3 Malled to Death (22 page)

“It’s been a damn long day,” he confirmed, lowering the bottle. “Hi, EJ. Thanks for faxing those notes. You’ve read them, I see,” he said, his gaze drifting to the sheaf of pink in Grandpa’s hand.

“Of course we have,” Grandpa said testily. “How else are we supposed to figure out who this nutcase is?”

“I’ve got a team analyzing the notes, including a linguistics expert. Even if we can’t get forensic data—which it looks like we can’t—they can analyze word choices and syntax and make an educated guess about—”

I’d let their conversation flow past me as I scanned the article, but now I looked up. “You won’t need them. I know who it is.”

Thirty

• • • 

“You do?” Helland
sounded doubtful.

“You do!” Grandpa apparently had more faith in me. “Well, who?”

I took a deep breath. “It’s Anya Vale.”

Both men goggled at me.

“Emma-Joy . . .” Doubt had crept into Grandpa’s voice.

“Why would an internationally famous movie star and sex symbol, one of the hottest women on the planet, a woman who could have any man she wants—”

“Not my father.”

“—who makes Scarlett Johansson look like a hag—”

I looked at Helland, a hint of amusement in my gaze, and he ground to a stop. “Like brunettes, do you?” I teased. Not waiting for a response, I held up the magazine. “It’s all in here.” I was beginning to enjoy myself.

“Emma-Joy, you know they print hogswill in those fan magazines,” Grandpa said. “I can’t believe you’re reading one, much less that you’d believe a single word they said. If one of those magazines told me Christmas was on December twenty-fifth, I’d look at a calendar to make sure.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But in this case . . . Here. Let me show you.” Taking the magazine to the kitchen table, I laid it flat, open to the one-page article about Anya Vale, then took the notes from Grandpa and placed them in chronological order above the magazine. Grandpa sat at the end of the table and Helland stood beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

“Let’s look at the timeline first.” I pointed to the earliest note. “This was sent two years ago. The use of present tense makes it sound like she was seeing Ethan somewhat regularly.” I underscored a line in the article’s sidebar which listed Anya Vale’s movies and their release dates. “
Random’s Redemption
came out in December of that year, about eight months after this first note.”

“So?” A crease appeared between Helland’s brows.

“I think I get where you’re going, Emma-Joy,” Grandpa said slowly. “If the movie came out in December, they were probably filming it about the time the note was sent.”

“Exactly!” Drawing the second note toward me, I said, “Look. Here she talks about ‘although we are apart now.’” I looked up. “What do you want to bet that that’s when filming wrapped on
Random’s Redemption
?”

Grandpa’s expression told me he was beginning to believe me. Helland, however, looked stubbornly unconvinced. “Coincidence.”

I nodded. “Okay. But then we come to the fourth and fifth letters. In this one”—I waggled the fourth letter—“she’s ecstatic because Ethan has, supposedly, found a way for them to be together, and in this one”—I tapped the fifth letter—“she talks about their ‘reunion.’ Look at this.” I slid the magazine toward them and indicated the pertinent paragraph.

Helland read aloud: “‘Mercury Wing Productions announced they have signed Anya Vale to appear opposite Ethan Jarrett in the upcoming thriller
Mafia Mistress
. She will play the role of Antonia Mugatti, the mistress of mob boss . . .’ blah, blah. ‘Other actresses considered for the role included Katie Holmes and Ginnifer Goodwin.’” He looked up from the page. “Who are these people? I’ve never heard of them.”

“Stay on task, Helland,” I said. “That announcement was made only a couple of days after TMD sent the fourth letter where she talked about knowing he’d find a way for them to be together,” I interrupted him, fairly bouncing with excitement. “And if you read further, you’ll see that she says she ‘wanted the opportunity to work with Ethan Jarrett again,’” I quoted from memory. “‘He’s truly special, so generous and passionate about his craft. I learned a lot from him when we made
Random’s Redemption
together.’” I swiveled my head, looking from Grandpa to Helland to see if I’d convinced them. “If that’s not enough, ask yourselves why no one attacked Anya Vale after her love scene with Ethan on Friday. Mom and I assumed it was because their lovemaking was scripted and the attacker knew it was fake. I think we were wrong; it was because Anya’s behind it all. It’s her.”

