Alter Ego

23

“Save me,” Aimee Bowe murmured.

She was on her back on the dirty floor of Art Leipold’s hunting cabin. Her arms and legs lay limply on the ground as if she didn’t have the strength to move them. Her blue eyes squinted up at the face of Dean Casperson. She blinked, because the barest light was too much after days of darkness.

“It’s okay,” Casperson reassured her, sliding his strong arms under her shoulders and pulling her closer. “It’s okay, it’s over, I’ve got you.”

“Save me.”

“You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Aimee cried.

The whole scene was nothing but actors playing parts, but Stride’s heart was wrenched because it felt so real. No matter how many other people milled around the set, it was as if Aimee and Dean were alone. They were very, very good.

“Who did this—” she began.

“It doesn’t matter now. We have him. He’s not going to hurt anyone else.”

“I can’t move. What’s wrong with me?”

“Give it time,” Casperson said. “You’re okay.”

“I’m so cold.”

“You’ll be out of here soon.”

“I killed it,” she murmured in a fit of grief as Stride struggled to hear her. “I killed it. I killed the little girl.”

“Shhh,” he hushed her. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to say a word. You’re free.”

Cut.

The actors relaxed.

Aimee Bowe detached herself quickly from Casperson’s arms. She stood up and paced nervously back and forth on the set. Her expression was distressed, as if she had difficulty leaving her character behind. Casperson was the opposite. He immediately began joking with the crew with the casualness of someone who had done this a million times. A green screen glowed behind the small patch of ground on which the interior of the hunting lodge had been built. They were all gathered in the cold rental warehouse near the harbor. It was the fifth take of the rescue scene.

Stride stood next to Chris Leipold at the back of the set. He cocked his head and whispered. “Aimee said she killed the little girl. What does that mean?”

Chris chuckled. “Honestly? I have no idea. Aimee is one of those actors who improvise each take to see how the scenes play out. She’s been reworking the monologues for her character to make it more authentic. It’s a little different every day. Most of the time I like the spontaneity, but it drives Dean crazy because he doesn’t know what’s coming next. He’s a by-the-book actor.”

It was late afternoon, but Chris gulped coffee from a travel mug as if it were early morning. The two of them wandered toward the warehouse door, which was cracked open to let in cold air. The wind felt good to Stride after he’d spent half an hour under the heat of the movie lights.

“The chief says someone called the mayor to complain about police interrupting the filming,” Stride said. “‘Harassment’ is the word she used. Is that true?”

Chris studied him over the top of his coffee. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It was you?”

“I had no choice. I was getting major pushback on the set.”

“Let me guess. Casperson.”

Chris shrugged and didn’t deny it. “Dean’s a pro, and he likes things to go a certain way. If he’s unhappy, the studio’s unhappy, and that means I’m unhappy. I had to formally pass along our displeasure.”

“You could have talked to me directly.”

“That’s not how it works, Lieutenant,” Chris replied. “No offense, but these things are over your head. And it’s not just Dean who complained. Your people have been talking to everyone. It hurts morale and slows the whole process down. Every day we waste, every hour we fall behind, hits our budget.”

“You realize this is a murder investigation, right?” Stride asked.

“I do. And you realize this movie has a budget of more than $100 million, right?”

Stride shook his head in resignation. He and Chris were on opposing sides now, and nothing was going to change that. The investigation of Peach Piper’s murder was a threat to Dean Casperson and a threat to the movie. The people putting up the money weren’t going to stand idly by and let him derail their investment.

Chris sensed Stride’s coolness and tried to repair the schism between them. “Listen, I saw the article in the Gazette. That was way over the line. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“We both know where it came from,” Stride said.

Chris didn’t try to convince him otherwise. “Yes, you’re probably right. Don’t let the smiles around here fool you. People in this business play hardball if you get in their way.”

“I have a girl with a bullet hole in her forehead who would say the same thing.”

Chris recoiled. “Come on, you don’t really think that anyone here—?”

Stride didn’t answer, and Chris looked shaken by the implication. The writer quickly changed the subject.

“I have a question for you about the article,” Chris went on. “It says your friendship with Art blinded you to the idea that he was a suspect. I’m curious. Is there any truth to that?”

Stride wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Chris that Art’s name hadn’t come up at all until they ran the fingerprint on the shard of a pen they’d found in Lori Fulkerson’s apartment. But that wasn’t entirely true. In reality, when he looked back, the clues had all been there.

The first victim, Kristal Beech, had been a St. Scholastica journalism student, and she’d interned on the morning news where Art was an anchor.

The second victim, Tanya Carter, had been a waitress at Bellisio’s. Art ate there twice a week. Stride had met him for dinner there more than once, and he’d watched Art greet the staff like family. There was no way Art didn’t know Tanya.

