ANNEMIEKE JANSSEN: I assumed it was a reporter calling, of course. Our divorce had just been announced, and of course the news was all Liza, Liza, Liza. Tony was very prominent at that moment, very big again all of a sudden.
SUZY KOH: And when you heard the news, what did you think? Knowing what you did, did you wonder if Tony might have had something to do with Liza’s murder?
ANNEMIEKE JANSSEN: Of course I did. Anyone with any sense could tell that her death would do amazing things for his career.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I head down to the lobby in search of Anjali. Now that Billy’s been arrested, the hotel’s starting to come back to life: A steady stream of housekeepers moves from room to room, replacing towels and soaps and collecting trash. Wade’s back behind the reception desk. There’s a line at the vending machine. Somehow, though, the place is even gloomier than before. When Billy was still at large, there was a tension in the air—a welcome tension, really, because we could all focus on the chase instead of the murder. It was a solid, finite fear, sturdy enough to buttress back the weight of more burdensome realizations. Now it’s impossible to focus on anything but the fact that someone died, and decisions we made might have played a part in it.
A gray-faced PA carrying a tray of empty coffee cups directs me to the conference room. “They’re all in there,” she says, glumly.
I blink at her retreating figure. What does she mean by all?
When I open the door to the conference room I could be forgiven, I think, for assuming I had somehow stumbled into an emergency room in the midst of a mass casualty incident or the commodities trading floor at the Chicago mercantile exchange. The room is packed with cast and crew alike, and everybody is yelling at everybody else. It takes me five minutes just to elbow my way inside the door.
I go up on my toes, searching the crowd. I spot Anjali over by the printers, surrounded by PAs.
I wave both arms in the air and call her name.
She looks over, and her eyebrows go up.
“I need to talk to you!” I shout.
She shakes her head and puts her hand behind her ear. Then she yells something back that gets lost in the roar.
I start to push my way toward her, but there are too many people, and I’m smaller than all of them. I’ve barely managed to make it three feet when a hand grabs my sleeve and tugs me forward.
I look up into Anjali’s face.
“You’re late,” she says with exaggerated care.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come on, you’ll be working over here.” She drags me across the room to one of the computer carrels. Here, someone with clearly no experience setting up an editing bay has arranged the remaining equipment from the projection room. I note with genuine regret that only one video monitor appears to have survived, and it’s the shitty one.
The paper doll taped to the screen has lost an arm.
“Why isn’t this in the projection room?” I ask.
Anjali lifts an eyebrow. “We figured you shouldn’t be up there.”
“Why not?”
She makes an impatient gesture. “The police are in there right now, so you’d be in the way. Or they’d be in the way, I guess, depending how you look at it. Anyway, that’s the good news.”
I feel myself edging away. “How is that good news?”
“It isn’t. I was just trying to make you feel better about the bad news.”
“It gets worse?”
She nods. “The raw footage is all backed up, that’s not a problem, but we can’t find any of the drives with Paul’s rough cuts, and it doesn’t look like they’re stored online.”
“Rough cuts? What are you talking about?” I peer at her face—is she sweating? “Anjali, are you okay?”
She waves a hand at the computer. “We’ll have a better workstation back up and running for you by this evening—tomorrow morning at the latest. As soon as we get the go-ahead, we’ll send someone to Dover to pick up a new computer, but just FYI, it’ll probably take a while to get the software loaded. Our broadband is garbage. Until then, you can work on this laptop.” She points to a dented silver MacBook connected to an external hard drive.
I rub my arms against a sudden chill. “Anjali.”
She huffs out a breath. “What?”
“Are you telling me we’re going to salvage this?”
A frown worries at the corners of her mouth. “Of course we are.”
I guess I said it myself: When you stumble on a story like this one, you don’t just walk away from it. Creatively speaking, Liza’s death was fantastically lucky. Like lightning striking a kite attached to a key that opens a chest full of Oscars.
“You can’t possibly have cleared this with Liza’s family,” I say.
Anjali’s jaw tightens. “They’ll want her to be remembered.”
Something shimmers in the corner of my vision—
Sam Shepard calls off the speedometer readings of the Bell X-1. “Point nine-seven . . . point nine-eight . . .”
“A movie’s not a memory, Anjali.” My fingers rub against the fabric of my pants. “And it can’t take the place of one.”
“Well, someone needs to bear witness,” she insists, her volume rising. “And why not Tony? Why not us? Who better than the people who loved Liza to hold the police accountable, to interrogate the social structures that, ultimately, targeted and victimized her, to examine the politics of the criminal justice system—”
“And also you probably can’t afford to call it off, right?”
Her eyes narrow. “Forty-eight hours sure can change a girl, huh? You weren’t this cynical when we hired you.”
I swallow. “You have no idea. Is Tony here?”
“No—now that they’ve reopened the island, he went to New York for the day.”
“Leaving you to handle all this?”
She clears her throat. “Yes, well.”
