Hollywood Deception

by Gemma Halliday

  "Thanks. You want some pizza?" I offered.

  "Nah, I'm good. Listen, I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to see if you liked the flowers."

  I leaned my butt against the arm of the sofa and crossed my arms over my chest.

  "So, seriously, how did you find my place?" I paused, something else dawning on me. "For that matter, how did you know I work for the Informer?"

  His grin returned. "Dude, it's not like it was hard. Ever heard of Google?"

  Okay, he had a point. If you googled my name, I'm sure plenty of bylines from the Informer's site came up. But that didn't explain my home address. "But how did you get here?"

  "I borrowed my mom's car. I am seventeen, you know." His chest puffed out with pride.

  Good grief.

  "I meant, how. Did. You. Get. My. Home. Address." I enunciated very clearly.

  He shrugged. "Not to brag, but I'm pretty good with a computer. I haven't met a database yet I couldn't get into."

  I blinked. "You hacked into a database to get my address?"

  "Southern Gas and Electric. You can get anyone's address from those dudes."

  For the second time that night, I counted to ten and breathed deeply, trying to maintain my cool.

  "Listen, Shane, I really appreciated your help watching Mrs. Baxter's house."

  "You're welcome."

  "And the flowers were very thoughtful."

  "They were awesome, right? Cost me my whole allowance."

  I cringed. "But you do realize that I'm a bit older than you, don't you?"

  He shrugged. "My dad is ten years older than my mom. No biggie. I mean, what are you, like twenty-one?"

  "Something like that." I was flattered enough that I didn't correct him. "But this just isn't going to work out."

  I was trying to let him down easy, but he just grinned and shrugged again, his red hair glinting in the overhead light. "I get it. You don't want to be a cradle robber or anything cause that would be gross."

  "Exactly," I agreed.

  "No sweat. I turn eighteen in just a few months. Totally legal then."

  I opened my mouth to argue again, but he put his finger to my lips, silencing me.

  "You don't have to give me an answer now. I'm a patient dude. Besides, I gotta get going. I'm supposed to pick my mom up from work. If you need my help with anything else, just give me a call." He waved and left the apartment.

  I locked the door behind him. Fab. I had a seventeen-year-old stalker-slash-admirer now. And it was still concerning that even a kid could find my home. If he could, anyone could. With the number of celebrities I upset on a daily basis, that thought was more than a bit unnerving. Perhaps it was time to look into some kind of security system. Mr. Fluffykins didn't exactly strike fear in the hearts of people.

  My cat looked at me and tilted his head as though asking me, "What the heck was that all about?"

  "He's harmless." I paused. "I think. Besides, his crush on me is kind of cute in a high-schooler sort of way."

  He rolled over on his back and meowed. I had a feeling it was his way of laughing at me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, my first order of business was to track down Henry and ask about the show he'd been developing. I called his office, and it went to voicemail again. I left another message, but I was starting to worry that he was screening me.

  When initially setting up the interview, I'd had to go through Bobby's manager first before he'd handed me off to Henry to work out the details. Simon Beckly worked out of a small office in Burbank and was known for handling mid-level talent—daytime talk show hosts, recurring commercial characters, and cable TV personalities like Bobby.

  I jumped into my car, stopping only long enough to hit a drive-thru Starbucks, and headed toward Burbank. Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of Simon's receptionist, a redhead in a tight miniskirt, who was obviously filling in on the phones between acting gigs.

  "Allie Quick," I said, when she asked for my name. "From the L.A. Informer. I spoke to Simon last week about an interview with Bobby Baxter."

  The redhead's face fell. "Oh. Sorry. Bobby's not doing any interviews right now." She paused, leaned in close, and whispered, "Because he's dead."

  I stifled a laugh at her melodrama. "Yeah, I know. That's what I wanted to talk to Simon about. Is he in?"

  She nodded. "Hang on a sec." She got up from her desk, walked to a door marked Private, and did a shave-and-a-haircut knock before opening it a crack.

  "Hey. There's someone here to see you."

  I could just barely make out Simon's muffled response.

  "Who?"

