by Ian Bull
The Picture Kills
Ian Bull
STORY MERCHANT BOOKS
BEVERLY HILLS
2014
The Picture KIlls
Copyright © 2014 by Ian Bull All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9904216-6-5 ISBN-10: 0-90042-166-X
Story Merchant Books
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Editor: Lisa Cerasoli
Interior Design: Lisa Cerasoli & Danielle Canfield
Cover Design by Derek Murphy
R E V I E W S
The Picture Kills
“This page-turner sucks you in and doesn't spit you out until the very end!”
—Andrea Pilat, TV Producer
“A thrilling ride from celebrity obsessed Hollywood to the remote islands of the Bahamas. A GREAT summer read!”
—Susan Lofgren, TV Producer and Editor
“Cool locales, a good villain and great payoffs at the end!”
—Toni Gallagher, TV Producer
“It was riveting from the first page, a quick read and I couldn't wait to see what would happen next.”
—Elizabeth Freid, Make-Up Artist
“A fun thriller with great insight into the entertainment industry.”
—Lorena David, Movie Producer and Director
“Great good guys and bad guys in a story that's off the beaten path.”
—David Trulli, Los Angeles Artist
The Picture Kills and Six Passengers, Five Parachutes are the first two books in The Quintana Adventures. Danger Room is coming in 2018.
Ian Bull is also the author of the romantic thriller Liars in Love, set in San Francisco in the 1980s, and he writes the weekly blog California Bull.
If you want more of Ian Bull’s writing, visit the link below for choices for a free download, or email him at: [email protected].
www.IanBullAuthor.com
To my wife, Robin and my daughter, Lily. And to my grandfather, John Raynard, who used to sit outside his silver trailer on Hollywood Beach, Florida, reading thrillers. I wish he could have read this one.
Chapter 1
Steven Day 1: Thursday Morning
Whenever I sleep I have the same dream. I look through my camera lens and the people move through the frame and freeze as the shutter clicks. The rebel soldiers gather around the village fire—click. A frightened mother holds a baby—click. The German tourist lies in the dirt, a rifle to his neck—click.
But the rebel leader stays in the shadows. I want his face in my lens, and I need the boy from the pigpen to help me draw the leader toward the light of the fire, but the boy stands by his mother, hiding in her skirts.
The rebel leader notices the boy and calls him over. The boy is the only remaining male from the village.
“¿Dónde están los otros hombres?” he asks the boy. Where are the other men?
The boy shakes his head like he doesn’t understand…then steps closer to the fire. The leader repeats the question. The boy shakes his head again and takes another step closer to the flames. The rebel leader strides into the light and grabs the boy’s arm. Something falls from the boy’s pocket—the coffee candy from the MRE ration I gave him. The leader grabs it from the ground and shakes it in the boy’s face.
“Americanos? Dónde están?” he asks. Where are they?
The other rebels hear him, grab their rifles and aim in four different directions.
The kid glances at us, lying in the mud in the dark, then lifts his finger and points at us in the pigpen. The leader looks toward me, and for an instant I have his face in the frame. He’s tall, dark, with a Roman nose and a streak of premature white in his long black curly hair—click. I finally get the perfect close up of his bearded face. El Sádico. The Sadist.
People have wanted a photo of him for years, and I got it.
Then he shoots the boy in the chest. The boy falls to the ground, dead.
The other rifles swing toward us and spit fire—
I bolt awake.
Same dream, every night, for five years.
My shoulder aches and my sheets are twisted and damp. Sleep won’t come again, so I climb out of my sofa bed, open the glass sliding door and step out on the patio overlooking Tivoli Cove in Malibu, California. I touch the scar behind my right shoulder and rub the ache out of habit.
It’s predawn, but there’s enough light to surf. My damp wetsuit smells like seaweed as I pull it on. I grab my board and dart down the wooden steps and across the cold sand to the Pacific Ocean.
I paddle out. Tivoli Cove has a dozen houses on a sheltered beach that curves away from the coast road, ending at a rocky point that creates a slow wave that breaks left back to shore. I’m the only surfer out there at dawn in the middle of the week, which I like. There’s no jockeying for the wave, and no small talk to endure. Catching my first wave, I crouch low on my board and trail my fingers in the moving wall of glassy water.
After ten waves, I rest on my board and watch a pelican hovering above the swells. She tucks in her wings and dive bombs down into the water and comes up ten feet from me with a flopping fish in her oversized beak. It makes me grin. The Malibu morning show is better than any movie. The ocean is my only friend, and her vastness dilutes any memories that the night throws my way.
The twinge of pain in my shoulder is my signal to stop. I catch my last wave of the morning—a three-footer that pushes me into shore right in front of the wooden stairs to my patio. I take off my ankle leash, gather my board and climb back up, then rinse off the salt water with the hose.
The stabbing pain returns as I tug the wetsuit down. All that shoulder rotation grinds down the bone in its socket. I shouldn’t surf, but I want to feel the pain. It’s a penance I give myself, like when I was ten years old in San Francisco and doing my catechism at St. Cecilia’s.
