Northwest: Deep Freeze Part 17

"I don't know."

She had his attention now. "You have no idea who would send you something like this?" He held the bag more closely to his eyes and examined the envelope. Same type as in the letter. Postmarked in Portland-on the east side, he thought.

"That's right, none."

"Ever happened before?"

She let out a small sigh and lifted a shoulder. "Well, yes. Once."

He dropped the plastic bag onto the desk, grabbed a pen from a cup on his desk, clicked it, and slid a notepad closer. "Go on."

"The other time was a while back when I was still living in L.A. There were always obsessive fans, of course. Always. But..." she gnawed on a corner of her lip, then caught herself and met his gaze steadily again, "...but I thought I was safe here."

"Anyone ever stalk you?"

"Not recently."

"In the past?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "There are some fans who step over the line, get a little too close, try to move into your s.p.a.ce, and once there was a guy who just wouldn't take 'no' for an answer." Her clear eyes clouded with the memory. "He called and showed up at my house, followed me when I was jogging, showed up on the set, even when I was out to dinner. And yeah, he sent me a letter. It was...unnerving, to say the least. I was married at the time. My husband and I got a restraining order against him."

"What happened then?" he asked.

"I never heard from him again. I guess he got the message."

Her explanation didn't seem right. "Wait a second. The restraining order was the end of it?" Carter wasn't buying it. Not for a second. "He was obsessed with you to the point that you went to the police and then he just went away?"

"Yeah." She shrugged. "I don't know what happened to him, but he left me alone."

Carter didn't like it. He clicked his pen several times. "The guy's name?"

"Vincent Paladin."

Carter scratched it out on his legal pad.

"Address?"

"I told you, I don't know what happened to him. He was kind of a vagabond type, I think. About twenty-seven at the time. Never lived in any one place more than a month or two. At the time he had an apartment in Compton, which is in L.A. County-south-southwest of USC. Claimed he was a student there, but the police found out that was a lie. Actually, he worked at a copy store-Quickie Print, I think the name of it was."

"How long ago was that?"

"Five...almost six years," she said.

"And you've never heard from him since?"

"Not a word."

Odd. Was it possible Paladin had relocated up here?

"Was the letter similar to this one?"

"Not at all. It was a long, rambling thing, handwritten on a yellow legal pad. There were seven pages, I think."

"Do you have a copy?"

"No." She offered him a small, self-deprecating smile. "It's not something I like to dwell on."

"But the police in L.A. have it on file, right?"

"I would a.s.sume. Detective Brown, Sarah Brown, was in charge of the investigation."

Carter wrote down the detective's name and made a note to call LAPD. "Anything else you can tell me about Paladin?"

"Not much." She shook her head, the long braid swis.h.i.+ng between her shoulder blades. "He was an introvert with this odd obsession about me."

"Did he ever harm you?"

"No, and I really don't think that was his intent. He was never violent, never got into the house, though he did hang around outside the gates. It creeped me out to see him there, but he never stayed long."

"What about this picture?" he asked, picking up the bagged note again and studying the photo beneath the words, a beautiful photo in which Jenna Hughes was s.e.xy, sultry, and sophisticated.

"A publicity shot for Resurrection, a movie I made nearly ten years ago."

"Any significance to it? Any reason this picture would be chosen over all the other publicity shots of you?"

"Not that I know of. It was just part of the promo for the film. Available anywhere. Video stores. The Internet. Collectibles. Movie paraphernalia, I suppose. Right before the movie came out, there were thousands of pictures available, but, as I said, that was a long time ago."

Carter asked more questions about Paladin, didn't find out much, and made a note to find out what the creep was up to, where he'd most recently dropped anchor. Could he have followed Jenna north? Been stealing some of her things? She mentioned the phone call and the fact that she thought she'd heard music from one of her movies playing in the background, and he felt a tightening in his gut.

"Do you have any enemies?"

"Other than my daughter's boyfriend?" she said, and then looked immediately contrite. She fiddled with the gloves in her hand. "Strike that, would you?"

"Why?"

"It's not him...I was just joking."

"Not a joking matter."

"No," she said soberly, her eyes suddenly a darker shade of green. "It's not."

"What about your ex-husband?"

She shook her head. "Robert's too into himself, and he and I get along."

"What about boyfriends or ex-lovers?"

She smiled and blushed as if embarra.s.sed. "None," she said, dropping the gloves onto her lap and looked directly at him. "Surprised?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not like the characters I play, Sheriff," she said quickly, a flash of anger coloring her cheeks.

"I a.s.sumed not."

She arched an eyebrow, silently accusing him of the lie. "A lot of people do, you know. They think I'm the person they see in the film. They tend to forget that what I do is called 'acting' for a reason. They identify with me as the character I'm portraying, and that's just not the way it is. I-"

His phone jangled and he held up a hand, took the short call, then hung up.

"Sorry," he apologized, and scanned his notes.

"You were asking me about my love life," she reminded him, an edge to her voice, the anger still simmering in her eyes.

