Catch and Kill, page 21
Angie nodded. She took a napkin and placed it across her forehead, gently blotting, before closing her eyes.
“Maybe we should get you some water,” Jango said.
“I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.” Her breathing was rapid and shallow, but she opened her eyes and tried to find a place to focus her gaze so she could steady herself. She settled on the trunk of a slender palm tree and pondered the new information. Scarlett would have never had sex with someone for a part. Certainly not Charles Weaver. He may have been charming and rich, but he was also paunchy, unattractive, and manipulative. She took a deep breath and mustered enough courage to ask the obvious question: “He’s a rapist. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah. Exactly.” She could feel his eyes on her. “You sure you’re okay, Miss Norris?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Please call me Angie.”
Jango leaned back. “Did you ever hear of a woman named Sari Sunderland? She was a big name about ten years ago. I found her. She had a nice part in a DreamWeaver picture and then went on to have a couple more around town. She was having some success, and Weaver decided he wanted her back at DreamWeaver. She was the catch of the day, if you will. So he promises her a big part, a high school teacher who tries to save a kid from abusive parents and drug addiction. It’s a great part, guaranteed to make a splash, get her noticed.
“So Weaver invites this young woman to lunch in a private dining room at a fancy restaurant. And toward the end of the meal, he starts talking about how much he’d like to work with her, and how she has this natural charisma and sex appeal, he knows she’ll just light up the screen—all that kind of thing. He stands up and goes behind her chair and puts his hands on her shoulders. She shrugs him off and tries to get up, but he pushes her back down, grabs her hand and pulls it up against his crotch. He tries to kiss her, but she protests, loudly, so he puts his hand over her mouth.
Angie thought of her own lunch with Charles, and her stomach reeled again.
“Well, lucky for her, they get interrupted. Her cell phone goes off—she’d told a friend to check in on her. So it startles Charles, and while he’s distracted, she elbows him, grabs her purse, and runs out of the restaurant like it’s on fire. I found a woman who worked there as a waitress at the time. She witnessed Sari running out of the private room. She didn’t see this incident, but did witness Charles clearly sexually assaulting a different woman another time. The restaurant swept it under the carpet. She didn’t dare breathe a word to anyone. So she basically corroborated the story, as did a female friend Sari told at the time. Ms. Sunderland is credible.”
“What happened to her?”
“Well, she never got that role, of course. Weaver put out the word around town she wasn’t to be cast. The asshole no doubt told people they could kiss any future DreamWeaver collaborations goodbye if they hired her.” He shook his head in apparent disgust.
“Is she still an actress?”
“She dropped out after a few years, when work got too hard to come by.”
Angie let out a deep sigh and leaned her head back against the seat.
“This guy is sick, twisted, and fucked up, Miss Norris. I mean, Angie. And you work there. You need to be very careful here. He will do anything to protect what’s his. And he likes women who resist him.”
“He called me late Friday night. Said he was in the area and asked if I could meet him for a drink. And he’s been sending me flowers.” Angie paused. “He took me to lunch last week.”
“He’s moving in harder than I realized. He’s trying to intimidate you. For the sexual thrill of it, for sure, but also because I can almost guarantee he’s worried you want to know more about Scarlett. I don’t know yet what happened to your sister, but I will find out. And it’s probably not going to be pretty. You know that, right?”
Angie nodded. “I have to get to the truth.”
“Okay, then. Don’t use the studio phones for anything. Or any kind of work laptop or tablet. Only use your cell and personal devices that DreamWeaver can’t access. Change all your passwords. Don’t store anything in the cloud. Meet people in public places. And make certain you’re not followed. If you are followed, try to lose them, and then get somewhere big and public like a supermarket or pull into a police station.”
Holy shit. This was more real than she’d ever imagined.
“You got it? I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Thank you.” She climbed out of the car then stood there for a beat before stooping so she could see through the passenger window. “My sister . . . she always looked out for me. And me being me, that was a lot. She always tried to help me, so I can’t, you know, just walk away.”
