by Stuart Woods
Not this year. Critics had practically gushed in describing her performance in Paris Fling. She was clearly one of the big girls now. She deserved to be there, and she deserved to win.
“Who wants a drink?” Cheryl said.
“I do,” Bruce said, lunging to his feet and following Cheryl in the direction of the bar.
Viveca frowned. Bruce’s doctors had recommended that he take it easy with alcohol. They had tried banning it entirely, but Bruce insisted he’d be better at moderation than abstinence. This had not, so far, proven to be true. Viveca stopped herself from jumping up and telling him to tone it down. No negative energy, she told herself. She nibbled on the popcorn, and sipped her gin and tonic.
The reviewers were working their way through the categories, as had the Oscar presenters. It was a long wait. The amount of popcorn thrown against the screen was increasing exponentially.
Finally they reached her category.
“And for Best Actress—” Mickey said.
“All right!”
“Finally!”
“Well, it’s about time!”
Mickey went on, “—it’s turning into an interesting year.”
The statement was met with surprise.
“What?”
“Interesting, hell! It’s a runaway!”
“That’s right, Mickey,” Marvin said. “The front-runner in a race that’s been all but conceded is, of course, Viveca Rothschild in Paris Fling.”
“And what a performance! One that, I must admit, knocked this reviewer’s socks off. She had always earned kudos for playing the naughty femme fatale, but who knew she could step into a Cyd Charisse role without missing a beat?”
“You say Cyd Charisse, I say Marilyn Monroe, in How to Marry a Millionaire. Who knew she had it in her?”
“I’ll say. It’s the kind of bold move that, if it works, it’s great, and, if it doesn’t, you’re a laughingstock.”
“Well, she’s got my vote, just for having the guts to risk watching her career crash and burn.”
“All that made her pretty much an Oscar lock.”
There were huge cheers from all.
Mickey held up his finger. “But not so fast. Suddenly we’ve got a horse race here, and I didn’t see it coming.”
“I didn’t, either, but that’s what happened. Relative newcomer, Tessa Tweed, who took the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Drama, deserves a second look.”
“I agree. She didn’t win just because she was in a separate category.”
“No, she won it on her own merits. And for the first time, we have to weigh the merits of her performance against the merits of Viveca Rothschild’s. It’s not apples and oranges here. These are two fine actresses.”
“While Viveca Rothschild is still the front-runner, she’d better look over her shoulder. Because someone is gaining fast.”
“And that someone is relative newcomer Tessa Tweed.”
14
Viveca said nothing on the limo ride home. Every time Bruce tried to talk to her she cut him off. That concerned him. Had he done something wrong?
“I didn’t drink that much,” he muttered.
To Viveca his words were just another annoyance. “What?” she snapped.
“I’m not drunk. I was moderate.”
“Of course you were,” Viveca said. She patted him on the arm without paying any attention.
When the limo pulled up in front of her house, she didn’t wait for the driver or Bruce to help her out. She hopped out and sailed into the house, slamming the door behind her.
She went to the bar and poured herself a drink.
“Could I have one?” Bruce said, trailing in after her.
She ignored him, snatched up the phone, and dialed Manny Rosen, a gossip columnist she knew. Manny had a reputation for ferreting out seedy stories, even if he had to make them up himself. Manny had been a good friend ever since he had killed a story about her being high on the set of one of her movies. He had not done it out of the goodness of his heart. Viveca had found out how much Manny was being paid for the story, and paid him double to bury it.
“What’s up?” Manny said.
“I need some publicity.”
“That’s a first, you coming to me for publicity.”
“Yes, well, Oscar nominations are out.”
“I know. Congratulations.”
“Don’t congratulate me yet. I’m just nominated.”
“This year you’re going to win.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t jinx me. There’s such a thing as tempting fate.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to do that, would we? Very well, my congratulations are withdrawn.”
“Stop screwing around, Manny. Do you want this story or not?”
“What story?”
“The one I’m going to pay you for planting.”
Manny groaned. “Please tell me your phone’s not tapped. No one busted you for drugs and made you wear a wire?”
“Did you happen to watch The Mickey and Marvin Show?”
“I never watch them unless I have a tip.”
“They did their Oscar predictions episode.”
“I’m sure they predicted a win for you.”
“They said it’s a horse race between me and a newcomer named Tessa Tweed.”
“I’m beginning to get the picture.”
“I thought you would. Now, here’s the thing. I need a story. But it can’t come from you. No offense, but it needs to seem legit.”
“Now, why would I find that offensive?” Manny said.
* * *
Manny called Josh Hargrove at the Culver City Chronicle. The Chronicle was one of those Hollywood papers that walked the fine line between newspaper and gossip rag.
