“Sorry, sweetheart, the man in the sketch is wearing blood-splattered goggles and a watch cap.”
Sherlock slammed her fist against the dash, then lightly patted it, apologizing to the Porsche. “Wait, Dillon. Maybe there’s enough of a jawline, or a head shape, or a nose and mouth, to help them find him on facial recognition?”
“I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. Cam emailed me the sketch after she texted.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Take a look.”
It was a surprisingly well-detailed drawing, obviously done by a pro. She felt a punch of toxic rage at the spray of blood on the goggles. “What does Cam think?”
“She said a neighbor saw this man who looked like this leaving Deborah Connelly’s house. As you can see, he’s tall and thin. He took off his watch cap to rub blood off his bald head. Cam pointed out it could be a skull cap.”
“Did Aaron identify the artist?”
He pulled the Porsche onto I-95. “Good question. Call him, Sherlock.”
She did, but after she asked Aaron that same question she listened for a moment and then hung up, shaking her head. “Aaron said the artist wasn’t nice enough to sign the sketch, so it’s a dead end.”
39
* * *
CULVER BUILDING
LOS ANGELES
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
The Culver Building, in Century City, soared up twenty-two glass-encircled stories, the tenants’ joke being the L.A. smog wasn’t too bad if you could see them all.
Cam and Daniel were shown into the huge corner office of Mr. Theodore Markham by his personal assistant Ms. Brandi Mikels. She looked like she would be as comfortable wearing wings for Victoria’s Secret as wearing a slick black suit.
“Special Agent Wittier and Detective Montoya, sir.”
“Thank you, Brandi. Agent, Detective, you’ve given me no warning, and I’m busy, a meeting, in fact, in twenty minutes. But I’m certain Brandi told you that and you simply pulled rank?”
Close enough. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Markham,” Cam said.
He rose slowly and watched them walk across the expanse of thick pale gray carpet to his desk. It was all polished glass and bubinga wood, a dark reddish brown with purple streaks so stunning Daniel wondered if it belonged on an endangered list. Markham took her offered creds and Daniel’s badge, gave them a cursory look-see, and handed them back. “I’ve already spoken to you, Detective Montoya. I remember you and I had a conversation in my office at Universal Studios after Constance was killed. I, of course, had nothing to do with her death, and naturally, you verified that. For whatever reason I cannot begin to fathom, you are back again—I assume it was because Deborah Connelly was killed last night? I heard about her murder this morning with great sadness. Her death—it was like poor Connie’s, from what I heard on the news. That maniac struck again.
“Is that why you’re here, to interrogate me? I rather think you two should be looking for the killer instead, or all over her damned boyfriend.” As he spoke, his hand reached for his phone.
“Mr. Markham,” Cam said quickly, not wanting him to call in his lawyers, “we’re here because you’ve been personally affected, twice now. You’re an important person in show business in L.A. and you could be of great assistance to us. We would like to hear your ideas on how and why a serial killer would target these particular young actresses. There have been six young women now, brutally murdered.”
His hand hovered, then backed away. He waved the same hand at them. “Sit down. As I said, I have a meeting, but I’ll tell you what I know, what I think.”
They sat. His chair was higher than theirs, a bit on the obvious side, Cam thought, but she only smiled at him. As Missy had said, Markham was tall, fashionably thin, his dark hair receding just a bit but still thick and full. He had a bit of white at his temples, carefully brushed on by an expert hand. His jaw was honed and firm, probably the work of another expert hand. In short, Mr. Markham looked exactly as he wanted to look, an important Hollywood big shot. Cam saw a framed photo of a lovely woman about his age, midforties, she guessed, flanked by two boys, both college-age. Mr. Markham was standing on the other side of his sons, his arm around them.
She smiled at the photo. “Your sons, how old are they, sir?”
“What? Oh, both are at UCLA, both computer majors, something their mother applauds.” He shrugged.
“And you don’t?”
He shrugged again. “They’ll make a decent living, I have no doubt, but it won’t be an exciting life.”
