Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

“What was Aimee doing here?” Serena asked.

“We were talking about box office prospects for the film. I was telling her how impressed I was with her performance. And I was suggesting that she would be perfect for a role in a picture I’ll be filming this summer in Switzerland. I wanted to see if she’d be interested.”

Serena shook her head. They had nothing to use against Casperson, and he knew it.

She went to the window and pushed aside the curtains. On the roofline of the next wing, she could see the disruption in the snow where Cat had fallen. The girl had been telling the truth, but enough time had passed that Casperson had managed to circle the wagons to protect himself.

She turned around and found that Casperson had crept up silently behind her. He wasn’t even six inches away. They were eye to eye.

“What are you really doing here, Detective?” he asked.

“I told you; we had a report of a possible assault in progress,” Serena said.

“What kind of report? From who?”

“It was anonymous.”

Casperson didn’t move or give her any more space. “We had a trespasser tonight.”

“Do you know who it was?” Serena asked.

“No, it was too dark to see, but I imagine whoever it was called in this fictitious report. You can’t trust spies, you know. They lie.”

Serena leaned even closer to prove she wasn’t intimidated. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. It was strange, standing here in the presence of someone who was instantly recognizable anywhere in the world. It was strange, knowing he wore two totally different faces. He was Dean Casperson, actor and philanthropist. He was Dean Casperson, serial predator.

“Tell me about Rochelle Wahl,” she said.

“You mentioned that name downstairs. Who is she?”

“She was a girl who came to your party last Saturday night. She was found dead outside her house the next morning.”

“Who told you she was here?”

Serena was silent. Casperson’s lips curled into a small smile of satisfaction.

“So no one did,” he said. “You’re fishing. Look, Detective, I’m going to do you and your husband a favor. I’m not going to call the mayor and have you fired for storming in here tonight, although we both know I could. You can just leave and not come back. But we’re done. You and the lieutenant and your whole team are done. I don’t want you in this house again. I don’t want you talking to me again. I don’t want you anywhere near the filming. Do you understand?”

Serena didn’t say anything. She just stared at him. After a few seconds passed, he stepped aside and waited. She marched out of the room and headed back downstairs. She heard Casperson closing and locking the upstairs room behind her. On the lower level, she found Guppo and directed him and the team out of the house.

“You didn’t find anything?” she said.

Guppo’s round head swung back and forth. “No. Sorry.”

“Who was in the house?”

“Some people from a catering company. A maid. A chef. They were all deaf, dumb, and blind, and I get the feeling they’re well paid to stay that way. I showed them Rochelle’s photo. Nobody remembered her.”

Serena exhaled steam into the frigid air. “That son of a bitch is going to get away with this. According to Maggie, he’s been at it for thirty years. And nobody has breathed a word about it in public.”

“So what do we do?”

“Leave someone here to talk to Jungle Jack when he gets back,” Serena said. “Let’s go find Aimee Bowe and make sure she’s okay.”

Maggie’s phone rang at one in the morning in Florida, waking her up. She could see the screen glowing and hear the phone vibrating on the nightstand. She reached across the bare torso of Cab Bolton in his bed and grabbed it. It was Stride, which meant it was an emergency. As she talked to him, Cab used a remote control to switch on the light and then sat up next to her.

They were both naked.

Cab listened curiously to her end of the conversation, which didn’t take long.

“Dean Casperson got interrupted in midassault,” Maggie explained when she hung up the phone. “They think he drugged Aimee Bowe and was planning to rape her.”

“Can they prove it?” Cab asked.

“No. There was no evidence of anything by the time the police got there. Even if Aimee talks, Casperson laid the groundwork to blame it on her.”

Cab shook his head. “The man is Teflon.”

He got out of the four-poster bed, and she watched him walk over to the full-length mirror on the back of his bathroom door. It wasn’t a large bedroom, and Maggie wasn’t a fan of the lime-green paint, but she wasn’t here for the decor. The air-conditioning kept it cold, and the overhead ceiling blew a constant breeze over her bare skin.

In the mirror, Cab examined his upper arm, which was mottled with red-and-purple bruises. As he moved it, his face twisted with a stab of pain.

“How’s the arm?” she asked.

“Feels like someone hit it with a baseball bat.”

“Weird,” she said.

“Yeah, I can’t figure it out. How about you? How’s the neck?”

“Pretty loose now, actually. Intense physical activity must be good for it.”

“I hope you mean the sex,” Cab said. “Or did you get up while I was sleeping and use my in-home gym?”

“You have an in-home gym?”

“Oh, please. Not a chance.”

Cab wandered over to the glass doors that led to the balcony and then went outside. Maggie got out of bed and joined him. They didn’t bother with clothes. Cab’s house was small, but it was in a secluded location on the sandy peninsula ten miles south of Naples. The balcony looked right out on the Gulf, where moonlight made the calm water glow. Steps led down to the beach. Palm trees guarded the house like soldiers.

“This is one hell of a place,” Maggie said.

“I bought it earlier this year. If you’re going to live in Florida, you might as well live on the water.”

“Any bugs?”

“The size of Cadillacs. If they unionize, I’m doomed.”

“So it’s not entirely paradise?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, no. It is. It definitely is. Do you want to go for a naked swim? Sex in the water isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but you get bragging rights when you tell your friends you did it.”

“I wish I could,” Maggie said unhappily.

“Ah. All good things come to an end?”

“I need to get back to the Ritz. I have to catch an early-morning flight. Stride wants me back in Duluth.”

“Plus, we’re at a standstill here,” Cab said. “So go.”

“I hate to leave you stranded,” Maggie said. “You don’t have a car.”

“Don’t worry, my Corvette dealer delivers.”

Maggie crooked a finger for a kiss, and Cab bent down to deliver it. Then she went back into the bedroom, leaving him alone on the balcony. She retrieved her clothes, which were strewn across the gray ceramic tiles on the floor, and got dressed. In the bathroom, she studied herself in the mirror. She looked like someone who’d had sex that night. She decided it was a look that worked for her.

She really didn’t want to leave.

The balcony doors were still open, letting the sticky air in. She went back to the doorway, and Cab turned around and smiled. The trees and the water framed his tall, skinny body in the moonlight like a portrait. His spiky hair was even messier than usual, which was her doing. He leaned against the balcony, utterly relaxed and utterly naked. He flicked a small lizard off his wrist.

“Come with me,” Maggie told him.

“What?”

“You know Dean Casperson and this case better than anyone,” she said. “And you know what Peach was doing, so you can help us figure out what happened to her. Come back and work with us. Just for a couple days. You can stay at my place.”