by Julie Kenner
“Weren’t you in a movie with Jack Nicholson? Back when you were thirteen or something?”
“Chinatown!” I scream out the title and even do a little jig right there in my kitchen. “Two points for the home team. You are brilliant, and we are so smoking.”
“You weren’t in Chinatown.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I can only wish to have been in a classic like Chinatown. “No,” I say, “but Jack was.” I look at him with new respect. “How the heck did you know about that movie? It got no press and disappeared in about fifteen seconds.”
“I went over your filmography back when we were casting Givenchy. I think I’ve seen everything you’ve been in at least once now. Some of them more than once.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a laugh.
“Don’t be,” he says, his tone almost reverential. “You’re awesome.”
My cheeks warm. “Right. Well. At any rate, it’s good you remembered that, because Jack was in Chinatown, and I’m not sure I would have made the connection if you hadn’t blurted out his name.”
“My pleasure,” he says, his grin wide and his eyes big behind his glasses. “But help me out with the specifics. What does ‘my daughter, my sister’ mean?”
“That was the thing in the movie,” I explain. “Faye Dunaway’s daughter is also her sister.”
He makes a face. “That explains the crazy old man part.”
“Exactly.”
“So the old man was played by Jack?”
“Actually, he played the private detective.” The pieces are falling into place, and I tilt my head to the side as if that’s going to make them fall even faster. “The whole movie was about water, and there’s a scene where Jack finds the old man’s glasses in a fish pond.”
“‘The clue’s where he lost it and Jack found it again,’” Andy recites.
“Yeah. But what does that mean?” The part about Death Becomes Her is what’s throwing me, and I turn toward my laptop, which Andy had moved to the table earlier.
“Google?” Andy says.
“Absolutely.”
I drag my finger over the trackpad and navigate to Safari. I bought the iBook after watching those fun Apple v. PC commercials. Am I the ultimate consumer, or what? At any rate, I love it and it’s fast, and the page was up in no time. “The clue was in a fish pond. So all we have to do is figure out what koi pond they used for the movie, and go there. Right?”
“Maybe.”
He doesn’t sound convinced, but I’m not about to be slowed down. Besides, I have to be right. Chinatown. The clue. Where he lost it and Jack found it. Obviously, our clue is waiting in the same place where Jack found his clue. Figure out that place, and we’re golden.
My euphoria soon fades, though, in the wake of the responses Google spits back. Chinatown, of course, is not only a movie, it’s also a section of Los Angeles. And to make matters worse, it’s a part of Los Angeles frequently used for movie locations. Instead of one nice little answer on Google pointing the way to the next clue, instead I’m faced with a billion (well, several thousand) hits. And no idea where to start.
“Fuck,” I say, because it seems appropriate. And then, because that felt so good, “Fuck.”
“Frustrated?”
I shoot him one of those looks designed to kill, and he gives me a sympathetic smile in return. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking about the poison that’s supposedly flowing through my body. “But will we figure it out in time?”
Chapter 20
By some miracle, the Pacific Coast Highway was relatively free of traffic by the time Blake had wended his way out of Beverly Hills and over the surface streets toward the famous highway. The empty road was a blessing. He wanted to punch the accelerator and feel the wind against his face and breathe in the smell of the ocean to his left. He wanted to watch the sun finish its slow descent into the calm waters of the Pacific, and he wanted to believe that life really could be that beautiful even despite the horror that was sneaking in around the cracks.
Most of all, he wanted to get home and switch cars. Because Devi hadn’t yet seen the classic black Caddie he’d bought last week. And if he parked it on her street—if he hung back just out of sight—he could keep an eye on her. He could keep her safe.
He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he also hadn’t wanted an argument. So here he was, sneaking around on his girlfriend, all with the hopes of saving his girlfriend.
Chinatown.
That much of the clue, Blake had figured out, and it had taken every ounce of willpower not to pull over and call Devi right then. Two things had stopped him. One, his promise not to get involved. Two, the fact that the first part of the clue was so damn straightforward that she and Andy had surely figured it out.
And, also, there was the little fact that his cell phone had no service along this particular stretch of PCH. That, most of all, was the defining reason.
Not that any of those reasons mattered. After all, what good was a reference to Chinatown without any idea what to do with it? And he had no ideas. None. And that despite the fact that he’d seen Death Becomes Her at least three times, and Chinatown twice that many. If there was any connection between the movies, Blake had no idea what it was.
Still, there was something so familiar in the clue, and he wished he’d written it down, because he was pretty sure that his memory wasn’t doing it justice. The gist, yes. But the devil really was in the details, and if he could just remember, then maybe he could—
What?
What could he do? Call Devi? Even though she’d made him promise to let her and Andy handle this? He considered the question as his foot pressed the accelerator and he cruised through the dusk. Would he call her? If he knew the answer, would he call and share it?
Damn straight, he would.
She was already in danger, so whatever he did wouldn’t add to that. And as for his own safety—well, if it would save Devi, he was more than willing to put his own life on the line.
Not that it mattered, since he couldn’t figure out the damn clue.
