by Blake Pierce
“Jett only just got up,” Matilda told them as she led them down a hallway with what appeared to be quartzite floor tiles underfoot. “He didn’t wrap for the night until after midnight and he didn’t get back here until after one. So he’s still easing into the day.”
“We’ll try not to harsh his mellow too much,” Dolan promised.
“I feel like you’re teasing me a little,” Matilda said playfully, though her smile seemed a bit forced.
“Just a little,” Dolan replied as they rounded the corner and suddenly stepped into a massive room.
It was easily fifty yards long, with a thirty-foot-high vaulted ceiling. The entire length of the room was covered in floor to ceiling windows looking out on the Pacific. The side of the room closest to them looked like a cross between a retro bar and an arcade, with old-timey stand-up video games along the walls and the center area comprised of a ping-pong table, a billiards table, a foosball table, and an air hockey table. At the far end of the room was a huge, almost theater-sized screen against the back wall. Surrounding it in a loose semicircle were multiple couches and easy chairs.
“Jett,” Matilda called out, her voice echoing loudly. “Your guests are here.”
A head popped up from one of the couches and the arm attached to it waved them over. As they did, he got up to meet them.
Jett Collison looked much as he did in the movies that made him famous. He was tall, probably six foot two. Though he appeared lanky at first glance, Jessie saw that his biceps were bulging through his slightly-too-small T-shirt, which also exposed the bottom half of his well-defined abs.
His brown hair was uncombed and stuck up in places and he wore thin wire-rimmed glasses that highlighted his bright blue eyes. He gave them his patented lopsided grin as he loped over. He looked a bit like a slightly uncertain baby fawn wearing loose sweatpants. His bare feet made a slapping noise on the tiled floor.
As he came over, Jessie found herself almost unwittingly being charmed by his foppish, self-deprecating manner. She reminded herself that this guy made his living playing into that impression and not to be dazzled by it. After all, this could be the person who jammed multiple keys into Claire Stanton’s throat less than thirty-six hours ago.
As he got closer, she could see that behind his winning smile and unconventional good looks, those blue eyes were full of apprehension. He knew this wasn’t going to be a schmoozefest. She locked on to his concern, hoping to use it to her benefit.
“Guys,” Matilda said by way of introduction, “this is Jett Collison. Jett, this is…oh jeez, I just realized I don’t any of your names other than Hunt there.”
“Jack Dolan,” the FBI agent said as he shook Collison’s hand, not identifying his agency.
“Murphy,” Murph volunteered from several feet away, making no effort to shake hands.
“Nice to meet you all,” Collison said, his voice soft and hesitant. “Sorry I’m so sloppy this morning. I’m not an early riser.”
“Not a problem,” Jessie said, smiling broadly in the hope that she could lull Collison into viewing her as more fan girl than interrogator. Maybe he’d be more forthcoming if he didn’t view her as a serious threat. “Where should we talk?”
“Is the couch cool?” he asked uncertainly.
“Sure,” she replied. “Lead the way, Mr. Collison.”
“Okay. But only if you call me Jett,” he said, as Jessie anticipated he would.
“Okay, Jett,” she said, offering her biggest grin.
When they were all seated on various couches, Jett leaned back.
“So what’s this all about?” he asked, trying to sound casual but failing.
“Well,” she began, “we assume Matilda told you this was related to LOL, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking like he was waiting for the hammer to drop.
“What can you tell us about your involvement in that organization?” she asked sweetly.
“Um, well, it’s like a dating service, kind of. It helps guys meet up with girls to, you know, like, date and stuff.”
Jessie wondered if his halting answers were due to nervousness or if he was just like this. If it was the latter, the writers of his movies deserved enormous credit.
“And you used this service?” she pressed.
“Yeah, I mean, sometimes. I met some cool girls through it. It’s hard to meet girls in my regular life. So this is a little more… simple.”
“You’re not dating anyone seriously?” she asked.
“Well, that’s a little complicated. Are we off the record here?”
“We’re not reporters, Jett,” Dolan said, adopting a dad tone. “We’re law enforcement. Nothing is off the record.”
“That said,” Jessie jumped in, “if something you tell us isn’t relevant to our investigation, we don’t necessarily have to include it in our report.”
“Um…” Jett hesitated.
Jessie could tell he needed a little push.
“Hey, Matilda,” she said to the girl, who was standing just off to the side of the group rocking back and forth ever so slightly, “I think I’d love that Perrier now. And Jack would like his tap… er, still water too.”
“Sure thing, Hunt,” Matilda said, her voice friendlier than her expression. She left, though she clearly wanted to stick around. When she was out of earshot, Jessie resumed.
“Look, Jett. We obviously know you used the service or we wouldn’t be here. And we know that the service pairs up wealthy men with young ladies who are open to all kinds of relationships, even really short-term ones. We’re not here to bust you for soliciting prostitution, if that’s what you’re worried about. We just need information, okay?”