“The timing’s interesting,” Helland conceded.

“Interesting?” Grandpa scoffed. “It’s damning. You figured it out, Emma-Joy,” he said, coming around the table to hug me. “It’s hard to believe, but I think you’re right: Anya Vale is Truly, Madly, Deeply. She’s the one who’s been stalking Ethan.”

I squeaked from the force of his hug. He released me and said, “Question is: What are we going to do about it? You could search for the knife that killed Zoë Winters in Vale’s trailer or her hotel room.”

“No judge would give me a search warrant on what we have here,” Helland said. “We have absolutely no physical evidence connecting her to the crime, no proof that she wrote these letters, and no way of getting any.”

I looked them both square in the eye, half defiant because I suspected neither of them would like my plan. “Oh, yes, we do,” I said.

It took Helland only a split second to figure it out. His response was unequivocal: “No.”

Grandpa was right behind him. “Absolutely not, Emma-Joy.”

The men moved closer together, forming a wall of solidarity, I thought, amused despite myself. “Come on. It makes sense. It’s the only way we’ll draw her into the open, get the proof we need to put her away and keep my mom and dad—and who knows what other innocent women—safe.”

Identical mulish expressions settled on the men’s faces. Helland’s lips barely moved as he said, “I am not letting you set yourself up as bait for a woman who has already killed once—that we know of.”

His words caught me off guard. Was it possible Anya Vale had killed before? Had she become jealous of Ethan’s relationship with some woman on the set of their first movie and removed her “rival”? I hadn’t heard about anything like that, but I could tell from the look on Helland’s face that he’d be making a call to the Hollywood police before long.

“We’ve got an opportunity to stop her,” I said. “Like you said, she’s already killed once and tried to kill on two other occasions. Who knows when she’ll lose patience and decide that Ethan is stringing her along, or that he’s betrayed her, and decide to go after him. We need to put her in jail—”

“Or a loony bin,” Grandpa cut in.

“—and tomorrow’s the last day of filming at Fernglen. I don’t know what the schedule is after that, but we’d lose our chance to control the situation. Her trailer’s right across from Ethan’s. I’ll visit Ethan and make sure to hug him good-bye outside his trailer where Anya will have a good view. Then, it’s her move.”

“I don’t like it,” Helland said, drawing a hand down his face. “You’re a civilian. We couldn’t put backup in close enough to protect you without Vale spotting them.”

“I can take care of myself,” I said, jutting my jaw forward slightly, “and I’d wear a wire.”

“If I decide this is doable, would we brief Mr. Jarrett?”

“No!” I said.

“Hell, no!” Grandpa said. In response to Helland’s arched brows, he added, “Ethan would want to play an . . . active role. He was on that cop show,
Roll Call
, too long; he’d want to confront Anya himself, probably arrest her, and—”

“And she’d stab him or shoot him because he’s not used to ‘perps’ who fight back for real. Believe me,” I said, “you do not want Ethan involved. Things get unbelievably complicated when Ethan’s involved.” I could have given him several examples from our family life, like the time we wanted to go on a simple fishing trip to a lake near our home, and Ethan hired someone to stock the lake, hoping to ensure that Clint and I had a good time by catching fish, but the people he hired dumped some sort of non-native fish into the lake and Ethan was briefly arrested for something to do with spreading an invasive species when the men he’d hired told the police he’d paid them to do it. It would take too long to convince Helland that he didn’t want Ethan’s fingers in this pie, though, so I simply said, “Take my advice: don’t tell Ethan.”

Helland looked like he thought we were being a bit hard on Ethan, but he acquiesced. “Okay. I’m still not sure—”

I looked him straight in the eye, ignoring Fubar who was butting his head against my ankle. “I’m not asking your permission. I can make my mom and dad safer by luring Anya Vale into the open, and I’m going to do it.”

