Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

Dean Casperson’s rental house in Congdon Park felt austere and Gothic, full of chimneys, gables, and Tudor crossbeams. It was hidden among two acres of forested land, secure behind a brick wall that ringed the property. In winter, the trees gave up some of their secrets. Stride could see outbuildings and a tennis court beyond the main house, which was built in two perpendicular wings. The estate was a hand-me-down from Duluth’s early days, when the riches from timber, mining, and shipping had created an upper class of Northland millionaires.

A gate blocked the driveway, and a private guard stood watch in the cold. Stride handed him his identification, and the guard used a remote control to swing open the gate and let Stride drive his Expedition inside. As he parked and got out, he stared northward through the web of trees. From there, he could just barely see the windows of the attic room where Haley Adams had zeroed in on the estate through the lens of her telescope.

He rang the bell and was surprised when Dean Casperson answered the door personally.

“Lieutenant, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Casperson waved him inside. “Would you like some breakfast? I just finished myself, but I can have something made up for you. And we have coffee, of course.”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Stride replied. “Are you filming today?”

“No, Aimee Bowe is on set, not me. She’s doing her scenes in the box. She’s constantly improvising, so we’ll see how long that takes. Getting inside the emotional state of those women is no small task.”

“I’m sure.”

Casperson beckoned him toward the back of the house. “I know you’re busy, but come with me. There’s somebody I want you to meet.”

The actor led him through a maze of rooms. Everything was built in stone and dark wood and was furnished as if time had stood still for a century. The heat had been cranked to warm the house, but the high ceilings and old windows couldn’t keep winter out entirely. Casperson was dressed in pastels, including emerald green slacks and a yellow golf shirt. He looked out of place here. Or maybe, Stride thought, the house looked out of place around Casperson.

The maze led them to a large den with no windows. A chandelier hung over an elm-wood billiard table that probably cost as much as Stride’s truck. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall. Another wall featured oil paintings from Duluth’s early history. Casperson went to a marble bar and poured a mug of coffee and held up the pot in Stride’s direction. Stride shook his head again.

The room was empty, but Casperson took a remote control and pointed it at a seventy-inch television nestled among the bookshelves. He turned on the television, and Stride found himself staring at an outdoor patio that looked out on a private boat dock and an inland waterway. A woman sat at a glass-and-marble table in a floral bikini, with a white lace jacket over her shoulders. She was drinking coffee, too, and soaking up the sunshine.

“Mo and I like to have breakfast together every day,” Casperson explained. “It doesn’t matter if she’s home in Captiva and I’m a thousand miles away. Mo, this is Lieutenant Stride. Lieutenant, meet my wife.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Casperson,” Stride said.

She was practically life-size on the screen, and Stride felt an odd impulse to reach out to shake her hand.

“Oh, I’m Mo, please,” she replied with studied politeness. “Everyone calls me Mo. I feel as if I know you, Lieutenant. I did my research on you before I suggested to Dean that he accept the role. You’re an interesting man.”

Stride didn’t know what to say to that.

He knew that Mo had to be about his own age or even older, because she’d been married to Dean Casperson since the two of them were teenagers. Their relationship was legendary in Hollywood. Even so, the bikini and the 4K screen hid nothing, and Mo didn’t look a day over forty. She had thick honey-colored hair with a trace of dampness. Her brown eyes shot through the screen like arrows. She had a hooked nose and a sharp chin. Her skin had an all-over golden tan, and she showed no discomfort at all in displaying her toned body in front of a stranger. Like her husband, she conveyed absolute self-assurance and control.

“I was especially impressed with your handling of the terrible marathon incident last summer,” Mo went on.

“That was the work of a lot of good people,” he replied. “Not me.”

Mo narrowed one eye as she smiled at him. It made him feel as if he’d fallen into a trap. “See, that’s what impressed me, Lieutenant. You never took any credit. I always tell Dean that if he forgets to be humble about what he’s accomplished, that’s the day I’ll divorce him. None of us walk our path alone.”

“I agree.”

Casperson broke in with a laugh as if the conversation had gotten too serious. “See what I live with, Lieutenant? Now make him jealous, my dear, and tell him what the temperature is in Captiva.”

“Eight-five degrees,” Mo announced with a wink. She squared her shoulders as if emphasizing her swimsuit and everything beneath it.

“Well, that’s about ninety degrees warmer than here in Duluth,” Stride replied. “You made the right call not coming along on this particular film shoot.”

Mo shrugged. “Oh, please, I never bother with filming. That’s Dean’s life. There’s plenty in our business and charitable interests to keep me busy when he’s away. Which reminds me, my dear, I have bad news. Tiffany Ford called. I’m afraid Tommy passed away yesterday. She wanted to be sure you knew.”

Stride watched grief darken Dean Casperson’s face.

“Poor kid,” he said. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Of course. I’m very sorry, I have to run. We’ll talk later.”

Casperson nodded without saying anything more to his wife.

“Oh, one thing, Lieutenant,” Mo called to Stride. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is your daughter? Or rather, the teenage girl who lives with you. Chris Leipold told me there was a regrettable incident at the party with Jungle Jack. I believe Dean had already left at that point. I want you to know I’ll speak with Jack myself and express how disappointed I am in his behavior. He’s a dear longtime family friend, but sometimes he’s less than careful about where he plies his charms.”

“She’s fine,” Stride replied evenly, “but I appreciate your concern.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“What happened?” Dean asked his wife. “I didn’t hear about this.”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear. It’s just Jack being Jack in the usual way. My regards to you, Lieutenant. I hope I’ll have a chance to meet you in person someday. Although, to be honest, I’d rather it be down here than up there.”

She smiled, waved at both of them, and then cut off the connection.

Stride found himself feeling oddly intimidated by Mo Casperson. She was beautiful. She’d said all the right things. Yet he stared at the blank screen and felt as if he’d been threatened. It wasn’t simply that she knew about Jungle Jack’s behavior with Cat or that she’d made sure that Stride knew Jack was a close family friend. It was the other, throwaway line that he remembered.

Or rather, the teenage girl who lives with you.

She’d made a point of making it clear that she knew Cat wasn’t his daughter. It made him wonder what else she knew about Cat. And he suspected that was precisely why she’d said it.

Stride turned away from the blank screen and realized that Dean Casperson hadn’t said anything more since the call. He was distracted, holding the coffee mug near his lips but not drinking from it. The actor’s blue eyes had a faraway look of loss that Stride knew very well.