The broadcast was coming from, a cell phone data transfer. Mateo brought a laptop up to the duty room, jacked into the Internet. He believed the setup was a web camera linked to a laptop, then routed out through a cell phone. It made it much harder to trace, because-unlike a landline, which was tied to a permanent address-the cell phone signal needed to be triangulated between cell phone towers.
Within minutes a request for a court order to trace the cell phone was faxed to the district attorney's office. Ordinarily, something like this would take hours. Not today. Paul DiCarlo personally ran it from his office at 1421 Arch Street to the top floor of the Criminal Justice Center, where Judge Liam McManus signed it. Ten minutes after that the Homicide Unit was on the phone with the cell phone company's security division.
Detective Tony Park was the go-to man in the unit when it came to things digital, things cellular. One of the few Korean American detectives on the force, a family man in his late forties, Tony Park was a calming influence on all those around him. Today that aspect of his personality, as much as his electronic expertise, was crucial. The unit was about to blow.
Park spoke on a landline and conveyed the progress of the trace to the roomful of anxious detectives. "They're running it through a tracing matrix now," Park said.
"Have they got a lock yet?" Jessica asked.
"Not yet."
Byrne paced the room like a caged animal. A dozen detectives lingered in or near the duty room, waiting for the word, waiting for a direction. There was no comforting or appeasing Byrne. All these men and women had families. It could just as easily be them.
"We have movement," Mateo said, pointing to the laptop screen. The detectives crowded around him.
On screen, the man in the monk's robe dragged another person into the frame. It was Ian Whitestone. He was wearing the blue jacket. He looked drugged. His head lolled on his shoulders. There was no visible blood on his face or hands.
Whitestone fell against the wall next to Colleen. The tableau was sickening in the harsh white light. Jessica wondered who else might be watching this, if this madman had disseminated the web address to the media, to the Internet at large.
The figure in the monk's robe then walked toward the camera and turned the lens. The image was choppy, grained by the lack of resolution and quick movement. When the image settled, it was on a double bed, surrounded by two cheap nightstands and table lamps.
"It's the movie," Byrne said, his voice cracking. "He's re-creating the movie."
With sickening clarity, Jessica recognized the setup. It was a recreation of the motel room in Philadelphia Skin. The Actor was going to reshoot Philadelphia Skin with Colleen Byrne in the role of Angelika Butler.
They had to find him.
"They've got the tower," Park said. "It covers part of North Philly."
"Where in North Philly?" Byrne asked. He was in the doorway, nearly vibrating with anticipation. He slammed his fist three times into the doorjamb. "Where?"
"They're working on it," Park said. He pointed to a map on one of the monitors. "It's down to these two square blocks. Get on the street. I'll guide you."
Byrne was gone before he had finished the sentence.