The Perfect Disguise (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Ten)

by Blake Pierce

  “We also made a discovery that somehow got missed earlier,” she said.

  “What’s that?” Trembley asked.

  “It seems that the killer spread ash throughout the building.”

  “What?” Jessie said, confused.

  “While interviewing the cleaning staff, we learned that they found it late last night. They assumed it was just some production material that had been inadvertently spilled.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t?” Jessie asked.

  “Because they found small clumps of ash at various spots, including directly outside a few offices. It didn’t mean anything to them at the time. Why would it? So they cleaned it up. But after they told us, we tried to walk them through where they found the stuff. No one could remember much, but one woman was certain that a pile was outside the office of Anton Zyskowski, the director.”

  “So what does that mean?” Trembley asked. “Is it some kind of warning that he’s next?”

  Jessie was at a loss.

  “It could be that,” she said. “Or it could be someone trying to lay the blame for the killing at his doorstep, literally. Or it could just be a way to distract us. We don’t have enough to go on.”

  Bray did have some good news to share. She and officers from the Hollywood station had already done preliminary interviews with dozens of cast and crew and followed that up with security footage verification.

  “Of the eighty-seven people who were on the call sheet for the day, thirty-nine were still on-set when they started shooting the last setup around eight p.m.,” she told them. “Of those, thirty-one were confirmed to have left the lot by the time the killer was seen on camera at ten forty-nine p.m. dragging Corinne’s body into the prop department. Excluding the victim, that left seven people without firm alibis for the time of the murder.

  “We’re still checking phone GPS data. That might eliminate a few more folks. And three of them claim they were all hanging out together, smoking some weed by the wood mill. Assuming we can verify that, you’d only have four folks to speak to.”

  “That’s also assuming the killer was even working on this movie,” Jessie said. Seeing Detective Bray’s shoulders slump, she quickly added, “Still, that’s amazing work you’ve done on short notice. We really appreciate it.”

  Bray nodded, only mildly bucked up. Trembley didn’t notice any of it.

  “If we only need to talk to four people, why is the stage packed with so many folks?” he asked.

  “They’re all waiting for the go-ahead. The director told everyone to stick around so that they can start shooting the second you give the all clear. I think he’s trying to put pressure on you guys to move things along.”

  Trembley rolled his eyes.

  “If he knew anything about Jessie Hunt, he’d realize that is just about the most counterproductive move he could make.”

  “There might be another reason he wants to rush you,” Bray added.

  “What’s that?” Trembley asked.

  “He’s one of the four people we can’t account for during the time of death.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” Jessie mused.

  “Do you want to start with him first?” Bray asked.

  “No,” Jessie said. “Let’s save him for last. You know, out of spite.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They set up a makeshift interview room in the makeup trailer.

  Surrounded by multiple masks of faces with bloody gashes and missing eyeballs, Detective Bray reviewed the four potential suspects with Jessie and Trembley. One was the film’s director, Anton Zyskowski, with whom they were already familiar.

  Another was a lighting tech named Dave Marin who had stayed late to prep for today’s setups. He was also apparently outspoken in his disdain for Weatherly. The third was Monica Twohy, Corinne’s on-set assistant, who had left the lot and later returned, allegedly to pick up an item she forgot. The last interviewee was Terry Slauson, the actor who played the Marauder and whom Corinne had apparently ordered be fired the night before.

  “Who are we starting with?” Trembley asked.

  “I thought we’d go with Dave Marin, the lighting tech,” Bray suggested.

  As soon as he walked in wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Jessie remembered him from earlier that morning. He was the guy who mentioned group therapy to other crew members when they were walking to Corinne’s trailer. Scruffy and unshaven with longish black hair and an air of indifference, he seemed almost bored to be there.

  “Detective Alan Trembley, Jessie Hunt—this is David Marin,” Detective Bray said. “He’s a lighting technician on the production. Mr. Marin, as I mentioned, these folks have a few questions for you.”