  "Some reporter. She wants to talk about Bobby."

  "No comment!" I heard Simon shout in response.

  "It's Allie Quick," I yelled around the redhead, hoping he'd remember my name.

  "Who?"

  So much for that hope. "I was here last week. About an interview with Bobby."

  There was a pause. Then, "Send her in."

  I breathed a sigh of relief and walked past the redhead as she opened the door for me.

  "Allie, so nice to see you again!" Simon said, all jovial smiles now as he addressed my chest. Ah. It wasn't so much my name he remembered as my cleavage. Oh well. Whatever got a girl in the door.

  "Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Beckly."

  "Simon, please." He gestured to a pair of chairs in front of his desk, and I sat.

  Simon Beckly was short, round, and had a bald head covered in liver spots. But his shiny Armani suit and gold rings on seven of his ten fingers spoke to the fact he was good at his job.

  "How can I help a lovely lady such as yourself today?" he asked, all charm.

  "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Bobby."

  Simon's smile fell, and he shook his head. "Sad business."

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," I told him.

  He nodded. "Yeah, it's going to be hard to replace Bobby. He was a real star."

  "And a nice guy, I hear," I added, seeing an opening.

  "Huh?" Simon looked at me like I was talking about the wrong Bobby. "Er, I suppose so."

  "I heard he was trying to help his personal assistant get his own show with Bobby's network. Something about history myths."

  "Oh that!" Simon waved me off. "Oh, Bobby squashed that show like a bug."

  "Wait—Bobby squashed it?" I asked, genuinely confused. "I thought he was trying to help Henry get it on the air."

  Simon shook his head. "Honey, you got it all wrong."

  I was starting to get that impression. "So what really happened?"

  "Well, Henry had this ridiculous idea for a show. He kept bugging Bobby about it, so finally Bobby says, 'Enough already. I'll freakin' pitch the show for you if you shut up about it.'"

  I stifled a grin at Simon's stellar storytelling abilities but didn't interrupt.

  "So, next time Bobby has a meeting with the network, he pitches it in a sort of offhand way. I think Bobby thought it was more of a joke than anything else. Only the joke was on him, because the execs liked it. They liked it so much they optioned it and shot a pilot."

  "So the show was already in production?" I asked, my wheels turning. "Did Henry get paid?"

  Simon shrugged. "Chump change. Unless the network picks a show up, we're talking token amounts of money. A few hundred bucks."

  "So what happened? Did the pilot bomb?"

  "Hardly!" he cackled. "It did great with test audiences. Too great. Fifty points higher than Bobby Tells All." He wiggled his eyebrows and nodded. "Yeah, Bobby couldn't have that. He's got no competition in the ratings right now, but Henry's show would have made Bobby's look like yesterday's news. So Bobby killed it."

  "How? If the network loved it, what did he do to convince them not to air it?"

  "He had me do some slick negotiating." He winked at me. "Bobby's contract was up, and he told them he'd only re-sign if they promised not to air Henry's show."

  "An
d they agreed to that? Even knowing it was scoring higher with the test audiences?" I asked.

  He nodded. "Hey, execs like a sure thing. Bobby's a proven moneymaker. They weren't going to throw that away to take a chance on an unknown, no matter how hot the pilot was."

  "Wow." I thought about poor, stressed, sleep deprived looking Henry. "That's cold."

  Simon shrugged. "That's Hollywood, honey. You can't take it, move back to Kansas." He cackled again at his own joke.

  "Just curious…if Henry's show had been picked up, what kind of money would we be talking then?"

  "Six figures," Simon said, nodding sagely. "That's per episode."

  I thanked him for the info and left him with my card. As soon as I got back to my car, I dialed Henry again. Straight to voicemail.

  While one couldn't help but feel for Henry, I also couldn't help but notice that it gave Henry quite a motive to want revenge on his boss. If Henry knew Bobby was the reason his show was killed, that was ample motive to want him dead. Six figures per episode? People had killed for a lot less.

  I scrolled through my contacts until I found the main number for the Bobby Tells All production offices.

