“Run, run, run!” Curt wailed.
The guard in pursuit was faster than she was. She could almost hear his breath as he got closer. She reached the wall and leaped straight up with her arms outstretched, and Curt grabbed one of her wrists and yanked her up, nearly dislocating her shoulder. She felt herself flying. Below her, the guard’s hand grabbed her boot and tore it off, but in the next instant, she and Curt were tumbling free over the wall to the outside. Cat landed in the snow. Curt bounced off the recycling bin he’d grabbed to climb the wall. They didn’t hesitate; they were on their feet again, charging across the intersection to the school parking lot and piling into Cat’s car.
She fired the engine of the Civic and sped down the hill. Her eyes were glued to the mirror. She turned, turned again, and turned yet again, and when she decided that she’d lost anyone who might be chasing them, she swung to the curb with the engine still running. She hit the speed dial button on her phone and felt a flood of relief when Serena answered on the first ring.
“It’s me! Aimee needs help!”
26
Dean Casperson answered the door.
He didn’t look surprised to see Serena flashing her badge at him. He gave her a friendly smile and cocked an eyebrow as he watched three separate squad cars with flashing lights stream into the driveway in front of the rented estate.
“Mr. Casperson, my name is Serena Stride with the Duluth Police,” she said. “Where’s Aimee Bowe?”
“Aimee? She came over here to chat, but she wasn’t feeling well. I asked Jungle Jack to take her home.” He added with a smirk, “Your name is Stride? Are you married to the lieutenant? I have to say, the man has spectacular taste.”
Serena ignored the comment. “Please move aside, Mr. Casperson. We need to search this house.”
“Search it? What exactly are you looking for? And don’t you need a warrant for that?”
“I’ve got a credible report of an assault in progress in this house,” Serena told him.
Casperson shrugged and moved out of the doorway. “Well, come inside, then. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, but do what you have to do. Try not to break anything around here, okay? It’s a rental.”
Serena swung around and waved to Guppo, who waddled into the house behind her, accompanied by three other police officers. “Check every room,” she told him. “Question the staff and see what they know about what’s been happening here tonight. Show them photos of Rochelle Wahl and Peach Piper, too.”
“Peach Piper?” Casperson asked curiously. “Who’s that?”
“You knew her as Haley Adams. Before she was murdered.”
“What about this other girl? Rochelle?”
“I don’t have time for this right now, Mr. Casperson. Where were you and Aimee Bowe talking?”
“Upstairs, but I told you, she’s gone.”
Serena saw the staircase leading to the second story, and she took the steps two at a time. Half the doors upstairs were closed, and she went down the hallway, opening each door and looking inside. The rooms were all empty. Then, at the end of the hallway, she twisted a knob and found a door that was locked.
“What’s in here?” she called to Casperson as he came up the stairs behind her.
“My bedroom and private study.”
“Is this where Aimee was?”
“Yes; it’s a good place to talk.”
“Why is it locked?”
“I always keep it locked. I keep sensitive materials in here. Scripts, contracts, that kind of thing.”
“Please open it,” Serena told him.
“If you’d like.”
Casperson took a key from his pocket and undid the lock on the study and opened the door. Serena pushed past him. The large room was empty. A log fire burned on the wall beside her, crackling and spitting sparks onto the hearth. The air was warm. Soft jazz played from overhead speakers. She saw an open door leading to a master bedroom, and she went inside and searched it. No one was there.
She returned to the study, where Casperson stood next to the wet bar, refilling a glass of whiskey and adding an ice cube. Her eyes noted the details around the room. She saw the leather sofa and went over to it and put her hand on the end of the cushion. It was wet. She recognized the fruity aroma of wine. She spotted the glint of a tiny shard of glass on the wood floor.
“What happened here this evening?” Serena asked.
“Aimee came over to talk. She had some wine, but she started feeling dizzy, so she made it an early night.”
“Where’s her wineglass?”
Casperson stared at her with practiced nonchalance. “Like I said, she was dizzy. She dropped it, and it broke. I cleaned it up and threw away the pieces.”
“If I tested the glass fragments, what would I find?” Serena asked.
“What would you find? Sad remnants of a Chateau Margaux Bordeaux, I guess.”
“Anything else?”
“Like what?” Casperson asked.
“Drugs.”
“Oh, please.”
“Do you have any drugs here?” Serena asked.
“The strongest thing you’ll find in this house is Xanax. I have trouble sleeping.”
“Did you spike Aimee’s wine with it?”
“I’m sorry, is this a joke, Detective? Of course not. However, what Aimee does is up to her. I have no idea whether she took anything before she got here. And she used my bathroom while I was here, so for all I know, she dipped into my medicine cabinet. The fact is, I don’t interfere with how other actors cope with this business.”
“What was Aimee doing here?” Serena asked.
“We were talking about box office prospects for the film. I was telling her how impressed I was with her performance. And I was suggesting that she would be perfect for a role in a picture I’ll be filming this summer in Switzerland. I wanted to see if she’d be interested.”
Serena shook her head. They had nothing to use against Casperson, and he knew it.
She went to the window and pushed aside the curtains. On the roofline of the next wing, she could see the disruption in the snow where Cat had fallen. The girl had been telling the truth, but enough time had passed that Casperson had managed to circle the wagons to protect himself.
She turned around and found that Casperson had crept up silently behind her. He wasn’t even six inches away. They were eye to eye.
“What are you really doing here, Detective?” he asked.
“I told you; we had a report of a possible assault in progress,” Serena said.
“What kind of report? From who?”
“It was anonymous.”
Casperson didn’t move or give her any more space. “We had a trespasser tonight.”
“Do you know who it was?” Serena asked.
“No, it was too dark to see, but I imagine whoever it was called in this fictitious report. You can’t trust spies, you know. They lie.”
Serena leaned even closer to prove she wasn’t intimidated. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. It was strange, standing here in the presence of someone who was instantly recognizable anywhere in the world. It was strange, knowing he wore two totally different faces. He was Dean Casperson, actor and philanthropist. He was Dean Casperson, serial predator.
“Tell me about Rochelle Wahl,” she said.
“You mentioned that name downstairs. Who is she?”
“She was a girl who came to your party last Saturday night. She was found dead outside her house the next morning.”
“Who told you she was here?”
Serena was silent. Casperson’s lips curled into a small smile of satisfaction.