by Blake Pierce
“Marauder only just wrapped for the night twenty minutes ago,” he said. “That Zyskowski director is still pissed that you cost him a full day of shooting, by the way. I just came from there and was about to log it in the system. Lionel was approximately ten seconds from knowing you two are full of it. Care to tell me why you’re really here?”
“Would you believe we were following up on a request to check gate footage from Sunday night?” Jessie asked.
“To see if Mr. Struce came on the lot any time between ten p.m. and eleven p.m. on Sunday?” Paul replied. “Yeah, we already checked and sent everything to your researcher. No sign of him all night. So no, I wouldn’t believe it. Care to try again?”
He had a mildly amused look on his face so Jessie decided to take a risk.
“Can I be straight with you, Paul?”
“I really wish you would,” he said.
She wasn’t sure if she could tell the full truth. If she revealed that they planned to sneak into the studio archives to check the production files from Petals and Petulance on a wild hunch, she suspected he wouldn’t be hugely receptive. So she decided to be a little less specific.
“I can’t get into details for the sake of the case and for your own benefit. But we have reason to believe Corinne Weatherly’s murderer had a connection to the film Petals and Petulance. Now here’s the part where I go out on a limb with you, Paul. Are you ready?”
“I’m all atwitter with anticipation,” he said drily, still leaning through Trembley’s window.
Jessie ignored his tone, instead focusing on the playful twinkle in his eye. Something in her gut told her she could trust this man. She knew it was a gamble but decided to change her tactic and go for it.
“In order to confirm our suspicions, we need to review the production documents from when the film was made. Unfortunately your studio chief, Remy Haughton, has slow-walked us on that, requiring a warrant. We’re pursuing one but our concern is that we don’t have time for that. There’s a very real chance that whoever did this isn’t done. You know that Miller Boatwright’s name was written on that trailer mirror. He could be in danger. So could others affiliated with the film that we’re not even aware of. But if we could look at those files, it would go a long way toward answering those questions.”
Paul stared at both of them for several seconds. Then he stood up and stretched his back.
“Go park in the usual lot,” he said. “I’ll meet you.”
Trembley found a spot. They got out and waited as Paul approached.
“You think he’ll go for it?” Trembley whispered.
“I think he’d like to,” Jessie replied. “But it’s a big risk. He’d be putting his livelihood at stake without much upside for him.”
Paul arrived at their car and stopped. His brow was furrowed.
“I can’t authorize what you requested,” he said heavily.
“Listen,” Trembley jumped in. “We’ll take the heat. If we get caught or someone raises a stink, we’ll keep you out of it. But if this pays off, we’ll make sure to note how invaluable you were to the investigation.”
Jessie remained silent, not sure if Trembley’s comments had helped or hurt. Paul shook his head slowly.
“I’m sorry. I can’t authorize your request to review production files in the Colbert Building, Annex D. And you most certainly are not allowed to use the unlocked side entrance to get into the Colbert Building or use the administrative all-access entry key card in the desk outside Annex D to gain entry to the storage area. I would hope that you would make wise choices. If not, you might face the wrath of Kenny, the security guard who checks that area every night at nine ten, twenty-five minutes from now. I will tell you that Mr. Boatwright is currently working with the director of his current film in the edit facility near the back of the lot if you wanted to try to interview him. If you choose to do that, please do not stop at the Colbert Building, which is along the way, as I’ve already indicated that would be inappropriate. Here are visitor badges to go see Mr. Boatwright. I will note in the log that visiting him in the edit facility is your stated purpose for being here. Do we understand each other?”
“We do,” Jessie said, taking the visitor badge and quickly giving Paul a peck on the cheek. “You have a lovely evening, sir.”
“You as well,” Paul said, giving them a ridiculous, elaborate bow.
They hurried off silently in the direction of what could be either the Colbert Building or the edit facility. When they got to the Colbert side door, they found it unlocked, just as Paul had promised. They located the desk, found the entry key in the top drawer, and unlocked the door to Annex D.
By the time they found the file box for Petals and Petulance, it was 8:55, only fifteen minutes until Kenny the security guard was supposed to do his rounds. In the dim light of the row, they pored over papers, using their phones for clearer views, occasionally taking photos of documents that neither found hugely compelling.
At 9:05, as Jessie was pulling out a file marked “Casting,” they heard a loud click, indicating a door being opened.
“Kenny’s early,” Jessie whispered.
Without a word, Trembley stood up. He looked around briefly before responding.
“I’ll find a way to distract him. Keep looking.”
Before she could say anything, he was hurrying down the row and turning out of sight. Unsure how much time she had, Jessie decided she had no choice but to trust her partner and dive into the material before her.
She scanned the casting documents, which included a large collection of headshots, casting call notices, thumb drives with auditions, and associated audition notes, none of which jumped out to her admittedly unpracticed eye. As she reviewed them, she heard footsteps walking down a hall away from her.
