by Blake Pierce
“You amazingly overcome that trauma to get an advanced degree in forensic psychology,” he went on, somehow getting even more exercised, “before you have to deal with a sociopathic husband who kills his mistress, frames you for it, and then attempts to murder you when you uncover his plot. After that, you face off with not just your father, who’s returned after years in hiding, but an escaped serial killer obsessed with you who wants—”
“Jeff, is it?” Jessie interrupted. “I’m familiar with my life story. Maybe you can skip to the end.”
“Right, okay,” Jeff said, thrown slightly off but quickly regaining his momentum. “We think your story would make an amazing film franchise. Each movie could follow a different case you’re investigating while also showing your ongoing battles with the killers out to get you. In short, we’d like to secure your life rights. Do you have an agent?”
Everyone in the room was staring at her greedily, nearly salivating as they awaited her answer. Even Trembley looked intrigued.
“Listen, Jeff,” she said slowly. “I appreciate the interest. Really, it’s flattering in a bizarre sort of way. But I’m actually looking to lower my profile these days, not raise it. There are a number of people out there who aren’t as enthused about my accomplishments as you seem to be. I don’t need to give them another reason to hate me.”
Jeff barely paused a beat before responding.
“I totally respect that,” he said. “But imagine the power you could have to inspire, to show young women who’ve suffered challenging childhoods what they can achieve if they have your pluck and determination.”
Jessie looked around. Boatwright and his team all stood, still taut with excitement, as if Jeff had made a convincing case that would surely change her mind. She decided that she’d been patient enough.
“Folks, no matter how plucky you think I am, I’m here to discuss someone else’s life story, and more specifically, how it ended. And while you all may not think it’s poor form to try to strike a development deal with someone investigating a murder, I do. So if everyone other than Mr. Boatwright could step out, we have a job to do here.”
Jeff looked over at Boatwright like a son who knew he’d disappointed his stern father. The boss gave him and the others a clipped nod, after which everyone scurried out without another word. Lanny closed the door after them, leaving Jessie and Trembley alone with Boatwright, who sat back down. He stared at them, no longer smiling, but with cold intensity, like a mountain lion taking stock of its prey. After a long pause, he spoke.
“I guess this is when the fun really starts.”
Jessie felt like the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped twenty degrees.
“Mr. Boatwright,” Trembley started, deciding not to directly address the man’s comment, “we’re here about the death of Corinne Weatherly.”
“Do I need to call my attorney?” Boatwright asked, his tone playful but borderline combative.
Trembley seemed at a loss for words so Jessie replied.
“I don’t know. Do you? Most people we interview just, you know, answer our questions. It’s usually only the folks with something to hide who lawyer up right off the bat. Are you one of those folks, Mr. Boatwright?”
He smiled wide, exposing all his teeth. He reminded Jessie of a shark opening its jaws just before chomping on a seal.
“I have a lot to hide, Ms. Hunt, though I don’t know that any of it has to do with Corinne.”
“All right,” she replied. “Then I assume you won’t have any issue answering a few of our questions.”
“Fire away,” he said amiably.
Jessie looked over at Trembley, who didn’t seem prepared with a question, so she dived in.
“I’m assuming you’re aware of the circumstances of Corinne’s death?” she said.
“I know she was strangled in her trailer and then moved to the soundstage, where she was found surrounded by prop dead bodies with a white rose in her hand.” When he saw Jessie’s eyebrows rise, he added, “Word travels fast around here.”
“Were you aware that your last name was written in lipstick on the makeup mirror in her trailer?”
“I was,” he acknowledged. “Are you suggesting that this has something to do with me?”
“It seems that whoever wrote your name on that mirror thinks it does,” Jessie said flatly.
“Ms. Hunt, do you seriously think that I strangled Corinne and that, as she struggled for her life, she wrote my name on the mirror, implicating me as her killer, and that I then left the writing there for anyone to see?”
“That seems unlikely,” Jessie replied.
“Do I need to provide an alibi for last night between ten and midnight? Because I can. I was at a late-night meeting at a bar on Highland.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“I don’t remember mentioning the time of death, Mr. Boatwright.”
“Oh please,” he said, visibly disgusted. “Do you think I haven’t already seen the time-stamped security footage of Corinne being dragged into the prop department? What are you alleging exactly?”
“I’m not alleging anything, Mr. Boatwright. I’m simply wondering why your name was on that mirror. That, in addition to the white rose you mentioned was found in her hand, would seem to suggest that whoever did this has made some connection between the two of you and, what was the name of that movie again, Trembley, Roses and Romance?”
“Petals and Petulance,” Boatwright corrected before Trembley could say a word.
“Right, that one,” Jessie said. “So clearly that connection is important to the killer. And with Corinne dead, you seem to be the best person to shed light on what it might be.”
“I couldn’t possibly say,” Boatwright said dismissively. “I produced the movie. She starred in it. That’s the only connection that jumps out at me. I have a question for you though: should I be concerned that the killer was writing down the name of their next victim on that mirror? Do I need protection? Is the director in danger too? Perhaps Darian Phelps should up his security.”
