Richard Castle - Raging Heat

“I sort of prompted her with that, but, yeah.”

“But no. It took awhile because of all the craziness with the storm, but the happiest Hazel called me back about a ten ago. She never referred Jeanne Capois to anyone other than her boss, the old man from the home invasion.”

“Shelton David,” said his partner.

“And she has never heard of Opal Onishi. I’ll admit,” he said, “that it’s not so much a lead, as a confirmation of a lie.”

“At this point, everything helps, Miguel.” And then she said, “You actually read my notes?”

“Hey, just doin’ the fact-donkey dance.”

Rook scooted his chair over and said, “The next question is, why? Why lie?”

Heat agreed. “And why move in the middle of the night like some traveling circus?”

“Was she in debt?”

Raley hopped on that one. “No. I ran a credit check on her ’cause I wondered the same thing. It’s maybe the most logical reason to make a midnight run like that. Opal’s not rich, but she’s making all her payments on time. And she’s got a steady job.”

“We’re back to where we started,” said Heat. “Wondering what the connection is between Opal Onishi and Jeanne Capois.”

“Which is where some of my donkeywork might help,” said Raley. Nikki could tell by looking, Sean was holding. “Although I did mine wearing the crown.”

“As my King of All Surveillance Media?”

“A little more like a commoner. I didn’t scrub surveillance vids; I only used the Internet. To Google Opal Onishi. You can find out a lot about people online.”

“But don’t believe all of it,” said Rook. He felt their stares and dismissed them with a wave. “I reveal too much. Go on.”

Rales said, “What got me started was, in your interview — which I also read, thank-you — Onishi said she had been sleeping with an actress on a film shoot, she’s referencing old films, and we knew she went to NYU film school. Anyway, that got me thinking: gopher on Iron Che f ? Rental clerk for movie equipment? That’s not career work for a film grad, that’s the J-O-B job you do to pay for your passion. Film.” He had their attention but could see they were only partly with him. “Maybe it’s better if I can just show you.” They followed him to his desk where he clicked on a bookmark that brought up a page of search engine hits.

“Check this out, she’s got her own site.” He opened the home page to a full-screen pose of Opal Onishi standing at the gate of a Cherokee reservation, resting her arm on an Arri Amira camera body presenting a defiant look to the viewer.

Nikki drew closer to the monitor. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about Opal’s other life. As an independent documentary filmmaker.”

“And a serious one, too,” said Rook. “Look at the films and subjects she’s made.” Raley obliged by scrolling as he read. “‘ Village of the Slammed — Gay violence and bashing in New York’s Greenwich Village; Heart of the Bully — Chronicle of the aftermath of spousal violence; Tribe and Punishment — Exposing corruption and abuse on Native American reservations.’ That must be where that home page pic was taken.”

Raley swiveled his chair to Heat. “So, it looks to me like the Gen-Y kid who’s been fetching coffee and schlepping stage lights is really a Michael Moore in the making.”

Heat made the connections in a blink. “Kind of makes you wonder what her latest social justice project was. But I have a pretty good idea.” She went to her desk to grab her keys. “If anyone needs me, I’m off to the East Village to visit an indie filmmaker.”

“You keep waking me up,” said Opal Onishi when she opened the door to let in Heat and Rook. “You know, it’s polite to call first. The power’s all fucked up, but my cell works.” She thumbed the home button to check for bars and held it out as a visual aid. Heat ignored it and instead surveyed the living room. The surplus furniture remained stacked, as before, but the cardboard cartons had been razored open revealing their contents: kitchen gadgets in one; surge suppressors and orphan TV remotes in another. Some of the boxes were empty, and their contents covered every open surface in the room.

“I see you’ve had time to move in since my last visit.”

“Yeah, sorry for the mess. Wasn’t expecting company, and I was up working on a project. At least till the lights went out.”

Rook said, “What’s the project, American Hoarders ?”

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No, this is Jameson Rook. He rides with me sometimes.”

“The writer. Cool.” Opal scooped up a few of the tall stacks of papers that filled the couch, end to end. “Here, sit here.”

When they sat, Nikki said, “So you’re trying to finish up your next documentary.”

She got back a cautious reaction. “Yeah…How’d you know?”

“Detective.” Heat side-nodded to the bundles of paper — drafts of screenplays — and four milk crates filled with DVDs, both sleeveless and in jewel cases. Fanned across the coffee table in front of a Mac Cinema Display were stapled forms entitled EDITING CONTINUITY in boldface with grids containing lists of time codes, shots, and scene notes marked by highlighters.

“What gave me away?” Onishi chuckled and then lit a cigarette with an Ohio Blue Tip. She didn’t sit, but stood because it seemed to relax her, one hand on her hip and the other taking a satisfying drag.

“Actually, to be truthful, we checked you out online.”

“If one were to be truthful,” added Rook with a calculated degree of innuendo as an attachment. “You have some impressive reviews. I checked you out on Cultureunplugged and Documentarystorm . Your film on gay bashing won a Doxie Award at South by Southwest.”

“Ancient history. That was my senior project at NYU.” She acted dismissive but seemed flattered by Rook’s notice. “Independent documentary film doesn’t get a lot of mass awareness, which is cool, really. It’s a passion. As an investigative journalist, you should screen it. I have a DVD of it here somewhere.”

Nikki said, “I’m more interested in the project you’re working on now.”

“ Tribe and Punishment ?”

“Stop lying to me, Opal. You know the one I’m talking about. The one Jeanne Capois was helping you with.”

“The maid? Helping me on a film?”

“Stop. The. Lying.”

“Looks to me like it’s called Smuggled Souls .” Rook held up one of the pages of editing notes.

“Hey, that’s private.” She snatched it from him and tossed it in one of the empty cartons — a futile gesture since the title appeared in boldface atop every other piece of paper that was visible.

“Opal, we checked,” said Heat. “The Happy Hazels did not refer Jeanne Capois to you. And we know now that she was a victim of human trafficking. I am forming the reasonable assumption that she had something to do with a film you are making, and I want you to cut the crap and tell me what it was.”

“OK. This is true.” Onishi stubbed out her smoke and sat on one of the boxes, lighting up another. “Jeanne came to me a few times. Helped me out with some background stuff, you know, keeping it real. That’s all.”

Detective Heat had done enough interviews in her career to know the dodges. One was the straight lie, which was what she got from Opal last time. Now she was getting the lie hidden inside a truth. Suspects and witness did that when they wanted to feed you enough to satisfy you, hoping you’d move on. Nikki wasn’t budging, and needed to call her out. “I did a records check and didn’t see any calls to you from Jeanne Capois.”