Alter Ego

by Brian Freeman

  “It’s okay if you think I’m a condescending little bitch,” Aimee went on more playfully. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking,” Serena replied.

  “Well, I deserve it. Anyway, I did like Haley, but I really don’t know what happened to her. And I’d rather not speculate about why she was here. Shooting off your mouth in this business gets you into trouble, and I had to work hard to get this role.”

  “Why is that?” Serena asked. “You’re very good.”

  “Have you seen my other roles?”

  “I saw—”

  “The Macarena bit. Yeah, I know; everybody did. You do what you do to pay the bills, but good luck convincing anyone you’re serious after you jiggle your tits in a Judd Apatow flick.”

  “I have no trouble realizing you’re serious,” Serena told her.

  “That’s sweet of you to say.”

  Serena smiled. “It’s called Minnesota nice.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about that. I’m afraid there’s no Hollywood equivalent.”

  “I just mean you really can trust me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Aimee said, “even if it goes against my nature. You know, if you’re interested, I’m filming tomorrow. We’ve rented a warehouse down near the port. You should come watch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re cleared,” Aimee told her.

  “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

  “May I ask a favor in return?” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re married to Lieutenant Stride, right? The man Dean’s role is based on?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if you could ask him to talk to Lori Fulkerson for me. My role is based on her experience, and I want to know more about what she went through when she was in the cage. She won’t take my calls. I get it, she doesn’t want to go through the pain again, but I need her. I was hoping your husband might be able to persuade her to talk to me.”

  “I’ll mention it to him, but honestly, I don’t think he’ll do it. I wasn’t around for what happened back then, but I know it was emotional for everyone. I can’t imagine he’d put any pressure on Lori. If I was a victim, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I understand. I appreciate your trying. And listen, for what it’s worth, there’s one more thing I can tell you about Haley Adams.”

  “Is it something you know or something you sense?” Serena asked.

  “It’s something I sense, but it’s important.”

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “I’m pretty sure her name wasn’t Haley,” Aimee said.

  5

  In less than an hour at the party, Cat had twelve offers of drinks, seven offers of drugs, two hands on her ass, and one marriage proposal from a drunk fifty-nine-year-old who said he was something called a key grip. She decided it was one of the best evenings of her life.

  Then it got even better.

  As she tried to decide which actor’s clique to crash next, a man bumped into her near the restaurant entrance. He was in the process of slipping on his heavy coat. She heard an apology from a familiar voice and found herself staring up into the electric eyes of Dean Casperson.

  Her studied maturity went right out the window, and she was nothing more than a teenager with a crush. “Oh! It’s you! I can’t even—wow! Mr. Casperson!”

  She knew he had been approached like this a million times in his life, but she still went weak in the knees when he said, “Call me Dean.”

  “You are so amazing. I just love you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you. I’m lucky to have good people around me when I make movies. And who are you? Are you with the film? I can’t believe that, because I’m sure I’d remember your face.”

  “Really? Oh, no, no, no, I’m not. Just a civilian. I mean, a Duluthian. I’m sorry, I sound like an idiot.”

  “You don’t. I promise. What’s your name?”

  “Cat.”

  He unleashed his smile on her like a nuclear weapon. “Cat as in meow?”

  She couldn’t seem to stop giggling. “Yes, as in meow.”

  “Well, meow, Cat. It was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again. You know, I meet a lot of pretty young people in this business, but I can honestly tell you that you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve met in a long time. You are a rare prize; remember that.”

  Cat could feel her cheeks burning red. She tried to say something, anything, but her tongue was tied. Casperson winked at her, and then he was gone. He swept through the restaurant door as two people held it open and two others followed him outside. The cold air blew inside to diffuse the heat she felt. She watched him go and put both hands over her face.

  “He’s smooth, isn’t he?”

  Cat turned around. A man stood near her with a lowball drink in his hand and a grin that was much like Dean Casperson’s, only more cynical. He actually looked a lot like Casperson, but he was at least fifteen years younger and far less polished. Even so, he was cute. He had black hair and a muscular body, with hawkish pale eyes and a square chin. He wore an untucked Tommy Bahama shirt decorated with blue palm trees and glistening black slacks.

  Cat stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Dean. He’s smooth as peanut butter. You can’t help but love him. Of course, I take the punches, not him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The man put his hand out, and Cat shook it. His hands were rougher and more callused than the others she’d shaken this night. “My name is Jack Jensen. Jungle Jack is what people call me. I’m Dean’s stunt double. You see him take a header from a window? That’s me.”

  “That’s very cool,” Cat said.

  “Mind you, I’m just the muscle. Acting is in the face, and Dean works his face like he’s some kind of concert pianist. I’m in awe of what he can do.”

  “Me, too. I think he’s great.”

  “He brought me into this business. He’s my best friend in the world.” Jungle Jack snaked closer, and Cat felt herself flushing again under his high-wattage smile. “He has an eye for women, too. He was absolutely right about you, you know. You are stunning.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I don’t see you with a drink in your hand. Do you want one?”