“Okay, cool,” Jett said, running his fingers through his hair so that it jutted out even farther. “I just, okay, here’s the thing. My publicist set me up with this actress, right? It helps get good press and I have someone to take to premieres and stuff. And she’s cool and all. But we’re not like, a real couple. It’s more for show. But I still want to have some romance and stuff, you know. So a friend recommended this site and said it’s all really discreet. I tried it out and liked it. I could go out with a girl…or usually stay home with her, and not worry that the paparazzi would be all over it.”
“How could you be so sure?” Jessie asked.
“Well, I guess I couldn’t be totally sure. But my friend said the company has never had a problem like that. Most of these girls don’t work normal jobs. Their job is to date. The guys pay for all meals and clubs and sometimes a lot more, like rent and stuff. So if you’re a girl who’s looking to have fun, get wined and dined by some rich dude and not have to worry about paying your bills, it’s a pretty good gig. Why would you risk messing it up by blabbing about it, you know?”
“You felt secure based on that alone?” Dolan followed up.
“Yeah, that and the fact that all my dates pretty much proved it was true. I never had one of these girls threaten me with some video or pump me for money, probably because I handed it out without being asked. I’ve paid for rent; for plane tickets for a girl to go home for Christmas. I once even bought a girl a puppy. I have the money. It made them happy. And the happier my date is, the better time we have. I’m not saying it’s the most romantic thing in the world. But it works for everyone involved.”
It was moments like this that made Jessie glad they’d been able to keep Claire’s name out of the news. Officially it was so the next of kin could be notified. But the real reason was so that they could get genuine reactions about her from potential suspects.
With that in mind and without any warning, she asked the question she’d been setting him up for.
“Did it work for Claire Stanton?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There was a long pause as Jett’s eyes went wide.
When he started to answer, his voice cracked and he broke out in a dry cough that took several seconds to stop. Jessie couldn’t tell if it was sincere or just a stall
ing technique.
He chugged some of the water on the coffee table and wiped his mouth.
“I think so,” he finally said. “She seemed to be happy with the arrangement.”
“How long did the two of you date?” Jessie asked.
“For a while, actually,” he said. “It was more long term than some of the others. Once we started seeing each other, I kind of stopped dating the other girls.”
“Why is that?” Dolan asked.
“Because I liked her,” Jett said simply. “She was cool. I mean, she’s super hot too, obviously. But she’s also fun in a down to earth kind of way. We didn’t always have to get bottle service in a club’s VIP room. She was happy hanging out here, watching a movie and eating popcorn.”
“But you stopped seeing her?” Jessie asked leadingly.
“Yeah. Filming got hectic. I couldn’t really spend as much time with her as she wanted. She needed more financial security, you know? So we kind of parted ways, at least for now. Maybe we’ll hook up again when the movie’s done shooting. Is Claire in some kind of trouble? Has she done something wrong?”
“Nothing like that,” Dolan assured him, apparently deciding to adopt Jessie’s sugar over vinegar interrogation approach. “We’re just doing some routine follow-up. Hey, can I ask you a few questions about your schedule the last few days?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jett said. “But we might need to talk to Matilda if you want real details. She handles all that stuff.”
“That’s fine,” Dolan said. “We’ll start with you and she can help fill in the gaps, cool?”
“Cool,” Jett agreed.
“Hey, Jett,” Jessie interrupted, sensing this was the best moment to follow up on a suspicion she couldn’t shake. “While Jack’s asking you that stuff, can I use your restroom?”
“Sure, it’s that way,” he said, pointing to the hallway near the huge television screen.
She headed in that direction while Dolan continued his questioning. Murph made a move to follow her but she shook her head almost imperceptibly. He looked irked but stayed put.
Once she was out of sight, Jessie moved fast. Something about Jett’s reaction to her question about how his relationship with Claire ended didn’t ring genuine. And she suspected that she’d get more insight into the true nature of it by checking out where he lived rather than what he said. That meant finding his bedroom.
But how do I do that in a place this gigantic?
As she walked down the hall, she came to a carpeted stairwell that looked worn down, as if it dealt with lots of foot traffic. It was as decent a place to start as any. She jogged up the stairs two at a time, well aware that once Matilda returned with the waters, her absence would be noted.
Once on the second floor, she looked at the carpeting more closely and followed the section with the most shoe imprints. Sure enough, it led to a door at the end of a long hall. It was slightly ajar. Jessie briefly debated whether that met the legal standard for her to go in without being accused of breaking and entering.
After half a second, she decided to worry about that later and pushed the door open. It was clearly Jett’s bedroom, as evidenced by the posters of his various movies, including, The Bridegroom, Farmers Market, and The Bridegroom 2.
The California king bed sat at one end of the huge room, with a view out the balcony doors to the beach and ocean. In the middle of the room was a treadmill, an elliptical machine, and a home gym. Against the other wall was a TV screen a mere third the size of the one in the living room.
She walked around, looking at the end table beside his bed, which had a script, a box of tissues, and a picture of an older couple she assumed were his parents. There was nothing else of personal note anywhere in the area. On the treadmill dashboard was a copy of Entertainment Weekly, open to a review of his latest movie, Wing Man. It got a B-minus.
She moved on to the bathroom. It was bigger than most bedrooms. She found more scripts and entertainment magazines strewn about, but nothing personal. The shower was standard, as was the steam room, other than the fact that he had a steam room.
