“He knows. He’s just stressed,” Brodie said.
“Yep. First, he’s got a major problem on the streets, because that drug is deadly for humans. And then he’s got two murdered women and knows we’re in a race against time to save a third—and that somehow the Other community is involved.” He paused, then went on. “Here’s the thing. We’ve got a cult that believes they can bring back a dead shapeshifter magician via human sacrifice. And to keep their sacrificial victims silent, they’re drugging them until they’re ready for the kill. And because the dead women both had Transymil in their systems and it started showing up on the street at the same time the cult surfaced, I think there’s got to be a connection. I’m inclined to change my earlier theory and my guess now is the cultists are manufacturing the drug and selling it on the side to make money. The timing is just too perfect for it to be a coincidence.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Hildegards themselves are involved. Maybe we should be checking into the family finances.”
“Let’s start with the lab, see if they’ve got that analysis so Alessande will have something to work with,” Brodie said. “And then we can stop by Forensic Accounting—see what they can find out without our having to get a warrant.”
“What did you think of Alan Hildegard?” Mark asked.
“I think I’d like to know more about him. And his sister. And the cousin we have yet to meet.”
“Let’s hope they’re at the Snake Pit tonight.”
“I wonder how those auditions are going,” Brodie said.
Mark was aching to know, as well. He was more worried than ever about Alessande’s safety.
They had picked up the lab results and were on their way to Forensic Accounting when Mark’s phone rang.
To his surprise, it was Alan Hildegard.
“Detective, my cousin is here. She’s interested in meeting with you and answering whatever questions she’s able to. When can you stop by?”
He glanced at his watch. Alessande and Sailor wouldn’t be free for another two hours. Of course, in L.A., the drive to pick them up could take two hours.
He decided to trust in the great overlords of traffic and glanced at Brodie as he spoke into the phone. “Now, if that’s good for you. Say...twenty minutes?”
“Perfect.”
As he ended the call, Mark reflected that it sounded as if Hildegard had almost purred the word.
* * *
All Alessande had done before, when it came to acting, was arrive on set, where she was handed her costume and sometimes sent to makeup and hair, after which she followed the herd of extras to wherever they were told to go, followed by wait, wait and wait some more, punctuated by occasional bouts of doing some specified action, until the scene was shot to the director’s liking. She had never been bitten by the acting bug and was always glad to get back home to the country, where she could take long walks in the woods, listening to the birds and the gurgling stream that crossed her property. Maybe she had been living a little on the antisocial side, but she’d been around a long time, and it was good to find peace at last.
The movie business, to her, was anything but.
Today’s routine was at least different, though, because a real role was up for grabs. She waited in an outer office while Sailor went in to read. A few minutes later Sailor came out and gave her a thumbs-up, and Alessande took a deep breath and went in.
The room held a long table and, on the far side, four chairs, one of which was taken by Greg Swayze. He didn’t speak to her, though he smiled. A man seated near the center of the row stood.
“Hello, I’m Taylor Haywood. I’m directing the film. This is Milly Caulfield to my right, casting director, and to her right, Tilda Lyons, associate producer. And Miss Gryffald told me you had a chance to meet our screenwriter, Mr. Swayze, last night.” He nodded toward Greg, sitting to his left.
She smiled and said hello to the tribunal that would decide her fate. The director was young—she was afraid to think about how young—but she had heard his name before, which was a good sign. Milly Caulfield seemed to be old Hollywood; she was skinny as a beanpole, dressed in stereotypical business attire, and her glasses were attached to a delicate chain to keep her from losing them. The associate producer, Tilda Lyons, was no spring chicken, and she’d clearly had work done on her face, but her plastic surgeon had been skillful.
“Excellent look—just right for the part.” Alessande, grateful for her enhanced hearing, heard Tilda whisper.
“Yes, but can she act?” Milly whispered back. She was apparently not fond of the beautiful-but-dim bombshell types who so often did so well.
Alessande didn’t really care about the movie, of course. She only wanted to find out why actresses who had been reading the script had been disappearing. But she couldn’t help it; Milly’s implied insult offended her.
Then it was time for her to read. Haywood handed her the script, and they went straight to the pages she’d read the day before, only this time he read the villain’s lines.
When she was done, he thanked her. She was expecting that to be followed by “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” But she didn’t hear those words. Instead he said, “Miss Salisbrooke, let me ask you, would you be interested in any of the smaller parts in the film? There are a number, most with only a few lines but some with fairly meaty dialogue.”
“Of course, thank you. I’m interested in working on the film in any capacity. I love the screenplay,” she said, and smiled at Greg Swayze, who smiled back.
“That’s wonderful. We’ll be in touch. I’m sure you realize we’re seeing many actors before we make our final decisions, so you may be asked for a callback.”
“That will be fine, thank you.”
She felt awkward. They weren’t mean; they weren’t cold. Still, she felt as if she were standing before a Roman tribunal or something equally daunting.
She thanked them again, then turned to the door.
Sailor was waiting for her in the outer office. “How did it go?” she asked.
“They asked me if I was interested in other parts,” Alessande said. “Is that good?”
“Me, too. And it’s certainly better than a flat turndown. Come on. Declan is waiting for us.”
“I thought Mark and Brodie were going to pick us up?”
Sailor shook her head. “Mark called and said they were held up, so he wants us to go straight to your place. He said they’ll meet us there. He has the analysis for the pills you two bought last night, and he wants you to start working on an antidote as soon as they get there with the information.”
“How do they intend to manage this? Assuming I can even create an antidote, how are they going to get it into the hospital and administer it to that girl?”
As she spoke, Alessande became aware that someone was coming up behind them, and she turned to see that it was Greg Swayze. And he was still smiling.
“You both read very well. Excellent job.”
“Thank you,” Sailor said.
“It was the material,” Alessande said. “It was excellent, too.”
She turned on the Elven charm, planning to bedazzle, and so did Sailor, to the point that Alessande wasn’t sure which one of them he was talking to when he starting speaking again.
“I was hoping that maybe I could see you for coffee or a drink,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “Not that I’m the power when it comes to making casting decisions—I wouldn’t want you to think I was holding that over you— but just...because.”
“I suspect you have more power than you think,” Alessande said. “But I’m saying yes because I think you’re a nice guy, as well as talented.”
Just then she saw that Declan was coming their way. Swayze noticed him, too.
“That’s Declan Wainwright, isn’t it? Owner of the Snake Pit? Is he here for one of you?”
“Declan is an old friend,” Sailor said. “A very old friend.”
“He’s just picking us up—you know what parking in L.A. is like,” Alessande added.
Declan offered a hand to Swayze and introduced himself.
Swayze smiled and reciprocated.
