Hollywood Deception

by Gemma Halliday

  Felix opened his mouth to retort, but then he must have thought better of it, as he closed it just as quickly, something shifting behind his eyes. Instead, he stood, running a hand through his hair again. "I'm calling Cal," he said. "He'll watch your place tonight."

  I rolled my eyes again. "I don't need a bodyguard. I can take care of myself."

  "Like you did tonight?" he asked, starting to pace back and forth in my tiny living area. He shook his head. "No, if you're going to be stubborn about this, I'm going to have the peace of mind that Cal is with you 24/7."

  I crossed my arms over my chest. "Why is it that a hard-working woman is stubborn and a man is tenacious?"

  Felix froze, shooting me another unreadable look. "I'm well aware of your tenacious qualities." His tone was taking on that clipped edge again.

  "Then you should know I don't need a babysitter," I shot back.

  "Then stop acting like a child," he shouted.

  I wasn't sure if it was his tone or the child remark, but the words hit me like a slap in the face. All my fears about Felix not taking me or our relationship seriously—if we currently even had one—came rushing at me with striking confirmation.

  "I'm not a child," I said with a calm I didn't know I possessed in that moment. "I'm a reporter. A good one. And bodyguard or no, I'm not dropping this story, and I'm going to write you the best damned article this paper has ever published."

  "Allie—" Felix started, his voice softer.

  But I waved him off. "If you'll excuse me, Boss, I've had a long day, and I've got work to do in the morning."

  I quickly turned and went to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me for emphasis.

  Angry tears pricked the back of my eyelids as I leaned my back against the door. A few seconds later I heard my front door open and close softly as Felix left.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning, I woke with a raging headache and a dry mouth, and every inch of my body ached. My joints were so stiff I was surprised that I didn't creak as I stood up and shuffled to the bathroom.

  A steaming hot shower and two ibuprofen later, I was feeling better, but only a little. I decided to leave my hair down in loose waves, since my head felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it and the knot on the back was still extremely tender to touch.

  I wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror and cringed at the reflection staring back at me. My left eye was a gnarly shade of blackish purple, there was a small cut on the side of my bottom lip, and there was a light bruise running along my lower left jawline. It would take an industrial size tube of concealer to cover the mess the attacker had made of my face.

  I did my best then applied a little extra mascara and lip gloss to compensate. I tossed on a pair of black capri leggings and a billowy pink spaghetti-strap top and paired the ensemble with matching kitten heels and a hobo bag.

  Comfort was the objective of the day where my clothing was concerned.

  Cute comfort.

  Felix must have had my car driven back to my place sometime during the night, as it was sitting in its designated parking spot for me that morning. I shoved the considerate gesture to the back of my mind, not wanting to read anything into it. At least not before coffee.

  I locked my apartment and waved to Cal, in the driver's seat of a black SUV parked at the curb. If he'd been there all night, he didn't look any worse for the wear, raising his hand in a cheerful greeting. I watched him follow me down the street and all the way to the Informer.

  The last thing I wanted to do this morning was face Felix, but after last night, I was more determined than ever to see this piece through. I parked in the lot and hurried inside. A chill skittered up my spine as the events of the night before flashed in my mind's eye. I shoved those thoughts aside and stepped off the elevator.

  I noticed Felix's office was empty and thanked the gods for small favors as I grabbed a cup of coffee and settled in at my desk. I fired up my computer, quickly pulling up my notes.

  According to Brodie, Tattoo Guy, who'd attacked me twice now, worked for Sunshine Sanitation. Had someone connected to the company sent him to scare me? Had someone seen me nosing around Sunshine? I hadn't bothered to hide myself when I'd visited under the guise of the EPA. And Shane and I had heard someone there the night we'd broken in. It was possible someone thought we knew more than we did about their inner workings.

  From everything Shane had dug up, Sal Bukowski seemed like the sort who wouldn't balk at robbery and assault. He also didn't seem the sort to do his dirty work himself—his record was too clean for that. I thought back to the photo I'd seen in the office of Bobby's "fan," Ritchie Mullins. While I knew he wasn't my tattooed friend, the connection to the sanitation company was too much to overlook.

