Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

“We both know where it came from,” Stride said.

Chris didn’t try to convince him otherwise. “Yes, you’re probably right. Don’t let the smiles around here fool you. People in this business play hardball if you get in their way.”

“I have a girl with a bullet hole in her forehead who would say the same thing.”

Chris recoiled. “Come on, you don’t really think that anyone here—?”

Stride didn’t answer, and Chris looked shaken by the implication. The writer quickly changed the subject.

“I have a question for you about the article,” Chris went on. “It says your friendship with Art blinded you to the idea that he was a suspect. I’m curious. Is there any truth to that?”

Stride wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Chris that Art’s name hadn’t come up at all until they ran the fingerprint on the shard of a pen they’d found in Lori Fulkerson’s apartment. But that wasn’t entirely true. In reality, when he looked back, the clues had all been there.

The first victim, Kristal Beech, had been a St. Scholastica journalism student, and she’d interned on the morning news where Art was an anchor.

The second victim, Tanya Carter, had been a waitress at Bellisio’s. Art ate there twice a week. Stride had met him for dinner there more than once, and he’d watched Art greet the staff like family. There was no way Art didn’t know Tanya.

The third victim, Sally Wills, had worked at a nonprofit organization at which she routinely recruited local celebrities for fund-raising events. She had a signed photograph of herself and Art among the two dozen pictures hung on her office wall.

Each of the victims had a connection to Art Leipold. The truth should have been screaming at Stride, but he’d missed it. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to believe it was possible.

“Deliberately or not, Art left a trail for us to follow,” Stride told Chris. “He didn’t even hide it well. Later, I wondered if he was taunting me, daring me to figure it out. I didn’t, not until it was way too late. But it’s not because we were friends. To be honest, Chris, I didn’t like Art. I never did.”

Chris made a sour little laugh. “Funny, I never did, either.”

“He was smooth, I’ll give him that,” Stride went on. “Right to the end, he was sure he’d beat the charges. I think he could hardly believe it when the jury sent him away. He thought he could talk himself out of anything.”

“Yeah. I sat there in court day after day and listened to the evidence. I remember when he got on the stand and used that anchorman voice of his to say that this was a witch hunt and he was the real victim. The jury hated him. I hated him, too.”

Stride could still hear Art’s anchorman voice in his head. He realized that Art had never really been a journalist. He was an actor. He put on one face for the world and another for his real life.

Just like Dean Casperson.

He saw Casperson on the other side of the set. Casperson was dressed like him. Imitating him. Pretending to be him. It made Stride angry, as if his own identity had been stolen. Casperson looked back at him. The actor’s composure didn’t break, not even for a moment. He was too good. He headed across the warehouse and extended his hand, but Stride didn’t shake it. If it was going to be war, let it be out in the open. That was enough to cause the tiniest crack in Casperson’s facade. It was also enough to make Stride realize that he couldn’t back down in chasing this man no matter what the chief and the mayor wanted.

“Lieutenant, we’re certainly seeing a lot of you,” Casperson told him. “Don’t you have other cases to work on?”

“I’ll be here until we solve this murder,” Stride replied.

“Well, you better hurry. The clock is ticking.”

Stride stared at him. “Oh?”

“Didn’t Chris tell you? We only have a couple more days of filming left. Then we’ll be out of the city.”

“I didn’t realize the production was so far along.”

Casperson shrugged. “Time is money. Right, Chris?”

Chris nodded, but he didn’t look happy. “It is.”

“Aimee wrapped up her scenes in the box yesterday,” Casperson went on. “Did Chris show you any of the footage? It’s amazing. I really think there’ll be Oscar buzz for her. And she and I are almost done with our scenes together, assuming I can get her to read the lines the same way for two takes in a row.”

“You don’t like to improvise?” Stride asked.

“I like to make a plan and execute it one step at a time. Aimee’s younger and more free-spirited. She tries different approaches until she finds one that fits. Of course, screenwriters hate it. Writers don’t like actors messing with their words, do they, Chris?”

“Most of the time, no.”

“Still, I respect her. She’s a gifted performer. After this movie, she’ll be going places. Count on it.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Stride replied.

“Anyway, it means we should be wrapping up in the next day or two. I’m sure that will be a relief for everyone around here. I know it’s been an intrusion. Especially for you.”

“Oh? Why me?”

“I’m aware you had a little trouble with the tabloids,” Casperson said. “I saw the article. It was brutal.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t hurt your box office draw,” Stride said. “You know, doing a movie about a troubled cop.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Lieutenant. By the time the movie comes out, audiences won’t care what kind of man you are in real life. They only want three things when they go to the theater. Popcorn. A great story. And me.” He smiled with those crazy-white teeth of his.

Stride looked down at the actor, who was oozing arrogance. This was the real Dean Casperson. The man behind the mask. The man who knew he had all the naked power in the world to get what he wanted.

“Well, I’d hate to be the one to derail your career after all these years,” Stride said.

Casperson laughed out loud. “Believe me, you couldn’t if you tried. My advice is, don’t read what the tabloids say. Bad publicity comes with the territory in this business. Just keep your head down for a couple more days. Once the filming is done, the Gazette will forget all about you. As soon as I leave town, the tabloids leave with me.”

Chris Leipold, standing in the middle of the fencing match, looked as if he wanted the conversation to be over quickly. “I think they’re ready for the next take, Dean.”

“I have to go,” Casperson told Stride. “If I don’t see you again, Lieutenant, I want you to know it’s been a real pleasure playing you on screen. When you see the movie, I hope you feel I do you justice.”

“I’m sure you will.”

This time, Stride stuck out his hand. Casperson looked at him with the smallest hesitation and then shook it.

“Enjoy your last few days in Duluth,” Stride told him, their hands locked together in a crushing grip. “As far as my team and I are concerned, there’s no rush for you to leave. We’d be happy to keep you around for a long time.”

Their eyes met. Both of them knew exactly what Stride meant.

“That’s a very generous offer, Lieutenant,” Casperson replied, “but I never like to overstay my welcome.”

Maggie and Cab shared an open-air dockside table in Tin City.

Boats swayed in the harbor, and moonlight shimmered on the dark water. The restaurant was crowded and noisy, with an acoustic rock band wailing over the laughter of the twenty-something crowd. The two of them picked at a plate of shrimp nachos. Cab had a glass of Chardonnay, and Maggie drank from a bottle of Cigar City Jai Alai IPA. She closed her eyes and savored the damp breeze on her face.