The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club 6)

“Shut up, asshole,” Conklin said mildly.

“Joke, Officer,” Klassen said, grinning. “I was just kidding around. Come on in.”

We followed Klassen up the front steps; through an oaken door, a spiffy foyer, and a contemporary parlor; and out to a glass conservatory extending off the kitchen. Ferns, gardenias, and large pots of cacti abounded.

Klassen offered us wicker-basket chairs suspended by chains from overhead beams, and a Chinese man of indeterminate age appeared at the edge of the room, crossed his left hand over his right wrist, and waited.

“Can Mr. Wu get you anything, Officers?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“So what brings you into my life on this otherwise magnificent morning?”

I balanced uncomfortably on the edge of the basket chair and got my notebook out as Conklin walked around the conservatory, picking up the odd piece of erotic statuary, moving potted plants a couple of inches here and there.

“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.