“Not like yours, you mean?” Cam said.
He smiled at that, and Cam saw the charm in this smile, easy and prepackaged. “Thing is I don’t know anyone who could help them, then again perhaps they’ll want to join a start-up. At least I could be an investor. We’ll see.”
Daniel said, “Most people have to make it on their own. It builds character, I’m told.”
“They have too much character as it is,” Markham said, shaking his head. “As I said, I have a meeting. You want to know why I think anyone would target these particular young women. Naturally, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve come to realize I have no special insights or brilliant theories about that. I wish I did. I will tell you, though, that in Deborah’s murder, you should look closely at her boyfriend—he’s a doctor and goes by the name of Doc, but I don’t remember his name. Talk about a dark cloud hovering over Deborah. He could even be your serial killer.” He looked down at his Rolex.
“We still have a little time, sir. We’ll certainly be looking at everyone, Dr. Mark Richards included. At the time of her murder, Deborah Connelly had a meaty role in one of your movies—The Crown Prince. What are your plans now that she’s dead?”
Markham picked up a Montblanc pen and began weaving it through his fingers. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but the director has already been on the phone to me, told me he’s tracking down an actress who looks enough like Deborah to fill in for her. Once they have her made up, he’ll shoot the remaining scenes without any close-ups and no one will know the difference. If you didn’t know, The Crown Prince is a remake of Mayerling—the suicides of thirty-year-old Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and his seventeen-year-old mistress, in 1889. The costumes are voluminous, the bonnets wide-brimmed. He’ll manage. The director also pointed out that with Ms. Connelly’s murder the movie would get some free press. Yes, I know, that’s fairly disturbing, but unfortunately, that’s the way of the world. Ms. Connelly will be missed, but the film will remain on schedule.”
Cam said, “Do you think this movie could have been a springboard for Ms. Connelly? To bigger and better roles?”
“I review the rushes each day, of course. She was very good. The casting director selected her from an audition of at least sixty young women. I reviewed her audition, approved it. After that, I had very little to do with her.”
Cam said, “Ms. Connelly kept extensive records about her career—all sorts of impressions, insights, gossip about other cast members, directors, producers. According to her boyfriend, she knew a great deal about you, sir.”
That question got her a raised dark eyebrow. “I see. So is this why you are really here? If this is an interrogation I will call my lawyers.”
“Oh, no, sir, certainly not,” Cam said. “Had you met her before her role in The Crown Prince?”
“Yes, at a party, maybe six months ago.”
“Can you tell us about that party? Tell us your impressions of her?”
He gave her a stingy smile that still managed to charm, and slowly nodded. He paid no attention at all to Daniel. “You look familiar, Agent Wittier. Wait, are you related to Joel and Lisabeth Wittier?”
Cam nodded. “Yes, they’re my parents. But like your sons, I didn’t choose to follow them into Hollywood, I chose law enforcement. Now, the party, sir, where you first met Deborah Connelly.”
40
* * *
“It was your basic drunk free-for-all party at Willard Lambe
th’s house up in the Hollywood hills. He’s a longtime producer, very successful, been around nearly as long as Technicolor. I escorted Connie.”
“Was she your girlfriend, sir?” Daniel asked.
Markham stiffened, then shook his head. “Certainly not. I rented her my house in the Colony in Malibu because she had great talent and I was able to lift some of her financial burden. That night I escorted her to Willard’s party because I wanted to let her rub shoulders with people she should know.
“An assistant director introduced Ms. Connelly to me. Of course, like all the young actresses and actors at Willard’s party, she was eager to meet people who could help her career. I remember she brought her boyfriend—this Doc character. I only remember him because he wasn’t what anyone would call an asset to her. I wondered why she didn’t have the sense to leave him at home. He was very possessive of her, didn’t let her out of his sight, like a jealous dog guarding a bone. It was obvious he didn’t want to be there, didn’t want her to be there, either. I remember thinking he looked at us like we were a pack of perverts out to despoil his girlfriend.”