She turned on the light in the walk-in closet and looked around. It was cavernous. But other than one section with suits and tuxes, almost everything in his wardrobe was casual. There were countless T-shirts and pairs of jeans.
She was just about to turn off the light and rush back down to the living room when she glanced at the far end of the closet, where Jett’s coats rested on hangers. What drew her attention to them was that they were set apart from his other jackets.
Next to the suits and tuxes, he had a windbreaker, a leather jacket, a trench coat, and a ski parka. But at the far end were three heavy overcoats arranged in a line so as to block any view of the wall behind it.
Why does he have three overcoats when he lives in Southern California? Why are they all the way over there? He’s got more than enough room to put them with his other coats over here.
She walked over to check it out. As she got closer, she immediately noticed something. There was a draft.
Jessie was wearing casual slacks and practical flats with ankle-high socks. Just above the top of the sock line, there was the hint of a breeze tickling the exposed skin. When she stopped walking and stood right in front of the overcoats, the cuffs of her pants billowed ever so slightly.
She pushed the coats to the side and looked at the wall behind them. It was immediately apparent that there was something behind it. Tiny rays of light snuck through a barely visible slit between sections of the wall. Jessie tapped on a section near the slit. It was hollow. She felt around until she found a notch the protruded out from the wall slightly and pressed on it. It gave way and the wall panel popped open, revealing a room behind it.
Jessie took a deep breath and stepped inside, looking around. The room seemed innocuous, almost as if it was a panic room without the security measures. There was a twin bed in one corner. Against the back wall was a chair with a small desk with a spiral notebook on it. She walked over and thumbed through it. It was comprised of handwritten short stories, general musings and poems—nothing horribly offensive. The room really did seem to be a temporary safe room in which to hole up if a crazed fan busted into the house.
Jessie sat down in the chair, disappointed. She realized she’d been harboring unreasonable hopes that the room would provide obvious evidence of Collison’s guilt. It wouldn’t have been the first time that a stalker kept hidden mementos of the target of his obsession. It fact, it was fairly common. But apparently Jett Collison was just a twenty-something actor who liked easy relationships with hot chicks and didn’t want to get murdered by a psycho fan.
She put her elbows on her thighs and rested her head in her hands with her eyes closed, trying to determine where else to go with the case. Collison was their last serious suspect. If he didn’t pan out, they’d be back to culling through old messages from the dating site and trying to make connections from dubiously relevant texts. The prospect wasn’t appealing but it was all they had.
She opened her eyes again, determined to embrace the slog that was investigative work. Not every case got solved because of a brilliant flash of insight. In fact, far more often it was simple shoe leather investigating.
She was about to get up and go downstairs when she saw a small plastic bin underneath the twin bed across the room. She walked over and knelt down, tugging it out. There was something inside but the white bin’s coating made it hard to see. The top was sealed shut like a Tupperware container but she managed to pry it open.
Inside was a small photo album. She opened it and gasped. Every picture was of Claire Stanton. A few were posed but most were candids. Some were obviously taken surreptitiously. A few were of her lying asleep in the bed in the bedroom, naked.
She put the album down and looked at the other two items in the box. One was another sealed container, this time smaller and circular. She popped it open. Inside was what amounted to a fistful of human hair. It was same shade of blond
e as Claire’s.
The last item was in a Ziploc bag. Jessie didn’t open it as she could see inside it clearly. It held some kind of torn white cloth, maybe a ripped-off section of a scarf or kerchief. In one corner of the material was a red stain. It was hard to tell what it was—maybe lipstick, possibly blood.
She was leaning in to get a closer look when she heard a floorboard creak off to her right. Before she could react, a loud voice shouted at her.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was Matilda.
She stood at the entrance of the room, scowling and red-faced. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating with fury. Jessie glanced at her hands quickly and saw, to her relief, that they were empty.
“I was looking for a bathroom,” Jessie said in what she hoped was a calming voice as she stood up, still ready for any sudden moves.
“In here?” Matilda demanded, still looking ready to pounce.
“I got turned around,” Jessie explained. “Did you know about this room?”
“No. But maybe that’s because I don’t go snooping around my boss’s house—because it’s rude.”
“Like I said,” Jessie repeated with a consciously offhand demeanor, “I got a bit lost. It’s a big house, Matilda, as you know.”
“You need to get out of here!”
“You bet,” Jessie agreed. “Let’s head back down together so I don’t get lost again.”
“You can go on your own. I’m closing this up.”
“I don’t think so,” Jessie said shortly.
“What?”
“We’re going down together,” Jessie announced, spreading her feet shoulder-length apart and flexing her fingers in anticipation of having to use them.
Matilda looked equally flummoxed and furious.
“You don’t get to order me—”
“I’m afraid I do,” Jessie cut her off. “I work with the Los Angeles Police Department and this room is potential evidence in a crime investigation. So I won’t be leaving you alone in it. We are going downstairs together. That can happen with you walking in front of me, leading the way in a hospitable manner. Or I can cuff you and drag you back. Your call, Matilda.”
