Alter Ego

20

The next morning, Serena found paparazzi footprints in the snow outside Aimee Bowe’s house, too.

The actress had rented a modest single-story house on Thirteenth Street high on the hill over the city. It was small and dated, but it had a large lot and a stunning view of the lake through the rear windows. Aimee stood at the front door while Serena investigated the exterior. The footprints made a circle around the house, stopping at every door and window. She could trace them down the hill to Skyline Parkway, where someone had parked and hiked back and forth to Aimee’s house through the trees.

“Tell me again what happened,” Serena said.

Aimee opened the door wide, and the two of them went inside. The house was full of memorabilia from someone else’s life. Serena spotted photos on the wall of a couple with two young children and noticed toys and stuffed animals neatly tucked away in baskets. Families around the area had volunteered to rent their homes to the cast and crew during the filming. Extra money in January was always welcome.

Aimee led them to the back porch, where they sat in wicker chairs near the windows.

“I got back late from the set,” she told Serena. “We were working until almost midnight. I saw the footprints, and I knew someone had been here.”

“You should have called me right away,” Serena said. “Or called 911.”

“One of the crew drove me home. I had him check the house to make sure no one was here. I was too tired to do much of anything else. I didn’t want to deal with it.”

“Stride thinks it was the National Gazette at our place. They’re probably going after you, too.”

Aimee frowned and stared across the treetops at the lake. “Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Whoever it was didn’t just look through the windows. They came inside, too.”

“Inside. Are you sure?”

“No, I can’t prove it. Nothing was disturbed, nothing was taken. But there was something off about the place when I got back. I can’t put my finger on what it was. A different smell. A different feel. I knew someone had been here.”

“Is that typical tabloid behavior? To break into a celebrity’s place?”

Aimee shook her head. “No. They’re usually careful to stay on the razor’s edge of what’s legal.”

“Have you had any problems with fans? Stalkers?”

“Nothing that would worry me.”

“How would someone get inside the house?” Serena asked.

“Half the locks here don’t work. I didn’t really worry about it. Duluth isn’t L.A.”

“Do you want me to get an officer to stay outside and keep an eye on the place?”

Aimee shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t want the attention. I’ll be careful. The crew looks out for me, too.”

“Well, if you spot anything wrong, don’t wait next time. Call 911. And call me, too.”

“Thanks.”

Serena took a piece of paper out of a manila folder in her satchel purse. “As long as I’m here, do you mind if I ask you a question? I was wondering if you recognize this young woman.”

Aimee took the photograph from Serena’s hand and studied it. “Her face is a little familiar.”

“Did you see her at any of the filming locations? Or at any of the cast and crew parties?”

“Not that I recall. She’s pretty; I think I’d remember her. I feel like I’ve seen this photograph before, but I don’t think I’ve met her in person. Who is she?”

“Her name is Rochelle Wahl. Was. She’s dead.”

A shadow crossed Aimee’s face, and then she remembered. “Is she the local girl who was on the news? That’s where I saw her picture.”

“Yes, she was found dead in her backyard last weekend.”

“That’s a terrible thing, but why would you think she had anything to do with the movie?”

“I’m just covering all the bases,” Serena said.

Aimee’s eyes narrowed as if she knew that Serena wasn’t being completely honest with her. “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t see her. Is that all?”

“I do have one more question,” Serena went on. “I was wondering if you’re aware of any rumors floating around the industry about Dean Casperson.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“You tell me.”

“I think I already did tell you once before. I won’t gossip about Dean.”

“Because you’re scared of him?” Serena asked.

Aimee didn’t answer. Her defenses went up like a wall.

“One of my partners talked to an actress who had a bad experience with him when she was starting out,” Serena said.

“What kind of experience?”

“She says Casperson assaulted her,” Serena said. “He drugged and raped her.”

Aimee flinched sharply, as if she’d been struck. “If that’s true, why didn’t she go public about it?”

“You said yourself that Casperson has the power to make or break careers. This woman thought it was smarter to stay quiet.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Casperson gave you your big break a few years ago, didn’t he?” Serena continued.

“That’s right.”

Serena hesitated before going on. “Was there a price for it?”

“What are you talking about?” Aimee asked.

“We both know what I’m talking about.”

Aimee got up from the wicker chair. Her face reddened with anger, and she fought back tears. She extended her arm and pointed her index finger at the front door. “Please get out.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“Get out, Serena, just get out.”

“Whatever you want.”

Serena headed for the door, and Aimee stayed where she was. When Serena opened the front door, she looked back, and Aimee was still frozen in the living room. The actress had her face buried in her hands, and Serena watched her body quiver as she sobbed. She thought about going back to comfort her, but instead she slipped out of the house and closed the door softly behind her.

Serena wasn’t psychic.

Even so, she knew she was right. Aimee was hiding the truth about Dean Casperson.

Half an hour later, Serena met Guppo at Rochelle Wahl’s house.

She could feel the devastation in the room as they talked to Rochelle’s parents. Her father said nothing and stared down at his lap. Her mother kept a photo album locked in a fierce grip in her hands, as if someone might steal it from her. Condolence flowers filled every table, but they were already starting to wilt, giving a faded look and sour odor to the room.

“I’m not sure what you want to know,” Marilyn Wahl said. “Why are you asking questions about Rochelle? I thought the investigation was closed.”

Serena tried to figure out what to say. She didn’t want to alarm them over nothing. She didn’t want to speculate about their daughter’s death and find out she was wrong.

