Брайан Фриман - Alter Ego

“My name is Maggie Bei with the Duluth Police. This is Cab Bolton. Do you mind if we ask you a couple questions?”

“Um, okay, yeah. Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all,” Cab assured her with a charming smile.

Ginny shrugged and invited them inside. She lived in a typical utilitarian dorm room with bunk beds near the window and desks on opposite walls. Maggie saw open boxes on the floor. The new semester had just begun, and the roommates hadn’t unpacked fully. A textbook on religion lay on the pillow of the lower bunk bed, and Ginny sat down on the bed next to it.

“Do you deliver pizzas for the Hermantown Sammy’s restaurant?” Maggie asked.

“I do, yeah.”

Maggie rattled off the day and date of the night on which someone with a burner phone had called the downtown Sammy’s. “Do you remember if you were working on that particular evening?”

“I’m sure I was. I worked pretty much every night after Christmas.”

“Do you keep records of your deliveries?” Cab asked.

“No, I just drive. Go out, come back, go out, come back. One night’s the same as every other.”

“Has it been busier with the film crew in town?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, yeah. The pizza in L.A. must suck, because we’ve been delivering to them all the time.”

“It must be pretty cool meeting a lot of movie people,” Cab said.

Ginny’s face lit up. “It is! I’ve been thinking about a film studies major, so this is great. I love having it happen right here in Duluth.”

“Have you met anybody famous?” he asked.

She shook her head in disappointment. “No, the actors don’t usually order anything themselves. They’ve got assistants for that, you know? But I’ve met a bunch of folks who work on the crew.”

“Do you remember making deliveries to any film people on that evening?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know. Like I said, the nights all blend together.”

“Have you ever made a delivery to a man named Jack Jensen? He’s a stunt double for Dean Casperson. He goes by the nickname Jungle Jack.”

“I’m not sure. Most of the time, I don’t get anything more than a last name on an order. Unless it’s something really weird, I don’t remember it. Plus, unless they’re wearing a T-shirt or something that gives it away, I don’t usually know if they’re part of the film crew. Sometimes I ask if they’ve got that Hollywood look, know what I mean? Most of them are pretty cool about it. They’ll take selfies with me even if their pizza’s getting cold.”

Maggie shot a quick look at Cab.

“Selfies?” he asked.

Ginny looked embarrassed. “Yeah, I know it’s lame, but I do it anyway.”

“Do you mind if we take a look at the photos on your phone?” Cab asked.

“Um.” She hesitated as if trying to make a quick mental calculation about whether there was anything embarrassing on the phone.

“It would really help us out,” Cab added.

“Yeah, sure, if you want.” Ginny got off the bed and went over to her desk. She unlocked the screen on the phone and handed it to Cab. “I got a new iPhone 8 Plus for Christmas, so I’ve been taking a lot of pictures.”

Cab held the phone so that Maggie could see the screen and scrolled backward through the camera roll of thumbnails. Ginny was right. She’d taken a lot of pictures. They saw dozens of Instagram-ready photos taken of friends in the dorm and artistic photos of snow-covered landmarks shot around campus. Then they spotted a selfie of Ginny wearing a Sammy’s baseball cap, posing next to a middle-aged Asian woman in a California sweatshirt. Maggie didn’t recognize her, but she was obviously part of the film crew. They were both making a thumbs-up gesture for the camera.

Cab kept scrolling and found other nighttime selfies with pizza customers. Ginny wasn’t shy about asking for pictures. Maggie spotted a couple of faces she’d seen on movie sets around the city.

And then there he was.

Jungle Jack.

He was bent down next to Ginny with his cheek against her face and his arm casually slung around her shoulders. He wore his usual self-satisfied grin, the look that said he knew exactly how handsome he was. There was an exterior door cracked open behind him, and Maggie recognized the architectural style of the Hermantown rental cottages.

“Jack just can’t say no,” Maggie said. “You have to love that. When was this taken?”

Cab checked the details of the photograph. “Forty-two minutes after the call on the burner phone. Just enough time for a delivery.”

He turned the phone around and showed the picture to Ginny. “Do you remember anything about this man?”

The girl took a look at the photograph. “Just that he was really cute. I figured he was too good-looking to be from Duluth, so I asked if he was part of the movie. He said he was.”

Cab chuckled. “Did he say anything else to you? Or did you see anything inside his apartment?”

“Not that I recall. I’m usually only at the door for a few seconds and then I’m gone.”

Cab checked the picture files again. He scrolled backward and found additional photos of Ginny and Jack together. The girl obviously had struggled to get the camera angle right to get them both in the frame. Maggie leaned in as they reviewed each picture. She noticed that one of the selfies was pointed wildly wrong, as if Ginny had accidentally pushed the button while positioning the camera. The photograph showed nothing but Jack’s shoulder on the side of the picture. Behind him was a clear shot of the interior of the apartment.

“Holy crap, is that what I think it is?” Maggie asked. “Zoom in.”

Cab did. In the photo, they could see something hung on the back of a wooden chair near the kitchenette.

“Does that mean something to you?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” she replied. “That’s our smoking gun. We’ve got him.”

Cat studied herself in the mirror of the bathroom in the cottage.

She wore a black cocktail dress that was the sexiest thing she owned. She’d worn it only once before, at the party after Stride and Serena’s wedding, and she’d had a big fight with Stride about wearing it in public. It hugged her curves and clung tightly to her legs, where it ended at midthigh. The sleeves were lace, adorned with black flowers, and a lace panel stretched below her neck. Underneath the lace, an oval cutout showcased her cleavage. When she turned sideways, she saw black fabric swooping low beneath her shoulders. Another cutout bared the hollow of her back.

Her chestnut hair glistened, long and full. She’d spent an hour on her makeup, getting her blush and eyes perfect. Serena’s emerald earrings dangled from her ears. She wore strappy black heels. For all the times Cat struggled with self-confidence, she knew that there wasn’t a man with a pulse who would be able to look away from her tonight.

She was beautiful.

She was also scared to death and had to swallow hard to avoid throwing up.

Cat came out of the bathroom, where Curt Dickes was waiting. He had his back to her as he eyed the thrillers on Stride’s bookshelf. When he turned around, he whistled loudly in admiration as Cat presented herself with one hand poised on her hip.

“So what do you think?” Cat asked in her best “I’m nowhere near seventeen years old” voice.

“Kitty cat, that dress should be registered as a lethal weapon,” Curt said.

Cat dropped her sexy persona and giggled like a teenage girl again. “Thanks. You look pretty good, too, you know.”

“Of course. I am always styling.”

Curt wore a long-sleeved untucked batik shirt over lavender slacks. His shoes matched his pants, and his hair was tied in a ponytail. His cologne overpowered the room. Cat knew that when Stride and Serena got home, they’d realize that Curt had been there, but it was too late to worry about that.