Alter Ego

by Brian Freeman

  “Shhh,” he hushed her. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to say a word. You’re free.”

  Cut.

  The actors relaxed.

  Aimee Bowe detached herself quickly from Casperson’s arms. She stood up and paced nervously back and forth on the set. Her expression was distressed, as if she had difficulty leaving her character behind. Casperson was the opposite. He immediately began joking with the crew with the casualness of someone who had done this a million times. A green screen glowed behind the small patch of ground on which the interior of the hunting lodge had been built. They were all gathered in the cold rental warehouse near the harbor. It was the fifth take of the rescue scene.

  Stride stood next to Chris Leipold at the back of the set. He cocked his head and whispered. “Aimee said she killed the little girl. What does that mean?”

  Chris chuckled. “Honestly? I have no idea. Aimee is one of those actors who improvise each take to see how the scenes play out. She’s been reworking the monologues for her character to make it more authentic. It’s a little different every day. Most of the time I like the spontaneity, but it drives Dean crazy because he doesn’t know what’s coming next. He’s a by-the-book actor.”

  It was late afternoon, but Chris gulped coffee from a travel mug as if it were early morning. The two of them wandered toward the warehouse door, which was cracked open to let in cold air. The wind felt good to Stride after he’d spent half an hour under the heat of the movie lights.

  “The chief says someone called the mayor to complain about police interrupting the filming,” Stride said. “‘Harassment’ is the word she used. Is that true?”

  Chris studied him over the top of his coffee. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “It was you?”

  “I had no choice. I was getting major pushback on the set.”

  “Let me guess. Casperson.”

  Chris shrugged and didn’t deny it. “Dean’s a pro, and he likes things to go a certain way. If he’s unhappy, the studio’s unhappy, and that means I’m unhappy. I had to formally pass along our displeasure.”

  “You could have talked to me directly.”

  “That’s not how it works, Lieutenant,” Chris replied. “No offense, but these things are over your head. And it’s not just Dean who complained. Your people have been talking to everyone. It hurts morale and slows the whole process down. Every day we waste, every hour we fall behind, hits our budget.”

  “You realize this is a murder investigation, right?” Stride asked.

  “I do. And you realize this movie has a budget of more than $100 million, right?”

  Stride shook his head in resignation. He and Chris were on opposing sides now, and nothing was going to change that. The investigation of Peach Piper’s murder was a threat to Dean Casperson and a threat to the movie. The people putting up the money weren’t going to stand idly by and let him derail their investment.

  Chris sensed Stride’s coolness and tried to repair the schism between them. “Listen, I saw the article in the Gazette. That was way over the line. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “We both know where it came from,” Stride said.

  Chris didn’t try to convince him otherwise. “Yes, you’re probably right. Don’t let the smiles around here fool you. People in this business play hardball if you get in their way.”

  “I have a girl with a bullet hole in her forehead who would say the same thing.”

  Chris recoiled. “Come on, you don’t really think that anyone here—?”

  Stride didn’t answer, and Chris looked shaken by the implication. The writer quickly changed the subject.

  “I have a question for you about the article,” Chris went on. “It says your friendship with Art blinded you to the idea that he was a suspect. I’m curious. Is there any truth to that?”

  Stride wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Chris that Art’s name hadn’t come up at all until they ran the fingerprint on the shard of a pen they’d found in Lori Fulkerson’s apartment. But that wasn’t entirely true. In reality, when he looked back, the clues had all been there.

  The first victim, Kristal Beech, had been a St. Scholastica journalism student, and she’d interned on the morning news where Art was an anchor.

  The second victim, Tanya Carter, had been a waitress at Bellisio’s. Art ate there twice a week. Stride had met him for dinner there more than once, and he’d watched Art greet the staff like family. There was no way Art didn’t know Tanya.

  The third victim, Sally Wills, had worked at a nonprofit organization at which she routinely recruited local celebrities for fund-raising events. She had a signed photograph of herself and Art among the two dozen pictures hung on her office wall.

