looked old. Even if it was locked, she suspected she could kick it open. She texted her location to Trembley, unholstered her weapon, took one large step forward, and kicked.
The door flew open. It took Jessie a moment to understand what she was seeing. Miller Boatwright was dangling from a rope attached to an exposed pipe in the ceiling. His face was purple, his eyes were bulging, and his legs were twitching.
In the corner of the room, next to a door to the adjoining room, stood Callie Hemphill, dressed all in black. Her intimidating brown eyes blazed. Before Jessie could say a word, the woman flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into near total darkness. Jessie heard the other door open and a voice called out.
“Guess you have to choose between catching me or saving him.”
Jessie felt around near the door she’d just kicked in, found another light switch, and flicked it on. Boatwright had stopped moving. The sound of Hemphill running down the hall toward the exit echoed through the hall. She was right. If Jessie went after her, Boatwright would die for sure. If she stayed to help, the killer might get away. It wasn’t really a choice.
For half a second, Jessie considered trying to wrap her arms around Boatwright’s torso and hold him up until help arrived. But he was in bad shape and, with her aching shoulder, she wasn’t even sure she could physically do it. Instead she took two steps forward, aimed her gun at the rope holding Boatwright up, took a deep breath, and fired.
Nothing happened. The bullet missed the rope and slammed into the wall behind it. Jessie shook off the frustration, took another deep breath, squinted, and fired again.
The rope snapped and the man collapsed to the ground. Jessie ran over and tried to loosen the rope by squeezing her fingers between it and Boatwright’s neck. She could create a fraction of space but not enough to do much good.
She heard a sound behind her and spun around, pointing her gun at the door. It was Trembley, followed closely by Paul the security guard.
“Either of you have a knife?” she asked quickly. “This thing is choking him to death.”
Trembley hurried over, pulling a Swiss army blade out of his pocket. While Jessie tugged at the rope to create more space, he slid the blade under and cut furiously. Within ten seconds, it was frayed enough for him yank the pieces apart.
Paul’s radio squawked. Someone made a comment that Jessie didn’t understand. He grabbed it and spoke quickly.
“This is Stockton. We’re at the south end of Katz, first floor. Man in distress. Come quick.”
“What’s going on?” Jessie asked as she felt for a pulse. It was weak but there.
“The studio medic is en route. Thirty seconds out. Do you want me to try CPR? I was just retrained.”
“Sure,” Jessie said, stepping away to make room for him. “He still has a pulse but it’s faint.”
Paul hurried over and began compressions. Another announcement came over the radio.
“Cameras show a female running east on Bronx Street, just passing Avenue 8.”
Jessie looked at Paul questioningly.
“She’s cutting across the New York back lot in the direction of Stage 31, where her show shoots,” he told her. “Should our people pursue her?”
“No,” Trembley said quickly. “She’s clearly dangerous. Have them hold back and continue surveillance. We’ll go after her. Please update Detective Bray when she and her people arrive.”
Just then, another guard and the medic burst in with a portable defibrillator. They rushed over. Jessie and Trembley stepped back and Paul slid over.
“You got this?” Jessie asked him.
“We’ve got it,” he assured her, tossing her his radio. “Take this. Go get her.”
She nodded and ran out of the room with Trembley right behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
“We lost her.”
That was according to Lionel, the security guard who’d been on the radio, guiding them with the assistance of the studio’s multiple cameras.
Jessie and Trembley were standing at the western edge of the New York back lot, near the corner of Alexander Dayne Way and Avenue 5, where stages 31 and 32 connected. Both gasped for air. Jessie tried to ignore her throbbing shoulder.
“She could have gone anywhere,” Trembley said, frustrated.
“True,” Jessie acknowledged. “But I’m willing to bet she’s on one of those two soundstages. She works on Stage 31 so she knows it well, and Stage 32 is where she killed Weatherly. Either would be a draw for her.”
“Should we just wait for the cavalry?” he asked. “It’s