Hollywood Deception

by Gemma Halliday

  I made it back to the office in record time—even slowing down at the overpass for the speed trap, where an unlucky silver truck was the CHP's latest victim. As soon as I got off the elevator, I noticed Tina was back at her desk, yelling into the phone. From what I could hear of her end of the conversation, her swear pig—the piggy bank on her desk that she owed a quarter to for every swear word she uttered at the office—was going to be full by the end of the day. Whomever she was cussing out had her really riled up. I felt bad for the person on the other end of the phone. But I kinda hoped it meant her investigation had hit a roadblock.

  Cam was out, and Felix was still gone. Max raised a hand in greeting as I walked by.

  When I got to my desk I grabbed the folder holding Bobby's phone records and scanned the first dozen pages. There were calls to numbers I recognized as his manager, a prominent talent agency—presumably his—Henry, and one I discovered was Marilyn's Hollywood Hills place. There were a handful of numbers I didn't recognize, so I decided to call them myself, but they turned out to be to other offices at the studio and a couple of takeout joints.

  I was starting to think that this was a huge waste of time, when I reached the next page and spotted another number that I didn't recognize. I scanned the rest of the sheet and spotted several more calls to the same number—most in the week before Bobby died. I grabbed my pink highlighter out of the top right drawer of my desk and started highlighting every call made to and from the number.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed it, hoping I'd hit the jackpot and got the mistress.

  A cheerful voice on the other end answered, "Keepin' it clean with Sunshine Sanitation. This is Ellen. How can I help you?"

  "I'm sorry. I have the wrong number," I said quickly and hung up the phone.

  I tossed the highlighter back into the drawer, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the papers in front of me. Well, that was unexpected. Why would Bobby be calling Sunshine Sanitation on his personal phone? Ellen sounded about sixty, so mistress was scratched off my list.

  I looked at the list of pink highlighted calls again. Some were short, but most were over five minutes long. Which means Bobby had actually talked with someone at Sunshine, not just had them hang up unceremoniously on him like I had. Had they been cooperating on the story? But if so, why the cold shoulder now when I'd mentioned his name? Had he lied to them about the story? Had he tricked them into talking to him? And why call from his personal number—why not have a research assistant or PA do the dirty work?

  I dialed the production office of Bobby Tells All again.

  "BTA productions. This is Amelia. How can I help you?" came my answer.

  "Hi, Amelia. Allie Quick again."

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Quick, but Henry's still not in."

  "Actually, there was something I was hoping you could help me with," I told her.

  "Oh? Well, I'll try."

  "It concerns a show that Bobby was working on. 'Takin' out the Trash'?"

  "Yes. I know the one."

  "I was wondering—who was doing the research for the show?"

  "I'm not sure I know what you mean," she said hesitantly.

  "I mean, would Bobby have directly contacted Sunshine Sanitation? Would he have been doing research or interviews or anything like that personally?"

  Amelia snorted. "Not likely." She paused. "Oh sorry. I didn't mean to speak ill of the dead. It's just that Mr. Baxter had a team who did that sort of thing for him. He'd come up with the idea that they'd do the legwork. Then they'd report back to him and the writers, who'd make a show out of it."

  "So he wouldn't have any reason to contact them himself?" I asked, looking down at the marked-up phone records on my desk.

  "Not that I can think of," she said.

  "Thanks," I told her, absently hanging up the phone. So why had Bobby made multiple calls there? Maybe he was seeing someone at the company? Maybe there was a hot female exec? Or maybe there was more to this trash story than it appeared.

  Talking to someone over the phone at the plant was impossible, so I went to plan B. I'd show up at the Sunshine Sanitation office and see how far I could get face to face.

  Sunshine Sanitation sat east of L.A., down the 10 freeway in an industrial area of Pomona, in a huge white cement building. Small windows lined the top of the building, and rolling metal doors stood open all around the sides, revealing forklifts and large recycling trucks. The building appeared clean on the outside with a fresh coat of paint, though I could smell the place even with my windows up.