  Each of the victims had a connection to Art Leipold. The truth should have been screaming at Stride, but he’d missed it. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to believe it was possible.

  “Deliberately or not, Art left a trail for us to follow,” Stride told Chris. “He didn’t even hide it well. Later, I wondered if he was taunting me, daring me to figure it out. I didn’t, not until it was way too late. But it’s not because we were friends. To be honest, Chris, I didn’t like Art. I never did.”

  Chris made a sour little laugh. “Funny, I never did, either.”

  “He was smooth, I’ll give him that,” Stride went on. “Right to the end, he was sure he’d beat the charges. I think he could hardly believe it when the jury sent him away. He thought he could talk himself out of anything.”

  “Yeah. I sat there in court day after day and listened to the evidence. I remember when he got on the stand and used that anchorman voice of his to say that this was a witch hunt and he was the real victim. The jury hated him. I hated him, too.”

  Stride could still hear Art’s anchorman voice in his head. He realized that Art had never really been a journalist. He was an actor. He put on one face for the world and another for his real life.

  Just like Dean Casperson.

  He saw Casperson on the other side of the set. Casperson was dressed like him. Imitating him. Pretending to be him. It made Stride angry, as if his own identity had been stolen. Casperson looked back at him. The actor’s composure didn’t break, not even for a moment. He was too good. He headed across the warehouse and extended his hand, but Stride didn’t shake it. If it was going to be war, let it be out in the open. That was enough to cause the tiniest crack in Casperson’s facade. It was also enough to make Stride realize that he couldn’t back down in chasing this man no matter what the chief and the mayor wanted.

  “Lieutenant, we’re certainly seeing a lot of you,” Casperson told him. “Don’t you have other cases to work on?”

  “I’ll be here until we solve this murder,” Stride replied.

  “Well, you better hurry. The clock is ticking.”

  Stride stared at him. “Oh?”

  “Didn’t Chris tell you? We only have a couple more days of filming left. Then we’ll be out of the city.”

  “I didn’t realize the production was so far along.”

  Casperson shrugged. “Time is money. Right, Chris?”

  Chris nodded, but he didn’t look happy. “It is.”

  “Aimee wrapped up her scenes in the box yesterday,” Casperson went on. “Did Chris show you any of the footage? It’s amazing. I really think there’ll be Oscar buzz for her. And she and I are almost done with our scenes together, assuming I can get her to read the lines the same way for two takes in a row.”

  “You don’t like to improvise?” Stride asked.

  “I like to make a plan and execute it one step at a time. Aimee’s younger and more free-spirited. She tries different approaches until she finds one that fits. Of course, screenwriters hate it. Writers don’t like actors messing with their words, do they, Chris?”

  “Most of the time, no.”

  “Still, I respect her. She’s a gifted performer. After this movie, she’ll be going places. Count on it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right
,” Stride replied.

  “Anyway, it means we should be wrapping up in the next day or two. I’m sure that will be a relief for everyone around here. I know it’s been an intrusion. Especially for you.”

  “Oh? Why me?”

  “I’m aware you had a little trouble with the tabloids,” Casperson said. “I saw the article. It was brutal.”

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t hurt your box office draw,” Stride said. “You know, doing a movie about a troubled cop.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Lieutenant. By the time the movie comes out, audiences won’t care what kind of man you are in real life. They only want three things when they go to the theater. Popcorn. A great story. And me.” He smiled with those crazy-white teeth of his.

  Stride looked down at the actor, who was oozing arrogance. This was the real Dean Casperson. The man behind the mask. The man who knew he had all the naked power in the world to get what he wanted.

  “Well, I’d hate to be the one to derail your career after all these years,” Stride said.

