CHAPTER NINE
Blake Montgomery's studio occupied the top floor of a converted textile factory, the kind of building that Los Angeles seemed to specialize in: industrial bones dressed up with exposed brick and oversized windows, the grit of the past repurposed into something expensive and fashionable.
Kari climbed three flights of stairs to reach the entrance, a heavy metal door painted matte black with no name or number, just an intercom and a small camera pointed at where visitors would stand.
She pressed the button and waited. After a moment, a voice crackled through the speaker, male and vaguely annoyed.
"We're not taking walk-ins. If you're here about a booking, call the agency."
"I'm not here about a booking. I'm looking for Blake Montgomery. It's about one of his models."
A pause. Then: "Which model?"
"Tayen Stern. And Amanda Escalante."
The pause stretched longer this time. Kari was about to press the button again when the door buzzed and clicked open. She pushed through into a cavernous space flooded with natural light from skylights and floor-to-ceiling windows.
The main area was clearly designed to impress clients.
Enormous prints lined the walls—the commercial work she'd seen on Montgomery's website.
Models in designer clothing, perfectly lit product shots, the kind of aspirational imagery that sold magazines and luxury goods.
A leather sofa and glass coffee table occupied one corner, arranged beside a display of industry awards and framed magazine covers.
Everything about the space said successful professional.
But as Kari moved deeper into the studio, she noticed a hallway leading to a back room. The door was ajar, and through the gap she could see more photographs—different ones. Darker. The same unsettling images from his personal portfolio, but larger and more visceral in person.
The public face of the business up front. The private obsession tucked away in back.
A man stood at the far end of the studio, partially obscured by lighting equipment and reflector panels.
He was tall and lean, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail and the kind of angular features that probably photographed well.
He wore all black, a fitted t-shirt and slim pants, and he watched Kari approach with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
"Blake Montgomery?"
"That depends on who's asking." His voice was deeper in person than it had been through the intercom, with a faint accent she couldn't place. British, maybe, or Australian that had been worn down by years in America. "You're not a model and you're not press. So who are you?"
"Detective Kari Blackhorse. Navajo Nation Police." She didn't reach for her badge. Something told her that Montgomery wasn't the type to be impressed by credentials. "I'm looking into the disappearance of Tayen Stern. Her family asked me to help find her."
Montgomery's expression flickered at Tayen's name. "Tayen's missing? Since when?"
"Two days. The same day Amanda Escalante died."
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes moving across Kari's face as if he were framing a shot. It was clear he wasn't surprised by news of Amanda's death. Then he gestured toward a seating area near the windows, a cluster of low leather chairs arranged around a glass coffee table.
"Sit. I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much."
Kari took one of the chairs, positioning herself so she could see both Montgomery and the door. Old habits. He settled into the chair across from her, crossing one leg over the other with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to being observed.
"Amanda's death was a shock," he said. "I'd just shot her last week." He paused, then grimaced. "Poor choice of words. Anyway, she was one of my favorites to work with. Completely present in front of the camera, willing to go places emotionally that most models won't. That's rare."
"What kind of places?"
Montgomery smiled, as if the question amused him.
"That was personal work, not agency business.
Elite Vision books me for their catalog and editorial clients—that pays the bills.
But my real work, the pieces that matter, I develop on my own.
" He gestured toward the back room. "Models come to me when they want to create something beyond the usual commercial garbage.
Something that gets noticed by collectors, gallery owners, people who appreciate art that challenges. "
"Who buys photographs of frightened young women?"
"Galleries in Berlin, Tokyo, New York. Private collectors who want something provocative on their walls." His expression hardened. "It's not exploitation, Detective. It's collaboration. Amanda understood that. She wasn't afraid to show her vulnerability."
"Not everyone would agree that pushing a young woman to tears constitutes collaboration."
The smile vanished. "Not everyone understands what art requires.
I don't force anyone to do anything. My models come to me because they want to create something meaningful, something that lasts beyond the next advertising cycle.
If that process is uncomfortable sometimes, that's the price of making work that matters. "
Kari thought about the complaints Detective Carter had mentioned. Four women who'd alleged aggressive behavior, inappropriate comments, a hostile environment. Four women who'd all withdrawn their statements using nearly identical language.
"I heard there were some issues a few years ago," she said. "Complaints from models who worked with you."
Montgomery's jaw tightened. "Those complaints were withdrawn. The women admitted they'd misunderstood my process."
"All four of them. Using almost the same words." Kari let that hang in the air for a moment. "That's quite a coincidence."
"I can't control what people say or how they say it.
" Montgomery's voice had gone cold. "What I can tell you is that I've been working in this industry for twenty years.
I've shot campaigns for every major fashion house in the world.
If I were the monster those women initially claimed, do you think I'd still be working?
Do you think agencies would still be sending me their best talent? "
"That depends on how good you are at protecting yourself. And how much money you make for the people who send you that talent."
Montgomery stood abruptly and walked to one of the windows, his back to Kari.
For a long moment, he didn't speak. When he finally turned around, something in his expression had changed.
The arrogance was still there, but underneath it, Kari glimpsed something that might have been regret, maybe even sadness.
"I didn't hurt Amanda Escalante. I didn't hurt any of the women I've worked with.
Yes, my methods are intense. Yes, I push people to their limits.
But I don't cross lines. I don't touch anyone without consent.
And I certainly don't..." He stopped, swallowing hard.
"Amanda was talented. She had a future in this industry.
And now she's dead, and everyone's going to say it was the pressure, the drugs, the eating disorders.
All the usual explanations that let everyone off the hook. "
"You don't think it was an overdose?"