Markham shrugged. “I’m a very visual man, Agent Wittier, and I have an excellent memory for faces, expressions, body language. I remember clearly how sullen he was, not even trying to disguise his contempt. I wondered if he might snap and do something stupid, maybe even dangerous. Even Connie said Doc was acting like a real jerk. She asked me to introduce Deborah to some important people, and tried to pull Doc away.
“I remember Connie telling me she was getting fed up with Doc, because he was always belittling Deborah and her work. Yes, Connie and Deborah knew each other, how well, I couldn’t say. This business runs on contacts, and everyone wants to know everybody else. They say only nepotism counts in Hollywood, and to a large extent, that’s true, but it’s there in every walk of life.
“I did introduce Ms. Connelly to a couple of producers. Her biggest hit was with Willard.
“All the while, this Doc character stood against the wall, drinking quite a lot of Will’s excellent vodka, staring at Ms. Connelly. Connie was doing her best to keep his attention.
“I can add that although I found Deborah beautiful, that isn’t what struck me about her, or struck Willard. She was smart, fast on her feet, and charming. She was witty, but not malicious.
“I spoke to her once more, caught her when she was on her way to the bathroom, told her she should have left her dog in the kennel, nodded toward her boyfriend, who wasn’t further than three feet away, looking ready to froth at the mouth. She laughed, said wasn’t that the truth, but I could tell she was pissed off. I wondered if she was afraid of him, a jealous, possessive man like that.
“There was probably more, but I’ve forgotten. It was over six months ago. Then I saw her audition and approved her for the role.
“I did see her on the set of The Crown Prince now and then when I flew to Tuscany, and I was pleased I’d had the wit to cast her.” He rose. “And that is what I know of Ms. Connelly. My meeting begins in four minutes. I bid you good day.”
“One more question, sir,” Cam said, rising. “You were acquainted with two of the six murdered actresses. If you would, you could be of great assistance to us. You were good friends with Constance Morrissey. Were you asked to reconstruct any information that might have been on her laptop and her cell phone?”
“I don’t understand, Agent. Weren’t Deborah’s computer and cell phone taken by the killer, as Connie’s was?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“I see. I understand that you wish to keep the stolen laptops and cell phones out of the media. However, I don’t believe you will be able to keep that under wraps much longer. I quickly found out from Connie’s friends and her parents who’d been asked to reconstruct any information, so it was obvious they were taken. However, Detective Montoya didn’t ask me. Even if he had asked, I wouldn’t have been of any use. Oh, she kept me informed about her auditions, how she felt it all went, but to recall them now? No. And there was nothing else I knew of that could be helpful.”
“But I was told you were of great assistance to her, Mr. Markham. Yet you can’t remember any of her business dealings?”
“No. I was her most important business contact. Is there anything else?”
“Do you believe the serial killer targeted Deborah Connelly for some specific reason?”
“How could I possibly know why this madman targeted any of these young women?”
Cam said, “Do you think your very good friend Connie was targeted specifically?”
Daniel saw it—pain and rage, a heady brew, passing over Markham’s face. Only a slight pause, then, “Yes, I do.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Because Connie was going to make it in this crazy business. She would have been a star, maybe even without the help I gave her. It was only a matter of getting the right parts, and she was getting them.”
As he spoke, he gathered papers and slid them neatly into an exquisite Malmo briefcase.
Cam waited until he clicked the briefcase closed and looked back at her. “Sir, what if I told you the serial killer may not have been the one who killed Deborah?”
He jerked up, stared at her, shook his head back and forth. “Well, if you’re not lying for shock value, then that settles it for me: go arrest that psycho boyfriend of hers.” He punched the buzzer. “Brandi, please show the agent and detective out.”
He gave them a dismissive smile and strode past them, out of his own office, past beautiful Brandi, whose smile was gracious and lasted until they were gone from her sight.
Cam said to Daniel as they rode the elevator to the lobby, “Mr. Markham has an excellent memory, doesn’t he?”
