“Months ago. He came to borrow money.”
“You didn’t give it to him, did you?”
“Bingo.”
“And is this Mrs. Summers?” Jakes asked, looking at the woman in the bikini.
“It is.”
“We’re newlyweds,” she gushed, speaking for the first time. “We got married last week.”
“Congratulations,” Jakes said. “Have you ever met Aaron?”
“Never. I wanted to, though. So sad. I was looking forward to being a stepmommy. I’ve seen pictures. He was very cute. Just like his dad.” She wrapped herself around her new husband and bit his earlobe.
“She doesn’t know anything about him,” Summers said, pushing her away. “Hey, look, I told this to the other cops.”
“Well, now you’re telling it to me,” Jakes said. “I’ve got a few more questions. . . .”
After about half a dozen more questions Jakes said, “By the way, Mr. Summers, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a producer.”
That surprised both Jakes and me.
“And you have such a low opinion of acting?” Jakes asked.
“And actors.”
“Well, not
all
actors. I’m an actor, er, actress,” Mrs. Summers said proudly. “That’s how we met.”
Summers just looked at Jakes and said, “Is that all?”
Jakes closed the pad he’d been using to jot down notes. “I may need to talk to you again, Mr. Summers.”
“Like I said,” Summers replied, “talk to his mother. And his landlady. She probably knew more about him than I did.”
“We’ll do that. Don’t worry.”
We didn’t speak until we got in the car and closed the door.
“Why do these people—both parents we spoke to today—have such a low opinion of actors?” Jakes asked.
“I think it’s the profession,” I said, “not the individuals.”
“Okay,” he said, “why the profession?”
“You have to be crazy to be an actor, Jakes,” I said. “I thought you’d know that after being in your job all these years. I mean, you’ve dealt with crazy actors before, right?”
He grinned. “Present company excepted?”
“Oh,” I said, “no.”
Chapter 27
“None of these victims were married?” I asked as we drove to the home of Jackson Masters’s parents.
“No, none of them,” Jakes said. “At least, not as far as we know. I talked with people they worked with already.”
“That’s right,” I said. “They weren’t full-time actors. What else did they do?”
“Aaron Summers was a bartender,” Jakes said. “Very popular with the ladies. Wasn’t unusual for him to end up going home with someone on any given night. Or day, from what I’ve heard.”
“What about Tom Nolan?”
“Waiter,” Jakes said. “Food service seems to be a big day job for you actors. At the time of his death he was working at a café in Hollywood. Same story. The other waiters and waitresses said he was a ladies’ man.”
“And we know Jackson was.”
“Right.”
“And the other two?”
“Len’s checking on the fifth one,” Jakes said. “We’ll have to wait for the police in Toronto to get back to us.”
“Mounties?”
“I don’t know,” Jakes said. “Apparently there are some provinces up there that have their own police.”
We drove in silence for a while, a silence that became awkward. Apparently neither one of us was ready yet to talk about last night. Granted, it was just a kiss, but then again we both knew it was more. I felt bad about Paul.
“Do we know if any of them were gay?” I asked.
“No.”
“We could have asked the families today.”
“Those families? Forget it. If any of them were gay, it will come up in the investigation eventually.” He snorted. “Imagine that last guy finding out his kid was gay?”
“You’re right,” I said. “He wouldn’t have taken that very well. What about forensics?”
“What about it?”
“Do you have anything from any of the crime scenes?” I asked. “Fibers? Fingerprints?”
“You know, I forgot that you have an interest in that sort of thing. How did that start?”
“I got hooked on mystery novels at a young age and then true crime books several years ago,” I said, “and then I discovered Court TV—or truTV, as they call it now. And as it got bigger on TV—
48 Hours
, all the A&E shows—I just got more and more interested.”
“Well, I have to say you’re a pretty good amateur detective,” he said.
“Can’t say I’ve done much amateur detecting in this case.”
