by Blake Pierce
“Is that when he briefly filed for separation?” Trembley wanted to know.
“Yes. But I managed to talk him down. I said I would have no contact with Miller, that he would give up any parental rights and that we would raise the baby as his own. Our problems conceiving were related to him, so he realized this might be his only chance to have a child. We ultimately found a way through it all. And now our son is two months old. We have a decent life. And I just don’t want to have it all blow up. But Miller said you were investigating him, that you thought he might have killed Corinne Weatherly and that I could be part of some pattern of him harassing or pressuring women. So he released me from the confidentiality agreement to tell you what happened.”
Jessie sat with that for a minute.
“You know this doesn’t absolve him of anything related to the murder?” she finally said.
“I realize that,” Tanner acknowledged. “I don’t know what happened with her. All I can tell you is that he was never violent with me. He never pressured me. He never offered me anything to be with him, financial or otherwise. He did suggest an abortion. But he even backed off that.”
“When you filed suit,” Jessie reminded her.
“Yes. I guess you have to draw your own conclusions. I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m going to tell the truth outright, not shade it to protect him or hurt him. He was fine with that. You’ll have to be too.”
Jessie was. She thanked Tanner, hung up, and sat quietly for a moment. This revelation didn’t exonerate Boatwright. But it didn’t implicate him either. Just like everything else in this case, every step up the hill seemed to be followed by a slip back down.
“Let’s go talk to Willem Struce,” Trembley said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m eager to hear his explanation for why he lied about his whereabouts on Sunday.”
Jessie nodded silently. She was eager too. But she was also apprehensive. She didn’t say it out loud but her gut was telling her that whatever explanation Corinne’s husband provided, it would leave them with more questions than answers. This was the kind of moment when she wished she could bounce theories off Ryan, whose experience and open-mindedness dwarfed that of her and Trembley combined. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason she missed Ryan.
She blinked hard, fighting back the tears that had collected at the edges of her eyes.
Stay focused. Stay alert. That’s what Ryan would want.
She regained control. The tears didn’t come. But there was nothing she could do about the hollow pit in her chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Unlike their last visit to the Weatherly/Struce house, this time they weren’t alone.
Sometime between yesterday and now, both the media and the public had uncovered the address and swarmed it. There was a TV truck across the street, barely on the shoulder, making it difficult for cars to pass on the narrow road.
Paparazzi was stationed at the very edge of the property, taking photos and video as they called out for Willem to make an appearance. A smattering of fans sat on the curb, holding up homemade signs of support when the cameras were on them, dropping them when they weren’t.
Trembley pulled into the driveway, more out of necessity than preference. There was nowhere to park on the road within a hundred yards of the house and neither of them, especially Jessie, wanted to navigate the crowd. She was tired of being infamous.
They walked up to the door and rang the bell, ignoring the one paparazzo who yelled out to Jessie, “Going to any Klan rallies later?”
Willem opened the door quicker than yesterday and looked more alert too. He ushered them in quickly and slammed the door after them. He shuffled down the hall without a word and motioned for them to follow him. Only when they were all standing around the kitchen island did he speak.
“I asked the authorities to send someone to keep those jackals at bay. It’s taken hours for you to respond.”
“I’m afraid we’re not here to offer protection, Mr. Struce,” Trembley told him. “We can check on the status of your request with Hollywood Station. But we’re here to ask you a few additional questions.”
“That’s fine,” Struce said. “Shall we retire to the living room?”
He led the way without waiting for a response. Jessie noted that he was definitely sharper than on their last visit. His eyes were clear. His dress shirt was neatly pressed. His thinning hair was immaculately gelled and brushed. And this time, he wore shoes, or at least house slippers. As soon as he sat down in his rocking chair, Trembley started in. Jessie liked the tactic.
Don’t let him get comfortable.
“Why didn’t you tell us about the cheating, Mr. Struce?”
“What?” Struce asked, horrified.
“Corinne’s affairs—why weren’t you honest about them?”
“Oh dear. I didn’t realize this was how it would be. You have to understand.”
He stopped speaking, as if his brain had frozen up.
“Understand what?” Trembley pressed.
Struce shook his head, as if he’d been arguing with himself and gotten sick of it.
“All right, I guess I’ll just have to lay it all out there.”
“Please do,” Trembley advised.
“First of all, I was in a state yesterday. I had taken anxiety medication and wasn’t at the top of my game. I would hope that you’d excuse that under the circumstances. Furthermore, unless you had reason to think Corinne’s proclivities played a role in her death, I’m not sure why I would volunteer such personal information. It feels both ungentlemanly and unnecessary.”
“Unfortunately,” Jessie countered, “you’re not in a position to make those kinds of determinations, Mr. Struce. What we need from you is the truth, unvarnished and without shading. So please, honest answers from here on in, all right?’
“Of course, understood.”