Jango nodded. Angie straightened and took a step back, watching as he drove off.
God almighty, what a nightmare, she thought as she walked back to her car. Sweet, smart Scarlett, who was as genuine as anyone Angie had ever known, had gotten caught in it like so many others. She blinked back tears as she put on her sunglasses and searched her phone’s GPS for a café where she could pick up breakfast to take back to Nicole, who, with any luck, would still be asleep.
Twenty minutes later, she was exiting a popular spot on PCH with muffins and matcha lattes when she heard her name and nearly dropped everything. “Hey, Angie, what’s up?”
She turned to face Kevin Li, who was sporting black jeans, a yellow jersey, and expensive sunglasses.
“Hey, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, especially not holding your breakfast.” He was eyeing her to-go tray for two.
“Kevin. Hey. Wow, sorry, I was lost in thought.” Is he following me? The look on his face was friendly, and she didn’t get any malevolent vibe off him. But he was Charles’s friend. “You live in this area?”
“Nah, I got a buddy out here. We go riding on the trails. It’s nice getting away from it all, you know?” He gestured toward a shiny green motorbike parked in front of the café.
“Yeah, for sure.” Angie looked at him, not knowing what to say. “Well, I’m meeting a friend. Don’t want the matcha to cool down. See you Monday. Have fun.”
“See you.”
Angie scurried to her car where she pretended to check her phone in case Kevin was watching.
She didn’t feel threatened. But what if her instincts were wrong?
***
“Hey, I brought muffins!” Angie called out a little too brightly when she breezed into the kitchen.
“Where did you go for them, Vegas?” Nicole was dressed in a pink tank top and shorts and was grinding beans. “I borrowed some clothes. Hope that’s okay?”
“Of course.” Angie handed her a latte. “I brought you matcha with soy milk and sweetener. But please make that pot. It’s going to be a caffeine-heavy morning, I can tell.”
Nicole opened the bag Angie set on the counter and pulled out the treats. “Well, you’ve redeemed yourself with breakfast at least.” She wrapped her arms around Angie’s waist affectionately. “I was a little disappointed, I have to say, when I woke up and you were gone.” She kissed her neck then reached down, broke off a piece of a muffin, and popped it into Angie’s mouth. “So, why did you cut out of here?” The question seemed an obvious one. Nicole turned back to grinding coffee beans. “I wondered if you woke up and felt weirded out by me being here. Or last night.”
“No. I liked having you there when I woke up.” Angie spoke shyly, but she was being truthful. She hadn’t had much time to process what had happened between them, considering she had to sneak out as soon as she woke up, but she did know she had been happy to see Nicole sleeping next to her. She’d always assumed she was straight, though her depression and anxiety took up so much mental energy, she’d never embraced any strong sense of sexual identity at all. She’d dated men and, when none had proved particularly interesting, she figured she just hadn’t met the right person. And that’s what finally happened. Only the right person turned out to be a woman.
“I just woke up restless,” she added, silently chastising herself for being so vague. “I bumped into Kevin.” She hoped she sounded as nonchalant as she intended.
“Kevin Li?”
“He said he and his buddy go dirt biking out in the canyons.” Angie broke off a piece of a muffin, just for something to do, not meeting Nicole’s eyes. She felt like she was lying when that part of her story was actually truthful.
“The canyons, huh? Maybe we should do the same. I mean, we don’t have dirt bikes, but what about a bit of a hike? Get some air? Might help you decompress from work and Charles and everything else you’ve got going on in there.” She tapped the side of Angie’s temple with a finger.
Angie needed time to contemplate her next move. She had to coordinate calls to more former DreamWeaver actresses and absorb Jango’s information. But she didn’t want Nicole to get suspicious, and getting some fresh air out in nature did sound good. Yesterday they’d mostly been cooped up, hunched over computers and stacks of paper.
