Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (182 page)

A young woman walked tentatively onto the small stage, and stepped into the circle of flowers. The girl was slight, pale, dark-haired. She was terribly frightened.

The girl was Elise Beausoleil.

Without another word, a large fabric cone descended over the girl. A few seconds later it was raised. The girl was now lying in the center of a gigantic floral mass, her head twisted at an unnatural angle. She didn’t move.

On-screen the man bowed. The curtains closed. The music faded out.

The detectives waited, but there was nothing else to see.

“Have you played the second video?” Byrne asked.

“No,” Park said.

“Play it.”

Park hovered the mouse over the second video, clicked.

PART TWO: THE GIRL WITHOUT A MIDDLE

Sleepers Awake
was again the sound track. The curtains parted, revealing the same stage. Again a spotlight came up. Center stage were three brightly colored boxes similar to the ones they had found in the crawlspace of 4514 Shiloh Street. They were stacked. All three doors were open.

The man appeared. He was dressed exactly the same.

“Behold … the Girl Without a Middle.” He held out his hand. A heavyset girl walked onto the stage. It was Monica Renzi. “And behold the lovely Odette.”

Monica was crying. She stepped into the boxes. The illusionist closed all three doors. He picked up a thin metal plate and shoved it between the top two boxes.

“My God,” someone said. “My God.”

There were no other words.

“Click on the next one,” Byrne said, his anger clearly rising.

Moments later, the third video began.

PART THREE: THE DROWNING GIRL

This time the curtain parted to show a large, empty glass tank. It looked similar to the glass display case in the Eighth Street crime scene. There was a girl sitting inside.

“It’s Caitlin,” Jessica said.

Within seconds the tank began to fill. Caitlin just sat there, as if she was accepting this fate. A diaphanous drape was lowered, hiding the tank. There was just the sound of the water beneath the heart-rending music of J. S. Bach.

Tony park clicked on the fourth video.

PART FOUR: THE GIRL IN THE SWORD BOX

It was Katja Dovic in the Sword Box, a red lacquered box with slits cut into the top and sides. The vision of the swords being pushed into the closed container was as horrifying as anything they had ever witnessed.

Tony Park clicked on the remaining three screens, but none of them launched a video.

For a long time no one in the room said a word. It appeared that the killer’s kidnap attempt that morning had been thwarted, but there were a lot more girls from which he could choose.

“Can we find out where this is coming from?” Byrne asked.

“It’s my understanding that this GothOde is based in Romania,” Hell said. “Unfortunately, there’s no way for us to know from where these videos have been uploaded. He could be doing it from a cyber-cafe.”

“What about the FBI?” Dre Curtis asked.

“I put in a call and forwarded everything to the Computer Crimes Task Force,” Hurley said. “They have a forensic examiner on it now, although it will probably take a handful of court orders and three federal agencies to get anything done in a foreign country.”

It was then that Jessica noticed something at the bottom of the screen. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to it.

There was a single word beneath the last video.
Corollarium.
It looked to be an active link. Before clicking on the link, Park navigated to an online Latin to English dictionary. He entered the word. The page displayed:

corollarium -i n. [a garland of flowers; a present, gratuity]

Park returned to the GothOde page, clicked the link. A small window opened. It was a still photograph of a room with rotting plaster and broken shelves. In the middle of the room, amid the debris, was what looked a like a large package, wrapped in thin green paper. Out of the top came a variety of fresh-cut flowers.

Through the window beyond the box was visible a vacant lot, partially covered in snow. At the other side of the lot was a mural covering a whole wall, an elaborate rendering that included a man blowing a ribbon of smoke over a city skyline.

“This is Philly,” Jessica said. “I know that mural. I know where this is.”

They all knew where it was. It was across from a corner building near Fifth and Cambria.

Jessica ran out of the room.

By the time the other detectives got to the parking lot she was gone.

J
ESSICA PACED IN FRONT
of the address. The front door was padlocked. Across the street was the mural in the still photograph.

Byrne, Josh Bontrager, and Dre Curtis approached.

“Take the door down,” Jessica said.