His classic baby blue Buick convertible flew along the road, the salty air stinging his cheeks, the whiz of traffic in the opposite direction merely a drone buzzing in his subconscious. He could almost feel the answer. Almost taste it, almost—
Brrrr-brrrr!
The sharp hum of a police siren startled him back to reality, erasing the epiphany that was just about to burst forth. Blake cursed, then eyed the speedometer before tapping the brake. Just shy of one hundred. Great. Wasn’t that the kicker in an already fucking great day?
Trying not to let his irritation show, Blake pulled over, then turned off the ignition. He stayed in the car, the spinning light from atop the cruiser casting the convertible’s interior in alternate shades of red and blue.
“Any particular reason you’re in such a hurry, Mr. Atwood?” the officer asked, after inspecting Blake’s license.
For a split second, Blake considered the truth. Actually, yes, officer. You see, the woman I love is being stalked by an assassin, but I can’t help her. I failed her a few months ago when I fucked up on television, and now I’ve failed her again because there’s not a damn thing I can do to help save her life.
“No, officer. Sorry. A lot on my mind. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Hmmm.” The officer shone his light into the Buick, illuminating the passenger seat and the backseat. Since Blake never let so much as a candy wrapper touch the inside of his car, the sweep didn’t reveal anything interesting. Even so, the officer shone the light at Blake and cocked his head. “Atwood. You’re somebody, right?”
Blake balked. It was the kind of question he still wasn’t used to. From his perspective, he’d been “somebody” all his life. But he knew what the cop meant. “I’m an actor,” he said simply.
“Right.” The cop nodded, the light still shining in Blake’s eyes, making him blink. “You�
�re that guy. The karate guy.”
Blake gestured at the flashlight. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, sorry.” The light came down. “My daughter’s been reading all about you. I think she’d line up right now for the movie if they’d let her. She’s got some crush.” He held the ticket pad firmly in one hand, his pen tap-tapping on the paper.
Blake eyed the pad, pretty sure he understood the subtext. “Shall I give her an autograph?”
The cop laughed. “Sign the ticket, and I’ll have an autograph.”
Blake swallowed. So much for subtext. “Right. Speeding. Sorry about that.”
“I’m just giving you grief,” the officer said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Truth is, if my daughter finds out I gave a speeding ticket to her movie star crush, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and passed it to Blake. “Do you mind?”
“No, sir. What’s your daughter’s name?” The officer told him, and Blake wrote a quick note to Tammy, all the while fighting the strangest sense of déjà vu.
“She’s gonna love this,” the officer said, tucking the pad back into his pocket. “But you slow down, understand? The next cop up the road might not have a daughter.” He gave the car frame a friendly pat and headed back to his cruiser. Blake shifted into gear and pulled carefully back onto PCH, this time watching the speedometer even as he remembered what had been nagging at him.
The Getty Museum. He’d gone there with Devi during those first date heydays. They were trying to play it cool, hoping to fade into the crowd just like everybody else. But the tours are docent-led, and their docent was apparently a fan. She’d attached herself like Velcro to Devi’s side, then insisted on an autograph. Devi had been sweet and polite, but she’d confessed to Blake later how much she hated the attention. Not if she was in full star mode—which she rarely was anymore—but when she was out and about, just trying to do her thing and be herself.
The worst of it, of course, had been the fact that the tour was docent-led. Which meant they were trapped, with all the others in the tour now staring and whispering. And, of course, snapping pictures. Hardly a miserable experience—or unrealistic for a celebrity—but it still took the shine off their date.
After that, they chose their outings more carefully. Places where they could wander unescorted. The Griffith Park Observatory. Venice Beach. The grounds at the Greystone Mansion. The Santa Monica Pier. Even Magic Mountain, Disneyland, and Knott’s Berry Farm.
They’d been like teenagers, albeit teens with flush bank accounts. Going from romantic candlelit dinners to chauffeured trips to Vegas to picnics in private parks.
He tapped the brakes, his mind whirring. Could that be it? Now that he’d thought of it, the solution seemed almost too simple.
He reached for his Sidekick, but then hesitated before dialing Devi’s number. Helping her was a risk, no matter what. He should be certain first.
And so, as the sun finished its descent into the ocean, and as traffic whipped past him, Blake pulled onto the shoulder and pulled up the tiny Web browser on his phone, thankful he’d moved from the dead zone back into an area with a signal.
It was a tiny bit of good news in a day filled with horror. But at the moment, Blake was willing to take whatever good he could get.
Chapter 21
“Maybe it’s a six-degrees-of-separation kind of thing,” I say. We’re still in my kitchen, and I’m pacing with a mug of coffee.
“How do you mean?”
“Something connecting Death Becomes Her to Chinatown.”
“Like the actors,” Andy says. “Or a location. That could explain the ‘house, not a home’ reference.”
“Oh, right,” I say, since Andy is now way ahead of me.
When he pulls out his phone gizmo thingie and starts tapping on the keys, though, I have to grin.
“What?” he demands.
“Why don’t you use my computer?” I ask, settling back into my chair. “That thing’s gotta be a pain to browse on.”