  "BTA productions. This is Amelia. How can I help you?" answered a cheerful female voice.

  "Hi, Amelia," I responded. "This is Allie Quick. I'm trying to get hold of Henry Klein. Is he in the office?"

  "No, I'm sorry. He's not in. He's called in a personal day."

  Drat. "Do you know if he'll be back tomorrow?"

  "Sorry. I'm not sure."

  I tried not to read anything into the fact that Henry was AWOL. "Thanks, Amelia. When he does come back, would you let me know? I have a few questions I'd like to ask him."

  "I'm happy to," she said and took down my name and number.

  I disconnected the call and headed toward the Informer. As soon as I stepped off the elevators, I noticed two things: (1) Felix was noticeably absent from his office. His desk was in the usual disarray of papers and files, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was 90 percent sure it wasn't because he was avoiding me. And (2) there was a copper haired teenage stalker at my desk.

  "Shane," I greeted him as I approached.

  "Hey, babe!" He stood from my desk chair, giving me a big toothy smile.

  "What are you doing here?" I noticed that my computer was on and several screens were open. I swear if this kid had hacked into my email…

  "I just wanted to come by and see my girl. I took the bus. I thought maybe we could do lunch."

  I gritted my teeth together. "I'm not your girl. And how did you even get in here?" I was going to have to have a talk with Felix about security in the building.

  "I told that chick with the purple streaks in her hair that I was your boyfriend, and she sent me right over."

  I glanced up at Tina's cubicle. She was peeking over the top, her face red from laughter.

  I thought a really dirty word.

  "You have to go," I told Shane, scooting him out of the way and sitting in my chair. "I have work to do."

  "You're working on a story about Bobby Baxter, aren't you? About his death?"

  I spun around and shot him a look. "You know it's not nice to go through someone's computer files."

  "Hey, relax. I didn't open anything personal. I just thought maybe I could help out."

  I sighed. While he was getting on my nerves royally—and I'd probably never live this visit down if Tina had anything to do with it—he was just a kid with a crush. Hey, we'd all been there at some point, right? "Look, Shane, I really appreciate the help you've given me, but I think you need to go home. Don't you have school or something?"

  "Teachers' in-service day." He grinned. "Sweet, right? I love random days off."

  "Do your parents know where you are?"

  He blinked at me like I'd just asked the stupidest question on earth. "They're at work."

  I felt a headache starting to brew between my eyes. "Don't you have friends to go hang out with or malls to loiter at or something?"

  "You know, your notes on the case are pretty sparse," Shane said, ignoring me as he pointed to the open file on my screen.

  "Gee. Thanks."

  "Hey, not that I blame you, babe. I mean, it looks like you're just getting started, right?"

  "Sorta," I mumbled, not willing to admit how hard I'd been working already.

  "I'm sure once you get into it, you'll have more. You know, once you interview some suspects—"

  Been there, done that.

  "—find out about the murder weapon—"

  Check.

  "—go through his phone records—"

  "Fat chance of that," I interrupted.

  Shane paused. "Why?"

  "I'm a reporter, not the police. I can't get a warrant for things like phone records."

  Shane's face broke into what could only be described as a wicked grin. "Who needs a warrant?"

  I blinked at him, his meaning slow to compute. "Wait—you can hack into the phone company?" I whispered, glancing guiltily over both shoulders.

  "Child's play."

  "But we can't do that."

  "Sure we can." Shane nudged me out of my chair and sat down.

  I stood and nervously looked around the newsroom as if there was a neon sign above my head that read illegal activities about to commence. Cam was staring at her computer screen, sifting through photos. Tina had gotten her laughter under control and was on the phone. Max looked hung over and preoccupied with his dinosaur computer. No one was paying us any attention.

  "Isn't this illegal?" I asked.

  Shane shrugged. "Are we hurting anyone?"

  "Well, no."

  "I mean, we could even be helping someone if it brings a murderer to justice, right?"

  While the wording made us sound like some kind of comic book superheroes, he had a point.

  "Who's his cell carrier?" Shane asked.