“You knew your wife was having affairs?” she asked.
“We had an understanding,” he answered.
“What does that mean?”
“You have to understand, Cory and I had a connection. We made each other laugh. We supported each other. She felt safe and unjudged with me. I admittedly loved being at the side of someone so glamorous and magnetic. But I wouldn’t describe our marriage as particularly sexually charged. We both knew that going in and accepted that those needs might be better met by others. So we came to an accommodation.”
“I see,” Jessie said before radically shifting gears to keep him off balance. “What did you know about the list?”
“What list?” Struce asked, perplexed.
“The Bad Boys list.”
“What is that?” he asked. “A list of especially sexy actors? Or ones who were genuinely unpleasant to work with?”
“You’ve really never heard of a list like that?” Trembley asked, skeptical. “Corinne never mentioned it?”
Struce shook his head.
“If it was related to the drudgery of her work, she left me out of it. She might complain about a demanding director or a sloppy makeup girl. But we never talked business and I don’t recall ever hearing her mention a list other than ‘best dressed.’”
Trembley looked at Jessie with an expression that suggested he wasn’t sure how much further to press the issue. She shook her head to let him know to let it go for now. There was a more pressing concern.
“Mr. Struce,” she said. “You told us that you were home all night on Sunday, that you waited up before eventually falling asleep around one a.m., correct?”
“That’s right,” he said, his voice betraying his lie even if Jessie hadn’t already been aware of it.
“That’s odd, because the security system you gave us the login info for, the one you set up, had a glitch that concerned some of our tech and research folks. So they followed up and discovered that the video had been manipulated. That’s something I’d imagine would be hard for the average person but maybe not for someone who worked in CGI.”
“I’m su
re I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jessie nodded as if his response was convincing.
“Do you also have no idea why your GPS data shows that you drove to an address in Hollywood less than two miles from Sovereign Studios and that you were in that area during the window of Corinne’s death?”
Struce didn’t respond. All the color drained from his face, which went slack. After swallowing hard multiple times, he finally replied.
“It’s not what you think,” he said softly.
“Please tell us what it is then,” Jessie asked.
“I…I was visiting a friend. I wasn’t forthcoming because I knew how it would look.”
“How would it look, Mr. Struce?” she asked.
“Like I was being unfaithful to my wife on the night that she was murdered.”
“Do you think that would be worse than the impression you’ve left us with?” she asked.
“What impression?”
“That you lied about your whereabouts and altered the surveillance video to cover your tracks while you were murdering your wife.”
“I would never hurt Cory!” Struce said, the color finally returning to his face.
“But you lied to us, sir,” Trembley noted calmly. “And you don’t have an alibi for that evening. This doesn’t look great for you. What would you have us do?”
Willem Struce stared at them, openmouthed, unspeaking. Trembley shrugged, stood up, and removed his handcuffs.
“I’m afraid that in the absence of compelling evidence to the contrary, we’re going to have to arrest you for the murder of Corinne Weatherly. Please stand and put your hands in front of you.”
Struce slowly got to his feet. He looked shell-shocked. Trembley was just cuffing him when they heard a voice shout from across the room.
“No!”
Both Jessie and Trembley wheeled to their right, unholstering their guns and pointing them at a man who had suddenly appeared near the door leading to the bedrooms. He was unarmed.
“Raise your hands above your head and don’t take another step,” Jessie ordered.
The man did as instructed, though he looked like he wanted to run over.
“Please,” he pleaded, “Will’s innocent. He didn’t do a thing, I swear.”
“You got Struce covered?” Jessie asked Trembley as she approached the stranger, keeping her gun trained on him.
Trembley nodded. She moved closer to the man, who was younger than he first seemed. Short and muscular, with dyed blond hair and a deep tan, Jessie guessed he was no older than twenty-five. He wore tight black jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt.
“Get on your knees!” she demanded. “Who are you?”
“Owen Mulaney,” he said as he knelt down. “I’m a close friend of Will’s. I’m telling you, he didn’t hurt Corinne.”
“How do you know that?”
Owen looked over at Struce, who had a pained expression on his face, then turned back to Jessie.
“Because he was with me. We were together at my place most of the evening.”
“Where do you live?” Jessie asked, now directly in front of him as she scanned for any hidden weapons.
“At the Las Palmas Apartments just off Santa Monica Boulevard,” he said.
“Extend your hands,” Jessie instructed, then cuffed his exposed wrists. “What evidence do you have to confirm that?”
“I don’t know lady,” Owen said. “I think the building has cameras.”
“We’ve already learned that your friend can manipulate that sort of thing,” Trembley pointed out.
“Okay then. I ordered from Pink Dot while he was there. You could check with them?”
“Did the delivery person see him?” Jessie asked.
Owen strained to recall.
“I think Will was in the kitchen at the time. But we might have been talking. Maybe the guy heard him?”