“Look, never mind that. Just—come with me, okay? I want you to look at something.” I drag over a second chair. “Sit.”
I open the laptop and boot it up. In a matter of moments, we’re watching the footage I’m hoping holds the key to all this.
The scene proceeds just as the script described. Liza and a young brown-haired actor—the man playing Tom, Caitlyn’s boyfriend—are on a date at an amusement park. Everything is drawn in bold, kindergarten colors: a green bench, an orange roller coaster, pink cotton candy; Liza’s sunglasses are very yellow, her lips are very red, the sky is very blue.
Two possible interpretations leap to mind. First, that this scene is a sentimental grace note, an idyllic, Kodachrome moment made piercing and poignant by dramatic irony. Look how beautiful life is; look how quickly it can be taken away.
Or it might be making fun of the trope, laughing at the idea that there’s anything novel or profound to be found in an acknowledgment that, yes, life is far less predictable than any of us would like. Deep thoughts for shallow minds.
“It’s funny,” I say, my eyes trained on the screen. “I’ve never gone into a movie knowing in advance what the most important scene is going to be. I always figure it out in the editing room.”
“And you think it’s going to be this one?” Anjali says, a hint of condescension in her tone. “I hate to tell you, but Tony already decided to cut this. He deleted it from the workflow. The only reason it’s on here is because we restored from an old backup.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I skip forward; the roller coaster moves to the left, the crowd moves to the right. I rewind; the roller coaster moves to the right, and the crowd to the left.
“I read an interview with Tony in the New Yorker a couple months back,” I say as I click back and forth. “He claimed that his artistic process is superior to any other subjective interpretation. That what he puts onscreen is as authenti
c as any artistic creation possibly can be. Does he really believe that or is he just trying to sound smart?”
“If you assume the world is what you make it, then of course what you make will look like the world.”
I glance at Anjali. “Are you just trying to sound smart?”
“I just mean that Tony has all the confidence of man who’s always been able to get things done.” She lets out a breath. “Agency’s a hell of a drug.”
I scroll forward again, but I’m still not seeing it.
“Wasn’t the derailment caught on film?” I ask.
“That’s what you’re looking for?” She shifts on her stool. “The camera was rolling, so it has to be in there.”
I skip all the way to the end, but I still don’t see it. “Maybe it’s out of frame?”
“Hold on, I think I remember when it was.” She reaches for the laptop and flicks her fingers across the touchpad. “It has to be the last take, right?”
She presses play.
I turn up the sound.
Liza’s flirting around her cotton candy, smiling up into the sunlight. Behind her, the roller coaster rattles up the track. The actor playing Caitlyn’s boyfriend leans in, his eyes bouncing between her chest and her lips, his face animated by the twitchy enthusiasm of an overcoached actor.
Then, for some reason, the camera goes in close on Liza’s face. Really close. An extreme close-up, like nothing we’ve seen in any of the other takes—the stuff of makeup artists’ nightmares. Liza’s just young enough to be able to bear up under the magnification.
“Are you trying to tell me I’m something?” she murmurs.
Her scene partner’s response is drowned out by an earsplitting shriek: The roller coaster’s breaks must have engaged. There’s a scream, then a series of shouts as the crew bursts into motion—or that’s what I assume, anyway. The camera never moves from Liza’s face.
“Oh, that fucker,” Anjali breathes.
I pause the footage. Liza’s face is half turned toward the roller coaster; her eyes are wide with terror.
“He knew the coaster was going to derail, didn’t he?” Anjali asks.
“I think so, yeah.”
Anjali shoves her hair out of her face. “Shit. I knew something was up with Liza—I knew it. But I couldn’t get her to tell me what it was. I was trying to help her.”
“Did you know he was sleeping with her, too?”
Her mouth twists. “What?”
I hesitate, then put my hand on her arm. “It’s not your fault. She wouldn’t have been able to confide in you. You’re too close to Tony.”
“I’m really not,” she murmurs, still staring at the screen. “Just because I work for him doesn’t mean we share a brain—fuck. I didn’t even agree with him about Billy.”
I turn to her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Everything I’ve seen tells me he’s not guilty—but Tony, he’s so certain, and he has all this research—”
“Did he ever tell you why this movie is so important to him?”
“Tony never explains himself. It’s one of his ‘things.’”
“Do you have any ideas, though? It’s never made sense to me. His subject matter tends to be . . . bigger.”
“Death isn’t big?”
“You know what I mean. History and politics and philosophy. That sort of stuff. But this—this is just another movie about some dead white girl. We could make it in literally any town in America, we’d just have to change a couple names. Why this one?”
“Well, the tax incentives, for one thing.”
I shake my head. “There’s some other reason. Has to be.”
I grab the mouse and restart the footage. The answer’s in here, I know.
It always is.
I scroll back until I come to an image of the actor playing Caitlyn’s boyfriend.
“Who is this actor?” I ask. “I don’t recognize him.”
