Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

Jane thought of all the possible reasons, most of them bad. What if Angela found Korsak with another woman, a jealous woman? She could be up there now, stabbed and bleeding. Or Korsak could be stabbed and bleeding. That was the downside of being a cop; her mind always went to the worst-case scenario, because she’d seen bad things happen so many times before.

She pulled out her cell phone to call her mother, then realized that Angela had left her purse and cell phone in the car. She dialed Korsak’s phone instead, and after four rings it went to voicemail.

They’re both stabbed and bleeding. And you’re just sitting out here.

With a sigh, she climbed out of the car.

It had been months since she’d last paid a visit to Korsak’s apartment, but nothing about his building had changed. The same fake palm tree was still in the lobby, the floor tiles were still cracked, and the elevator was still broken. She took the stairs to the second floor and knocked at 217. There was no answer, but through the closed door she could hear the TV blaring at full volume, a soundtrack of screams and shrieks accompanied by the ominous thump of drums.

The door was unlocked; she walked in.

The apartment was exactly as she remembered it: black leather sofa, a smoked-glass coffee table, a big-screen TV. Your classic bachelor cave. On the TV, an old black-and-white horror film was playing, and the only light in the darkened living room came from the flickering images of terrified faces staring up at something in the sky. UFOs. An alien-invasion movie.

The sound of voices — real voices — made her turn toward the kitchen.

One glance through the doorway told her more than she needed to know. Angela and Korsak stood with their arms around each other, their lips locked in a kiss, their hands roaming. Jane had been forced to witness many sights in her life, things she did not ever want to see again, and her mother French-kissing Vince Korsak was one of them. She backed away, went into the dark living room, and sank onto the sofa.

Now what do I do?

She sat in the flickering glow of the TV, wondering how long she should wait for this make-out session to end. Should she call Gabriel to bring her mother’s suitcase and give her a ride home? She didn’t want to interrupt this reunion, but really, how long was this going to go on?

On the TV, a woman was stumbling through the woods, fleeing what looked like a man in a giant rubber ant suit. She remembered that Korsak had a collection of these old horror films because, as he used to say, There’s nothing like a scary movie to make your gal want to cuddle. As if only fear would drive a woman into his arms.

The ant creature emerged from the bushes in all his rubberized glory. The woman tripped over a tree root and fell. Of course she fell. Every woman who’s ever fled through the woods must trip and fall. It was another rule from Horror 101. Now the clumsy woman staggered to her feet, sobbing and hysterical. As Rubber Ant Guy moved in for the kill, Jane was suddenly struck by a memory. Another horror movie. Another young woman running in the woods, pursued by a killer.

She sat up straight, staring at the screen, thinking of Mr. Simian , written and produced by Cassandra Coyle. A movie that Cassandra’s colleagues said was inspired by a true incident from Cassandra’s childhood. A girl who went missing.

That girl would have been Lizzie DiPalma.

“Oh, Janie. You’re here,” said Angela.

Jane didn’t look at her mom; her gaze was still on the TV, her thoughts still on Cassandra and Lizzie. On her own misgivings about how the case had been resolved and how many questions had not been answered.

“I’m not going home with you,” said Angela. “I’m staying here with Vince. I hope that’s okay with you, honey.”

“Of course it’s okay with her,” said Korsak. “Why wouldn’t it be? We’re all adults here.”

“This isn’t over yet,” said Jane, and she jumped to her feet.

“No, it’s definitely not over,” said Angela, beaming at Korsak. “In fact, it might be better than ever.”

“I gotta go, Ma.”

“Wait. What about my suitcase?”

“I’ll ask Gabriel to drop it off.”

“So you’re okay with Vince and me living in, you know... sin?”

Jane looked at Korsak’s fat hand resting on Angela’s hip and shuddered at the thought of what would go on in his bedroom tonight. “Life is short, Ma,” she said. “And I have things to do.”

“Where you going in such a hurry?” said Korsak.

“To see a movie.”

“It still needs to be color graded and there’s no soundtrack yet, so there won’t be the full emotional boost you get with scary music,” said Travis Chang. “But this is our picture-locked version. It’s pretty much what the finished film will look like, so I guess we can finally show it to you.”

Since Jane’s last visit to Crazy Ruby Films, the three filmmakers had tidied up the place. The pizza boxes and soda cans were gone, the trash cans were empty, and the dirty-socks odor was absent, replaced by the savory scent of microwaved popcorn, which Amber was now pouring into a bowl for everyone to share. But no one had gotten around to vacuuming the room yet, and Jane brushed old popcorn kernels off the sofa cushions before sitting down.

Ben and Travis joined her on the sofa, one on each side of her, both of them looking at Jane as if she were an alien who’d plopped into their midst. “So, Detective,” said Ben. “We were all wondering.”

“About what?”

“Why you changed your mind. You told us you weren’t a fan of horror films. And suddenly here you are on a Saturday night, insisting that we show you Mr. Simian. Why?”

“Insomnia?”

“Come on,” said Travis. “What’s the real reason?”

All three filmmakers were watching her, waiting for the answer. For the truth.

“The night I interviewed you, right after Cassandra’s murder,” said Jane, “one of you told me that Mr. Simian was inspired by a real incident, something that happened when Cassie was a kid.”

“Yeah,” said Amber. “She said that a girl went missing.”

“Did she ever tell you the girl’s name?”

“No. It was just someone from her school.”

“I think that child’s name was Lizzie DiPalma. She was nine years old when she vanished.”

Amber frowned. “The characters in Cassie’s script, the ones who go missing, are seventeen years old.”

“I think they’re stand-ins for Lizzie, the real nine-year-old girl. I also think the killer in your movie might represent the man who took her.”

“Wait,” said Travis. “Mr. Simian is real ?”

“In your movie, who is Mr. Simian?”

Travis went to his desktop computer and tapped on the keyboard. “I think the best way to answer that question is to show you the movie. So make yourself comfortable, Detective. Here it comes.”

As Amber dimmed the room lights, the Crazy Ruby Films opening logo appeared on the big-screen TV, an image of broken shards joining together to form a cubist image of a woman’s face.

“That logo was my idea,” Amber said. “It represents all these unrelated fragments joining into a visual whole. It’s moviemaking in a nutshell.”

“There, you see that?” said Travis. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl and settled onto the floor near Jane’s feet. “That opening shot in the woods ended up taking four horrible days to film. Our original star turned up completely stoned, so we fired her. Had to replace her, like, overnight.”

“And I sprained my ankle on that shot,” said Ben. “Limped around for weeks. It’s like our project was jinxed from the very first day.”