Kat chuckled at the faux animosity which would have been real only two years prior.
“A local deputy up in Lake Arrowhead named Connor was familiar with Keith Penn. He offered to go check out the guy’s cabin personally for me.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Wasn’t it?” Kat agreed. “I may have given him the impression that I’d let him teach me to ski the next time I go up there.”
“Small price to pay,” Jessie said. “What did he learn?”
“He said it looks like Penn hasn’t been at his cabin in days. His mail has piled up in his mailbox, his truck isn’t there, and there are no tire marks since the last snow, which was two days ago. He also checked around town at his usual haunts, which he said essentially means local bars. It’s Tuesday now and no one has seen him since before the weekend. He warned me that none of this was that unusual. Apparently when the guy goes on a bender, he’ll often go off the grid too. Still, Deputy Connor was going to see if he could trace the guy’s cell phone.”
“This is not what I was hoping to hear,” Jessie admitted. “I wanted to rule this guy out.”
“Hold on, Jessie,” Kat said. “I’m getting a call. It looks like it’s my guy. I’ll be right back.”
While Jessie waited for her friend to get back on the line, she checked how far she was from Giles Marchand’s house. The director lived in the hills of Sherman Oaks, about fifteen minutes from the Filthy Films offices. Parts of the neighborhood were run down. But Marchand lived in a ritzier section with a view of the whole San Fernando Valley.
“Jessie,” Kat said excitedly, coming back on the line, “I’ve got news.”
“I’m ready,” Jessie said.
“You’re not going to believe this but Deputy Connor got a hit on Penn’s phone.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in L.A. Specifically at the local Van Nuys jail. He was arrested early this morning on a DUI. According to Mitch, the folks there don’t even realize the connection yet. I asked him not to clear that up just yet. I figured you’d want the first shot at him.”
“Thanks, Kat,” Jessie said. “It sounds like that deputy, or is it Mitch now, really earned a tutoring session.”
“I agree,” Kat said. “I looked up his photo on the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department website. He’s pretty cute, maybe a little young.”
“Just make sure he’s at least eighteen,” Jessie said drily.
“Thanks for the pro tip,” Kat said. “He’s still on the other line so I’m going to go.”
She was gone before Jessie could reply. She was already winding her way up the hill on Beverly Glen Boulevard, almost halfway to Marchand’s place. But she pulled over anyway. The director would have to wait. If the Valley Bureau cops got to Keith Penn before she did, who knows what nefarious trouble they’d cause? With that in mind, she made a U-turn and headed back down the hill.
*
Walking into the Van Nuys jail felt like entering the lion’s den.
As Jessie made her way from the main reception area down the hallway that led to the holding cells, she kept an eye out for anyone from yesterday evening. She kept reminding herself that they would all likely be off duty right now since most of them worked through the night.
When she got to the sign-in desk to see inmates, she had a half-second of panic. She was required to check in via computer rather than scratch her name on a sheet. That would put her on the radar. If anyone here cared to track her official whereabouts, then her current location would show up immediately.
Normally she wouldn’t care. But after last night’s combative interactions and Officer Burnside’s cryptic warning this morning, she couldn’t help but worry that her presence here might cause some curiosity or worse among Valley Bureau law enforcement. She’d have to move quickly.
Once signed in, she hurried to the visitor meeting waiting area. In the next room, she could see inmates talking to guests through glass partitions on corded wall phones. It took about five minutes for Keith Penn to be brought in.
She knew it was him even before she was told to meet him at window four. The man, who looked to be in his early forties, shuffled to the window slowly, as if he worried that taking full strides might lead him to fall over. His graying black hair was poking in every direction. He had a good four days’ worth of stubble and though the sclera of his eyes was more red than white, they were otherwise the same as Michaela’s. As he eased himself into the chair, almost missing it, Jessie realized he was still drunk.
She walked over, sat down across from him, and picked up the phone. He just stared at her so she motioned for him to do the same. He looked confused but did as she instructed.
“Mr. Penn,” she said when he put the phone to his ear, “my name’s Jessie Hunt. I consult for the LAPD. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”
“Is this about Michaela?” he asked.
“Why do you ask that?” Jessie asked, surprised.
“Because no one will tell me anything. No one even cares.”
“What do you mean?” she pressed, increasingly confused.
“I’ve been trying to find out what happened to my baby for hours now but no one has told me anything since that first cop.”
“What first cop?”
“I can’t remember his name,” Penn said, mumbling. “Constant or something. He called me last night and said my daughter had been killed in a robbery and that they would release her remains to me today. I thought someone was screwing with me so I hung up. But he called back and said it was true.”
“He just told you flat out like that?” Jessie asked, horrified.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice disconnected and flat. “He said they had positively identified her. He said I should come to the station and someone would take me to the morgue. So I drove down. But I got picked up when I got here and thrown in jail.”
“Picked up?”
He sighed deeply, as if telling this story was physically intimidating.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “You see, I was real upset. So I stopped off on the way down here—I live up in the mountains—for a drink to take the edge off. You know, in her honor.”
“Which was it?” Jessie asked, knowing she shouldn’t bait him but unable to stop herself. “To take the edge off or in her honor?”
Penn looked at her blankly, still too soused to be offended by the edge in her voice.
“Both. Anyway, one drink turned into two and I guess I lost control a little. But when I left, I came straight to Van Nuys. That’s when I got pulled over. I told them why I was here. But I couldn’t remember the name of the cop who called me and they didn’t care anyway. They just booked me and threw me in the cell. You’re the first person I’ve gotten to actually talk to me since then.”
“Mr. Penn, I just want to make sure that I’m understanding all this correctly. You’re saying that you were in Lake Arrowhead last night when you got a call from a Van Nuys police officer telling you that your daughter was murdered and you should come here. You left your home and drove here through the night, stopping at a bar for several drinks. Then you continued to Van Nuys, where you were picked up for drunk driving and taken here, where you’ve been held until now. Do I have all that right?”