Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

“Now and then. Off and on. We’re good friends.”

Stride cast an eye dubiously around the small apartment. “So why are you staying here and not in the mansion downtown with Dean?”

“I am staying with Dean, but I like to have my own place as a backup, too. I entertain a lot. If I did that at Dean’s place, people might get the wrong idea.”

“Why this place? You’re pretty far out of town.”

“I like my privacy,” Jack said. “There are spies everywhere when you’re in this business. Everybody wants to know your secrets. You can’t be too careful.”

“Speaking of spies, did you know that Haley Adams was spying on Dean Casperson? She had a telescope trained on his bedroom window.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jack replied, “but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Why is that?”

“Haley was a nosy little bitch. Always asking questions. I should have guessed she was working for the tabloids.”

“Is that what you think she was doing?” Stride asked.

“I can’t imagine any other reason she would have been spying on Dean.”

“Why do you think someone killed her?”

“I have no idea,” Jack replied. “Maybe she was selling drugs. Maybe she had a jealous boyfriend. Isn’t it your job to figure out who killed her, Lieutenant? We play cops and robbers in the movies, but you do it in real life.”

“Actually, we’re pretty sure we know who killed Haley,” Stride replied, finding the next photograph on his phone. “It was this man. Do you know him?”

Jack took a long look at the photograph of John Doe and then an even longer drag on his cigarette. He blew smoke toward the ceiling and seemed to be stalling as he figured out the best answer. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure this man was staying at one of the apartments here. I’ve seen him around.”

“Was he connected to the movie?” Stride asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I might have said hello in passing. That’s all.”

“We have a witness who saw this man at a party at Dean Casperson’s house last Saturday night,” Stride said.

“This guy? I don’t recall seeing him there. Then again, I was having a pretty intense conversation that night with a bottle of Glenmorangie, so my memory may have some amber-colored gaps.”

Stride shook his head. Jungle Jack was smooth at providing nondenial denials.

“Have you seen this man anywhere else?” Stride asked.

“Like around Duluth?”

“Like in Florida,” Stride said. “We think he spent time in Naples, too.”

“Really? No, I don’t recall ever seeing him before. But like I said, it’s definitely a small world down there.” Jack glanced impatiently at the bathroom door again. “Are we done here, Lieutenant? Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but I have other things to be doing.”

“We’re done,” Stride told him, getting out of the chair.

“Again, sorry about the thing with your girl,” Jack said.

“You should be careful when you’re looking for companions,” Stride replied. “You wouldn’t want to make a mistake that would leave you in legal jeopardy.”

“Oh, I’ll be careful. Count on it.” As Stride turned toward the apartment door, Jack added in an oddly congenial voice, “You know, you should probably be a little careful, too, Lieutenant.”

Stride stopped. He turned back and tried to assess the meaning behind Jack’s warning. “I’m sorry. Careful about what?”

“You’re in the movies now. That means you’re playing in a whole different league. You’re fair game for the tabloids, just like Dean.”

“I’m not in the movies,” Stride said.

Jack shook his head. He slapped Stride on the shoulder as if they were old friends. He grinned again, but his smile felt nasty. “Oh, not true, Lieutenant. Not true at all. When someone makes a movie about you, believe me, you are instantly a celebrity. And the thing about celebrities is, someone out there is always trying to take them down.”

Serena knew she was in the right place because of the red Toyota Yaris parked in the grass. It was night, and the nearest streetlight was a block away, so she had trouble seeing as she got out of her Mustang. She was at the southern end of Sixty-Second Avenue in West Duluth. Through the bare trees, she heard the whine of traffic on the elevated lanes of I-35 only fifty yards away.

Lori Fulkerson’s house was built of brick, but it looked unsteady, as if the wolf could huff and puff and blow this one down. It had been dropped onto a tiny, snowy crescent of grass. A narrow path had been shoveled between the street and the half dozen wooden beams that counted as steps. Serena made her way up to the storm door and rapped her knuckles on the glass.

She heard the buzz of a television inside.

Then she heard a scream that startled her and made her reach for her gun. She relaxed when Aimee Bowe’s familiar voice followed the scream, shouting out words that Serena had heard her say earlier in the day on the movie set.

“ Save me, Evan Grave. Save me .”

Serena’s heart was still racing, but she smiled at her nervousness. With the movie people in town, it was hard to separate fiction from reality.

Inside, the noise of the television stopped, and Lori Fulkerson came to the door. Her brown curls were a thick bird’s nest. She wore a roomy Vikings sweatshirt over her stocky torso and shorts despite the cold. She held a cheap can of beer in one hand and a tiny Yorkshire terrier in the other. The dog barked wildly. Lori opened the door a crack and said, “What do you want?”

“I wanted to see how you’re doing, Ms. Fulkerson,” Serena said.

“I’m fine.”

“Do you mind if we talk for a minute?”

Lori opened the door wider, and Serena squeezed inside. The living room was small, barely twelve feet square. The house was a mess, literally buried in clothes, blankets, music CDs, newspapers, and old magazines. Lori never threw out anything. On the far wall, Serena saw a flat-screen television. Aimee Bowe’s face was frozen on the screen, paused in the middle of her scream.

“Sit down if you can find a place,” Lori said. She put the dog down, and it ran in circles and yipped at Serena. Lori slumped into a recliner, and her knee bounced nervously. Her feet had been pushed into leather moccasins.

Serena sat on a sofa on top of a six-inch pile of back issues of the News Tribune . She pointed at the television.

“Is that from the filming today? How did you get it?”

“Aimee Bowe sent me a web link,” Lori explained. “She wanted me to see it.”

“That must be hard to watch.”

Lori shrugged. Her jaw worked as she chewed gum. The house smelled of burned toast. The dog continued to bark at Serena with its little legs quivering, and Lori threw a rawhide chew toy into the small kitchen to distract it.

“I was impressed that you were able to talk about it,” Serena went on. “I’d never heard some of the worst details before. It was horrifying.”

“Didn’t Stride tell you about it?” Lori asked.

“Not the things you told Aimee. He never released any of that information publicly, out of respect for the victims.”

“So what are you saying? I should have shut up about it?”

“Not at all. You were a victim. That’s your call.”

Lori pointed a remote control at the television. She pushed a button, and the screen went black. “I hate the whole idea of the movie. I took the money because I wanted to move out of this place, but I wish I hadn’t. Maybe if I’d said no, it would have tanked the whole project.”

“Probably not,” Serena told her. “Chris would have just written it differently.”