  “Hey, guys,” Marin said nonchalantly as he walked over and sat down. “Are you putting the cuffs on now or later?”

  “Are you confessing to something?” Jessie asked, her eyebrows rising.

  “It depends. Do I have to confess to thinking a murder victim probably deserved it? Is that a crime these days?”

  “Thinking it? No,” Trembley said. “Acting on it is a different story. Why don’t you walk us through yours?”

  Marin did so, sounding as if he was reciting lines from a bland script. He had been assigned to set up lighting for this morning’s shoot, which was supposed to involve Corinne’s character, Chastity Ronin, hiding under a bed. It was complicated, with tricky shadows, and Zyskowski wanted all the kinks ironed out when he walked on set today. Marin needed the overtime so he volunteered to do it and ended up setting up the shot until almost two in the morning.

  “Did you see Corinne Weatherly at any point during that stretch?” Trembley asked. “Maybe on the way to a bathroom break or something?”

  “Nah, man. She didn’t use the regular people restrooms.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “I ran into Monica briefly, Corinne’s assistant—poor thing. She’d lost her phone and had come looking for it. I called it using mine and it rang by the living room set we’d been shooting on last night, where the big attack takes place. She thanked me and left and I went back to my thing.”

  “You saw no one else?” Jessie asked.

  “Nope. I closed the place down. But I did talk to my girlfriend for a while if that helps. Can’t you do some phone tracker thing? And I’m fine giving my DNA, fingerprints, whatever. Listen, I won’t miss her but I didn’t kill her. Truth be told, I’d be an idiot to do that. I need this gig and now it might be in jeopardy.”

  Though Marin’s confidence and lack of anxiety were impressive, Jessie had long ago learned not to let that guide whether she bought a suspect’s alibi. She planned to follow up on every offer he’d made.

  “What were you talking about earlier?” she wondered. “You said something about group therapy.”

  “Oh, you heard that, huh? I was just being snarky.”

  “But what does it mean?” Jessie pressed. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s just this story about Weatherly. It’s turned into a kind of urban legend. But I think at least part of it is true. I would sometimes mention it on-set under my breath to piss her off. She could never tell who was talking.”

  “You still haven’t explained it,” Jessie noted.

  “Right—a while back, on one of her movies, she was supposedly so verbally abusive to one of the production assistants that the girl had a mental breakdown. Some folks say the kid tried to off herself. I don’t know if that’s true. But I have little doubt that the breakdown part is.”

  “How long ago was this?” Jessie asked.

  “Not sure. Definitely after she got famous but long enough back that it’s become this Hollywood myth. I’d guess five to eight years ago maybe.”

  “Have you heard about this?” Jessie asked Detective Bray.

  “I’ve heard the story,” she confirmed. “You can’t work Hollywood Station without hearing it. But I transferred from West L.A. five years ago and it didn’t happen on my watch or I’d know. So if it’s true
, then it happened earlier than that. Why do you ask?”

  “A girl driven to a nervous breakdown by a cruel actress is what I would call a person of interest,” Jessie mused before turning her attention back to Marin. “Do you know her name?”

  “Petra Olivet,” Marin and Detective Bray said in unison.

  “Detective,” Jessie asked, “could you check out her current status after you escort Mr. Marin out and ask Monica Twohy to join us?”

  Bray nodded, standing up.

  “That’s it?” Marin asked, pleasantly surprised.

  “For now,” Trembley told him. “Don’t leave town.”

  “Where am I gonna go?’ the guy asked, standing up and nearly skipping out of the room.

  He was replaced a moment later by Monica Twohy, who looked far less relaxed than her predecessor.

  “Have a seat, Monica,” Trembley said, making sure not to sound too intimidating to the young woman, who seemed to already be shaking slightly.

