by Blake Pierce
“Why?” Fiona asked, clearly more concerned than her son. “Did something happen to Melissa?”
Jessie didn’t feel like she could evade the question any longer without drawing suspicion so she decided to tell the truth.
Ideally she would have had someone else with her to give the news so she could observe their responses. Ryan usually played that role. But since she was alone, she kept her focus on Lenny, who seemed a more likely potential suspect.
“Melissa was murdered last night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Oh my god,” Fiona exclaimed.
“What?” Lenny asked, apparently not totally processing the news. He looked confused by her words.
“She was found in her apartment by her roommate,” Jessie said. “We’re investigating what happened. So you can understand that learning about any potential issues she had on-set or with a co-worker is essential to finding out what happened.”
“This can’t be right. I just saw her,” Lenny said, still not grasping things completely.
“When was that?” Jessie asked.
Lenny looked over at his mother helplessly. Fiona pulled up a screen on her computer.
“Yesterday we wrapped for the day at five eighteen,” she said, studying the screen. “She would have gone to makeup after that. Getting back to an everyday look is an involved process. Unless a girl has a public event or is doing a set at a club afterward, she’ll usually want to peel everything off. Same with wardrobe—most of our girls like to leave here makeup free and in sweats so don’t they draw…unwanted attention.”
“Stalkers?” Jessie asked.
“More just overenthusiastic fans,” Fiona said. “But it can be a lot. None of them want to be hit on at the local Starbucks. I’m sure you get the same thing, dearie. For a lot of the girls, going without makeup is a kind of disguise because they look so different.”
“You say she would have gone to wardrobe too. Was she a cheerleader for this movie?”
Lenny seemed to snap out of it slightly at the question.
“Yeah. We were shooting Nympho Cheerleader Zombies 2. The original was one of our biggest hits.”
“She was found in her cheerleader uniform,” Jessie said, ignoring his box office commentary. “How unusual would it be for her to wear her costume home?”
“A little,” Fiona said. “But it’s not crazy. That’s a simple uniform to prep. If she kept it, she probably could have slept an extra half hour this morning. Normally the wardrobe girls have to find the outfit, check it out, and dress her. She could have just shown up in it and had wardrobe do a quick check. The head costumer doesn’t like that in general because of potential damage. But because it was Melissa, I bet she would have let it slide. It’s not like we’re doing Shakespeare in Love here.”
“Yeah,” Jessie said. “It seems like a lot of what goes on here wouldn’t pass muster in the normal film world.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lenny demanded, looking offended. “We follow all the industry standards. We wipe down facilities after every scene. We haven’t had a health shutdown in over three years.”
“That’s very impressive,” Jessie said, trying not to gag. “But what about following employment rules?”
Lenny looked over at his mom like a kid who was worried he might get busted for stealing a cookie. Fiona sighed.
“We follow standard procedure,” she said. ‘Everyone needs to provide the same paperwork they would to work at a grocery store or at a shop in the mall.”
“It looks like your age verification procedures could use a little brushing up,” Jessie said.
“What do you mean?” Fiona asked as she punched the keyboard in front of her. “I’m looking at her file now. Everything is in order.”
“Melissa was seventeen,” Jessie told her. “And her real name isn’t Melissa Mackenzie. It’s Michaela Penn.”
“What the…?” Lenny started to say.
“That’s not possible,” Fiona said. “I’m looking at copies of her documents right here—license, social security card—they’re legit.”
“A basic background check would have told you that the Melissa Mackenzie with that social security number died as a baby eighteen years ago. It took me two minutes to confirm it.”
“But you’re a cop,” Fiona protested.
“You don’t have to be a cop to verify this information,” Jessie said, not correcting the woman’s misimpression about her profession. “It’s easy to confirm. I suspect that age verification just isn’t a priority for Filthy Films.”
“Listen,” Lenny insisted. “We follow the rules. Missy, Michaela, whoever she is, was trumpeted by Giles. He pushed for her. If there was anything sketchy about her background, he’s the one who should have known.”
“Who’s Giles?” Jessie asked.
“Giles Marchand,” Fiona said. “He’s one of our top directors. He did the original Nympho Cheerleader Zombies. He kind of discovered Melissa. He’s been known to push hard for girls he likes. Last year he got a girl cast on Nasty Maids Make a Mess who turned out to be undocumented. He helped her get papers to suggest otherwise. But she was an idiot and started bragging about how her ‘precious Giles’ made her an American. Another girl who wanted her role turned her in. I wouldn’t be stunned if he did something similar for Mel…Michaela.”
“Can you please ask him to come here so we can talk?” Jessie asked.
“He’s actually at home,” Fiona said. “We wrapped early today and he’s reviewing footage in the edit bay he has set up at his place.”
“I’ll go there then,” Jessie said brusquely. “I need his contact info.”
As Fiona looked it up, Lenny sat down on the worn, discolored loveseat in the corner of the office.
