Free Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) by Scott Sherman

like this, maybe something happened to him.”
    Another thoughtful silence. “Oh, yes!” I heard a shouted cry in the background. “That’s it!” There was a snapping noise, like the smack of a cracked whip. “Hurts so good!”
    I found it hard to ignore. “Is this a good time to talk? You sound . . . busy.”
    Kristen chuckled, a warm laugh that made me flush. “Oh, I’m on a shoot. But my assistant can handle the models for a few minutes. Sure you don’t want to come down and talk in person? Get a look at what you’re missing. It can be quite . . . stimulating.”
    I bet.
    “I’d really like to get in touch with Brent first, actually.”
    “Of course. And I’m afraid I forgot what you just asked me.”
    I reminded him of my question: Was it typical for Brent not to show up when expected?
    “No, I’d never seen that kind of behavior from him. He was actually one of my more dependable models. He took the work seriously.
    “Still, I can’t say I’m totally shocked. Boys in this business tend to come and go. They don’t all share my commitment to the art. These models tend to be young, self-centered, and easily distracted by the next shiny thing. When they’re ready to move on, they just stop showing up. I’ve learned,” he said, his tone mixing weariness with wryness, “not to expect formal letters of resignation.
    “It’s possible”—Kristen paused, as if he were putting together things he’d seen into a coherent picture—“he was working on putting something together for himself.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “On that last film we were shooting, he kept wandering off set. Every time I’d find him, he was on his cell phone, whispering. The conversations always looked intense, but not in an unpleasant way. He was usually smiling during them, even laughing. When he’d see me approach, he’d hang up before I got close enough to hear.”
    “Maybe he was just talking to a friend.”
    “Perhaps. But I don’t think so. There was something . . . conspiratorial in the way he was acting. Like he had a secret. One that brought him both joy and guilt. He looked like . . . what’s that expression? . . . a boy caught with his hand in the cocaine jar.”
    I didn’t bother to correct him. Given the world in which Kristen operated, the revision was probably more accurate than the standard cliché.
    A secret, huh? Kristen started by saying he’d interpreted Brent’s clandestine phone calls as being an effort to “put something together for himself.” Did he mean a deal with a rival studio? It had come up before as a possibility. I was just about to ask when we were interrupted by a loud shout.
    Whoever had minutes ago been screaming in pleasure about being “hurt so good” had something new he wanted to announce to the world. “Hey, wait a minute, is that a—”
    “I’m afraid I must go,” Kristen interjected loudly. “They’re waving me over. The stereotype of the temperamental actor is only too true. Looks like they need me to offer some direction.”
    “Thanks for your time,” I offered.
    “No problemo,” Kristen said. “Do call Mason, though. He may know something I don’t.”
    “I will.”
    “And if you get in touch with Brent, tell him to come back. He’s more than welcome. He’s simply too beautiful not to give another chance.”
    He disconnected just as the actor he’d been filming screamed with pleasure.
     
    I took Kristen’s advice and called Mason Jarre.
    “Mr. Jarre’s office,” a deep-voiced man answered. “Pierce Deepley speaking.”
    I asked to speak to Mason.
    “And what, may I ask, is the nature of the call?” Deepley clipped his words in such a way that he sounded irritated by me already. It usually took longer.
    Or, maybe he just didn’t like answering phones. In which case, he had the wrong job.
    I explained that Mason knew me and I was trying to get in touch with Brent Havens.
    “We don’t give out personal information about individuals who may or