  Jessie looked her over as she made her way to the chair. Small and frail looking with a mousy demeanor, she reminded Jessie slightly of Marcie, Peppermint Patty’s friend from the Peanuts cartoons. Likely in her early twenties, she had close-cropped dark hair, glasses, and wore a long-sleeved shirt and what appeared to be cargo pants. She looked terrified.

  “How are you doing, Monica?” she asked, hoping that her calm tone would settle the girl’s nerves.

  “I’ve been better,” Monica admitted.

  “This has to have been a lot for you,” Jessie said sympathetically. “We appreciate you sharing what you know.”

  “I already told your colleague,” she said, nodding at the door, where Karen Bray was softly talking into her phone, “I don’t know that much.”

  “Well, here’s what we know. You can fill in any gaps we might have. You left around ten ten p.m. last night, correct?”

  “Yes. I had to pick up a prescription.”

  “But you came back,” Trembley said.

  “Right. I was leaving the pharmacy when I realized I didn’t have my phone. I knew I must have left it somewhere on set. But I wasn’t sure where and I knew I wouldn’t get any sleep if I didn’t have it. I’m really dependent on it.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Trembley said.

  “Yeah, so I came back to look for it. I ran into Dave, the lighting tech who was just in here. He was prepping for a scene today. He called my phone to help me find it. We did. I said bye and left.”

  “Did you see anyone else, either when you were returning to get your phone or when you were leaving?” Jessie asked.

  “Sure,” Monica said. “There were a few people walking around the lot both when I came and left. I passed maybe a half dozen total. But I didn’t recognize anyone. To be honest, I wasn’t even really registering details. I was tired and just wanted to get home.”

  “And you didn’t go to check on Corinne?”

  “I passed by her trailer on the way to the stage. The lights were out so I assumed she’d left.”

  “Can I ask you something, Monica?” Jessie said, leaning in.

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t want you to take this as some kind of accusation, all right. Did you like Corinne?”

  Monica’s eyes darted back and forth between Jessie and Trembley. She seemed at a loss.

  “Just be honest,” Jessie said. “We’ve already had people tell us they’re glad she’s dead. That doesn’t mean they did it. We’re just trying to get a sense of how the folks closest to her felt about her. Did you like her?”

  “That would be going a little far,” she conceded. “Okay, that would be going a lot far. I respected what she’s accomplished. I admired her toughness, how she wouldn’t let herself get pushed around. But like her? I can’t truthfully say that.”

  “Why not?” Jessie asked.

  “She could be really mean. She seemed to enjoy poking people in their soft spots. Yes, she was incredibly selfish and vain, though in my experience as an assistant, that’s standard fare. But she was…cruel.”

  That lingered in the air for several seconds before Jessie finally let her off the hook.

  “Thank you for your honesty.”

  Monica nodded silently.

  “Are you willing to let us check your phone data, Monica?” Trembley asked.

  “Whatever I can do to help,” she said.

  He looked over at Jessie, who nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’ll be all for now. Thanks for your time.”

  Monica got up and without another word, walked out.

  “Not sure how much good it’ll do to check her phone,” he said once the door closed. “If it was on the set the whole time, it doesn’t help us pinpoint her location.”

  “Yes,” Jessie agreed. “That’s either very convenient or very inconvenient for her.”

  Bray hung up and waved at them.

  “I’ve got one of my people hunting down Petra Olivet. It may take a while. It seems that there’s no one in the active DMV records with that name.”

  “What do you attribute that to?” Jessie asked.

  “It could be a glitch. It could be intentional—maybe a name change. We’ll figure it out. They’re also checking public records for this mental breakdown incident. HIPAA regulations may complicate the process but I’m confident we’ll find something. In the meantime, would you like to speak to the Marauder himself?”

  “What?” Jessie asked.

  “Terry Slauson,” Bray reminded her. “He plays the killer in the movie. Or at least he did. Like I mentioned, Weatherly wanted him dumped. I’m still not clear on whether he actually was. Either way, beware. He’s a little salty about the whole thing.”

