Insidious (22 page)

“That’s what Rob says. You know, if it is Alexander who is trying to poison his grandmother, I can’t see what his motive would be. So he’d have to wait a bit longer until she stepped down. Why would he care so much? Ah, forgive me, talking about the family as if I’m intimate with them. I’m certainly not.”

She brought her legs into the lotus position. “All of them were very kind to me last night. And I was there to make a good impression. You were there to observe, weren’t you? To see how everyone reacted to the black sheep—namely Rob—and to me, his girlfriend?”

Again Savich remembered Rob and Delsey Freestone when they’d first seen each other the day before, by the elevator at the Hoover Building. Instant chemistry. Maybe Rob wouldn’t follow up with Delsey. Maybe he was in love with Marsia; maybe he was loyal. Savich wanted to believe it. But from the look on Delsey’s face, and Rob’s, they seemed ready to leap right into the fire.

“And what were your impressions, Ms. Gay?”

“Please call me Marsia, sort of a weird name, I know, but my mom is very—whimsical. If it had been up to my dad, I’d have been a Jane or an Ann.”

Savich nodded. “Marsia, what did you think of the family? I assume you googled all of them, learned about them?”

“Yes, of course, and Rob told me a lot about them as well. A lot of his information was a decade out of date, though.” She shrugged. “But people are people, and they don’t change unless something happens to them and they’re forced to, so they were pretty much what I expected. I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted them to like me. I trust they did, at least they didn’t seem to want to throw me out the window.

“I’ve
got to say, though, that Glynis surprised me, with that lip-lock she put on Rob. You see, he’d never said anything about her, probably because she was a teenager when he left. I was struck by her beauty, and how bone-deep mean she is.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked her.

“I have a feeling she wouldn’t hesitate to do anything at all to get what she wants.” She paused a moment. “I got the impression last night that just maybe she wants to have Rob.”

“Nah,” Sherlock said. “Glynis wanted to rub your nose in it, that’s all. You’re basically her age and you’re very accomplished, successful in your own right. Glynis is rich, sure, but not by her own hands. I think you made her feel inferior and Glynis retaliated the only way she knows how. She’d find it amusing to take Rob away from you, I think, to prove herself better than you, but she’s not going to try that hard. Too much work. If I were you I’d watch my back with her, though.”

Marsia nodded. “I will.”

Savich’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and read the text, slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. He said, “Ms. Gay, ten years ago both your parents died in an airplane accident. You were a teenager. It must have been difficult for you.”

Marsia froze. She picked up a glass of water and drank it down. Slowly, she turned back and gave Savich a slight smile. “That question threw me right back to when the headmistress of my school called me out of class to see my parents’ lawyer. Mom and Dad were flying to Granada, Spain, and crashed in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Because my parents were very nearly divorced, the irony of their dying together slaps you in the face.” She paused a moment, drank more water. “I quickly learned the two of them were deeply in debt and there was no money. My relatives didn’t know me and didn’t want
me, so that meant foster care for me until I graduated high school. I had three different fosters—they were all okay, no problems, except for one son, and I broke his finger. There’s nothing more, really.”

“I should say there is a lot more, Ms. Gay,” Sherlock said. She saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “You worked two waitressing jobs to put yourself through art school. Two years ago, you made your first big sale. And now you’re considered an artist on the rise. That shows me you didn’t need your parents’ money, you had grit and talent. What you’ve accomplished is admirable, Ms. Gay.”

Marsia shook her head, wiped her eyes with her fist. “You’re very kind. I’ll tell you, it feels good to know that you’re not going to be out on the street.” She paused, looked around at the big airy space. “Do you know what? I was able to buy this whole building three weeks ago—it was a real steal.”

Sherlock smiled. “Will you make improvements to the outside?”

“Oh no, given the way it looks, everyone steers clear of my building. I intend to keep all its original patina.”

Savich said, “The man who tried to kill Mrs. Rasmussen on Monday, Vincent Willig, was murdered early this morning in George Washington University Hospital.”

Marsia stared at them. “He what? Murdered? But why?”

