be asking at least as many questions as the consulting profiler on the case.”
Trembley waited a beat before nodding slowly, never taking his eyes off the road.
“You’re right,” he said. “I got a little stage fright, I guess. I should have looked at Boatwright exclusively as a suspect. Instead I let his fame get in the way. It won’t happen again.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jessie replied, happy to let it drop now that she’d made her point.
“So,” he said in a tone that suggested he meant to change the subject, “you going to tell me what was on that piece of paper Alana slipped you when we left?”
Again, Jessie was surprised. It was nice to be reminded why Trembley had managed to make this unit in the first place. He might be easily starstruck but he was an observant, diligent investigator. She debated whether to come clean for half a second before relenting.
“It’s a name. I was about to look it up. Tara Tanner, you know it?”
Trembley scrunched up his face in concentration.
“It sounds vaguely familiar. I think she might be an actress. Go ahead and search her name.”
Jessie did. Tara Tanner was indeed an actress, or at least she used to be. It looked like she had a string of unmemorable film and television credits dating back about four years. Most of them were along the lines of “Woman #3” or “Girl at Party.” But they stopped entirely about a year ago.
“That’s weird,” Jessie said. “She has ten to fifteen credits a year and then suddenly nothing.”
“She could just have taken a hiatus,” Trembley pointed out. “Maybe she got married or had a baby and decided to take a break. Or maybe she got some big role that’s consuming all her time.”
“But wouldn’t that show up too if it was in production right now?”
“Almost certainly, yeah,” he conceded.
Jessie decided to try another tack. As they headed up Beachwood Canyon Drive into the Hollywood Hills, she called the research unit at the station. To her delight and surprise, the phone was answered by an unexpected voice.
“Research, Winslow here.”
“Is this Jamil Winslow?” Jessie asked.
“Yes, to whom am I speaking?”
“Jamil, it’s Jessie Hunt. I didn’t know you had joined the team.”
Jamil Winslow was the eager young researcher who’d helped her and Ryan on their most recent case, involving a series of murders in Manhattan Beach, a wealthy town just southwest of the city. He’d offered invaluable assistance. She remembered him asking if there were any openings in their station. But after passing along a positive review of him to the HR folks, she’d forgotten all about it.
“Yes, Ms. Hunt,” he said with his trademark enthusiasm. “I wanted to tell you but you haven’t been around. I heard you were leaving the department. And I didn’t think it was appropriate to call with everything you’ve been through.”
“This is fantastic news, Jamil,” Jessie said, genuinely happy for the guy. “The station is lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, Ms. Hunt. Does your call mean you’ve reconsidered leaving?”
“Afraid not,” she replied. “I just agreed to help out on one case because Captain Decker is so short-handed. But I guess it means we’ll get to work together one last time.”
She told him what she needed, specifically running a search through all the legal and criminal databases to see what came up on Tara Tanner. She had just barely completed her request when the cell service got too spotty to hear clearly and then cut out completely.
“Damn hills,” she muttered.
“Most people find them beautiful,” Trembley said.
The route up to the Weatherly/Struce home was an endless series of snaking switchbacks on a residential road that was rarely wide enough for more than one car. The fact that multiple vehicles were parked on the shoulder made it extra challenging. They’d been zigzagging upward for about five minutes when Trembley pulled over, finding an unoccupied spot on the shoulder.
“You starting to feel sick too?” Jessie asked him.
“No,” he said, surprised by the question. “I pulled over because we’re here. That’s the house.”
Jessie looked over the home. It was shockingly modest. Almost all the houses on this stretch of road had a similar architectural denominator. The ones built into the hillsides tended to look like standard one-story homes from the street. But up close, one often discovered that they dropped down two, three, sometimes even four stories into the canyons, like crazy Jenga towers with floor to ceiling windows.
But Corinne’s place was an aberration. It was on the cliff side of the road,