  Jessie looked over at Trembley, who groaned.

  “What’s wrong, partner?” she asked him.

  “I feel like you’re going to use that tidbit as a challenge to see who can be saltier, this guy or you.”

  “How dare you, Trembley?” Jessie said, mock offended. “I’m very careful about my sodium intake.”

  “Ugh. You’re going to give me an ulcer before I turn thirty,” he muttered.

  “It’s a gift,” she replied sweetly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They took a short break to regroup and, though Jessie didn’t admit it, to make Terry Slauson sweat.

  “We still need the skinny on Petra Olivet,” Trembley said, checking his notes. “And Jamil has got to have some info on the significance of Tara Tanner soon, right?”

  “He was pretty efficient on the Manhattan Beach case so I’m sure he’ll come through on this one too.”

  “Good,” Trembley said. “Because I’m not sure we’re hitting it out of the park with any of the folks here.”

  “We’re only halfway through the obvious choices,” Jessie pointed out. “Don’t give up on me just yet.”

  Before Trembley could respond, Bray poked her head in again.

  “Slauson is getting antsy, says he has a costume fitting and wanted to know if you all are ready for him.”

  Jessie looked at Trembley.

  “You able to stay professional?” she teased. “No plans to ask this guy for an autograph, right?”

  “I think I can control myself,” he replied good-naturedly. “Slauson isn’t famous enough for me to lose it. Other than the Marauder role, he’s mostly a character actor, playing professors and lawyers, that kind of thing. He’s one of those guys you recognize but maybe because you think he was your old high school teacher.”

  “Wow, I bet he’d be so flattered to hear his life’s work reduced to that,” Jessie drawled.

  “I hear he’s done a lot of major theater roles,” Trembley allowed. “But since I don’t go to the theater, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Alan Trembley,” Jessie said, enjoying poking at him. “Pop culture savant, theater Philistine.”

  “And proud of it,” he shot back.

  Bray coughed loudly.

  “Um, guys, he’s waiting. Should I let
him in or not?”

  They both nodded. Moments later, Terry Slauson walked through the door. Jessie immediately understood what Trembley had meant. Slauson looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place from where.

  He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties with the beginnings of distinguished gray tingeing his impressive head of thick brown hair. He was a big guy, easily six feet and about 190 pounds. He looked to be in good shape, though his current attire—black sweatpants and a long-sleeved black turtleneck—did undermine it a bit, giving him a pretentious, coffeehouse poet vibe.

  He looked them over quickly, as if trying to determine how much effort interacting with them would require. Jessie couldn’t tell what conclusion he’d drawn but she didn’t really care.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Slauson,” she said briskly, nodding at the folding chair facing them.

  He strolled over, as if he was settling in for a casual chat rather than a police interrogation.

  “Thanks for your patience,” Trembley said. “As you can imagine, we’re juggling a lot of balls here.”

  Slauson didn’t respond so Trembley continued.

  “We saw your preliminary statement, which I found a bit confusing. Were you fired yesterday or not? Did you leave the set last night or not? It’s not clear.”

  “It wasn’t entirely clear to me either,” Slauson said in a deep baritone that surprised Jessie.

  “Can you elaborate?” she asked.

  “Sure. Corinne hated me from the start, thought I was showing her up and taking attention away from her in our scenes. How that was possible, I have no idea, as almost everything we’d shot together involved me in a ski mask. We hadn’t even gotten to the scenes where my identity is revealed and she discovers that I’m the killer.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Slauson,” Jessie interjected. “But how does this explain whether or not you were fired?”

  “I’m just trying to give a little context,” he said, mildly miffed. “The point is, Corinne didn’t like me stealing her thunder. So she used the scene we shot last night, in which I grab her by the throat, as an excuse to make trouble. She said I was too forceful and demanded Anton fire me. She holed up in her trailer, refusing to finish the scene. Anton came to me and said I should wrap for the night—.