I step inside, close up the sofa bed, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and then step into the kitchenette and flip the switch on the coffee maker. Four steps total, wall to wall. Home is a bachelor apartment in the bottom of an empty decaying beach house, and the walls are covered with wine and beer stains from years of Pepperdine undergrad parties that previous renters hosted before me. My neighbors loved it when I moved in—the quiet vet with his cameras. I thought my stay in LA would be temporary, so I never painted. That was five years ago.
I grab my Nikon and step back onto the patio, which is bigger than the inside, and the reason I live here. I snap a photo of a low flying seagull riding an air current just ahead of a foamy green wave, backlit by morning light.
My cell phone rings: Offices of Celebrity Exposed.
“This is Quinn,” I answer.
“It’s Larry. How’s my favorite shutterbug?”
“Do you have a job for me?” I ask.
“Julia Travers is going to a movie premiere. Be here by nine,” he says, and hangs up.
I down my coffee, pull on my leather jacket, grab my camera and dart up my staircase to the street level. I start my Kawasaki and I slide into morning rush hour traffic on Pacific Coast Highway, headed into Los Angeles.
Chapter 2
Julia Day 1: Thursday Morning
I step out of the guest house dressed in my whi
te dobok, ready for my tae kwon do lesson. I’m 5’10”, so there is no girl size that fits me. I have to wear the martial arts outfit for teenage boys, which is too big on me.
Will Becker emerges from his mansion in a T-shirt and yoga pants so tight he can’t raise an arm or leg in the air, but he does look immaculate.
“Will, you look like an ad right out of GQ,” I say, smiling.
“I try to look good, even when I don’t feel good,” he sighs.
“Me, I’m trying to look like a marshmallow with a belt in the middle,” I say.
Will laughs, which is a good sign. I know he doesn’t want to do this.
“Thank you for indulging me,” I say. “You’ll feel better once you warm up.”
We walk out on the lawn beside the infinity pool and greet Carlos—our tae kwon do instructor. We bow to each other, and Carlos flashes me a smile as his head dips. I can’t help smiling back. It’s a beautiful day, he’s a beautiful man, and this is the highlight of my week.
“Let’s begin by stretching,” Carlos says, his tone serious now.
We face him and mirror his movements, reaching our arms over our heads.
Carlos always comes to the mansion—Will Becker’s mansion, I should say. I’ve been living in Will’s guest cottage for three months since someone got into the garage of my security building and threw a brick with a love note through my car windshield. I already get chased by paparazzi and bad press whenever I go out, and the brick made me feel I wasn’t even safe at home. Will’s estate has high walls and security cameras, so when he offered me his guest house, I jumped at it.
“Shoulders. Small circles, arms straight, like a bird,” Carlos says.
Will touches my outstretched flapping arm with his.
“You’re the wind beneath my wings,” Will whispers to me.
“Stop it,” I say, giggling. I can relax, act silly and be myself here. It’s when I step outside and I’m surrounded by pushy photographers and brick-throwing crazies that fear overwhelms me and my personality changes—I morph into a hissing cat.
“I believe I can fly…I believe I can touch the sky,” Will sings.
“Be serious,” I whisper back. “I need this.”
“Not when you’re with me,” Will whispers back.
Will thinks I’m overreacting. My therapist says I’m “hyper-vigilant,” which means I perceive every passing cloud as a threat. All I know is that taking this class makes me feel better.
“Let’s move to runner’s stretch,” Carlos says.
He turns around and steps into a lunge. Will and I admire his taut bum cheeks in full stretch, then glance at each other.
“You’re right, I am feeling better,” Will says.
I met Will on the set of his film Driftwood, which was his stab at serious drama after his last two action movies tanked. Scarlett Johansson was the female lead, and I played her younger sister. Will was once the number three box office star in the world, and he says that one good movie will put him on top again. Driftwood tanked, unfortunately for Will, but I got good reviews and more work. We also became friends…and possible lovers according to the tabloids.
Carlos leads us through our katas—a series of punches and kicks. After thirty minutes I’m covered with sweat, but Will’s outfit is still as smooth as his hair. He doesn’t like to move much if he’s not being paid.
“Who’s ready to spar?” Carlos asks.
“You fight your imaginary bad guys, Julia, I need a break,” Wills says.
Will puts on a warm-up jacket and sits at a patio table under a cascade of red and orange bougainvillea. His personal assistant Derek, a handsome fit man in his fifties, comes out of the house carrying a tray with lemonade, glasses and towels. Will grabs a towel from him and pats away his nonexistent perspiration.
Carlos and I bow, and I take my stance. Carlos shouts, then kicks at me and advances. Fear rushes through me, but I resist the urge to flee. Retreating in step with him, I turn on my heel and surprise him with a mule kick to his thigh and knock him back.
Take that, handsome. I can handle you. I can handle anybody.