  I pulled up Ritchie's social media accounts again, this time paying a little bit closer attention to the details. He didn't mention his sanitation work anywhere, but then again if he was hired muscle for Bukowski's shady dealings, he would hardly advertise it. I idly scrolled through his friends list then checked his friends' friends lists. One name jumped out at me. A Tanya Mullins. She was listed as a friend of several of Ritchie's friends, and after reading a couple of drunken late-night posts from her, I gathered that she was Ritchie's ex-wife and things had not ended well between them.

  I raised an eyebrow at my screen. If anyone had dirt on Ritchie—and would be willing to share it—it was an angry ex-wife. According to her profile, she worked for the city of L.A. in an administrative job. I googled the number for the city's main office. Three rings later a gruff voice answered.

  "City of L.A. This is Gwendolyn."

  "Hi, Gwendolyn," I began. "I'm looking for someone who works in your administrative offices."

  "Let me transfer you to personnel," she said in a bored tone.

  A sad elevator rendition of an Adele song came on the line while I waited on hold.

  "Personnel," came a new voice.

  I repeated my inquiry, giving the woman Tanya's name.

  "Just a moment," she said, and I heard a computer keyboard clacking. Finally, she told me, "Tanya didn't come in today. Called in sick."

  "Do you know where I might find her?"

  "I'd assume that she's at home," she answered shortly.

  "Thanks for your time." I ended the call and did another quick search online for Tanya Mullins and hoped like crazy that she was listed. A second later her home phone number and address in Echo Park popped up on the screen, and I jotted it down.

  I hurried out of the office without a word to anyone and was about to cross the parking lot to my car, when I remembered my shadow. Sure enough, Cal was parked next to my Bug, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. I paused, ducking back into the building instead. While I didn't altogether hate the safety that Cal provided, I also didn't want him reporting on my every move back to Felix. Or, worse yet, Tina. Plus, it wasn't like I was on a dangerous mission here. I was going to talk to a woman with a cold in the suburbs.

  I dialed the number for a cab and doubled back toward the front of the building. Ten minutes later my yellow chariot pulled up to the curb, and I quickly slipped in before anyone on the second floor could chance a glance at me.

  * * *

  There was a wreck on the 101, so it was almost an hour later that my cab pulled to a stop outside of a modest apartment building in Echo Park. I paid the monster fee, second-guessing my decision to leave my Bug behind, and got out. The building's paint was a pale shade of green and peeling in spots. The window shutters were all a beige color that I'm sure had begun as white but with time and air pollution had turned a long time ago. Overall, the place didn't reek of money, but it was alright. I'd definitely seen worse.

  With a quick scan of the area, I spotted apartment 5B on the second level. My low kitten heels made a soft click on the pavement as I walked across the black asphalt parking lot and up the metal stairs to Tanya's apartment.

  Tanya's door looked freshly painted but wo
uld most likely turn darker, just as the window shutters had. I couldn't help but think that painting was a waste of time. I raised my hand and knocked. The door opened a minute later, and a short brunette woman in an oversized T-shirt and yoga pants with a wad of tissues in her hand peered out at me.

  "May I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Tanya Mullins," I said.

  "I'm Tanya," she answered, her voice nasally, as if her nose was stuffed. "Do I know you?"

  "No." I shook my head. "My name is Allie Quick, a reporter for the L.A. Informer. I'm wondering if you have a moment to talk to me about a story I'm working on."

  "What kind of story?" she asked.

  "It's about your ex-husband. Ritchie Mullins."

  Her eyes narrowed. "What's he done?"

  I was hoping she could tell me. "I'm not sure anything yet," I said honestly. "May I come in?"

  She sucked her cheeks in, looking me over for a second. I started to think she was going to tell me no, but then she shrugged and stepped to the side.

  "Sure. I have a few minutes. Come on in," she said. Then she sniffled loudly into her tissues.

