Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

After five miles of moderate traffic, she merged onto Minnesota 5 going west and took that to 494 heading west. The interstate was a parking lot, and it wasn’t even rush hour yet. She slowed behind a semi and then came to a dead stop behind the wall of metal. Punching on the radio, she was just in time to catch a news report on the latest drowning.

“… this afternoon identified the dead woman as twenty-three-year-old Kyra Klein, a student at the University of Minnesota. She was the second university coed found dead in her home this week. On Monday, the body of twenty-year-old Shelby Hammond was discovered by her housemates. The Hennepin County medical examiner is conducting autopsies to determine how the young women died.”

Bernadette turned up the volume and held her breath, waiting for the report to mention that bathtubs figured in each of the deaths.

“Authorities refused to comment on whether the two deaths are related. A source within the Minneapolis Police Department said that at least one of the women could have died from an accidental overdose of prescription medication but declined to release further information.”

“Feed ’em shit and keep ’em in the dark,” Bernadette said to the radio. She was pleased the police had kept the details under wraps.

“Student leaders and university officials are holding a joint press conference in Morrill Hall this afternoon to address student safety concerns. University police have already announced additional patrols.”

“Like that’s going to do any good,” Bernadette muttered.

“The two deaths come on the heels of a series of suicides that rocked the university and sent demonstrators into the streets. Since April, four young women have drowned in the Mississippi River at the Minneapolis campus. Claiming a serial killer may have murdered the young women, students and relatives of the victims demanded that the investigations into those deaths be reopened. There is no word yet on whether authorities plan to do that.”

Bernadette waited for the report to raise the possibility that the two most recent deaths were linked to the ones in the river.

“In sports, the Minnesota Wild have a—”

Relieved, Bernadette reached over and punched off the radio. The truck in front of her rolled ahead, and she did the same. She plucked the directions off the seat and glanced at them. Her exit was about a mile up. The studio wasn’t far from the freeway.

_______

THE DIRECTIONS LANDED her in a parking lot adjacent to a building that resembled one of those windowless, big-box wholesale clubs. The only thing missing was the cart corral. She saw no signs, but the address stenciled on the glass double doors matched the one on the printout. She pulled into a parking spot between a silver Mercedes sedan and a black BMW convertible. She got out and leaned against the back bumper of the truck, waiting for her business associate.

Minutes later Garcia pulled in with his heap and parked in a far corner of the lot. She was glad he hadn’t driven a bureau car. As he walked toward her, she saw he’d ditched his trench and was wearing a white shirt without a tie. The dark slacks and blazer were still government issue, but they worked.

He came up next to her with his hands in his pants pockets. “I didn’t have time to change, so I did some editing. What do you think?”

She looked around the lot and saw no video cameras. She reached behind her neck and undid her chain. “Turn around.”

“I’m gonna look like a lizard,” he whined as she clasped the necklace behind him.

“That’s what we’re after,” she said. “Unbutton another button, too. Show a little chest hair.”

He did as he was told. “Now how do I look?”

“Like a g-man wearing jewelry.”

As they walked up to the entrance, they passed more luxury vehicles. Garcia looked longingly at a white Hummer that was as big as a house. “If this FBI gig doesn’t work out, maybe we should seriously invest in the porn industry,” he said.

“Probably has better fringe benefits,” she said.

Passing through the glass doors, they immediately stepped into a compact lobby furnished with black leather furniture, fake palm trees, and glass-topped tables. She eyed the magazines scattered on a coffee table, expecting to find copies of Playboy and Penthouse. Instead, she saw Bowhunting World and the latest Cabela’s catalog. Were they in the right building?

As they approached the long, glossy reception desk at the back of the lobby, however, she was reassured. The woman behind the desk wore a fuzzy fuchsia sweater over breasts the size and shape of musk-melons. Her long feathered hair was silver-blond, and her earrings were loops as big as bracelets. Bernadette cast a sideways glance at Garcia and decided he looked a little too happy about this assignment.

Bernadette took off her trench, draped it over her arm, and went up to the counter with a smile stretched across her face. Garcia stayed back, taking in the mountainous scenery. “Hello. We’re with Capital City Venture Group.”

“Oh, yes. They’re expecting you.” The woman jiggled out from behind the desk, displaying long legs barely contained by a short black spandex skirt and fuchsia stilettos. “Follow me to the set.”

Bernadette felt like a midget librarian in her green suit as she jogged to keep pace with the twenty-something woman. Garcia continued to bring up the rear, and Bernadette knew why.