She stumbled across what appeared to be the script from the initial table read of the film with handwritten notes indicating the actors playing the primary roles. Glancing at the part of Rosie, whom Corinne Weatherly had played, she saw another name next to the character: Calliope Mott.
Confused, she snapped a photo, then started flipping through other papers, trying to determine if perhaps Corinne had changed her name after getting cast. But with so many documents listing the hundreds of actresses who auditioned, it quickly became clear that in the time she had, the effort would be fruitless.
That all faded from the forefront of her mind when she heard the heavy clomping of shoes on the linoleum floor. Kenny was getting closer. She quickly stuffed all the files into the large box and tried to shoehorn the top on. But some files stuck out and she couldn’t get it to sit flush.
Suddenly she heard a loud thud, followed by the clomping shoes breaking into a jog a few rows over. The movement stopped, followed by a loud “dammit.” Whatever Trembley had done had momentarily distracted Kenny.
Jessie hurriedly repositioned the top on the box and managed to close it properly. Now she just had to return it to the shelf and get out of sight. She bent to grab it by the handles and lift. But a sudden twinge of pain in her left shoulder reminded her that she’d dislocated it only two weeks earlier. There was no way she’d be able to get the leverage to lift the thing. If Kenny found this one box on the floor in the row, he’d surely report it and she had no doubt that Remy Haughton would learn of it and draw the inevitable conclusion.
Deciding she had to try again, she braced her back and attempted to slide her fingers under the box. As she did she heard the loud thud of what she suspected was Kenny returning a box that had “fallen” on the floor to its proper place. He was on the move again, headed in her direction.
She was just getting ready to heave the box up when Trembley appeared at the end of the row. Quickly noting what she was doing, he hurried over, grabbed the box with ease, and placed it on the shelf as quietly as possible. Then they both rounded the corner and tiptoed back to the annex exit, leaving the door slightly open so as to avoid the loud “click” when it closed. Only when they were outside and one
building over did they stop to breathe.
“Find anything?” Trembley wheezed.
Jessie needed a moment to regroup before she could answer.
“Maybe. There was something weird on the cast list. Can you check a name for me on that actor database?”
“Sure,” Trembley said, pulling out his phone. “What is it?”
“Calliope Mott. Ever heard of her?”
Trembley shook his head as he punched in the name. They both watched as the page loaded to reveal a filmography and headshot. It took a second for Jessie to process what she was seeing.
But once she did, it all clicked into place and everything made sense.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Miller Boatwright was trying to stay calm.
As he walked out of the edit facility into the warm summer night air, he forced himself to take five long, slow, deep breaths, as his therapist had recommended. It didn’t do any good.
He was still pissed at Lane Putney, the first-time director he’d hired to shoot The Trench. It was supposed to be a down and dirty portrait of one soldier trapped in a trench during World War I. But Putney had decided this would be his war epic.
No matter what Boatwright said, Putney refused to compromise on his vision. Unfortunately, his vision was one hundred and sixty minutes long. That was unacceptable. And since Boatwright had final cut, it was going to change. He didn’t want to take the film away from the kid, who was unquestionably talented. But unless he could be reasoned with, there might be no other option.
Boatwright was just about to return to the facility when he heard a friendly voice call out.
“Miller?”
He turned to see who it was. But before he caught a glimpse, he felt something hard slam into his forehead. He crumpled to the ground, confused and nauseated. For a few seconds, he tried to steady his hands on the ground and push himself back up. But the second blow, this time to the back of his skull, changed all that.
*
“Go to the guard gate,” Jessie ordered Trembley, even though she wasn’t technically in charge. “Tell Paul and whoever else is there who we’re looking for. Then call for backup. Detective Bray and her people can probably get here quicker than ours.”
“Okay. Where are you going?”
“The editing facility—that’s where Boatwright is. Between his name on the mirror and what we just learned, he’s the obvious next target. I’ll secure him. Maybe have the guards call him directly too.”
They split up and Jessie ran as fast as her still-tender body would allow. By the time she reached the entrance to the edit facility, she knew she’d guessed right. On the pristine, sand-colored cobblestone walkway leading to the door, she found a small pool of blood. She burst through the doors.
“Boatwright!” she yelled. “Miller Boatwright!”
Halfway down the hall, a youngish-looking guy with glasses and black hair shooting everywhere stepped into the hall.
“What the hell?” he demanded. “People are working in here.”
“Do you know where Miller Boatwright is?” she demanded.
“He’s supposed to be in here, bullying me into ruining my movie.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Who the hell are you?” he shot back.
“I’m Jessie Hunt with the LAPD. Boatwright may be in danger. So answer my question before I haul you in for interfering with my investigation.”
“Jeez,” he said, chastened. “Fine. He’s probably been gone ten minutes.”
Jessie ran back outside without responding. Once there, she closed her eyes, trying to clear her head.
Where would they be? Locations are significant to the killer. What place on this lot would have the most symbolic significance?
And then it hit her. They would be in the place where the killer had been wronged. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through the photos she’d taken in Annex D. When she reached the table read script, she checked the location details.