“Josh? Manny. I’ve got a story for you.”
“Oh, come on, Manny. Not again.”
“Josh, I’m offended. Here I am, bringing you a story, and this is the thanks I get.”
“Yeah, right,” Josh said tonelessly.
A year ago, Josh had been caught at a motel with an underage girl. A cop connection of Manny’s had tipped him to the story, and though Josh was never charged, even news of the arrest would be irreparably damaging to his career. So Manny had given his rival an option: exposure and total disgrace, or a cover-up, for a price. Josh had been dancing to his tune ever since.
“You know my philosophy, Josh. There’s only room in the paper for so many stories. You print the ones I want, there isn’t room for the ones you don’t want.”
“What’s the story?”
“Tessa Tweed.”
“The actress?”
“That’s right. She just got nominated for an Oscar. Well, I’ve got some dirt on her that might interest you.”
15
Ben Bacchetti was furious. He slammed the paper down on his desk and snatched up the phone. “Get me Josh Hargrove at the Culver City Chronicle.”
Ben’s secretary was startled. “Sir?”
“No, scratch that. Is Billy Barnett in yet?”
“I think so.”
“Ask him to step in, will you?”
Teddy walked into the office to find Ben still fuming. “What’s the matter?”
“Did you see the Culver City Chronicle this morning?”
Teddy smiled. “Gee, it’s usually on the top of my reading pile, but—”
“There’s a story by a hack named Josh Hargrove. He wrote that Tessa Tweed got nominated for a picture where she doesn’t even say her own lines!”
“What?”
“This lowlife scum says Tessa was dubbed in the editing room by another actress.”
Teddy waved it away. “Ignore it.”
“How can I ign
ore it? It’s a lie, blatant libel, and I won’t stand for it. Every line Tessa says in the movie is her and her alone.”
“Oh, don’t make that mistake,” Teddy said.
“What mistake?”
“Saying every line is hers. That just invites every sleazebag reporter in L.A. to go over the film with a fine-tooth comb. They’ll find someplace in the soundtrack where her voice had to be enhanced because it was being covered over by the sound of a gunshot, for instance, and point to it as proof that Centurion lied in its statement to the press.”
Ben exhaled an angry breath. “Damn it.”
“Hey, we’re big enough for people to take potshots at, and that’s a good thing.”
The intercom buzzed. “The police are here for Billy Barnett.”
“Excellent,” Teddy said. “Maybe they have news.”
Teddy went out and met the police in the hallway.
“Gentlemen. Any progress?”
“That’s not why we’re here. The crime scene was broken into last night.”
Teddy frowned. “That makes no sense.”
“Why not?”
“You already inspected the crime scene. What could anyone possibly want that you haven’t found?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
“Oh, come on, gentlemen. Just because the man tried to break into my house doesn’t mean I know the faintest thing about him. A petty thug tried to rob me. Aside from that, you know as much as I do.”
The cop extended a plastic evidence bag. “Do you recognize this?”
Teddy looked. Inside was his credit card receipt for lunch.
“Sure, I recognize it. It’s a credit card receipt for lunch. It’s my credit card, and I signed for it.”
“This receipt was found at the crime scene.”
“Today?”
“That’s right.”
“After the crime scene was broken into?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you have it. Whoever broke into the crime scene left that receipt.”
“Wouldn’t you agree the most likely person is you?”
“Is it your contention that, eager to get a report on the murder, I broke into the crime scene and left my credit card receipt so that you guys would come and see me?”
“Don’t be facetious.”
“You find that absurd?”
“I certainly do.”
“Please give me a reason my credit card receipt would be at an obviously violated crime scene.”
“You dropped it looking for something.”
“Looking for what? Something incriminating? Can you think of anything more incriminating than this credit card receipt? Wow, good thing that’s gone, or I might have been in trouble.”
“That’s very clever, but it doesn’t account for this receipt. Do you have any explanation?”
“Obviously whoever hired this guy to break into my house planted the receipt to make trouble for me. Are you making any progress finding out who that might be?”
“That is not the focus of our investigation.”
“Focus? God, I hate that word. When the cops focus their investigation it means they have a fixed idea and they are ignoring everything else. I prefer words like broadening the scope. It tends to give one a fuller picture.”
* * *
While Teddy was arguing with the cops, one of the officers slipped away to the men’s room.
Officer Murphy was lucky he’d caught this detail. It had been a while since he’d had anything to pass along to Sylvester, and an informant was only as good as his latest tip.
This was something Sylvester would want to know.
Murphy took out his cell phone and made the call.
* * *
Sylvester stuck his head in the door of Gino’s office. “The police are questioning Billy Barnett about the receipt.”
Gino looked up from his desk. “When?”