  Casperson laughed out loud. “Believe me, you couldn’t if you tried. My advice is, don’t read what the tabloids say. Bad publicity comes with the territory in this business. Just keep your head down for a couple more days. Once the filming is done, the Gazette will forget all about you. As soon as I leave town, the tabloids leave with me.”

  Chris Leipold, standing in the middle of the fencing match, looked as if he wanted the conversation to be over quickly. “I think they’re ready for the next take, Dean.”

  “I have to go,” Casperson told Stride. “If I don’t see you again, Lieutenant, I want you to know it’s been a real pleasure playing you on screen. When you see the movie, I hope you feel I do you justice.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  This time, Stride stuck out his hand. Casperson looked at him with the smallest hesitation and then shook it.

  “Enjoy your last few days in Duluth,” Stride told him, their hands locked together in a crushing grip. “As far as my team and I are concerned, there’s no rush for you to leave. We’d be happy to keep you around for a long time.”

  Their eyes met. Both of them knew exactly what Stride meant.

  “That’s a very generous offer, Lieutenant,” Casperson replied, “but I never like to overstay my welcome.”

  24

  Maggie and Cab shared an open-air dockside table in Tin City.

  Boats swayed in the harbor, and moonlight shimmered on the dark water. The restaurant was crowded and noisy, with an acoustic rock band wailing over the laughter of the twenty-something crowd. The two of them picked at a plate of shrimp nachos. Cab had a glass of Chardonnay, and Maggie drank from a bottle of Cigar City Jai Alai IPA. She closed her eyes and savored the damp breeze on her face.

  “I think Florida suits you,” Cab said with a grin as he watched her.

  He was right. This was paradise compared to Duluth.

  “In January, definitely. In July, I’m not so sure.”

  Cab shrugged. “Heat is mostly a state of mind.”

  “Well, you can always put on more clothes when it’s cold. You can only take so many off when it’s hot.”

  “Yes, but which is more fun?” Cab asked pointedly.

  His ocean-blue eyes glittered behind his wineglass. She realized with a flush of surprise that he was letting her know that he was attracted to her. Maybe it was the booze or the moonlight, but she was attracted to him, too. She felt a strange romantic urge to reach across the table and run her hands through his gelled hair. And then to kiss him. And then to do other things.

  She was flustered. She felt embarrassed and tried to think about what to say next.

  “So what happened between you and Detective Mosquito?” she asked before she could stop herself. Looking for details about Cab’s ex-girlfriend wasn’t a great way to stoke the fire between them, but Cab didn’t seem to mind.

  “Lala and I only have two choices,” he told her. “Everything or nothing. She’ll never be happy with something casual in between.”

  “And casual in between is what you want?”

  “I guess so, because here I am. What about you? What do you want out of a relationship?”

  “My history would suggest that I’m a casual in-betweener, too.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with two people who simply want to enjoy each other’s company while they’re together?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she said.

  The meaning was hard to miss.

  She felt the heat of her arousal as they stared at each other. Somewhere deep down, she felt a twinge of guilt, too, like an unwelcome guest at the party. A few weeks earlier, she’d been happy with Troy. His only mistake had been to do what good men are supposed to do, by asking her to marry him. And she’d responded by blowing up their relationship. Like Cab, she’d chosen nothing instead of everything.

  Now here she was on a perfect Florida night. She was being romanced by a tall, rich, attractive man who had no intentions other than a one-night stand. Go away, guilt.

  “So this is the place where Haley Adams worked?” she asked, looking around the restaurant.

  “It is.”

  The waterside bar looked like every other Florida seafood joint, with nautical ropes and kitschy plastic alligators on the walls, wobbly wooden chairs, and ceiling fans pushing the warm air around. The waiters threaded through the crowd with brightly colored drinks. Haley would have been here on her last night, wearing a navy blue polo shirt and khaki shorts like all the other servers. Somewhere after midnight, she would have wandered alone into the dark parking lot near the water. That was where John Doe had shot her in the head.

  “I wonder if anyone remembers her,” Maggie said.

