They got colder and colder. Her lips were numb. The only thing keeping her warm was the anger she felt.
“Men like that think they’re invincible,” Cat said. “They think they can do whatever they want and no one will stop them.”
“Yeah, and they’re pretty much right about that,” Curt replied. “That girl, Haley Adams, she spied on him, right? And she wound up dead.”
“At least she tried. It’s better than doing nothing.”
“Yeah, well, not for her.”
Cat stopped on the beach and grabbed Curt’s sleeve. “Hey, we could do that, too.”
“Do what?”
“Spy.”
Curt waved his hands in protest. “Whoa, whoa, not a good idea, kitty cat. Are you crazy?”
“No, Casperson thinks he’s safe. The other girl’s dead. He doesn’t think anyone’s watching him now.”
Curt blew out a cloud of steam from his mouth. “Do I need to tell you what Stride and Serena would say about us doing that?”
“I don’t care. I’m not going to sit around while they smear Stride. No way.”
“And what exactly do you plan to do?” Curt asked.
“Exactly what Haley Adams did. Get dirt on Casperson. That telescope she used, do you think it’s still in the house?”
Curt shook his head. “Nah, I snuck in and checked. Police took it.”
“Well, I’ll find another way.”
Cat turned around and headed for the dunes as fast as her short legs and the deep snow would allow. The cottage was invisible on the other side of the sand.
“Hey, where are you going?” Curt shouted at her over the wind.
Cat looked back over her shoulder. “To find a pair of binoculars,” she called. “You coming with me or not?”
23
“Save me,” Aimee Bowe murmured.
She was on her back on the dirty floor of Art Leipold’s hunting cabin. Her arms and legs lay limply on the ground as if she didn’t have the strength to move them. Her blue eyes squinted up at the face of Dean Casperson. She blinked, because the barest light was too much after days of darkness.
“It’s okay,” Casperson reassured her, sliding his strong arms under her shoulders and pulling her closer. “It’s okay, it’s over, I’ve got you.”
“Save me.”
“You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Aimee cried.
The whole scene was nothing but actors playing parts, but Stride’s heart was wrenched because it felt so real. No matter how many other people milled around the set, it was as if Aimee and Dean were alone. They were very, very good.
“Who did this—” she began.
“It doesn’t matter now. We have him. He’s not going to hurt anyone else.”
“I can’t move. What’s wrong with me?”
“Give it time,” Casperson said. “You’re okay.”
“I’m so cold.”
“You’ll be out of here soon.”
“I killed it,” she murmured in a fit of grief as Stride struggled to hear her. “I killed it. I killed the little girl.”
“Shhh,” he hushed her. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to say a word. You’re free.”
Cut.
The actors relaxed.
Aimee Bowe detached herself quickly from Casperson’s arms. She stood up and paced nervously back and forth on the set. Her expression was distressed, as if she had difficulty leaving her character behind. Casperson was the opposite. He immediately began joking with the crew with the casualness of someone who had done this a million times. A green screen glowed behind the small patch of ground on which the interior of the hunting lodge had been built. They were all gathered in the cold rental warehouse near the harbor. It was the fifth take of the rescue scene.
Stride stood next to Chris Leipold at the back of the set. He cocked his head and whispered. “Aimee said she killed the little girl. What does that mean?”
Chris chuckled. “Honestly? I have no idea. Aimee is one of those actors who improvise each take to see how the scenes play out. She’s been reworking the monologues for her character to make it more authentic. It’s a little different every day. Most of the time I like the spontaneity, but it drives Dean crazy because he doesn’t know what’s coming next. He’s a by-the-book actor.”
It was late afternoon, but Chris gulped coffee from a travel mug as if it were early morning. The two of them wandered toward the warehouse door, which was cracked open to let in cold air. The wind felt good to Stride after he’d spent half an hour under the heat of the movie lights.
“The chief says someone called the mayor to complain about police interrupting the filming,” Stride said. “‘Harassment’ is the word she used. Is that true?”
Chris studied him over the top of his coffee. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“It was you?”
“I had no choice. I was getting major pushback on the set.”
“Let me guess. Casperson.”
Chris shrugged and didn’t deny it. “Dean’s a pro, and he likes things to go a certain way. If he’s unhappy, the studio’s unhappy, and that means I’m unhappy. I had to formally pass along our displeasure.”
“You could have talked to me directly.”
“That’s not how it works, Lieutenant,” Chris replied. “No offense, but these things are over your head. And it’s not just Dean who complained. Your people have been talking to everyone. It hurts morale and slows the whole process down. Every day we waste, every hour we fall behind, hits our budget.”
“You realize this is a murder investigation, right?” Stride asked.
“I do. And you realize this movie has a budget of more than $100 million, right?”
Stride shook his head in resignation. He and Chris were on opposing sides now, and nothing was going to change that. The investigation of Peach Piper’s murder was a threat to Dean Casperson and a threat to the movie. The people putting up the money weren’t going to stand idly by and let him derail their investment.
Chris sensed Stride’s coolness and tried to repair the schism between them. “Listen, I saw the article in the Gazette. That was way over the line. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“We both know where it came from,” Stride said.
Chris didn’t try to convince him otherwise. “Yes, you’re probably right. Don’t let the smiles around here fool you. People in this business play hardball if you get in their way.”
“I have a girl with a bullet hole in her forehead who would say the same thing.”
Chris recoiled. “Come on, you don’t really think that anyone here—?”
Stride didn’t answer, and Chris looked shaken by the implication. The writer quickly changed the subject.
“I have a question for you about the article,” Chris went on. “It says your friendship with Art blinded you to the idea that he was a suspect. I’m curious. Is there any truth to that?”
Stride wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Chris that Art’s name hadn’t come up at all until they ran the fingerprint on the shard of a pen they’d found in Lori Fulkerson’s apartment. But that wasn’t entirely true. In reality, when he looked back, the clues had all been there.
The first victim, Kristal Beech, had been a St. Scholastica journalism student, and she’d interned on the morning news where Art was an anchor.
The second victim, Tanya Carter, had been a waitress at Bellisio’s. Art ate there twice a week. Stride had met him for dinner there more than once, and he’d watched Art greet the staff like family. There was no way Art didn’t know Tanya.
The third victim, Sally Wills, had worked at a nonprofit organization at which she routinely recruited local celebrities for fund-raising events. She had a signed photograph of herself and Art among the two dozen pictures hung on her office wall.
Each of the victims had a connection to Art Leipold. The truth should have been screaming at Stride, but he’d missed it. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to believe it was possible.
“Deliberately or not, Art left a trail for us to follow,” Stride told Chris. “He didn’t even hide it well. Later, I wondered if he was taunting me, daring me to figure it out. I didn’t, not until it was way too late. But it’s not because we were friends. To be honest, Chris, I didn’t like Art. I never did.”