“Well, forensics hasn’t come up with much for us,” Jakes said. “But I’m still a firm believer in footwork and real intuitive detective work.”
“Which is what you do?”
“It’s what I’ve always done,” he said, “and it’s what I respect. I think you have some of that in you, Alex. You know what questions to ask.”
“Well . . . thank you.”
I didn’t know if he was saying that because he believed it or because he liked me. I decided I’d be able to figure that out for myself eventually.
There was silence again, and this time he broke it. “You ever meet Jackson’s folks?”
“Once,” I said. “They came to a Christmas party at the studio. It meant a lot to him to have them there. He wanted to impress them.”
“Well, then,” he said, “I guess we’re about to find out just how good your disguise is.”
I wasn’t sure if they’d remember me from when we last met or recognize me from watching the show.
I hadn’t gone real heavy with makeup for the librarian look. Jakes was right. We were going to find out how good my disguise was.
Jackson Masters’s family was middle class. The house was in Culver City, predominately known for its multitude of movie and TV studios: MGM, now Sony, Fox, et cetera. It was a small and well-cared-for home. I wondered if they would care as much about their son. I hadn’t spent that much time with them at the Christmas party, but as we approached the house I was nervous about being recognized.
A woman answered when Jakes rang the doorbell. Seeing him, she tried patting her graying hair into place. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Masters. My name is Detective Jakes. This is my associate . . .”
The woman looked at me expectantly.
I said the first name that came to mind. “Tiffany. I’m a consultant.”
What an idiot I am! Tiffany was the name of the character I used to play on
The Yearning Tide
. That’s the only name I could think of? Luckily, she didn’t seem to take much notice.
“Is this about Jackson’s murder?” she asked, looking at Jakes again.
“Yes, ma’am. Is Mr. Masters home?”
“Yes, he is,” she said. “We’ve just finished dinner and were going to have some coffee and cake. Would you like some?”
This was our third interview of the day, and we hadn’t stopped for lunch. I tried to send Jakes a mental message that I wanted cake.
“That would be nice, ma’am.”
“Please don’t call me that, Detective,” she said. “My name is Charlotte. Follow me.”
She led us down a hall to a small kitchen. There was a man seated at the table, which was covered with remnants of what looked like a meat loaf dinner. Such wholesomeness made it clear that these people must have been originally from the Midwest.
“Dear, these are the police,” she said. “They’re here about Jackson.”
Jackson’s father had possibly the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.
“Have you found his killer?” he asked us.
“No, sir,” Jakes said. “Not yet.”
“Honey, would you take Detective Jakes and Tiffany . . .” She left it hanging.
I hesitated and said, “Lamp—Lampis.” My God, I am the worst!
Jakes shot me a look of incredulity but it seemed to go over the Masterses’ heads.
“. . . Tiffany Lampis into the dining room? I’ll bring the coffee and cake in there.”
“All right.”
The man stood and walked out without a word.
“He’s still very distraught,” she said. “Just follow him, and, please, don’t ask him any questions until I join you. He’s . . . not well.”
“All right, Charlotte,” Jakes said with a smile.
We followed in Mr. Masters’s wake and found him sitting at the dining room table.
“You look familiar,” Jackson’s father said to me.
“Really?” I gulped.
“Yes,” he said. He dropped it, thankfully.
Charlotte Masters came in carrying a tray of coffee and what looked like a marble cake. “We’ve spoken before, Detective, haven’t we?” she asked.
“Yes, briefly. But we’re pursuing some . . . a new direction.”
She put the tray down on the table, inviting us to get comfortable. I sat across from her, while Jakes sat across from her husband, who seemed to have gone somewhere inside himself.
“My husband suffered a stroke last year,” she told us, putting her hand on his. “He hasn’t fully recovered his mental capacities and probably never will. He understands about Jackson, though.”
“Jackson’s dead,” the older man said. He looked at me. “Somebody killed my son.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “and we’re going to find out who did it.”
