Alter Ego

by Brian Freeman

  “See what I mean?” Jack went on, letting a grin creep onto his face. “Can this wait?”

  “I’m investigating a murder, so no, it really can’t.”

  The word “murder” didn’t affect the uninterested look on Jack’s chiseled face. He shrugged and called over his shoulder. “Why don’t you hop in the shower, sweetie. I’ll join you in a couple minutes.”

  Modesty didn’t trouble the woman in the bed. She scooted naked from under the sheet and ran across the carpet to the bathroom, where she shut the door behind her. Jack waved Stride inside and then went to the wardrobe and put on a dark blue terry-cloth robe. He took a cigarette from a pack, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He extended the pack to Stride, who shook his head.

  Jungle Jack sat on the edge of the bed. Stride pulled over a wooden chair and sat across from him. Jack continued to smile as if his face didn’t do anything else. He was in his midthirties and Hollywood handsome, with a jutting jaw and pronounced cheekbones. His jet black hair was swept back like a lion’s mane. He had a muscular physique, and he looked relaxed and confident as he smoked. There was no way Jack didn’t realize that he’d accidentally hit on the teenage girl who lived in Stride’s house, but if it worried him, he didn’t show it.

  “So what can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “I’d like to talk about Haley Adams,” Stride said.

  “Who?”

  “She was an intern on the movie set.”

  “Oh, the missing girl, sure. That’s too bad. I hope you find her.”

  “We did,” Stride said. “She’s dead.”

  He showed Jack a photo of the girl they’d found in the woods. Jack’s grin vanished. He seemed genuinely upset, but Stride had to remind himself that Jungle Jack, even if he was only Dean Casperson’s stunt double, was an actor. You couldn’t trust anything on an actor’s face.

  “Well, that’s horrible. Dean is going to be crushed to learn about this.”

  “Can you confirm that this is the girl you knew as Haley Adams?” Stride asked.

  Jack took another look as he examined the picture. “I think so. The face looks right, although I thought her hair was longer.”

  “Did you have a relationship with Haley?”

  Jack eyed the bathroom door, where Stride could hear the shower water running. “You mean that kind of relationship?”

  “I mean any kind of relationship.”

  “Well, did I try to get between her legs? Sure. The big secret of movie sets is that it’s usually boring as hell. Hours of downtime while the crew gets everything ready for a couple minutes in front of the cameras. You’re always looking for ways to pass the time. And somebody to pass the time with.”

  “I’m aware,” Stride replied coldly. His meaning was clear.

  Jack took a drag on his cigarette. Their eyes met with the controlled antagonism of two chess players on opposite sides of the board. “Yeah, I know I screwed up about that girl at the restaurant. Apologies. Mo read me the riot act.”

  Stride let it go. “So you made a pass at Haley Adams. Did anything happen between the two of you?”

  “No.”

  “She rejected you?”

  “I guess she didn’t know what she was missing,” Jack said.

  “I’ve heard you don’t always take no for an answer.”

  “I don’t know where you heard that, but you heard wrong.”

  “One of the other interns on the movie said you assaulted her,” Stride said.

  “That was a misunderstanding. It was resolved amicably.”

  “You mean it was resolved with Dean Casperson buying her a Subaru BRZ?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jack replied. “Look, the fact is I don’t have any trouble finding companionship when I’m on the road. The girl in the shower? She was my waitress at lunch. Tomorrow I’ll find somebody else. It’s the way things are in my world. I suppose that sounds disgusting to you, but most men would trade places with me in a heartbeat.”

  Stride didn’t want to hear about the notches on Jack’s bedpost. He took the page of Florida driver’s license photos out of his pocket. “Speaking of waitresses. See the last girl on this page? She was a waitress at a restaurant in Naples, Florida. Do you recognize her?”

  Jack leaned forward to study the thumbnail. “She doesn’t look familiar.”

  “Her name was Haley Adams, too.”

  “Well, it’s a small world, as we say in Florida,” Jack replied. “But I told you. I don’t remember her.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time in Naples?” Stride asked.

  “Whenever I can. It’s a nice area.”

  “It’s not too far from where you live, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Actually, I understand you live with Dean and Mo Casperson,” Stride said.

  “Now and then. Off and on. We’re good friends.”

  Stride cast an eye dubiously around the small apartment. “So why are you staying here and not in the mansion downtown with Dean?”

  “I am staying with Dean, but I like to have my own place as a backup, too. I entertain a lot. If I did that at Dean’s place, people might get the wrong idea.”

  “Why this place? You’re pretty far out of town.”

  “I like my privacy,” Jack said. “There are spies everywhere when you’re in this business. Everybody wants to know your secrets. You can’t be too careful.”

  “Speaking of spies, did you know that Haley Adams was spying on Dean Casperson? She had a telescope trained on his bedroom window.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Jack replied, “but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Haley was a nosy little bitch. Always asking questions. I should have guessed she was working for the tabloids.”

  “Is that what you think she was doing?” Stride asked.

  “I can’t imagine any other reason she would have been spying on Dean.”

  “Why do you think someone killed her?”