“Put yourself in our shoes, Owen,” Jessie told him. “Nothing you’re telling us clears him. You’re his alibi but no one other than you saw him. When the delivery guy arrived, you spoke to a man out of sight who could have been anyone. You live within walking distance of the studio, eliminating the need for a cab or rideshare. Or he could have taken your car to get there, or used your phone to hail a ride.”
Owen shook his head vigorously.
“Check for cameras at my place. Check the cameras at the studio. Those will prove I’m telling the truth because Will was with me until close to midnight. I swear. He was just covering because he was protecting Corinne’s memory. He didn’t want it to get out that her marriage was not the beauty and the beast story the media created.”
To her left, Jessie heard an unnatural moan. She looked over to see that Willem Struce had slumped back down in the rocking chair. He was sobbing and his whole body was heaving in sudden, irregular bursts.
“Go sit next to him,” Jessie said quietly to Owen, who rushed over, moved Struce from the rocking chair to the couch, and wrapped his cuffed arms around the older man.
Jessie followed, standing beside Trembley. They gave the men a bit of space.
“What do we do now?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “On paper, he looks good for it: questionable alibi, he was clearly hiding a big secret, maybe not from her but from others. I’d be curious to see what she left him in her will. And yet, I don’t feel solid about him.”
“I get that,” Trembley said. “And I have some doubts too. But the guy had the mental clarity, only hours after she died, to modify footage from his surveillance cameras. He was in the area of the murder when it happened. He had easy access to the back lot. We should definitely check the footage from the studio and Owen’s place. But for now, I think we have to take him in. He’s our strongest suspect.”
Jessie nodded. Trembley was right. They had to arrest him. Too often, she’d let her gut take precedence over evidence. And the evidence pointed to Willem Struce, even if every fiber of her being told her they had it wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Kat hung up the phone.
Hannah looked at her hesitantly.
“What did she say?” she asked.
“She said she’s going to be late tonight and that we should eat without her. They have a suspect in custody but she doesn’t feel good about him and wants to follow up on a lead.”
“You didn’t mention anything about our outing today, I noticed,” Hannah noted cautiously.
“No,” Kat said. “She sounded stressed and I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“Does that mean that you plan to tell her later on?”
“I haven’t decided,” Kat told her. “It feels like the kind of thing she deserves to know. But it could also make things worse between the two of you and I didn’t think that was possible.”
Hannah nodded.
“I understand if you have to tell her,” she said quietly. “I hope you don’t but I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Done what?”
“Confronted that guy,” she said. “Put you in that position.”
“Then why did you?”
“It’s hard to explain. I have this thing where it’s difficult for me to feel things unless what’s happening is super intense. So I put myself in intense situations so I can feel. I know that sounds crazy.”
Kat shook her head.
“No, Hannah,” she said. “You sound like someone who’s been to hell and back and doesn’t know how to deal with it, because how many people go to hell and return as good as new? No one does. But I know someone else who’s been on that same journey and might be able to offer a few pointers and she happens to share a bedroom with you. Have you considered telling her about it?”
Hannah swallowed hard before answering.
“I’m afraid to. I’m worried she’ll think I’m damaged and send me away and then I won’t have anyone.”
Kat nodded.
“Listen, I
can’t tell you what to do. But you might consider giving her a chance. She’s a pretty cool chick.”
“Are you going to tell her?” Hannah asked.
Kat looked at her for a long time before answering.
“No. That’s up to you.”
Hannah felt a dam of anxiety break. She took a deep breath and allowed herself a bit of a smile.
“So what do we do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Hannah. Why don’t we just have dinner? I need a mental break and the ceviche you made isn’t going to eat itself. Mealtime truce?”
“Mealtime truce,” Hannah agreed, happy to stave off the inevitable, even if just for a few hours.
*
The first guard at the Sovereign Studios main gate wouldn’t let them in.
“Neither of the people you wish to speak with is available at this time,” he said officiously.
Jessie could sense that Trembley was about to play the “we’re real cops, not mall cops,” card when she saw a familiar face step into the guard station.
“Paul,” she called out warmly.
The guard who’d given them the personal lot tour on their first visit walked over.
“Howdy, folks,” he said enthusiastically. “What’s shaking?”
The other guard spoke up first.
“These visitors have asked to speak to either Mr. Boatwright or Mr. Haughton, neither of whom is available now. I was about to suggest they return in the morning.”
“We hadn’t quite finished,” Jessie piped up, hoping her tone didn’t betray her anxiety. “There are a number of other witnesses we can interview this evening, several of whom may be shooting on Stage 32 right now.”
Paul smiled knowingly and put his hand on the younger guard’s shoulder.
“I’ve got this, Lionel,” he said firmly. Lionel nodded and stepped away without argument.
“Thanks, Paul,” Jessie said.
He motioned for them to pull off to the side and met them there, leaning in through Trembley’s window.
