Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)
But Justine was scrutinizing Alan Barstow.
He had acne scars and thinning hair and narrow shoulders, but he had swagger to spare. That came from being a top earner at CTM, from making millions upon millions every year.
Justine sat forward in a five-thousand-dollar armchair, put the Waterford crystal goblet she’d been sipping water from down on the Brazilian cherrywood table, and said, “Alan, we think we know who is responsible for Piper Winnick’s death, but we need your help.”
Barstow pressed a button on the arm of his chair and said, “Jay, no calls.” Then, “I’m all yours.”
Justine said, “We think Piper was killed by someone who was jealous of her relationship with Danny.”
“No kidding. That’s bizarre.”
“A few people knew about Danny and Piper. You, Merv Koulos, Larry Schuster, Danny’s friend Kovaks, and his assistant, Randy Boone. But Danny’s relationship with Piper wasn’t public knowledge. Neither was his cabin in Topanga.”
“So obviously someone close to Danny did it.”
“Yes. We think this man expected Piper to be grateful to him for getting her the part in the film and attracted to him because he’s a powerful guy, and he was furious that she ran off with Danny. So it makes sense that he drove to the cabin, woke Piper up, and got her to take a walk with him on the trail. We surmise that he argued with her. That things got physical.”
Barstow broke in. “Justine, are you making a pitch or do you want my help? Who the hell did this to my boy?”
“Someone who likes young girls, Alan. A man who has a real passion for young girls.”
Justine took the folder out of her briefcase, opened it on the table, turned it toward Barstow, and fanned out the pages.
/> Justine said, “This is what we’re going to show the police. And I have a feeling these mug shots are going to find their way to the Internet. Millions will know that Alan Barstow is a sex offender. That’s you, Alan. You’re the real deal.”
CHAPTER 93
BARSTOW SPUTTERED, “Whoa-whoa-whoa. Where did you get this? ”
A shiver danced up Justine’s spine. She watched Alan Barstow’s face as he stared at his mug shots and the rap sheet listing his arrest for sex crimes against minors. His arrogance was gone, replaced by more primitive stuff: fear, anger, and confusion, emotions that made people turn violent.
Justine said, “There’s software now, Alan. It can match faces to sex offenders in any police database, even if the crime happened ten years ago in New Jersey. Even though you changed your name.”
“So what? ” he said, pushing the file off the table. “You’re saying this means that I killed Piper? Are you fucking kidding me? Look, you. The only interest I had in Piper Winnick was financial. That’s all.”
He grabbed a copy of Variety off the coffee table and showed Justine the headline, “Shades of Red.”
Barstow shouted, “The film is dead. A great slamming summer movie is dead. You know what I got for a year of busting my nuts? Absolutely nothing.”
The angrier he got, the more relaxed Justine became. As long as he only yelled.
“Calm down, Alan. I’m not saying you planned to hurt Piper. I’m saying you were insulted. You tried to tell her who you were and who she was. Things got out of hand. She pulled away from you—”
Barstow cut her off. “Dr. Smith, you are totally, I cannot say this strongly enough, totally out of your tiny little mind. This meeting is over. If you repeat a word of this crap, I’ll sue you for slander, for defamation, for anything our legal department can throw at you.”
He got up from his chair, went to the door, and said to his assistant, “Jay. Show these people out. No. Call security.”
Barstow turned to Justine and Nora. “You have one minute to leave the premises.”
Nora said, “LAPD trumps corporate security anytime.”
She unbuttoned her jacket, showed Barstow the gold badge hanging from a chain around her neck.
“We’re testing Piper Winnick’s clothing. If we find your DNA on that girl, you’re cooked. Meanwhile, we have a witness who claims that you drugged Danny Whitman as well as the girls who accused Danny of sexual misconduct. Our witness says you had sex parties, Alan. Your guests were young girls, drunken girls, you sick son of a bitch.”
Men in khaki uniforms trotted up the hallway. Barstow strode to the doorway, pulled open the door, and said to the head security guy, “Sorry, Roger. My mistake. Everything is under control.”
He closed his door, pulled down the blinds, and returned to the sitting area, but he didn’t sit down.