“Not pretty, how?”
“You really don’t want to know, Julie.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
We endured several more minutes of music beaten to a sodden pulp before a new voice came on. Male, deep.
“This is Truc. Marissa A. French worked here but as a float.”
“Meaning?”
“She had no contract but agreed to be available when someone was needed to fill in on a shift.”
“On-call.”
“Yes.”
“How often did that turn out to be?”
“No idea, sir. That would require going through like a year and a half of data.”
“Giant hassle, huh?”
Truc said, “Let me see what I find.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Julie told me she got killed, I want to do what I can.”
“Thanks, Truc. Here’s my number.”
When the line went dead, he turned to me. “A float. Okay, let’s look at her social media.”
I’d been working my phone and showed him the results.
He said, “Thank you, Oracle of Delphi.”
—
The camera adored Marissa French and she reciprocated.
Her online presence was extensive and chiefly photographic. Hundreds of images, some selfies, some taken by others. Sometimes she’d posed with men and women her own age, the most common position, grinning, drink in hand, the background always a blurry crowd scene.
But most of the collection consisted of solos of Marissa French.
That might fit with not much by way of “friends.”
Despite all the images, she’d named only four.
Tori, Beth, Bethany, Yoli.
Short blond hair, long blond hair, long black hair, a pile of redwaves. Each woman svelte, pretty, wearing full makeup and clothing that advertised fitness.
Never photographed as a group. Each of them stood next to Marissa in party scenes. Center screen reserved for Marissa.
As I kept looking, I realized the same went for men. Always relegated to the sides.
People as props?