A tear rolled down his cheek and then just as suddenly he looked at his wife and asked, “Is there cake?”
She poured him a cup of coffee and gave him a small plate with a piece of cake on it. “Be careful, Bill,” she said. “The coffee’s hot. Don’t burn your mouth.”
“I’m not an idiot!” he snapped harshly.
She smiled, rubbed his hand and said, “I know that.”
“Mrs. Jackson,” Jakes said. “Should we talk somewhere else?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she said. “He needs to hear what you have to say.”
“All right,” he said. “Were you and your husband supportive of your son’s acting career?”
“Very much so,” she said. “We were very proud of him. We were . . . watching the Emmy show when . . . when it happened.”
“Oh, God,” I said inadvertently. She looked at me. “I am so sorry. Did you know it was him?”
“Not at the time. We knew something had gone wrong but didn’t know exactly what until the police called us.” She looked at Jakes. “Was that you?”
“My partner,” he said. “Detective Davis.”
“Yes,” she said, “I recall that name.”
“Did you talk to your son often?”
“Every week,” she said. “He called every week, especially since Bill’s stroke.”
“Did he ever say that he was . . . concerned or afraid? Maybe about a stalker or someone who was bothering him?”
“No,” she said, “he never said anything like that.”
“Do you know any of these names, Charlotte?” Jakes passed her a list with the other four victims’s names on it.
She looked at them and then pushed it back.
“No,” she said, “they’re not familiar. Would you like some cake?”
I would love some cake, I thought to myself. But that would be impossible with these teeth in my mouth. I had to keep reminding myself they were in there. “No, nothing for me, thanks!”
Chapter 28
“Can I say something?” I asked as we drove away from the Masterses’ house. I took my teeth out and placed them in their plastic case.
“Of course.”
“It doesn’t seem to me we found out all that much today.”
“Well, we certainly haven’t found out as much as we’re going to.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning these were just the initial interviews,” he said. “I’ll be going back for more.”
I frowned. “It seems to me you were pretty thorough when you and your partner questioned me last year.”
“That’s because you were a suspect,” he said. “That day, everybody was a suspect. We had to learn as much as we could before we let you all go.”
“I see.”
“We did the same at the Kodak Theatre the other night,” he said. “We kept everyone who was backstage until we had as much information as we could collect.”
He pulled up in front of my house and turned the ignition off.
“Well, thanks for taking me along,” I said, “although I’m not sure what good I did.”
“Go over your impressions tonight,” he said, “and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“All right.”
I didn’t move, or speak. Neither did he.
“Look—” he finally said.
“I think—” I said.
We stopped interrupting each other.
“About last night . . . ,” I said, and then stopped on my own.
“Look,” he said, “about that . . .”
“It was just a kiss, right?”
“Is that all it was to you?” he asked.
I couldn’t think of one intelligent or meaningful thing to say, so I just looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.
“It’s a pretty straightforward question, Alex.”
“I’ve just got to figure some things out, Jakes.” I started rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so wishy-washy. I mean, I do care for Paul; it’s just—”
“Enough said. Do what you have to do.” He seemed to be stifling a yawn, or was it a laugh?
I opened the door and stepped out. “That’s okay,” I said. “No need to walk me to the door.”
“Alex,” he said, rolling his window down, “spend a little time going over your impressions of the day. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“All right,” I said, “tomorrow. By the way, did you find anything out about Randy?”
“I’ve got it covered. Sarah’s safe.”
“Thank you,” I said simply.
He waited at the curb until I walked inside. I didn’t look back.
Once inside I went straight to the kitchen to get some Cheez-Its and a glass of red wine. I was starving. I brought them both into the bathroom and started to remove my makeup. When I looked in the mirror, I gasped. Apparently when I rubbed my eyes during my conversation with Jakes, I had smeared black mascara all over the place. I looked like some crazed raccoon. Not only must Jakes think I’m a wishy-washy flake but an absolutely insane one on top of it. I wanted to cry for several reasons.