Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (85 page)

Jessica got to her feet, keeping the .38 pointed at the man, wondering where Nicci got
her
weapon. They had been searched with the metal detector on the way in.

“Now on your knees,” Nicci said. “Pretend you’re on a date.”

With no small effort, the big man got down on his knees.

Jessica got behind him and saw that it wasn’t a gun in Nicci’s hand. It was a steel towel rack. This girl was
good.

“How many other security guards are here?” Nicci asked.

Cedric remained silent. Perhaps it was because he fancied himself as so much more than a security guard. Nicci whacked him on the side of the head with the pipe.

“
Ow.
Jesus.”

“I don’t think you’re focusing here, Moose.”

“
Damn,
bitch. There’s just me.”

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” Nicci asked.

Cedric began to sweat. “I’m … I didn’t mean—”

Nicci nudged him with the rod. “Shut up.” She turned to Jessica. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jessica said.

Nicci nodded toward the door. Jessica crossed the room, looked into the hallway. Empty. She walked back to where Nicci and Cedric were. “Let’s do it.”

“Okay,” Nicci said. “You can put your hands down now.”

Cedric thought that she was letting him go. He smirked.

But Nicci wasn’t letting him off the hook. What she really wanted was a clean shot. When he dropped his hands, Nicci wound up and cracked the rod into the back of his head. Hard. The impact echoed off the grimy tile walls. Jessica wasn’t sure it was hard enough, but after a second she saw the man’s eyes roll up in his head. He folded. Within a minute they had him facedown inside a stall, with a fistful of paper towels in his mouth and his hands bound behind him. It was like dragging an elk.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving a Jil Sander belt in this fucking shithole,” Nicci said.

Jessica almost laughed. Nicolette Malone was her new role model.

“Ready?” Jessica asked.

Nicci gave the gorilla one more shot with the club for good measure and said: “Let’s bounce.”

L
IKE ALL STAKEOUTS,
after the first few minutes or so the adrenaline eased off.

They had left the warehouse and driven across town in the Lincoln Town Car, Bebe and Nicci in the backseat. Bebe had given them directions. When they arrived at the address, they identified themselves to Bebe as law enforcement. She was surprised but not shocked. Bebe and Kilbane were now in temporary custody at the Roundhouse, where they would remain until the operation was over.

The target house was on a dark street. They did not have a search warrant for the premises, so they could not enter. Not yet. If Bruno Steele had told a group of porno actresses to meet him here at midnight, chances were good he’d be back.

Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez were in the van, half a block away. In addition, two sector cars with two uniformed officers each were nearby.

While they waited for Bruno Steele, Nicci and Jessica changed back into street clothes. Jeans and T-shirts and running shoes and Kevlar vests. Jessica felt an enormous sense of relief having her Glock back on her hip.

“Ever partner with a woman before?” Nicci asked. They were alone in the lead car, a few hundred feet from the target house.

“No,” Jessica said. In all her time on the street, from her training officer to the veteran cop who had showed the ropes of walking the beat in South Philly, she had always been paired with a man. When she was in the Auto Unit, she was one of two women, and the other had worked the desk. It was a new experience, and—she had to admit—a good one.

“Same here,” Nicci said. “You’d think more women would be drawn to Narcotics, but after a while the glamour sort of wears off.”

Jessica couldn’t tell if Nicci was kidding or not. Glamour? She could understand a man wanting to go cowboy on such a detail. Hell, she was married to one of them. She was just about to answer when headlights washed the rearview.

From the radio: “Jess.”

“I see it,” Jessica said.

They watched the car slowly approach in the side mirrors. Jessica could not immediately tell the make or model of the car from that distance and in that light. It looked to be a midsize.

The car passed them. It had a single occupant. It rolled slowly to the corner, turned, and was gone.

Had they been made? No. It didn’t seem likely. They waited. The car didn’t double back.

They stood down. And waited.