“Sure,” she finally allowed. “I probably need to clean up around here later, but let’s get out for the early part of the day at least.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t monopolize all of your time, I promise,” Nicole teased her. “But right now, I’m gonna need to borrow some sturdy shoes. I hope we’re the same size. And a water bottle.”
An hour later, Angie was panting a few feet behind Nicole as they made their way up the four-mile trail known as Skull Rock Loop in Topanga State Park. She felt like she was burning up; she wasn’t used to the strong Southern California sun. As they ascended, they passed other hikers, enormous rock formations, and thickets of dense overgrowth, stopping periodically to take in panoramic coastal and mountain views that blew Angie’s mind. She didn’t see anything like this in Queens.
When they climbed an outcropping near the top of the trail, they stopped to take a break. Nicole uncapped her water bottle and took a long draw. “Can I ask you something?” she asked when she’d swallowed. “Why did you come out here, really? Was it just for the job?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Angie was suddenly on edge. She leaned against the rock formation she was perched on and kept her gaze on the vista.
“I guess. I mean, a lot of people would kill to have your job, work in the industry, work at DreamWeaver. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve settled in really well. But I have to say I was surprised when you said you were actually moving to LA. I’m happy you’re here, like, very happy.” She rested a hand on Angie’s leg. “But I can’t help thinking, now that I’m hanging at Scarlett’s more, just how hard the move must have been. Living here, where it all went down . . . I don’t know what I would have done if it were one of my sisters.”
Angie focused on the pale dirt path, the scrubby desert brush, the expansive blue sky. “I feel guilty. For being alive. For being here to enjoy Scarlett’s house and for stepping into her world while she’s not here to enjoy it with me.” She thought a simpler truth, or part of the truth, would do for the time being. “And like I’ve said before, I feel closer to Scarlett out here. Plus, it was time for a change.”
“So do you know what happened to Scarlett? Why she . . . ended her life?”
Angie drank from her water bottle and then shrugged.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. You probably don’t want to talk about this.”
“It’s fine,” Angie said and thought she meant it. “I don’t know, really. Scarlett wasn’t someone who fell apart. And yet, she did. She wasn’t insecure or desperate. Yet she felt so trapped she took her life. Her suicide doesn’t make sense. But I suppose all survivors think that.”
She extended a hand to Nicole, who squeezed in next to her, and Angie raised her phone so she could take a selfie. Then she saw a text that had come in minutes ago from a number she didn’t recognize.
I want to talk about
Scarlett. 8 p.m. Thursday.
Geoffrey’s Restaurant in Malibu.
I’ll find you.
They continued along the trail, chatting about the weather and work and colleagues. But Angie only half listened. She couldn’t stop thinking about the text.
***
“I still don’t understand what she hopes you’ll find in there,” Ellen complained to Scott as he dragged a box out of the basement closet. “She should focus on her new job and life in LA. Honestly, she’s chasing ghosts.”
As much as he himself had warned Angie not to obsess over Scarlett’s suicide, Scott felt an urge to defend her. His mother’s obstinance was getting annoying. He expected that from his father, but not Ellen. And so what if he wanted to go through some of Scarlett’s belongings?
“Mom, the reason Angie is in LA in the first place is Scarlett.” He knew she didn’t need reminders, but hiding from reality, refusing to even try and understand what Angie was trying to do, wasn’t doing anybody any good. “She’s working at the last place Scar worked before . . .” He cleared his throat and his mother looked away. “She’s living at her house. Obviously, it’s going to bring up a lot of things. You know how sensitive she is. And how much she idolized Scar. So let me just do this for her.”
“But what does she hope to find?” Ellen pressed on.
“She doesn’t hope to find anything in particular, Mom, I think she just wants to know what’s here. Don’t you?”
The front door opened, and a voice rang out above them. “Ellen, where are you? I got a loaf of that olive bread and a bottle of that red you love. We can crack it before dinner. Ell, are you here?”
