Hollywood Secrets (10 page)

Tina wiped a glob of mayo from the corner of her mouth and put her sub down. “I still think the most likely scenario is publicity stunt.”

Et tu
, Tina?

“
Okay, assuming that you’re right, that I’ve been totally played here, why would Trace deny it altogether now?”

She munched another big bite. “I dunno.”

“
And why put on the act for an empty alley? I’m pretty sure the skinny little cat behind the Dumpster wasn’t on Twitter.”

Tina swallowed loudly, washing her sub down with a swig of Diet Coke. “You got me. I have no idea.”

The first thing I’d done when I’d gotten back to my Jeep was head straight back to the
Informer
. Okay, the first thing was drink an entire bottle of water. The hike around the property in the sweltering sun had had me sweating off at least five pounds. So, I guess the
second
thing I’d done was head toward the
Informer
for reinforcements. I’d snagged Tina out from under a story about Jennifer Aniston’s latest bad breakup, and filled her in on everything that had happened since last night. She’d apologized profusely for not being around, said a few choice swear words when she heard Allie had been picking up her phone, then offered to get us an early dinner while we sat in the break room and figured out what to do next.

“
I hate to say it, Cam, but I really don’t see a story here. I mean, Trace is fine. Whatever happened or didn’t happen last night, he’s clearly not kidnapped now.”

I nodded. She was right. There was no way I could print any of this without being a laughingstock. Or sued. Or both.

“
Buckner Boogenheim,” I said, ramming my fork into a crouton. “Know anything about him?”

Tina paused, searching her mental memory banks. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“
He owns Pacific Storage, among other holdings. Prominent businessman. Too clean for his own good. It was his truck that took Trace.”

Tina nodded. “I’ll put out some feelers. See what I can dig up.”

Tina was famous for her network of confidential informants all over town. If anyone could get the goods on Boogenheim, it was her.

“
All right, I gotta go. I’m late to meet Cal,” Tina said, shoving the last of her sandwich in her mouth and tossing the crumpled wrapper into the trash.

“
What have you two kids got planned tonight?” I asked, feeling just the teeny tiniest bit jealous that Tina always had plans now that Cal was in her life.

“
Shooting range.”

I raised an eyebrow her way.

“
Cal said if I’m going to carry, I need to know how to handle my weapon.”

“
I take it you did buy a gun the other day, then?”

“
Yep.” Tina grinned. “Pink with purple flames on it. I’m so badass now.”

The look in her eyes scared me just the slightest – like she almost wanted some guy to mug her so she could show off her new toy. I pitied the guy who tried.

“
Have fun! And good luck,” I offered as she did a little wave and took off for the elevators.

I finished my salad in silence, trying not to feel too depressed that my evening’s plans consisted of chardonnay for one while Tina was packing heat with a guy who was… well… packing heat, if you know what I mean.

“
Hey, picture lady, what’s shakin’?”

I looked up to find Mrs. Rosenblatt’s rotund frame filling the doorway.

“
Just finishing dinner,” I said, gesturing to my salad.

Mrs. Rosenblatt scrunched up her nose. “Rabbit food.” She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a chicken. A whole one. She grabbed a leg and dug in, settling herself on a chair (that all but disappeared beneath her) beside me. “Now this is a meal.”

I smiled. “For six,” I mumbled.

“
What was that?” she asked, chicken drippings dribbling down her chin.

“
Nothing. You’ve, uh, got a little something right here,” I said, gesturing to her chin.

She grabbed a napkin and dabbed in a dainty motion that did zilch.

“
So you get a hold of that guy with Tootsie’s photo?” I asked, trying not to stare as she inhaled her poultry.

Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded. “Yep. Fred says he’ll be in town tomorrow visiting his grandkids. He’ll stop by with it then. I’m hoping to get some really strong vibes off this sucker.”

I nodded. “Good. I hope it works.”

“
Me too.” She paused, a chicken breast hovering next to her mouth. “Speaking of vibes, I’m getting a few off of you. Everything all right?”

“
Me? Yeah. Sure. Great.” Sort of. Though I couldn’t help asking, “What kind of vibes.”

“
Your aura’s red.”

Instinctively I glanced down, as if colorful smudges might be staining my t-shirt. “Red?”

“
It means you’re worried about something.” She leaned one pudgy elbow on the table next to me. “What’s on your mind,
bubbie
?”

I bit my lip. I was a hair’s breadth from unburdening my troubles onto the woman when Allie walked in, her perky little ears tuned our way.

“
Nothing,” I mumbled instead.

“
Nothing, what?” Allie asked. “Did I interrupt something?”

Clearly, she had. Clearly, she’d meant to. Clearly, she was nosing around for a story.

“
Oy vey!” Mrs. Rosenblatt shouted out.

Allie and I both jumped.

“
What?” I asked, expecting her to be choking on a chicken bone or something.

“
Your aura, honey,” she said, pointing at Allie. “It’s streaked with lemon yellow!”

Allie looked down at her shirt in an exact replica of my first reaction, a look of panic on her face. “Is that bad?”

Mrs. Rosenblatt clucked her tongue. “Well, it ain’t good, honey. Watch out. Mercury’s in retrograde and with an aura like that… Oy. Let’s just say, watch your back.”

Allie’s perfectly waxed eyebrows drew together in a look of concern. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for the warning,” she mumbled as she backed out of the room.

Mrs. Rosenblatt turned and gave me a wink. “I hate eavesdroppers.”

I snorted. She was an odd duck, but I had to admit there was something very likeable about her. I found myself hoping Max kept her around for a while.

That is if Felix kept Max.

Which reminded me… I had some photos to turn in if I wanted Felix to keep
me
.

