Mastiff Security Offices

Los Angeles, California

 

“Tell me you didn’t interfere with the production of this movie, that you didn’t insult an actor—our client—and prevent him from filming a scene for the movie.”

Wren watched Jason’s face, waiting for the shame or the regret to show itself. But neither ever arrived. Instead, his chin lifted with defiance.

“The guy was dragging the scene on for no reason. Our other client, Kat Carlisle, had had enough. I simply put an end to an uncomfortable situation.”

“You’re not the director of this film!”

“I know that. But I wasn’t going to let him abuse her in that way, either. Isn’t protecting her my job?”

“Not from her career!”

Jason didn’t respond to that. But then Jackson Chamberlain cleared his throat.

“Colt Murphy is an asshole who probably deserved what Jason here did. However, he is the client, and he is complaining to anyone who will listen, so it would probably not hurt if you’d go over and apologize.”

Jason lowered his head just slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Wren leaned back against the front of her desk, wondering when she’d lost control here.

“You have information on the sabotaged light?” she asked, almost warily.

“I found the guy in the enhanced video the tech department was able to pull from our security footage.” He picked up a file he’d earlier laid on Wren’s desk, handing it to her. “His name is Tony Fachelli. He was approached through email and asked to loosen the bolts on the light.”

“He caused the light to fall?” Jackson asked.

“No. He only loosened the bolts that align the light, not the one that holds it to the rafters. I think someone else must have gotten up there and caused the light to fall.”

“Do we have proof of that?”

“No. But I’ve instructed the tech people to go over the footage from the hours before the accident. And I’ve given them the information they’ll need to find the emails and the bank account the person who contacted Tony Fachelli used.”

“That’s good work, Jason,” Wren said, almost relieved that the man had pulled one out of the fire for them.

“That is good,” Jackson agreed. “I’d like to know who’s sabotaging my set. But, more important, there haven’t been any more accidents. That makes me very happy.”

Jason lowered his head, accepting the compliment as humbly as he ever did anything.

“Keep me up to date on what’s happening,” Wren told him a few minutes later as he headed for the door behind Jackson. “Just three more weeks, and we’re out from under this one.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She watched him go, worried about his clear attachment to this singer. He’d been highly professional these last few weeks, not giving her anything to worry about. But this scene he’d caused on set this morning and the angry phone calls she’d fielded from both the director and Colt Murphy were a concern. They both demanded his replacement on this case. If it happened again, she wasn’t sure she could defend him as she had today.

Wren dropped into her chair, weariness settling on her shoulders. An email from Cormac lessened the burden slightly, but when she saw what it was, she only felt worse.

‘Found a few pictures from a yearbook in Texas. Is there something you’ve forgotten to tell me?’

The pictures were of her mother when she was just sixteen. The resemblance was even more intense in these. Her hair was slightly shorter than in the photograph her brother had shown her, but youth and the style at the time made her look more like Wren than she ever could have imagined.

She’d thought she could get away with avoiding the subject of her relationship to the victim in this information exchange with Cormac. But clearly that was no longer an option.

Wren had been researching this murder since she was a child, collecting newspaper clippings every time the anniversary of the morning they’d found her mother’s body came around. When she entered the police academy, she had filed a Freedom of Information request to the files the Santa Monica Police Department had on the case. It was a bit of a fight to get the records because it was technically still an open case. But when she became a cop and made the right friends, the information came a little more freely. She still didn’t have it all—obviously—but she had enough.

At least, she’d thought she did.

But now she was wondering if she knew anything at all. Her mother had always been a mystery, but now…she knew facts. She knew her mother was from Texas, that she’d spent time all along the West Coast before she settled in Los Angeles with her father and his three kids. And she knew how she died.

But did she really know anything about her?

She was about to shut down her computer when another email alert pulled her back to the screen.

‘I think I found another.’

Wren clicked on the attachment provided in Cormac’s email, and her heart stuttered in her chest. Another woman, another blond, her body mutilated just like her mother’s.

What the hell?