The 6th Target - James Patterson [38]
“Make yourself at home,” Klassen called out to Conklin.
“Where were you on Saturday morning?” I asked.
“Saturday,” he said, leaning back, patting his hair, a look coming over his face as though he were remembering a particularly sweet dream.
“I was making Moonlight Mambo,” he said. “Shot it right here. I’m directing a series of twenty-minute films. What I call ‘bedroom shorts.’ ” He grinned.
“That’s just great. I’d like the names and phone numbers of everyone who can vouch for your whereabouts.”
“Am I suspected of something, Sergeant?”
“Let’s just say we think of you as a ‘person of interest.’ ”
Klassen leered at me as though I’d paid him a compliment. “You have lovely skin. You don’t spend a penny on makeup, do you?”
“Mr. Klassen, don’t screw around with me. Names and phone numbers, please.”
“No problem. I’ll print out a list.”
“Good. Have you seen this child?” I asked, showing him the class photo of Madison Tyler that I’d kept in my jacket pocket for the last three days.
I hated to let Klassen pass his slimeball eyes over Madison’s lovely face.
“That’s the newspaper guy’s kid, right? I’ve seen her on the news. Look,” Klassen said, smiling, nearly blinding me with his sparkling choppers, “I can make this very easy for all of us, all right? Come with me.”
Chapter 53
THE ELEVATOR IN KLASSEN’S PANTRY was a knotty-pine box about the size of a double-wide coffin. Conklin, Klassen, and I stepped inside, and I lifted my eyes to where the number board should have been, seeing only the numbers “one” and “four” — no stops in between.
The car opened on the top floor, a bright forty-by-fifty-foot space with furniture, lights, rolled-up carpets, and backdrops stacked against the walls. A high-tech computer station took up a back corner.
It was a wide-open space, but I scanned it anyway for signs of a child.
“It’s all done digitally these days,” Klassen was saying. He straddled a stool in front of a flat-screen monitor. “You shoot it, download it, and edit it all in one room.”
He threw a switch, rolled his mouse, and clicked an icon labeled Moonlight Mambo.
“This is the rough cut I shot on Saturday,” Klassen told us. “It’s my time-dated alibi — not that I need one. I started shooting at seven, and we worked the whole day.”
Latin music came through the computer’s speakers, then images jumped onto the screen. A young dark-haired woman wearing something black and scanty lit candles in one of the now-disassembled bedroom sets.
The camera panned the room, stopping at the bed — where Klassen fondled himself and uttered cornball come-ons as the woman did a seductive striptease.
“Ah, jeez,” I muttered.
Conklin stepped between me and the computer monitor.
“I’ll take a copy of that,” he said.
“My pleasure.” Klassen slipped a CD out of the drawer, put it in a red plastic case, and handed it to Conklin.
“You have any pictures or films of children on this computer?”
“Hell, no. I’m not into kiddie porn,” Klassen huffed. “Besides being in violation of my deal, it’s not my thing.”
“Yeah, that’s terrific,” Conklin said smoothly. “So now I’d like to take a quick search through your computer files while the sergeant walks through your house.”
“Looks like a neat place, Mr. Klassen,” I said. “I love what you’ve done with it.”
“What if I say it’s not okay?”
“We’ll take you in for questioning while we get a warrant,” Conklin told him. “Then we’ll impound your computer and search your house with dogs.”
“The stairs are that way.”
I left Conklin and Klassen at the computer console and strolled downstairs, poking my head into every room, opening doors, checking closets, looking and listening, hoping with all my heart to find a little girl.
Mr. Wu was changing the sheets in a second-floor bedroom when I showed him my badge and the picture of Madison Tyler.
“Have you seen this little girl?” I asked him.
He shook