by Blake Pierce
“I’m afraid you won’t be shooting anything else on this soundstage until the crime scene unit has cleared it,” Jessie informed him. “They still need to check various areas for prints and other potential evidence. That may take several more hours. I recommend you shoot scenes that can be completed elsewhere.”
Anton looked like his head might explode.
“All sets are on that stage,” he protested. “I can shoot nothing elsewhere.”
“Not much we can do about that, Anton. But here’s what I propose: you have your people give Detective Bray here a complete list of everybody who was on set last night. We need to talk to all of them. If they’re not already here now, have them come in. We’ll give you a few hours. That will allow CSU to finish their work and my partner and I to check out a few leads. After CSU has cleared the scene and we have access to all your people, you can start shooting again. How does that sound?”
“This will be hundreds of thousands of dollars costing the studio,” Anton griped. “Maybe millions.”
Jessie shrugged amiably.
“Then I suggest you make sure all your people are here, ready to be interviewed. The more prepared you are, the quicker you can forget all about your dead actress and get back to work.”
“I wonder if you have authority for this?” Anton challenged.
The smile Jessie had kept plastered on her face for the entirety of their conversation dropped away.
“Mr. Zyskowski—Anton—rest assured that while I am not a ‘special detective,’ I am most certainly the person in charge. You’d be well advised not to piss me off any more than you already have. So gather your people and wait for us to come back. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER NINE
Miller Boatwright’s office was a ten-minute walk across the lot.
They made their way over, leaving Detective Bray to coordinate the timing of interviews with cast and crew later on. Without Paul the security guard to direct them, they got lost twice on the way, but finally found his office in the Fairbanks Building not far from where they’d parked.
As they approached it, Trembley coughed slightly in a way that suggested he was about to broach an uncomfortable subject.
“What is it, Trembley?” Jessie asked, unwilling to wait for him to screw up his courage.
“What? Nothing.”
“It’s clearly something,” she pressed. “Just tell me now so whatever’s on your mind doesn’t weigh on you when we’re talking to Boatwright. I need you focused.”
Trembley seemed to be fighting an internal battle with his better judgment. He finally spoke.
“It’s just that you seem extremely aggressive on this case. I thought Decker wanted to pair us together because you’re more experienced with high-profile cases and more…diplomatic. I think he expected you’d be the one to massage all these egos. But you seem intent on crushing them.”
“I think you do enough massaging for the both of us,” she replied pointedly. “Besides, the way I look at it, I’m a free agent. I don’t work for LAPD anymore. I’m just consulting on this case, so I’m not bound by all those bureaucratic politics anymore. If someone complains and Decker isn’t happy with me, he can dump me and I’ll see if I can schedule a few more teaching interviews. I guess what I’m saying is that with everything I’ve been through lately, I’ve lost the patience to give a crap about anything other than the case.”
Trembley nodded, clearly not interested in arguing the point. They were almost to the door of the Fairbanks building.
“I haven’t had the chance to really tell you—really tell you— how sorry I am about both Garland and Ryan. I know you were tight with the old man, and Ryan, obviously he’s very important to you.”
“Thanks, Trembley.”
“I was meaning to ask, and I don’t mean to offend you, but are you sure you’re safe where you’re staying?”
“What do you mean?” Jessie asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Please don’t bite my head off, okay?” he began. “But I know you had a lot of security measures set up at your last place. Ryan mentioned how involved they were. And they made sense considering all the threats you’ve faced. Your dad tried to kill you. That serial killer, Bolton Crutchfield, had a thing for you. And that’s where your ex-husband came after you. So it was logical that you’d take every precaution.”
“What’s your point, Trembley?” she demanded.
“Just that, even though those specific threats are gone, not all of them are. That corrupt cop you busted, Hank Costabile, was just convicted last week. I could see him wanting to get some payback, maybe send some fellow officers your way when they’re off duty. And what about Andrea Robinson, the rich psycho who befriended you and then tried to poison you when you figured out she was a murderer? I know she’s in a psychiatric prison ward, but last time we checked, she had a serious fixation on you. If she got out somehow, who knows what she’d be capable of?”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” Jessie asked in a mild tone.
“I do. You’ve proven that. But I’m assuming your private eye friend’s apartment isn’t as decked out with security as your last place. And while Ryan wasn’t officially there to protect you and Hannah, it didn’t hurt to have a decorated cop living with you. I’m just saying that maybe Corinne Weatherly isn’t the only one who would have been well served by a bodyguard.”
Jessie knew Trembley was only trying to be helpful. There were still legitimate threats to her safety. And with her boyfriend in the hospital, her mentor murdered, and her sister jumping at every slammed door, he wasn’t wrong to suggest that she ought to be proactive about securing their situation. She decided to go easy on him.
“I appreciate the concern. And you’re right. There are still real threats out there. That’s why I’m aggressively looking for a new place. But in the meantime, Hannah and I are living with a former Army Ranger. And I did learn a thing or two about self-defense at the FBI Academy when I took their training program. I think we’ll muddle through for the next few weeks, even without a bodyguard, until I find somewhere I like.”