  “I have no idea,” Jack replied. “Maybe she was selling drugs. Maybe she had a jealous boyfriend. Isn’t it your job to figure out who killed her, Lieutenant? We play cops and robbers in the movies, but you do it in real life.”

  “Actually, we’re pretty sure we know who killed Haley,” Stride replied, finding the next photograph on his phone. “It was this man. Do you know him?”

  Jack took a long look at the photograph of John Doe and then an even longer drag on his cigarette. He blew smoke toward the ceiling and seemed to be stalling as he figured out the best answer. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure this man was staying at one of the apartments here. I’ve seen him around.”

  “Was he connected to the movie?” Stride asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I might have said hello in passing. That’s all.”

  “We have a witness who saw this man at a party at Dean Casperson’s house last Saturday night,” Stride said.

  “This guy? I don’t recall seeing him there. Then again, I was having a pretty intense conversation that night with a bottle of Glenmorangie, so my memory may have some amber-colored gaps.”

  Stride shook his head. Jungle Jack was smooth at providing nondenial denials.

  “Have you seen this man anywhere else?” Stride asked.

  “Like around Duluth?”

  “Like in Florida,” Stride said. “We think he spent time in Naples, too.”

  “Really? No, I don’t recall ever seeing him before. But like I said, it’s definitely a small world down there.” Jack glanced impatiently at the bathroom door again. “Are we done here, Lieutenant? Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but I have other things to be doing.”

  “We’re done,” Stride told him, getting out of the chair.

  “Again, sorry about the thing with your girl,” Jack said.

  “You should be careful when you’re looking for companions,” Stride replied. “You wouldn’t
want to make a mistake that would leave you in legal jeopardy.”

  “Oh, I’ll be careful. Count on it.” As Stride turned toward the apartment door, Jack added in an oddly congenial voice, “You know, you should probably be a little careful, too, Lieutenant.”

  Stride stopped. He turned back and tried to assess the meaning behind Jack’s warning. “I’m sorry. Careful about what?”

  “You’re in the movies now. That means you’re playing in a whole different league. You’re fair game for the tabloids, just like Dean.”

  “I’m not in the movies,” Stride said.

  Jack shook his head. He slapped Stride on the shoulder as if they were old friends. He grinned again, but his smile felt nasty. “Oh, not true, Lieutenant. Not true at all. When someone makes a movie about you, believe me, you are instantly a celebrity. And the thing about celebrities is, someone out there is always trying to take them down.”

  14

  Serena knew she was in the right place because of the red Toyota Yaris parked in the grass. It was night, and the nearest streetlight was a block away, so she had trouble seeing as she got out of her Mustang. She was at the southern end of Sixty-Second Avenue in West Duluth. Through the bare trees, she heard the whine of traffic on the elevated lanes of I-35 only fifty yards away.

  Lori Fulkerson’s house was built of brick, but it looked unsteady, as if the wolf could huff and puff and blow this one down. It had been dropped onto a tiny, snowy crescent of grass. A narrow path had been shoveled between the street and the half dozen wooden beams that counted as steps. Serena made her way up to the storm door and rapped her knuckles on the glass.

  She heard the buzz of a television inside.

  Then she heard a scream that startled her and made her reach for her gun. She relaxed when Aimee Bowe’s familiar voice followed the scream, shouting out words that Serena had heard her say earlier in the day on the movie set.

  “Save me, Evan Grave. Save me.”

  Serena’s heart was still racing, but she smiled at her nervousness. With the movie people in town, it was hard to separate fiction from reality.

  Inside, the noise of the television stopped, and Lori Fulkerson came to the door. Her brown curls were a thick bird’s nest. She wore a roomy Vikings sweatshirt over her stocky torso and shorts despite the cold. She held a cheap can of beer in one hand and a tiny Yorkshire terrier in the other. The dog barked wildly. Lori opened the door a crack and said, “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to see how you’re doing, Ms. Fulkerson,” Serena said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you mind if we talk for a minute?”

  Lori opened the door wider, and Serena squeezed inside. The living room was small, barely twelve feet square. The house was a mess, literally buried in clothes, blankets, music CDs, newspapers, and old magazines. Lori never threw out anything. On the far wall, Serena saw a flat-screen television. Aimee Bowe’s face was frozen on the screen, paused in the middle of her scream.

  “Sit down if you can find a place,” Lori said. She put the dog down, and it ran in circles and yipped at Serena. Lori slumped into a recliner, and her knee bounced nervously. Her feet had been pushed into leather moccasins.

  Serena sat on a sofa on top of a six-inch pile of back issues of the News Tribune. She pointed at the television.

  “Is that from the filming today? How did you get it?”

  “Aimee Bowe sent me a web link,” Lori explained. “She wanted me to see it.”

  “That must be hard to watch.”

  Lori shrugged. Her jaw worked as she chewed gum. The house smelled of burned toast. The dog continued to bark at Serena with its little legs quivering, and Lori threw a rawhide chew toy into the small kitchen to distract it.

  “I was impressed that you were able to talk about it,” Serena went on. “I’d never heard some of the worst details before. It was horrifying.”