He didn't blame her for not wanting to discuss what happened behind her closed doors, but that was just too d.a.m.ned bad. Today, if she wanted his department's help, she had to provide answers. To all of his questions. "So what about it?"

Her jaw slid to one side and she looked as if she wanted to spit nails. Instead she gripped the arms of the chair. "The deal is this: I really haven't dated much since the divorce. I've seen a couple of men for coffee and dinner and that's about it. It probably totals four or five dates, if you can call them that."

"Who were the men?"

"Jesus."

He waited, stared at her, gave her time.

"I don't want to drag everyone into this."

"It's important." He was firm and getting tired of her backpedaling. "Either you want me to help you or not."

"Yeah, I know. Okay, I've gone out to dinner twice with Harrison Brennan-he's my neighbor and does some odd jobs around the place. I've had coffee with Travis Settler, the father of one of my daughter's friends, a couple of times. Believe me, it's all pretty tame. Nothing X-rated."

He ignored the jab. "Why haven't you dated more?" he asked, and looked at her hard again. He had a.s.sumed that men would be all over her, but she didn't seem to be bulls.h.i.+tting him.

"I guess I'm too busy, and I intimidate a lot of men, I think."

"Because of your fame?"

"Exactly."

"Okay, so tell me who you think would send you the letter?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't have a lot of time, Ms. Hughes. Why don't you give me your best guess."

"I wish I could," she snapped, unable to come up with anyone she thought might want to torment her. Then she gave him the names of the people she'd met since moving up here, most of whom Carter knew personally, none of whom he considered a nutcase who would send an obsessive letter like the one she'd received.

But then, no one knew what a person did privately.

He glanced down at the letter she'd found in her mailbox again. So meticulous, the text painstakingly placed so that the words didn't mar her face nor detract from the sensual atmosphere of the photograph.

"Resurrection was the movie where you played a killer, right?"

Little lines framed her mouth. "A psychotic murderess."

"Who was into sadomasochism."

"Mainly sadism," she corrected. "Anne Parks inflicted pain on her lovers, not herself."

He remembered the film. Had seen it in the theater with Carolyn. Remembered talking during the long drive home about the level of eroticism versus violence in the thriller. "Doesn't it seem odd that of all the publicity shots of you, he chose this one?" he said, and felt a real sense of foreboding. Gone were any of his thoughts that Jenna Hughes was just a Hollywood princess who was missing a few baubles she'd donated to the local theater.

"I don't think it was random," she admitted, and licked her lips nervously. "And that's what's scary."

"But the music you heard was from another movie?"

"White Out. The song was a hit. The movie never came out." She cleared her throat, then explained quickly about the accident that had closed production of the film. He remembered reading about the avalanche and tragedy. Looking at her now, he saw the pain in her eyes, noticed the slight droop of her shoulders and he realized she'd never gotten over the loss of her sister who had been killed during the filming. There had been a freak accident; explosives that were to be used in a later scene had inexplicably gone off, creating a killer avalanche. Jenna's sister had been in the path of hundreds of tons of wildly rolling, roaring snow and ice. She'd never had a chance. Jenna, he guessed, somehow blamed herself for not being able to save her younger sister's life.

He asked a few more questions, and they were just wrapping up the conversation when BJ knocked on the door. "When you've got a minute," she said, poking her head into the room. Her usual smile was nonexistent.

"We're about done here."

Jenna stood. "Look, I don't want to take up any more of your time. Just let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"I'll keep this, run it down to the lab," he said, motioning to the plastic bag. "In the meantime, be vigilant. Lock your house and cars."

"Okay."

"I'll get back to you. Let me know if you hear anything else, get any more disturbing mail or calls, or if you think of anything that might help."

"I will."

"You have a security system?"

"Yes."

"Use it. You might consider a guard dog."

"I have a dog."

He remembered seeing the ancient mutt in the old truck and at the theater. For a second he considered telling her to upgrade to a younger, tougher animal that might at least be able to hear, but decided to hold his tongue. "Good."

He stood and shoved his hands in his back pockets. "Look, you take extra precautions, okay? For you and your kids. I'll make sure that the road near your house is on the nightly surveillance for the county, but I have to tell you, my men are working overtime already. It's up to you to be on guard and stay safe. You might consider hiring a bodyguard and getting a more...aggressive dog." He didn't so much as crack a smile as he held up the plastic bag. "I'll have the lab check this out, see if we can get prints or other trace evidence or find out what kind of paper, ink, and printer we're dealing with."

"Thanks."

She seemed sincere. Maybe he'd misjudged her by immediately tossing her into his mental bin of preconceived stereotypes that all Hollywood actresses were egomaniacs. "I'll let you know what we find out."

"Great." She nodded curtly, then hurried out of his office. As he watched her go, he knew he hadn't seen the last of her. Surprisingly, that wasn't such a bad realization.

Jenna Hughes was one h.e.l.l of an intriguing woman.