  I quickly rattled it off. I only knew because Henry had told me their cell service was spotty on the soundstage when I'd been playing phone tag with him and Bobby while trying to set up the interview.

  Shane pulled up the company's website.

  "What if we get caught?" I asked. "Can't they trace this kind of thing?"

  "You should relax. I can cover my tracks. I'm not an amateur."

  "Are you sure? I don't want you to end up in jail."

  Shane looked up at me. "Aw, babe! You do care."

  Oh brother.

  "I care about being slapped with contributing to the delinquency of a minor," I said, putting emphasis on that last word in hopes he got the point.

  "Look, companies only bring in the police if they lose money. We're not gonna touch any financial records, right? We just want to see who Bobby's been talking to."

  Man, the kid could make a good argument. As much as I was nervous about this whole thing, I had to admit I really did want to see who Bobby had been talking to. If his marriage had broken up over an affair, maybe the girlfriend's number would show up. I wasn't sure what motive she could have for wanting to kill Bobby, but seeing as he'd cheesed off just about everyone else in his life, it was possible.

  I watched intently as Shane's fingers flew across the keyboard. The screen went black, then blue, then black again. Numbers and letters filled the screen and scrolled by rapidly.

  I watched for a few minutes until my eyes started to cross.

  "How long is this going to take?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder again. Which, if anyone had been looking, just made me look more guilty than I already felt.

  "Patience, babe. This is a highly technical art form."

  "I thought it was 'child's play.'"

  Shane grinned at me. "Touché. I like a girl who can keep me on my toes."

  "Just hurry up, okay?" I urged him, half expecting the internet police to come bursting through the Informer's elevator doors any second.

  I watched the numbers scroll for a few more minutes, and then finally several little folders and lines tha
t I assumed were the phone company's files appeared.

  "Did you know the Baxters?" I asked as I watched him type in different sequences of numbers and letters, presumably to get the right files open.

  "Not really. I think my mom went over to her house once, but just to deliver some mail that we got by mistake. I saw him and his wife from time to time. We never talked or anything. She's kind of snooty, and he was always in a rush and yelling on his phone."

  That sounded like Marilyn and Bobby. I crossed my fingers that we'd know just whom he was yelling at on that phone soon.

  "You know this guy's number?"

  I nodded, grabbing my own phone and scrolling through the contacts.

  Shane typed it in, and amazingly, a few seconds later Bobby's records appeared.

  "Is this what you need?" he asked with a grin.

  "Wow. I'm actually impressed. Can you print that out, or is it too risky?"

  "I can print it," he assured me. Then a second later my printer started spitting out page after page of phone records.

  Shane did something to my computer that caused a lot of flashing then powered it down. "You should be in the clear. I covered my tracks pretty well, but even if they do find the breach, they'll want to keep it quiet," he assured me.

  He knew an awful lot about the company's policies. I silently wondered how many times he'd done this before. Probably better not to ask. I didn't want to be an accessory after the fact.

  "Thanks," I said as I gathered the records and put them into a folder.

  "So, how about that lunch date?" He smiled up at me, batting his eyelashes.

  "How about this?" I flipped my purse strap over my shoulder. "I'll buy you a friendly lunch before I drive you home."

  He shrugged. "I'll take it."

  "But this is not a date. Got it?"

  "Not a date. Got it," he confirmed.

  We stopped at one of my favorite taco stands, grabbed a box of tacos and a couple of drinks, and then I dropped Shane off back at his house, with a stern warning not to show up unannounced at my home or office anymore. It was getting creepy. I wasn't sure it totally got through, as he just grinned at me and said, "Later, babe." How was it the man I wanted attention from was ignoring me, and the kid I wanted to ignore was crushing on me?

  I had a sudden horrible thought as I drove back to the Informer. Was I being Felix's Shane? Did Felix see me as an annoying kid? The truth was, he was more than a few years older than I was. I'd never minded, and he hadn't seemed to either, though I knew other people had pointed it out to him on occasion. I did a little mental math and cringed. The truth was Shane and I were closer in age than Felix and me. Ugh. No wonder Felix was losing interest.