weave, counter. The cancer was a big middleweight, though. Fast. A hook to his stomach flared-red and blaz- ingly hot. He pressed the button. Soon the cool white hand gently caressed his forehead…
He sensed a presence in the room. He looked up. A figure stood at the foot of the bed. Without his glasses- and even they did not help much anymore-he could not recognize the man. He had for a long time imagined what might be the first thing to go, but he had not counted on it being memory. In his job, in his life, memory had been everything. Memory was the thing that haunted you. Memory was the thing that saved you. His long-term memory seemed intact. His mother's voice. The way his father smelled of tobacco and 3-IN-ONE Oil. These were his senses and now his senses were betraying him.
What had he done?
What was her name?
He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember much of anything now.
The figure drew closer. The white lab coat glowed in a celestial light. Had he passed? No. He felt his limbs, heavy and thick. The pain stabbed at his lower abdomen. The pain meant he was still alive. He pressed the pain button, closed his eyes. The girl's eyes stared at him out of the darkness.
'How are you, Doctor?' he finally managed.
'I'm fine,' the man replied. 'Are you in much pain?'
Are you in much pain?
The voice was familiar. A voice from his past.
The man was no doctor.
He heard a snap, then a hiss. The hiss became a roar in his ears, a terrifying sound. And there was good reason. It was the sound of his own death.
But soon the sound seemed to come from a place in North Philadelphia, a vile and ugly place that had haunted his dreams for more than three years, a terrible place where a young girl had died, a young girl he knew he would soon meet again.
And that thought, more than the thought of his own death, scared Detective Phillip Kessler to the bottom of his soul.
47
The Tresonne Supper Club was a dark, smoky restaurant on Sansom Street in Center City. It was formerly the Coach House, and in its day-somewhere in the early 1970s-it was considered a destination, one of the tonier steak houses in town, frequented by members of the Sixers and Eagles, along with politicos of varying degree of stature. Jessica recalled when she, her brother, and their father had come here for dinner when she was seven or eight years old. It had seemed like the most elegant place in the world.
Now it had become a third-tier eatery, its clientele an amalgam of shadowy figures from the worlds of adult entertainment and the fringe publishing industry. The deep burgundy drapes, at one time heralding a New York City chophouse ambience, were now mildewed and grimed with a decade of nicotine and grease.
Dante Diamond was a Tresonne regular, usually holding court at the large, semicircular booth at the back of the restaurant. They had run his rap sheet and learned that, of his three trips to the Roundhouse in the past twenty years, he had been charged with nothing more than two counts of pandering and a misdemeanor drug possession.
His most recent photograph was ten years old, but Eugene Kilbane was certain he would know him on sight. Besides, in a club like Tresonne, Dante Diamond was royalty.
The restaurant was half full. There was a long bar to the right, booths to the left, a dozen or so tables in the center. The bar was separated from the dining room by a partition made of colored plastic panels and plastic ivy. Jessica noticed that the ivy had a thin layer of dust on it.
As they made their way toward the end of the bar, all heads turned toward Nicci and Jessica. The men scoped Kilbane, sizing him immediately, cataloging his position on the food chain of power and masculine impact. It was immediately clear that in this place, he was perceived as neither a rival nor a threat. His weak chin, destroyed upper lip, and cheap suit pigeonholed him as a loser. It was the two pretty young women with him who gave him, at least temporarily, the cachet he needed to work the room.
There were two stools open at the end of the bar. Nicci and Jessica sat down. Kilbane stood. Within a few moments, the bartender approached.
'Good evening,' the bartender said.
'Yeah. How ya doin'?' Kilbane replied.
'Quite well, sir.'
Kilbane leaned forward. 'Dante around?'
The bartender gave him a stony look. 'Who?'
'Mr. Diamond.'
The bartender half-smiled, as if to say: Better. He was in his late fifties, trim and savvy, manicured nails. He wore a royal blue satin vest and crisp white shirt. He had the look of many years behind the mahogany. He placed a trio of napkins on the bar. 'Mr. Diamond isn't in tonight.'
'Do you expect him?'
'Impossible to say,' the bartender said. 'I'm not his social secretary.' The man locked eyes with Kilbane, communicating that this line of questioning was over. 'What can I get for you and the young ladies?'
They ordered. A coffee for Jessica, a Diet Coke for Nicci, and a double bourbon for Kilbane. If Kilbane thought he was going to drink all night on the city's dime, he was mistaken. The drinks arrived. Kilbane turned to face the dining room. 'This place has really hit the fucking skids,' he said.
Jessica wondered by what criteria a lowlife like Eugene Kilbane judged something like that.
'I see a few people I know. I'm gonna ask around,' Kilbane added. He drained his bourbon in one gulp, straightened his tie, and walked into the dining room.
Jessica looked around the room. There were a few middle-aged couples in the dining room whom she had a hard time believing had anything to do with the business. The Tresonne did, after all, advertise in City Paper, Metro, The Report, and other venues. But for the most part, the clientele was hard-looking men in their fifties and sixties- pinkie rings, collar bars, monogrammed cuffs. It looked like a waste-management convention.
Jessica glanced to her left. One of the men at the bar had been ogling her and Nicci since they sat down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smooth his hair and spritz his breath. He ambled over.
'Hi,' he said to Jessica, smiling.
Jessica turned to look at the man, giving him the obligatory twice- over. He was about sixty. Sea-foam rayon shirt, beige polyester sport coat, tinted steel-rimmed aviator glasses. 'Hi,' she said.
'I understand you and your friend are actresses.'
'Where did you hear that?' Jessica asked.
'You have that look.'
'What look is that?' Nicci asked, smiling.
'Theatrical,' he said. 'And very beautiful.'
'It just so happens we are.' Nicci laughed, tossed her hair. 'Why do you ask?'
'I'm a film producer.' Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a pair of business cards. Werner Schmidt. Lux Productions. New Haven, Connecticut. 'I'm casting a new full-length feature. High-def digital. Woman on woman.'
'Sounds interesting,' Nicci said.
'Hell of a script. The writer went to USC film school for a semester.'
Nicci nodded, feigning deep attention.
'But before I say anything else, I have to ask you something,' Werner added.
'What?' Jessica asked.
'Are you police officers?'
Jessica flicked a glance at Nicci. She looked back. 'Yes,' she said. 'Both of us. We're detectives on an undercover sting.'