  “Didn’t Stride tell you about it?” Lori asked.

  “Not the things you told Aimee. He never released any of that information publicly, out of respect for the victims.”

  “So what are you saying? I should have shut up about it?”

  “Not at all. You were a victim. That’s your call.”

  Lori pointed a remote control at the television. She pushed a button, and the screen went black. “I hate the whole idea of the movie. I took the money because I wanted to move out of this place, but I wish I hadn’t. Maybe if I’d said no, it would have tanked the whole project.”

  “Probably not,” Serena told her. “Chris would have just written it differently.”

  “Yeah. Maybe he would have figured out a way to turn his father into the hero.”

  “Actually, I think Chris Leipold hates Art as much as you do,” Serena said.

  As the words left her mouth, Serena knew she’d said the wrong thing. Lori’s eyes turned to flame. “Not. Even. Close.”

  Serena nodded. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”

  The woman was silent, breathing hard and fast.

  “Why did you help Aimee if you’re so opposed to the film?” Serena asked, trying to recover from her mistake.

  “If they’re going to do it, they should do it right. And my mom bugged me about it forever. She thinks it will make me famous. Like I want to be famous for that.”

  Serena looked around the living room and noticed cracks in the wall among the junk and a few photographs of Lori as a child, standing next to someone who was probably her father. Yellow flowered wallpaper peeled at the ceiling.

  “Have you lived here long?” Serena asked.

  “Ever since I came back to town. It was all I could afford, and it’s close to my job. Plus, I grew up on the other side of the freeway. I wanted to be back in my old neighborhood.”

  “Does your mother live near here, too?”

  Lori snorted. “No. When she left Duluth, she took me as far away from my father as she could. She always said she’d never set foot in this city again. She calls, but I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “Is that your father?” Serena asked, gesturing at the photos on the wall.

  Lori glanced at the pictures. “Yeah. Those were taken at the playground near the freeway when I was six. It’s not even fifty yards away from here. It still looks exactly the same. Nothing ever changes in Duluth.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I do purchasing and accounting at an auto parts store over on Grand. I can walk to work in the summer.”

  “Nice.”

  They were silent for a while. The Yorkie in the kitchen gnawed loudly at his rawhide treat.

  “So what are you really doing here?” Lori asked.

  “Like I said, I wanted to make sure you were okay. The things you said to Aimee were pretty emotional.”

  “And I told you, I’m fine.”

  “The movie brings it all back, though, doesn’t it?” Serena asked. “I know it does for Jonny.”

  “Yeah. It does. So what? Let me guess: Stride told you I have a gun. He’s worried I’ll blow my brains out. And he sent you over here rather than come himself, because he knows I don’t like him.”

  “You’re exactly right,” she admitted.

  “If you lived in this neighborhood, wouldn’t you have a gun?” Lori asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Why don’t you like Stride?” Serena asked.

  “You mean, because he rescued me and I should feel grateful?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see your husband as some kind of saint,” Lori said. “And every time I see his face, I’m right back there on the worst day of my life. So no, I don’t like him.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.”

  “You can tell him I’m not going to kill myself. You don’t need to worry about that. Your work is done, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Serena stood up. There was nothing else to say.

&nbs
p; “You can let yourself out,” Lori told her.

  “Of course. Good night, Ms. Fulkerson.”

  Serena headed for the storm door and went back out into the cold. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. As she took the treacherous front steps, she twitched as she heard Aimee Bowe screaming again from the television inside.

  The voice sounded way too real.

  “Save me.”

  *

  Cat did her math homework at the dining room table in Stride’s cottage. She played “Hard Times” by Paramore at a volume loud enough to fill the house, and she danced in the chair and sang along to the music. When she heard the faint ping of the doorbell in the other room, she switched off the song and skidded in her socks across the hardwood floor to the front door.

  It took her a moment to recognize the woman on their porch. She wore sunglasses at night, as if in disguise, and she had the fur-lined hood of her coat tied snugly around her face.

  “Oh, hey, you’re—” Cat began. “You’re Aimee Bowe, right?”

  The actress glanced over her shoulder at the empty street. Her eyes were uncertain. “Yes. I was looking for Serena. Does she live here?”

  “Serena and Stride are out right now,” Cat said, “but Serena just texted and said she’d be home pretty soon. You want to wait?”

  Aimee hesitated. “Sure. If I’m not bothering you.”

  “Well, Jennifer Lawrence was supposed to come over with Emma Watson, but I guess they blew me off,” Cat replied.

  Aimee gave her a warm smile. “You really can’t count on those two.”

  Cat let her into the house and squeezed the door shut. It was warped and usually stuck. The great space of the cottage was furnished with two red leather sofas, antiques, and bookshelves. A fireplace took up most of the far wall. Walnut steps led up to a closed door that led to the attic. Aimee followed Cat into the dining room, where Cat’s schoolwork was spread across the table. The actress undid her coat and took off her sunglasses.

  “Do you want anything?” Cat asked. “Stride thinks I don’t know how to get into the liquor cabinet, but he is so wrong.”