Catch and Kill, page 24
They were both quiet a moment.
“Jeremy, did you send me a note in New York?”
“No, I never had your address. Just your phone number.”
“So it wasn’t you.”
“What wasn’t me?”
“I got a weird note late one night, when I was still in New York, right before the Oscars. A courier dropped it off. It had the number of a police report with a note that said Scarlett deserved better. But I couldn’t track the report down. I went to a precinct in lower Manhattan, and they had no record of it, couldn’t find the number.”
Jeremy shook his head in bafflement. “Wish I knew.”
“I read some of Scarlett’s journals,” Angie admitted. “She wrote about a lot of things, about her work, about you and her.”
A flash of concern crossed Jeremy’s face.
“It was good stuff, don’t worry. Mostly good anyway.”
Jeremy gave a small laugh.
“But it was clear Charles’s micromanagement on the set and the way he treated the director were stressing her out. And then she started rambling toward the end. I have no idea what happened, but she wasn’t in her right mind. And I’ve heard that Charles is a real predator when it comes to women, and that he doesn’t back off. I started wondering—about Scarlett. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Anything’s possible with that fucker, and somehow, some way I know he’s responsible. If you find out that he touched her . . . Jesus.” He took a long slug from his beer.
Angie gave him a moment to process before venturing gently, “Her journal said you fought the last time you saw one another.”
He sighed and lowered his gaze, shook his head. “Yeah. I wish it wasn’t true, but we did. We were having these great weekends, and I realized I didn’t want to be apart from her. So we had been talking about moving in together. But then she started to change. And the last time I saw her, she was so brittle and she snapped at me for everything. She said she was confused and didn’t know what she wanted, meaning me, I thought, which left me confused. And I responded in kind. Which was oil on a fire, of course. So I went back to Canada and we talked and texted on and off after that, but she would give terse replies or not reply for days, and I wasn’t sure what was going on. I should have asked more questions or just flown back down. It’s Hollywood, after all. I should have known how bad things were.”
God, Scar, why did you have to be so strong? “You couldn’t have known if she didn’t tell you.” Angie realized she was assuring herself as much as she was Jeremy. “None of us could. All we can do now is move forward and, if anything horrible did happen to Scarlett, make sure some sort of justice is done on her behalf.”
Jeremy nodded softly, clearly lost in thought, and a silence settled over the room. He broke it a few moments later. “I think part of the reason I finally texted you is I wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t do enough for Scar, and then when I read you were working at DreamWeaver, I thought I should . . . I don’t know, check in? Does that sound ridiculous?” Jeremy focused on his beer bottle, the label almost entirely shredded. “I mean, you’re a grown woman, and now I can see you have your shit together.”
“What?” Angie laughed out loud. “Oh, my God, my shit’s never together, but thank you.” Jeremy laughed, too. “Since coming out here, I’ve been doing a little research. I can’t get into it all right now, but I know there are actresses who wouldn’t go along with Charles’s advances, and they got blacklisted.”
“Christ. I’m not surprised.”
Angie was beginning to feel tired and decided it was time to go.
“Thanks, Jeremy. I appreciate you contacting me.” Angie stood to leave before remembering one more thing. “Hey, have you been out to the house at all? Scarlett’s. I mean, have you driven by or anything?”
Jeremy shook his head as they moved toward the foyer. “Why?”
Angie took a beat. “Nothing, it’s . . . nothing.”
Angie hugged him goodbye and drove home.
***
Angie woke up feeling restless. The meeting with Jeremy had comforted her, but it had also shined light on Scarlett’s state of mind and exacerbated the state of her own. She had so much to do, but first she had to get through the workday hoping Nicole or Charles or Tanya wouldn’t lower the boom. Thank God it was Friday. And somehow, she had no meetings scheduled. Which meant she finally had a moment to track down Kristy Wong.
She pulled up the company directory and skimmed the listings to find that Kristy Wong was in cubicle number 1408—on the same floor as both Nicole and Charles.
She snatched a folder to look official and headed to the elevators, where two employees she’d never seen before stood waiting. She counted that as good luck. If she didn’t know them, they likely wouldn’t know her. Or at least not enough about her to think it suspicious she was on her way to an upper-level floor.
They hardly glanced at her when the door dinged and they entered the car, gossiping about someone. The taller of the two swiped a key card and hit the button for the thirteenth floor. Shit. It wasn’t the one Angie needed. But the other employee casually swiped his card for the fourteenth floor. Bingo. The car started ascending, and their conversation hushed for a moment, but then they quickly returned to dishing the dirt. The door opened on thirteen and the first guy got out, giving a quick wave to his companion. The short ride to C-suite was silent, and the second guy didn’t seem to give her a moment’s thought.
When the bell dinged on the top level, she took a deep breath and stepped out with what she hoped was a confident air. The same double-glass doors let on to the suite of glass-and-metal tables with the blue couches and film posters. No one was there.
