Stride didn’t know what to say to that.
He knew that Mo had to be about his own age or even older, because she’d been married to Dean Casperson since the two of them were teenagers. Their relationship was legendary in Hollywood. Even so, the bikini and the 4K screen hid nothing, and Mo didn’t look a day over forty. She had thick honey-colored hair with a trace of dampness. Her brown eyes shot through the screen like arrows. She had a hooked nose and a sharp chin. Her skin had an all-over golden tan, and she showed no discomfort at all in displaying her toned body in front of a stranger. Like her husband, she conveyed absolute self-assurance and control.
“I was especially impressed with your handling of the terrible marathon incident last summer,” Mo went on.
“That was the work of a lot of good people,” he replied. “Not me.”
Mo narrowed one eye as she smiled at him. It made him feel as if he’d fallen into a trap. “See, that’s what impressed me, Lieutenant. You never took any credit. I always tell Dean that if he forgets to be humble about what he’s accomplished, that’s the day I’ll divorce him. None of us walk our path alone.”
“I agree.”
Casperson broke in with a laugh as if the conversation had gotten too serious. “See what I live with, Lieutenant? Now make him jealous, my dear, and tell him what the temperature is in Captiva.”
“Eight-five degrees,” Mo announced with a wink. She squared her shoulders as if emphasizing her swimsuit and everything beneath it.
“Well, that’s about ninety degrees warmer than here in Duluth,” Stride replied. “You made the right call not coming along on this particular film shoot.”
Mo shrugged. “Oh, please, I never bother with filming. That’s Dean’s life. There’s plenty in our business and charitable interests to keep me busy when he’s away. Which reminds me, my dear, I have bad news. Tiffany Ford called. I’m afraid Tommy passed away yesterday. She wanted to be sure you knew.”
Stride watched grief darken Dean Casperson’s face.
“Poor kid,” he said. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Of course. I’m very sorry, I have to run. We’ll talk later.”
Casperson nodded without saying anything more to his wife.
“Oh, one thing, Lieutenant,” Mo called to Stride. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is your daughter? Or rather, the teenage girl who lives with you. Chris Leipold told me there was a regrettable incident at the party with Jungle Jack. I believe Dean had already left at that point. I want you to know I’ll speak with Jack myself and express how disappointed I am in his behavior. He’s a dear longtime family friend, but sometimes he’s less than careful about where he plies his charms.”
“She’s fine,” Stride replied evenly, “but I appreciate your concern.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“What happened?” Dean asked his wife. “I didn’t hear about this.”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear. It’s just Jack being Jack in the usual way. My regards to you, Lieutenant. I hope I’ll have a chance to meet you in person someday. Although, to be honest, I’d rather it be down here than up there.”
She smiled, waved at both of them, and then cut off the connection.
Stride found himself feeling oddly intimidated by Mo Casperson. She was beautiful. She’d said all the right things. Yet he stared at the blank screen and felt as if he’d been threatened. It wasn’t simply that she knew about Jungle Jack’s behavior with Cat or that she’d made sure that Stride knew Jack was a close family friend. It was the other, throwaway line that he remembered.
Or rather, the teenage girl who lives with you.
She’d made a point of making it clear that she knew Cat wasn’t his daughter. It made him wonder what else she knew about Cat. And he suspected that was precisely why she’d said it.
Stride turned away from the blank screen and realized that Dean Casperson hadn’t said anything more since the call. He was distracted, holding the coffee mug near his lips but not drinking from it. The actor’s blue eyes had a faraway look of loss that Stride knew very well.
“Your wife mentioned someone who passed away?” he said.
Casperson looked at him as if he’d forgotten that Stride was there. “What? Oh, yes, I often do things for Make-A-Wish. This eight-year-old boy with cancer, Tommy Ford, wanted to be in a movie. So I arranged for him to have a little role in the last film I did. A scene with me. It’s not out yet, but I managed to get an early copy to his parents so they could all watch it together. I’ve tried to FaceTime with Tommy every month to see how he is.”
“That’s a very gracious thing to do,” Stride said.
“Oh, how could I not? If you don’t give back on the things you get in life, what’s the point?”
Stride could see that Casperson was genuinely affected by the boy’s death. He watched as Casperson idly rolled balls across the billiard table and then grabbed a cue and began shooting them one by one into the various pockets. His mouth was grim. His aim was perfect, and the crack of the cue with each shot was angry. He acted, again, as if he were alone.
“I don’t mean to bother you at a difficult moment,” Stride said, “but I do have a few questions.”
Casperson looked up blankly. “Questions?” Then he put down the cue and focused. “Of course, sorry. Please, go ahead.”
“Did you have some kind of party here at the house last Saturday?” Stride asked.
“Saturday? Yes, probably. I don’t pay a lot of attention to individual days on location, but I try to get the cast and crew together as often as I can. It brings everyone closer, which makes the process go more smoothly.”
“Who was here?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. Most of the film people and probably some locals. I don’t get involved in any of that. Usually I put in an appearance, have a drink, and then go upstairs to read.”
“Did anything unusual happen at the party?” Stride asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
Stride pulled his phone from his pocket and made his way to the photograph of John Doe. “Does this man look familiar to you? Do you know him?”
Casperson peered at the screen. “No. Chris showed me the same photo, but I’ve never seen him before. Pretty gruesome, whoever it is.”
“Someone saw him here at the party on Saturday,” Stride said.
“Here? That man? Well, I didn’t see him myself, but that doesn’t mean anything. Who is he?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then why are you interested in him?”
“We believe he was using a stolen identity,” Stride said without giving more details.
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help. Is that all, Lieutenant?”
“There’s one other thing,” Stride told him. “This may be unpleasant, but the woman who calls herself Haley Adams also doesn’t appear to be who she said she was. And we believe she’s been spying on you.”
Casperson leaned on the pool cue. “Spying?”
“She had a telescope focused on the master bedroom upstairs.”
Casperson took a step backward in surprise. He twirled the cue in his fingers and then chalked it. He didn’t say anything for a while. “Well, just when you think people can’t stoop any lower,” he murmured.
“Did you have any idea what she was doing?” Stride asked.
“None. She seemed like a nice young woman.”
“Forgive the question, Mr. Casperson, but in looking into your bedroom, would she have seen anything?”
Casperson shrugged. “Me reading Tippi Hedren’s autobiography? Tippi and Hitchcock. Wow.”
“Nothing else?”
“That’s as exciting as it gets around here, Lieutenant.”
“Have there been any problems on the set? Any issues with the tabloids or the paparazzi?”
“No more than usual. The tabloids don’t bother me and Mo too much. If you don’t want a dog to bite you, you keep it fed. We give them interviews. Exclusives. Candid photos. In return, they don’t run stories about transgender Venusian mermaids swimming in our Captiva pool.”
“Well, that sounds smart,” Stride said.