The third victim, Sally Wills, had worked at a nonprofit organization at which she routinely recruited local celebrities for fund-raising events. She had a signed photograph of herself and Art among the two dozen pictures hung on her office wall.

Each of the victims had a connection to Art Leipold. The truth should have been screaming at Stride, but he’d missed it. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to believe it was possible.

“Deliberately or not, Art left a trail for us to follow,” Stride told Chris. “He didn’t even hide it well. Later, I wondered if he was taunting me, daring me to figure it out. I didn’t, not until it was way too late. But it’s not because we were friends. To be honest, Chris, I didn’t like Art. I never did.”

Chris made a sour little laugh. “Funny, I never did, either.”

“He was smooth, I’ll give him that,” Stride went on. “Right to the end, he was sure he’d beat the charges. I think he could hardly believe it when the jury sent him away. He thought he could talk himself out of anything.”

“Yeah. I sat there in court day after day and listened to the evidence. I remember when he got on the stand and used that anchorman voice of his to say that this was a witch hunt and he was the real victim. The jury hated him. I hated him, too.”

Stride could still hear Art’s anchorman voice in his head. He realized that Art had never really been a journalist. He was an actor. He put on one face for the world and another for his real life.

Just like Dean Casperson.

He saw Casperson on the other side of the set. Casperson was dressed like him. Imitating him. Pretending to be him. It made Stride angry, as if his own identity had been stolen. Casperson looked back at him. The actor’s composure didn’t break, not even for a moment. He was too good. He headed across the warehouse and extended his hand, but Stride didn’t shake it. If it was going to be war, let it be out in the open. That was enough to cause the tiniest crack in Casperson’s facade. It was also enough to make Stride realize that he couldn’t back down in chasing this man no matter what the chief and the mayor wanted.

“Lieutenant, we’re certainly seeing a lot of you,” Casperson told him. “Don’t you have other cases to work on?”

“I’ll be here until we solve this murder,” Stride replied.

“Well, you better hurry. The clock is ticking.”

Stride stared at him. “Oh?”

“Didn’t Chris tell you? We only have a couple more days of filming left. Then we’ll be out of the city.”

“I didn’t realize the production was so far along.”

Casperson shrugged. “Time is money. Right, Chris?”

Chris nodded, but he didn’t look happy. “It is.”

“Aimee wrapped up her scenes in the box yesterday,” Casperson went on. “Did Chris show you any of the footage? It’s amazing. I really think there’ll be Oscar buzz for her. And she and I are almost done with our scenes together, assuming I can get her to read the lines the same way for two takes in a row.”

“You don’t like to improvise?” Stride asked.

“I like to make a plan and execute it one step at a time. Aimee’s younger and more free-spirited. She tries different approaches until she finds one that fits. Of course, screenwriters hate it. Writers don’t like actors messing with their words, do they, Chris?”

“Most of the time, no.”

“Still, I respect her. She’s a gifted performer. After this movie, she’ll be going places. Count on it.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Stride replied.

“Anyway, it means we should be wrapping up in the next day or two. I’m sure that will be a relief for everyone around here. I know it’s been an intrusion. Especially for you.”

“Oh? Why me?”

“I’m aware you had a little trouble with the tabloids,” Casperson said. “I saw the article. It was brutal.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t hurt your box office draw,” Stride said. “You know, doing a movie about a troubled cop.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Lieutenant. By the time the movie comes out, audiences won’t care what kind of man you are in real life. They only want three things when they go to the theater. Popcorn. A great story. And me.” He smiled with those crazy-white teeth of his.

Stride looked down at the actor, who was oozing arrogance. This was the real Dean Casperson. The man behind the mask. The man who knew he had all the naked power in the world to get what he wanted.

“Well, I’d hate to be the one to derail your career after all these years,” Stride said.

Casperson laughed out loud. “Believe me, you couldn’t if you tried. My advice is, don’t read what the tabloids say. Bad publicity comes with the territory in this business. Just keep your head down for a couple more days. Once the filming is done, the Gazette will forget all about you. As soon as I leave town, the tabloids leave with me.”

Chris Leipold, standing in the middle of the fencing match, looked as if he wanted the conversation to be over quickly. “I think they’re ready for the next take, Dean.”

“I have to go,” Casperson told Stride. “If I don’t see you again, Lieutenant, I want you to know it’s been a real pleasure playing you on screen. When you see the movie, I hope you feel I do you justice.”

“I’m sure you will.”

This time, Stride stuck out his hand. Casperson looked at him with the smallest hesitation and then shook it.

“Enjoy your last few days in Duluth,” Stride told him, their hands locked together in a crushing grip. “As far as my team and I are concerned, there’s no rush for you to leave. We’d be happy to keep you around for a long time.”

Their eyes met. Both of them knew exactly what Stride meant.

“That’s a very generous offer, Lieutenant,” Casperson replied, “but I never like to overstay my welcome.”