“For what happened at a party six months ago? I’ll say. He’s sure got some hate in him about Doc. He even tied Doc to Constance Morrissey. Why so much animosity toward a man he only met at a party six months ago?”
Cam said, “I don’t know. Did he want Deborah for himself, now that Connie is dead? As for Doc killing Deborah—I spoke to him. His wild grief was real. He was drowning in guilt because he hadn’t moved her to their new place yesterday and she’d been alone there last night. I know, out of great love can come great hate. But it wasn’t Doc. He didn’t kill Deborah.”
“Doc—Mark Richards—told you he was at the hospital all night, taking care of that boy he’d operated on?”
“Yes. Detective Loomis has probably already spoken to all his coworkers. But let me check.” Cam texted Loomis, asking him to call her.
Daniel said, “It may be impossible to prove he was there the whole time, every single minute. Hospitals can be a madhouse.”
“It wasn’t Doc,” Cam said again. She pressed down the window and stuck her head out. The wind tore through her hair, teared her eyes, salted her skin. She breathed in the ocean air and wondered why she lived in Washington. The smell of the Atlantic wasn’t at all the same—the water looked cold, opaque, hiding deadly secrets that shifted and roiled beneath the surface. As for the Pacific, ah, the water smelled oddly sweet. It was welcoming, somehow promised magic when you swam beneath those waves.
She pulled her head back in. “Hey, Daniel, isn’t Paco’s up ahead? I need brain food and that means Mrs. Luther’s chips and salsa, round two.”
41
* * *
MISSY’S COTTAGE
MALIBU
LATE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
When Daniel and Cam walked into Missy’s living room it was to see her and Doc sitting on the sofa, their heads together, laptops on the coffee table in front of them.
“Did you know he’d be here?” Daniel asked quietly as he set down a big cardboard box with papers from Deborah’s house in the doorway.
“No, but it’s just as well, saves us time.” Cam studied Mark Richards’s haggard face. He looked almost terminally ill, needing only a little push into the hereafter. When he took off his glasses and looked over at her, she saw somethi
ng else. Intense eyes, even fierce, and she knew despite his grief he had a mission now, to find Deborah’s killer.
They stepped forward. “Hi, Missy. Dr. Richards, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve brought a box of Deborah’s papers to go over with you.”
Missy pulled a long hank of hair off her cheek and tucked it back into her ponytail. She gave Daniel a blinding smile. “Hi.”
He nodded to her, smiling. “Hi, yourself.”
Missy turned to Cam. “Doc called me to tell me about Deborah and we got to talking and I invited him over. I hope it’s all right, Cam, I told him we were concentrating on Deborah’s auditions. What’s in the box?”
“Deborah’s paper records. A lot of them. They probably include all her auditions for several years. Whatever you can tell us about these will help us, Doc.”
Missy laid her palm lightly on Doc’s shoulder, a show of support and comfort. “Good. We were just beginning to go over my own auditions and those contacts I gave you. We know a lot of the same people, which makes sense, of course. It’s too bad we don’t have her cell to help us. Doc pointed out you could get those contacts through the phone company.”
Doc finally raised his head, nodded to them. “Agent Wittier.” He looked at Daniel. “Who are you?”
Missy said, “Sorry, that’s Detective Daniel Montoya, from the Lost Hills station. He and Cam are working together. And they’re letting me help them.” She sounded like a proud mama.
Cam said, “Doc, as Missy said, we’re focusing on the idea that Deborah’s death, all the killings, might relate to professional rivalry in some way. The fact that Deborah was a record keeper will be a great help.”
“And I’ll do anything I can to help you,” Doc said, and then broke off, as if speaking more words were beyond him.
To give him time to get himself together, Cam and Daniel looked down at the list Missy was making on her tablet. Daniel said, “So these are actresses you remember Deborah beating out in auditions. I see they go back to last year. Let’s go through the box, see if we can narrow the time frame.”
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