55

I
T IS LATE,
I am tired. I never would have thought that this sort of work was so physically and spiritually draining. Think of all the film monsters over the years, how hard they must have labored. Think of Freddy, of Michael Myers. Think of Norman Bates, Tom Ripley, Patrick Bateman, Christian Szell.

I have much to do in the next few days. And then I will be done.

I gather my belongings from the backseat, my plastic bag full of bloody clothes. I will burn them first thing in the morning. For now I will take a hot bath, make a cup of chamomile tea, then probably be asleep before my head hits the pillow.

“A hard day’s work makes a soft bed,” my grandfather used to say.

I get out of the car, lock it. I breathe deeply the midsummer night air. The city smells clean and fresh, charged with promise.

Weapon in hand, I begin to make my way to the house.

56

A
T JUST AFTER
midnight, they saw their man. Bruno Steele was walking across the vacant lot behind the target house.

“I’ve got a visual,” came the radio.

“I see him,” Jessica said.

Steele hesitated near the door, looking both ways up and down the street. Jessica and Nicci slid slowly down in the seat, just in case another car rolled up the street and silhouetted them in the headlights.

Jessica picked up her two-way radio, keyed it, whispered: “Are we good?”

“Yeah,” Palladino said. “We are good.”

“Uniforms ready?”

“Ready.”

We’ve got him,
Jessica thought.

We’ve fucking got him.

Jessica and Nicci drew their weapons, slipped quietly out of the car. As they neared their subject, Jessica made eye contact with Nicci. It was a moment for which all police officers live. The excitement of an arrest, tempered by the fear of the unknown. If Bruno Steele was the Actor, he had brutally killed two women that they knew of, both in cold blood. If he was their unsub, he was capable of anything.

They closed the distance in shadow. Fifty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty. Jessica was just about to draw down on the subject when she stopped.

Something was wrong.

In that moment, reality came crashing down around her. It was one of those times—unsettling enough in life in general, potentially fatal on the job—when you realize that what you thought you had in front of you, what you assumed to be one thing, was not only something else, but something wholly other.

The man in the doorway was not Bruno Steele.

The man was Kevin Byrne.

57

T
HEY STEPPED ACROSS
the street, into the shadows. Jessica didn’t ask Byrne what he was doing there. That would come later. She was just about to head back to the surveillance vehicle when Eric Chavez raised her on channel.

“Jess.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s music coming from the house.”

Bruno Steele was already inside.

B
YRNE WATCHED THE
team prepare to take the house. Jessica had quickly briefed him on the events of the day. With each word she said, Byrne saw his life and career spiral. It all fell into place. Julian Matisse was the Actor. Byrne had been so close, he had not seen it. The system was now going to do to what it did best. And Kevin Byrne was right under its wheels.

A few minutes, Byrne thought. If he had gotten there a few minutes before the strike team, this would have been over. Now, when they found Matisse tied up in that chair, bloodied and beaten, they would trace it all back to him. Regardless what Matisse had done to Victoria, Byrne had kidnapped and tortured the man.

Conrad Sanchez would find cause for a police brutality charge at the very least, maybe even federal charges. There was a very real possibility that Byrne might be sharing a holding cell, right next to Julian Matisse, this very night.

N
ICK
P
ALLADINO
and Eric Chavez took the lead into the row house; Jessica and Nicci, the rear. The four detectives searched the first and second floors. They were clear.

They began to make their way down the narrow stairs.

It was a damp, vile heat that permeated the house, redolent of sewage and human salt. Beneath it, something primal. Palladino reached the bottom tread first. Jessica followed. They ran their Maglites over the cramped room.

And saw the very heart of evil.

It was a slaughter. Blood and viscera everywhere. Flesh clung to the walls. At first, the source of the blood was not apparent. But soon it dawned on them what they were looking at, that the thing draped over the metal rod was once a human being.

Although it would be more than three hours before fingerprint tests would confirm it, at that moment what the detectives knew for certain was that the man known to adult-film aficionados as Bruno Steele—but better known to the police and the courts and the penal system, and to his mother, Edwina, as Julian Matisse—had been cut in half.

