"Where was this tape in the store when you rented it?"
"Where was it?"
"I mean, do they display the tapes on racks there, or do they just have empty boxes on the racks and keep the tapes behind the counter?"
"No, they have actual tapes on display."
"Where was this tape?"
"There's a section called Classics. It was in there."
"Are they displayed alphabetically?"
"I think so."
"Do you recall if this movie was right where it was supposed to be on the rack?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you rent anything else along with this?"
Adam drained of what little color remained in his face, as if the idea, the very notion, that other tapes might contain something this horrible was a possibility. "No. That was the only one."
"Do you know any of the other customers there?"
"Not really."
"Do you know anyone else who may have rented this tape?"
"No," he said.
"Here's a tough one," Jessica said. "Are you ready?" I guess so.
"Do you recognize the young woman on the tape?"
Adam swallowed hard, shook his head. "Sorry."
"That's okay," Jessica said. "We're just about done for now. You're doing great."
This dislodged a crooked half smile from the young man. The fact that he was going to leave soon-the fact that he was going to leave at all-seemed to lift a heavy yoke from his shoulders. Jessica made a few more notes, glanced at her watch.
Adam asked: "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Is that part, like, real?"
"We're not certain."
Adam nodded. Jessica held his gaze, looking for the slightest sign that he might be hiding something. All she found was a young man who stumbled onto something bizarre and, probably, terrifyingly real. Talk about your horror movie.
"Okay, Mr. Kaslov," she said. "We appreciate you bringing this in. We'll be in touch."
"Okay," Adam said. "Are we done?"
"Yes. And we'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss this with anyone for the time being." I won t.
They stood, shook hands. Adam Kaslov's hand was ice.
"One of the officers will walk you down," Jessica added.
"Thanks," he said.
As the young man walked out into the duty room of the Homicide Unit, Jessica glanced at the two-way mirror. Although she couldn't see through it, she didn't have to read Kevin Byrne's face to know they were in total agreement. Chances were good that Adam Kaslov had nothing to do with the crime committed on the tape.
If, in fact, a crime had actually been committed.
Byrne told Jessica he would meet her in the parking lot. When he found himself relatively alone and unobserved in the duty room, he sat at one of the computers, ran a check on Julian Matisse. As expected, there was nothing current. There had been a break-in 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 of grunge he was emulating: the original Neil Young version, the Nirvana/Pearl Jam nexus, or some new breed of which she, at the ancient age of thirty, was not familiar.
There were a handful of browsers in the store. Beneath the cloying smell of strawberry incense was the faint aroma of some pretty good pot.
Byrne showed the clerk his badge.
"Whoa," the kid said. His bloodshot eyes darted to the beaded doorway behind him and to what was, Jessica was fairly certain, his small stash of weed.
"What's your name?" Byrne asked.
"My name?"
"Yeah," Byrne said. "That's the thing other people call you when they want to get your attention."
"Uh, Leonard," he said. "Leonard Puskas. Lenny, actually."
"Are you the manager, Lenny?" Byrne asked.
"Well not, like, officially."
"Meaning, like, what?"
"Meaning I open and close and do all the ordering and all the other work around here. All for minimum wage."
Byrne held up the outer box for the copy of Psycho that Adam Kaslov had rented. The Audio Visual Unit still had the original tape.
"Hitch," Lenny said, nodding. "A classic."