Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (181 page)

| FIFTY-EIGHT |

T
HERE WERE SIRENS EVERYWHERE
. S
WANN HAD DOUBLED BACK, CIRCLING
through the trees near Greenwood Cemetery. He found a row of three unoccupied porta-potties near a construction site.

Once inside, even though the quarters were tight, he worked quickly. He unzipped his bag, put the foam rubber around his waist. He put on a gray wig already tied into a ponytail. He slipped buck teeth over his own. He stepped into a dark blue jumpsuit with the city’s water-department logo on the back.

In less than thirty seconds he had gained forty pounds, aged fifteen years, and changed into an outfit as different from the man they sought as could be. He stuffed his old clothes down into the toilet, along with the young officer’s weapon. There was probably a wealth of forensic evidence to be found on his discards, but he couldn’t think about that now.

He emerged from the portable toilet and made his way south. When he reached the circle at Castor and Wyoming, two sector cars came flashing by.

Moments later Swann flagged a cab. He hated to lose the car, but it was all right. He had four other vehicles.

| FIFTY-NINE |

T
HEY MET IN THE DUTY ROOM
. A
SUSPECT SKETCH WAS BEING RUN OFF
at that moment, and would be distributed to every sector car in the division on the next shift. They would not be releasing it to the media for a while, but that did not mean it wouldn’t leak.

The K-9 officer and his dog had tracked to a bank of portable toilets. There, in one of the stalls, they found a pile of men’s clothing stuck into the holding tank, along with what appeared to be the young officer’s service weapon. A CSU team was en route to the site to begin the unenviable task of collecting evidence.

A
T JUST AFTER NOON
, a detective walked into the unit. It was Tony Park. Park was in his late forties, one of only a handful of Korean-American detectives in the department. There were few people better with a database or spreadsheet. No one was better on the Internet.

“I’ve been running missing persons of an age along with unidentified DOAs. The DOA data was slim, but, as you might imagine, the missing-person files were huge. Why do so many kids want to come to Philly? Why not New York?”

“Got to be the cheesesteaks,” someone said. Then, as expected, from around the room:

“Which means John’s Roast Pork.”

“Which means Sonny’s Famous.”

“Which means Tony Luke’s.”

Park shook his head. “Every friggin’ time, the same argument,” he said. “Anyway, one of the files jumped high. Last December, a sixteen-year-old girl from Chicago went missing. Her name was Elise Beausoleil. Elise told one of her friends that she was coming to Philadelphia. Her father, who owns a multinational company called Sunshine Technologies—and also happens to be golfing buddies with the governor of Illinois—makes a call to the governor, who in turn calls his friend, the governor of our fair commonwealth, who in turn puts pressure on the mayor and the commissioner to turn over every rock and bucket to find this kid. You guys remember this case, don’t you?”

The homicide detectives look at each other, shrugged. The truth was, homicide was a fairly insulated unit. If it wasn’t a dead body, you pretty much didn’t see it.

“Anyway, detectives in East division discovered that Elise got a part-time job doing door-to-door surveys for some human-rights group. They interviewed the director and some of the people who worked there. They remembered Elise. They turned up a route she worked. They said that after New Year’s Day she never showed up again. They all just figured she went home. Her father put on some private detectives, but they turned up zilch.”

“Philly guys?” Byrne asked.

“Two from Philly, two from Chicago.”

“When did he call them in?”

“Around March.”

“Was she on the FBI site?”

“Oh, yeah.” Park reached into the folder, pulled out a photograph. “This is her.”

He put the picture on the desk. The girl was a beauty—almond-shaped eyes, cropped dark hair, a long swanlike neck.

The detectives looked at the route Elise had taken on her surveys.

“How deep was the canvass?” Jessica asked.

“Like the Mariana Trench. I think they hit six hundred doors.”

“I take it there were no leads.”

“Not a one.”

The Collector,
Jessica thought, a little dismayed that the nickname had seeped into her consciousness. She looked at Elise Beausoleil’s beautiful dark eyes, wondering if the last person this girl had seen was the man they so desperately sought.

| SIXTY |

S
WANN SAT AT HIS KITCHEN TABLE
. H
E WAS STILL DRESSED IN HIS DISGUISE.