“I can’t believe Missy’s dead,” he said foggily. “I had big plans for her. She was going to be the tent pole character for the Candy Wants Candy series. The second one is coming out next month. I guess now we’ll just have to hype it as the last great performance of a talent cut down too soon.”
Jessie was amazed and horrified at how quickly Lenny seemed to transition into thinking of how to monetize the death of one of his actresses. She felt anger bubble up in her chest and forced herself to gulp it back down before she spoke. She waited until Fiona handed her Giles’s info before responding.
“You should know I’m having you shut down,” she said to Lenny coldly. “Whether you were aware of it or not, you employed an underage girl in multiple porn films. That’s not going to fly. So I wouldn’t go making any elaborate marketing plans for her movies anytime soon. I have a feeling the FBI might take issue with that.”
“But we’ll lose hundreds of thousands of…”
But before Lenny could continue, Fiona shushed him. She seemed to sense that protesting would only make things worse.
“Thanks for bringing this to our attention,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’ll do everything we can on our end to help.”
Jessie gave her a perfunctory nod and walked out, happy to let mother and son hash out the fallout without her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On her way to see Giles Marchand, Jessie saw that she had missed a text from Kat that read simply “Update. Call me.” She called her back immediately.
“That was fast,” she said when her friend picked up.
“You’re surprised? I’m good at what I do.”
“Prove it,” Jessie challenged. “What did you find out?”
Kat chuckled at the faux animosity which would have been real only two years prior.
“A local deputy up in Lake Arrowhead named Connor was familiar with Keith Penn. He offered to go check out the guy’s cabin personally for me.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Wasn’t it?” Kat agreed. “I may have given him the impression that I’d let him teach me to ski the next time I go up there.”
“Small price to pay,” Jessie said. “What did he learn?”
&n
bsp; “He said it looks like Penn hasn’t been at his cabin in days. His mail has piled up in his mailbox, his truck isn’t there, and there are no tire marks since the last snow, which was two days ago. He also checked around town at his usual haunts, which he said essentially means local bars. It’s Tuesday now and no one has seen him since before the weekend. He warned me that none of this was that unusual. Apparently when the guy goes on a bender, he’ll often go off the grid too. Still, Deputy Connor was going to see if he could trace the guy’s cell phone.”
“This is not what I was hoping to hear,” Jessie admitted. “I wanted to rule this guy out.”
“Hold on, Jessie,” Kat said. “I’m getting a call. It looks like it’s my guy. I’ll be right back.”
While Jessie waited for her friend to get back on the line, she checked how far she was from Giles Marchand’s house. The director lived in the hills of Sherman Oaks, about fifteen minutes from the Filthy Films offices. Parts of the neighborhood were run down. But Marchand lived in a ritzier section with a view of the whole San Fernando Valley.
“Jessie,” Kat said excitedly, coming back on the line, “I’ve got news.”
“I’m ready,” Jessie said.
“You’re not going to believe this but Deputy Connor got a hit on Penn’s phone.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in L.A. Specifically at the local Van Nuys jail. He was arrested early this morning on a DUI. According to Mitch, the folks there don’t even realize the connection yet. I asked him not to clear that up just yet. I figured you’d want the first shot at him.”
“Thanks, Kat,” Jessie said. “It sounds like that deputy, or is it Mitch now, really earned a tutoring session.”
“I agree,” Kat said. “I looked up his photo on the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department website. He’s pretty cute, maybe a little young.”
“Just make sure he’s at least eighteen,” Jessie said drily.
“Thanks for the pro tip,” Kat said. “He’s still on the other line so I’m going to go.”
She was gone before Jessie could reply. She was already winding her way up the hill on Beverly Glen Boulevard, almost halfway to Marchand’s place. But she pulled over anyway. The director would have to wait. If the Valley Bureau cops got to Keith Penn before she did, who knows what nefarious trouble they’d cause? With that in mind, she made a U-turn and headed back down the hill.
*
Walking into the Van Nuys jail felt like entering the lion’s den.
As Jessie made her way from the main reception area down the hallway that led to the holding cells, she kept an eye out for anyone from yesterday evening. She kept reminding herself that they would all likely be off duty right now since most of them worked through the night.
When she got to the sign-in desk to see inmates, she had a half-second of panic. She was required to check in via computer rather than scratch her name on a sheet. That would put her on the radar. If anyone here cared to track her official whereabouts, then her current location would show up immediately.
Normally she wouldn’t care. But after last night’s combative interactions and Officer Burnside’s cryptic warning this morning, she couldn’t help but worry that her presence here might cause some curiosity or worse among Valley Bureau law enforcement. She’d have to move quickly.
Once signed in, she hurried to the visitor meeting waiting area. In the next room, she could see inmates talking to guests through glass partitions on corded wall phones. It took about five minutes for Keith Penn to be brought in.
