'Just a few minutes,' Martinez said. 'She's a little hard to understand. I think she might be Haitian or Jamaican or something. But she had the suspect sketch that was in the Inquirer in her hand, and she kept pointing at it, saying that the guy had just been in her store. I think she said her grandson might have mixed it up with the guy a little.'
The composite sketch of the Actor had run in that morning's paper. 'Have you cleared the location?'
'Yes. But there's no one in the store now.'
'Secured it?'
'Front and back.'
'Give me the address,' Jessica said.
Martinez did.
'What kind of store is it?' Jessica asked.
'A bodega,' he said. 'Hoagies, chips, sodas. Kinda run-down.'
'Why does she think this guy was our suspect? Why would he be hanging around a bodega?'
'I asked her the same thing,' Martinez said. 'Then she pointed to the back of the store.'
'What about it?'
'They have a video section.'
Jessica hung up, briefed the other detectives. They had received more than fifty calls already that day, calls from people who claimed to have spotted the Actor on their block, in their yards, in the parks. Why should this one be any different?
'Because there's a video section in the store,' Buchanan said. 'You and Kevin check it out.'
Jessica got her weapon from her drawer, handed a copy of the street address to Eric Chavez. 'Find Agent Cahill,' she said. 'Ask him to meet us at this address.'
The Detectives stood in front of the location, a crumbling storefront deli called Cap-Haitien. Officers Underwood and Martinez, having secured the scene, had returned to their duties. The facade of the market was a patchwork of plywood panels of bright red, blue, and yellow enamel, topped by bright orange metal bars. Skewed, handmade signs in the window hawked fried plantains, grio, Creole fried chicken, along with a Haitian beer called Prestige. There was also a sign proclaiming VIDEO AU LOYER.
About twenty minutes had passed since the owner of the store-an elderly Haitian woman named Idelle Barbereau-had said the man had been in her market. It was unlikely that the suspect, if it was their suspect, was still in the area. The woman described the man just as he appeared in the sketch: white, medium build, wearing large tinted sunglasses, Flyers cap, dark blue jacket. She said he had come in the store, milled around the racks in the center, then drifted into the small video section at the back. He stayed there for a minute, then headed for the door. She said he came in with something in his hands, but was leaving without it. He didn't purchase anything. She'd had the Inquirer open to the page displaying the sketch.
While the man was in the back of the store, she had called her grandson up from the cellar-a strapping nineteen-year-old named Fabrice. Fabrice had blocked the door and gotten into a pushing match with the subject. When Jessica and Byrne talked to Fabrice, he looked a little shaken.
'Did the man say anything?' Byrne asked.
'No,' Fabrice replied. 'Nothing.'
'Tell us what happened.'
Fabrice said he had blocked the doorway in the hope that his grandmother would have time to call the police. When the man tried to step around him, Fabrice grabbed the man by the arm, and within a second the man had him spun around, his own right arm pinned behind him. In another second, Fabrice said, he was on his way to the floor. He added that, on the way down, he lashed out with his left hand, striking the man, connecting with bone.
'Where did you hit him?' Byrne asked, glancing at the young man's left hand. Fabrice's knuckles were slightly swollen.
'Right over there,' Fabrice said, pointing to the doorway.
'No. I mean on his body.'
'I don't know,' he said. 'I had my eyes closed.'
'What happened then?'
'The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, facedown. It knocked the wind out of me.' Fabrice took a deep breath, either to prove to the police he was all right, or to prove to himself. 'He was strong.'
Fabrice went on to say that the man then ran out of the store. By the time his grandmother was able to get out from behind the counter, and onto the street, the man was gone. Idelle then saw Officer Martinez directing traffic and told him about the incident.
Jessica glanced around the store, at the ceilings, at the corners.
There were no surveillance cameras.
Jessica and Byrne searched the market. The air was dense with the pungent aromas of chilies and coconut milk, the racks were filled with standard bodega items-soups, canned meats, snacks, along with cleaning products and a variety of cosmetic sundries. In addition, there was a large display of candles and dream books and other assorted products associated with Santeria, the Afro-Caribbean religion.
At the rear of the store was a small alcove bearing a few wire racks of videotapes. Above the racks were a pair of faded film posters-L'Homme sur les Quais and The Golden Mistress. In addition, smaller images of French and Caribbean movie stars, mostly magazine cutouts, were attached to the wall with yellowing tape.
Jessica and Byrne stepped into the niche. There were about one hundred videotapes in all. Jessica scanned the spines. Foreign titles, kids' titles, a few six-month-old major releases. Mostly French-language films.
Nothing spoke to her. Did any of these films have a murder committed in a bathroom? she wondered. Where was Terry Cahill? He might know. Jessica was starting to think the old woman was imagining things, and that her grandson had gotten body-slammed for nothing, when she saw it. There, on the bottom rack on the left, was a VHS tape with a rubber band doubled-banded around the center.
'Kevin,' she said. Byrne walked over.
Jessica pulled on a latex glove and picked up the tape without thinking. Although there was no reason to think that there might be an explosive device attached to it, there was no telling where this murderous crime spree was headed. She chastised herself immediately after picking up the tape. This time she had dodged the bullet. But there was something attached.
A pink Nokia cell phone.
Jessica carefully turned the box over. The cell phone was turned on, but there was nothing visible on the small LCD screen. Byrne held open a large evidence bag. Jessica slipped the videocassette box in. Their eyes met.
They both had a pretty good idea whose phone it was.
A few minutes later they stood in front of the secured store, waiting for CSU. They looked up and down the street. The film crew were still gathering the tools and detritus of their craft-spooling cables, storing lights, breaking down craft service tables. Jessica scanned the workers. Was she looking at the Actor? Could one of these people walking up and down the street be responsible for these horrible crimes? She glanced back at Byrne. He was locked on the facade of the market. She got his attention.
'Why here?' Jessica asked.
Byrne shrugged. 'Probably because he knows we're watching the chain stores and the independents,' Byrne said. 'If he wants to get a tape back on the shelf, he's got to come somewhere like this.'
Jessica considered this. It was probably the case. 'Should we be watching the libraries?'
Byrne nodded. 'Probably.'
Before Jessica could respond, she received a transmission on her two- way radio. It was garbled, unintelligible. She pulled it off her belt, adjusted the volume. 'Say again.'
A few seconds of static, then: 'Goddamn FBI don't respect nothin'.'
It sounded like Terry Cahill. No, it couldn't be. Could it? If it was, she had to have heard him wrong. She exchanged a glance with Byrne. tic? Q» Say again?
More static. Then: 'Goddamn FBI don't respect nothin'.'
Jessica's stomach dropped. The line was familiar to her. It was a phrase that Sonny Corleone says in The Godfather. She had seen the movie a thousand times. Terry Cahill wasn't kidding around. Not at a time like this.
