“Hi, Ms. Hunt, this is Detective Wiley Strode of Valley Bureau, Van Nuys Station. I’m assigned to the Michaela Penn case. I understand that Detective Hernandez with HSS has filed to work concurrently on the case and that you both were at the crime scene last night before I arrived. I’ve been trying to reach him all day without success so I thought I’d reach out to you to coordinate our resources. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much to coordinate. It’s increasingly looking like this case may end up in our unsolved file. Regardless, please give me a call when you get a chance to compare notes.”
Detective Strode’s tone was professional and courteous and, at least on the surface, it seemed like he wanted to cooperate. But underneath the pleasant demeanor, it was clear that his bottom line wasn’t much different than Sergeant Costabile’s.
As far as he was concerned, the investigation was closer to the end than the beginning, a strange attitude to have when it came to the brutal stabbing murder of a teenage girl. No one at Valley Bureau seemed to care much about solving this case. In fact, they all seemed actively invested in not solving it.
The last concern gave her an idea and led her to immediately make another call. Again, she got voicemail, this time for Garland Moses. She tried to keep her message brief.
“Garland, you’re pretty old,” she began, hoping to soften her request with some disarming humor. “I’m hoping that since you’ve been around the department for so long, you might be able to give me some insight into some Valley Bureau personnel, specifically at Van Nuys Station. One is Detective Wiley Strode. But I’m especially interested in an officer named Sergeant Hank Costabile. He’s inserted himself into a case I’m pursuing in some really intrusive, borderline threatening ways. Have you heard of him? If so, what can you tell me? If not, can you work your ‘on the sly’ magic and get me some intel? I know the guy is bad news but I’m flying blind about just how bad. Thanks in advance.”
She hung up, uncertain if she was abusing the veteran profiler’s generosity with the request. But she knew there was no way she was going to smash through the blue wall of silence through conventional means. Even Ryan, who’d been a cop for a nearly a decade, seemed only to have a general sense of Costabile. She needed help from someone who’d been around the department much longer than that.
Her last call before pulling up at Marchand’s house was to Detective Gaylene Parker in Vice. She told Parker about Filthy Films using an underage actress and asked who she needed to contact to get something done about it. Parker, who sounded personally offended, said that she would call the right people and guaranteed that all Filthy productions would be shut down by the end of the day.
With that off her plate, Jessie focused on the task at hand. She got out of her car and walked up Marchand’s circular driveway to the front door. While his house was large and had a hilltop view of the currently hazy valley, it was dated, with seventies-style ranch house architecture and a few dangling shingles. It looked like a fixer-upper that had never been fixed up.
I guess porn directing isn’t the cash cow I assumed it was.
She rang the bell and waited, curious to meet the creative mind behind some of the works she’d surreptitiously watched on her laptop earlier. When Giles Marchand opened the door, she had to stifle a gasp.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jessie forced herself to cough to hide the snort of laughter she feared might escape her mouth.
The man was a walking cliché. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and though he may have cut a dashing figure at one time, now he looked like a guy clinging to past glory. His salt and pepper hairpiece was too lustrous to look real and the line where it met his more straw-like, real hair was distinct.
He was over-tanned, with deep, olive skin that covered every exposed inch, including, disturbingly, directly under his eyes. His teeth were unnaturally white and appeared to have been surgically altered to look more square. He was clearly an aficionado of Botox and had over-dimpled cheeks and a forehead suspiciously devoid of wrinkles. Finally, his oddly formal posture made Jessie wonder whether he might be wearing a girdle of some kind.
“I swear I’m not the father,” he said with booming, overly-familiar jocularity.
For a second, Jessie was so stunned, she didn’t know how to respond.
“Mr. Marchand,” she finally managed to say, “my name is Jessie Hunt…”
“Paternity lawyer or aspiring actress?” he asked in a richly honeyed, clearly practiced voice, a broad smile on his face. Apparently he was fine with her being either.
“LAPD, actually,” she replied, managing to regain some semblance of control over herself.
“Oh, that’s new,” he said, still unruffled. “You’ve piqued my interest. Care to come in? I can offer you some peppermint-cayenne tea and we can discuss whatever exciting development has brought you to my door.”
“Thank you,” Jessie said, stepping inside while eyeing him curiously. “I’ll pass on the tea. But I’ll happily get your answer as to why you’re pretending you don’t know the reason I’m here.”
Marchand couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Am I that transparent?” he asked, unashamedly.
“Yes,” Jessie said. “Also, there’s no way Lenny Lander didn’t call you the second I left his office.”
“Now that you mention it, Ms. Hunt,” he said as he led her into the living room, “I did get a call a little while ago from Leonard. He was most disconcerted by your visit. Truthfully, despite my brave front right now, I spent much of the last few hours shedding internal tears over the loss of dear Missy.”
“Internal tears?” Jessie repeated.
“Yes, darling. I’ve had some work done and I’ve largely lost the capacity for crying; a blessing and a curse.”
“I see. And you know that Missy wasn’t who she said she was?”
“Fiona told me that she was operating under a false name. I never called her Melissa anyway. I only ever address my actresses by their stage names. It’s a small thing, but I find that it helps them stay in character.”
As best she could, Jessie tried to separate Marchand’s ostentatious manner from the words he was saying. She found that it helped to focus on the man’s nose, which seemed to be the one feature that hadn’t had any work done on it.
“I noticed that you said Fiona told you about her fake name. But my understanding is that you have a history of helping some of these girls find those names. Isn’t that true?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Ms. Hunt,” he said, though his expression suggested he knew exactly what she meant. His smile remained plastered on, but his eyes were less confident.
“Let’s not be coy, Mr. Marchand. You have a reputation for getting fake papers for women you want in your films.”
“Those are just vicious rumors,” he insisted far too dramatically. “I would never do anything untoward. I only want what’s best for my actresses. I saw a great future for Missy. I think she could have been one of the greats.”
“Why is that?” Jessie asked, a little afraid to hear the answer, taking the bait though she knew he was deflecting.