  I pulled into a visitor parking lot near the front and made my way toward the sign marked Office. The stench coming from the plant hung heavy in the air. Hopefully, the stink wouldn't cling to me after I left. I'd worn one of my favorite teal sundresses, and the thought of chucking it made me tear up a bit. Or maybe that was just the smell.

  A bell over the front entrance chimed as I entered the main office. The walls were a sterile white, and the floors were a matching white cement tile. The scent of disinfectant permeated the air, as if someone had just sprayed an entire can of Lysol, and their logo of the giant smiling sun I'd seen on their website was painted on one wall.

  I blinked a few times to let my eyes adjust to the light of the office and spotted a portly woman with dark blonde hair and small green eyes behind a large counter with a computer monitor mounted on it.

  "Welcome to Sunshine Sanitation. I'm Ellen. How may I help you today?" she asked in the same cheerful tone I'd heard over the phone.

  I approached the counter. "Hi, my name is…Tina Bender," I lied. "I'm with the Environmental Protection Agency. We're asking some routine questions of all the waste processing plants in the area."

  While I normally hated lying—as I usually got caught—this time it was a necessary evil. I'd already given her my real name and credentials over the phone, and that had gotten me nowhere. I crossed my fingers this tactic at least got me in the door.

  Ellen eyed my sundress. "You're with the EPA?"

  "It's casual Wednesday at the office." I shrugged and did a laugh that came off a little more nervous sounding than I'd hoped. I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of going home to change first.

  Ellen clicked on a keyboard hidden under the counter and frowned. "I don't see an inspection scheduled for today."

  "No, you wouldn't," I told her. "It's a surprise inspection. You know, to make sure…everything is running smoothly." I suddenly wished I knew a bit more about how a recycling plant actually did run. I just prayed I could fake it.

  Ellen's cheerful countenance was quickly morphing to suspicion. "Can I see your credentials, please?"

  Right. I should probably have some of those. "Uh, credentials…." I peeked into my purse as if searching for them. "Credentials, credentials….I know they're here somewhere. Let's see…lip gloss, nail file, breath mint, quarters…"

  Ellen sighed loudly, crossing both arms over her chest.

  I looked up and gave her my best winning smile. "You know, I really just have a couple of quick questions. Tiny ones."

  She raised an eyebrow at me. I took it as the best sign I was going to get to forge ahead.

  "We heard a rumor that a Bobby Baxter was doing one of his tell-all shows on your facility."

  Any sign of Cheerful Ellen disappeared at the mention of Bobby's name, a deep scowl embedding itself on her features. "And?" she challenged.

  "And I was wondering if you know what the show was about?"

  "No." She spit the word out so quickly that I knew she must be lying.

  "No clue, huh?"

  She shook her head, her hair bouncing against her cheeks.

  "Is there anyone else here who might know?" I asked, looking behind her to a door marked Employees Only.

  Again with the headshake. "No. Sorry."

  "Really? Because I have it on good authority that Bobby called here and spoke with someone. Several times," I emphasized.

  Her eyes narrowed. "You must be mistaken."


  Problem was, I wasn't. The phone company's records didn't lie. This woman, however, I had my doubts about. Either she was hiding something, or she'd been told to stonewall by someone higher up in the company. I had a suspicion it was the latter.

  "What is the EPA's interest in this anyway?" Ellen asked, eying my sundress again.

  Great question. "We…just want to make sure that you're being properly protected." I cringed even as I said it. It really would have helped my cover if I knew more about the organization I was pretending to be from.

  "We're fine." She paused. "Bobby Baxter is dead, and his show won't be airing anymore. There's nothing to tell. Now, if there isn't anything else…" She trailed off, gesturing to the door.

  There was plenty else. However, I figured I'd pushed my luck enough for one day. "Thanks a bunch!" I told her, going for overly cheerful.