Helland held my gaze for a moment, his eyes flinty, before throwing up one hand in defeat. “Is that the way you talked to your commanding officer?”

Having gotten my way, I grinned. “No, but you’re not in my chain of command, Anders.” I used his first name deliberately, to emphasize that he wasn’t the boss of me. I didn’t know why I’d been tiptoeing around it—too much time in the military, calling people by rank or sir and ma’am, I guessed.

“Thank God for small favors.”

Grandpa laughed and I glared at both of them. Then we got down to business.

Thirty-one

• • • 

Tuesday morning, early,
I walked self-consciously from the mall entrance to Ethan’s trailer. The deck-of-cards-sized transmitter taped to the small of my back itched, and the teeny microphone secured between my breasts felt as big and obvious as a saxophone. For the first time since signing on at Fernglen, I carried a Taser on my belt and a gun in an ankle holster. I hadn’t wanted it, but Jay had insisted and had supplied me with the .22.

I’d run into him moments after arriving at Fernglen following my crack-of-dawn session with the Vernonville Police Department’s surveillance team who had wired me up. Jay’s eyes lit up when he saw me buying coffee at The Bean Bonanza, and he greeted me with a smile that brightened my whole day and made me forget for a second that I was about to go toe to toe with a killer. It took him no time at all to spot the Taser.

“What’s that for?”

I bit my lip, debating the wisdom of telling him about the operation, but then I said, “Not here.”

He finished buying his coffee, then led me to Lola’s, unlocked the door to the kitchen, and dragged me inside. With no cookies baking and no lights on, the white tile and stainless steel were a bit cheerless and cold-feeling.

“First things first.” He pulled me close and kissed me thoroughly. The room warmed up nicely, or maybe it was me. I responded in kind and was in a fair way to forgetting there was a murderer running around Fernglen before he pushed me to arm’s length and said, “Now, about that Taser . . .”

I told him everything, and our coffee cups were nearly empty by the time I’d finished. I wasn’t too worried; it was still half an hour before my shift was supposed to start. I’d thought Jay would respond like Grandpa and Helland had initially, and protest against my being involved. Instead, he bent and fumbled at his ankle. My eyes widened as he straightened with a .22 and holster in his hand. Grabbing my unresisting hand, he pressed the gun into it.

“Wear this. Helland’s people won’t be close enough. I want you to be armed. Heaven knows I wouldn’t say that to most people for fear they’d be more likely to hurt themselves than an attacker, but you were a cop. You know how to handle a weapon. Don’t hesitate, EJ.” He gave me an unusually serious look, a strand of dark auburn hair falling across his forehead. “If she gets close enough, if she’s got a weapon of any kind, take her down.”

“Will do,” I said, mostly to make him feel better. I had every confidence that I’d be able to outwit Anya Vale without having to use the gun. She was an actor, for heaven’s sake, even if she’d gone to Princeton. She wasn’t a trained killer, or a martial arts expert, or an ex-SEAL. If I couldn’t handle Anya Vale, I should give up my dream of returning to police work and carve out a niche for myself as a phone marketer or mattress salesperson. I should have remembered what Nana Jarrett used to say about pride going before a fall, or what Master Sergeant Benitez had drilled into us about never underestimating either the stupidity or the cunning of a perp.

• • • 

Now, approaching Ethan’s
trailer, I felt a slight flutter of butterflies in my stomach but ignored them. I was only going to wish Ethan good luck on his last day of filming, I told myself. I knocked. No answer. Damn. We hadn’t anticipated this.

“You looking for Ethan?” It was Bree Spurrier, walking past in her standard uniform of photographer’s vest and jeans, looking harried. “He’s in makeup.”

When I bit my lip, debating whether I would have to try this later, she said, “I’m headed that way myself, to talk to Anya. Come on.”

Pleased to hear that Anya was with Ethan, I told myself that flexibility was the key to mission success and fell into step beside Bree, figuring I could stage my scene in the makeup trailer instead. Bree looked at me curiously. “It’s about that letter he got, I guess? The one you mentioned the other day?”

