Stone Kiss (14 page)

She stopped talking. Decker couldn’t hear Donatti’s response.

The girl said, “May I see your identification and badge again?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s Lieutenant Peter Deck—”

“Son of a bitch!”

That, Decker heard. He staved off a smile. The girl hung up the phone, with a slightly bemused look on her face. “He’s in
the middle of a shoot. You must really rate.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Decker smiled, realizing that there wasn’t as much as a stool for him to sit on. Not much space for excess furniture
anyway. It was a nondescript area with cream-colored blank walls and barely enough room for the receptionist and guard. Chris
probably didn’t get much company.

With Donatti, a few minutes actually meant a few minutes. The interior door opened, and there he was. No longer the lanky
heartthrob of a teen, Christopher Whitman Donatti, at twenty-six, now cut a big swath. He was broad across the chest, with
massive arms and developed biceps. His left hand gripped a Hasselblad that looked like a toy in his fingers. He was clean
shaven, his abundant blond locks shorn just a step away from a buzz cut. A lean, long face contained high cheekbones and a
wide forehead, with ruddy skin that wasn’t weathered but did hold some seams. He had a strong jawline, not chiseled but more
manly than boyish. Generous lips that protected straight white teeth. Noticeable large blue eyes: ice-colored with no reflective
quality whatsoever. What was the opposite of luminous?

Decker and his six-foot-four frame had always faced Chris eye-toeye. For the first time, he sensed his line of vision moving
upward.

“You grew.”

“I always was a late bloomer.” Donatti wore loose clothing—a black T-shirt over khaki cargo pants, the pockets bulging—probably
filled with photographic paraphernalia and, no doubt, a state-of-theart piece. His feet were housed in black suede running
shoes. He was still blocking the door, staring at Decker. “I need to pat you down.”

“I made it through security.”

“I need to pat you down,” Donatti repeated.

The child/guard was on his feet, his right hand on his hip. His face
may have looked young, but his eyes reflected pure business. “Can I be of assistance, Mr. Donatti?”

“Thanks, Justin, but this one’s mine.” Donatti gave the girl his camera, then turned to Decker. “The position?”

Without protest, Decker faced the wall, leaning forward on his arms. It was natural for Donatti to assume that Decker was
wearing a wire or carrying a gun—something for defense. As it was, Decker was putty, nothing but his brain for protection.
Donatti was thorough with the frisk—front and back, up and down, inside and out. He went through Decker’s pockets, sorted
through his credit cards and personal identification. From his wallet, the kid pulled out the one lone photograph Decker was
carrying—the recent snapshot of Jacob.

Donatti showed him the photo. “This is the only picture you carry?”

“My son gave it to me a couple of days ago. Normally, I don’t carry any pictures of my family.”

“Protective?”

“A lot of people resent me.” Decker smiled.

Donatti’s face was flat. He stared at the snapshot. “He’s the image of your wife.”

Decker’s stomach did a little dance. He didn’t respond and tried to look unimpressed.

“Am I wrong?” Donatti said.

“No, not at all.”

Donatti returned the picture to Decker’s wallet, placed it back into the jacket pocket. He rummaged through the rest of Decker’s
jacket, fishing out the envelope that held the crime-scene photos.

It gave him pause.

Carefully, he scrutinized them, studying them one by one. Again he stopped when he got to the photo of Ephraim with Shaynda.
Though his eyes were fixed on the faces, his expression was completely blank. Abruptly, he placed the snapshots back in the
envelope and slipped the whole package back into Decker’s pocket. Then he stepped away from the door. “Okay. You can come
in.”

The loft was enormous, with vaulted ceilings, and large, dusty windows letting in filtered light. Each window had a shade
on it—some were rolled up, some drawn. The floor was made from old planks of
cherry wood, scuffed but still intact. Most of the studio was empty space, except for a bank of built-in cabinets underneath
the windows, a weight rack, a cello case next to a backless chair, and the actual shooting area. Here was the place of action:
a jumble of prop boxes, numerous hanging backdrops, several differently colored carpets, chairs, tables, and lighting accessories.
There were umbrellas, tripods, reflectors, and spots—all of them positioned around the main stage.

