Read Online The Skin Gods by Richard Montanari - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Montanari
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at Matisse’s mother’s house a year earlier, but nothing involving Julian. Matisse had been in prison for the past two years. His list of known associates was outdated as well. Byrne printed off the addresses anyway, tore the sheet from the printer.
Then, although he may have been screwing up another detective’s work, he dumped the computer’s cache and erased the PCIC history for the day.
* * *
ON THE GROUND floor of the Roundhouse, in the back, was a lunchroom with a dozen or so battered booths, a dozen tables. The food was passable, the coffee was forty-weight. A bank of vending machines held down one wall. Large windows with an unobstructed view of the air-conditioning units held down the other.
As Jessica grabbed a pair of coffees for her and Byrne, Terry Cahill walked into the room, approached her. The handful of uniformed cops and detectives scattered around the room gave him the casual, appraising eye. He really did have fed written all over him, right down to his highly polished yet sensible cordovan oxfords. Jessica would bet that he ironed his socks.
“Got a second, Detective?”
“Just,” Jessica said. She and Byrne were on their way to the video store where the Psycho tape had been rented.
“I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be riding with you this morning. I’ll run what we have through VICAP and the other federal databases. See if we get a hit.”
We’ll try to get by without you, Jessica thought. “That would be very helpful,” she said, suddenly aware how patronizing she sounded. Like herself, this guy was just doing his job. Luckily, it appeared as if Cahill hadn’t noticed.
“Not a problem,” he replied. “I’ll try to hook up with you in the field as soon as I can.”
“Okay.”
“Great to be working with you,” he said.
“You, too,” Jessica lied.
She capped the coffees and made her way to the door. At the door she caught her reflection in the glass, then looked beyond, racking her focus, at the room behind her. Special Agent Terry Cahill was leaning against the counter, smiling.
Is he checking me out?
8
THE REEL DEAL WAS A SMALL, INDEPENDENT VIDEO STORE ON Aramingo Avenue near Clearfield, shoehorned between a Vietnamese takeout and a nail salon called Claws and Effect. It was one of the few mom-and-pop video stores in Philadelphia not yet put out of business by Blockbuster or West Coast Video.
The grimy front window held posters of Vin Diesel and Jet Li movies, cascaded over a decade of teen romantic comedies. There were also sun-leached black-and-white head shots of fading action stars: Jean-Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal, Jackie Chan. One corner of the window bore a sign proclaiming WE CARRY CULT AND MEXI-MONSTERS!
Jessica and Byrne entered.
The Reel Deal was a long, narrow space, with videotapes lining both walls and a two-sided rack down the center. The racks had handmade signs above them, plaques denoting genre: DRAMA, COMEDY, ACTION, FOREIGN, FAMILY. Something called ANIME took up a third of one wall. A glance at the CLASSICS rack showed a full range of Hitchcock movies.
In addition to the movies for rent were racks of microwave popcorn, soft drinks, chips, film magazines. On the walls above the tapes were curling movie posters, mostly action and horror titles, with a few Merchant-Ivory one-sheets sprinkled in for class.
To the right, next to the entrance, was the slightly elevated checkout counter. The movie running on the monitor mounted on the wall was a 1970s slasher flick Jessica didn’t immediately recognize. The requisite scantily clad coed was being chased through a dark basement by a knife-wielding, mask-wearing psychopath.
The clerk behind the counter was in his late teens. He had long dirty-blond hair, kneehole jeans, a Wilco T-shirt, a spike wristband. Jessica couldn’t tell which iteration
Then, although he may have been screwing up another detective’s work, he dumped the computer’s cache and erased the PCIC history for the day.
* * *
ON THE GROUND floor of the Roundhouse, in the back, was a lunchroom with a dozen or so battered booths, a dozen tables. The food was passable, the coffee was forty-weight. A bank of vending machines held down one wall. Large windows with an unobstructed view of the air-conditioning units held down the other.
As Jessica grabbed a pair of coffees for her and Byrne, Terry Cahill walked into the room, approached her. The handful of uniformed cops and detectives scattered around the room gave him the casual, appraising eye. He really did have fed written all over him, right down to his highly polished yet sensible cordovan oxfords. Jessica would bet that he ironed his socks.
“Got a second, Detective?”
“Just,” Jessica said. She and Byrne were on their way to the video store where the Psycho tape had been rented.
“I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be riding with you this morning. I’ll run what we have through VICAP and the other federal databases. See if we get a hit.”
We’ll try to get by without you, Jessica thought. “That would be very helpful,” she said, suddenly aware how patronizing she sounded. Like herself, this guy was just doing his job. Luckily, it appeared as if Cahill hadn’t noticed.
“Not a problem,” he replied. “I’ll try to hook up with you in the field as soon as I can.”
“Okay.”
“Great to be working with you,” he said.
“You, too,” Jessica lied.
She capped the coffees and made her way to the door. At the door she caught her reflection in the glass, then looked beyond, racking her focus, at the room behind her. Special Agent Terry Cahill was leaning against the counter, smiling.
Is he checking me out?
8
THE REEL DEAL WAS A SMALL, INDEPENDENT VIDEO STORE ON Aramingo Avenue near Clearfield, shoehorned between a Vietnamese takeout and a nail salon called Claws and Effect. It was one of the few mom-and-pop video stores in Philadelphia not yet put out of business by Blockbuster or West Coast Video.
The grimy front window held posters of Vin Diesel and Jet Li movies, cascaded over a decade of teen romantic comedies. There were also sun-leached black-and-white head shots of fading action stars: Jean-Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal, Jackie Chan. One corner of the window bore a sign proclaiming WE CARRY CULT AND MEXI-MONSTERS!
Jessica and Byrne entered.
The Reel Deal was a long, narrow space, with videotapes lining both walls and a two-sided rack down the center. The racks had handmade signs above them, plaques denoting genre: DRAMA, COMEDY, ACTION, FOREIGN, FAMILY. Something called ANIME took up a third of one wall. A glance at the CLASSICS rack showed a full range of Hitchcock movies.
In addition to the movies for rent were racks of microwave popcorn, soft drinks, chips, film magazines. On the walls above the tapes were curling movie posters, mostly action and horror titles, with a few Merchant-Ivory one-sheets sprinkled in for class.
To the right, next to the entrance, was the slightly elevated checkout counter. The movie running on the monitor mounted on the wall was a 1970s slasher flick Jessica didn’t immediately recognize. The requisite scantily clad coed was being chased through a dark basement by a knife-wielding, mask-wearing psychopath.
The clerk behind the counter was in his late teens. He had long dirty-blond hair, kneehole jeans, a Wilco T-shirt, a spike wristband. Jessica couldn’t tell which iteration
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