Hollywood Secrets

by Gemma Halliday

  “And you are?”

  “Cam.”

  She raised an eyebrow, clearly inviting more explanation.

  “Trace’s assistant,” I said, pointing to the man in question.

  He nodded in agreement.

  The plastic receptionist gave me a once over, taking in my jeans and sneakers. Hardly a power ensemble.

  “Did you have an appointment with Mr. Decker?” she finally asked.

  I was tempted to say yes, but I knew she’d just hop on her headset and check with Decker’s assistant. Instead, I slowly shook my head back and forth.

  “Not really.”

  “I’d be happy to have you wait here for him to return,” she said, indicating the white on white lobby.

  Knowing just how long that wait would be, I shook my head again. “Maybe we could just go on up and look around for it ourselves?”

  “What did you say you’d lost again?” she asked. Even though we both knew I hadn’t said.

  Fortunately, I’d been hanging out with Tina long enough that the lies rolled right off my tongue.

  “Script pages. For a movie Decker wants him to do. The producers need a decision by tomorrow, so you can understand how Trace needs to get some alone time with the pages.”

  I could see her desire to please her bosses warring behind her big brown eyes with her desire to please the movie star client.

  Trace sent her his million-dollar, ‘sexy leading man’ smile. “Please? I’d really appreciate it.”

  That did it. I watched as she melted like a grilled cheese.

  “Well, I guess I can trust you,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “I’ll ring his assistant and tell her you’re on your way up.

  “Thanks!” I gave her a cheery wave. Which, needless to say, she never even noticed, her full attention on the movie star at my side as we walked into the elevator.

  Once inside, Trace hit the button for the seventh floor.

  “That was pretty slick, Miss Assistant,” he said.

  “What can I say? I’m a smooth talker.”

  “I guess you have to be to be a member of the paparazzi.”

  “Was that a dig at my profession?”

  “I think it was a compliment.”

  “Liar.”

  He grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

  Once the elevator spit us out onto the seventh floor, we made our way down a short hallway filled with offices of junior agents. As we passed the open doors I could almost feel million-dollar deals being made as they shouted phrases like, “You’re golden, baby,” and, “This picture has you written all over it.” I tried not to salivate. I could only imagine the amount of tabloid gold being traded behind these doors. To be a fly on the wall would mean front page headlines for a month.

  I followed Trace to the last door on the left and entered to find ourselves in another lobby of sorts – the office of Decker’s assistant. True to her word, the receptionist downstairs must have alerted her to our presence, as the older woman behind the desk simply smiled and said, “Go right in,” indicating a doorway behind her.

  We did. Passing through another set of doors into Decker’s private office.

  Unlike the rest of the building, this room was dark – almost cave-like. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling, the floor covered with two oriental rungs in deep burgundies and navy blues to match the fabric on the navy club chairs flanking a huge mahogany desk. Atop the desk sat a brass nameplate, two brass pen holders, and a brass paperweight shaped like the MGM lion. Along the south wall of the room sat two large bookcases and a file cabinet. Directly opposite was Decker’s wall of fame, sporting dozens of framed photos of Decker with his arm around all manner of important people. Decker with Julia Roberts at the Oscars, with Ray Romano at the Emmys, and with Hugh Jackman at the Tonys. Smack in the middle was a framed picture of Decker with Trace at a film opening. They were standing next to a huge poster of Trace in action-hero mode advertising Die Tough, while the real deal smiled at the camera, the reflections of dozens of flashbulbs lighting up the sky behind him.

  My gaze flickered from the photo to the live version, scanning items on Decker’s desktop. It was funny, but the more I got to know him, the odder it seemed to think of Trace in terms of celebrity. Thing is, he didn’t act like a movie star. I guess I expected him to act more… dramatic maybe? When I thought movie stars I thought of Brad Pitt and Paris Hilton-esque antics. Jet-setting off to exotic locales. Dressing in designer duds. Drinking frilly coffees with fifteen different flavors of syrups in them.