She knew it was him even before she was told to meet him at window four. The man, who looked to be in his early forties, shuffled to the window slowly, as if he worried that taking full strides might lead him to fall over. His graying black hair was poking in every direction. He had a good four days’ worth of stubble and though the sclera of his eyes was more red than white, they were otherwise the same as Michaela’s. As he eased himself into the chair, almost missing it, Jessie realized he was still drunk.
She walked over, sat down across from him, and picked up the phone. He just stared at her so she motioned for him to do the same. He looked confused but did as she instructed.
“Mr. Penn,” she said when he put the phone to his ear, “my name’s Jessie Hunt. I consult for the LAPD. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”
“Is this about Michaela?” he asked.
“Why do you ask that?” Jessie asked, surprised.
“Because no one will tell me anything. No one even cares.”
“What do you mean?” she pressed, increasingly confused.
“I’ve been trying to find out what happened to my baby for hours now but no one has told me anything since that first cop.”
“What first cop?”
“I can’t remember his name,” Penn said, mumbling. “Constant or something. He called me last night and said my daughter had been killed in a robbery and that they would release her remains to me today. I thought someone was screwing with me so I hung up. But he called back and said it was true.”
“He just told you flat out like that?” Jessie asked, horrified.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice disconnected and flat. “He said they had positively identified her. He said I should come to the station and someone would take me to the morgue. So I drove down. But I got picked up when I got here and thrown in jail.”
“Picked up?”
He sighed deeply, as if telling this story was physically intimidating.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “You see, I was real upset. So I stopped off on the way down here—I live up in the mountains—for a drink to take the edge off. You know, in her honor.”
“Which was it?” Jessie asked, knowing she shouldn’t bait him but unable to stop herself. “To take the edge off or in her honor?”
Penn looked at her blankly, still too soused to be offended by the edge in her voice.
“Both. Anyway, one drink turned into two and I guess I lost control a little. But when I left, I came straight to Van Nuys. That’s when I got pulled over. I told them why I was here. But I couldn’t remember the name of the cop who called me and they didn’t care anyway. They just booked me and threw me in the cell. You’re the first person I’ve gotten to actually talk to me since then.”
“Mr. Penn, I just want to make sure that I’m understanding all this correctly. You’re saying that you were in Lake Arrowhead last night when you got a call from a Van Nuys police officer telling you that your daughter was murdered and you should come here. You left your home and drove here through the night, stopping at a bar for several drinks. Then you continued to Van Nuys, where you were picked up for drunk driving and taken here, where you’ve been held until now. Do I have all that right?”
“Mostly,” he said, his voice thick and slurry.
“What did I get wrong?”
“I didn’t come here from my place. I spent the weekend crashed at my buddy’s in Running Springs. But other than that, you got it.”
“You spent the last few days at a friend’s place?”
“Yeah. We were hunting and fishing and drinking and stuff.”
“Your buddy can confirm all this?” Jessie pressed.
“Sure. He’s actually kind of pissed ’cause I messed myself a bit in his extra bed.”
“I’ll need his contact information,” Jessie said.
“His name’s Buck Crowder. I don’t remember his number but it’s in my phone if you look. If you get me out of here I can show you.”
“I don’t think they’re going to let you out to show me, Mr. Penn. But I’ll look into it. Let me ask you just a few more questions. The officer who called you with the news about Michaela—was his name possibly Costabile?”
“That sounds right,” Penn said, nodding.
“And he said they would release her remains to you today?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Did he say what would happen to them if you weren’t available to colle
ct them?”
“That they’d be disposed of.”
Jessie’s mind began to race. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there silently until Penn interrupted her thoughts.
“What is it?” he asked.
She jumped slightly.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Penn.”
She stood up and hung up the phone, trying to look calmer than she felt. As she walked out of the holding area, one question consumed her.
What exactly are these cops hiding?
She was poring over the possibilities in her head when she rounded the corner and bumped into the one person she didn’t want to see: Sergeant Hank Costabile.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What a pleasant surprise,” Costabile said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as they disentangled themselves. “Slumming it?”
Jessie did her best to hide her discomfort but knew that he’d likely seen a flash of anxiety cross her face. Up close in the full light of day, the guy was even more imposing than he seemed last night. He was clearly a weightlifting fan, with thick, muscled biceps and forearms and a neck like a small tree trunk. His slight paunch was masked by his massive chest, which seemed to jut forward independent of the rest of his body.
“Just following up on a lead,” she said vaguely, though she was certain he knew why she was here.
“Oh yeah?” he asked with malicious glee. “Is your lead sober yet?”
Jessie knew guys like this. As much as he was enjoying screwing with her, he was also trying to keep her off balance so that she wouldn’t focus on whatever it was he was clearly hiding. She decided her best option was to be equally as aggressive.
“Let me ask you a question, Sergeant. What would happen if a relative failed to claim the body of their deceased loved one after being notified of the death?”
Costabile smiled malevolently.
“That would depend on the particular circumstances, Ms. Hunt. Unfortunately, if you’re referring to the case from last night, there was an unfortunate mishap.”