by Blake Pierce
“He didn’t fire you?” Jessie pressed.
“No. But he implied that he did to soothe Corinne for the night. He told me he wanted to let her cool down and that we’d smooth it over in the morning. He said to leave the set. I reminded him that if he did try to really get rid of me, I’d file a grievance with the union. He assured me it was just for show. So I made a big fuss, acting all put out, and marched off to my dressing room.”
“You don’t have a trailer?” Trembley asked.
“No one on this film has their own personal trailer besides Corinne. I share a dressing room with two other actors. It’s basically a glorified green room on the second floor above the stage.”
“So when did you actually leave the lot?” Jessie wanted to know.
“I removed my makeup and settled on the couch in the dressing room for a bit, just scrolling through my phone to decompress. At some point I woke up and realized I had drifted off. So I gathered my things and left.”
“What time was that?” Trembley asked.
“About eleven forty-five.”
“You realize that the time you were allegedly asleep on the second floor perfectly matches the window of time when Corinne Weatherly was murdered.”
“Extremely unfortunate coincidence for me,” Slauson said emotionlessly.
“You never heard anything unusual while you were in your dressing room?” Jessie asked.
“No. But truthfully, that’s not a shock. Most areas of a soundstage are designed to be soundproof. Even if I was downstairs in an adjoining room, I doubt I’d have heard anything, so certainly not one floor up.”
“Have you submitted your fingerprints and a DNA sample to Detective Bray?” Trembley asked.
“Hours ago,” he answered. “I also offered to turn over all my phone data.”
“GPS tracking wouldn’t be able to distinguish what floor you were on or if you left it in the dressing room while off somewhere else,” Jessie noted.
“Extremely unfortunate coincidence for you,” he noted.
“It would seem so,” Jessie agreed before moving on. “We’ve been asking this of everyone but it seems you’ve already made your opinion clear. Still, I’d like to hear it for the record. How did you feel when you learned of Corinne Weatherly’s death?”
Slauson crossed his legs and sighed before responding.
“I think it’s clear how I felt about her. She was a narcissistic, spiteful shrew who made every professional interaction with her unpleasant. But when I heard what happened, I was truly sorry. I’ll admit part of it was professional. Anton thinks we can keep the film afloat with some reshoots and clever editing, but I’m not so sure. I need this movie to get completed. Her death puts that in question.
“But beyond that, I was the Marauder on the first three films in the franchise, two of which she starred in. I remember Corinne from back then. She was vivacious and fun-loving. I’m not going to say she was a sweetheart because, even back then, she could be difficult. But she had energy and an ‘anything goes’ spirit that I found infectious. I don’t know what happened to that girl but I missed her. And now that Corinne is dead, she’ll never get the chance to find her way back to that person I found so interesting.”
Jessie was quiet. Something Slauson said resonated with her. She couldn’t help but remember herself a decade earlier—finishing up college, dating a charming guy, leading a mostly happy life. The intervening years had changed her too, though hopefully not in the soul-draining manner they had Corinne. But there was no question that the endless parade of death she’s witnessed at the hands of people she was supposed to be able to trust had scarred her. What had so twisted Corinne Weatherly? Was it just the hazards of fame or had something else happened to her along the way?
“You’re free to go for now,” Trembley told Slauson when it became clear Jessie wasn’t going to speak again. “We’ll be in touch.”
When the actor had left, the young detective turned to her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
She looked up at his worried eyes and wanted to set him at ease. But she wasn’t feeling it.
“I’m not sure.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They only had one interview left.
When director Anton Zyskowski scurried into the room, he oozed irritation.
“You seem a little agitated, Anton,” Jessie said, poking at him right from the get-go.
“This is unexpected to you?” he demanded, clearly not picking up on her sarcasm. “My leading lady is dead. My production is halted. My people are upset. They are confused. This picture was already all pressure. Now it is too much. So yes, I am agitated. I am very much agitated.”
“Well,” Trembley jumped in, “our hope is that if you’re forthcoming with us, we’ll be able to let you resume shooting once we finish talking.”
“Already we have lost so many hours, it is hard to make up. I’m not so sure the picture can be saved.”
“Yes, that is regrettable,” Jessie agreed. “It’s also regrettable that a human being was strangled to death last night, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course, of course,” he said with a dismissive wave that suggested he wasn’t focused on the tragedy of it all.
“Where were you last night between ten p.m. and midnight, Anton?” she asked.
“As I told to the other woman detective…”
“You can just call me the other detective,” Bray noted from the corner of the room.
“Yes, as I told to the other one,” Zyskowski continued, looking perplexed by the correction, “I was reviewing dailies and giving many notes to the editor. I edit all the nights to stay ahead of schedule.”
“Where were you doing this?” Jessie asked.
“The picture has an edit suite in the building across the city.”
“Across the city?” Trembley repeated.
“Yes. On other side of New York Street, there is a large facility. I am there every night past midnight. Last night was not different.”
“Can anyone confirm this?” Jessie asked.