The trio went down a long hall lined with framed poster-size photos of young women posing like vintage pinups. Busty blonde on ice skates, falling on her butt. Busty blonde hanging upside down on a trapeze, her short skirt flying. Two busty blondes having a pillow fight. Busty blonde cowgirl wielding a six-shooter. Busty blonde Mrs. Santa in furry red boots. Busty blonde in a stars-and-stripes bikini bottom, tossing a sailor’s cap in the air. Bernadette bet that in the original posters, however, the girls weren’t wearing nipple rings.

“Uh … no brunettes,” noted Garcia, struggling to come up with a neutral comment about the artwork.

“I never noticed,” said the busty blonde in the tight sweater.

“Actually, they all look like you. Is that you?” Bernadette asked.

The young woman giggled. “I wish. Someday maybe. I’ve got to work on my look.”

“You’re gorgeous,” said Bernadette, and she meant it.

“I need a nose job, and I’ve got to drop ten,” she said. “My ass is as wide as the back of a school bus.”

“That sounds like a jerk boyfriend talking,” said Garcia as they walked.

“Yeah … well … it is.” She pushed open one side of a metal double door and held it for the two visitors. “My boyfriend is the director.”

“Which one is he?” asked Bernadette, looking toward a brightly illuminated cluster of people and equipment moving around in back of the warehouselike space.

“I don’t see him right now,” said the woman. “Ask anyone and they can point him out. Skip Masterman. He looks like that model on the cover of all the romance books. Muscles and long hair. Big nose. What’s that hunk’s name?”

“Fabio,” Garcia volunteered.

She nodded. “That guy. Skip looks like that guy.”

While they talked, Bernadette kept her eyes on the commotion across the cavernous space. She saw men and women in jeans clambering around cameras, lights, and other equipment. They were all facing a pool of light. That was where the action was taking place. “If he’s that hunky, what’s your boyfriend doing behind the camera?” Bernadette asked distractedly.

“He’s been in adult films,” she said. “But the real money is in the directing and producing. He came home to do that.”

“He’s from Minnesota?” asked Garcia.

“Straight off the soybean field.” She paused. “But don’t get me wrong. Skip isn’t a Jethro. He’s smart. He has a degree in philosophy.”

So that’s what philosophy majors did after college: direct porn. “How is the money?” asked Bernadette.

“It’s coming,” said the young woman. “Some of his old high school buds are backing him on these fetish films.”

Bernadette was intrigued. A clique of country boys was interested enough in water porn to pour money into it. She turned to the fuchsia sweater. “We’re good if you need to get back to the desk.”

“You sure? I can take you over there,” she said, casting an interested glance at Garcia.

“We’re not shy.” Bernadette looked across the room. “We’ll find Skip and introduce ourselves.”

“Okay.” She jiggled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“How do you know who Fabio is?” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.

He grinned. “Just shut up about it.”

“Let’s go into the light,” Bernadette said, and they made a straight line for the knot of activity.

Chapter 19

THE JERK’S GIRLFRIEND wasn’t exaggerating. Skip masterman could pass for Fabio—until he opened his mouth. He had long yellow teeth with a gap between the top set, scary choppers that gave him a wolflike appearance. Like everyone else, he was dressed in jeans and a T. The front of his shirt had a movie camera on it, and the words “I’m Famous in Europe.” A diamond studded his left lobe; the rock was the size of a thumbtack.

Standing at the elbow of a stocky woman armed with a tiara and a hand mirror, Masterman directed the positioning of a huge water tank that was being wheeled in front of the cameras and lights. Unlike the tanks Bernadette had viewed over the Internet, this one was horizontal. It resembled a giant aquarium.

“Right here,” he said, pointing with a pencil to an X chalked on the concrete floor. “Center it right here.”

The three men wheeling the tank missed the mark, positioning the tank to the right of the X.

Masterman marched over to the X and repeatedly stomped his foot on top of it. “Here! Here! Here!”

“This thing keeps … getting away from us,” said one of the crewmen, panting as he pushed the tank left toward the mark. The front of his jeans was wet from water splashing over the sides.

“The floor is sloped or something,” panted another of the trio.

Where was the diving diva? Scanning the crowd, Bernadette’s eyes landed on a large-breasted blonde wrapped in a bathrobe. The young woman didn’t seem the least bit nervous about the prospect of getting dunked naked into a tank of water. She was busy puffing on a cigarette, flicking the ash onto the floor as she watched the three struggling crewmen. “That must be the star,” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.

“Must be,” he said, his eyes locked and loaded.

“So you recognize her?”

