They went inside carefully. Stride found a light switch that turned on a small overhead dome fixture. There wasn’t much to see and no sign of a disturbance. The furniture looked as if it had come with the apartment and had been there for years. The apartment consisted of a living room, a kitchen, and a doorway that led to a small bedroom and bathroom. It was impersonal. No artwork. No books. No pictures. Nothing that said anything about the girl who had been living here.
There was a beat-up oak desk near the window overlooking the street. Maggie began pulling open drawers. Stride checked the kitchen.
“So you met Dean Casperson, huh?” Maggie called to him as they searched.
“I did.”
“You know, I always figured Russell Crowe would play you in a movie. Tough. Emotionally sensitive.”
“Ha,” Stride retorted.
“So what’s he like?” Maggie asked.
“Casperson? You’d expect him to be charming, and he is.”
“Did you watch them filming?”
“Yeah. Ten seconds of Casperson running across a field. That probably cost a few hundred thousand dollars.”
Maggie was quiet for a while as she rifled through the desk drawers, and then she said, “Is this whole thing as hard on you as it is on me?”
Stride closed the refrigerator, which was virtually empty, and turned around. Maggie was staring at him from the other side of the apartment.
“I mean, watching that case come to life again,” she went on.
“I know what you mean. Sure it is.”
She shook her head. “Art Leipold. It still blows my mind all these years later. We knew him.”
“We thought we did,” Stride said. “We were wrong.”
He’d known Art Leipold long before the killings began. When Stride was a young cop in his late twenties, Art was a television reporter and a friend of Stride’s partner, Ray Wallace. Art got inside tips from Ray, so he was in and out of police headquarters all the time. To Stride, the relationship between Art and Ray was always too cozy. They were both cocky bastards who manipulated stories to put pressure on suspects and get TV ratings. But Stride was a junior cop back then, and Ray was the boss. He’d never complained.
Art climbed the media ladder to a gig as one of the anchors on the local morning show. In a town like Duluth, that made him famous. He’d always been arrogant, but he began to get drunk on his celebrity.
That was when women began dying.
“Anything in the desk?” Stride asked, joining Maggie on the other side of Haley’s apartment.
“No; it’s been cleaned out,” Maggie said. “This looks like John Doe’s place. Either Haley skipped town or someone else got here first.”
Stride wandered into the girl’s bedroom. Without light, he almost reached for his gun as he found himself staring at a human figure hidden behind the bedroom door. Then he realized it was a mannequin. When he switched on a lamp, he saw the white statue clearly. She was sculpted in a provocative pose and dressed in a negligee, with a blond wig hanging down to the small breasts.
He opened the closet door. Inside, on hangers and shelves, he found a wild array of clothes and wigs that would have suited everyone from a schoolteacher to a stripper.
Maggie joined him and whistled as she assessed the wardrobe. “That’s quite the collection. Haley liked to play dress-up?”
“Apparently.”
“Was she an extra on the movie?”
“Chris didn’t mention it. These clothes don’t look like anything they’d use in the film.”
Stride used his phone to take pictures of the clothes and the mannequin. “I’ll text this to Serena and see if she can get some answers for us. I asked her to go to the cast party tonight and find out more about Haley.”
Maggie mocked the sexy pose of the mannequin. “So you’re sending your happily married wife to a Hollywood party, and meanwhile, your unattached partner gets to play with dolls?”
Stride grinned. “None of those actors would be safe around you, Mags.”
“That’s what I was counting on.”
The two of them quickly checked the rest of the bedroom. Stride opened each drawer in a heavy oak dresser against the wall and found nothing but jeans, sweaters, and a few button-down shirts. The clothes were ordinary compared with what Haley kept in the closet. In the bathroom, he found shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, makeup, and some over-the-counter pain relievers, but there were no prescription medications and nothing for birth control.
Haley was a mystery. There was nothing in the apartment to tell them where she was, who she was, or whether she was alive or dead.
He was about to leave when he noticed a metal wastebasket shoved against the tall oak dresser. The plastic bag inside the wastebasket was empty. Looking back to the living room, he noticed that Haley’s desk was in a direct line ten feet away. There was no other garbage can near the desk. The only other trash container he’d seen was in the kitchen, and that one was empty, too.
“How good a shot do you think she was?” Stride asked.
“What?”
He grabbed a blank piece of paper from the notebook in his jacket, crinkled it into a ball, and shot it across the room like a free throw. He deliberately aimed high. The paper rolled across the varnished surface of the dresser and disappeared in the narrow gap between the dresser and the wall.
Maggie knew what he was thinking. She dragged the dresser away from the corner, and they found a collection of garbage on the carpet behind it. Tissues. Wadded-up paper from yellow pads. Restaurant receipts. Stride bent down with a gloved hand and began sifting through the trash. Most of it told him nothing. Then he picked up a crumpled delivery receipt from China Cafe. When he smoothed it out, he glanced at the details and stopped.
“Hang on.”
“What’s up?” Maggie asked.
Stride pointed at the receipt. “It’s Thursday now. This order was from five days ago. Saturday night. The name says Haley Adams, but the delivery address isn’t her apartment. She had the food sent somewhere else.”