The bloody chain saw at his feet was still warm.

58

T
HEY SAT IN
a booth at the back of a small bar on Vine Street. The image of what was found in the cellar of the row house in North Philly pulsed between them, unyielding in its profanity. They had both seen a lot in their time on the force. They had rarely seen the brutality of what was done in that room.

CSU was processing the scene. It was going to take all night and most of the next day. Somehow, the media was already all over the story. Three television stations were camped across the street.

While they waited, Byrne told Jessica his story, starting from the moment he had received the call from Paul DiCarlo and ending at the moment she had surprised him outside the row house in North Philly. Jessica had the feeling he had not told her everything.

When he exhausted his tale, there were a few moments of silence. The silence spoke volumes about them—about who they were as police officers, as people, but especially as partners.

“You okay?” Byrne finally asked.

“Yeah,” Jessica said. “It’s you I’m worried about. I mean, two days back, and all of this.”

Byrne waved her concern away. His eyes told another story. He downed his shot, called for another. When the barmaid brought his drink and left, he settled back. The booze softened his posture, eased the tension in his shoulders. It appeared to Jessica that he wanted to tell her something. She was right.

“What is it?” she prodded.

“I was just thinking about something. About Easter Sunday.”

“What about it?” She had never talked to him in any kind of depth about his ordeal getting shot. She had wanted to ask, but she figured he would tell her when he was ready. Maybe now was that time.

“When it all happened,” he began, “there was this split second, right when the bullet hit me, when I saw it all happening. Like it was happening to someone else.”

“You saw it?”

“Not exactly. I don’t mean in any New Age out-of-body way. I mean I saw it in my mind. I watched myself fall to the floor. Blood everywhere.
My
blood. And the only thing that kept running through my head, was this … this picture.”

“What picture?”

Byrne stared into the shot glass on the table. Jessica could tell that this was not easy for him. She had all the time in the world. “A picture of my mother and father. An old black-and-white snapshot. The kind with that rough edge. Remember those?”

“Sure,” Jessica said. “Got a shoe box full at home.”

“The picture is of them on their honeymoon in Miami Beach, standing in front of the Eden Roc, caught in what might have been the happiest moment of their lives. Now, everyone knew that they couldn’t afford the Eden Roc, right? But that’s what you did in those days. You stayed at some place called the Aqua Breeze or the Sea Dunes and you took a picture in front of the Eden Roc or the Fontainebleau, and pretended you were rich. My old man in this ugly purple-and-green Hawaiian shirt, big tanned forearms, bony white knees, grinning like the Cheshire cat. It was like he was saying to the world:
Can you believe my dumb mick luck here? What the hell did I do right to deserve this woman?
”

Jessica listened. Byrne had never before revealed much about his family.

“And my mother. Ah, what a beauty. A real Irish rose. She just stood there in this white sundress with little yellow flowers on it, this half smile on her face, like she had you all figured out, like she was saying,
Watch your step, Padraig Francis Byrne, because you’re gonna be on thin ice the rest of your life
.”

Jessica nodded, sipped her drink. She had the same snapshot somewhere. Her parents had honeymooned on Cape Cod.

“They hadn’t even thought of me when that picture was taken,” Byrne said. “But I was in their plans, right? And as I fell to the floor on Easter Sunday, my blood all over the place, all I could think about was someone saying to them, on that bright sunny day in Miami Beach:
You know that kid? That chubby little bundle you’re going to have? Someone’s gonna put a bullet in his head one day and he’s going to die the most undignified death imaginable.
Then, in the picture, I saw their expressions change. I saw my mother start to cry. I saw my old man clench and unclench his fists, which is the way he handles all emotion, even to this day. I saw my old man standing in the ME’s office, standing at my grave. I knew I couldn’t let go. I knew there was something left for me to do. I knew that I had to survive to do it.”

Jessica tried to absorb this, to ferret out the subtext of what he was telling her. “Do you still feel that way?” she asked.