“Darian Phelps is the male lead in the movie,” Trembley offered under his breath. “He plays the detective hunting down the Marauder.”
Jessie stifled the desire to say the words “I know” and kept her focus on Boatwright.
“That’s not a crazy theory,” she told him. “You might want to look into upping your security a bit. Is there someone who might have a bone to pick with both of you over that film? Someone who got stiffed on the profits? A writer who didn’t get a screen credit? Perhaps a florist whose life rights weren’t properly secured? Or one who was upset at the floral inaccuracies in the movie?”
Boatwright smiled again, though she could see a flicker of unease cross his eyes at the mention of potentially needing to increase his security.
“In this town, someone always feels wronged and there are a lot of people who feel I did the wronging. In some cases, they’re right. But I didn’t screw anyone worse on this film than any other.”
“Maybe it’s not about how bad you screwed them,” Jessie pointed about, “but how badly they took it.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a smile, apparently amused by her forthrightness. “As long as we’re discussing people getting screwed, have you spoken to Corinne’s husband?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Why do you suggest that?”
“You know, it’s not my place to say, but I think you might find a conversation with him to be worth your time.”
“That’s all you’ll say?” she pressed.
“I wish I could help more,” he said, shrugging.
“As do I,” Jessie said, sensing that he could if he really wanted to. “We will need verification of that alibi, Mr. Boatwright. And it would be helpful if you could give us access to your phone data without a court order. Time is of the essence here and the sooner we can eliminate you as a suspect, the better it is for everyone.”
“I have no problem with that,” Boatwright sai
d. “Can I assume you’ll dispense with that press release you mentioned? Am I safe from being dragged down to the station in cuffs?”
“For now,” Jessie told him. “But I can’t make any promises about later. You should expect that we’ll be back at some point with more questions.”
“And you should expect to turn up the same pile of nothing,” he said, standing up, pushing a button on his phone and barking into it, “Lanny, our guests are ready to leave.”
“We can see ourselves out,” Jessie said.
“Don’t be silly,” Boatwright said a little too forcefully. “That’s what she’s here for. And Ms. Hunt, don’t forget that if you change your mind about those life rights, I can make you a very rich woman.”
“I’m already a very rich woman,” Jessie told him.
“No, you’re well off. I’m talking ‘roll around in a tub of cash then burn it just for fun’ rich.”
The door opened, revealing a slightly winded Lanny, who had apparently run down the hall to meet them. Jessie looked back at Boatwright and replied simply before leaving.
“I take showers.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
To Jessie’s surprise, Lanny didn’t just escort them to the door to the inner office. She also opened the main door of the waiting room and walked them down the hall to the entrance of the Fairbanks Building. The awkward silence was only broken by the sounds of their feet echoing on the marble floor. When they got to the exterior door, Lanny opened it for them and extended her hand to Jessie.
“Please let us know if we can be of any further assistance,” she said.
As Jessie shook her hand, she felt the young woman press a piece of paper into her palm. As they let go, Jessie closed her hand into a fist to hide the paper.
“We’ll be in touch,” she replied.
Lanny smiled nervously and retreated into the building, leaving Jessie and Trembley alone in the grassy park.
“What now?” Trembley asked.
Jessie decided not to mention what had just happened until she had a look at what was on the paper.
“Let’s see how things are going with getting the crew back for interviews,” she said. “You mind checking in with Detective Bray?”
While Trembley made the call, Jessie stepped away where she could inconspicuously look at the paper Lanny had given her. On it were two words: Tara Tanner. The name didn’t ring a bell for her. Before she could ponder it further, Trembley hung up.
“She says it’ll probably take another hour to get everyone in. We could start now but if we want to talk to them as a group, it’ll be a bit longer.”
“That’s okay,” Jessie said. “As much as I worry that Boatright is just trying to distract us, he’s right. We should go see the husband and see if there’s any ‘there’ there.”
“That sounds good,” Trembley said, pulling up the case file on his phone. “It looks like they live pretty close, just up Beachwood Canyon. We could be there in ten minutes.”
“Let’s go,” Jessie said, leading the way back to their car. “You can tell me what you know about him on the way.”
At first glance, there wasn’t a lot to tell. Corinne had met her future husband, Willem Struce, while working on the Marauder sequel. He was a CGI artist she’d hit it off with while eating at the commissary on the very lot they’d just left.
“That doesn’t seem like a very movie star-ish pairing to me,” Jessie commented.
“It is a little unusual,” he agreed. “But I remember reading in some celebrity magazine that he won her over with his kindness and old-school charm or something like that.”
“Why am I dubious?”
“Because you’re a damaged person who has trouble believing that love can come in many forms,” he replied casually before adding, “sorry.”
Jessie smiled despite herself.
“You know, Trembley” she said, trying to be diplomatic. “You could stand to use some of that caustic directness with the people we interview. After all, you are a detective with one of the LAPD’s most celebrated units. You barely said a word to Boatwright. I feel like maybe you should be asking at least as many questions as the consulting profiler on the case.”
Trembley waited a beat before nodding slowly, never taking his eyes off the road.