Maggie checked the address. “That’s over near Congdon Park. Isn’t that where some of the cast members rented houses?”
Stride nodded. “Maybe Haley Adams has been sleeping somewhere else while the film crew is in town.”
4
Serena Stride parked on the shoulder of the scenic highway between Duluth and the town of Two Harbors. The black water of Lake Superior loomed only steps away, where a snow-covered trail led down to the beach. They were a dozen miles north of the city. The highway was dark and empty through the long stretch of forest, but the Lakeside Café glowed with light across the street. Serena could hear the chatter of voices floating from inside. The cast and crew of The Caged Girl were at the party.
Beside her, Cat Mateo could barely contain her excitement.
“You are the best!” Cat exclaimed. “I can’t believe I get to meet these people!”
Serena smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. She remembered what it was like to be a teenage girl meeting celebrities. She’d felt the same way when she moved to Las Vegas, where every party had someone famous on the guest list. She also remembered, as a cop, how easily those parties could get out of control.
“Do I need to review the list of noes?” she asked Cat.
The seventeen-year-old rolled her eyes and chanted the list like a mantra. “No drinking, no swearing, no drugs, no sex.”
“And you stay inside the restaurant, and you don’t leave with anyone except me,” Serena added.
“Yes, Mom,” Cat groaned.
The girl no longer called her that ironically; she meant it. Jonny was always Stride to Cat, but over the last year Serena had become Mom to her. She liked it that way. Serena was unable to have kids of her own, and she’d made peace with that long ago. But it also made her grateful that Cat had become a part of their lives. She and Jonny both loved this girl as much as if she were their own daughter.
That didn’t mean it was e
asy. Two years earlier, when they’d rescued her, Cat had been a pregnant girl on the streets, dabbling in drugs and prostitution. Since then, two steps forward with her had always been followed by one step back. But Cat was a different person now. She visited with the parents who’d adopted her son every week. She was razor-sharp in school and was thinking about college. She still hung out with people Serena didn’t trust—particularly a slick young con artist named Curt Dickes—but Cat had matured into a serious, determined young woman.
Even so, a party like this was, well, catnip to a teenager. And Cat had tumbling chestnut hair and a sculpted, angular beauty that Hollywood types were bound to notice. Her Hispanic roots gave her golden skin, and her face was an alluring combination of innocent sweetness in her smile and mature sophistication in her dark eyes. When she wanted to, she could easily look ten years older than she was.
The two women got out of Serena’s Mustang. They were dressed to impress, and the long walk in heels to the restaurant door was icy and cold. They held on to each other to avoid stumbling. A security guard was at the door, and Serena showed him her badge and gave him both of their names. Stride had called ahead to clear them, and the security guard held the door as they breezed inside.
The room was packed shoulder to shoulder. Serena saw a dozen faces she recognized from television and movies. Even among the strangers, the men and women all looked too beautiful to be ordinary human beings. They were dressed as if they’d stepped off a runway. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t Los Angeles. It was still Duluth.
Cat grabbed Serena’s bare arm as her eyes soaked in the ambience. “Oh. My. God.”
“It is pretty cool,” Serena admitted.
“I suppose they wouldn’t like it if I streamed this on Facebook Live, huh?”
“Probably not.”
“Can I mingle?”
“Sure. Go mingle. Remember the rules.”
Serena watched Cat put on her game face. The teenager squared her shoulders, threw her hair back, and melted into the crowd as if she belonged there. Serena felt a twinge of anxiety, thinking about her own teen years in Las Vegas. Back then, she’d run away from the abuse she’d suffered at home. She’d been pregnant, like Cat, but she’d chosen an abortion, which had gone badly. Those were dark days for her. She wanted a different life for this girl.
“Hello, Serena.”
She hunted through the faces in front of her and saw Chris Leipold smiling from behind a can of Bent Paddle Kanu. He was one of the only men in the crowd in a suit and tie. His wispy hair was greased down. In her heels, Serena towered over him. He approached her and kissed her cheek.
“Chris, it’s good to see you again,” Serena said. “How’s the filming going?”
“It’s fine when the weather cooperates. No one on the crew appreciates my interest in location shooting at this time of year. They’d rather be in Vancouver.”
“Well, so would I right now,” Serena admitted.
“Is Stride coming?”
“No, sorry; he asked me to fill in.”
“Thanks again for getting him to agree to work with me. I know that wasn’t easy.”
“Jonny’s a private guy,” Serena said. “But the money you’re paying will put Cat through college, so how could we say no?”
“Have you found out anything more about our missing intern, Haley Adams?” Chris asked.
Serena shook her head. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Aimee Bowe may be able to tell you more.”
“Aimee is costarring with Dean Casperson?”
“Yes, she’s ‘the caged girl.’ In a lot of ways, it’s her film. Aimee worked with Haley a lot. She probably knows her better than anyone else on the set.”
“I’ll talk to her. When did you last see Haley?”
“I’ve asked around, and it looks like no one has seen her since sometime Tuesday morning. Oh, and I ran the photo of that other man past several people here. I haven’t found anyone who knew who he was.”
