think he’s so rich and successful that he’s gotten used to bulldozing his way through people.”
“That doesn’t work for me,” Jessie said firmly.
“I know,” Trembley said carefully. “But could you not start a fistfight with the guy? If you piss him off, he could close down a bunch of other investigative avenues we need. Besides, aren’t you still recovering from that dislocated shoulder and those burns?”
“I’m almost all healed up,” she said, trying not to smile. “I bet I could take him.”
Trembley looked crestfallen. Jessie felt like she was looking at a sad puppy.
“I’m just messing with you,” she assured him. “I promise I’ll only punch him if he swings first.”
Miller Boatwright’s office was at the end of the hall on the first floor of the Fairbanks Building, a converted apartment complex that had been built, according to a plaque on the wall, in 1914. The placard on the door of Boatwright’s office read “Harlow Bungalow.”
“Jean Harlow,” Trembley whispered as he opened the door. “She was a star in the thirties.”
Jessie, who was well aware of who Jean Harlow was, let it slide with a simple, “Thanks.”
The main door opened into a small waiting room that reminded Jessie of her therapist’s office. It was surprisingly sterile, though there were a half dozen antique leather chairs, separated by ornately designed wooden end tables. Facing them was a frosted sliding glass window, also like a doctor’s office. Next to it was a heavy-looking wooden door.
“Can I help you?” said a disembodied female voice.
Jessie and Trembley looked around for its origin.
“Over here,” the voice said. “There’s a camera in the wall by the window.”
Trembley walked over and looked at the small camera that neither of them had noticed until that moment.
“Hi,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with nerves. “We’re here to speak with Mr. Boatwright.”
Jessie closed her eyes and reminded herself to breathe and not yell. Why he hadn’t identified himself was beyond her. She waited for the voice to comment on it as well.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Boatwright doesn’t take unscheduled meetings. There’s a phone number and submission page with instructions on his website, Boatwright Films. Just include your contact information and we’ll reach out if there’s interest.”
“Oh, no, sorry,” Tremble said quickly, overcorrecting. “We’re not here to pitch a project. I’m Detective Alan Trembley with the Los Angeles Police Department. This is Jessie Hunt, a consulting profiler for the department. We’re investigating a murder on the lot and we need to discuss a few things with Mr. Boatwright.”
There were several long seconds of silence before the voice returned.
“I’m going to give you our direct office number so you can call. We’ll try to schedule an interview expeditiously.”
Trembley looked at Jessie out of the corner of his eye, clearly concerned that she was going to pull out her gun, shoot the camera, and try to kick the door in. She had to admit she was tempted. Instead, she tried a different tack.
“To whom are we speaking?” she asked with mock-sweetness.
“This is Mr. Boatwright’s executive assistant, Alana.”
Jessie took a step forward so that her face was right in front of the wall camera.
“Alana,” she said, keeping the acid out of her voice as best she could. “This is a pressing police matter. I’m quite confident that Mr. Boatwright is aware why we’re here, just as I’m sure that he’s listening to us, and probably watching us, right now. With that in mind, he surely understands why time is of the essence and we need to speak to him now. If he’s accommodating, we can be in and out and let him get back to counting the weekend office receipts. But if we have to go through an elaborate process to secure an interview, costing us valuable investigative time, then that could complicate the process. We’d probably need to conduct the interview down at the station, maybe bring him in via a police escort, possibly even make a public statement to the press. Or we could just have a friendly chat in the privacy of his office. We’re good either way, right, Detective Trembley?”
Trembley, who seemed to have recovered slightly from his jitters, nodded.
“That’s correct.”
There was no response from Alana. Jessie shrugged and headed for the outer door.
“I guess I’ll be calling in the cavalry then,” she said casually as she walked away. “We’ll just wait outside the building until they arrive. That park out there is beautiful. Besides, we really should set up a perimeter. I hope the police tape doesn’t mess