by Blake Pierce
“Okay,” Jessie replied, sensing that word was carrying a lot of weight. “What kind of acting?”
“The adult kind,” Lizzie answered heavily.
“She did porn?” Jessie asked, wanting to make sure they were on the same page.
Lizzie nodded her head.
“But she was underage,” Jessie said. “You have to be eighteen to make those movies.”
“She paid a lot of money to get decent fake papers. I doubt they would have been enough if she was applying to work at Google or Northrop Grumman or something. But the people she worked for weren’t exactly sticklers. They asked for the paperwork. She gave it. They let her work.”
“Was she popular, well-known?” Jessie asked, her head swimming at the possibility of thousands of viewers, all potential suspects.
“She wasn’t a star or anything,” Lizzie said. “She’d only made about a dozen movies so far. But she said they were planning to put her in a lot more. She said they liked her work ethic. She showed up on time. She’d work long hours. She was never high.”
Jessie wondered about the professional environment in which those qualities were considered rarities.
“This was work she wanted to do?” Jessie asked.
“It wasn’t her dream job. But she didn’t have a problem with it. She liked to live on the edge a little, got a thrill out of being a bad girl. But mostly, she liked the money. She had a plan. She didn’t live a fancy lifestyle. The apartment is nice and she generally bought what she wanted. But she didn’t go crazy. She said that if she worked for two years and made fifty movies with multiple scenes—you get paid by the kind of act in each scene—she figured she could pull in about $250,000. Then she’d quit and go to school. She was looking into an advertising degree. She was already auditing my marketing class on Thursdays.”
“Did she seem happy, like things were going okay?”
“I mean, happy is a strong word,” Lizzie admitted. “She seemed okay with what she was doing. I tried not to press her on it too much. I don’t like to judge but her lifestyle isn’t my lifestyle. I’m pretty religious and she definitely wasn’t. But considering that she was giving me such a deal on living there, I didn’t think it was my place to call out her choices, you know?”
“I understand,” Jessie assured her.
“It’s not like she even needed a roommate really. She said she just felt more secure having one. And she liked the company. I think she appreciated having someone around who wasn’t part of her work life, someone who knew her before she was Missy Mack.”
“Missy Mack?”
“That’s her screen name. She obviously wasn’t going to use her real one. She said Missy sounded young and innocent, which is the type of character she was known for. Also it fit with her fake identity, Melissa Mackenzie. That was the name on the social security number she bought for employment documents.”
“She really thought this through, huh?” Jessie said, half-admiringly.
“Like I said, she had a plan. Two years, $250,000. That was her focus.”
“Was she working yesterday?”
“Yeah. She had an early call—six a.m. She was supposed to be there today too.”
“Do you know the name of the company she worked for?”
“She did a lot of fly-by-night stuff for a while. But for the last half dozen movies, she’s been a regular performer for Filthy Films. They’re based here in Van Nuys.”
Lizzie sighed deeply. Jessie could tell the girl was fading.
“Okay,” Jessie said, writing it down. “I’m going to wrap up soon. Just a couple more questions—do you know if she had any obsessive fans? Did she ever mention stalkers or anything like that?”
“If she had any, she didn’t mention them to me. You have to understand, we didn’t really talk about what she did that much. She knew I wasn’t super comfortable with it. And I think she just wanted to put it out of her head once she got home. So I doubt she would have brought up that kind of thing with me unless someone had done something really scary, like come to the apartment. We talked about movies, reality TV, friends from school. It never got too heavy.”
A nurse walked in and, seeing Lizzie awake, immediately walked over to check her vitals.
“Am I going to be okay?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” the nurse answered without hesitation. “You don’t have any injuries. The EMTs brought you in because you were in shock. The doctor will do another evaluation. But I imagine you’ll be able to leave in a few hours. Your recovery would be expedited by more rest and fewer disturbances.”
Her last comment was accompanied by a raised eyebrow at Jessie, who had spent enough time recovering in hospitals under the care of protective nurses not to take offense.
“Last question and then I’ll let you rest,” she promised them both. “What do you know about Mick’s father?”
Lizzie got quiet for a second. Clearly she knew something.
“She didn’t talk about him much,” she finally said. “And I only saw him once. He came to school one day at St. Ursula. He was stumbling around campus, really drunk, looking for her. He was calling out her name. You could hear it echo across the quad. The nuns had to call the cops.”
“Did she ever talk about that incident or anything else related to him?”
“She just said that after her mom died, he started drinking a lot and got violent. I know he lives in some cabin in the mountains now and she seemed glad that he wasn’t around.”
The nurse gave an irritated grunt that indicated she was about to make a fuss. Jessie closed her notebook to prove she was done.
“Where will you stay?” she asked the girl. “How can I reach you if I have more questions?”
“My parents live in Thousand Oaks,” Lizzie answered. “I’ll probably crash with them for a while.”
Jessie thought about how nice it must be to have the luxury to fall back on parents who would love and protect you when you were in crisis. It sounded like Michaela hadn’t had that in a long time. Now that Jessie thought about it, neither did Hannah.