  I followed her inside. The apartment was clean and smelled like coffee. I took a minute to look around. The furniture was deep brown with leather accents and a matching ottoman. The window treatments were a lighter shade of brown, and the side tables were topped with small clear glass lamps.

  "Have a seat." She motioned toward the tall kitchen table. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "No, thanks," I said and took a seat in one of the high stools.

  Tanya poured herself a cup of coffee, added sugar and creamer, took two aspirin, and then sat down at the table across from me. "Now, what's all this about? You said you have questions about Ritchie?"

  "That's right." I nodded. "I'm working on a story, and your ex's name has come up more than once."

  "Is he in some kind of trouble?" She looked almost delighted at the prospect.

  "I don't know, to be honest with you. Are you close with him still?"

  She snorted. "God, no. I haven't seen the lying sack of crap in months."

  "I take it you didn't part on the best of terms."

  She shrugged. "Do couples ever?"

  She had a point. I forced my mind not to flicker to the fight I'd had with Felix.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  She blew her nose loudly into a tissue. "Let's just say Ritchie's a good-looking guy, and he knows it. Thinks his looks can get him out of anything." She let out a short laugh. "The gag is, they usually do."

  I thought back. He hadn't struck me as particularly charming, but then again people didn't usually pour it on for tabloid reporters. "Did Ritchie get in a lot of trouble when you were together?"

  "Petty stuff," she said, waving me off with a loud sniffle. "Getting into trouble really wasn't ever a concern of his because he knew someone would always bail him out. I'm not saying he's a bad guy," she explained. "But when it comes to taking responsibility for his own actions, Ritchie falls sickeningly short."

  "Humor me," I told her. "What kind of petty stuff?"

  "Never anything big, but I had to bail him out for a DUI once. Public disturbances and starting a fight one too many times."

  It sounded like Ritchie had a bit of an aggressive streak. "I'm curious…did Ritchie ever work for a place called Sunshine Sanitation?" I asked, taking a stab in the not-so-dark.

  Tanya nodded. "Yeah. He was there for a while."

  "Why did he leave?" I asked, thinking back to the photo I'd found. Corporate officers usually didn't keep photos of fired employees in their offices.

  "I heard from a mutual friend about a month ago that he was on medical leave."

  "Medical leave?" I raised an eyebrow her way. Most people didn't take up a part-time job as a personal trainer at a gym if they were sick. The Ritchie I'd seen looked fit, strong, and healthy as a horse. "Was he injured at work?"

  Tanya shrugged. "I don't know. But I know better than to believe anything Ritchie says at face value."

  That made two of us. I thanked Tanya for her time and handed her my card. She took it with a sniffle, but I had a feeling it was destined for her trash can along with the pile of used tissues.

  Traffic had cleared, so the cab ride back to the Informer was thankfully cheaper than the one out. While Tanya hadn't exactly given me the proof I needed to hang Bobby's murder on Ritchie, it was looking better and better that the man was involved somehow. I didn't buy the idea of him being on medical leave any more than his ex did. Was medical leave some kind of code for a payoff? It certainly would be an easy way to funnel money to an employee for, say, "taking care of" a guy like Bobby, who threatened to expose them.

  After my cab dropped me off, I rode the elevator up, tried to ignore the looks my black eyes elicited from my curious coworkers, and settled back in at my desk.

  "Wow. What happened to you?" Tina asked as she rolled her chair over to my desk.

  "I had a little run-in with someone who isn't a fan of the story I'm working on," I answered.

  "The Baxter story?" she asked. Her eyes narrowed. "You must be getting somewhere."

  I took small pleasure in the envy on her voice. "Maybe," I hedged. "How are you getting on?" My mind flickered back to the notes I'd seen the night before on her desk about Henry's big break.

  She shrugged and averted her eyes. "Great. Almost ready for print."

  I couldn't tell if she was bluffing or if I really was in trouble.

  "So what happened?" she asked. "Who hit you?"

  I quickly gave her the short version of the run-in I'd had. By the time I was done, something akin to genuine concern shined on her face.

  "Wow, that sounds like a really scary ordeal," she said. "Are you okay?"