“Yes, of course. I was entering and leaving the edit bay many times. The editor can tell you. His name is Barry something.”
“Barry Osterman,” Detective Bray volunteered. “He confirms that Mr. Zyskowski was in the edit bay for long stretches during the time in question, though there were periods where he stepped out.”
“I have many responsibilities,” the director said huffily. “I must make calls, organize schedules, review shot lists. I cannot be all places at once.”
“What was it like working with Corinne Weatherly?” Jessie asked, apparently taking Zyskowski by surprise, as his eyes widened suddenly.
“Am I to be honest or nice?” he asked.
“Honest, please,” Jessie said. “Always honest.”
“She is a nightmare, was a nightmare. I think that here you call it a prima donna? Never pleased enough. Always demanding silly things—special foods, rest time. She was the only performer with a trailer for one but she always complained that it is too small. To be true with you, she was lucky to have any of it.”
“Why do you say that?” Trembley inquired.
“Because she is not what she was. Corinne Weatherly was famous and sometimes a good actress also. But now she is not as famous and not as good. I directed this picture because I knew I could save Marauder series, make it good again. But also because I thought I could make Corinne good again. I would be the one to save her career.”
“You sound like a real saint,” Jessie interjected.
Zyskowski stared at her, confused.
“No. I only wanted to make a scary, fun picture that has beautiful film craft also. But Corinne did not care about that. She said she did. But she and her new agent only cared for extra things. Her rider was crazy—special trailer, personal caterer, masseuse—so many things that the picture was not about. She took away my passion for Marauder.”
“When did she get this new agent?”
Trembley asked intently, leaning forward.
“After agreeing to the picture but before it started. The old agent did not make crazy demands. But the new one, he said she would leave picture if we did not do all she wanted. Her needs added over one million dollars to a twelve-million-dollar picture. It is too much for the budget. But she did not care. Thinking about it makes me angry. Are we done with all this talking now?”
Jessie was taken aback by the bile in his voice. But she couldn’t honestly think of any additional questions and had to admit that, assuming he wasn’t the killer, she’d punished the guy enough. She decided to give him a temporary pass.
“Submit your fingerprints and a DNA sample to Detective Bray, if you haven’t already, along with your phone data. Once that’s done, you’re free to resume shooting.”
He started to get up when she realized that she did have one more question.
“Anton, did you know about the pile of ash left outside your office last night?”
He nodded.
“Yes, I have been told by her,” he said, indicating Detective Bray.
“In light of that, do you have any concerns that the killer might be sending you a message or that you might be the next intended victim?”
Zyskowski’s eyes popped wide open.
“I did not have this concern until you have just now made me have it. Is there danger for me?”
“I don’t know,” Jessie admitted. “But I would recommend that until this is resolved, you keep company around as much as possible.”
“This will be easy,” he said brusquely. “As the director of the picture, I am never alone.”
“Good to know,” Jessie said. “Then unless Detective Trembley disagrees, I guess you can get back to it.”
Trembley shook his head. Zyskowski didn’t need to be told twice, hopping up and leaving the room quickly. Bray chased after him, yelling something about his phone.
“So,” Trembley said. “Four suspects—each with motive, none definitively eliminated, but all seemingly cooperative and forthcoming about their feelings toward the victim. I don’t feel like we’re any closer to solving this thing. What am I missing?”
“I think we’re missing a lot,” Jessie replied. “We don’t know what’s up with Tara Tanner. We don’t know where Petra Olivet is and if that even matters. We do know that a big-time producer, Miller Boatwright, is mixed up in this somehow. Something about Corinne’s husband seemed off to me. Plus, if she pissed off everyone on this movie, it stands to reason that she did the same on past ones. Every lead we get seems to add suspects, not subtract them.”
“So what’s our next move?” Trembley asked.
Jessie stood up from the folding chair that she’d been sitting in almost non-stop for the last hour. Her butt was sore. The shoulder she’d dislocated was starting to act up. The plastic chair had irritated the not-quite-healed burns on her lower back. And she was hungry.
“My next move is to get a bite and take some pain meds,” she said. “After that, I say we visit Corinne’s previous agent. He’s sure to know where all the bodies are buried. And seeing as how she dumped him right before her supposed comeback, he might be ready to spill.”
“You know, for someone who doesn’t pay attention to this business, you sure seem to have a handle on how it operates.”
Jessie smiled cynically at Trembley.
“In my experience, the business doesn’t matter as much as the behavior. If someone feels wronged, they want payback. Some people spill blood. Others spill rumors. Let’s see which one this guy is.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jamil Winslow was good at his job.
Jessie was reminded of this when she checked her voice messages as she and Trembley drove across town to the office of Phil Reinhold, Corinne’s old agent. Jamil had left a long one. She looked at the time stamp. He’d sent it nearly an hour ago.
Considering that he had to sift through multiple convoluted city databases, that was an amazingly quick turnaround in light of when she’d made the request for info on Tara Tanner. She hadn’t expected to hear from him for hours. Once they were in the car, she played the message on speaker for Trembley.