  Cat had been good all evening. She remembered the list of noes, and no drinking was one of them, but this was a party. She was in a crowd of people. She really didn’t see the harm in it. She looked around to make sure Serena wasn’t watching, and then she said, “Um, yeah, why not?”

  “Champagne?”

  “Oh, definitely, yeah.”

  Jack didn’t leave her side. He simply snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared by magic with a silver tray, and Jack grabbed one of the crystal glasses that was nearly fizzing over with champagne. He put it in her hand and then clinked his lowball glass against hers.

  “To the prettiest girl here,” he said.

  “What? No way.” Cat blushed. She took a sip, and it was really, really good champagne.

  “So what brings you to the party, Cat?” Jack asked.

  “I came with my—I came with a friend. A woman.”

  “Yeah? A friend? Are you party models? Because if you’re getting paid to dress up the place, believe me, you’re doing your job.”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I’ve done that, though. I mean, not at parties like this, but you can make some real money.” She was saying way too much and talking way too fast. She realized that she’d already finished the first bubbling glass of champagne in a couple of swallows and that Jack had put another one in her hand. It went down as easily as Sprite.

  “I bet you can,” Jack told her. “Make money, that is. You wouldn’t believe what the girls make in L.A.”

  “Really? How much?”

  “Oh, thousands. Easy.”

  “No kidding? For one party?”

  “The stunners
like you? Absolutely. And that can lead to magazine gigs, too. I can pass your name along to the right people if you want. You know, if you ever want to visit the Coast.”

  “I do!”

  “Just give me your number. Maybe we can hook up while I’m in town and talk about it some more.”

  “Wow, okay. Sure, it’s—” Cat was so excited that she was having a hard time remembering her phone number.

  Then a voice interrupted them. A subzero, furious voice.

  “Let me help you out,” Serena said, clamping Jungle Jack’s shoulder like a vise and digging in her long nails. “Her number is 218-F-U-C-K-O-F-F. And she is seventeen years old.”

  Jack looked at Serena, saw her badge, and paled. The blood disappeared from his face. Cat knew men well enough to know that the blood had probably vanished from other places, too.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” he murmured. Then he tried to recover smoothly. He brushed back his hair and used his charm on Serena. Cat could have told him it was a losing effort. “Really, officer, I apologize. I had no idea about this young woman’s age. It was an honest mistake.”

  Serena measured out her words one by one. “Did—you—put—anything—in—her—drink?”

  “No, no way. Absolutely not.” His composure faltered again.

  “I’m going to have her tested. If I find any date rape drugs, I will be back to put you in a cell. Do you understand me?”

  “Completely,” Jack said.

  “I don’t want you ever speaking to her again. Not one word. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Cat didn’t have time to say anything before Serena grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her out the front door of the restaurant into the frigid air. The steam coming from Serena’s mouth as she breathed could well have been smoke. She yanked Cat through the parking lot toward the Mustang and didn’t say a word. Cat knew she’d screwed up. It always happened this way. She got carried away in the moment and went back to being a stupid girl from the street.

  “Serena,” she said.

  “Don’t talk.”

  “Serena.”

  “I said don’t talk. Don’t say anything.”

  “Mom, please. All I want to say is you really kick ass.”

  Serena stopped dead in the middle of the highway and looked up at the stars. Cat could see her breathing in and out and shaking her head. For all the bad things she’d done in the past, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Serena so mad. Then, out of nowhere, Serena reached out with her long arms and pulled her into a fierce hug. She whispered in Cat’s ear. She was still angry, but her voice was soft.

  “I need you to listen to me, Catalina.”

  Cat was shocked. Serena almost never called her that.

  “Hey, I know I blew it,” Cat said.

  Serena was still whispering. “Yes, you did, but that’s not what I want you to hear. Somebody told me something important tonight, and now I’m telling you the same thing. These people from the movies are so outside our world, they might as well be from another solar system. Don’t trust anything they tell you.”

  *

  Stride found the house in the Congdon Park neighborhood where Haley Adams had ordered a delivery of Chinese food. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

  The house was on the sharp slope of a wooded neighborhood along Hawthorne Road just north of Fourth Street. The winter trees were bare, making it easy to see the upscale homes built on huge lots. The house was made of red brick, and all the lights were off. The sidewalk and driveway hadn’t been plowed from the overnight storm, and the snow throughout the yard showed nothing but rabbit tracks. The house looked unoccupied.

  “This doesn’t look right,” Stride said. “No one’s staying here.”

  He checked the number on the address he’d written down, but this was the place listed on the receipt. Even so, it obviously wasn’t being used by anyone from the movie.

  “I think I know this place,” Maggie said. “Gorgonzola lives here.”

  Stride chuckled. “Mags, you really need to dial it back on the nicknames.”

  “Hey, Troy came up with that, not me. The guy’s name is George N. Zola. He used to be an exec at the port, but he retired last spring. Troy and I went to a going-away party here at the house.”

  There was a long pause between them after Maggie mentioned Troy Grange. The name slipped easily from her mouth, but then he could see her face twitch unhappily as she thought about a relationship that had turned sour. It was a shame. Stride liked Troy. He’d thought Maggie had finally found someone for the long haul.