Montgomery laughed bitterly. "Amanda didn't use drugs.
She was religious about her health. Yoga every morning, clean eating, eight hours of sleep.
She told me once that her body was her instrument and she wasn't going to damage it with chemicals.
" He shook his head. "Whatever killed her, it wasn't recreational drug use. "
Kari filed that away. Another voice questioning the official narrative of Amanda's death. First the paramedic who thought the scene was staged, now a photographer who insisted she didn't use drugs.
"What about Tayen Stern?" she asked. "When did you last see her?"
"Last week. I shot her for a series I'm working on.
Indigenous beauty, challenging Western standards of attractiveness.
Tayen has an incredible face, the kind of bone structure that the camera loves.
" He paused. "She seemed distracted that day.
Kept checking her phone between setups. I asked if everything was okay, and she said she was fine, but I could tell something was bothering her. "
"Did she say what?"
"No. And I didn't push. That's not how I work.
I create space for models to bring their emotions to the shoot, but I don't pry into their personal lives.
" Montgomery walked back toward the seating area but didn't sit down.
"If Tayen's missing, you should talk to the agency.
Elite Vision. They're the ones who book her jobs, manage her schedule, know where she's supposed to be. "
"I've already spoken with them. They weren't particularly helpful."
"That doesn't surprise me. Jessica Vance runs a tight ship over there.
She doesn't like outsiders asking questions about her girls.
" He said it with a hint of something, maybe respect or resentment.
Kari couldn't tell which. "But if you really want to know what happens to models in this city, the agency isn't where you'll find answers.
It's the recruiters. The talent scouts. The people who find these girls and bring them to L.A. in the first place."
"Who recruited Tayen?"
"I don't know. That's not information they share with photographers.
" Montgomery's eyes met hers directly. "But I do know that most of Elite Vision's models come from the same place.
A company called Image Management. They specialize in finding girls from small towns, reservations, immigrant communities.
Girls who are desperate for a better life and don't know enough about the industry to protect themselves. "
It was the same thing Diana Shepherd had implied when Kari had visited Elite Vision. That the agency specifically targeted vulnerable young women. Hearing it confirmed by someone else, someone with no apparent connection to the agency, made it feel more significant.
"Thank you for your time," Kari said, standing. "If you think of anything else, anything that might help me find Tayen, please call me." She handed him one of the business cards she'd had made before leaving Arizona, with her cell phone number handwritten on the back.
Montgomery took the card and studied it for a moment. "Navajo Nation Police. You're a long way from home, Detective."
"Tayen's family asked for my help. That's reason enough to be here."
"Family." Montgomery's face softened. "Tayen told me she didn't have any family. That she was alone in the world."
"She was wrong about that. She has an aunt who's been looking for her for two years. An aunt who's terrified that something's happened to her."
Montgomery was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Find her, Detective. Whatever's going on here, whatever happened to Amanda, Tayen doesn't deserve to be another casualty of this industry."
Kari left the studio with more questions than answers.
Montgomery was unsettling, certainly. His intensity, his willingness to push young women to emotional extremes, his dismissal of the complaints against him as misunderstandings.
Everything about him suggested someone who operated in the gray areas of acceptable behavior.
But he'd also seemed genuinely affected by Amanda's death. And his insistence that she didn't use drugs matched the paramedic's concerns about the staged scene. If Montgomery had killed Amanda, would he be undermining the official explanation for her death?
Unless that was part of the game. Unless appearing to question the narrative was itself a form of misdirection.
Kari walked to her rental car, her mind churning through possibilities.
Image Management. The recruitment company that funneled vulnerable young women to Elite Vision.
Montgomery had mentioned it like it was common knowledge, but it was the first Kari had heard of it.
Diana Shepherd had talked about Elite Vision as if it were independent, not connected to some larger pipeline of talent acquisition.
Another thread to pull. Another layer of this industry that seemed designed to obscure who was responsible for what.
She checked her phone. It was getting late, the afternoon sun starting its descent toward the Pacific. She needed to eat something, needed to find a place to stay for the night, needed to call Lola and update her on what she'd found.
But first, Image Management. If that was where Tayen had been recruited, it was another piece of the puzzle.
She searched for the company on her phone.
The website was professional but less slick than Elite Vision's, featuring testimonials from successful models and promises of life-changing opportunities.
The founder and CEO was listed as Vanessa Caldwell, a former model herself, with a bio that emphasized her commitment to discovering talent in underserved communities.
Kari tapped the contact number. It rang four times, then clicked over to a recorded message: "You've reached Image Management. Our office hours are Monday through Friday, nine AM to five PM. Please leave a message and we'll return your call as soon as possible."
She checked the time. Nearly six-thirty. She'd missed them.
Kari left a brief message identifying herself and asking Vanessa Caldwell to call her back, then hung up and sat for a moment, thinking.
She still had a more pressing question she couldn't seem to shake: Why had Elite Vision lied to their own models about Amanda's death?
Jade had been told Amanda went home, that she'd decided modeling wasn't for her. A deliberate lie, delivered while Amanda's body was barely cold. That wasn't a miscommunication or a delay in sharing bad news. That was a cover-up. And cover-ups meant someone had something to hide.
Tomorrow she'd go back to Elite Vision. She'd confront Jessica Vance about the lie and see how the agency head responded when she learned that Kari knew the truth about Amanda Escalante.
Kari started the engine and pulled into traffic, heading toward the motel she'd spotted earlier near the freeway. Somewhere in this web of agencies and photographers and carefully constructed lies, Tayen had disappeared. And somewhere, possibly, was the answer to what had really happened to Amanda.
Kari just had to find it before anyone else vanished.