Neither did I.
CHAPTER TEN
Jessie felt dirty.
She had pulled over into a covered parking garage where she could take out her laptop and discreetly check out the work of Missy Mack. It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for.
After randomly searching through a few film titles, she came across something called the Internet Adult Film Database. She punched “Missy Mack” into the search bar and a list of movies came back. She could quickly see what Lizzie had been talking about.
There were fourteen total films in her filmography. But the first few listed seemed to only include an individual scene with Missy. They also had bland names like High School Gang Bang and BabeFest #29. Each of those was made with a different production company.
It was only once she started working with Filthy Films that the creativity of the titles, and her total screen time, improved. The last six films on the list, all Filthy Films productions, included the likes of Nympho Cheerleader Zombies, The Naughty Babysitters Club, Teacher’s Pet, and Candy Wants Candy, in which she seemed to be the main character.
It took some more digging to find the actual office address of the company and the real names of the people who ran it. But after some searching, with the assistance of the records team back at Central Station, she had a lead. As she pulled out of the garage and headed in that direction, she made a phone call.
Kat picked up on the second ring. Katherine “Kat” Gentry was one of Jessie’s closest friends, which was odd, considering how they first met. Kat was the former head of security at the Non-Rehabilitative Division—NRD for short—of the psychiatric prison facility where Bolton Crutchfield was incarcerated. The two had initially butted heads when Jessie tried to interview the notorious serial killer as part of her thesis for her master’s degree in Criminal Psychology.
Eventually the animosity faded as their mutual respect grew. Jessie
revealed the truth about her childhood ordeal and her parentage. Kat shared details about her time as an Army Ranger in Afghanistan and the incident that led to the prominent scar on the left side of her face.
Somewhere along the line, a friendship blossomed. Then Crutchfield escaped. It didn’t matter that Kat wasn’t even in town when he broke out or that another security officer had secretly helped the killer. She got blamed and fired.
After taking some time off, she had recently recast herself as a private detective. Jessie tried to throw work her way as often as she could, partly out of friendship and partly because she felt responsible for what happened. Somewhere deep down, she’d always suspected that Crutchfield had escaped, at least in part, so he could better play his cat-and-mouse game with her.
“Hey. What’s up?” Kat asked.
“Are you working any cases right now?” Jessie wanted to know.
“Nice to hear from you, Jessie. Hope you’re well. I’m doing okay, thanks for asking.”
“Sorry about that,” Jessie said, chastened. “How are you?”
“I’m married now. Met a great guy. I was tailing him as a possible adulterer. But it turned out he was just a drug dealer. I was so impressed with his marital fidelity that I jumped him. He’s leaving his wife for me.”
“I said I was sorry,” Jessie repeated. “Don’t rub it in.”
“I guess I forgive you. But maybe next time lead with the pleasantries.”
“Noted,” Jessie said, uncertain whether to proceed with her question.
“Okay,” Kat said. “Now that you feel appropriately guilty, if you must know, I am between cases. I have a surveillance gig that starts this weekend. But right now, it’s pretty quiet.”
“Can I throw a job at you, one that I can’t promise will be reimbursed by the fine folks at LAPD?”
“Jessie,” Kat said patiently, “if I don’t get paid, then that’s what we call a ‘favor,’ not a job.”
“You’ll get paid one way or another. If they won’t foot the bill, I will.”
Kat didn’t question the guarantee. She was well aware that as a result of Jessie’s divorce from her wealthy but murderous husband, Kyle, she was financially secure enough to make such pledges.
“Now we’re talking,” Kat said with enthusiasm. “What can I do you for?”
“I want you to check into a guy named Keith Penn. He used to live in the San Fernando Valley but now he has a cabin in Lake Arrowhead.”
“Sure. Want to give me the back story?”
“His daughter, Michaela, was murdered last night, stabbed nine times. She was only seventeen. Turns out she led a complicated life. I’m still trying to get a handle on it. But word is Keith was an abusive drunk. As a result, Michaela ended up getting emancipated.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” Kat said. Between her time guarding serial killers and rapists and her stint in Afghanistan, she’d seen almost as much of the world’s ugliness as Jessie had.
“I want to know what he was up to last night.” Jessie told her. “Was he in his cabin? Did he make a visit to L.A.? Basically, I want a tick-tock on his movements for the last twenty-four hours. No need to confront him. I just need to know if he’s a credible suspect.”
“Are you leaning his way?” Kat asked.
“Too early to say,” Jessie admitted. “But I really hope it’s not him.”
“Why?”
“Because Michaela was raped before she was murdered.”
Kat was quiet for a moment. Even she couldn’t be snarky about this.
“You know, we really must both be messed up people to do this kind of thing for a living. Have you ever thought of that?”
“Kat,” Jessie replied. “Messed up is pretty much my defining characteristic.”
*
Filthy Films really was filthy.
Or at least it was in a filthy location.
The company’s production offices and studios were located in a rundown industrial part of Van Nuys. They shared the street with two bail bondsmen, a strip club, a liquor store, a payday lender, a smoke shop, and a security alarm store.