The initial reading of the script had been in conference room 2 in the Katz Building, which according to the studio lot map was kitty corner to her current location. Looking up, she saw that it was less than seventy-five yards away. She moved in that direction, texting her destination to Trembley as she went. She didn’t want to call. At this point, there was no telling if the suspect might be listening nearby.
*
Calliope Mott, or as she was better known these days, Callie Hemphill, watched as Boatwright slowly came to.
She was seated in the corner of the room, enjoying the moment. It would take a minute for Boatwright to understand his situation. He was lying on a tall, empty filing cabinet about six feet off the ground. It had been a challenge to get him up there using the elaborate pulley system she’d set up earlier that day. After that, she’d used bungee cords to restrain him so that he couldn’t move much. Then she wrapped a rope around his neck. The other end of it was attached to thick, exposed pipe in the ceiling.
She’d spent quite some time on the calculations and determined that once she shoved him off the cabinet, his feet would dangle four to six inches off the ground as his neck was strained beyond what it could endure. Even if she was a little off, she had an additional rope available in case she needed it, just like the one she’d used on Corinne. The bungee cord pulled across his torso would keep him in place until she was ready. She didn’t want him slipping off the cabinet and accidentally hanging himself before she was ready.
This was the best part—the anticipation. She’d felt the same way when she hid in Corinne’s trailer, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out. It reminded her of the feeling when the coke really kicked in, back in the early days of her career.
Callie’s mind drifted back to those early days when she’d first arrived in Hollywood, going on three, sometimes four auditions in a day. She remembered that magical moment when the director and producers of Petals and Petulance had actually stood up and applauded after her audition; the pure joy she’d felt when they called and told her she’d snagged the lead role in the film, beating out hundreds of other aspiring actresses.
She remembered that it was only two days later when Miller Boatwright’s office called and said he wanted to meet her to discuss the nuances of the role. She remembered how, an hour before the meeting, he’d called her directly to say he couldn’t make it into the office and asked her to meet him at a small apartment he kept near the lot when he was too tired to drive to his Topanga Canyon home.
She remembered showing up and accepting the champagne he offered, having several glasses, as well as a few lines of coke, before they sat down to dive into the character. She remembered him sitting close on the loveseat and suggesting they rehearse the scene where Rosie and Dave first kiss. She’d been uncomfortable but reluctantly agreed. She remembered how, at the big moment, she veered away to kiss him on the cheek and he said simply, “You can do better than that.” She declined to go further.
It had snowballed quickly after that. Her agent called the next afternoon to say the producers were having second thoughts and considering another actress. By the following day, the offer was formally pulled. She saw in the trades the next week that the part had gone to a young ingénue named Corinne Weatherly.
She thought about saying something, maybe even taking legal action. But there was no one else there in the apartment that day. It was her word against his. And he hadn’t ever truly forced her to do anything. He could plausibly claim that they were just acting out the scene, one that happened to have a kiss.
He’d never threatened that she would lose the job if she didn’t comply. And foolishly, she’d assumed that since she had the role “locked up,” she was impervious to this kind of thing. She was wrong.
Boatwright moaned softly as he adjusted positions on the cabinet and tried to get his bearings. As he shifted his weight, she resolved to say nothing yet, confident that his confusion and fear would be heightened if she dragged out this part, before actually e
ngaging him. But somehow, staring at his entitled, unconscious face, all the years of bottled up rage overflowed. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop herself. She heard the words spilling out.
“That was the worst day,” she muttered. “I really struggled after that. The cocaine use increased. I was bitter and angry, borderline suicidal at one point. I heard rumors that Corinne had been willing to make the kind of ethical concessions to get the role that I hadn’t been.”
She stopped talking. The next part was too painful to say out loud. She could hardly bear to even think about it.
When the film was a hit and Corinne was nominated for a Golden Globe, she had actually tried to kill herself. She took twenty sleeping pills, got into her bathtub, and started to drift off. It was only the huge leak in her crappy apartment, and the bathtub water seeping into her downstairs neighbor’s bathroom, which saved her. The neighbor got the super, who unlocked her door and found her, unconscious, her head about to slide into the tub.
Boatwright groaned again. The sound snapped her out of her reverie. She realized that she’d been grinding her teeth as she recalled the incident. Though he wasn’t conscious, she resumed speaking. She considered it almost like a rehearsal, practicing her lines before the live performance she knew was imminent.
“After I was released from the hospital, I checked into rehab and committed myself to therapy. Aren’t you proud of me, Miller?”
She glanced over at him to see if he was listening. He deserved to hear this part. His eyes were closed but she sensed that the passion of her words would somehow get through.
“I left town for six months, hiking in the Colorado Rockies. When I came back I had a renewed sense of purpose and a new name. I officially changed it to Callie. Hemphill was my mother’s maiden name. And considering that I hadn’t spoken to my abusive bastard of a father in eight years, it felt good to be rid of his name. It was like I was a new person. Are you getting all this, Miller? There will be a test later.”