  She didn't reciprocate, continuing her scowl as I left as quickly as I could—trying to avoid her stare that I swear said liar, liar, pants on fire as I scurried across the parking lot.

  Traffic was going to be insane getting back into L.A. at this hour, so I decide to wait it out and hit a drive-thru In-N-Out Burger instead. As I munched on my burger and fries, I went over my notes again—not just on Sunshine but the entire list I'd amassed on Bobby, from my initial questions to take to the interview to what I'd learned since his death, trying to get a big-picture overview. I felt like I had all the pieces of Bobby's life, but none of them fit together. What I really needed was Bobby's notes. What had he been planning to tell all about in his show on Sunshine Sanitation? Why the personal calls to the plant? Was he onto something big?

  The wife had said he kept his laptop at work. I knew from my experience on the set that Bobby had spent a lot of time in his trailer. I wondered if the laptop was still there.

  I looked down at my watch. Half past five. But studios didn't necessarily keep regular business hours.

  I dialed the number for the production office, but instead of the helpful Amelia, I got a message saying the offices were temporarily closed due to "unforeseen circumstances." I assumed that meant Bobby's death, and production had officially shut down on Bobby Tells All.

  Which meant there was no one around to put my name on the guardhouse list. Then again, there was also probably no one around to notice me slipping into Bobby Baxter's trailer…

  I quickly tossed my trash in the bin and headed back to my car. I was just cranking on the AC when my phone buzzed with a text. I glanced down. Felix.

  Been a long day. Drinks?

  I bit my lip. Dang it. Why did he have to pick the one time I was busy? I paused, my fingers hovering over the screen. Part of me wanted to type back Heck yes! But I knew if I wanted to get a look at Bobby's things, I was on borrowed time. I wasn't even sure some assistant hadn't cleaned his trailer of personal effects already.

  Sorry. Busy tonight. Rain check?

  I cringed even as I typed it.

  I waited what seemed like an eternity for his one word answer: sure.

  Why did I suddenly feel like I'd blown it with this relationship?

  I tried to shove that thought to the back of my mind as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the 10.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was almost dark by the time I hit the main gate at the studios. The night guard was on duty in the shack, a different guy than I'd encountered in my last two visits. Which meant I couldn't rely on him recognizing me and conveniently letting me in. Dang it.

  I braked as I approached the shack, thinking quickly.

  "'Evening," the guy in the guard uniform said. He was tall, slim, and had a name tag that read Alfredo. "Name please?"

  "Marilyn Baxter." I said a silent prayer that Marilyn wasn't a regular visitor to the set.

  Luck must have finally been with me, as he just nodded and checked his electronic tablet. After a moment of searching, his eyebrow drew into a frown. "Sorry, ma'am. Your name is not on my list tonight."

  I huffed out a sigh in my best Mrs. Baxter imitation. "You have got to be kidding me. I told my husband's assistant that I was coming by to pick up his personal effects. Are you telling me he didn't call you?"

  "Uh…" Alfredo looked a little intimidated, like he wasn't used to irate wives. "I'm sorry, but no one informed me."

  "Henry Klein. Call him. In fact, let me call that little no-good weasel and let him know he's fired." I made a big show of rummaging in my purse for my phone.

  "Wait, uh…no one needs to get fired."

  I paused. "Oh, yes he does!"

  "Who is your husband, ma'am?" the guard asked, starting to sweat.

  "Bobby Baxter. The recently deceased Bobby Baxter." I let out a small sob on the last word, hoping crying wives intimidated him too.

  "Oh geez, I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, Mrs. Baxter," Alfredo said, tripping over himself. "I'm really sorry about your husband. We all are."

  I nodded, dabbing at my dry eyes. "Thank you."

  "Of course you can go right in. Don't worry about the list mix-up. I'll straighten it out with Henry."

  I sniffed loudly and nodded again. "You're very kind," I said, quickly putting my car in gear and driving through the gate before he could change his mind.