“I’ll be right up!” Ellen called. She turned to her son, who had started to open the box, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’ve got to go. If he finds out you’re going through Scarlett’s things, oh, God, I can’t even—”
“I know, Mom,” Scott whispered back. “I parked a few blocks away on a side street. He’ll never know I was here.”
Ellen hurriedly left the room, calling to her husband as she went upstairs. Scott could hear them from the basement.
“Hey, there, so where’s that bread?”
“I’m slicing you some right now,” Gerry said. “Where were you, anyway? What were you doing?”
Jesus, has Dad always been so controlling? Scott wondered. What did it matter what his mother was doing in their own house? Did she have to answer to him for her time? How had he not noticed that before?
“Oh, just sorting through some old sweaters and jackets I need to get rid of,” Ellen replied. “Why don’t we put on a movie?”
Their voices faded as Scott distracted himself with the contents of the box. There were mostly file folders with bank statements and other business documents, but underneath the paperwork he found a cell phone and two photo albums, one of Scarlett’s college years and a second from when they were kids. He started to leaf through that one, finding images of their birthday parties with Ellen’s homemade cakes. Angie had always wanted strawberry with white icing, Scarlett had loved devil’s food with fudge frosting, and Scott’s favorite had been carrot. There were the three of them in swimsuits, running through spray from the hose in the front of the house, like brightly colored summer fairies sprung from the lawn. The Christmas pictures were the same each year—Ellen always picked out coordinating sweaters, pants, and skirts, and they would pose dutifully in front of the tree—except they got taller over time. There was a shot of Barry, Scott’s beagle, who’d followed him to elementary school every day and then walked back home on his own. Barry had lived to be fourteen. Scott could feel his throat tightening at the memories, but he pushed the emotion down. They’d been a happy family, but it had been derailed, first by Angie’s depression, then by Scarlett’s suicide.
He remembered a bad dream phase he’d had as a kid, maybe six or seven. He’d call out in his sleep and his mom or dad would usually hear him and come. But one night, Scarlett opened his bedroom door. “Hey, Scotty, it’s okay,” she reassured him, slipping into his room. “What happened?” He told her he was being chased by an old man who was kidnapping little boys. “But I don’t want to go! I want to stay here with you and Angie and Mommy and Daddy!” he’d sobbed.
“Oh, Scotty, it was just a bad dream.” Scarlett sat next to him on his bed and embraced him. “That mean old man isn’t real. And even if he was, I would never, ever let him take you. Not ever. You and me and Angie and Mommy and Daddy stick together, and that’s always the way it’s gonna be.”
He remembered how she’d wiped the tears off his cheeks and told him to close his eyes and had stroked his hair until he fell asleep. He remembered feeling safe, because Scarlett would never let anyone take him or hurt him, not ever.
Another time, when he’d just turned eleven, a few older boys began taunting him on his walk home from school. They’d wait for him at a corner a few blocks from his house and close in, pushing and jostling him, throwing his books around, knocking him down. Scarlett, then a senior in high school, got wind of it and one day she followed him. When the bullies appeared, she stalked up and glared down at them, now being a head taller than the twelve-year-olds. “You guys got a problem?” She went to the biggest one, shoved him, and, with a menacing tone, told him, “If you ever bother my brother again, I will beat the living shit out of you so bad your mother won’t recognize you. Then I’ll drag your ass home and tell your parents that you attacked me first. And if you don’t believe it, just try me, you little shit!”
The boys never bothered Scott again.
He could still see Scarlett so clearly. The way her full dark brows curved over her wide-set gray eyes. The chain with the “S” dangling around her neck. Her long skinny legs. The way she could eat a cupcake in two bites and would gulp iced tea out of the glass pitcher in the fridge, much to Ellen’s consternation. He could hear her loud laugh and remembered, at Christmas, she’d gleefully sing carols so loudly in church that everyone, including the rest of the family, cast wary glances at her. But Scarlett had never cared. She was always herself, everyone else be damned.
