“I want to know what he was up to last night.” Jessie told her. “Was he in his cabin? Did he make a visit to L.A.? Basically, I want a tick-tock on his movements for the last twenty-four hours. No need to confront him. I just need to know if he’s a credible suspect.”
“Are you leaning his way?” Kat asked.
“Too early to say,” Jessie admitted. “But I really hope it’s not him.”
“Why?”
“Because Michaela was raped before she was murdered.”
Kat was quiet for a moment. Even she couldn’t be snarky about this.
“You know, we really must both be messed up people to do this kind of thing for a living. Have you ever thought of that?”
“Kat,” Jessie replied. “Messed up is pretty much my defining characteristic.”
*
Filthy Films really was filthy.
Or at least it was in a filthy location.
The company’s production offices and studios were located in a rundown industrial part of Van Nuys. They shared the street with two bail bondsmen, a strip club, a liquor store, a payday lender, a smoke shop, and a security alarm store.
Jessie was reticent to park on the street and pulled up to the secured parking, where she flashed her LAPD badge to the security guard. It looked like a cop’s ID save for the sticker at the bottom that said “profiler.” Like almost everyone who glanced at it, he asked no questions and waved her through.
She parked and walked into the reception area where a woman in her sixties with thick bifocals sat behind a linoleum-topped counter. The woman looked up and peered at Jessie over her glasses. She had the craggy skin of someone who never bought into that whole sunscreen thing and was now paying the price.
“If you’re here for the MILF auditions,” she said in a cigarette-stained voice, “you’re too late. They ended before lunch.”
“I’m not here for the MILF auditions,” Jessie said, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered.
“Good,” the woman said. “You look too young anyway. Don’t sell yourself short, dearie. You should come back next week. We’re doing an open casting call for sexy teachers. We’re starting a whole series. You’re a better match for that.”
“Thanks?” Jessie replied. “I’m actually not looking for work. I already have a gig with the LAPD. I’m looking for Leonard Lander.”
The woman’s eyes grew squinty and suspicious behind her glasses.
“What do you want with Lenny?”
“I need to ask him some questions regarding a case I’m investigating. I can’t say more than that.”
“Ugh,” the woman said. “The first half-classy woman who wants to talk to my son in months and she’s here to question him. Hold on.”
As the woman picked up the phone, Jessie tried to decide which was more disturbing: that this woman worked at her son’s porn company or that she considered Jessie to be “half-classy.”
As they waited for him to answer, Jessie glanced at the posters on the walls of the office. Most appeared to be for titles from the Filthy Films catalogue—The She-Wolf Chronicles, The Mile Higher Club, Mandy the Erotic Mermaid. But mixed in were posters for The Deer Hunter and Gandhi. Jessie was flummoxed.
“Lenny,” she heard the woman rasp, “it’s Fiona. There’s a police lady here to see you. She has some questions.”
After a moment’s silence, she spoke again.
“She won’t give me any details. Just talk to her. You’ve got a scheduling meeting in ten minutes so this is a good window.”
More listening.
“Yes, she’s very nice-looking. But I don’t think you’ll have much luck, my sweet one. She looks like just being in here makes her want to bathe in Purell. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Still more silence, after which Fiona hung up.
“He’ll be right up, dearie. Can I offer you something? Coffee? Seltzer? Hand sanitizer?”
For the first time since entering the office, Jessie smiled.
“I like you, Fiona.”
“Of course you do. I’m very likable.”
A second later Lenny Lander burst through the door. He was a sight to behold. Thirty-something, short, sweaty, and pale, with black hair plastered to his scalp and about thirty extra pounds, he looked more like a guy who spent most of his time in a basement than on a film set. He looked at Jessie with a mix of lasciviousness and apprehension.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked with ridiculous grandiosity.
“I’m Jessie Hunt. I consult for the LAPD. I need some info on one of your…actresses.”
“Looking for a date?” Lenny asked, giving a broad, toothy smile.
Under normal circumstances, Jessie would have asked to speak to the guy privately. But somehow she suspected that would be counterproductive in this case. She might get more direct answers and fewer snarky comments if Fiona was around.
“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Lander,” she said plainly. “And I suggest you stop treating it as such. I need to know everything you can tell me about the actress who goes by the name Missy Mack.”
Lenny looked only slightly tempered.
“Missy? The first thing I can tell you is she didn’t show up this morning, which really screwed up my day. I had to find a replacement girl on short notice and shoot out of sequence. It probably cost me close to eighteen hundred bucks.”
“Is that a common problem with her?” Jessie asked, deciding to hold back the reason for her absence for now.
“No. That’s why it chapped my ass so much. She’s usually on time and ready to go. I always have a girl on standby in case of no-shows. But with Melissa—that’s her real name—I got lulled into complacency because she never missed a call. So I skipped the standby this week. I should’ve known better.”
“Usually she was more professional?” Jessie asked.
“For sure,” Lenny said. “You know baseball?”
“I guess,” Jessie said, curious where this analogy was headed.
“Well, she’s like a five-tool player,” he said enthusiastically. “She can play the seductress or be demure. She knows her lines. She hits her marks. She doesn’t complain. She’s up for anything, if you know what I mean. I guess that’s more of a six-tool player. Seven if you actually count tools.”
Lenny chuckled at his own joke. Fiona groaned quietly.
“Was she having any issues with anyone working on the film?” Jessie continued, pretending not to have heard that last line. “Professional dispute? Personal beef?”
“Why?” Fiona asked, clearly more concerned than her son. “Did something happen to Melissa?”
Jessie didn’t feel like she could evade the question any longer without drawing suspicion so she decided to tell the truth.
Ideally she would have had someone else with her to give the news so she could observe their responses. Ryan usually played that role. But since she was alone, she kept her focus on Lenny, who seemed a more likely potential suspect.
“Melissa was murdered last night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN