I could follow. I won’t bore you with all the gory details involving articles of incorporation and board members. But the short version is that the lawyer who set up Creative Assessments works at the same firm as Miller Boatwright’s corporate attorney, who helped set up the producer’s production company, Boatwright Films. This firm represents hundreds of producers so, had we not known which one to pursue, it would have been a needle in a haystack situation. So far, I haven’t been able to find any particulars on what the payment was for. I haven’t uncovered any criminal or civil complaints with his name attached. But there’s definitely smoke there.”
Jessie thought the message was over and was about to hit “end” when Jamil added one more tidbit.
“Oh, I almost forgot, according to credit card receipts, about a month before this agreement was reached, Miller Boatwright and Tara Tanner ate at the same Hollywood restaurant around the same time—separate parties though. Might be nothing, might be something. I’ll keep looking for connections. Let me know if you need anything else.”
When the message ended, Jessie looked over at Trembley.
“Should we turn around?” he asked. “Go back and hit Boatwright with this? See how he reacts?”
Jessie shook her head.
“No, not yet,” she told him. “We don’t know what this is. I don’t want to go barging into the office of a guy like that without having more to work with. Clearly, there’s something there. Boatwright’s assistant wouldn’t have slipped us Tara’s name if he was simply paying her to build him a two-million-dollar coat rack or something. But until we have something concrete, we should hold off.”
“Fair enough,” Trembley said. He looked slightly relieved. Jessie chose not to comment on that for now.
“So what do we know about Phil Reinhold?” she asked.
“Funny you should ask,” he replied. “I’ve been doing a little research on the guy. He’s quite the character.”
“It seems like everyone in this industry is a character,” Jessie observed.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
“And that’s what makes getting into their heads so challenging,” Jessie countered. “So tell me about this guy.”
“Phil Reinhold. Sixty-four years old. He’s the head of Artist Alliance, which sounds impressive but is really just him. He used to be at one of the big agencies, CTA, until he was forced out about five years ago, so he set up his own shingle. Half his roster stayed with the big boys. The other half, about a dozen, went with him, including Corinne. But he’s been bleeding clients ever since. Looking at his website, it appears that he only has four left, none of whom have made a splash in a long time. Once Corinne left, his biggest name was the guy who played Mr. Poppy in the Jiminy Jaminy series.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Jessie said.
“They’re kiddie flicks. But that kind of proves my point. He’s small potatoes. No wonder Corinne left him. Frankly, I’m surprised she stuck around as long as she did.”
They pulled up at the address. Reinhold’s office was on Burton Way at the corner of North Willaman Drive in a two-story black-and-white office building that jutted out sharply in different directions. It looked like a remnant of the 1980s. Jessie couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What?” Trembley asked.
“I’m just getting a feel for Mr. Reinhold. He picked a building that is technically in Beverly Hills, so he can use the name to impress folks. But we’re on the very outer edge of the city, where rent is cheaper. Plus, his office looks like something out of a rerun of Miami Vice. I wonder if that was intentional or just what he could afford.”
Trembley turned off the car.
“Shall we go introduce ourselves?” he asked.
“You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute. I just need to make a call.”
While Trembley waited by the front entrance, she called Hannah. It went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, little sis,” she said, trying not to sound like she was checking up on her. “Just wanted to see how your day is going. Hope you’re making the most of your pre–summer school free days. This case I’m consulting on has me driving all over town but I think I’ll be home for dinner. Let me know what’s up. You can call or text. Talk soon.”
She hung up, satisfied that she didn’t sound too helicopter-y. Next she called the nurses’ station on Ryan’s hospital floor and got voicemail there too. She briefly considered leaving a message but decided against it. If there was