“Yeah. No. I mean—” He saw her smirking. “Funny.”

Masterman stepped off the X and watched the trio again miss the mark, this time wheeling the tank too far to the left. “Jesus H. Christmas,” he spat. “Why is this so difficult?”

“Is the water still warm?” the robed woman asked no one in particular.

“It’s perfect, Tiff,” Masterman answered without tearing his eyes off the X.

“It was cold yesterday,” she said, and flicked another ash onto the floor. “I froze my ass off.”

“You’ll feel like you’re back in the womb,” said a guy with a clipboard.

Masterman looked over at the clipboard guy with a grin. That’s when the director spotted Bernadette and Garcia. He tucked the pencil behind his ear and walked over with an outstretched hand. “Hello.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Masterman.” Bernadette accepted his big mitt while trying to imagine all the places it had been during the course of his career. She was glad she’d kept her leather gloves on her hands. “My partners e-mailed you earlier today.”

“Capital City Venture,” he said, shaking Garcia’s hand vigorously. “I’ve heard of your group. Impressive projects.”

Garcia fired back with a similar line of bullshit. “Your films are what’s impressive.”

Masterman turned around and addressed his crew. “Take ten, kids.”

The trio struggling with the tank started to walk away, digging their smokes out of their pockets.

“Not you, bozos,” Masterman yelled. “Keep working on positioning that water. X marks the spot.”

“I hate that X,” one of them groused, and the three of them returned to muscling the tank into place.

Masterman turned back to his visitors. “Which one is your favorite?”

Bernadette frowned. “What?”

“Which of my films is your favorite?”

Recognizing a lose-lose situation, Garcia kept his mouth shut. Bernadette thought back to the clip Creed had shown her. “The one with the fire hoses. The critics gave it four out of five, right?”

Masterman thumbed over his shoulder to the scene behind him. “This one is going to take the top prize. I’m sure of it.”

She wondered what the top prize was called. The Platinum Penis? “Good to hear,” she said.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“Chris Udahl.” She dug Creed’s business card out of her coat and passed it to him. “This is another partner … Mr. Richard Ricardo.”

Garcia smiled pleasantly.

Masterman stuffed the card in the front pocket of his jeans without looking at it. “Questions? Comments?”

“I understand you have another Minnesota group financing your films at the moment,” said Garcia.

“You’ve done your research,” he said, crossing his arms and tucking his hands under his armpits. “They want to keep a low profile, however, so I’m unable to discuss the particulars.”

Bernadette said, “I was hoping to talk to them about their experience, what they know about the industry, whether this would be a wise—”

“Their experience is limited to writing out the checks,” the director interrupted. “They’ve never expressed an interest in visiting a set or meeting any of the talent. All they care about is whether I turn a profit, which I do.”

Garcia asked, “They don’t care about the subject matter?”

Masterman said, “I could be doing a Civil War documentary.”

“You seem to be carving out a niche for yourself in the fetish area, water fetishes in particular. What’s the market like for those sorts of specialty films? What sort of person watches them?” asked Bernadette, thinking about the professor.

“Everyone watches them,” Masterman said. “Fetish films, Web sites, and magazines—they’re all growing like gangbusters.”

“What’s fueling the interest?” asked Garcia. “Are people practicing this stuff more and more in their own bedrooms?”

“I think they watch when they aren’t getting action at home,” the director said. “This is the only thing left, the only turn-on besides hookers.” He paused, then declared with a straight face: “We’re performing a public service.”

Garcia said, “Keeping them off the streets, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Bernadette eyed the crew wrestling with the water tank. “But why do some men get turned on by certain fetishes? Why drowning, for example?”

Masterman launched into a speech Bernadette suspected he’d given before: “Why do some men get turned on by tits while others like legs? Why do some like to spank and others want to get spanked? There are dudes who like to watch and those who want to be watched. Why? Were they breast-fed as babies? Were they spanked? Did they take baths with Mom? Did Dad leave copies of Penthouse sitting around? Did they peek when Big Sister was getting dressed? Did they try on Big Sister’s dress?”

“It’s all about how males are raised,” said Bernadette.

“We can only be domesticated to a point, right, Richard?” said Masterman, throwing an arm around the taller man. Garcia gave him the eye, and the director took his arm away. “At our core we’re all feral. As Plato put it so eloquently: ‘Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.’” He nodded toward the tank. “This is an attempt to placate the savage.”

“By this, you mean the water films,” said Garcia.

“This can be anything,” Masterman said. “I don’t care what this is. I don’t give a damn what turns their crank or why, as long as I can get them to open their wallets and plunk down their dollar bills.”

