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thin, long hair. Looks like a homeless guy.”
Teri looked at the headshot. It had been taken just prior to her first
Oscar. It was wrinkled and worn along the edges, with what appeared to
be a greasy thumbprint on the left side. Teri’s stomach roiled at the
thought of the greasy-haired man holding the photo with one hand.
She turned it over to see if there were additional finger stains on the
back side. In small, neat handwriting, there was a single inscription:
CRESCENT HOTEL 324.
Teri folded the picture and glanced at Mike. He was still on the
phone, face pressed to the window, searching the crowd. He hadn’t yet
noticed the picture in her hand. She folded it and tucked it under the seat.
“No,” she said.
“What?” he asked, pulling the phone away.
“It was nothing. Forget about it. Let’s just go to the theater.”
Mike put the phone back to his ear. “Find him.” Then he hung up and
looked at Teri.
She stared straight ahead.
    There was a packed house for the movie, just what every actress wants.
The audience seemed captivated by the action on the silver screen,
collectively gasping at the right moments, tittering and giggling with relief
at others, but hanging on every word spoken by the characters, drawn into
a story of breathtaking suspense and psychological terror. Teri looked
good up there, her face reflecting the same emotion as the audience, or
maybe it was vice versa. No one in Teri’s camp questioned that they had a bona fide hit on their hands. No, not just a hit; a blockbuster.
    But Teri didn’t seem to notice any of that. She couldn’t even watch
herself on the big screen. She had seen a rough cut on a smaller screen at
the studio, but this was her first chance to watch the story play out on this
big a scale. Yet her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t get the scragglyhaired man out of her mind. His thin face, his vacant eyes. Dead eyes. And
that damned tattoo.
    Other memories rushed back. The freakish Annemarie Crowell, her
face pale, her lips bright red, all made up as if for the circus. Eyes so dark
they looked black. Emotionless. The grieving mother who didn’t grieve.
Sitting in Teri’s den, talons clutching her dead son’s screenplay as she
subtly swayed, perched on the edge of a chair. The words that stung:
“You’re yesterday’s news.” Shoving that picture of her dead son in Teri’s
face.
    Yeah, the dead son who looked remarkably similar to the man outside. And
who shared his mother’s dead eyes.
Just what in the hell was going on?
Teri turned and glanced at the row behind her, where her “angels” sat
with their wives. Their attention was riveted to the screen, counting
dollars in their heads, most likely. All, that is, but Doug Bozarth. His eyes
locked with hers. She was suddenly struck by the deadness in those eyes,
even in the darkened theater. Eyes that could have belonged to Annemarie
Crowell or the man on the rope line.
Bozarth nodded his head ever so slightly. She couldn’t be sure it had
moved at all. She nodded back then turned to face the front.
“You okay?” Mike whispered.
“I’m fine.” But she could tell he didn’t believe her. Hell, she didn’t
even believe herself.
CHAPTER 14
    The Crescent Hotel
not only looked like a place that probably
rented rooms by the hour, it actually was a place that rented rooms by the
hour. A neon light alternately flashed green and purple, announcing
vacancies, which was no surprise to any passersby. Two stories fanned east
and west from the office, the façade a fading beige. Only a handful of cars
dotted the parking area, the newest at least a decade old. A certain kind of
person inhabited places like this. The kind of person you didn’t want to
meet on a dark street, and the kind of person you certainly didn’t want to
see in your respectable neighborhood or take home to meet mom and dad.
    A checkered taxi pulled up in front of the office, sat for a moment,
then disgorged that very kind of person. The