I quickly finished up my salad and headed out to my cube, downloading the photos I’d taken of Jamie Lee leaving Dr. B’s earlier onto my computer. After a couple of minutes scrolling through my archives, I found a perfect pic of Jamie Lee’s wrinkled “before” forehead contemplating her choices on Mori Sushi’s menu last month. I pasted it next to the incredibly smooth one of her leaving the good doctor’s office today and dropped them both into proper formatting for print before sending them off to Tina’s inbox to provide a snarky headline to accompany them.

Then I set to my daily ritual of going through shots on my camera, deleting the useless ones and filing the keepers in appropriate places on my hard drive for future use. I deleted half a dozen blurry shots as I’d jogged toward the club last night. Another handful of Eddie’s elbow with the slightest glimpse of Trace’s features behind.

Then I got to the ones in the ally.

Trace leaning against the brick building, moonlight and neon creating soft shadows on features. I moved that one to my personal file.

The next two were similar, the third showing Trace’s expression as he heard the guys in the truck.

If I’d had any doubts before, this picture nixed them. The fear on Trace’s face here was plain as day. Whatever I’d been witnessing, Trace had been genuinely freaked by these guys.

I squinted down at the picture. I would have given my right arm to know what they’d really said to him. Instead, I created a new file and archived the photos. Both guys had stood with their backs to me, so I never had the opportunity for a good shot of their faces. Though I had caught a profile image as one had ushered Trace into the van. Nothing particularly notable about him, but I decided to keep it anyway. One never knew.

By the time I was finished, I looked up to find most of the office empty, everyone else having called it a night already.

I shut my computer down, following their lead.

But, for some reason, when I hit Venice, I didn’t make the left toward my place. Instead, my car jagged right. Onto the PCH. Up past the Santa Monica pier. Toward Malibu, where a big fat question mark was still dominating my thoughts.

It was fully dark by the time I arrived outside Trace’s house for the second time that day. I parked again across the street from the back gate, staring up the hill at the scattered lights illuminating the windows of his estate. From what I knew of the layout from earlier, I could tell someone was in the kitchen. Another light blinked on in the room next door – maybe a living room? And three upstairs lights were brightly lit behind half-closed shutters. Bedrooms? Offices? Maybe a combo of both.

I watched a shadow cross in front of the middle window, the outline of a man’s shape coming into view. Trace? Was I watching Trace in his bedroom?

I closed my eyes, trying to envision what Trace’s bedroom might look like. It was clear from my earlier visit that he enjoyed the help of a decorator. No big surprise there. Even if he had time to do the place himself, I had a feeling Trace’s style was more utilitarian bachelor than Hollywood chic.

I pictured navy blues for his room, maybe some dark chocolate browns. Deep, masculine colors. Lots of wood, maybe some shiny chrome to bring in a modern touch. Painted walls, no frou-frou wallpaper or faux finishes for this guy. I vaguely wondered what plans Jamie Lee had for the place once she got her hands on it. Rumor was she’d already sold her Hollywood Hills place in favor of moving into Trace’s estate after the wedding.

I was just envisioning Jamie Lee’s pink and frills attitude toward life clashing with Trace’s masculine furniture when a noise jarred me from my thoughts.

It was loud, sharp, echoing through the still night. Like a car backfiring.

Or a gunshot.

My eyes shot open. The house looked exactly the same, standing like a silent sentinel upon the hill. In fact it looked so still and serene that I might have chalked it up to hearing things…
might
have. If the sound hadn’t rung out again. Clearly a gunshot. And clearly coming from Trace’s place.

My heart leapt into my throat, my hands fumbling in my bag for my cell phone. My fingers were shaking as they finally grasped around my cell and tried to dial 9-1-1. All the while my gaze pinging back and forth between my Motorola and Trace’s back door. Three tries into it, I finally managed to hit the right buttons.

Only I never got to press send.

Just as my index finger hovered over the button, the passenger side door to my Jeep flew open and Trace launched himself inside.

Chapter Eight

I stared, my mouth hanging open at what I’m sure was a very unattractive angle.

“
Go!” Trace shouted, slamming the door shut behind him.

“
Go…?” I looked from him to the house and back again, the word not quite computing.

But he didn’t wait for me to catch up, instead reaching over and turning the key in the ignition himself. The engine roared to life. “Go! We need to get out of here. Now!”

As if to illustrate the seriousness of his words, two more gunshots ripped through the night, the second accompanied by a metallic thunk on my rear bumper.

“
Go!” Trace yelled, again.

Believe me, this time I went.

“
Holy shit! I think someone just shot at my car!” I slammed my foot down on the accelerator, causing the Jeep to lurch forward onto the street with a screech of rubber on asphalt. Behind us I could hear more shots being fired. Louder. Closer.

I willed myself not to pee my pants.

I fishtailed down the street, narrowly avoiding an ornate iron lamppost on the corner, racing downhill at a breakneck speed.

“
Left!” Trace yelled, as we reached the intersection.

I complied, making the turn so fast my tires squealed.

“
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” I chanted, my heart beating so hard I feared it would crack a rib.

Trace ignored my babbling, instead barking, “Right! Go right!” as we neared the next street.

My fingers gripped the wheel so hard I feared someone might have to pry it out of my hands as I turned right. I gunned the engine, then took another left at the next light. We crossed two more streets before hitting a red light, where I quickly merged into the right lane and turned down the side street instead of idling.

We were deep in Malibu’s residential area now, the streets lined on both sides with mature trees and two-story family homes set back from the street. Most were silent, a few lights upstairs lit, the occasional glow of a TV screen in the window. A sleepy community that seemed totally at odds with the frantic surge of adrenaline currently pumping through my veins.