Now I advance, punching and kicking, and Carlos has to retreat ten yards as he blocks. I turn my fear into anger—anger at Carlos for trying to scare me, at Will for dismissing my fear, and at the photographers who make money from that fear.
“She’s making you look bad, Carlos,” Will says.
Carlos aims a kick that creases the air right in front of my nose, and it shocks me. He could have busted my face open if he had wanted, and now I’m scared again. He throws a punch, but I block him with my arm and advance with a kick of my own, but I’m off balance and miss. Carlos yanks the lapels of my dobok and sweeps my feet out from under me, and I skid across the grass.
“You have to stay balanced, especially when you’re using your weaker side.”
“I’m not a lefty, my kicks aren’t strong on that side yet.”
He flicks back his long black hair and flashes that smile at me for the second time.
“I can show you some more moves at the studio if you like,” he says.
“Thank you, Carlos, Derek will show you out,” Will says, quickly standing up.
Carlos gathers himself and bows. “Until next week,” he says.
Derek escorts him across the grass back towards the house. My stomach drops. Carlos glances back at me, then retreats inside the mansion. Bye bye, bum cheeks.
“You’re too intense out there, Rambolina,” Will says.
Will tosses me a towel and I untie my long blonde hair and wipe off the sweat.
“Kicking him, or flirting with him?”
“Both.”
“Why do you care if he hits on me?”
“I’m just looking out for you, Julia. You can’t be dating the help. You must choose the right company,” Will says.
This is the trade-off living with Will; I feel safe, but he micromanages my life. He flashes me his headshot smile and runs a hand through his curly brown hair. He always turns on the charm when he wants something.
“And that leads me to ask again: are we going to the premiere tonight or not?”
“I still haven’t decided,” I say, and sip a lemonade to avoid a longer answer.
It’s the third time he’s asked this morning, so I can’t dodge him much longer.
His voice drops to a whisper. “It’s huge that you got invited. It’s the biggest movie of the summer.”
Will didn’t get invited, which says a lot about the state of his career. I feel bad enough to want to help him, but not bad enough to want to go. The truth is, even with all my tae kwon do training, going to a public event terrifies me.
“It’s just a movie. It’s not that big a deal if we go,” I say.
Will peeks over his shoulder to make sure Derek is still inside. “How will people suspect we’re dating unless they see us together?”
“Is that really why I’m living here? I’m the beard?”
His eyes soften. “Not fair. This arrangement could help both of our careers—if the hype is big enough,” he says.
“I don’t know. I get burned by paparazzi every time I go out on the town.”
That’s partly my fault. My breakout role was in The Grand Scheme of Things playing Stella, the bitchy daughter of Susan Sarandon, so now the tabloids insist I’m as bitchy as my most famous character. I’m not though, but when a paparazzo shoves a camera in my face, I get scared, and I overreact. Now they’re like dogs when they see me, harassing me until I hiss. Fear looks a lot like anger on camera, which is exactly what they want. They snap their photos, and I look like an out-of-control bitch.
“Three tabloid covers are good, Julia. You weigh publicity, you don’t read it.”
“Celebrity Exposed?” I ask. “Please. That magazine is embarrassing. Did you see the covers? In one, I’m shouting at the guy, in another I’m tripping with a drink in my hand and my boob is falling out of my dress, and for the last one he caught me on ‘the walk
of shame’ at six in the morning leaving Colin’s hotel room.”
“A night with Colin Farrell is a good thing. It didn’t hurt your career.”
“The same scumbag photographer took all three pictures,” I say.
Just thinking about him makes my pulse race. Before this paparazzo came on the scene, I could still go out with my best friend Trishelle, who is also my manager. Now, even with secret plans, evasive driving and clothing changes, he still finds us. Just when I feel I’m safe he surprises me and I freak out, and he snaps my photo.
“This is what I wish I could do to him,” I say, and I high kick the bougainvillea bush behind Will and send orange flowers flying. That feels good.
“Whoa, don’t get aggro on my flowers,” Will says, “otherwise I might think the rumors about you are true.”
“Sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Let me show you. I can teach you how to control the roller coaster ride.”
He takes my hand and steers me back onto the lawn to the edge of his property, overlooking all of Los Angeles. The air is clean, and the sky is a perfect blue.
“Look how far you’ve come, in just a few years,” he says. “You can relax.”
“But how does he find me? He must be an expert. Or a team is chasing me.” I look up and scan the Hollywood hills. They may be watching me right now.
Will sees my dancing eyes and makes me look at the view again.
“Julia, I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
I feel eyes are on me, and when I glance back at the house I see Derek looking at us from inside the glass door. Our eyes meet and he steps back. They both planned this talk, I bet.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I think you have another problem a lot of actors get. I think you have a stalker.”
He nailed it: that’s the other reason I live behind high walls and never go out. I get a cold sweat and shiver. Will takes off his warm-up jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I’m glad he can’t see my leg muscles quivering in my cotton pants.