She counted that as more good luck. And hoped she wasn’t using it all up.
She turned left and headed down the hall to a pen of cubicles. To her surprise, the first space she came to was number 1400, followed by 1401. She was going in the right direction. But when she got to 1408, the cube was empty. Now what? She couldn’t very well stand there and wait. What if Nicole saw her?
She was suppressing her rising panic and was about to head back to the elevators when movement down the hall caught her eye and she observed Kristy coming out of what appeared to be a kitchen area. In a mauve skirt and white blouse, she was carrying a cup of coffee, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. She was alone and focusing on her phone. She was still several cubicles away when she looked up. A flash of recognition—followed by, what, fear, annoyance?—crossed her face and she immediately deviated her course, slipping into a door on her right. The women’s restroom.
Angie followed her inside to find a clean white room with four stalls and two sinks. Only one stall had its door shut. Angie leaned against the counter, the folder held tight against her chest. She spoke quietly.
“Kristy. I know you’re in there and I know you saw me.” When there was no response, Angie added, “I know it must have been hard for you to find my sister.” She waited.
The bathroom was so quiet she could hear the air conditioning thrum through the building. Finally, there was a scuffling of shoes and the stall opened. Kristy’s face was blotchy, her eyes wet.
“I liked Scarlett,” she said, her voice a whisper. “But I can’t lose my job.”
“I don’t want to endanger your position here. But I need to know what happened that day. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Of course. I told the police everything.”
“But something happened to push Scarlett over the edge. Do you know anything?”
“I know she was stressed. There were a couple days when she really wasn’t feeling well, but she kept working. She seemed kind of distracted. I had the feeling she wasn’t eating or sleeping enough, so one night I went to her trailer with some tea, thinking it would relax her. But when I got there, I heard voices inside. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but you know how sometimes you can’t help it? You just hear something?”
“Sure, of course.”
“Right. And Scarlett sounded upset and scared, but she was standing up to whoever was in there. She was saying something like, ‘You need to get out. This can’t happen again. I won’t let it.’ And then I hear a man’s voice, very clearly. He says—I still remember the words—‘It isn’t up to you. You should know that by now. I always get what I want.’ And it’s Charles. He sounds . . . menacing. And I panic. I try to think what to do. I’m not really supposed to be there and not supposed to hear their conversation. Right then my phone goes off. Very loudly. And I’m literally standing on the steps to the trailer. So, I freeze. And then I hear the doorknob turning. And then Charles is standing there, looking angry, and he says, ‘Kristy, can I help you?’ And I say something I’m like, ‘Scarlett wanted some tea.’ And I can see her right behind him, over his shoulder. And she smiles at me. And then she says, ‘Thanks, I’ll text you if I need anything else’ and comes forward, takes the tea, and then Charles closes the door.”
“What did you do?”
“I left. But then I got a text from Scarlett asking if I would call her in thirty minutes. So I did, but it went straight to voice mail. Then the next day on set, she was even more distracted, short with people. She snapped at her assistant. That wasn’t like her. I mean, she was always a pro, she hit her marks, knew her lines, could modulate her performance for different takes, but once the director said ‘Cut’ she started wandering off to her trailer. Normally, she was easy-going, she liked to hang with the crew or rehearse or just watch the process. But after the thing in her trailer, she was, like, gone. Just vacant.”
Kristy’s eyes met Angie’s and then she started to cry. Her next words came out haltingly. “I shouldn’t have left her there with him. I should have gone back or called the police or . . .”
“The police? Why?”
“Because . . . that was just the first time he was in her trailer with her.”
Angie knew her next question would cut, but she had to ask. “Do you think he raped her?”
Kristy turned away, tears glistening on her face. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”
Sweet Jesus. Angie tried to contain her own tears. “You couldn’t have done much. What would you have told the police, you overheard parts of conversations? Scarlett herself said she was okay. We both know who the responsible party is, and it’s not you.”
“You can’t tell anyone. Please. My parents . . .”
The door opened and Tanya strode in wearing a red power suit, her expression one of surprise when she saw them.
“Just washing my hands,” Kristy murmured, turning on the tap at the nearest sink. She ran her hands under the water for a moment, dried them on a paper towel, and slunk out, leaving her coffee on the counter.
Angie picked it up and went to follow, but Tanya held up a hand. “Leave her be.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Angie set the cup back down and, still clutching her prop folder, pushed the door open, but Tanya spoke again, arresting her with just her voice. “Angie, don’t let me catch you up here in C-suite unless you’re with someone who belongs here. This isn’t your place.”
Angie released a shaky breath. She was caught. But what did Tanya suspect? “Right. Sorry. Never again.”
And she stole out into the hall, letting the door close with a soft rush.