There was music in the background—something classical but atonal and avant-garde which Decker didn’t recognize. It was very
low-pitched like whispered conversation. Two young boys—probably teenagers—were rearranging props and photographic equipment,
pulling things in and out of boxes and bags. They were flitting around the center stage and its main occupant—a naked girl
wearing spiked heels on her feet and a boa around her neck. Her blond hair was pinned, but in disarray. She wore little makeup—lipstick,
a spot of blush. Big blue eyes were taking him in.

Decker averted his gaze, electing to look at his shoes.

All his girls are legit
.

She was probably eighteen, but she was made up to look around fourteen.

Wordlessly, Donatti started fiddling with the background tripod that held an electronic flash. “Go on.”

“Are you talking to me?” Decker asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you mind if we talk in private?”

“Getting distracted, Lieutenant?”

“Distracted is a good word.”

“Hey, you said it was important. I figured we can talk while I work.” He regarded Decker’s eyes, his face cold and expressionless.
“But if you want to talk to me alone, you’ll have to wait.”

“How long?”

“Beats me. But you can sit if you want. You can even take a cup of coffee.”

Decker’s eyes swept across the room. There was a coffeepot resting on top of one of the cabinets. He walked over, poured himself
a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, and looked around for a chair.

Donatti said, “Matt, get the lieutenant a box to sit on.”

One of the young boys snapped to it, bringing Decker a wooden crate. Decker thanked him, then watched Donatti pose the girl
while trying not to stare too hard. Donatti positioned her, head back and legs apart. Then he nudged a reflector upward with
his toe. “Up… up. Like this, okay?”

Matt nodded, gripping the silver surface.

Donatti took a lens out of his pants pocket and switched it with the one in his camera. “Keep the damn thing up!” Again he
kicked the reflector. “Like that! Jesus! Reading?”

The other young boy held up an exposure meter. A flash went off and the boy gave Donatti some numbers.

The two assistants appeared almost prepubescent—narrow-hipped and narrow-shouldered, without any signs of facial hair. One
was of dark skin—Latino or Puerto Rican—the other was Anglo. Both had long, silken hair—perfect chicken-hawk material. Decker
wondered if Chris was swinging both ways, or at the very least pimping both ways. The boys were all work and showed no interest
in the young girl, who was the center of attention—licking her lips provocatively as she parted her legs, her eyes on Decker.

Again Decker looked at his feet. “Nice place,” he said absently.

“Like it? I own the building.”

“Very entrepreneurial, Chris.”

“I like business. It suits me.” Donatti did a slow turn and faced Decker with lightless eyes. “By the way, I called you Lieutenant.
That means you call me Mr. Donatti.”

“I stand corrected.”

Donatti went over to the center and peered through the camera. “Matt, you got to lift up the reflector around an inch… yeah,
there. Richie, you want to kick up that back light, I’m getting a nasty shadow… to the left. That’s good. Hold out the meter.”

A flash went off.

“Reading?”

Richie gave him the numbers. Donatti was not happy. He played with the lights, the umbrella, and the reflectors. As his frustration
increased, Donatti’s assistants seemed to grow more and more anxious,
exhibiting nervous twitches. There was no attempt at camaraderie. It was Mr. Donatti this, and Mr. Donatti that. Finally,
the conditions met with Chris’s approval, and Donatti started snapping, talking the girl through it as he worked. He was fast
and furious, dripping with sweat under the hot lights. The model was also sweating profusely. He worked continually for about
five minutes; then without warning, Donatti stopped, swore, picked up a spray bottle of ice water, and blasted it over the
young girl’s chest and vagina.

The model shrieked. “God—”

“I know it’s cold,” Donatti told her. “It can’t be helped.” He tossed her a cold pack. “Put it over your hot spot.”

“Huh?”

Donatti marched over to her and slapped the cold pack on her vagina. “Hold it. And stop looking angry. You’re supposed to
be a fantasy, and fantasies don’t look like they sucked on lemons. If the men I sell to wanted that expression, they’d fuck
their wives.”

“It’s freezing,” she whined.

“Just hold it and stop bitching.” He turned to Decker. “Ice shrinks the membranes down. It makes for a prettier picture. I
gotta get air-conditioning in this place. Not only would I be more comfortable, but it would also keep the nipples erect.”

“It’s cold outside,” Decker commented.

