“What’s the number?” Jessica asked. Chavez gave it to her.
Jessica put the desk phone on speakerphone, dialed the number. It rang four times, then clicked over to the standard
user not available
recording. She redialed. Same result. She hung up.
“I ran a Google search on Alhambra,” Chavez added. “Got a lot of hits, nothing local.”
“Stay with the phone number,” Buchanan said.
“We’re on it,” Chavez said.
Chavez left the room as a uniformed officer poked his head in. “Sergeant Buchanan?”
Buchanan spoke briefly with the uniformed officer, then followed him out of the Homicide Unit.
Jessica processed the new information. “Faith Chandler placed twenty calls to a disposable cell. What do you think that was all about?” she asked.
“No idea,” Cahill said. “You call a friend, you call a business, you leave a message, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll get back in touch with Stephanie’s boss,” Cahill said. “See if this Alhambra LLC rings a bell.”
They assembled in the duty room and drew a straight line on a city map from the Rivercrest Motel to the offices of Braceland Westcott McCall. They would begin a canvass of the people, shops, and businesses on that line.
Someone had to have seen Stephanie on the day she disappeared.
As they began to divide up the canvass, Ike Buchanan returned. He walked toward them, his face grim, a familiar object in his hand. When the boss had that look on his face it usually meant two things. More work, and a
lot
more work.
“What’s up?” Jessica asked.
Buchanan held the object up, a formerly benign, now ominous item made of black plastic, and said: “We’ve got another tape.”
36
BY THE TIME SETH REACHED THE HOTEL, HE HAD MADE HIS calls. Somehow, he had created a fragile symmetry to his day. Providing there were no disasters, he would survive it. If Seth Goldman was anything, he was a survivor.
Then disaster presented itself in a cheap rayon dress.
Standing outside the front entrance to the hotel, she looked a thousand years old. Even from ten feet away he could smell the alcohol.
In low-budget horror movies, there was a surefire way to tell that the monster lurked nearby. There was always a musical cue. The threatening cellos before the bright brass of the attack.
For Seth Goldman, no music was needed. The end— his end— was a silent indictment in a woman’s puffy red eyes.
He couldn’t let it happen.
Couldn’t.
He had worked too hard, too long. Everything was riding on
The Palace
and he would not let anything get in the way.
How far would he go to stanch the flow? He would soon find out.
Before anyone saw them, he took her by the arm and led her to a waiting cab.
37
“I THINK I CAN MANAGE,” THE OLD WOMAN SAID.
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Byrne replied.
They were in the parking lot of the Aldi on Market Street. Aldi was the no-frills supermarket chain that sold limited brands at discount prices. The woman was in her late seventies or early eighties, spindly and gaunt. She had fine features and translucent powdered skin. Despite the heat, and the fact that no rain was in the forecast for at least three days, she wore a double-breasted wool coat and bright blue galoshes. She was trying to load half a dozen grocery bags into her car, a twenty-year-old Chevy.
“But look at you,” she said. She gestured toward his cane. “
I
should be helping
you.
”
Byrne laughed. “I’m fine, ma’am,” he said. “Just twisted my ankle.”
“Of course, you’re still a young man,” she said. “At my age, if I twisted an ankle, they might put me down.”
“You look pretty spry to me,” Byrne said.
The woman smiled beneath the veil of a schoolgirl blush. “Oh, now.”
Byrne grabbed the bags and started loading them into the backseat of the Chevy. Inside, he noticed a few rolls of paper towels, a few boxes of Kleenex. There were also a pair of mittens, an afghan, a knit cap, and a soiled quilted ski vest. Seeing as this woman probably didn’t frequent the slopes of Camelback Mountain, Byrne figured she carted around this wardrobe on the off chance that the temperature might dip down to a frigid seventy-five degrees.
Before Byrne could load the last bag into the car his cell phone chirped. He took it out, snapped it open. It was a text message from Colleen. In it, she told him that she was not leaving for camp until Tuesday, and wondered if they could have dinner Monday night. Byrne messaged her back that he would love to have dinner. On her end, the phone would vibrate and she could read the message. She replied immediately:
KEWL! LUL CBOAO :)
“What is
that
?” the woman asked, pointing to his phone.
“It’s a cell phone.”