  Stride squinted at the house through the darkness. He realized his eyes were becoming a casualty of his age. His night vision wasn’t what it once had been. “Does Zola still live here?”

  “I think he winters in Scottsdale,” Maggie said.

  “Well, if the place is empty, what was Haley Adams doing here?”

  They both got out of the Expedition into the street. The air was cold, and the night was quiet. Stride trudged up the long sidewalk through the deep snow with Maggie following him. Tall trees rose around them, sheltering the house. They flushed a rabbit from the bushes, and it scampered away. At the front door, Stride rang the bell, but he knew that no one would answer. The house was clearly empty.

  “Let’s check around back,” he said.

  “Yeah, because my feet aren’t wet enough,” Maggie replied.

  They went down into the snow, which was deeper in the yard, where it had been gathering with every storm since November. Stride followed the brick walls of the house to the other side, which butted up against a dense patch of woodland. Near the line of trees, he saw pockmarks in the snow that the latest storm hadn’t filled completely.

  Footsteps.

  Someone had made their way toward the Zola yard via the forest and then crossed to the rear wall. The back of the house was lined with windows. As they got closer, Stride saw that one of the windows on the four-season porch had been shattered and then covered with plywood and duct tape on the outside.

  He shone his flashlight through the other windows.

  “Someone broke in here,” he said. “I can see glass on the floor.”

  “Do we check it out?”

  Stride nodded. “Haley could be inside.”

  Carefully, he peeled away the strand of tape and removed the piece of wood covering the window. The lock was already undone. He pushed open the window and helped Maggie squeeze through the frame onto the porch. When she was inside, she unlocked the rear door for him, and he joined her. They listened for noise, but the house was dead quiet. The interior smelled musty from being shut up for months.

  “Haley?” he called.

  There was no answer.

  Slowly, they made their way deeper into the house. Other than the broken glass at the rear window, there were no signs of trespassers or vandals. Everything looked undisturbed. Stride passed through a formal dining room and noticed a bureau stocked with expensive crystal. The artwork and sculpture decorating the house were expensive.

  “If Haley broke in here, she wasn’t trying to rip them off,” Stride said.

  “And I wouldn’t order chow mein while I was doing it,” Maggie added.

  They reached a dark wooden staircase that led to the upper floors of the house. Stride called out again. “Haley Adams? Haley, are you up there?”

  No one replied. He climbed the steps, which creaked under his boots, and began examining the upstairs bedrooms. They hadn’t been used recently. The beds were made, and a thin layer of dust had settled on the furniture. He and Maggie took the rooms one by one, and then they found a last set of stairs that led to a finished attic below the sharp peak of the roof.

  That was obviously where Haley Adams had been hiding. She’d spent a lot of time there.

  Stride’s flashlight revealed a sleeping bag unrolled on the hardwood floor. The overflowing plastic garbage can included empty containers of pop and Chinese food. There were movie magazines on the floor. He
saw a MacBook charging cable plugged into the wall, but the computer was nowhere to be found.

  “What the hell was she up to?” Maggie asked.

  He directed his flashlight at the tall, narrow windows overlooking the dense woods to the south. There the beam illuminated a tripod and a sleek high-powered telescope pushed close to the glass. A stool was placed in front of it where the viewer could sit and examine the stars.

  “That looks like a hell of a telescope,” Maggie said. “Pretty fancy equipment for a college girl living on pizza and moo shu.”

  Stride walked over to the window. The telescope wasn’t pointed up at the stars. It peered through the naked winter tree branches at the next house down on Hawthorne Road.

  “She wasn’t interested in astronomy,” he said.

  He bent down and brought his face close to the eyepiece. A bright world shot into focus. He was staring through the narrow gap of heavy curtains at the bedroom window of a house fifty yards away. The lights were on. He could see ornate, expensive furniture.

  “I wouldn’t figure this girl for a Peeping Tom,” Maggie said.

  Stride shrugged. “The question is what she was looking at.”

  As he asked the question, the telescope answered it for him.

  A man walked into the bedroom in perfect view. He had his lips clamped around a cigar, and as Stride watched, the man tilted his head back and blew a smoke ring into the air.

  It was Dean Casperson.

  6

  “Thanks for meeting me on short notice, Chris,” Stride said.

  Chris Leipold shrugged and drank from the bottle of beer in front of him. He gave Stride a mellow smile. His tie was loose, and his suit coat was draped over the chair next to him. “Why not? No one in L.A. ever says, ‘One more drink? Oh, no, really, I couldn’t.’”

  They were in the upstairs bar at Grandma’s restaurant in Canal Park. In January, the midevening drinkers were mostly locals, not tourists. Frost clouded the windows of the glassed-in patio, giving a hazy glow to the lights of the hotels outside. Lake Superior was a vast dark stain beyond the city’s boardwalk.

  While Chris drank beer, Stride drank coffee. He could see that Chris was a different man when he was away from the set and the movie stars. More of his Duluth roots came out. His Minnesota accent slipped back into his voice. You could take the boy out of the Midwest, but you couldn’t take the Midwest out of the boy.