  I glanced over at Trace, who had moved on to Decker’s desk drawers. He didn’t really fit any of those. Granted the plumbing ad and baseball cap were courtesy of yours truly, but his jeans and sneakers were all him. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact his face was plastered fifty feet high on billboards up and down Ventura, you’d never know Trace was anything but your average Joe. With a killer smile and abs of steel.

  Again I wondered just what sort of life he might have had before becoming the worldwide franchise of “Trace Brody.”

  He looked up and caught my eye.

  I blushed, embarrassed at being caught staring at him.

  But if he thought anything of it, he didn’t say so. Maybe he was used to people staring at him. “You gonna help me here or what?” he asked instead.

  “Right. Sure.”

  I shook my head, reminding myself we were on a mission. If we didn’t find that flash drive, and fast, there would be no Trace Brody, movie star or otherwise.

  I turned to the file cabinet on the opposite wall and began opening drawers. Most were files of headshots and resumes of the ever-hopeful who were dying to become one of Decker’s clients. A few held scripts, printed emails from studio producers, multi-page contracts. All paperwork that was making my inner tabloid girl drool, but nothing that looked like a memory stick.

  Reluctantly, I moved on to the bookcases.

  Fifteen minutes later Trace and I had combed every surface of the room imaginable, and I was sure the brunette receptionist downstairs was beginning to wonder where we were. I plopped down into one of the blue club chairs.

  “It’s not here.”

  Trace straightened up from the floor where he’d been feeling under Decker’s desk for some sort of National Treasure-like secret compartment. “It has to be.” He surveyed the room again. “Maybe we missed it.”

  I looked around the room again. There were only so many places it could be. And we’d exhausted them all. “What if Decker gave it to someone else?”

  Trace frowned. “Why would he do that?”

  “Well,” I said, my mental gears churning. “What if Decker got curious? Your call comes about guys with guns and Decker thinks maybe something important is on the drive. Maybe he should take a look before handing it over. Let’s say he was a bit of an opportunist.”

  Trace shot me a look. “He was a Hollywood agent.”

  Right. Safe assumption. “So he looks at what’s on the drive. And he finds something important. Maybe incriminating. Decker thinks maybe he can shake these guys down a bit. Make a fast buck. Instead of handing the drive over, he hides it so he can barter with it later.” I paused. “That sound like something Decker would do?”

  “Sadly, yeah, it does. Only, it looks like our guys would rather have Decker out of the picture than make a deal with him.”

  “Where would Decker hide the drive? If it isn’t here and it isn’t at his house, who would he trust with it?”

  Trace fell into the chair beside me, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

  I let my gaze wander around the room, finally resting on Decker’s desk. An appointment book lay open.

  “What’s this?”

  Trace glanced over. “Decker’s schedule.”

  “I didn’t think anyone kept them on paper anymore.”

  “Decker always kept a paper copy as well as a digital one on his Blackberry. Last year he lost all his phone data when a server at Ver
izon crashed, including his entire schedule for the month. He ended up missing three auditions before they could restore his data. After that he always kept a paper copy.”

  I walked over to the desk and glanced down at the schedule.

  “Didn’t Decker just come back from some meeting in Vegas?” I asked.

  The schedule went back to the middle of last week. I saw Friday was the night of the awards show. Four days stood between then and now. And, since it was a weekend, the appointments were pretty light. Just one, in fact. His Vegas trip booking a gig for someone named “Carla”.

  “Who’s Carla?” I asked.

  Trace came to stand next to me.

  Close next to me. I tried to ignore the instant heat radiating off his body. Or maybe that was me heating up all on my own.

  “I don’t know,” Trace said, seemingly oblivious to the reaction his nearness was causing.

  I cleared my throat. Yeah, his proximity wasn’t affecting me either. Not one bit.

