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THE FLIGHT WAS SMOOTH and uneventful. I wore a dark blue blazer with matching pants. The pants were a little tight and rode down in the back a little. My recent MoonPie intake was taking its toll. My shoes were nice but uncomfortable. Such is the price of professionalism. I thought about Carter. I worried about him. Part of me said I should have stayed in Sinful and dropped all this cold case nonsense. I had not seen him this troubled in some time. But again, he said he would know more in a few days. If I worked fast, I’d be back before he left.
I intended to drop the librarian pretense and use my CIA status to question Mr. Teller, hoping that the decision wouldn’t later bite me in the behind with my boss. Even discounting my status as suspended while in hiatus, this was not an authorized case. It was a huge risk. I landed in LAX at 3:30 p.m., rented a car, headed to Santa Monica and found Arborview Villa Assisted Living by 5:00 p.m. I found unit 103 and knocked on the door.
“Just a minute,” I heard an older male voice calling from inside the apartment. “I’m movin’ a little slow today.”
I heard footsteps and thumping. A cane?
After a small eternity, the door opened, and I saw Steven Teller for the first time. He looked older than his seventy-one-years. He appearance was haggard; body bent with age; face marked with liver spots; hands twisted from chronic arthritis; thin gray hair wispy; plain shirt and pants clean but rumpled. He smiled when we made eye contact, exposing a perfect set of white teeth, which I presumed to be dentures or implants. He wore thick wire-rimmed glasses and I could see a hearing aid in each ear.
“Well, it’s not every day I see a beautiful young woman come to call, not anymore anyway,” he said. “Are you lost?”
“Are you Steven Teller?” I asked.
His bushy gray eyebrows raised. He looked surprised. “Why yes,” he said. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“My name is Fortune Redding,” I said. “I’m a CIA agent.”
He looked puzzled but unconcerned. No fear showed in his face.
“CIA?” he repeated. “Is something wrong?”
Steve Teller was six-feet-tall, perhaps an inch taller in shoes. He was thin and soft looking. Witnesses described the killer as muscular and six-feet-four or taller. Men have a tendency to shrink in size as they get older. Muscles atrophy with prolonged inactivity. The lack of height and muscle did not rule him out, but I was hoping for a more obvious match.
“No, Sir,” I said. “I’m investigating an old case and I have a few questions. May I come in?”
“Oh yes,” he said, stepping aside to let me pass. His apartment was neat but plainly decorated. It was not what one might expect of a retired movie mogul. The living room housed a sixty-inch plasma television with five good-sized speakers placed around it. A nearby bookcase held hundreds of DVD’s.
“May I get you some coffee or tea?” he asked.
“I’ll take a bottled water if you have it,” I replied.
“Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”
I watched him shuffle off to the kitchen, feeling guilty for asking him to travel such a vast distance from the living room to the kitchen. As I waited, I wandered to the bookcase and tilted my head to read the titles on the DVD’s. There were at least three-hundred. I’d seen none of the movies and had only heard of a few like Dawn of the Dead, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Halloween. There were hundreds of other obscure titles like, Coffy, Master of the Flying Guillotine, The Street Fighter, The Hammer of God, The Pom-Pom Girls, Hobo with a Shotgun, The Wizard of Gore, I Spit on your Grave, She Wolf of the SS, Cannibal Holocaust, and my favorite title, Vampyros Lesbos.
These were all examples of the exploitation movies Ally had told me about, perhaps with actors who had come from Mr. Teller’s talent agency. After what felt like a decade, Mr. Teller shuffled his way back into the living room holding a bottle of water.
“Can we sit at your dining room table?” I asked.
“Please,” he said, making his way. “Now tell me, how may I help the CIA?”
I gave Mr. Teller another glance. He seemed unmoved by having a CIA agent in his apartment. He also did not ask for ID, a clear, telltale sign he did not feel threatened.
“Does the name Glory Peterson mean anything to you?” I asked.
He repeated the name, rolling his eyes upward. “Glory Peterson, Glory Peterson... Hmmm. No, I can’t say the name rings a bell. Does she have a screen name?”
“No, not that I know of,” I said. “This was a young girl from a small town in Louisiana back who may have contacted you in 1986.”
“Well..,” he said scratching his chin as if trying to recall. “1986? Wow. That was a long time ago...”
“She was young, blonde and exquisite,” I said. “Had a kind of Barbie doll quality; may have sent you an audition tape.”
It was then I saw the first sign of recognition form on his face, although it was not a look of shock or concern, more like a light bulb going off over the top of his head.
“You know I remember getting a VHS tape from a young girl a long time ago,” he said. “I don’t remember her name, but I recall she lived in a small town in Louisiana with an odd name...”
“Sinful,” I said.
He snapped his fingers, “Yes, that’s it. Sinful. You’re right. She was a beautiful girl... stunning.”
“She sent you an audition tape?”
“Yes, I remember,” he replied, “had talent too if I remember.”
“And she made plans to come to Los Angeles to meet you?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” he replied. “She called me to say she was coming out and wanted an appointment to see me.”
“And?”
“I told her not to bother with Teller Talent Agency.”
“You told her not to bother?” I repeated.
“Yeah, the girl was only seventeen,” he said. “In my business, we cast girls who perform in scenes that require full frontal nudity, simulated sex, acts of bondage, torture or rape... things like that. I can’t use girls under eighteen. In fact, my agency requires the woman to be twenty-one or older. You can’t pull a Pretty Baby with Brooke Shields these days. They’ll lock you up and throw away the key. All of my actresses were twenty-one and above. My agency has integrity.”