“Hi, Ms. Hunt. It’s Jamil. So I found some interesting stuff on Tara Tanner. It looks like she lives in New York now. She moved there about a year ago. She mostly does commercial work. But before she left L.A., it looks like she was involved in some litigation. Most of the language is redacted after both parties agreed to a confidentiality agreement. But what’s clear is that Tanner was paid two million dollars by a company called Creative Assessments. It’s a shell company created exactly one week before the settlement was paid out.
“Under normal circumstances I would have hit a dead end at that point. But because we know, based on who gave you her name, that Miller Boatwright has some sort of connection to Tanner, I had some leads I could follow. I won’t bore you with all the gory details involving articles of incorporation and board members. But the short version is that the lawyer who set up Creative Assessments works at the same firm as Miller Boatwright’s corporate attorney, who helped set up the producer’s production company, Boatwright Films. This firm represents hundreds of producers so, had we not known which one to pursue, it would have been a needle in a haystack situation. So far, I haven’t been able to find any particulars on what the payment was for. I haven’t uncovered any criminal or civil complaints with his name attached. But there’s definitely smoke there.”
Jessie thought the message was over and was about to hit “end” when Jamil added one more tidbit.
“Oh, I almost forgot, according to credit card receipts, about a month before this agreement was reached, Miller Boatwright and Tara Tanner ate at the same Hollywood restaurant around the same time—separate parties though. Might be nothing, might be something. I’ll keep looking for connections. Let me know if you need anything else.”
When the message ended, Jessie looked over at Trembley.
“Should we turn around?” he asked. “Go back and hit Boatwright with this? See how he reacts?”
Jessie shook her head.
“No, not yet,” she told him. “We don’t know what this is. I don’t want to go barging into the office of a guy like that without having more to work with. Clearly, there’s something there. Boatwright’s assistant wouldn’t have slipped us Tara’s name if he was simply paying her to build him a two-million-dollar coat rack or something. But until we have something concrete, we should hold off.”
“Fair enough,” Trembley said. He looked slightly relieved. Jessie chose not to comment on that for now.
“So what do we know about Phil Reinhold?” she asked.
“Funny you should ask,” he replied. “I’ve been doing a little research on the guy. He’s quite the character.”
“It seems like everyone in this industry is a character,” Jessie observed.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
“And that’s what makes getting into their heads so challenging,” Jessie countered. “So tell me about this guy.”
“Phil Reinhold. Sixty-four years old. He’s the head of Artist Alliance, which sounds impressive but is really just him. He used to be at one of the big agencies, CTA, until he was forced out about five years ago, so he set up his own shingle. Half his roster stayed with the big boys. The other half, about a dozen, went with him, including Corinne. But he’s been bleeding clients ever since. Looking at his website, it appears that he only has four left, none of whom have made a splash in a long time. Once Corinne left, his biggest name was the guy who played Mr. Poppy in the Jiminy Jaminy series.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Jessie said.
“They’re kiddie flicks. But that kind of proves my point. He’s small potatoes. No wonder Corinne left him. Frankly, I’m surprised she stuck around as long as she did.”
They pulled up at the address. Reinhold’s office was on Burton Way at the corner of North Willaman Drive in a two-story black-and
-white office building that jutted out sharply in different directions. It looked like a remnant of the 1980s. Jessie couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What?” Trembley asked.
“I’m just getting a feel for Mr. Reinhold. He picked a building that is technically in Beverly Hills, so he can use the name to impress folks. But we’re on the very outer edge of the city, where rent is cheaper. Plus, his office looks like something out of a rerun of Miami Vice. I wonder if that was intentional or just what he could afford.”
Trembley turned off the car.
“Shall we go introduce ourselves?” he asked.
“You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute. I just need to make a call.”
While Trembley waited by the front entrance, she called Hannah. It went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, little sis,” she said, trying not to sound like she was checking up on her. “Just wanted to see how your day is going. Hope you’re making the most of your pre–summer school free days. This case I’m consulting on has me driving all over town but I think I’ll be home for dinner. Let me know what’s up. You can call or text. Talk soon.”
She hung up, satisfied that she didn’t sound too helicopter-y. Next she called the nurses’ station on Ryan’s hospital floor and got voicemail there too. She briefly considered leaving a message but decided against it. If there was something notable to share, Dr. Badalia would call.
No news just means…no news.
She joined Trembley and they walked into the building, which continued the outdated art deco theme. They took the stairs to the second floor and found Reinhold’s office at the end of the hall. Trembley opened the door and Jessie stepped into a sensory overload experience.
The entire waiting area looked like a room-sized piñata had busted open and movie posters had spilled out onto the walls. There was not a single section of the room that wasn’t covered by a framed one-sheet of a film. Jessie didn’t recognize the majority of the titles but she was sure that Trembley was familiar with the likes of Space Guardian 3, Ultimate Battle Master, and The Haunted Harlot.