On the way back to the house he saw the FedEx truck three blocks over. He was waiting for a delivery, a set of antique bronze drawer pulls he had all but stolen on eBay.

A few minutes earlier he had seen on TV the sketch of the man wanted for the attempted abduction of a girl near Tacony Park. It looked no more like him than did the man in the moon. The media was referring to him as “the Collector.” He was pleased with both developments.

He hoped the young officer did not have nightmares.

Now that he was so close to the end, to his grand finale, he found his mind drifting back to the place where it all began. It was the same time of day, as he recalled, this lilac-hued hour between the time when he arrived home and his first aperitif. He recalled that he had just watched
The Magic Bricks
in the attic, when the doorbell rang. He thought about Elise sitting at this very table, one leg curled beneath her, the background seeming to dissolve away. She was so bright, so alive, a pixie with a gamine body and close-cropped hair.

She had come from money, of that he was sure. The quality of her boots and jewelry spoke of it; her manner and vocabulary all but confirmed it. She had about her an air of aristocracy, but it was not something by birthright. She was new money. She wore it like a mantle of pride.

Elise had strolled the great room that day, picking up a few of his
objets d’art
on the way. She had seemed particularly interested in the Tiffany crystal and brass carriage clock. It was one of his favorites. This moved him. She also liked—

The doorbell rang. It was FedEx.

Swann crossed the foyer, peered through curtains. It was not the FedEx delivery man after all. Instead it was a very attractive woman. She had silken shoulder-length hair, wore a smart navy suit, white blouse.

“Recall the man in Metairie, Joseph. The one who owned the haberdashery. They know your voice here. Beware.”

Swann smoothed his long gray wig. He opened the door.

“Hello,” he said. His voice now carried the slightest accent. It was a French intonation, but native to Louisiana.

“Hi,” the woman replied. She held up a gold badge. “My name is Detective Jessica Balzano. I’m with the Philadelphia Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

Swann steadied himself against the doorjamb. “Of course.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Jake,” Swann said. “Jake Myers. Would you like to come inside?”

The woman made a note. “Thanks.”

He opened the door wide. She stepped in.

“Wow,” she said. “This is some place.”

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s been in my family for years.” He gestured. “Would you like to sit in the parlor?”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. This shouldn’t take too long.”

Swann glanced at the stairs. The stairs leading up to Claire’s room. He had given her another ampoule, but that was an hour ago. Just a few minutes earlier he thought she had stirred. Patricia was fast asleep in the basement.

“Get her into the kitchen, Joseph.”

“Would you like something to drink? I’ve just made fresh coffee. Kenya.”

“No thank you,” she said. “We’re talking to everyone in the neighborhood.”

“I see.”

“Do you live here alone?” she asked.

“Oh my goodness, no. I live here with my family.”

“Are they home now?”

“My daughters are out, and I’m afraid my wife is a bit under the weather.” He gestured to the sideboard, which held a number of photos. His phantom family. He wondered if she would notice that all the photos were solo.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the detective replied. “I hope she feels better soon.”

“Most kind of you to say.”

“They are going to stop you, Joseph. You cannot allow this to happen.”

The detective produced a photograph. “Do you recognize this girl?”

She presented a photograph of Elise Beausoleil. It was one he had seen before. He gave it its proper time, its owing. “Yes. I believe I do, but I cannot remember from where or when.”

“Her name is Elise Beausoleil.”

“Yes, of course. I remember now. A pair of detectives came around making inquiries. They spoke to my wife and eldest daughter about this young lady. I happened to be in the garden at the time. They stopped and asked me about her as well. I had not seen her.”

“Were these city detectives or private detectives?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. What is the difference exactly?”

“Did they have gold badges?”

“Yes. I believe they did. In fact, I am certain of it.”

“They were the police,” she said. “Has anyone been around here since, inquiring about this girl?”

“She knows, Joseph. You cannot allow her to leave.”

Swann feigned deep thought. “I don’t think so.”