  “Unlikely. It was a couple years ago. People turn over pretty fast in places like this.”

  Maggie drank her beer with a frown at the idea that a pretty young girl could disappear so quickly from the world and leave no ripples behind.

  “Did you talk to Jungle Jack?” she asked. “Did you ask him about being here the day Haley was killed?”

  “I did,” Cab said. “I interviewed him when I was still part of the Naples Police.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me to try the shrimp nachos.” Cab popped a piece of shrimp into his mouth. “And he was right about that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He hit on Lala right in front of me,” Cab said. “As for Haley Adams, he claimed not to remember her.”

  Maggie shook her head. “We’re never going to be able to prove what happened to her, are we?”

  “No,” Cab replied. “We’re not.”

  “I hate that. I hate these people. I hate that sense of entitlement. They think there are different rules for them because they have money.”

  Cab shrugged. “There are.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “I’m not saying I like it, but if you think the world treats Dean Casperson the same as Haley Adams, you’re kidding yourself. Come on, Maggie, you have money, just like me. Don’t you get treated differently as soon as people find out?”

  “That’s why I usually hide it,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t,” Cab told her. “I never apologize for being rich. That’s my karma this time. For all I know, in my last life I was a street urchin begging on the curb in Pyongyang. And maybe next time around I’ll be a crab scuttling along the seabed until I wind up on somebody’s plate in a place like this.”

  “Do you really believe that stuff?” Maggie asked.

  He smiled. “If you grow up with Tarla Bolton, you believe it. My mother is a New Age hippy at heart.”

  “Well, I believe this is my only shot,” she told him. “Nothing before, nothing after. One and done.”

  “Then we really should make the most of it.”

  Maggie heard the invitation in his voice. She played with her hair. It was still strange having it long after so many years with short bangs that fell
across her eyes. “You are a very good-looking man, Cab Bolton.”

  “I know.”

  She laughed so hard that she had to cover her mouth to avoid spitting out her beer. “Very few men could get away with that line. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “My charm is not pretending,” Cab replied. “I’m equally honest about my faults.”

  “Which are?”

  “I’m not a team player. I’m a loner. I hate bureaucracy, because I like to do things my own way. I get bored easily. I want to give Lala what she wants, but I can’t. I’m too selfish for that.”

  “If you were Chinese and eighteen inches shorter, you could be me,” Maggie said.

  “And a woman.”

  “Yeah, that, too,” she said.

  Cab finished his wine and stared down at her, and she stared back. The music thumped in her ears. Neither one of them needed to say it was time to go. It just was. Cab put a hundred-dollar bill under his wineglass, which was way too much for the bill, and then the two of them made their way out of the restaurant. It was peaceful in the night air, walking beside the docks with the laughter of the crowd behind them. Cab didn’t wait long. Just outside the restaurant, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. She had to get on tiptoes, and he had to bend down to reach her like a heron hunting a lizard. It was still great.

  Outside Tin City, the neighborhood turned industrial. They walked next to the warehouse wall of a marine manufacturer on their way back to Cab’s car. Boat trailers and vans lined the street. There were no lights, making the area dark except for the glow of the restaurants on the other side of the water. Cab had his arm slung around Maggie’s shoulder. He hummed a tune under his breath, and she thought it was a Frank Sinatra song, “Ring-A-Ding-Ding.”

  His Corvette was parked at the end of the street, near a boat lift that hauled speedboats in and out of the water. The night made it hard to see, but she knew something was wrong when glass crunched under her feet. Ten feet from the sports car, they both stopped dead.

  Every window in the car was shattered. Some windows had been broken all the way through, scattering sharp fragments in and out of the car; some were simply dotted with starbursts. The candy-red chassis was a sea of dents, as if it had been caught in a massive hailstorm. The mirrors had been knocked off the car and smashed. The tires were slashed and flat. The license plate, catcha, lay at their feet, bent in half.