“Because,” Sherlock said, “he was ready to take Venus Rasmussen’s offer of one hundred thousand dollars to give up the name of the person who hired him. Where were you last night, Ms. Gay, after you left the Rasmussens’?”

Marsia reared back as if she’d been slapped. “Fun time is over, I see. You want to know where I was? But I have nothing to do with anything.”

“Yes, you do,” Savich said. “You are currently seeing Rob Rasmussen. Like everyone else near Mrs. Rasmussen, he is a person of interest. And now so are you. Please tell us where you were, Ms. Gay.”

“Here, I was here, sleeping, all night. And yes, I was alone. Rob dropped me off, said he had work to do and couldn’t stay. But I assure you, once I was here, I never left.”

Savich said, “Is your relationship with Rob serious? Are you planning to marry him?”

Marsia took a deep breath, settled herself. “You certainly got down and dirty. I was beginning to think we were friends.” She shook her head. “No, that’s stupid. You’re here to interview me, see if I have a motive for killing Mrs. Rasmussen, for killing this Mr. Willig. Is that his name?”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said. “Did you know him, Ms. Gay?”

“Goodness, no, how could I? And now he’s dead, murdered. You have no idea who did this? Tried to kill Mrs. Rasmussen and now Mr. Willig?”

“We will, soon,” Savich said. “You didn’t answer my question, Ms. Gay. Your relationship with Rob Rasmussen—what are your intentions?”

“I’ve thought about it, certainly, asked myself if Rob and I have a future. Marriage, kids, the whole works. To be honest, I haven’t made up my mind. As for Rob, I just don’t know.” She smiled. “Like many men, Rob doesn’t like to discuss the future. He’s a here-and-now kind of guy.”

Savich gave Ms. Marsia Gay one last look. Talent, looks, brains, all in one neat package. He hoped she was what she seemed. After a long beat of silence he stood, Sherlock following him. “Thank you for showing us your studio and answering our questions. We’ll be in touch.” He and Sherlock left the studio.

“Who texted you?” Sherlock asked once they were back in the Porsche.

Savich had just fastened his seat belt and was pulling away from the warehouse. “That was Cam. Agent Poker called her from Las Vegas. There was an anonymous sketch left in their field office lobby of Molly Harbinger’s murder scene. The Serial is there front and center, just as that burglar, Sallas, would have seen him. They think Sallas left it there, or had someone do it for him, to get the cops and the media off his back. There’s been no other sign of him. He’s disappeared.”

“Is the sketch good enough for Aaron to use it to identify the Serial?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, the man in the sketch is wearing blood-splattered goggles and a watch cap.”

Sherlock slammed her fist against the dash, then lightly patted it, apologizing to the Porsche. “Wait, Dillon. Maybe there’s enough of a jawline, or a head shape, or a nose and mouth, to help them find him on facial recognition?”

“I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. Cam emailed me the sketch after she texted.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Take a look.”

It was a surprisingly well-detailed drawing, obviously done by a pro. She felt a punch of toxic rage at the spray of blood on the goggles. “What does Cam think?”

“She said a neighbor saw this man who looked like this leaving Deborah Connelly’s house. As you can see, he’s tall and thin. He took off his watch cap to rub blood off his bald head. Cam pointed out it could be a skull cap.”

“Did Aaron identify the artist?”

He pulled the Porsche onto I-95. “Good question. Call him, Sherlock.”

She did, but after she asked Aaron that same question she listened for a moment and then hung up, shaking her head. “Aaron said the artist wasn’t nice enough to sign the sketch, so it’s a dead end.”

39

CULVER BUILDING

LOS ANGELES

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

The Culver Building, in Century City, soared up twenty-two glass-encircled stories, the tenants’ joke being the L.A. smog wasn’t too bad if you could see them all.

Cam and Daniel were shown into the huge corner office of Mr. Theodore Markham by his personal assistant Ms. Brandi Mikels. She looked like she would be as comfortable wearing wings for Victoria’s Secret as wearing a slick black suit.

“Special Agent Wittier and Detective Montoya, sir.”

“Thank you, Brandi. Agent, Detective, you’ve given me no warning, and I’m busy, a meeting, in fact, in twenty minutes. But I’m certain Brandi told you that and you simply pulled rank?”

