at the studio is. He’s the guy who would have greenlit production on the Marauder reboot, right? Maybe he was convinced to do so by material on that list.”
As they approached the studio’s main entrance, Jessie noted that the small memorial to Corinne Weatherly that had been set up on the sidewalk was bigger now, comprised of more posters, candles, and many white roses. There were about a dozen people milling about, some wearing outfits from her movies. A few were singing.
Jessie and Trembley were now well-known enough to the guards at the gate house that they were waved in through the employee line to save time. A guard directed them to Haughton’s office by circling a location on the increasingly familiar studio lot map.
They walked over to the building and removed their weapons before passing through the metal detector at the building’s entrance. It was the first one they’d encountered anywhere on the lot. Looking first at the guns, and then at the badges they flashed, the eyes of Rudy, the bored guard manning the detector, popped wide open.
He called ahead to warn Haughton’s people what was coming their way, then gave them laminated badges and told them where to go. They took the elevator to the third floor. When it opened, a petite woman in her thirties was standing there waiting.
“Hi, I’m Maura, Mr. Haughton’s executive assistant. Rudy let us know you were on your way up and Mr. Haughton asked me to escort you back.”
Unlike Alana, Miller Boatwright’s assistant, Maura was dressed in business attire and projected the no-nonsense attitude of someone who’d been on the job a while and knew how to handle almost any situation. She opened the door to Haughton’s outer office and then swiped her key card to enter the interior.
As they followed her down the hall, Jessie noticed that this place was much less ostentatious than Boatright’s. There were a few posters and paintings on the wall, but there were also children’s drawings thumb-tacked to corkboards.
“Who’s the artist?” Jessie asked, pointing to one image of a green sun shining over a purple ocean.
“The kids of everyone in the office contribute,” Maura said. “That one was done by my son.”
They reached Haughton’s door, which was cracked open. Maura knocked.
“The detectives are here,” she said, pushing the door wide.
Haughton was on a call and held up a finger to indicate he was almost done.
“I’ve got to go, Jerry,” he said mildly. “I’ve got an impromptu meeting but I’ll call you back after.”
He hung up, then stood up to greet them. Jessie had seen photos of him before and he looked essentially the same in real life. The man was distinguished but not imposing. In his late fifties, he was just starting to lose a bit of his silvery hair. He had a slight paunch and a solid collection of wrinkles. He wore slacks and a dress shirt, but no tie. He oozed unpretentious confidence.
“I assumed we’d run into each other at some point,” he said, shaking hands and then leaning back on his desk. “I’m Remy Haughton. You must be Detective Trembley.”
Trembley seemed surprised that anyone would know his name in advance and nodded silently. Haughton turned his attention to Jessie.
“And this is the infamous Jessie Hunt in the flesh—catcher of killers, rescuer of the innocent, righter of wrongs, and refuser of life rights deals. Is refuser a word?”
Jessie shrugged.
“I’m more focused on the ‘infamous’ thing,” she replied. “Is that how I’m perceived?”
“I only meant that you’re well known by both your admirers and your haters. Everyone’s got a take on you.”
“As I’m learning,” she said, about to dive into the nitty-gritty. Haughton beat her to the punch.
“So I won’t insult you by asking how the investigation is going. I’m sure you’re not able to share details. But I’m here to help in any way I can. Please sit.”
He motioned to several chairs. Jessie noted that all of them were of equal size.
“We’ve been driving all morning,” she said, “so I prefer to stand. But we’ll definitely take you up on that help. What can you tell us about a compromising list we’ve heard about?”
Haughton readjusted himself on the desk, seeming to honestly ponder the question.
“That’s a loaded question, Ms. Hunt. I’m privy to a number of lists that could be described as compromising. But for the sake of expediency, I’m going to assume you’re referring to the Bad Boys list?”
“I haven’t heard that phrase,” Jessie conceded. “But if we’re talking about a list