The woman looked at him for a moment, as if he had just told her it was a spaceship built for very, very small aliens. “That’s a
telephone
?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Byrne said. He held it up for her to see. “It has a camera built in, a calendar, an address book.”
“My, my,” she said, shaking her head side to side. “I believe the world has passed me by, young man.”
“It’s all moving too fast, isn’t it?”
“Praise His name.”
“Amen,” Byrne said.
She began to slowly make her way toward the driver’s door. Once inside she reached into her purse, produced a pair of quarters. “For your troubles,” she said. She tried to hand them to Byrne. Byrne raised both hands in protest, more than a little moved by the gesture.
“That’s okay,” Byrne said. “You take that and buy yourself a cup of coffee.” Without protest, the woman slipped the two coins back into her purse.
“Time was when you could get a cup of coffee for a nickel,” she said.
Byrne reached over to close the door for her. With a movement he would have thought was too quick for a woman of her age she took his hand in hers. Her papery skin felt cool and dry to the touch. Instantly, the images ripped through his mind—
— a damp, dark room . . . the sounds of a TV in the background . . .
Welcome Back, Kotter . . .
the flicker of votive candles . . . a woman’s anguished sobs . . . the sound of bone on flesh . . . screams in the blackness . .
. Don’t make me go up to the attic . . .
— as he tore back his hand. He wanted to move slowly, not wanting to alarm or insult the woman, but the images were terrifyingly clear, heartbreakingly real.
“Thank you, young man,” the woman said.
Byrne took a step back, trying to compose himself.
The woman started her car. After a few moments she waved a thin, blue-veined hand, and angled across the lot.
Two things stayed with Kevin Byrne as the old woman drove away. The image of the young woman who still lived in her clear, ancient eyes.
And the sound of that terrified voice in his head.
Don’t make me go up to the attic . . .
* * *
HE STOOD ACROSS the street from the building. It looked different in daylight, a squalid relic of his city, a scar on a moldering urban block. Every so often a passerby would stop, try to look through the grimy glass-block squares that checkerboarded the front.
Byrne took an item out of his coat pocket. It was the napkin that Victoria had given him when she had brought him breakfast in bed, the white linen square with the imprint of her lips in deep red lipstick. He turned it over and over in his hands as he drew the layout of the street in his mind. To the right of the building across the street was a small parking lot. Next to that, a used-furniture mart. In front of the furniture store was an array of bright plastic bar stools in the shape of tulips. To the left of the building was an alleyway. He watched a man exit the front of the building, around the corner to the left, down the alley, then down a set of iron stairs to an access door beneath the structure. A few minutes later, the man emerged carrying a pair of cardboard boxes.
It was a storage cellar.
That’s where he would do it, Byrne thought. In the cellar. He would meet the man later that night in the cellar.
No one would hear them down there.
38
THE WOMAN IN THE WHITE DRESS ASKED:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING here? Why are you here?
The knife in her hand appeared extremely sharp and, as she began to absently dig at the outside of her right thigh, it sliced through the material of her dress, splotching it with a Rorschach of blood. Thick steam filled the white bathroom, slicking the tiled walls, misting the mirror. Scarlet streaked and dripped from the razor-keened blade.
Do you know how it is when you meet somebody for the first time?
the woman in white asked. Her tone was casual, almost conversational, as if she were having a cup of coffee or a cocktail with an old friend.
The other woman, the bruised and damaged woman in the terry-cloth robe, just stared, the terror building behind her eyes. The bathtub began to overflow, rippling over the side. Blood dappled the floor, pooling in a glossy, ever-widening circle. Downstairs, water began to seep through the ceiling. The big dog lapped at it on the hardwood floor.
Upstairs, the woman with the knife screamed:
You’re a stupid, selfish bitch!
Then she attacked.
Glenn Close hacked at Anne Archer in a life-and-death struggle as the tub began to overflow, flooding the bathroom floor. Downstairs, Michael Douglas’s character— Dan Gallagher— took the kettle off the boil. Instantly he heard the screams. He bolted upstairs, ran into the bathroom, and slammed Glenn Close into the mirror, smashing it. They fought tooth and nail. She slashed him across the chest with the knife. They plunged into the tub. Soon Dan got the best of her, choking the life out of her. She finally stopped thrashing. She was dead.
Or was she?
And that’s where the edit was.