  Trace flipped on Decker’s computer address book and, after a little digging, uncovered that our Carla was a Carla Constantine, an actress who, according to Decker’s files, he’d booked quite a few jobs for in the last month. He’d also made notes in his past schedules to “send Carla flowers” and “buy necklace for Carla”, hinting at the fact his relationship with the actress might not have been solely professional.

  “Think it’s possible Decker gave the stick to his girlfriend?” I asked.

  Trace shrugged. “I’m starting to think that anything’s possible.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  According to his files on Carla, the latest job Decker had booked for her was a movie of the week currently filming at Sunset Studios. In fact, she’d been scheduled for a 6:00 am call time just that morning at studio 4G. Which was a good news/bad news situation.

  The bad news: the Sunset Studios lot was closed up tight unless you were on the list.

  The good news: Trace was on everyone’s list.

  Armed with a plan, we made our way back down the elevator and out through the ultra-white lobby, pausing only a few minutes as the valet grabbed my Jeep, before hopping in and heading toward Hollywood.

  Sunset Studios was located on Hollywood Boulevard, taking up a full city block. A tall stuccoed wall ran the length of it, a throwback to the studio’s early days when the studio mucky-mucks tried to hide sets from the public. And from prying journalists like myself. These days, however, it was mostly for show, as we journalist types relied on cell phone photos sent by extras and crew members out to earn an extra buck for our sneak peeks of the latest sets. And, thankfully for me, no wall could keep them out.

  There were two entrances to the studios: a main gate on Hollywood and a second entrance off a side street. Trace elected the latter, pulling down a palm-lined street and stopping at the iron gate as an older gentleman exited the guardhouse with a clipboard in hand.

  “Name?” he asked as I rolled down the window.

  “Trace Brody,” I replied. Then gestured to the actor sitting in my passenger seat.

  The guard leaned in the window for a better look.

  Trace waved.

  The guard nodded, a smile wider than the Grand Canyon cracking his wrinkled face. “My word, it is Trace Brody. How you doin’ today, Mr. Brody?”

  “Great. Thanks,” Trace responded. He was a good enough actor that it was almost believable.

  “You know, my granddaughter is a huge fan of yours. She’s got your poster up in her bedroom and everything. Any chance I could get an autograph for her?”

  I rolled my eyes, but somehow Trace managed to keep that genuine-looking smile on his face.

  “Sure,” he said.

  This caused the old guy to smile even wider. He flipped to a blank page on his clipboard and handed the thing through the window to Trace. “Her name’s Maggie. That’s with an I-E,” he directed as Trace put pen to paper, signing his John Hancock. “Boy, this is real nice of you,” the old guy went on. “Did I mention what fans we are of your work? We are, Mr. Brody. Big fans.”

  “Thanks.” Trace scribbled a signature, then handed the clipboard back across me and through the window.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brody.”

  “Mind of we, uh…” Trace trailed off, pointing at the gate in front of us.

  “Right. Yes. Of course, Mr. Brody. Go on through,” he said, waving him toward the open gates.

  “Thanks,” Trace repeated.

  I glanced at him, shaking my head as we drove in.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Is there anyone who doesn’t gush like an open wound at the sight of you?”

  He turned and gave me a funny sidelong look. “You don’t.”

  I shrugged. Now was probably not a good time to mention the butterfly convention in my stomach every time he got within a foot of me.

  “I’m used to dealing with celebrities,” I said instead. “All my subjects are famous.”

  “Subjects? Jesus, you make it sound like we’re items for study or something. We are human, you know?”

  Yeah. My traitorous body knew that fact only too well.

  Luckily, he dropped it. “Park over there,” he said, indicating a lot to our right.

  I did as he asked, parking just beyond the gate and swapping my Jeep out for a shiny white golf cart, the studio’s transportation mode of choice. Trace jumped behind the wheel and quickly drove us through the heart of the studio lot.