Right, I thought. Rape, bondage and torture were not terms I regularly associated with integrity.
“So, you told her not to come?” I asked.
“Oh no, I didn’t do that,” Teller scoffed. “I would never squash a young girl’s dream of being in the movies. I told her that Teller Talent Agency would not be interested in her; told her I thought she should stay in school; said she should think about it, and if she was interested, to call me in a few years.”
“If you told her that, then why did you fly to Louisiana and visit her?” I asked.
His expression twisted in confusion and shock. “I didn’t,” he insisted. “I never met her. In fact, I’ve ever been to Louisiana before in my life.”
“You’ve never been in Louisiana? Ever?” I repeated.
He shook his head. “Nope. I planned to go to back in 1993 but I never made it. I’m sorry Agent Redding, you have me confused. Why are you asking me about a girl who wrote me in 1986?”
“Because someone murdered her in 1986, on Valentine’s Day,” I replied. “We recently discovered she had sent you an audition tape the week before she died. We knew she planned to come see you the following week.”
He fell silent, slumping back in his seat. He covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh. I’m so sorry,” he said. “That poor girl. I didn’t know.”
I studied his face for a moment. His reaction of surprise seemed sincere.
“Didn’t you hear about it on the news?” I asked.
“That was thirty years ago,” he said. “I talk to a dozen aspiring actresses every week. If I heard about it on the news, I didn’t make the connection.”
Either Mr. Teller was a better actor than the people he represented, or suffered from Alzheimer’s, or... and this was most likely, was hearing about this for the first time.
“I take it you’re here because you never solved the crime?” he said.
“That’s right,” I replied.
“No one ever contacted me,” he said. “Why now?”
“Recent information just came to light—information about her contact with your agency and her plans to visit L.A.”
“I see,” he replied. “Well, I don’t think I’m able to help you. I never met the girl. We chatted for a few minutes on the phone. I gave her some advice; mostly about staying in school and networking, you know, making connections, but that’s it. I’ve never been to Louisiana, and it sounds like she never made it to the west coast.”
“Mr. Teller, do you have any travel records for that period?” I asked.
“I’m sure I do,” he replied. “That goes back long ago, but I’m should be able to supply them. My secretary, Marge, kept all my books; really organized. She is still there. She works for my son now; been with the agency for over thirty-five years. Started out as an actress herself; had this ear-piercing scream, so we always cast her as a murder victim. Marge was in The Big Dollhouse and Bloodsucking Freaks as an extra in both. There was a great beheading scene in her last movie.”
“I’m sorry I missed that,” I replied, wondering if lightning would strike me for uttering such an egregious lie out loud.
“Great movies,” he said. “At any rate, Marge made all my travel arrangements, managed my credit cards and kept my calendar. I’ll call her and tell her to give you whatever you want.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Teller, on your website, you have a picture of yourself wearing a black Fedora.”
“I do?” he replied, looking perplexed. “Really?”
“Yes.”
I pulled up a picture on my cell phone and handed it to him so he could see it.
He chuckled. “Oh yes, I remember that,” he said. “It was a present from a friend.”
“How long have you had it?”
“I don’t remember. Marge could tell you,” he said. “I got it a few years ago. A friend shipped it to my office as an inside joke. Marge is the one who received it.”
“So, you haven’t had that hat long?” I probed. “Did you wear a Fedora back in 1986?”
“No,” he said. “The hat in that picture is less than five years ago.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He nodded. “Sure. Marge would know for certain.”
“I see,” I replied. “Was it given to you because you have a thing for Fedoras? Do you wear them a lot?”
He shook his head. “No. I think it’s the only Fedora I’ve ever owned. I gave it to Goodwill when I moved here. Like I said, it was a joke.”
“And you’re certain the hat in that picture is less than five years old?”
“I’m positive.”
I let out a breath, sighing silently. I needed to verify his story, but I was almost certain he was telling the truth. He did not seem the least bit nervous or threatened by the conversation. Teller handed me a card. He handwrote Marge’s name and telephone on it.
“She’ll be at work at 8:00 a.m. on the dot in the morning, just like always,” he said. “I’ll call ahead and let her know you’ll be calling and to tell her she can give you any information you need.”
“I have one last question, Mr. Teller,” I said. “How tall are you?”
“About six-feet,” he said.
“Did you used to be taller?”
He scrunched his face. “Huh? What kind of question is that?”
“Some men shrink when they get older,” I said. “Did you ever wear platform shoes or lifts to make yourself look taller?”
He chuckled. “No. You’re confusing me with actors who give a crap about things like that. Why do you ask?”
I smiled. “It’s nothing. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Teller—appreciate all your help.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help more,” he said. “I sure feel bad about that young girl. It sounds like a real tragedy.”
“It was,” I confirmed.
“I’ll bet the news devastated her family,” he said.
“Her father committed suicide a year later,” I said. “Her mother went into a depression and became a recluse. She hardly ever leaves her house. She is near bankruptcy.”
“Near bankruptcy? Oh... my... goodness,” he cried out. “How horrible.”
“It is,” I replied. “That’s why I’m looking into it. She never got closure. Thank you again. I’ll leave you to the rest of your day.”