Cam said, “I see a file labeled Auditions. You keep records?”
“Sure, I can’t imagine not keeping good records of those who liked me, who didn’t and why, what roles I’ve won, what roles I didn’t win, my impressions of why I may have lost a role, plus lots more stuff, like the actresses who beat me out, and why I think they did. You think that’s important?”
“Maybe, yes.”
Missy opened the Auditions file. They saw subfiles for movies, TV, and commercials going back for the past four years. Missy pressed a key. “This is for the first six months of this year.”
She scrolled slowly down, showing them how she’d formatted it all, with each comments section completely filled in. It was a history of Missy’s triumphs and failures for the past six months, more than fifty auditions. “The files are less useful after about three years because there’s so much turnover. I’ve streamlined it pretty well, though. All the information is spot-on, and easy to find. Mostly I use it to make me think about how I could do better. It’s really helpful with a repeat, say a producer I’ve already dealt with, and the impressions I had the first time around.”
Daniel thought the detail was amazing. “Do you know if both Connie and Deborah kept this good of audition records?”
“Oh yes. Deborah was even more detailed and particular than I am. I remember she told me about her experience with an advertising agency—they were pigs, as in sexists, and wanted sex for parts. I have that information in my file.
“Connie had everything on her smartphone. She had what she called a suck-up list, people she had to be nice to no matter how obnoxious they were. Wait a second—I forgot the tea.”
Missy took the whistling green teakettle off the flame, fetched three cups from a cupboard painted the same pale green, and handed Daniel some napkins and spoons.
Missy poured the boiling water over tea bags, added a dollop of nonfat milk into her tea, took a sip, nodded to herself. “I don’t know if Doc told you, Cam, but Deborah had a good part in a movie—a period piece called The Crown Prince. Most of it was filmed in Italy. They came back maybe two weeks ago, to wind it up at the studio.” Her voice caught. She stared into her cup, swishing the tea around, as if there were answers to be found amid the steam and the swirling water. “But now she won’t get to finish it. She was really excited about that role. She even hoped it might get her an Oscar nomination.” She paused. “Cam, all of those murdered girls, they were all so keen to make it, they worked hard, dreamed, dealt with their lives as best as they could, even when they weren’t sure how to pay their rent. And now they’re gone, just gone.” She looked up. “Now none of them will never have a chance to get her Oscar.”
Daniel said after a moment, “The Crown Prince—what will they do now that Deborah’s dead? Will they simply go down their list and select the next actress they’d considered for the role?”
Missy stared up at him. “You’re thinking another actress would have gone around the bend and killed Deborah for that part?”
Daniel shrugged.
“Plus five others? Listen, even if you killed an actress who won a role you wanted, who’s to say they’d give it to you? They’d have to find an actress who looks enough like Deborah to cut in smoothly, and the second actress in line probably wouldn’t fit the bill. Given that, they’d probably give the role to someone who’d never auditioned for the role before.”
“One step at a time, Miss Devereaux. Also, according to our eyewitness who saw the killer leave Deborah’s house, the killer is a man. Oh, yes, keep that to yourself as well, all right?”
“Of course. Oh, for goodness’ sake, Detective, call me Missy.” She gave him a long look, smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. “And that makes you Daniel.”
Daniel slowly nodded, never looking away from her. “Yes,” he said, “it does.”
Cam cleared her throat as she swished the tea bag around in the hot water. “I’m wondering—what if the murders do indeed have to do with the roles these actresses have won, and played? What if it has to do with their rivals? Maybe there’s an actress who lost out to all of them, maybe even more than once, and did have a mental break. Or maybe she complained about it to, say, a husband or boyfriend, and he was the one with the mental break? How would we begin to even find these actresses?”
Daniel was shaking his head.
Cam raised her hand, sighed. “I know, all the task force has already spoken to all the agents, tried to compile lists. There are far too many names to get them all together, find unique connections.”