“I appreciate your help.”
“Of course. Enjoy the party.”
Chris disappeared with a little wave.
Serena worked her way down the long, narrow restaurant. The dining room was paneled in light oak and had been cleared of tables. Despite the frigid outside air, the crowded bodies made it warm inside. She wore a knee-length navy blue dress that she hadn’t put on in years, and she was pleased that it still fit. It showed off her statuesque body. Her long black hair caressed her white shoulders. If anyone looked closely at her legs, they would see the mottled scars she’d suffered in a fire several years earlier. But time had taken away her self-consciousness about how she looked and who she was. She still had her Vegas attitude.
Several men hit on her. The badge on her belt didn’t dissuade them. She laughed at the idea of any of these men coming face to face with Jonny. In each group, she asked about Haley Adams, but no one had anything helpful to say. They didn’t know anything about Haley’s background. They didn’t know if she’d grown up in Duluth or where she had gone to school. They didn’t seem to know who’d hired her for the film crew. It was as if Haley had shown up out of nowhere and started working.
So many people said the exact same thing that Serena began to wonder if a script had been passed around the party: When the police ask you about Haley Adams, this is what you say.
The only answer that varied from person to person was the one thing that should have stayed the same. When Serena asked them to provide a physical description of Haley, their replies varied. Some said her hair was short; some said long. Some said blond. Some said redhead. Some said her eyes were blue; some said green. Some said freckles; some said clear skin. It was as if they’d all met a different girl each day.
Serena didn’t understand it.
After an hour asking questions and getting nowhere, she finally spotted the woman she’d been trying to find all evening. Aimee Bowe stood off by herself near the windows that looked out on the dark forest. She held a glass of white wine. Serena recognized her because she’d seen the actress in a comedy the previous year in which she’d done a memorably drunk, half-dressed version of the Macarena. Her role in Duluth was 180 degrees from that. She was playing a character inspired by Lori Fulkerson, the last of Art Leipold’s victims.
Lori was the woman Stride had rescued from inside the box.
Aimee wasn’t tall, but she had presence, the way every actor did. In a profession in which beauty was commonplace, she had a unique look that made her stand out. Her nose was a little long, her forehead a little high, and her chin a little pronounced. She had penetrating and intelligent blue eyes, and one looked slightly larger than the other. The cascading blond hair she’d worn in other roles had been cut into short spikes and dyed to a squirrel brown for this role.
As Serena approached her, Aimee’s eyes made a quick assessment, the way one beautiful woman typically did to another. Her eyes stopped when she saw Serena’s badge. The actress’s face immediately turned cautious.
“Ms. Bowe? My name is Serena Stride. I’m a detective with the Duluth Police. I was hoping to talk to you about Haley Adams.”
Aimee didn’t look surprised. “Have you found her?”
“No, we haven’t. Not yet.”
The actress took a sip of wine and then said, “I don’t think you will.”
Serena gave her a curious look. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ll think this is very Los Angeles of me,” Aimee replied, “but sometimes I sense things.”
“Sense things? What do you mean?”
“I guess some people would call it psychic,” Aimee said. “That’s not the word I use, but it’s close enough.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. That’s okay. Anyway, I sense something about Haley.”
“Which is?”
“She’s dead,” Aimee said.
Serena tried to keep the skepticism off her face. “Can you think of a reason why something woul
d have happened to her?”
“Maybe because she was a spy,” Aimee replied.
Serena blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“She was here to spy on us. I don’t know why or who sent her. Don’t misunderstand; I liked her a lot. She was sweet and very smart. Too smart to be an intern. But she was always watching. She never missed a thing. And then there were the disguises, too.”
“Disguises?”
“She looked different every time she came on the set. Different hair, different type of clothes, even different eye color and skin makeup. Half the time, I didn’t know it was her until she introduced herself. She said she did it because she was only comfortable talking to people when she was pretending to be someone else. I can relate to that as an actor. But I think Haley didn’t want anyone around here to know who she really was.”
“I heard she was a film student at UMD,” Serena said.
Aimee’s lips bent into a smile, but without showing her teeth. “I doubt that’s true.”
“If you thought she wasn’t who she claimed to be, why didn’t you blow the whistle on her?” Serena asked.
“I told you, I liked her. And it wasn’t my problem. She wasn’t spying on me.”
“Then who?”
Aimee took a moment to reply. “I have no idea.”
Serena could see that the actress knew more than she was saying. Psychic or not, Aimee was obviously an intelligent and intuitive woman.
“I feel you’re not being completely candid,” Serena said.
“I’m sorry, but I just met you.”
“Yes, but you also said you liked Haley Adams a lot. If you know something that might help us find her, I wish you’d tell me. You may not know me, but you can trust me.”
This time Aimee’s smile showed her perfect teeth, as if Serena had said something very funny. “I don’t think you understand the people who have invaded your city. We play by West Coast rules. Don’t ever trust us and don’t ever ask us to trust you.”
Serena rarely felt naive, but she found herself oddly outclassed by this woman, as if she were foundering in deep water because of a twenty-seven-year-old actress. She didn’t know what to say.
Alter Ego Page 3