Guppo came to her rescue. “When a case involves the death of a minor, even an accidental death, we often have senior personnel review the details to make sure nothing was missed. This won’t take long. And trust me, I have five daughters myself. I’m sympathetic to the pain you feel.”

Marilyn sniffled but didn’t object. She was in her late thirties and attractive. Mark Wahl had the lean look of a runner. Their faces were both drawn with grief, but Serena could see the close resemblance to their daughter. She’d reviewed photographs of Rochelle, who had long reddish-brown hair, turquoise glasses over dark eyes, and a bottle-cap nose that was slightly flattened on the end.

“Can you review the time line on Saturday and Sunday for us again?” she asked. “I know you were away.”

“Yes, it was our seventeenth wedding anniversary weekend,” Marilyn said with a glance at her husband that suggested they both knew their anniversary would never be the same. “We had tickets to the Guthrie in Minneapolis, and then we stayed overnight at the Hilton. This was the first time we’d left Rochelle on her own. She was adamant about it and said we didn’t have anything to worry about. She was going to watch a Harry Potter movie marathon in her room and make microwave pizza.”

“What time did you leave on Saturday?” Guppo asked.

“Around one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Were you concerned that Rochelle might have friends over for a party or that she might go out on her own?”

Mark Wahl looked up from his lap. “Rochelle was very reliable and mature. She was fifteen going on twenty-five. She’d never given us any reason not to trust her.”

“Plus she didn’t have many friends,” Marilyn went on. “She painted and wrote and kept to herself. She was very self-contained. We were always encouraging her to find more friends, but she didn’t have a lot in common with girls her age.”

Serena thought about Cat. And about herself. It was easy to understand the kind of girl that Rochelle Wahl was. She also knew that every fifteen-year-old going on twenty-five was still no older than fifteen.

“Did you talk to Rochelle during the day?” Serena asked.

“Yes, she texted us every hour, exactly as she promised.”

“I mean, did you actually talk to her on the phone?”

Marilyn’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t think so. We never really had the chance. Just when I’d think of calling, she would text us again. I was pleased that she was being so thoughtful about it.”

Serena couldn’t help thinking that Rochelle wasn’t being thoughtful. She was being crafty.

“What did she say in her texts?” she asked.

“Nothing much. She was asking about whether we were having fun on our trip. She sent us a picture of the first Harry Potter movie on television that afternoon when she started watching. She was such a huge Dumbledore fan.”

“When did you last hear from her?”

“Around eleven-thirty, she texted that she was going to bed,” Mark said. “She sent us a picture of herself in her pajamas in bed. She had this big smile, waving at us, with a little ‘good night’ emoji. Then, in the morning, we couldn’t reach her. That’s when we began to panic.”

Guppo shifted his girth in the chair in which he was sitting, and the wooden legs complained. “I’m sorry to ask this, but did you ever know Rochelle to drink alcohol before that night?”

Mark Wahl shook his head violently. “Never.”

“This was just so unlike her,” Marilyn added.

Serena gave them a sad smile. “Would you mind showing us her room?”

Mark didn’t get up, but Marilyn guided them out of the living room and down a hallway to a large bedroom that overlooked the backyard. Sliding glass doors led outside. The bedsheets were still rumpled and unmade. Dirty clothes made a line from the bed to the closet. There were movie posters hung all over the walls. Harry Potter. Guardians of the Galaxy. And a poster from a movie adaption of a popular YA book from the previous year.

The movie starred Dean Casperson.

“Rochelle must have been excited about The Caged Girl being filmed in Duluth,” Serena said. “It looks like she was a big movie fan.”

Marilyn’s face lit up. “Oh, you can’t imagine. It’s all she could talk about. She thought a movie being made here was the greatest thing ever. And as you can probably see, she loved Dean Casperson, too. She got that from me. I’ve had a crush on him since I was a kid.”

“Did the two of you go to see any of the filming?”

“We were planning to. I was just so busy at work. Rochelle wanted to take the bus down to Canal Park one day when they were filming there, but I didn’t want her going by herself.”

“Of course,” Serena said. “Do you mind if we take a look at Rochelle’s phone?”

Marilyn looked embarrassed. “Unfortunately, we haven’t found it.”

“It’s missing?”

“Mark and I searched her room. It’s not here.” Her voice cracked. “It’s probably — well, it’s probably lost in the snow from when she went outside. We won’t find it until the spring.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything else?” Marilyn asked them.

“No, we’ve taken up enough of your time,” Serena replied. “We just need to take some photographs of Rochelle’s room if that’s okay. For our files.”

She nodded. “If you like.”

Rochelle’s mother left the room, and Serena and Guppo were alone. Guppo’s round face was as grave as Serena had ever seen it. He’d come to the same conclusions as she had.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think this was a very shrewd fifteen-year-old who decided to go on the adventure of her life,” Serena said.

She noticed a forty-inch flat-screen television on the wall opposite Rochelle’s bed. Below, among the bookshelves, was a Blu-ray player. She walked over and pressed the eject button on the player. When the drawer opened, she spotted a disk still nestled on the shelf inside.

“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” Serena said.

“That’s the first movie,” Guppo said. “She didn’t get far.”

Serena nodded. “There was no movie marathon. Rochelle took a picture of it to send to her parents. She probably staged the picture of herself in her pajamas, too, so she could send it later. And then I’m betting she ran out to catch the bus and head downtown.”