Missy nodded. “There have to be hundreds of actresses who go to every audition they can, and that’s thousands of auditions. Fact is, everyone can win, and everyone loses out, at least once in a while.”
Cam said, “Then let’s simplify. Both you and Doc said Deborah kept very complete records. Plus, Doc seems to know a good deal about her career, her friends. So let’s start by looking through your contacts, and hers. I’ve asked Agent Aaron Poker to review the flight manifests between Las Vegas and L.A. this past week. Maybe the Serial flew commercial. Maybe we’ll find him on one of your lists. Missy, you keep a list of contacts on your computer, right? Including actresses you know?”
“Oh yes,” Missy said, and punched a key and pulled up a file labeled Friendly Enemies. There were about twenty names. “Several of us were hanging out on the beach one day, came up with that file name. We all use it. These are the people I sometimes hang out with. I met some of them at auditions, actually, and sometimes, afterward, we’d go shopping, drink beer, complain and whine, trash guys. Many times at Ivy’s at the shore.” She paused. “I met Connie there.”
“I’d like to copy that list, Missy. In fact, I’m going to copy all of your contacts. I want to make sure every actress you know gets a call telling her she might have a connection to these murders, that she should never be alone, and emphasize she should take this seriously.
“I’d also like a copy of your auditions files. I want to compare it with whatever I can find at Deborah’s place, or find out from Doc. Now, tell me about Connie. You said you met her at Ivy’s?”
Missy nodded. “Connie was nice and I liked her. She talked a lot about this great guy she was seeing—Theo Markham—he’s a really important producer who believed in her so much he even rented her his house in the Colony for peanuts so she could quit selling shoes at Saks and concentrate full-time on her career. She was so excited, said he was lining up roles for her. Of course all of us were thinking he rented her the house because she was sleeping with him, and it was convenient for him. She laughed about it, said she knew what we were thinking, but she wasn’t having sex with Mr. Theo—that’s what Connie always called him. No one cared, but I thought it was strange she’d deny it. I think he asked her to deny it because he’s married.
“But hey, maybe he really did think she was a big talent.” She saluted them with her teacup. “It would make me wonder if Mr. Theo isn’t an alien—I mean, a bigwig in show business, in Hollywood, not screwing around on his wife? Wouldn’t that be a first?”
Daniel asked, “Did you ever meet Theo Markham?”
“Once. I chatted him up for about two minutes. He was pleasant, but he had this sort of ‘knowing’ look in his eyes, smug, like he knew he could crook his finger and most young wanna-be actresses, like me, would come running. He’s older, well into his forties, but a man’s age doesn’t mean much in Hollywood as long as there’s Viagra. He wasn’t bad-looking, nice thick head of hair.”
Daniel was taking notes. He said, “Missy, I already told Cam that I spoke to Markham after Connie’s murder, how his slick lawyers shut me down. He had to be acquainted with Deborah, since he’s producing The Crown Prince. At least he had to know who she was.”
Cam said, “Yes, indeed, and that gives us the perfect reason to interview him again. Missy, you said you had a suck-up list. I imagine Theo Markham would be on everyone’s list?”
“Sure he would. I’ve met a lot of these guys.
I’m usually just another pretty face to them, although they might jot down my name for a possible part or for possible sex, who knows? I wish there were more women’s names on lists like that.”
“My mom says the same thing,” Cam said. “It makes her so mad she sputters. Daniel, I want to go see Theodore Markham, now. This time, let’s just show up, that way maybe we can escape his herd of lawyers.”
Cam’s cell rang. She looked down at the name, then walked out of the kitchen. When she came back, she looked shell-shocked but her voice was easy. “Missy, I brought a thumb drive along, could you use it to copy those files we talked about?”
“Sure, Cam. Is something wrong?”
Cam shook her head. “Daniel, I need to speak to you while Missy’s copying those files.”