  I’d been to the Sunset a couple of times as a tourist on their famed studio tour where they loaded up trams full of the star struck and drove around pointing out the various film sets from famous movies. If we were lucky, something was currently filming and we might sneak a peek at one of our favorite stars. Unfortunately, in my case, the highlight of the tour had been when a guy in a Hawaiian shirt two rows up from me had dropped his camera into the fake ocean the Jaws prop lived in and they’d had to fish it out with an oar prop from the set of Titanic. As exciting as the tourist tour was, this was my first real behind-the-scenes glimpse of the studio.

  To the right were rows of squat warehouse-looking buildings, housing the sets of hit TV shows, movies, and the occasional music video. Some were permanently dressed as the living rooms of our favorite sitcom families, and others were rented out by the day for short-term projects such as Carla’s movie of the week.

  On the other side of the lot were the outdoor sets, a half dozen fake cities sectioned off into various neighborhoods. There was a Manhattan street, a row of Boston brownstones, and a New Orlean’s café. A block over was the pristine suburban street where the prime-time soap Magnolia Lane filmed their hunky gardeners and gossipy housewives. And in the center of it all was the grassy square where the high school kids on the tween cable hit Pippi Mississippi ate their lunches between math class and cheerleading practice. In fact, I caught a glimpse of Pippi’s blonde pigtails bouncing up and down next to the ginormous fountain as Trace whisked us by on his way to studio 4G.

  Which, as it turned out, was near the back of the lot among the other leased sets. A couple of white trailers sat by the front of the warehouse doors, along with a rack of costumes and some rolling spotlights. Trace parked behind the trailers and we made our way up to the warehouse doors.

  Movie sets are generally chaotic. Extras mixing with crew mixing with wardrobe mixing with the hundred other people needed behind the scenes to make everything work. While security at the gate was tougher than the president’s, once you were on the lot, you could pretty much go anywhere and blend in to the crowd unnoticed.

  That is, unless you were Trace Brody.

  A tourists tram wound past the set just as we approached the warehouse doors, the helpful guide’s voice booming over the loudspeaker.

  “And just to our right is studio 4G where Katie Briggs is shooting her latest TV movie. And look who’s out front? It’s none other than Trace Brody!”

  Three dozen heads turned his way, and we were suddenly assaulted by a caco
phony of digital camera flashes.

  “Trace is best known for his work in the action film Die Tough, last summer’s blockbuster hit. Smile for the people, Trace!”

  Trace did a feeble wave, as he also became the star of several vacationers’ home movies. While wearing a plumbing ad.

  Of course by the time the tram made its way past us and on to the next studio neighborhood, every extra, crew member, and production assistant on the movie-of-the-week set had turned our way, too, and were staring at Trace with open curiosity. Not surprising since they most likely knew he was not cast in this particular movie.

  “Uh… hi,” Trace said, waving to the crowd in general. “Anyone know where we can find Carla Constantine?” he asked.

  A guy pushing a rolling camera looked up and pointed toward the first white trailer outside. “Cast trailer is over there.”

  “Thanks.” He waved and ducked his head down, leading the way to the trailer.

  I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on our backs as we knocked on the white aluminum door. I had to admit, it was kind of unnerving being on the other end of this celebrity watching thing.

  Luckily, a beat later our knock was answered by a voice from within. “It’s open!”

  Glad to escape the prying eyes, we opened the door and quickly slipped inside.

  The interior of the trailer looked strikingly like my apartment. Though I wasn’t entirely sure the trailer wasn’t bigger. A sofa was one side, a small kitchenette in the corner and a pair of recliners off to the other. A metal table held bottles of water and script pages, all marked with highlighter and scribbled notes. A small woman with dark air sat on the sofa, her forehead screwed up in concentration as she memorized her lines from the script in her hand, her mouth moving as she silently read.

  “Carla Constantine?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Nope. Sorry,” she responded without looking up.

  “Oh. Is she here?” I glanced around the trailer for any sign of another inhabitant.

  “I dunno,” came her response. Bored. Annoyed. Still not bothering to look up.