“Jess,” Byrne said. “We should wait. We could—”

“Take it … the fuck
… down
!”

Bontrager looked to Byrne for direction. Byrne nodded. Bontrager went into the trunk of his departmental sedan, came out with an iron pry bar. He handed it to Byrne.

Byrne took the door off the hinges with the massive lever. Josh Bontrager and Dre Curtis hauled it out of the way. Jessica and Byrne, weapons drawn, entered the space. The area they had seen in the photograph was now piled with more trash. But the view out the barred window was the same.

Jessica holstered her weapon and stormed across the room. She began pulling trash off the huge pile of debris in the center.

“Jess,” Byrne said.

She didn’t hear him. If she did, she did not acknowledge him. Soon she uncovered the thing she sought, the thing she knew would still be there, the thing that had been placed in this precise spot, waiting for them.

“It’s a crime scene, Jess,” Byrne said. “You have to stop.”

She turned to look at him. Her eyes stood with tears. Byrne had never seen her like this.

“I can’t.”

Moments later she had all the trash thrown aside. In front of her lay a body wrapped in green paper, the same kind of green paper used by florists.

The Garden of Flowers.

The dead girl was his bouquet.

Jessica tore open the paper. The scent of dried flora and putrefying flesh was overwhelming. Even in this decayed state it was obvious that the girl’s neck had been broken. For a moment, Jessica did not move.

Then she fell to her knees.

| SIXTY-TWO |

T
HEY STOOD IN THE PUNISHING HEAT
. A
ROUND THEM BUZZED YET ANOTHER
CSU team. Around them stretched another circle of yellow tape.

“This isn’t going to stop until he’s done all seven,” Jessica said. “There are three more girls out there who are going to die.”

Byrne had no response. Nothing he could say.

“The Seven Wonders. What the fuck is this all about, Kevin? What’s next?”

“Tony’s on it now,” Byrne said. “If the answer is out there he’ll find it. You know that.”

Until now, all four of these girls had lived in two dimensions. Photographs on paper, a graphic file on a computer screen, myriad details on a police activity log or an FBI sheet. But now they had seen them alive. All four girls had been breathing on those videos. Elise Beausoleil, Caitlin O’Riordan, Monica Renzi, Katja Dovic. All four of them had entered that chamber of horrors and never left. And if that was not enough, this madman had to apply a special brand of indignity by putting them on display, for the whole city to see.

Jessica had never wanted someone dead so badly in her life. And, God forgive her, she wanted to be the one who pulled the switch.

“Jessica?”

She turned. It was JoAnn Johnson, commander of the Auto Squad. The Auto Squad had citywide jurisdiction to locate vehicle chop shops, investigate car-theft rings, and coordinate investigations with the insurance industry. Jessica had worked in the unit, now a part of Major Crimes, for almost three years.

“Hey, JoAnn.” Jessica wiped her eyes. She could just imagine what she looked like. A crazed raccoon, maybe. JoAnn didn’t react in the least.

“Got a minute?”

Jessica and JoAnn stepped away. JoAnn handed her the preliminary report on the Acura.

They had towed the car to the police garage at McAllister and Whitaker, just a few blocks from the Twenty-Fourth District station. The order was to hold for prints and processing, so it was held inside. They had identified the owner.

J
ESSICA STEPPED BACK
to where Byrne stood, report in hand.

“We have a hit on the car’s VIN,” she said.

The VIN, or vehicle identification number, was the seventeen-character number used to uniquely identify American vehicles, post-1980.

“What do we have?” Byrne asked.

Jessica looked at the ground, the buildings, the sky. Everywhere but at her partner.

“What is it, Jess?”

Jessica finally looked him in the eye. She didn’t want to, but she had no choice.

“The car belonged to Eve Galvez.”

| SIXTY-THREE |

T
HEY REFERRED TO IT AS THE WIRE
. I
T WAS FLEXIBLE, MALLEABLE, NEED
not run in a straight line. In fact, it most often did not. It could snake beneath things, coil itself around other things, bury itself beneath a wide variety of surfaces. It was not tangible, but it was felt.