“Okay,” Trembley said. “But I’m sure that if you asked, Captain Decker would have a unit do regular patrols around your friend’s place, even though you’re no longer officially an employee.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jessie promised. “In the meantime, maybe we should keep our focus on this Boatwright guy. Anything special I need to know before we chat him up?”
“I don’t any know more than the average movie lover,” Trembley answered. “But the guy does have an out-sized reputation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he does everything big. He makes big movies. He’s got a big personality. And if the rumors are true, he’s got a big appetite too.”
“For food?”
“For women,” Trembley said. “He’s notorious for getting involved with actresses. Some say he trades sex for roles, though that’s just speculation. I don’t think anyone’s ever formally alleged that. I’ve also heard he’s just a magnetic guy that many women find intriguing. You can be the judge of that.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” Jessie muttered.
“Apparently he is, although from what I’ve read, he’s also got an impressive temper. I think he’s so rich and successful that he’s gotten used to bulldozing his way through people.”
“That doesn’t work for me,” Jessie said firmly.
“I know,” Trembley said carefully. “But could you not start a fistfight with the guy? If you piss him off, he could close down a bunch of other investigative avenues we need. Besides, aren’t you still recovering from that dislocated shoulder and those burns?”
“I’m almost all healed up,” she said, trying not to smile. “I bet I could take him.”
Trembley looked crestfallen. Jessie felt like she was looking at a sad puppy.
“I’m just messing with you,” she assured him.
“I promise I’ll only punch him if he swings first.”
Miller Boatwright’s office was at the end of the hall on the first floor of the Fairbanks Building, a converted apartment complex that had been built, according to a plaque on the wall, in 1914. The placard on the door of Boatwright’s office read “Harlow Bungalow.”
“Jean Harlow,” Trembley whispered as he opened the door. “She was a star in the thirties.”
Jessie, who was well aware of who Jean Harlow was, let it slide with a simple, “Thanks.”
The main door opened into a small waiting room that reminded Jessie of her therapist’s office. It was surprisingly sterile, though there were a half dozen antique leather chairs, separated by ornately designed wooden end tables. Facing them was a frosted sliding glass window, also like a doctor’s office. Next to it was a heavy-looking wooden door.
“Can I help you?” said a disembodied female voice.
Jessie and Trembley looked around for its origin.
“Over here,” the voice said. “There’s a camera in the wall by the window.”
Trembley walked over and looked at the small camera that neither of them had noticed until that moment.
“Hi,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with nerves. “We’re here to speak with Mr. Boatwright.”
Jessie closed her eyes and reminded herself to breathe and not yell. Why he hadn’t identified himself was beyond her. She waited for the voice to comment on it as well.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Boatwright doesn’t take unscheduled meetings. There’s a phone number and submission page with instructions on his website, Boatwright Films. Just include your contact information and we’ll reach out if there’s interest.”
“Oh, no, sorry,” Tremble said quickly, overcorrecting. “We’re not here to pitch a project. I’m Detective Alan Trembley with the Los Angeles Police Department. This is Jessie Hunt, a consulting profiler for the department. We’re investigating a murder on the lot and we need to discuss a few things with Mr. Boatwright.”
There were several long seconds of silence before the voice returned.
“I’m going to give you our direct office number so you can call. We’ll try to schedule an interview expeditiously.”
Trembley looked at Jessie out of the corner of his eye, clearly concerned that she was going to pull out her gun, shoot the camera, and try to kick the door in. She had to admit she was tempted. Instead, she tried a different tack.
“To whom are we speaking?” she asked with mock-sweetness.
“This is Mr. Boatwright’s executive assistant, Alana.”
Jessie took a step forward so that her face was right in front of the wall camera.
“Alana,” she said, keeping the acid out of her voice as best she could. “This is a pressing police matter. I’m quite confident that Mr. Boatwright is aware why we’re here, just as I’m sure that he’s listening to us, and probably watching us, right now. With that in mind, he surely understands why time is of the essence and we need to speak to him now. If he’s accommodating, we can be in and out and let him get back to counting the weekend office receipts. But if we have to go through an elaborate process to secure an interview, costing us valuable investigative time, then that could complicate the process. We’d probably need to conduct the interview down at the station, maybe bring him in via a police escort, possibly even make a public statement to the press. Or we could just have a friendly chat in the privacy of his office. We’re good either way, right, Detective Trembley?”
Trembley, who seemed to have recovered slightly from his jitters, nodded.
“That’s correct.”
There was no response from Alana. Jessie shrugged and headed for the outer door.
“I guess I’ll be calling in the cavalry then,” she said casually as she walked away. “We’ll just wait outside the building until they arrive. That park out there is beautiful. Besides, we really should set up a perimeter. I hope the police tape doesn’t mess up the view.”
She walked slowly, hoping she wouldn’t need to follow through on the threat. It wasn’t a bluff. But if she really did have to call in backup, it would waste valuable time and irritate Decker. Still, she was committed now. Not giving a crap had its drawbacks.
