Free The Skin Gods by Richard Montanari Page B

and thick white-rimmed glasses.
     
     
“That’s fine,” Jessica said. “I just need home contact information for both of you.”
     
     
Lenny scribbled down the information, handed it to Jessica.
     
     
“Do you rent a lot of Hitchcock films here?” Jessica asked.
     
     
“Sure,” Lenny said. “We’ve got most of them, including some of the early ones like The Lodger and Young and Innocent. But, like I said, most people rent the DVDs. The older movies look a lot better on disc. Especially the Criterion Collection editions.”
     
     
“What are the Criterion Collection editions?” Byrne asked.
     
     
“They put out classic and foreign films in remastered versions. Lots of extras on the disc. Real quality stuff.”
     
     
Jessica made a few notes. “Is there anybody you can think of who rents a lot of Hitchcock movies? Or someone who has been asking for them?”
     
     
Lenny thought about it. “Not really. I mean, not that I can think of.” He turned and looked at his coworker. “Jools?”
     
     
The girl in the yellow taffeta dress swallowed hard and shook her head. She wasn’t handling a visit from the police all that well.
     
     
“Sorry,” Lenny added.
     
     
Jessica glanced at all four corners of the store. There were two surveillance cameras at the back. “Do you have tapes from these cameras available?”
     
     
Lenny snorted again. “Uh, no. Those are just for show. They’re not connected to anything. Between you and me, we’re lucky there’s a lock on the front door.”
     
     
Jessica handed Lenny a pair of cards. “If either of you think of anything else, anything that might be connected to this tape, please give me a call.”
     
     
Lenny held the cards as if they might explode in his hands. “Sure. No prob.”
     
     
The two detectives walked the half block to the department-issue Taurus, a dozen questions floating. At the top of this list was whether or not they were actually investigating a homicide. Homicide detectives in Philadelphia were funny that way. There was always an overflowing plate in front of you, and if there was even the slightest chance that you were off on a hunt over what was actually a suicide or an accident or something else, you generally bitched and moaned until you were allowed to pass it off.
     
     
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