“You’re right,” he said. “I got a little stage fright, I guess. I should have looked at Boatwright exclusively as a suspect. Instead I let his fame get in the way. It won’t happen again.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jessie replied, happy to let it drop now that she’d made her point.
“So,” he said in a tone that suggested he meant to change the subject, “you going to tell me what was on that piece of paper Alana slipped you when we left?”
Again, Jessie was surprised. It was nice to be reminded why Trembley had managed to make this unit in the first place. He might be easily starstruck but he was an observant, diligent investigator. She debated whether to come clean for half a second before relenting.
“It’s a name. I was about to look it up. Tara Tanner, you know it?”
Trembley scrunched up his face in concentration.
“It sounds vaguely familiar. I think she might be an actress. Go ahead and search her name.”
Jessie did. Tara Tanner was indeed an actress, or at least she used to be. It looked like she had a string of unmemorable film and television credits dating back about four years. Most of them were along the lines of “Woman #3” or “Girl at Party.” But they stopped entirely about a year ago.
“That’s weird,” Jessie said. “She has ten to fifteen credits a year and then suddenly nothing.”
“She could just have taken a hiatus,” Trembley pointed out. “Maybe she got married or had a baby and decided to take a break. Or maybe she got some big role that’s consuming all her time.”
“But wouldn’t that show up too if it was in production right now?”
“Almost certainly, yeah,” he conceded.
Jessie decided to try another tack. As they headed up Beachwood Canyon Drive into the Hollywood Hills, she called the research unit at the station. To her delight and surprise, the phone was answered by an unexpected voice.
“Research, Winslow here.”
“Is this Jamil Winslow?” Jessie asked.
“Yes, to whom am I speaking?”
“Jamil, it’s Jessie Hunt. I didn’t know you had joined the team.”
Jamil Winslow was the eager young researcher who’d helped her and Ryan on their most recent case, involving a series of murders in Manhattan Beach, a wealthy town just southwest of the city. He’d offered invaluable assistance. She remembered him asking if there were any openings in their station. But after passing along a positive review of him to the HR folks, she’d forgotten all about it.
“Yes, Ms. Hunt,” he said with his trademark enthusiasm. “I wanted to tell you but you haven’t been around. I heard you were leaving the department. And I didn’t think it was appropriate to call with everything you’ve been through.”
“This is fantastic news, Jamil,” Jessie said, genuinely happy for the guy. “The station is lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, Ms. Hunt. Does your call mean you’ve reconsidered leaving?”
“Afraid not,” she replied. “I just agreed to help out on one case because Captain Decker is so short-handed. But I guess it means we’ll get to work together one last time.”
She told him what she needed, specifically running a search through all the legal and criminal databases to see what came up on Tara Tanner. She had just barely completed her request when the cell service got too spotty to hear clearly and then cut out completely.
“Damn hills,” she muttered.
“Most people find them beautiful,” Trembley said.
The route up to the Weatherly/Struce home was an endless series of snaking switchbacks on a residential road that was rarely wide enough for more than one car. The fact that multiple vehicles were parked on the shoulder made it extra challeng
ing. They’d been zigzagging upward for about five minutes when Trembley pulled over, finding an unoccupied spot on the shoulder.
“You starting to feel sick too?” Jessie asked him.
“No,” he said, surprised by the question. “I pulled over because we’re here. That’s the house.”
Jessie looked over the home. It was shockingly modest. Almost all the houses on this stretch of road had a similar architectural denominator. The ones built into the hillsides tended to look like standard one-story homes from the street. But up close, one often discovered that they dropped down two, three, sometimes even four stories into the canyons, like crazy Jenga towers with floor to ceiling windows.
But Corinne’s place was an aberration. It was on the cliff side of the road, so it had the standard gorgeous view stretching out over Hollywood, but the home itself was unassuming. It topped out at one story and looked like it had been built in the Brady Bunch’s 1970s heyday. There were missing shingles and the driveway had multiple wide cracks.
Jessie got out of the car and tried to ignore the sharp sting as her back peeled off the car seat. She rubbed her sore shoulder, hoping to tease out the stiffness that had set in as her body clenched up on the perilous uphill drive.
“Looks like Corinne really needed this Marauder movie,” she noted, only realizing how unkind she sounded when the words were already out of her mouth.
“They probably spent so much on the location and the view, they didn’t have much left for upkeep,” Trembley said more charitably.
He was about to ring the bell when Jessie stopped him.
“If Struce really did marry up, this might be one time where some ego-stroking is in order. This guy may not be too chatty, so if waxing rhapsodic over his special effects work gets us in the door, feel free.”
Trembley nodded his understanding and pushed the button. The bell was a series of chimes comprising part of a musical score.
“It’s the love theme from Petals and Petulance,” Trembley whispered.
“Of course it is,” Jessie muttered back.
The door was opened by a slim, innocuous-looking man in his early forties, wearing slacks, a button-down yellow dress shirt, and no shoes. He was about five foot eight, with thinning brown hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses. His brown eyes were tinged with red. It was clear that he’d been crying.