CHAPTER TEN
She was just reaching for the door when Alana’s frazzled voice shot out of the speaker.
“Mr. Boatwright doesn’t want to make L.A.’s finest jump through any extra hoops. We can shift a few meetings around to accommodate you. I’ll buzz you in.”
Jessie turned back around and worked hard not to smirk as they walked over to the interior door. It buzzed as they approached and Trembley opened it for her.
When they stepped inside, all of the sterility of the waiting room was forgotten. The floor was a dark hardwood. The walls were decked out in a variety of pieces of art, from abstract paintings, to sculptures resting on built-in shelves, to wall coverings that appeared to represent Asia, Africa, and South America.
An attractive young blonde woman, about twenty-five, stepped out from behind the nook near the frosted window. She was dressed in a summer skirt and stylish tank that accentuated her tan skin and curvy figure. She wore glasses so thin that Jessie wondered if they were just for show, intended to make her look more serious. It occurred to her that Alana might be an aspiring actress working an office job to make ends meet.
“Can I offer either of you something to drink? Coffee, tea, soda, sparkling or still water?”
“I’m good,” Trembley said.
“Me too,” Jessie muttered as she studied the office, trying to glean anything useful about the man from how he decorated the space. So far, the vibe she got was “I’m super-rich and I want to make that obvious to everyone.”
“Then please follow me,” Alana said, leading them down the hall, past several offices with open doors and no one inside. “Everyone is in Miller’s office for a brainstorming session.”
Apparently once one got past the waiting room, he was “Miller” rather than “Mr. Boatwright.” As they walked closer to the office at the end of the hall, Jessie noted that the art on the walls gave way to posters of what she assumed were Boatwright’s movies. Even she recognized almost every title. When they arrived at the last door, which was slightly ajar, Alana knocked.
“Miller,” she called out chipperly, “your visitors are here.”
“Bring them in, Lanny,” a booming voice instructed.
Alana, or apparently Lanny to her boss, pushed open the door to reveal an expansive room. At one end were two large, curved sofas with a long, rectangular stone coffee table in between them. Against that wall was a huge screen. On the adjoining walls were two sizable, but comparatively unimpressive mounted TV monitors. One was showing CNN on mute. The other had on Bloomberg.
The middle of the room was comprised of four high-backed wooden chairs, which looked like something out of a royal court. Three of them were occupied by Boatwright’s staff. Two men and one woman, all in their thirties, stood up.
At the far end of the room was Miller Boatwright’s desk, which appeared to be modeled on the Resolute desk in the White House Oval Office. The man behind it got up from his large, red-leather chair as well. Looking at him now, Jessie thought he seemed vaguely familiar, the sort of person she’d probably seen on TV multiple times but who had never really registered.
Miller Boatwright cut quite a figure. Jessie guessed that he was about her height, five foot ten. She estimated that he weighed about 215 pounds. He was thick, with a barrel chest, but didn’t quite tip over from pudgy into obese. He wore a loose-fitting, untucked, black silk shirt and black jeans. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties and had clearly spent some time with a plastic surgeon. The skin on his face seemed slightly tugged back, as if he was permanently on the first big drop of a roller coaster. His facial hair was perfectly manicured to look like two days’ worth of stubble. He was as tan as Lanny, but Jessie suspected he didn’t come by his as naturally.
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br /> “Welcome,” he said, extending his arms expansively as if he had been happily anticipating their arrival.
“Miller, this is Detective Alan Trembley,” Lanny said, impressively remembering his name without any notes. “And this is Jessie Hunt, a profiling consultant for the police. Folks, please meet Miller Boatwright.”
“Have you offered them drinks, Lanny?” Boatwright bellowed, seemingly incapable of volume control.
“She did,” Trembley said. “We’re good.”
“Great. Please take some seats. Team, make way for those who protect and serve. I’d introduce you to everyone but since it seems like you’re here for me, I won’t burden you with trying to remember their names.”
Boatwright’s team stepped aside so that Jessie and Trembley could sit down. As they did, Jessie kept her attention on Boatwright, who stared right back at her through dark, observant eyes.
“I assume you want this to be a private conversation?” he said.
“That would be preferable,” Trembley told him.
“Of course. But before my team heads out, maybe I could introduce Ms. Hunt to Jeff Jansen here. He’s my head of development.”
A tall, gangly guy with tightly cropped red hair and horn-rimmed glasses nodded at her.
“Hi?” Jessie said, perplexed. Jeff nodded back at her without speaking.
“Jeff here is in charge of securing all the rights to our prospective projects. And I have to say, Ms. Hunt, you are a walking, talking film project waiting to happen.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Jeff, go,” Boatwright ordered.
Before she knew what was happening, the gangly guy was in her face, half-bouncing with unbridled energy.
“Ms. Hunt, everyone knows your story,” Jeff began, his voice boisterous with enthusiasm. “Your serial killer father butchers your mother and leaves you for dead in an isolated, snow-covered cabin.”
Jessie glanced over at Trembley uneasily and saw that he was as stunned by this turn of events as she was. Jeff Jansen continued, undeterred by her discomfort.