For all the homicides that had ever been committed, from the moment Cain raised his hand to Abel, there had been a wire. A time, a place, a weapon, a motive, a killer. It wasn’t always obvious—indeed, all too often it was never discovered—but it was always there.

As detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne stood in the duty room of the homicide unit, the wire revealed itself. Jessica held one end. She spoke first.

She spoke of her meeting with Jimmy Valentine. She spoke of her growing obsession with Eve Galvez. Not just Eve’s case, but the woman herself. She spoke of visiting Enrique Galvez, and her admittedly insane visit to the Badlands the night before. She spoke of Eve’s diary, and her own tears.

Byrne listened. He did not judge her. He held the other end of the wire.

“Did you read all the files?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you have the flash drive with you?”

“Yes.”

Moments later Jessica had the drive hooked up to a laptop. She navigated to the folder containing the scanned files.

“How many of these have you read?”

“Less than half,” Jessica said. “I couldn’t take much more.”

“These are all her files?”

“Yes.”

“Open the last two.”

Jessica clicked on the next to last file.

| SIXTY-FOUR |

JUNE 30, 2008

They call him Mr. Ludo, though no one can describe him. I’ve been a detective for years. How is this possible? Is he a ghost? A shadow?

No. Everyone can be found. Every secret can be discovered. Think of the word “discover.” It means to take off the cover. To reveal.

One girl said she knew a girl who had been to Mr. Ludo’s house once and escaped. Someone named Cassandra.

I am going to meet Cassandra tomorrow.

The picture is on my wall. She was just another statistic, another cold body, another victim. Killadelphia some call it. I don’t believe it. This is my city. This was someone’s daughter. She was an innocent.

Perhaps it is because she was from a small town. Perhaps it is because she wears a lilac backpack. My favorite color.

She was just a child. Like me. She was me.

Caitlin O’Riordan.

I cannot let this rest.

I will not let this rest.

| SIXTY-FIVE |

E
VEN BEFORE THEY OPENED THE LAST FILE, THEY KNEW WHAT IT WAS
going to be. The file contained the scanned copies of the three missing interviews from the O’Riordan case binder. Eve Galvez had taken Freddy Roarke’s notes from the binder, scanned them, kept the file on her flash drive, along with the rest of her life.

“The case Jimmy Valentine was talking about,” Jessica said. “The case he told me Eve was obsessed with. It was the Caitlin O’Riordan case. Eve stole the notes out of the binder. She was investigating it on her own. She was tracking him. He got to her first.”

Byrne turned twice, fists raised, looking for something to slam, something to break.

“Eve was a runaway,” Jessica said. “She’d lived the life. I guess she saw Caitlin’s murder as one too many. She went deep-end on it.”

They’d both seen it before. A detective who had taken a case too personally. They’d both been there themselves.

They read the missing interviews. Starlight, Govinda, and Daria. All three kids said they had met a man. A man who had tried to bring them back to his house. A man who identified himself by a strange name.

Mr. Ludo.

B
YRNE TOLD HIS STORY
, his end of the wire. When he was done, he left the room.

Minutes later he was back upstairs with the strongbox he had taken from Laura Somerville’s apartment. In the other hand he had a cordless drill, courtesy of one of the crew working on the renovation on the first floor. In moments he had the box open.

Inside was a sheaf of papers. Postcards, ticket stubs in at least ten languages, going back fifty years. And photographs.

They were photographs of a magician on a stage. The man looked like the man in the videos, but thinner, taller. Many of the photographs were yellowed with age. Byrne flipped one over. In a woman’s handwriting it read
Vienna, 1959.
Another photo, this of the man with three large linking steel rings.
Detroit, 1961.

In each photo a beautiful young woman stood next to the man.

“
Behold the lovely Odette,
” the man on the video had said.

The photographs in the strongbox made it clear. Odette was his stage assistant.

Odette was Laura Somerville.

| SIXTY-SIX |

S
WANN DROVE TO
C
ENTER
C
ITY
. H
E WOULD NOT DENY THAT
L
ILLY
had stirred him in a way that he had not felt in a long time. He’d had his share of lovers in his time, but they had never been to Faerwood, they had never glimpsed his soul.