Jessie was reticent to park on the street and pulled up to the secured parking, where she flashed her LAPD badge to the security guard. It looked like a cop’s ID save for the sticker at the bottom that said “profiler.” Like almost everyone who glanced at it, he asked no questions and waved her through.
She parked and walked into the reception area where a woman in her sixties with thick bifocals sat behind a linoleum-topped counter. The woman looked up and peered at Jessie over her glasses. She had the craggy skin of someone who never bought into that whole sunscreen thing and was now paying the price.
“If you’re here for the MILF auditions,” she said in a cigarette-stained voice, “you’re too late. They ended before lunch.”
“I’m not here for the MILF auditions,” Jessie said, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered.
“Good,” the woman said. “You look too young anyway. Don’t sell yourself short, dearie. You should come back next week. We’re doing an open casting call for sexy teachers. We’re starting a whole series. You’re a better match for that.”
“Thanks?” Jessie replied. “I’m actually not looking for work. I already have a gig with the LAPD. I’m looking for Leonard Lander.”
The woman’s eyes grew squinty and suspicious behind her glasses.
“What do you want with Lenny?”
“I need to ask him some questions regarding a case I’m investigating. I can’t say more than that.”
“Ugh,” the woman said. “The first half-classy woman who wants to talk to my son in months and she’s here to question him. Hold on.”
As the woman picked up the phone, Jessie tried to decide which was more disturbing: that this woman worked at her son’s porn company or that she considered Jessie to be “half-classy.”
As they waited for him to answer, Jessie glanced at the posters on the walls of the office. Most appeared to be for titles from the Filthy Films catalogue—The She-Wolf Chronicles, The Mile Higher Club, Mandy the Erotic Mermaid. But mixed in were posters for The Deer Hunter and Gandhi. Jessie was flummoxed.
“Lenny,” she heard the woman rasp, “it’s Fiona. There’s a police lady here to see you. She has some questions.”
After a moment’s silence, she spoke again.
“She won’t give me any details. Just talk to her. You’ve got a scheduling meeting in ten minutes so this is a good window.”
More listening.
“Yes, she’s very nice-looking. But I don’t think you’ll have much luck, my sweet one. She looks like just being in here makes her want to bathe in Purell. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Still more silence, after which Fiona hung up.
“He’ll be right up, dearie. Can I offer you something? Coffee? Seltzer? Hand sanitizer?”
For the first time since entering the office, Jessie smiled.
“I like you, Fiona.”
“Of course you do. I’m very likable.”
A second later Lenny Lander burst through the door. He was a sight to behold. Thirty-something, short, sweaty, and pale, with black hair plastered to his scalp and about thirty extra pounds, he looked more like a guy who spent most of his time in a basement than on a film set. He looked at Jessie with a mix of lasciviousness and apprehension.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked with ridiculous grandiosity.
“I’m Jessie Hunt. I consult for the LAPD. I need some info on one of your…actresses.”
“Looking for a date?” Lenny asked, giving a broad, toothy smile.
Under normal circumstances, Jessie would have asked to speak to the guy privately. But somehow she suspected that would be counterproductive in this case. She might get more direct answers and fewer snarky comments if Fiona was around.
“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Lander,” she said plainly. “And I suggest you stop treating it as such. I need to know everything you can tel
l me about the actress who goes by the name Missy Mack.”
Lenny looked only slightly tempered.
“Missy? The first thing I can tell you is she didn’t show up this morning, which really screwed up my day. I had to find a replacement girl on short notice and shoot out of sequence. It probably cost me close to eighteen hundred bucks.”
“Is that a common problem with her?” Jessie asked, deciding to hold back the reason for her absence for now.
“No. That’s why it chapped my ass so much. She’s usually on time and ready to go. I always have a girl on standby in case of no-shows. But with Melissa—that’s her real name—I got lulled into complacency because she never missed a call. So I skipped the standby this week. I should’ve known better.”
“Usually she was more professional?” Jessie asked.
“For sure,” Lenny said. “You know baseball?”
“I guess,” Jessie said, curious where this analogy was headed.
“Well, she’s like a five-tool player,” he said enthusiastically. “She can play the seductress or be demure. She knows her lines. She hits her marks. She doesn’t complain. She’s up for anything, if you know what I mean. I guess that’s more of a six-tool player. Seven if you actually count tools.”
Lenny chuckled at his own joke. Fiona groaned quietly.
“Was she having any issues with anyone working on the film?” Jessie continued, pretending not to have heard that last line. “Professional dispute? Personal beef?”
“Why?” Fiona asked, clearly more concerned than her son. “Did something happen to Melissa?”
Jessie didn’t feel like she could evade the question any longer without drawing suspicion so she decided to tell the truth.
Ideally she would have had someone else with her to give the news so she could observe their responses. Ryan usually played that role. But since she was alone, she kept her focus on Lenny, who seemed a more likely potential suspect.
“Melissa was murdered last night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Oh my god,” Fiona exclaimed.