“In a way.”

Her brow puckered. “No one’s threatening him, are they? I’ve noticed he’s got a bodyguard now. Celebrity can be a bear. I remember that Gwyneth Paltrow got the most hideous threats when we were on location for
Random’s Redemption
. They—”

“Anya Vale was in that, too, right?”

Bree nodded. “It was her first role. How far we’ve come, hm?” She gave me a wry look that seemed to convey a bit of disdain for the Hollywood star-making machine, or maybe just for Anya Vale. “We’re here.” She mounted the shallow steps and entered the trailer. I followed.

Bree beelined for Anya, the top of whose head I could see at the far end of the trailer, half hidden by temporary walls that broke the space into half a dozen separate rooms. Lights blazed, reflected by myriad mirrors, and the room smelled like lipstick wax and powder. It hummed with low-voiced conversation as makeup artists prepared the cast for the day’s shoot.

I followed Ethan’s voice to a semiprivate cubicle and bumped into a woman with a messy ponytail coming out as I went in. The space was outfitted with a large mirror and a counter where the makeup artist had spread her collection of foundations, brushes, sponge wedges, and other items. Ethan sat in a beauty-shop-style chair, the kind you can raise or lower with a foot pedal, wearing the top half of his cop costume with gray sweatpants. Tissue was tucked around the collar and he was fully made-up. Despite the ridiculous combination of uniform shirt and sweats, and the tissue ruff, he looked superhumanly hot, even to a daughter’s eyes. Genetics, I thought, not for the first time, and some magical combination of energy and pheromones.

“EJ!” He swept me into a big hug and I returned it, hoping Anya was paying attention from her “room” on the other side of the panel. A sharp yip told me that the Chinese crested dog was in residence, so I had high hopes Anya had a front-row seat for my performance.

“I don’t want to smudge your makeup,” I said, breaking free after a minute. The thought of Helland’s team listening to my conversations made me feel ridiculously self-conscious and I hoped Ethan didn’t notice my stiffness.

“Who cares? I get punched in the face, shot twice, and sprayed with a fire extinguisher in this morning’s scene. I’ll get made up more times today than a supermodel does in a year.

“What brings you around?” he asked, tugging the paper ruff from around his neck and crumpling it into a trash can.

I propped my butt against the counter and crossed my arms. “Can’t I pop in to see you and wish you luck on the day’s filming without getting the third degree?” I asked lightly.

His eyes narrowed. “That’s pretty close to the same line Amy Adams gave me in
Death Stalks the Night
, right before she tried to gun me down with an AR-15.”

“Not one of your best,” I said to distract him.

He tried to frown, but his forehead remained suspiciously rigid. I leaned toward him and studied his face from six inches away. “Ethan! Did you get Botoxed again?”

He tried to grimace, but his paralyzed forehead muscles remained smooth. “Dr. Verbenna was having an off day. Van’s not very happy about it, says I should have waited until we were done filming.”

“I guess so,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Won’t it look weird that you have facial movements for half the movie, and then suddenly you have no more expression than an android? I’ve got to get back to the office. Good luck today.”

Ethan walked me to the door, past a bunch of people, some of whom eyed us curiously and some of whom went on with their tasks, oblivious. I hoped Anya was among the first group. When Ethan opened the door, I hugged him tightly and kissed him by the corner of his mouth, for Anya’s benefit. I felt guilty doing it, like I was deceiving Ethan, and that made me hug him tighter. “Love you,” I said, not loud enough for anyone but him to hear.

“I love you, too, sweetheart. I wish we saw more of each other. Are you sure you don’t want to work in my production compa—”

“La, la, la,” I said, sticking my fingers in my ears to drown out his familiar refrain, and he gave up with a laugh as Iona bustled toward the trailer, her omnipresent clipboard held in a way that meant business.

I greeted her absently and walked away, headed into the mall, trying not to feel like I had a target painted on my back.