Garcia said, “So if next month the latest fetish involves slathering big toes with chocolate syrup—”

“I’m slathering big toes with chocolate syrup. Pass the nuts and whipped cream.” Masterman shrugged. “It’s not my fault popular tastes have declined. ‘The people that had once bestowed commands, consulships, legions and all else, now longs eagerly for just two things: bread and circus games.’ I’m the circus.”

The philosopher-pornographer and his people weren’t dedicated practitioners. For them, the drowning films were less about satisfying their personal libidos and more about meeting current market demands. Bernadette realized she’d get no leads for the case through Visceral Motion Pictures, but she’d gained some insight. “I think we’ve seen enough of your operation.”

The talent dipped her fingers into the tank and whined. “Skippy, the water’s getting cold.”

“It’s fine, Tiff!” he yelled.

“I’m gonna freeze my ass again.” Tiff flicked her cigarette butt onto the floor and stepped on it.

For the first time Bernadette took note of the sagging sweat socks and worn house slippers on the star’s feet. The tank sat in front of a fake wall slapped with beige paint. Bordering each side of the tank were plastic palm trees identical to the ones Bernadette had seen out in the lobby. Otherwise the set was bereft of furnishings. Suddenly the whole production seemed depressingly low-rent and tired, and she wanted to get out of there fast. “We’ll let you get back to work. I’m sure every minute you spend talking to us is costing you money.”

“Since you’re already here, stay and observe,” Masterman said cheerily.

She checked her watch. “I don’t know.”

“This is a key scene,” he said. “It summarizes the entire movie.”

“We can stay,” Garcia said quickly.

Bernadette gave Garcia the eye and asked, “Where do you want us to stand?”

The director put a paw on her back and guided her to the director’s chair, positioned a few yards from the tank. He seemed to have forgotten about Mr. Ricardo. “Front-row seat for you.”

She was close enough to get wet if the water play got out of hand. Lowering herself into the chair, she clutched her coat in front of her. “Great.”

Garcia came up and pointedly inserted himself between Bernadette and Masterman.

“Can we get started?” asked Tiff, kicking off her slippers and bending over to pull off her socks.

“Where’s Doug?” asked Masterman, stepping up to the tank.

A tall, ripped man pushed through the jungle of plastic palms and stood next to the leading lady. Sporting a black ponytail, tight jeans, and a yellow rain slicker pulled over a bare chest, the guy looked like the Chippendale version of a lobsterman. “Ready to rumble,” he announced, slapping his flat gut.

“Then let’s get rolling,” said Masterman. He turned around and addressed the crew. “We have to do this in one take, so get it right.”

The director went over to Bernadette, saw Garcia planted on one side of her chair, and took the opposite side. Tiff dropped her robe and handed it to Clipboard Guy. Mirror Lady passed Tiff the tiara and held the mirror up so the nude actress could position the crown on her head.

Masterman leaned against the arm of Bernadette’s chair and brought his mouth close to her ear. “Tiff’s an outcast mermaid princess stripped of her fins and banished to a life on dry land. Doug is trying to restore her to her throne.”

“Why was she banished?” Bernadette asked, leaning away from him.

“She banged Doug,” said Masterman, grinning lasciviously.

Garcia, while scrutinizing the director’s closeness to Bernadette asked, “So what?”

Masterman, still smiling at Bernadette, said, “Doug’s a fisherman with a big … rod.”

While the young woman held her arms out for Clipboard Guy, he wrapped her wrists together with clothesline rope. “Why is that necessary?” asked Bernadette.

“It’s part of the plot,” said Masterman. “Plus we want to also be able to market to the bondage crowd.”

She watched while Clipboard Guy moved down to the woman’s ankles and started binding them together. “This seems dangerous,” said Bernadette.

“Tiff can handle it,” Masterman said.

“Have you ever had any close calls?” asked Garcia, frowning at the scene. “Any near drownings?”

“Never,” Masterman said.

Clipboard Guy stood up and exchanged words with Tiff. Then both of them laughed, and Clipboard Guy stepped away.

Masterman took his arm off Bernadette’s chair and yelled toward the couple, “Action!”

A fat cameraman closed in, and Tiff and Doug launched into the perfunctory dialogue.

Tiff, looking up at Doug with her bound hands on his chest: “I’m afraid. What if it doesn’t work?”

Doug, pulling Tiff close by her shoulders: “Then we were meant to be together.”