Close enough. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Markham,” Cam said.

He rose slowly and watched them walk across the expanse of thick pale gray carpet to his desk. It was all polished glass and bubinga wood, a dark reddish brown with purple streaks so stunning Daniel wondered if it belonged on an endangered list. Markham took her offered creds and Daniel’s badge, gave them a cursory look-see, and handed them back. “I’ve already spoken to you, Detective Montoya.
I remember you and I had a conversation in my office at Universal Studios after Constance was killed. I, of course, had nothing to do with her death, and naturally, you verified that. For whatever reason I cannot begin to fathom, you are back again—I assume it was because Deborah Connelly was killed last night? I heard about her murder this morning with great sadness. Her death—it was like poor Connie’s, from what I heard on the news. That maniac struck again.

“Is that why you’re here, to interrogate me? I rather think you two should be looking for the killer instead, or all over her damned boyfriend.” As he spoke, his hand reached for his phone.

“Mr. Markham,” Cam said quickly, not wanting him to call in his lawyers, “we’re here because you’ve been personally affected, twice now. You’re an important person in show business in L.A. and you could be of great assistance to us. We would like to hear your ideas on how and why a serial killer would target these particular young actresses. There have been six young women now, brutally murdered.”

His hand hovered, then backed away. He waved the same hand at them. “Sit down. As I said, I have a meeting, but I’ll tell you what I know, what I think.”

They sat. His chair was higher than theirs, a bit on the obvious side, Cam thought, but she only smiled at him. As Missy had said, Markham was tall, fashionably thin, his dark hair receding just a bit but still thick and full. He had a bit of white at his temples, carefully brushed on by an expert hand. His jaw was honed and firm, probably the work of another expert hand. In short, Mr. Markham looked exactly as he wanted to look, an important Hollywood big shot. Cam saw a framed photo of a lovely woman about his age, midforties, she guessed, flanked by two boys, both college-age. Mr. Markham was standing on the other side of his sons, his arm around them.

She smiled at the photo. “Your sons, how old are they, sir?”

“What? Oh, both are at UCLA, both computer majors, something their mother applauds.” He shrugged.

“And you don’t?”

He shrugged again. “They’ll make a decent living, I have no doubt, but it won’t be an exciting life.”

“Not like yours, you mean?” Cam said.

He smiled at that, and Cam saw the charm in this smile, easy and prepackaged. “Thing is I don’t know anyone who could help them, then again perhaps they’ll want to join a start-up. At least I could be an investor. We’ll see.”

Daniel said, “Most people have to make it on their own. It builds character, I’m told.”

“They have too much character as it is,” Markham said, shaking his head. “As I said, I have a meeting. You want to know why I think anyone would target these particular young women. Naturally, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve come to realize I have no special insights or brilliant theories about that. I wish I did. I will tell you, though, that in Deborah’s murder, you should look closely at her boyfriend—he’s a doctor and goes by the name of Doc, but I don’t remember his name. Talk about a dark cloud hovering over Deborah. He could even be your serial killer.” He looked down at his Rolex.

“We still have a little time, sir. We’ll certainly be looking at everyone, Dr. Mark Richards included. At the time of her murder, Deborah Connelly had a meaty role in one of your movies—
The Crown Prince
. What are your plans now that she’s dead?”

Markham picked up a Montblanc pen and began weaving it through his fingers. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but the director has already been on the phone to me, told me he’s tracking down an actress who looks enough like Deborah to fill in for her. Once they have her made up, he’ll shoot the remaining scenes without any
close-ups and no one will know the difference. If you didn’t know,
The Crown Prince
is a remake of
Mayerling
—the suicides of thirty-year-old Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and his seventeen-year-old mistress, in 1889. The costumes are voluminous, the bonnets wide-brimmed. He’ll manage. The director also pointed out that with Ms. Connelly’s murder the movie would get some free press. Yes, I know, that’s fairly disturbing, but unfortunately, that’s the way of the world. Ms. Connelly will be missed, but the film will remain on schedule.”

Cam said, “Do you think this movie could have been a springboard for Ms. Connelly? To bigger and better roles?”