The corner of his mouth curves up, and I feel like a cheerleader who just tossed the class geek a bone. A totally unreasonable reaction, but there’s just something about the spark in his eyes as he slides the phone into his pocket, then scoots his chair closer to mine. (And, to be fair, closer to the computer.) “It’s a Treo, and it works great. But the computer probably will be faster.”
“Want me to type?” I ask.
He waves one hand, indicating the keyboard, while his other arm rests comfortably on my seat back, so that he can lean in and see the screen with me.
“Great.” I tap my fingers lightly on the keys, happy to be doing something other than pacing.
“Where to first?” he asks.
“Back to Google,” I say as I type Death Becomes Her Chinatown location.
I’d looked for locations in my previous Google search, and come up with way too many hits. This time, however, I’m more confident. Adding in the reference to Death Becomes Her has to be the key. The limiting factor that will zero Google in on that one perfect clue.
The computer does its thinking thing, then spits back the hits. The very first one is “Hollywood Film Locations,” and I think that maybe we’ve done it. But when I click on the link, the bubble in my chest bursts. Nothing about any commonalities between the movies. Just a list of locations where a whole load of movies have been shot. And nothing odd, either. Only the usual suspects: The Beverly Center. The Greystone Mansion. The Santa Monica Pier. Venice High School. The Biltmore Hotel. And on and on. Great if you want to sit on the side of the road and sell tourist info to the folks from Indiana. Not great if you’re me. Especially since not one of those locations was listed for both Death Becomes Her and Chinatown.
On to Plan B.
Fortunately, I actually have a Plan B. I move the mouse up to the address bar, then type in www.imdb.com—the Internet Movie Database. My plan is to compare the cast and crew of the two movies and see what overlaps. Or if I see any connections anywhere. Like maybe the daughter of Robert Townsend—the screenwriter for Chinatown—worked as the costume director for Death Becomes Her. (For the record, I don’t even know if Townsend had a daughter, but I’m grasping at straws here.)
Those kind of connections, however, aren’t exactly easy to find. You have to know what you’re looking for. And after fifteen minutes, I still have bupkiss. Oh, sure, I know who directed Death—that was Robert Zemeckis. And I know he directed Back to the Future, too. And since Chinatown’s an old movie, I thought maybe we could go from there. But, no. Nothing.
“I still say it has something to do with the locations,” Andy says. “Places make a lot of money renting themselves out as movie locations, right?” He doesn’t wait for me to continue. “That’s got to be the ‘used for a fee’ line.”
“Okay, but nothing’s overlapping. “
“Then we’re missing something,” he says.
I start to snap back a retort, but stop myself in time. He’s right, of course. I just don’t know what we’re missing. And my fear is that we’re not going to figure it out in time. I swallow, because all of a sudden the ramifications are real and looming. I’ve screwed things up before, of course, but my publicist always fixed it for me. Even when I went all Gloria Swanson and hid in this house, I didn’t really do any permanent damage. I got this job with Tobias, didn’t I? And the North by Northwest remake offer is still on the table. Which means my career is still alive, no matter how stupid I was in the past.
In other words, career fuckups aren’t deadly, even though they might seem so at the time. But screw this up, and it’s all over.
I stand up and start to pace again, my mind in a muddle. One chance. One play. And if I can’t figure it out, I’m six feet under. And that is a career fiasco from which there really is no recovery.
“Andy, I—” My voice catches in my throat. I can’t get the words out, mostly because I don’t know what I want to say. It’s okay, though, because he seems to underst
and.
He’s immediately beside me, his arms around me, and I can’t hold it in any longer. The tears flow, and I sag against him, soaking in the comfort that he’s so willing to give and I’m so desperate to take.
“I’m scared,” I say. “I’m so scared.”
“I know. It’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He’s stroking my hair, his movements a little jerky and awkward. “I promise, I’ll take care of you.”
I tilt my head back to try out a smile. “I guess you have to. That’s your job, right?”
“A job I’m happy to have,” he says seriously. “Especially if it means I get to keep you alive.”
He’s trying to comfort me, but his words are having the opposite effect. Suddenly the ramifications seem to loom before me. “God, Andy, you shouldn’t have to go through this again. You’ve played the game once. You’ve—” But I can’t say it.
“I lost a target,” he says softly, and I have to nod.
He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my head up. “I won’t lose you. I promise you that right here and now. I am going to protect you, and we are going to win this game.”
I sniffle a little, but nod.
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” I whisper. And even though it’s probably foolish, I mean it.
His mouth curves into a smile and he pulls me close. It’s nice there in his arms, and for just a moment I can almost relax. Andy’s always seemed a bit of a geek to me, but right then, he’s safe. More, he’s there.
And there’s no doubt that he cares.
He strokes my back, murmuring soft words to which I don’t listen. All I hear is the comforting tone that holds an unspoken promise: He is my protector. And he will see me through this.
We stay like that until my tears dry up and my sense of embarrassment kicks in—that awkward emotion that stems from revealing too much to a man I really don’t know. But even though I know my cheeks are burning, I’m glad he’s there. And when I pull back, I see more in his eyes than just comfort. I see a startling need that is both flattering and surprising.