Tiff leaned her head back as Doug kissed her, and the crown fell to the floor with a clatter. The fisherman swept the princess off her feet and went around to the back of the aquarium. He held the nude woman over the water. “Are you ready?”

“This could be goodbye forever,” she said breathlessly.

“I’ll never forget you,” he said, and set her down into the water.

The cameraman moved in closer while Doug held Tiff beneath the surface by the shoulders. Craning her neck to look around the cameraman, Bernadette could see the young woman squirm and twist, her long hair swirling around her head and face. Bubbles escaped from her nose and mouth. She kicked at the end of the tank with her bound feet and sent waves splashing over the sides. Doug adjusted his grip, his hands moving from her shoulders to her breasts.

Bernadette jumped out of her chair and started for the tank. “She’s in trouble.”

Masterman snagged her by the elbow. “Tiff’s fine.”

Garcia started to move toward the tank. “He’s drowning her.”

Before Garcia could take another step, Tiff sat up in the aquarium, shivering and panting. “I’m done. This water is f-freezing.”

The cameraman looked over at his director and gave the thumbs-up sign. “I got it.”

“Good,” said Masterman. He bent over and retrieved Bernadette’s trench coat from the floor.

Garcia snatched the coat from his hands. “I hope we didn’t ruin your shot.”

Masterman smiled. “No. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” said Bernadette. “What if you’re doing actual harm with this violent stuff?”

“I’m not,” he said confidently. “It’s harmless entertainment.”

“Don’t you ever doubt yourself and your profession?” asked Garcia.

“Don’t you doubt yours at times?” Masterman shot back.

If only he knew their true profession, thought Bernadette. “I’m certain what we do doesn’t injure innocent people.”

“As Voltaire penned in his letter to Frederick the Great: ‘Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is an absurd one.’”

“Thank you for your time,” said Garcia, helping Bernadette on with her trench coat.

Masterman said, “Sounds like you’re not going to be sending us any checks.”

“Your subject matter seems over the top even for an adult video,” Garcia said.

“It’s too risky for our group,” added Bernadette. “Maybe if you returned to more conventional fare.”

“I can show you our books. We’re highly profitable.”

“We don’t need to see your books,” Garcia said.

Bernadette said, “We know our people, and they won’t go for this drowning business. Hoses are one thing, but that tank is scary.”

“I guess I screwed myself when I insisted that you stay and watch.”

“Better to find out at this early juncture,” she said, pulling her gloves tighter over her fingers.

“What can I do to change your mind?” Masterman laughed dryly. “I really want your money.”

“As Mick Jagger penned, ‘You can’t always get what you want,’” said Garcia.

She extended her hand. “We’ll call you.”

Masterman trapped her small hand between the two of his and flashed the wolf grin again. “If you ever want to meet outside of work and discuss it further over drinks …” Garcia glared at Masterman, and the director released Bernadette’s hand. “Or not.”

The two agents headed for the exit, letting the heavy door slam behind them.

“How did it go?” asked the fuchsia sweater as the pair hurried past the lobby desk.

“Swimmingly,” said Garcia, punching a plastic palm as they made their way to the glass doors.

THEY DECOMPRESSED while standing together in the parking lot behind her truck. “Well, that was illuminating,” said Bernadette.

“Right,” said Garcia, fumbling behind him to try to undo her necklace.

“Here, let me,” she said, and he turned around and scrunched down so she could unfasten the chain.

“Is the professor still on your short list?”

“This didn’t change anything,” she said. “He’s our main suspect.”

“Motive?”

She looked toward the building they’d just exited. “Some sort of sexual perversion involving drowning.”

Garcia watched while she put the necklace back on. “I hope you’re ready to see more sick shit. You and I have second shift tonight.”

She wrapped her coat tight around her. “At least that gives me time to go home and shower. I really feel like I need a shower.”

BERNADETTE KEPT the windows rolled down as she navigated the truck back to St. Paul. The cold autumn air roared into the cab and slapped her face hard, knocking the image of the drowning tank to the back of her head.

Masterman’s explanation for why men latched onto certain fetishes wasn’t a revelation. She knew that the way people were raised influenced their adult habits. As an FBI agent, she’d witnessed the criminal behaviors passed from one generation to the next in a troubled family. Molestation victims became molesters. The children of thieves grew up to make their living by cheating and stealing. Kids raised by drunks became drunks themselves. Hearing a pornographer’s spin on childhood influences, however, pushed the idea to the forefront of her thinking. Had Professor Wakefielder suffered some sort of water-related trauma? It could be basic: he’d nearly drowned as a child or watched a playmate go under.