Daniel merely arched a dark eyebrow at her, followed her out of the kitchen. Cam leaned close. “That was Dr. Eli Umbricht, a pathologist from the local field office. I asked him to be on hand at Deborah Connelly’s autopsy. Here’s the thing. He compared her wounds to the previous autopsy reports and they don’t exactly match. He said the cut on her throat is from right to left, but all the others were left to right. And the neck wound that killed her wasn’t as deep as the others. He’s not saying it was necessarily the work of a different killer, maybe he’s ambidextrous or he hurt his right hand, and so used his left, but it does raise questions.”
Daniel said, “If it wasn’t a different killer, maybe the killer was startled by something, or he had to improvise for some reason?”
“Yes. And I noticed the bedcover had been smoothed around her waist, not left in disarray like the others were. Dr. Umbricht won’t say it’s a copycat but admitted he isn’t certain either way.”
Daniel said, “So he won’t commit himself. Here’s a question for you. The killer took Deborah Connelly’s computer and cell phone. If it’s a copycat, how did he know to do that?”
35
* * *
THE HORSESHOE MOTEL
RENO
WEDNESDAY
Marty Sallas felt like crap. He’d doubled up on the pain meds the clinic had given him because his hand hurt so bad, and he’d run out last night. He’d been popping aspirin like candy ever since, but it didn’t touch the pain. He remembered his last girlfriend, Lila, calling him a baby for taking four aspirin for a headache, but what did she know?
Marty moaned and cursed the stitches that dug through his hand. It itched and burned, felt like it was on fire. But there were no red lines running up his arm, no particular swelling, so that was good. Still, he cursed as he pulled himself out of bed, cursed again as he stood there, cupping his bandaged hand, and staggered to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The pain pills had made his mouth taste like a bad hangover, and even after twelve hours, it still tasted like a toilet, go figure that.
He stood under the shower, his arm stuck outside the curtain to keep the bandage dry, and did the best he could with the stingy sliver of soap left stuck in the rusted soap holder. The stream of hot water splashing on his face helped, took his mind off the pain. But not off his fear. He’d about lost it when he saw his name and face all over the local news that morning. The cops were calling him an eyewitness to a murder by a serial killer and asking him to contact them. Did the cops think he was stupid? That he would walk in there and admit to breaking and entering into Molly’s house, let them charge him and put him away again? Not without an arrest warrant they wouldn’t, and they’d have to catch him first. But thanks to those cops on TV the killer could be after him already. Maybe he was standing across the street, watching and plotting how to kill him when he came out of the motel.
He was losing it. How could that lunatic know where he was? He wasn’t smarter than the cops, didn’t have their resources. Besides, Marty was always careful. He’d learned long ago not to make it too easy to find him. He moved around, never gave his real name when he booked a room. The cops hadn’t gotten near him since his two-year stay at Pilson. He was safe, for another day at least.
His biggest problem was he was nearly broke, and that meant he had to leave this room, put himself out in the world. Staying anywhere near Las Vegas wasn’t an option, not with the cops and maybe the killer looking for him.
What had happened to the bracelet—his bracelet—the one Moneybags had bought for his beautiful princess? One of the cops probably had slipped it off her wrist or snatched it out of her jewelry box to give to his girlfriend. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right. The pain in his hand spiked again, and nausea swam in his throat. He knew it was because he was afraid.
Marty got out of the shower, managed to get himself dry with one good hand and one mangy towel. The small bathroom was steaming hot, making him sweat again, but he knew it wasn’t any hotter than it was outside. It didn’t matter where you set your feet in Nevada, it was always hot. Maybe there was no humidity like they told the tourists who complained, but to Marty, hot was hot.
He brushed his teeth again, looked in the mirror, and his belly twisted. He saw not his own reflection, but Molly’s, looking out at him from the steamed-up glass, her eyes wide and dead, her neck sliced open, her blood everywhere, on the walls, on the covers, on the floor, and on that lunatic. He remembered the man jerking around toward him, that knife raised, still dripping blood. Marty’s heart drummed in his chest. He wiped off the glass with the damp towel, to wipe Molly’s face away, until only his own pale face now stared back at him.