“Right now. I just got a call from my guy.”
“Billy Barnett’s down at police headquarters?”
“No. The police went to the studio.”
“They’re there now?”
“As of five minutes ago. Murphy’s there with ’em.”
“You think they’ll haul him in?”
“For a credit card receipt? I doubt it. I think they’ll get his statement and leave it at that.”
“Make sure they do. Call Murphy and tell him to let you know when they leave, and whether Billy Barnett stays behind.”
“What if he does?”
“Send Marco.”
16
Teddy came out the side door of Centurion Studios and headed for his car. He had his own parking space, one of the few perks of being a producer that he actually valued. When movies were filming at Centurion, parking spaces were at a premium, as a hundred-plus crew members flooded the lot. Only the producer, the director, and the head of the studio had their own personal spaces.
Teddy’s Porsche Speedster gleamed in the afternoon sun. Climbing into the car always cheered him up, making him feel like a kid again and not just a man driving home from his job. Teddy slipped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot.
A black sedan, parked half a block down the street from the studio entrance, pulled out behind the Speedster and followed.
Teddy spotted him at once. The driver was good; he had pulled out casually and blended into traffic. The average driver wouldn’t have noticed the tail at all. But a man who had spent twenty years at CIA intelligence, outfitting and training agents for missions, wasn’t about to miss a trick. There were no second chances in the secret service, and no getting rusty. Your training wouldn’t allow it. Alertness became routine. Routine became instinct.
Teddy’s finely honed senses picked up the car in the rearview mirror and immediately began to classify it. Most behavior he would usually dismiss as ordinary. Not this time. The sedan was crowding the car in front of him too closely in case he had to speed around it, and hogging the crown of the road so no one could pass him, both behaviors were associated with a car on a tail. Teddy could tell this was the real deal.
Teddy hung a right at the next intersection and headed up into the hills. He lived on Mulholland Drive, but he had no intention of leading the black sedan into his own neighborhood. He had in mind someplace more remote.
The black sedan was clearly following him. The driver had made every turn and given up the pretense of keeping cars between them. As the roads became narrower and winding, the black sedan shortened the distance, and plastered himself right on Teddy’s tail.
Teddy sighed. That was the problem with the vintage sports car. It was built for speed on the open road, but practically useless when you wanted to run some son of a bitch off the road.
As soon as he had the thought, the black sedan pulled alongside and began crowding him.
A hairpin turn was coming up. Teddy could easily be pushed over the edge.
In anticipation, the black sedan inched closer, nicking his fender.
The curve was rushing at them. There would be no room to turn.
Teddy downshifted and popped the clutch. The sports car, grinding in the lower gear, dropped back. Just before he fell behind the black car entirely, Teddy swung the wheel and clipped the tail end of the sedan with his fender. Then he was clear of it, and the black car vaulted ahead, fishtailing from the impact as the driver fought to steer back in the direction of the skid.
The sedan was going way too fast. The driver had anticipated pushing the sports car off the road, but with nothing to push against and his own back end out of control, the driver fought desperately to make the turn. He almost did, screeching in a wide arc before mounting the shoulder, jumping the guardrail, and cascading down the mountain in a fiery heap.
* * *
“No. But there’s a news report of a one-car accident in Santa Monica.”
“Fatality?”
“Driver’s dead. Car went off a cliff. Supposedly burned to a crisp.”
“Was it a Porsche?”
“No details yet. The rescue crew has to send somebody down to the wreck to bring up the body.”
“Surely they can tell what type of car.”
“Maybe they can, but they don’t have to tell me. I got Paulie on the way there to find out.”
Sylvester’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out, clicked it on. “Yes?”
“Who’s that?” Gino said.
“Uh-huh . . . Hang on.” He cradled the phone against his chest and raised his eyebrows. “It’s Marco.”
“On the phone?”
Sylvester shook his head. “No, that’s Paulie on the phone. Marco’s the guy in the car.”
17
Peter smiled at Tessa. “You don’t have to read.”
“I like to read.”
“You don’t have to try out. You have the part.”
Peter Barrington was holding auditions on the soundstage at Centurion Studios. Tessa Tweed was already cast in the lead role. Indeed, Peter had written it for her. The rest of the roles were wide open, so the casting call was a bit of a zoo, as every actor in Hollywood wanted to work with the hot, young Oscar-nominated director.
“Well, let me put it this way,” Peter said. “Much as I like to hear you read my lines, today I barely have time for it.”
“Some of the people you’re auditioning have scenes with me. I can read with them.”
“They can read with the production assistant, too. I’m not going to have you read with a hundred people. Though I’m happy to have your input on who should get callbacks.”
Tessa grinned. “Isn’t this fun?”
