parking fee. She owed sixteen dollars.
Sixteen frickin’ dollars.
She had a single twenty in her wallet.