I nod. I do know. That’s why I’m here in LA, after all.
“That was a weird job. This, though…” She chuckles. “Until today, this has, comparatively, been easy. They gave me the keys to this place in the information pack. Basically, I’ve been sleeping here, and then when they need me, they text me a location and a scene synopsis. A couple of scenes were in the breakdown they sent me originally.” She points to the envelope between us on the table. “So I’ve just been showing up and playing whatever scene they tell me. To be honest everything was going fine. You seemed to be the only other character and audience member following the story, though.” She pauses and shakes her head. “I genuinely thought those cops were other actors. Goddamn it, that’s embarrassing.”
“And you didn’t question who was paying you until now?”
She looks back at me surprised. “Well, up until about twenty minutes ago I just assumed you were! You’re the only familiar face I’ve seen.” She hesitates. “I was starting to get a bit creeped out by you, to be honest. I assumed maybe it was some sort of role-play. Maybe you used to know an Emily, an old friend, relative, I don’t know, I was trying not to overthink it. I would have pulled out but the money’s been good.”
“How good?”
“Good. Well over SAG rates. And it’s a hell of a lot less soul destroying than waitressing through pilot season.”
“What did you do with Emily’s car?” I ask.
“They told me to return it to the rental place. They pre-paid for it so I just drove it over and handed the keys back.”
Another piece of evidence connected to Emily’s disappearance conveniently tied up.
The mobile phone in her hand bursts to life, piercing the fresh silence between us and setting us both on edge. Our eyes connect, both instantly wary of who might be calling.
She checks the screen. “My agent.” She sighs and lets out the tension of our equally held breaths before answering. She rises and heads out of the room to take the call in private.
I wonder if I should call Officer Cortez, tell her everything that’s happened. Surely we should involve the police at this stage. I decide I should wait until the actress comes back. I realize I don’t even know the woman-playing-Emily’s name.
I slide the padded envelope closer and there it is on the address label. Joanne Prince. I pull out my phone and google her name. Her face appears in Google Images, it’s definitely her. I scan down through her credits: guest appearances on popular shows, a couple of CSI something-or-others, and a ton of theater. I see her Marilyn credit. She is who she says she is. At least that part of the mystery is solved.
I slide my phone back into my pocket as she returns.
“The company paying me is paying through a personal account apparently, it’s not even a company, and my agent can’t get through on their number. It just keeps going to voicemail. Which is not a great sign—but I gotta say, at least they paid. She’s going to keep trying and she’s emailed them to say I’m pulling out of the job. They’re going to realize whatever they’re doing has gone wrong.” She looks worried. “Why would someone want to do this?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping there’s still some kind of rational explanation,” I say. She looks unconvinced and I suppose I have to agree with her. “But it’s getting harder to think that.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. The kitchen descends into silence for a moment, and when she speaks again the sound makes me jump. “Right, so my agent said to just leave it with her, she’ll get me out of the contract. If it’s okay with you I’m probably going to go now.” She heads back into the living room.
It takes me a second to make sense of what she’s saying. She’s going to leave without getting to the bottom of any of this. “Er, okay,” I manage as I follow her through. “How should I get in touch with you? About all of this?”
She’s down on one knee again rooting for her things under the sofa. She pauses to look up. “Yeah, I’d actually prefer if you didn’t contact me. I mean if that’s okay? I’ll just follow up through my agent, I think.”
She pulls out a faded denim jacket and a pair of worn trainers from underneath the sofa and shakes them out. Her own clothes.
She’s genuinely just going to go.
“But how will I find out who was paying you? Or…anything?”
“My agent said it was just an account number. No name on the transfer.” Joanne sits on the edge of the couch and tugs on her trainers. “I mean, if you’re really worried about this girl you could report it or something? Listen, I’m just going to leave the apartment keys here on the table and get going.” She hesitates, taking in my expression. “I mean, it’s up to you if you want to stay and get involved but I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”
Her words throw me. Do I want to stay and get involved? Do I have a choice or am I already tangled up in this?
I realize Joanne is waiting for me to say something.
“Yeah, that’s fine, I’ll stay a minute and lock the door when I leave.”
She rises, now shrugging on her denim jacket. “Great. Okay then. Good luck with…everything.”
“Can I at least get your phone number, in case? Your agent’s?” I ask, even though I’m certain a quick Google search will supply me with the latter.
“No offense, but no way am I giving you my number,” she says over a shoulder as she breezes out the door, disappearing into the fading evening light.
The door clunks shut behind her and silence falls over me and Emily’s empty apartment.
19
All That Is Left Behind
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13
I could just leave like Joanne.
I could call Souki; she’s not leaving LA until tomorrow. I could ask her what the hell I’m supposed to do but I can’t because I promised her I’d drop the whole thing. I already know exactly what her answer would be anyway. Leave.
I could call Cortez. But what would I say: I didn’t trust her colleagues so I went to Emily’s house and there was an actress pretending to be her living in it?
Worst-case scenario, she’d think I was mad, best-case scenario I’d have to hand over Emily’s apartment keys, give them Joanne’s name, and forget about it. My involvement in the investigation would be over. And I might never know where Emily went.
I let my eyes linger on her apartment, on her belongings, on the potential trail of evidence Emily might have left behind. I’m no detective; I’m quite sure messing with evidence isn’t a great idea.
I dig out my phone and scroll back through my call list to Cortez’s number. What’s the worst that can happen if I report this? I take a deep breath and press dial.
When the call connects I can hear the clamor of station life through the receiver before a voice answers and then after a few transfers I’m finally speaking to Cortez.
“Hi there. It’s Mia Eliot, we spoke this morning?”
The muffled hubbub on her end of the line fills the quiet apartment around me as she tries to place my name.
“Right,” she answers. “Yeah, missing persons report. How can I help?” She sounds busy, clearly irritated that my call has come through on her direct line.
I buckle up for a bumpy phone call and start to explain this afternoon’s events from the beginning.
* * *
—
“Okay. I can definitely understand why that might have raised alarm bells,” she concludes after I finish. “Sounds like you’ve really been going above and beyond for this Emily person,” she adds, and I’m pretty sure from her tone that it’s not a compliment. “And from what you’ve told me, it’s definitely something we’d look into,” she continues. “Why don’t you pop into the station tomorrow morning and we’ll fill out a missing persons report and look at the whole thing.”
“Of course,” I reply. “But what should I do in the meantime?”
“In the meantime?” she asks, baffled by the question.