  I nodded. As much as I saw Tina as a rival, the real worry in her voice was heartwarming. "I'll be fine. Just a couple of bruises."

  The phone rang on Tina's desk.

  "Well, be careful out there," she said before she wheeled her chair around.

  "Thanks. I will."

  She scooted back over to her desk, picked up the office phone, and started yelling at whoever was on the other end. Her swear pig was going to be full of quarters by the end of that phone call.

  My head was killing me, so I popped another ibuprofen and rubbed the back of my neck.

  Felix stepped off the elevator, a paper coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. He glanced toward my desk and took a step in my direction.

  I gave him a look that said I'd slept like crap and was currently wearing a bright shade of leave me alone. He immediately changed course and went into his office.

  A deep cleansing breath helped clear my head, and the pounding eased a fraction.

  The key to Bobby's death was the story he'd been working on about Sunshine. I was sure of it. Maybe it had to do with the dwindling amounts of waste being hauled off the property…or maybe it was something else entirely. Like Sal Bukowski's disappearing trick with the union rep. Of course, with Bobby's laptop and notes gone, I was stuck guessing. On instinct I picked up the phone and dialed Henry's number. While my guesses felt like shots in the dark, Henry had known Bobby a whole lot better than I had. He must have had some inkling of what Bobby was onto, even if it hadn't registered at the time.

  Two rings later a perky female voice came over the phone. "This is Tiffany. How can I help you?"

  I blinked with confusion, pulled the phone away from my ear for a second, and checked the number.

  "Um, Tiffany, hi. This is Allie Quick. I'm looking for Henry Klein?"

  "I'm his personal assistant. Can I take a message? Have him call you back?"

  Wow. From personal assistant to having a personal assistant. Henry was a long way from where he'd been when Bobby was alive days before. Again, I silently wondered if maybe Tina had been on to something about the assistant. I mean, former assistant. Maybe all of this Sunshine stuff was just coincidence, and maybe Bobby's death had been muc
h more personal.

  "I really need to speak with him. Do you think you can get him to take my call right now please?"

  "Okeydokey! Let me see!"

  While I normally didn't mind perky, this morning I moved the phone away from my ear just a fraction at her cartoon-range voice.

  The phone clicked over to Muzak. I listened to an elevator music rendition of an Aerosmith classic as I waited. Which did nothing to ease my headache.

  "Ms. Quick," Tiffany said, coming back on the line. "I'm super sorry, but Mr. Klein is extremely busy."

  Of course he was. "Will you have him call me back as soon as possible?"

  "Will do! But Mr. Klein asked me to inform you that it may be some time before he gets back in touch with you."

  "Thanks," I said and ended the call.

  Henry was avoiding me now. Was it that he really was busy with a brand new show…or was he feeling guilty about just how he'd gotten the show and was avoiding the press?

  I rubbed my temples as if that might move the swirling thoughts about murder suspects into some semblance of order in my head. When that didn't work, I went to the break room and poured myself a cup of coffee. It wasn't exactly Starbucks, but with enough fake creamer, it worked. I took the cup back to my desk and tapped my pen along the edge of my pink notebook as I sipped.

  I mentally laid out what I knew about Bobby's death. The facts remained that Bobby had a story brewing on Sunshine Sanitation. Ritchie, a former employee, had approached Bobby, and Bobby had hit him. A couple of weeks later Bobby met with someone who had the same initials as our shady Sal Bukowski. Then Bobby wound up dead. Throw in the tattooed man, who also worked for Sunshine, stealing Bobby's laptop, and I decided that despite Henry's rise to fame or the wife's big payday, the Sunshine connection was where the smart money was. Sal and Ritchie had to be involved in Bobby's death. What I needed was just one real piece of evidence linking them all together.

  If Sal was in fact the SB that Bobby had been meeting for dinner, I supposed that something had gone down at that meal that Sal hadn't liked. Maybe Bobby had refused to keep quiet about whatever he'd dug up on Sunshine. After dinner Sal called his muscle for hire, Ritchie, and Ritchie offed Bobby.