***
Angie stared numbly at her computer, unable to focus on the screen in front of her. She was seething and unsure what to do. She started scanning her inbox. Screenplay pitches. Queries from writers. Agents seeking meetings. An automated message reminding her of an upcoming performance review. And a message from Charles, checking in to see how she was doing, and could she meet for a drink?
She decided it was time to set a trap now that she knew what kind of animal she was trying to catch. She had to get him talking about Scarlett. She hit reply.
Hi, Charles,
I’d love to get that drink. How’s tonight?
The response came almost instantaneously: Come up to my office at 7:00.
***
Angie’s mouth was dry and her heart hammering when she slipped into the ladies’ at 6:48. Peering at herself in the mirror only confirmed how wan she looked. She applied a little lipstick and blush and mascara, then used drops to get rid of her bloodshot eyes. By 6:54, she was shaking. She gripped the marble countertop to steady herself and met her gaze in the mirror. She had been told a number of times how much she reminded others of Scarlett. She was finally accepting that there were similarities in how they looked, and, more importantly, she felt she was developing some of Scarlett’s strength, too, if only a little.
At seven o’clock, she approached Charles’s door. Apparently, his assistant was gone for the day and his bodyguards elsewhere. She knocked. “Come on in!” His voice was gravelly yet mellifluous. It only made her more anxious.
She swung the door open and stepped inside. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t what she found. Charles sat almost primly at his desk, his hands folded in front of him, the light of the sun in the west flooding him through the tinted windows that looked over the city to the ocean. His baseball memorabilia, balls and bats, gleamed behind him, polished to a shine. When she entered, he hopped up and went to the wall, which he slid open, surprising her with a hidden bar: vodka, tequila, wine, red and white, whiskey, gin, even Kahlua. “Have a seat,” he said. “Let’s take in that sunset.”
Oh. That was when she caught sight of the settee that was facing the window. It was upholstered in a pale green and before it was a small coffee table.
“What’s your poison?”
“Vodka, straight.” Had she just said that? She didn’t really drink.
Charles chuckled.
She stood in front of the window, the setting sun warming her face. She hadn’t planned anything beyond getting closer to Charles, to gain his trust so that he’d leave himself vulnerable. Vulnerable for what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. But that meant she had to be relaxed, gracious, maybe playful. “I find a good, stiff drink at the end of the day really relaxes me.” And where did that come from?
She heard liquid being poured and a moment later, he was offering her a glass with two fingers of vodka. He raised his glass in a toast.
“I can think of another stiff thing that might relax you even more.”
She tensed, shocked by his disgusting remark, but raised her glass and they both drank. The alcohol scorched her throat, but she worked to keep her expression neutral. She wasn’t mousy, ineffective, frightened Angie. She was assured, determined Angela.
“Why don’t we have a seat.” Charles indicated the settee and they sat. He left only an inch of space between them, placing his free hand on her knee. “So. We finally get some time alone. I’m glad you came around.”
“I’ve been looking forward to getting to know the boss.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” His hand moved up to her thigh.
She could smell onions on his breath. Her stomach roiled, already sour from the vodka. “Now, Charles. We’re just having a drink,” she said coquettishly with a little smile.
“That’s right. We’re just having a drink. At the moment.” He sat back and took in the floor-to-ceiling view. “This always makes me hard. You know? Being king of the world, the city spread out in front of me for the taking.” He angled his eyes back to Angie. “Just like you.”
Oh, fuck. She was in over her head. She was certain there were still people in C-suite, but would they hear her if she screamed?
She stood, approached the window. The sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon. Soon, the twilight and then the darkness would engulf them.
Charles approached, standing behind her. “You know, Angie.” She didn’t turn back at his voice. “I’m having a fantastic year. I feel like Rogers Hornsby. Maybe I’ll hit four-twenty-four this year.”
Then she felt his erection pressing against her ass. He nudged it in a circular motion.
Shit. “Charles. I think this is inappropriate.”
“Honey, this is what you came for.” When she hesitated, he added, “Don’t you want to be like your sister?”
She froze. That was why she was there. Her sister. She couldn’t acquiesce, but she couldn’t scare him off either. She sipped more of her vodka and finally turned to him. “How well did you know Scarlett?”
“Oh, very well. She and I were very close.”
“She never mentioned you. Aside from getting the part. You know, in Catapult.”
“Maybe she’s not the type to kiss and tell.”
She was outraged at how glibly he was talking about a woman he had driven to suicide, how he was implying she had been into it, that it had been an affair, not rape. She slipped out from her place between Charles and the window and made like she was heading to the bar, but before she got more than a few steps, he gripped one of her wrists, pulling her back toward him.
“Oh, no. Don’t think you’re getting out of here that easily. We still have some business to attend to.” His gaze skimmed down her body and back up. “I mean, you’re not Scarlett, but you’ll do. In a pinch.”