Sure, he was a criminal and he was good at it, but there was a big difference between him and the crazy who’d murdered his princess. Marty had never killed someone for the sport of it, not like the man he’d surprised standing over Molly. That man was sick or evil, Marty didn’t know which was worse. Evil, probably, no rhyme or reason with evil, that’s what his pa would say when his head was in a bourbon bottle.
His fingers went to his throat. He had to get away from here today. He wouldn’t be on TV outside of Nevada. He’d drive up to Seattle, lots of rich folk up there. He had a few contacts there, but nothing like the network he’d built in Las Vegas. He’d have to start over, and that would mean small jobs with quick and easy payoffs, enough to keep body and soul together.
Didn’t matter, he knew his business. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to start over.
It was better than being dead. He would stop on the way at a Walmart, buy whatever he needed, maybe change into something nicer in the men’s room. It wouldn’t be a problem.
As he slowly pulled on his seedy clothes, he turned on the television again. They were talking about another actress the lunatic had killed, in Los Angeles. Her name was Deborah Connelly and she’d lived in Santa Monica, this followed by another plea for him to come forward. He was safe, then—the lunatic had gone back to his old hunting grounds. They even gave the name of the lead agent in L.A.—Special Agent Cam Wittier. Should he call her, get the FBI off his back? Talk about a bad joke, as if that would ever happen.
When he walked out of his motel room, he saw a man getting off a motorcycle, like the one he’d seen that night at Molly’s house. He flattened himself against the dirty stucco wall. Even though his brain knew it couldn’t be the killer, he was still, breath held, and watched until the man walked into the Coyote Diner. His breath whooshed out. He had to get a grip, that lunatic was nowhere close. He was safe. Soon he’d be driving across the border into California and get himself lost in the Sierras by nightfall, maybe in Tahoe City.
Again, he saw Molly front and center in his mind’s eye, first smiling, then dancing in her outrageous costume, and then as she looked when she was dead, gone, the slash in her throat open wide, like a bloody mouth.
His hand throbbed. He dry-swallowed two more aspirin, cursed and held his stitched hand close to his chest, worried it, and found he simply couldn’t let it go. Then he knew what he was going to do. Maybe he could help avenge Molly, help get that lunatic who killed her without ending up in jail. Get the FBI off his back, too.
He pulled out his c
ell and punched in Reggie Nash’s number. Reggie owed him a favor.
36
* * *
ON THE WAY TO MILLSTOCK, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich turned the Porsche onto I-95, heading north to Millstock, Maryland, to interview Ms. Marsia Gay in her studio. “I know, we could have asked her to come to the Hoover Building, but—”
“But she’s an artist, you’re an artist, and you want to see where and how she works.”
“I’m not really an— Well, yeah, you might be partially right.”
Sherlock sat back and closed her eyes.
Savich sighed. “It’s been a long day and what do we have to show for it? Another actress murdered in Santa Monica, and our prime weasel dead. Officer Golinowski didn’t remember anything at all, thanks to all the propofol and ketamine the killer put in that syringe.”
“It’s the middle of the night, he’s trying to stay awake, sees the tech coming, asks for ID, and the killer gets close enough to stick the needle in his jugular vein before he can react. He must have been out fast.”
“At least the killer didn’t murder Golinowski, too,” Savich said. “Ben is pretty steamed at him. I bet he won’t like the write-up he gets in his file.”
“He deserves it,” Sherlock said. “Now we’ve got no possible ace in the hole. It’s depressing.”
“Let it go for now, Sherlock. We’ve got Marsia Gay to think about.”
“I’ve got to admit I’m curious about her metal sculpting. She seemed straightforward and very nice last night at the mansion, dealt well with Venus and the family. I liked her. I found it interesting she knew about your grandmother, worshipped her, in fact, even noticed the scars on your fingers. Do you think she did her research on your grandmother to suck up, or was her appreciation for real?”