“What was it?” Cat asked.
“I was a young cop back then, and a man named Ray Wallace was my partner. Ray did a lot for me when I was growing up. I’ll always be grateful to him, but he was one of those men where you had to balance the scale of good and evil. He did some really bad things, too. He was corrupt. He ended up killing himself right in front of me. The bullet wound in my arm? That was Ray. Anyway, I remember this really difficult case he and I were on. Missing kid. An eight-year-old boy disappeared at the zoo. We all took it hard. Ray and I interviewed everyone in the area, and it didn’t take us long to zero in on the boy’s next-door neighbor. Mort Greeley. Squirrelly type. Aggressive, combative when we talked to him. He was a janitor at the zoo, so we figured he bumped into the kid that day. We were sure he did it, but we couldn’t prove it. We got search warrants, but the searches turned up nothing. After six months, the investigation was at a standstill.”
“So what happened?” Cat asked.
“Ray and Art happened. Ray got it in his head that we needed to push Mort Greeley. Put pressure on him so he’d confess. So he started leaking stories to Art about the case, and Art ran with it. It led the news night after night. Basically, he told the whole city that the police knew Mort was guilty and the only thing we were missing was the boy’s body. This went on for weeks. Months. I should have stopped it. I should have said something, but I thought Mort was guilty, too. So you do what you have to do. I was too young to know how wrong it was.”
“Was he guilty?”
Stride shook his head. “No. Two years later, police in Santa Fe found the boy, living with the guy who’d kidnapped him. It was too late for Mort. He’d already lost his family and his job. He put a gun in his mouth and shot himself.”
“Oh, no! Oh, that’s terrible.”
“I know. Sometimes you can make up for your mistakes, but not that one.”
“I’m really sorry. That is so awful.” Cat threw her left arm across his chest and hugged him tightly. She buried her head in his neck, and then, sweetly, she rose up and kissed him on the cheek.
That was when light exploded through the glass, so sudden and bright that he expected a clap of thunder to follow it. The two of them squinted at the windows in shock. Stride was instantly on his feet.
“Get inside,” he told Cat.
“What was that?”
“Just get inside.”
He took two steps and threw open the porch door. His eyes were still blinded, making the night impenetrable. He blinked, and when he could see, he spotted footprints below the porch windows in the virgin snow. He heard movement from the far side of the cottage. Someone was running away.
Stride jumped off the steps and gave chase. He rounded the corner and saw a man charging through the deep snow toward the street. Something dangled and bounced on a strap from his right hand. A camera. Stride followed, but he was already too late to catch him. The man had a partner waiting. He bolted for a car parked at the curb, and before he’d even closed the door behind him, the car shot off toward the lift bridge.
The driver taunted him with a toot of the horn. Stride ran into the middle of the street, where he could see the red taillights winking at him. The car was too far away to see the license plate, but he didn’t need to. He’d already recognized the make and model.
It was a blue Elantra.
JoLynn Fields of the National Gazette was still spying on him. And now she had pictures.
20
The next morning, Serena found paparazzi footprints in the snow outside Aimee Bowe’s house, too.
The actress had rented a modest single-story house on Thirteenth Street high on the hill over the city. It was small and dated, but it had a large lot and a stunning view of the lake through the rear windows. Aimee stood at the front door while Serena investigated the exterior. The footprints made a circle around the house, stopping at every door and window. She could trace them down the hill to Skyline Parkway, where someone had parked and hiked back and forth to Aimee’s house through the trees.
“Tell me again what happened,” Serena said.
Aimee opened the door wide, and the two of them went inside. The house was full of memorabilia from someone else’s life. Serena spotted photos on the wall of a couple with two young children and noticed toys and stuffed animals neatly tucked away in baskets. Families around the area had volunteered to rent their homes to the cast and crew during the filming. Extra money in January was always welcome.
Aimee led them to the back porch, where they sat in wicker chairs near the windows.
“I got back late from the set,” she told Serena. “We were working until almost midnight. I saw the footprints, and I knew someone had been here.”
“You should have called me right away,” Serena said. “Or called 911.”
“One of the crew drove me home. I had him check the house to make sure no one was here. I was too tired to do much of anything else. I didn’t want to deal with it.”
“Stride thinks it was the National Gazette at our place. They’re probably going after you, too.”
Aimee frowned and stared across the treetops at the lake. “Maybe.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Whoever it was didn’t just look through the windows. They came inside, too.”
“Inside. Are you sure?”
“No, I can’t prove it. Nothing was disturbed, nothing was taken. But there was something off about the place when I got back. I can’t put my finger on what it was. A different smell. A different feel. I knew someone had been here.”
“Is that typical tabloid behavior? To break into a celebrity’s place?”
Aimee shook her head. “No. They’re usually careful to stay on the razor’s edge of what’s legal.”
“Have you had any problems with fans? Stalkers?”
“Nothing that would worry me.”
“How would someone get inside the house?” Serena asked.
“Half the locks here don’t work. I didn’t really worry about it. Duluth isn’t L.A.”
“Do you want me to get an officer to stay outside and keep an eye on the place?”
Aimee shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t want the attention. I’ll be careful. The crew looks out for me, too.”
“Well, if you spot anything wrong, don’t wait next time. Call 911. And call me, too.”
“Thanks.”
Serena took a piece of paper out of a manila folder in her satchel purse. “As long as I’m here, do you mind if I ask you a question? I was wondering if you recognize this young woman.”
Aimee took the photograph from Serena’s hand and studied it. “Her face is a little familiar.”
“Did you see her at any of the filming locations? Or at any of the cast and crew parties?”
“Not that I recall. She’s pretty; I think I’d remember her. I feel like I’ve seen this photograph before, but I don’t think I’ve met her in person. Who is she?”
“Her name is Rochelle Wahl. Was. She’s dead.”
A shadow crossed Aimee’s face, and then she remembered. “Is she the local girl who was on the news? That’s where I saw her picture.”
“Yes, she was found dead in her backyard last weekend.”
“That’s a terrible thing, but why would you think she had anything to do with the movie?”
“I’m just covering all the bases,” Serena said.
Aimee’s eyes narrowed as if she knew that Serena wasn’t being completely honest with her. “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t see her. Is that all?”
“I do have one more question,” Serena went on. “I was wondering if you’re aware of any rumors floating around the industry about Dean Casperson.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“You tell me.”
“I think I already did tell you once before. I won’t gossip about Dean.”
“Because you’re scared of him?” Serena asked.
Aimee didn’t answer. Her defenses went up like a wall.
“One of my partners talked to an actress who had a bad experience with him when she was starting out,” Serena said.
“What kind of experience?”