Taylor went next door to the sheriff’s office and arranged for yet another meeting with Todd Wolff.

Everyone in the office looked peaked. She guessed it had been quite an afternoon for them. A murder suspect, a famous footballer and fifteen of his cronies, that would be enough to tax any county jail.

Within ten minutes, Todd Wolff was escorted to an interrogation room. He was already dressed in a tan jumpsuit that said Property of Sherriff’s Office and wearing handcuffs. Taylor had waved off the leg irons; there was no need to get him more riled up with that indignity. Taylor shook hands with Miles Rose, nodded to Wolff.

“Please, have a seat. Things have moved quickly, Mr. Wolff. I’ve got a few more questions, then you can head back to your cell.”

“I’ve advised my client not to talk to you, Lieutenant. God knows what you have up your sleeve this time. Fabricating more evidence?”

“Miles, I appreciate your help. Really, I do.” The sarcasm dance. She was used to this part of the procedure—anything the lawyer said would be tinged with mocking, her response would be scornful, then they could all go home. Bit players in a nationwide legal drama, repeat performances daily at the matinee and evening shows.

Niceties done, Taylor watched Todd Wolff. She held a manila file folder in her lap, his mug shot paper-clipped to the front. His face was gray, his eyes bloodshot. His lips held the ghost of a smile, unlike his photo, which showed his teeth bared like a pissed-off dog. The congenial college boy was gone, replaced by a world-weary construction worker. An interesting transformation. Handcuffs did that every time. Money might change the outside, but a person’s soul was intact, regardless of the spit, shine and polish a little cash could bring.

She opened the file folder, brought out two still photographs. Holding them to her chest, she said, “We’ve made some discoveries this afternoon, Mr. Wolff. I’d like to talk to you about your movie studio.”

Wolff raised his hands and used a fingernail to scratch his eyebrow. His finger trailed off to his temple, and Taylor could see him massaging it slowly. He didn’t answer.

“Do you have a headache?”

Wolff snickered. “Wouldn’t you?”

Taylor nodded. “Probably. Answer my questions and I’ll make sure you get some aspirin before you go in for the night.”

“Whatever.” He looked away, already disengaged.

“As I was saying, the movie studio.”

“What about it?”

She laid the pictures on the table. Wolff barely glanced at them. Miles, on the other hand, dropped his pen on the floor. The photos were stills from the first video Taylor had seen, the two girls and Wolff. She held back one photo.

“I’d like to know who these fine ladies are, Mr. Wolff.”

He grinned at her then, a lupine smile that tore away the handsome, collegian jock and made him look dangerous. “No.”

Taylor glanced at Miles, who was leaning over the table looking at the stills. Getting his rocks off, probably. His face was alight with something akin to joy. Men and porn. What was the attraction? She tried again.

“Mr. Wolff, be reasonable. We need to talk to the women you videoed. At the very least, we need to make sure they did it of their own volition. Surely you can understand that.”

“Trust me, they did it of their own volition.” He was mocking her openly now.

“Then let me talk to them and find out for myself. Satisfy my curiosity.”

“No. I’m done here, Miles. I’d like to go back to my cell now.” Slight emphasis on the word cell. This was a man who’d suddenly made peace with the fact that he was going to be incarcerated, and Taylor wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t completely convinced that he’d killed his wife. Yes, circumstance and evidence told her otherwise, but he just didn’t feel right for it. Couple that with the sex room in the basement, the fact that Corinne participated in the movies, and Wolff’s slightly mordant pride, and something felt off.

“Mr. Wolff, we’ve found your wife’s blood in your truck. I think it’s time you start telling us the truth about what happened.”

She laid a still of Corinne Wolff on the table. It was one of the early crime scene photos. Todd stared at it for a moment, then started to cry. Rose held up both hands.

“That’s it, Lieutenant. We’re done here.”

She grabbed Rose’s arm as they left the room.

“Talk to him, Miles. This will all go easier if he cooperates. You know that. Have him name the actresses and let’s be done with this. Have him explain the blood in his truck. If he hasn’t done anything illegal, this will go away.”

Miles nodded. “I’ll do what I can. You know that you’ll have to get me copies of those tapes during discovery.” The tone made Taylor’s skin crawl.

“You can talk to the D.A. about that.” She left him standing there, ignoring the smile on his thin lips.

Taylor went back to her office and sat at her desk. She turned on her computer, waited for it to boot up. She let her fingers drum a staccato rhythm against her temple. Tap, tap, tap. Names, names, names. Where could she find the names of the women in Todd Wolff’s films?

Jasmine.

Taylor flipped open her cell and scrolled for the number to Castle Salon and Day Spa.