Still, the boss had handed them a job, and off they had to go. Most homicide investigations began with the crime scene and the victim. Rare was the case that began at a point before that.
They got in the car and headed off to interview Mr. Isaiah Crandall, classic film buff and potential psychotic killer.
Across the street from the video store, shadowed in a doorway, a man watched the drama unfold inside The Reel Deal. He was unremarkable in all ways, except in his capacity to adapt to his surroundings, like a chameleon. At this moment he might be mistaken for Harry Lime in The Third Man.
Later in the day he might be Gordon Gekko in Wall Street.
Or Tom Hagen in The Godfather.
Or Babe Levy in Marathon Man.
Or Archie Rice in The Entertainer.
For when he stepped before his public he could be many men, many characters. He could be a doctor, a dockworker, the drummer in a lounge band. He could be a priest, a doorman, a librarian, a travel agent, even a law enforcement officer.
He was a man of a thousand guises, skilled in the arts of dialect and stage movement. He could be whatever the day called for.
This, after all, was what actors do.
9
At roughly thirty-three thousand feet over Altoona, Pennsylvania, Seth Goldman finally began to unwind. For a man who had found himself inside an airplane an average of three days a week for the past four years-they had just taken off from Philadelphia, heading to Pittsburgh, they'd be returning in only a few hours-he was still a white- knuckle flier. Every bump of turbulence, every raised aileron, every air pocket filled him with dread.
But now, in the well-appointed Learjet 60, he began to unwind. If you had to fly, sitting in a rich butter-cream leather seat, with burl wood and brass appointments around you, and a fully stocked galley at your disposal, was definitely the way to go.
Ian Whitestone was sitting at the rear of the jet, shoes off, eyes closed, headphones on. It was at times like these-when Seth knew where his boss was, with the day's activities planned and security in place-that he allowed himself to relax.
Seth Goldman was born thirty-seven years ago as Jerzy Andres Kiedrau, hardscrabble-poor in Muse, Florida. The only son of a sassy, opinionated woman and a black-hearted man, he had been an unplanned, unwanted late-life baby, and from the first days he could remember, his father had reminded him of this.
When Krystof Kiedrau wasn't beating his wife, he was beating and berating his only son. Some nights the arguments got so loud, the bloodletting became so brutal, that young Jerzy had to flee the trailer, running far into the low scrub fields that bordered the trailer park, coming home at dawn covered with sand beetle bites and the welts of a hundred mosquito stings.
During those years, Jerzy had one solace: the movies. He had worked odd jobs, scrubbing down trailers, running errands, cleaning pools, and as soon as he had enough for a matinee, he would hitchhike to Palmdale and the Lyceum Theater.
He recalled many afternoons in the cool darkness of the theater, a place where he could lose himself in the world of fantasy. Early on he realized the power of the medium to transport, to exalt, to mystify, to terrify. It was a love affair that never ended.
When he returned home, if his mother was sober, he would discuss the film he had seen with her. His mother knew all about the movies. She had once been an actress, having appeared in more than a dozen films, making her debut as a teenager in the late 1940s under the stage name Lily Trieste.
She had worked with all the important directors of noir-Dmytryk, Siodmak, Dassin, Lang. The shining moment in her career-a career that mostly had her lurking in shadowed alleys, smoking unfiltered cigarettes with a slew of nearly handsome men sporting thin mustaches and double- breasted notch-lapel suits-had been a scene with Franchot Tone, a scene where she uttered one of Jerzy's favorite lines of noir dialogue. Standing in the doorway to a cold-water walk-up, she had stopped brushing her hair, turned to the actor, who was being led away by the authorities, and said:
"I spent the morning washing you out of my hair, baby. Don't make me give you the brush."
By the time she reached her midthirties, the industry cast her aside. Not wanting to settle for the crazy-aunt roles, she moved to Florida to live with her sister, and it was there she met her future husband. Her career had long been over by the time she'd given birth to Jerzy at the age of forty-seven.
At fifty-six, Krystof Kiedrau was diagnosed with advanced cirrhosis of the liver, the result of drinking a fifth of bottom-shelf whiskey every day for thirty-five years. He was told that if he drank another drop of alcohol, he could fall into an alcohol-induced coma, which could ultimately prove fatal. For a few months, the warning had scared Krystof Kiedrau into abstinence. Then, after losing his part-time job, Krystof had tied one on and come home blind drunk.
He beat his wife mercilessly that night, the final blow, one that drove her head into a sharp cabinet handle, pierced her temple, causing a deep gash. By the time Jerzy got home from his job sweeping up the auto body shop in Moore Haven, his mother had bled to death in the corner of the kitchen, and his father was sitting in his chair, half a bottle of whiskey in his hand, three full bottles at his side, his grease-stained wedding album in his lap.
Fortunately for young Jerzy, Krystof Kiedrau was too far gone to stand up, let alone light into him.
Late into the night Jerzy poured his father glass after glass of whiskey, at times helping the man bring the filthy tumbler to his lips. By midnight, with two bottles left, Krystof began to drift in and out of a stupor, and could no longer hold the glass. Jerzy then began to pour the whiskey directly down his father's throat. By four thirty, his father had consumed a total of four full fifths of alcohol, and at exactly five ten that morning he fell into an alcohol coma. A few minutes later he took his final foul breath.
A few hours later, with both his parents dead, the flies already seeking out their decaying flesh in the stifling confines of the trailer, Jerzy called the police.
After a brief investigation, during which Jerzy said barely a word, he was placed into a group home in Lee County where he learned the art of persuasion and social manipulation. At eighteen he went to Edison Community College. He was a quick study, a brilliant student, and he attacked his studies with a fervor for knowledge he had never known was within him. Two years later, his associate's degree in hand, Jerzy moved to North Miami, where he sold cars by day and earned his bachelor's degree at night at Florida International University. Eventually he worked his way to sales manager.
Then one day a man walked into the dealership. An extraordinary- looking man: slender, dark-eyed, bearded, brooding. He reminded Seth of a young Stanley Kubrick in his guise and carriage. The man was Ian Whitestone.
Seth had seen Whitestone's lone low-budget feature film and, although it had been a commercial flop, Seth had known that Whitestone would move on to bigger and better things.
As it turned out, Ian Whitestone was a huge fan of noir. He knew Lily Trieste's work. Over a few bottles of wine they had discussed the genre. By morning's light, Whitestone hired him as a production assistant.
Seth knew that a name like Jerzy Andres Kiedrau wouldn't get him too far in show business, so he decided to change it. The last name was easy. He had long considered William Goldman one of the screenwriting gods, had admired his work for many years. And if anyone made the connection, assuming that Seth was in some way related to the writer of Marathon Man, Magic, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, he would not go out of his way to disabuse them of the notion.