  I parked my golf cart a couple of studios down from Bobby's and slipped my heels off to keep from clacking along the pavement as I kept to the shadows. I didn't pass anyone else, the rest of the nearby productions shut down for the night. The large warehouse doors to studio 28B, where Bobby Tells All was filmed, were locked up tight. Quite probably forever, I thought sadly. I wondered what they'd do with the shows they'd already filmed. Would they air as a final tribute to their host?

  I looked over both shoulders then slipped around the back of the building where the trailers were kept. It was dark behind the building, the dim lights from the studio's streetlamps not quite reaching the area. I pulled my phone out and flicked on my flashlight app. The three trailers were still lined up neatly, a smattering of potted plants sitting between them to liven up the sparse alleyway. Bobby's trailer still bore his name on the door. I just hoped the contents were still untouched.

  I was just about to try the door, when the sound of another golf cart reached my ears. I quickly looked around for a hiding spot and dove behind the wardrobe trailer, crouching onto the ground beside a potted topiary.

  The golf cart stopped, and a guard got out. He shined his flashlight in arching beams, and I thought really small thoughts trying to make myself as invisible as I could.

  What felt like an eternity later, the guard put his flashlight away, got back into his cart, and drove away.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, got back to my feet, and padded to the door of the trailer, ready to pull out the lockpick set that Felix had given me when I'd first started working for him. But when I touched the handle, the door easily pushed open an inch.

  I stared at the ajar door for a moment, unsure quite what to do. Why would the door to the trailer be unlocked? Surely the production staff must have secured it after Bobby's death? Or the studio security?

  I nibbled my bottom lip for a second then decided I was just being paranoid.

  I pressed the door open and stepped inside. I flicked on my flashlight app again and scanned the room. It looked a lot like my grandparents' Winnebago, if they'd hired an interior decorator. A small table and bench seats to my left, a sofa along the wall to my right, and some cupboards and shelves filled with various jars of stage makeup, empty coffee cups, and script pages. None of which looked particularly telling. Just beyond the shelves was a door that probably led to a bedroom. If Bobby had any personal items, like, say, a laptop with incriminating notes on it, my guess is that's where they'd be.

  I walked forward and put my hand on the knob…

  Then froze as I heard a thump from beyond the door.

  Everything in my body told me to get the heck out of there. That something wasn't right. I clicked off my flashlight and turned to go. But my hand had bar
ely left the doorknob when the door burst open and knocked me down. My head hit the floor with a crack that I felt all the way down to my toes. I forced myself to roll over and stand up, moving as quickly as I could toward the trailer's door. Stumbling down the three steps to the ground, I heard footsteps pound behind me.

  I moved to run when hands grasped my shoulders and shoved me to the ground. I hit a couple of potted plants, and shards of pottery scattered around me. My entire body ached, and blood trickled down my calf. Turning over onto my back, I hoped to get a look at my attacker. But his face was obscured in the darkness, covered in a ski mask. I had the fleeting thought that I was about to die, and my lip trembled.

  Then I heard the sweet sound of the security guard's golf cart again.

  My attacker turned toward the direction of the sound, and that's when I saw it. A tattoo on the back of his forearm. It looked like a snake wrapped around a dying tree.

  The sound of the guard's cart came closer, and the shadowy attacker dropped his grip on me and took off at a dead run in the opposite direction.

  I breathed a sigh of relief that he was gone, but it was short lived. If I was found here, I'd have some explaining to do. I got to my feet and ran the length of the back side of the building. I didn't dare go back to my abandoned golf cart, instead hoofing it the entire way back to the visitor parking lot, keeping to the shadows. I didn't stop running until I reached the safety of my car. The doors locked automatically when I started the ignition. I quickly drove off the studio lot. Two blocks down, I pulled to the curb under a bright streetlight to catch my breath.

  My calf was burning. I turned on the overhead light and looked down at my bleeding leg. A piece of broken pottery must have cut me when I'd fallen. I grabbed some napkins out of the glove compartment and held some pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.