The detective made a note in her book. Swann angled to see it, but couldn’t. He put a hand into his pocket, palmed a chloroform ampoule. He would take her in the foyer.

“Once again, I appreciate your time.” She handed him a card. “If you think of anything that might help us, I’d appreciate a call.”

Swann removed his hand from his pocket. “By all means.”

He opened the front door. The pretty detective stepped out onto the porch, just as the FedEx man arrived. The two of them smiled at each other, made room.

Swann took the package, thanked the deliveryman. The drawer pulls no longer mattered. He closed the door, his heart fit to burst.

Upstairs, Claire screamed. It was an unearthly sound.

Swann closed his eyes, certain that the police officer had heard. He peeked through blinds. The woman was walking to her car, her chestnut hair luminous in the late afternoon sun. She was already talking into her cell phone.

And then she was gone.

| SIXTY-ONE |

A
T JUST AFTER SEVEN O’CLOCK, SIX DETECTIVES AND TWELVE PATROL
officers returned to the Roundhouse after having done a sweep canvass of the neighborhoods where Elise Beausoleil had been seen the previous January.

They distributed a few hundred photographs, talked to a few hundred people. Some recalled the first time the police came around looking for the girl. Most did not. None admitted to ever having seen her.

Before they got their coats off, a call came in from the communications unit.

They had a break in the case.

T
HEY GATHERED AROUND
a thirty-inch high-definition LCD monitor in the communications center. Six detectives, as well as Hell Rohmer and Lieutenant John Hurley, commanding officer of the unit. Tony Park sat at the computer keyboard.

“We found this about twenty minutes ago,” Hurley said.

Jessica looked at the monitor. It was a splash page, an entry to something called GothOde.

“What’s GothOde?” Josh Bontrager asked.

“It’s like YouTube,” Hell Rohmer said. “It’s nowhere near as big, but it’s ten times more demented. There are videos of every movie murder ever filmed, pseudo-snuff films, homemade perversions of every stripe. I’m thinking GothOde is a play on the word cathode, but don’t quote me. We followed that link and ran the top video. When we saw where it was going we shut it down, made the call.”

Park looked at Byrne. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Byrne said.

Park clicked the entry link. Instantly the browser window opened a new web page. To Jessica it looked almost identical to a YouTube page—a main video on top, with linked videos along the side. Unlike YouTube, the background was black, and the logo, scrawled along the top, was written in a blood red.

Park clicked on the play button. Immediately a soundtrack started. It sounded like a string quartet.

“Does anyone know this music?” Jessica asked the room.

“Bach,” Hell Rohmer said. “J. S. Bach.
Sleepers Awake.
Cantata 140.”

The screen stayed black for the moment. The music continued.

“Any significance here?” Jessica asked, still unsure what this was all about. “Any relevance?”

Hell thought for a few seconds. “I think it’s about the assurance of salvation.”

“Josh? Anything to add?”

Jessica glanced at Bontrager. Bontrager took his right hand, palm down and sent it slicing the air over his head, meaning just that—this was way over his head.

A few seconds later a title faded up. White letters on a black background, a classic serif type, written in one line.

THE SEVEN WONDERS

“
I have seven girls,
” Byrne quoted.
“I fear for them. I fear for their safety.”
He pointed at the monitor. “Seven girls, seven wonders.”

Another fade to black, then a second screen, a graphic of red velvet curtains. Over it, another title.

PART ONE: THE GARDEN OF FLOWERS

Soon the curtains parted, showing a small stage with a spotlight in the center. Seconds later a man stepped into the spotlight. He wore a black cutaway tuxedo, white shirt, red bow tie, a monocle. He stopped center stage. He looked to be in his forties, although the video was grainy and it was hard to discern details. He sported a Van Dyck goatee.

“Behold … the Garden of Flowers,” the man said. He had a slight German accent. He picked up a large woolen shawl, draped it over an arm, and began producing bouquets of flowers from beneath it, flinging them individually onto the stage. The bouquets appeared to be weighted, and have darts protruding from the bottom. One by one they stuck in the stage floor. When he had created a full circle, he gestured offstage. “And behold the lovely Odette.”