Anjali laughs. “God, right? I’m always getting him confused with like eight other white TV actors. Is he the third lead from that teen drama on Netflix or the recurring guest star on that quirky comedy on Hulu? No one knows! I’m not actually convinced we didn’t cast him thinking he was someone else.”
That’s when it happens.
If I’d looked at this yesterday—if I hadn’t just talked to Annemieke, and if she hadn’t just mentioned Venice—I probably wouldn’t have seen it. But I’m looking at it today, now, and this time the story doesn’t unspool in my mind. Instead it sparks bright and sharp and short behind my eyes, like the lights exploding in the theater, one by one.
The actor on the screen in front of me is an average, inconspicuous white boy in most respects—neither tall nor short nor fat nor thin. His hair isn’t mousy or mahogany or sun-streaked or whiskey-colored. It’s just brown. He has no visible scars, moles, or birthmarks. His eyes are bright, shining. Green.
And around his neck is a St. Christopher medal.
I can’t help it: I laugh. I laugh the way you laugh when you finally get a joke after thinking about it for far too long. With no pleasure, only relief.
Tony’s so committed to getting it right, he has no idea he just gave himself away.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I grab Anjali’s arm, urgently. “Whatever you do, don’t be alone with Tony, okay?”
She draws back. “What?”
“I’ll explain later.”
I fight my way through the conference room, throwing elbows and at least one knee, not caring who I hit. I tumble out into the lobby and run to the dining room, dodging servers and busboys as I race down the back hallway, duck under a passing tray, and throw open the double silver doors.
A man in chef’s whites looks up from a dish he’s plating with a pair of tweezers. He lowers his reading glasses.
“Get out of my kitchen,” he says.
“I’m a friend of Grace and Suzy’s,” I gasp out.
His forehead puckers. “But you’re a grown-up.”
“Yes?”
He straightens and wipes his hand on a towel. “You’re the one who likes peanut butter sandwiches?”
I nod sharply. “I have the palate of a five-year-old. Do you know where they are?”
He turns to a dark-haired woman bent low over a counter. “Esther—what’d you do with the girls?”
She points her pastry bag at the pantry. “I stuck them on garde manger.”
The chef looks at me. “They’re on salad duty.”
“So—can I borrow them?”
He cocks his head. “Do you know how many salads these people eat?”
I grind down on my molars. “It is incredibly important.”
He shrugs. “As long as there aren’t boys involved.”
He settles his glasses back on his nose and returns to his work.
I find Suzy and Grace working diligently, their hair tied back, white plastic gloves on their hands, bodies half-hidden behind a mountain of leafy greens. They look up when I enter.
“How would you two like to help me break into a police station?”
Their smiles could put the sun to shame.
* * *
—
I fly down the driveway, across the lawn and through the trees, the girls thundering behind me. I haven’t run this fast or this far in months—in years—and each time my heels strike the ground, the impact rattles my bones, the ache in my hips so acute I barely even notice the pain in my knees or the throbbing of my arm.
We burst out from behind the trees and into the parking lot. Chuck and Tim look up from behind the Smokey Joe.
“Countess Dracula!” Tim calls out.
“Thank God,” I say.
Chuck hikes up his pants and hurries over. “Kid, you okay?”
“We need to get to the police station
,” I say between breaths. “Quickly, please.”
Suzy grabs my sleeve and tugs me toward her. “Wait, Marissa—why don’t we get a ride from Isaiah?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I have to make sure I’m right first. I have to be logical about it.”
“Breaking into a police station is logical?”
I nod firmly. “Absolutely.”
Suzy blinks. “I think maybe you’ve been spending too much time with us.”
I turn back to Chuck. “Can you take us?”
He’s frowning at the girls. “I’m not sure I have the authority—”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you telling me the illustrious and august International Brotherhood of Teamsters doesn’t have the authority to assist the lead editor—who by the way is a member of IATSE Local 700 in good standing—in a time of desperate need?”
Chuck sighs, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles. “Little Bob! We’re gonna need the Destroyer.”
No more than thirty seconds later, the black Escalade emerges from behind one of the trailers.
“‘Destroyer?’” I ask.
Chuck nods absently. “‘Of worlds.’”
The Escalade pulls up, and the girls clamber into the back seat. I strap myself in on the passenger side and stow my backpack at my feet. Little Bob looks over at me and lifts his eyebrows. “Where to, boss?”
“The police station. And we sort of need to sneak up on them.”
He shifts the car out of park. I can feel Suzy and Grace behind me, bubbling with anticipation. God, I hope I’m not doing the wrong thing by bringing them with me.
When we get to the end of the driveway, Little Bob turns right.
“Isn’t the main road that way?” I ask, pointing in the other direction.
Little Bob pulls over to the shoulder. Then he reaches across the bench seat and adjusts my seat belt, pulling it tight. He revs the engine. Then he looks back at the girls and winks.
“Where we’re going,” he says, “we don’t need roads.”
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