“What kind of needs are we talking about?” she asked. “Girls? Drugs?”
“My inventory and contacts are wide-ranging, Serena; you know that. Visitors from Los Angeles do not always appreciate the recreational opportunities that Duluth offers when it’s ten degrees below zero. So they look for alternative sources of entertainment to pass those long, cold evenings.”
“Girls. Drugs.”
Curt groaned and lowered his voice. “Sure. Yeah.”
“Do you supply?”
“No way! I’m just a go-between. People who need people come to me.” Curt glanced at Cat, who’d already solved the puzzle. It had taken her less than a minute. “Holy crap, kitty cat, how do you do that?”
Cat grinned and looked pleased with herself. She scrambled the cube and started solving it again. Serena was routinely amazed by the girl’s brain. It was the emotional side that still had some catching up to do.
“Has anyone approached you for information about the movie?” Serena asked. “I’m thinking about reporters. Tabloid writers. Paparazzi.”
“Yeah, there are a few of them scavenging around and looking for dirt.”
“What about a girl named Haley Adams?” Serena asked.
“Names really aren’t my thing. What does she look like?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. We think she changes her appearance a lot. But she had a spy setup with an expensive telescope next door to Dean Casperson’s rental house.”
Curt drummed his fingers on the table as he thought about it. “Well, I know one girl who was really, really interested in Dean Casperson. Midtwenties. Long, bombshell blond hair that was obviously a wig.”
Serena slid out her phone and found the photograph of the mannequin that Stride had texted her from Haley’s apartment. “Hair like this, you mean?”
“Yeah, just like that,” Curt replied, nodding.
“What did she want?”
“She knew people came to me to round out the guest list at crew parties, if you know what I mean. She wanted a tip-off when there was going to be a big party at Casperson’s place.”
“And did you give her what she wanted?” Serena asked.
“Sure, why not? She paid well.”
“Did she say why she wanted the information?”
“No.”
“When was the last party?”
“Saturday night,” Curt said. “Lots of people.”
“Were you there?”
“I may have put in an appearance, yeah. It’s good to keep up the contacts, you know?”
“Was Haley there?”
Curt shook his head. “I didn’t see her. Although you said she liked to wear different looks, so who knows? But if she had a spy setup, she was probably watching from the neighbor’s house.”
“And would she have seen anything interesting?” Serena asked. “Did anything happen at the party?”
“It was a little wild, but I didn’t see anything that was way over the line.”
Serena frowned. Then she thought of something else, and she picked up her phone again.
“What about this guy?” she asked, hunting down the photograph of John Doe from the traffic accident. “Have you ever seen him before?”
Curt glanced at the phone. He seemed unfazed by the blood or by the fact that the man in the photograph was dead. “Yeah, he was there.”
His response was so casual that Serena took a second to catch up. She pointed at the phone again. “Hold on; you’re saying you saw this man at a party at Dean Casperson’s house last Saturday night? Are you sure?”
Curt shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Who is he?”
“No idea. When I saw him, I was grabbing a smoke outside. He was loading a girl into his car.”
“Could the girl have been Haley Adams?”
“I don’t think so. Haley was short. This girl was pretty tall.”
“What did she look like?”
“Sorry, no idea. Her back was to me. She couldn’t even walk by herself, so I figured she was drunk. He was taking her out the back, like he didn’t want anyone to see her.”
“Then what happened?”
“He drove off.”
Serena tried to put the pieces of the story together just as Cat was doing with the Rubik’s Cube.
There was a party on Saturday night at the house Dean Casperson was renting in Congdon Park. Something went wrong, and a girl had to be taken away. Serena didn’t know who she was or what had happened to her. But the girl wound up in a car driven by John Doe, who bore all the signs of a hired killer.
And through the trees, Haley Adams was watching.
10
Dean Casperson’s rental house in Congdon Park felt austere and Gothic, full of chimneys, gables, and Tudor crossbeams. It was hidden among two acres of forested land, secure behind a brick wall that ringed the property. In winter, the trees gave up some of their secrets. Stride could see outbuildings and a tennis court beyond the main house, which was built in two perpendicular wings. The estate was a hand-me-down from Duluth’s early days, when the riches from timber, mining, and shipping had created an upper class of Northland millionaires.
A gate blocked the driveway, and a private guard stood watch in the cold. Stride handed him his identification, and the guard used a remote control to swing open the gate and let Stride drive his Expedition inside. As he parked and got out, he stared northward through the web of trees. From there, he could just barely see the windows of the attic room where Haley Adams had zeroed in on the estate through the lens of her telescope.
He rang the bell and was surprised when Dean Casperson answered the door personally.
“Lieutenant, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Casperson waved him inside. “Would you like some breakfast? I just finished myself, but I can have something made up for you. And we have coffee, of course.”
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Stride replied. “Are you filming today?”
“No, Aimee Bowe is on set, not me. She’s doing her scenes in the box. She’s constantly improvising, so we’ll see how long that takes. Getting inside the emotional state of those women is no small task.”
“I’m sure.”
Casperson beckoned him toward the back of the house. “I know you’re busy, but come with me. There’s somebody I want you to meet.”
The actor led him through a maze of rooms. Everything was built in stone and dark wood and was furnished as if time had stood still for a century. The heat had been cranked to warm the house, but the high ceilings and old windows couldn’t keep winter out entirely. Casperson was dressed in pastels, including emerald green slacks and a yellow golf shirt. He looked out of place here. Or maybe, Stride thought, the house looked out of place around Casperson.
The maze led them to a large den with no windows. A chandelier hung over an elm-wood billiard table that probably cost as much as Stride’s truck. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall. Another wall featured oil paintings from Duluth’s early history. Casperson went to a marble bar and poured a mug of coffee and held up the pot in Stride’s direction. Stride shook his head again.
The room was empty, but Casperson took a remote control and pointed it at a seventy-inch television nestled among the bookshelves. He turned on the television, and Stride found himself staring at an outdoor patio that looked out on a private boat dock and an inland waterway. A woman sat at a glass-and-marble table in a floral bikini, with a white lace jacket over her shoulders. She was drinking coffee, too, and soaking up the sunshine.
“Mo and I like to have breakfast together every day,” Casperson explained. “It doesn’t matter if she’s home in Captiva and I’m a thousand miles away. Mo, this is Lieutenant Stride. Lieutenant, meet my wife.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Casperson,” Stride said.
She was practically life-size on the screen, and Stride felt an odd impulse to reach out to shake her hand.
“Oh, I’m Mo, please,” she replied with studied politeness. “Everyone calls me Mo. I feel as if I know you, Lieutenant. I did my research on you before I suggested to Dean that he accept the role. You’re an interesting man.”