Byrne paced the room like a caged animal. A dozen detectives lingered in or near the duty room, waiting for the word, waiting for a direction. There was no comforting or appeasing Byrne. All these men and women had families. It could just as easily be them.
'We have movement,' Mateo said, pointing to the laptop screen. The detectives crowded around him.
On screen, the man in the monk's robe dragged another person into the frame. It was Ian Whitestone. He was wearing the blue jacket. He looked drugged. His head lolled on his shoulders. There was no visible blood on his face or hands.
Whitestone fell against the wall next to Colleen. The tableau was sickening in the harsh white light. Jessica wondered who else might be watching this, if this madman had disseminated the web address to the media, to the Internet at large.
The figure in the monk's robe then walked toward the camera and turned the lens. The image was choppy, grained by the lack of resolution and quick movement. When the image settled, it was on a double bed, surrounded by two cheap nightstands and table lamps.
'It's the movie,' Byrne said, his voice cracking. 'He's re-creating the movie.'
With sickening clarity, Jessica recognized the setup. It was a recreation of the motel room in Philadelphia Skin. The Actor was going to reshoot Philadelphia Skin with Colleen Byrne in the role of Angelika Butler.
They had to find him.
'They've got the tower,' Park said. 'It covers part of North Philly.'
'Where in North Philly?' Byrne asked. He was in the doorway, nearly vibrating with anticipation. He slammed his fist three times into the doorjamb. 'Where?'
'They're working on it,' Park said. He pointed to a map on one of the monitors. 'It's down to these two square blocks. Get on the street. I'll guide you.'
Byrne was gone before he had finished the sentence.
84
In all her years, she had only wished once that she could hear. Just once. And it hadn't been so long ago. Two of her hearing friends had gotten tickets to see John Mayer. John Mayer was to die. Her hearing friend Lula had played John Mayer's album Heavier Things for her, and she had touched the speakers, felt the bass and vocals. She knew his music. She knew it in her heart.
She wished she could hear now. There were two people in the room with her, and if she could hear them, she might be able to figure a way out of this.
If she could hear…
Her father had explained to her many times what he did. She knew that what he did was dangerous, and the people he arrested were the worst people in the world.
She stood with her back to the wall. The man had taken off her hood, and that was a good thing. She was terrifyingly claustrophobic. But now the light in her eyes was blinding. If she couldn't see, she couldn't fight.
And she was ready to fight.
85
The area of Germantown avenue near Indiana was a proud but long-struggling community of row houses and brick storefronts, deep in the Badlands, a five-square-mile section of North Philadelphia that ran from Erie Avenue south to Spring Garden; Ridge Avenue to Front Street.
At least a quarter of the buildings on the block were retail space, some occupied, most not; a clenched fist of three-story structures bracing each other, cavities between. The task of searching them all was going to be daunting, almost impossible. Generally, when the department chased a cell phone trace, they had some earlier intelligence with which to work: a suspect with a tie to the area, a known associate, a possible address. This time they had nothing. They had already run every check imaginable on Nigel Butler-previous addresses, rental properties he might have owned, addresses of family members. Nothing linked him to this area. They would have to search every square inch of this block, and search it blindly.
As crucial as the element of time was, they were walking a thin line, constitutionally speaking. Although there was enough leeway for them to storm a house if probable cause existed that someone was being harmed on the premises, that PC better be open and obvious.
By one o'clock, nearly twenty detectives and uniformed officers had descended on this enclave. They moved like a wall of blue through the neighborhood, holding up a photograph of Colleen Byrne, asking the same questions over and over. But this time, for the detectives, it was different. This time, they had to read the person on the other side of the threshold in an instant-kidnapper, killer, maniac, innocent.
This time, it was one of their own.
Byrne held back, behind Jessica, as she rang the doorbells, knocked on the doors. Each time, he would scan the face of the citizen, plugging in his radar, every sense on high alert. In his ear was an earpiece patched directly to an open phone line to both Tony Park and Mateo Fuentes. Jessica had tried to talk him out of the live updates, but she had failed.
86
Byrne's heart was ablaze.If anything happened to Colleen, he would take out the son of a bitch-one shot, point blank-and then himself. There would not be a single reason to draw a single breath afterward. She was his life.
'What's going on now?' Byrne asked into the headset, into his three- way connection.
'Static shot,' Mateo replied. 'Just the… just Colleen against the wall. No change.'
Byrne paced. Another row house. Another possible scene. Jessica rang the doorbell.
Was this the place? Byrne wondered. He ran his hand along the grimy window, felt nothing. He stepped back.
A woman opened the door. She was a stout black woman in her late forties, holding a baby, probably her granddaughter. She had gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. 'What's this about?'
Walls up, attitude out front. To her, it was another invasion by the police. She glanced over Jessica's shoulder, tried to hold Byrne's gaze, backed off.
'Have you seen this girl, ma'am?' Jessica asked. She held up the picture with one hand, her badge with the other.
The woman didn't look at the photograph right away, choosing instead to exercise her right not to cooperate.
Byrne didn't wait for an answer. He bulled his way past her, looked around the living room, ran down the narrow steps to the basement. He found a dusty Nautilus machine, a pair of broken appliances. He did not find his daughter. He charged his way back up and out the front door. Before Jessica could utter a word of apology-including the hope that there would not be a lawsuit-he was banging on the door to the next row house. They split up. Jessica would take the next few row houses. Byrne jumped ahead, around the corner.
The next residence was a shambling three-story row house with a blue door. The nameplate next to the door read V. TALMAN. Jessica knocked. No answer. Again, no answer. She was just about to move on when the door inched open. An elderly white woman opened the door. She wore a fuzzy gray robe and Velcro-strap tennis shoes. 'Help you?' the woman asked.
Jessica showed her the picture. 'I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. Have you seen this girl?'
The woman lifted her glasses, focused. 'Pretty.'