“The windows don’t open. Security.” He turned back to the model. “Okay, you can take it away… good. Now give it to me, Tina.
C’mon, baby, make your moves.”

She began to pose in a provocative manner while Donatti snapped away, then stopped again. He growled, “You keep sweating.”

“I can’t help it!”

He sighed. “If you can’t beat ’em…” He went over to one of the cardboard boxes and started pulling out props. He chose a sweatband,
a pair of sneakers, socks with pom-poms, and a calculator. He tossed her the accessories. “Put those on. We’ll go for the
fucked cheerleader look, all right?”

She took off the black spiked heels, put on the socks, then tried to put on the sneakers. “They’re too small.”

“So cram your foot into it, Cinderella. Don’t lace it up, all right.
You know what? I got an idea. Put one on, let the other one dangle. Yeah… like that. Now put on the sweatband…Wow, that’s
good!” He placed the calculator at her feet, then squirted another round of ice water on her. Waiting a few moments, he opened
the girl’s legs and fluffed up her pubic hair. “Throw your head back, but keep your eyes fucking the lens. Good girl. Now
put your finger in your spot, but not all the way… just the nail. Good… real good.”

She whined as she talked. “Like
why
do you want a calculator?”

“
Because
you’re supposed to be a schoolgirl. You remember school, don’t you?”

“Like ha-ha, I’m laughing.”

“You be polite,” Donatti growled. “We have company.”

His voice was menacing, putting fear in the girl’s eyes. In a toe tap, she was all business.

“That’s good,” Donatti complimented. “That’s really good, Tina. C’mon, give me those luscious lips, baby!”

The girl gave him a wide smile that made her look around twelve. Donatti was pleased. “You got it, baby.” Snap, snap. “Do
the camera, honey, do it hard and nasty. Man, you are fucking good.” Snap, snap, snap. “You got the look, sugar, the perfect
wet dream for all old farts who can’t get it up.”

She leered at Decker. “Old farts like him.”

Donatti stopped and followed her gaze. He had been so distracted, he’d forgotten about Decker’s presence. His eyes went dead.
“Yeah, old farts like him.” Snap, snap. “Not him specifically.” Back at the model. “I’ve seen his wife.” Snap, snap, snap.
“Getting it up probably isn’t one of his more significant problems.”

After fifteen minutes, he stood up straight and shook out his shoulders.

“That’s the roll.” He took several fifties out of his wallet and gave them to Richie. “Take an hour break. Bring Amber and
Justin with you. Be back by noon. If you’re late, I’ll be pissed.”

Richie nodded.

“I expect change.”

“Yes, sir.”

Donatti grinned, then tousled the young Latino’s hair. The boy
smiled shyly. The girl slipped on a pair of sloppy sweats and threw a knapsack over her back, making her appear even younger.

“Tina,” Donatti called out.

She turned around.

Donatti gave her a thumbs-up. Her face instantly lit up… like turning on a switch. After everyone left, Donatti said, “I’ve
got to look at the rolls. Help yourself to some more coffee. I’ll be out in about a half hour.”

The loft held four interior doors. He walked through one of them and was gone from sight. Thirty-two minutes later, he reappeared,
a timer in his hands.

“This way.” He motioned to Decker, taking him through a different door. As soon as Decker stepped across the threshold, Donatti
flipped several switches—including the light—then locked the door with two solid dead bolts. The office was spacious but had
no windows. The illumination was muted, the ventilation provided by an overhead fan. Again there was very little furniture.
A thirty-by-sixty table surrounded by four chairs probably served as a desk. Donatti had a lamp, a phone, and a fax machine,
but nothing else sat on the table’s surface. There was a single file cabinet against the wall, a clock above it. The wall
also had a half-dozen video monitors that gave Donatti a view of the lobby, his own front door, and several other sites around
the building’s exterior. Next to the monitors was a wall panel containing ten lights—some were green, some red. Decker figured
that they represented various security zones.

Donatti sat on one side of the table; Decker took a seat opposite him. No one spoke. Then Decker laid the crime-scene photos
on Donatti’s desk, along with the picture of Ephraim and Shaynda.

Donatti didn’t look at them. “Why in the world do you think
I
would talk to you? You ruined my life.”