Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  “Oh, thank God it’s you,” she said.

  It broke Simone’s heart.

  “I just can’t do this anymore,” Julie said. “The movie comes out in less than a week, but . . . I don’t like this. I don’t like anything about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Being famous. Being with Chris. Being me.”

  “I thought you wanted all that,” Simone said. “You said you could handle the attention.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I had no idea Chris was such a control freak. He keeps saying I’m talking to the tabloids. I’m not, okay? I’m not. But what if I was? What difference would it make whether people found out now or . . .”

  Simone stared at her, wanting to say, Found out what? And hating herself for wanting to say that. What was wrong with her? Her friend’s world was falling apart. Simone was the cause. Simone was about to tell her she was the cause, and still . . . still she was searching for a lead.

  Julie wiped a tear from her cheek. “I . . . got this message on my machine this morning. Just a hang up, but it made me feel scared. So much is beyond my control, Simone. Pretty much everything, actually.”

  Simone gritted her teeth. She felt a lump in her throat, swelling. “Julie, I have to tell you something.”

  “Me first,” she said. “Remember last night, when I told you I was auditioning for a horror movie?”

  Simone nodded.

  “There is no horror movie,” she said. “I really do feel hunted.”

  Simone thought of Blake Moss, of Keith Furlong. “Me too,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Julie, I know you’re not talking to the tabloids, and soon everybody else will know that too.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s been me,” she said. “I’m a reporter for the Asteroid.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m serious. I was just posing as a cater-waiter at that Devil’s Road event. There’s a lot of things—private things you’ve told me that I haven’t passed on, but the big stuff . . . I . . . I thought you liked the attention. I thought we were making you a star. . . . I’m so, so sorry.”

  Julie stared at Simone for a good minute, reading her face. Her eyes were soft and glowed a little in the darkness. “Leave,” she said, “or I will call security.”

  Simone did as she was told. She had no other choice.

  As she walked out the door, Julie said, “You’re disgusting. ” The second time she’d been told that. But now the words stuck to her, sunk in.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Simone walked out of the cabana, beyond tears, beyond thought. She noticed Jason Caputo, who was now talking to the sitcom star and the Laker. He nodded at her when she passed, but she looked right through him even as he said, “Hey, who died?” She looked right through Nathaniel and Randi, involved in an intense conversation, Nathaniel saying, “You can’t leave your own party.”

  “All right then,” Randi replied. “First thing in the morning.”

  As she reached the end of the lawn and headed back through the glass doors she heard a smirk of a voice behind her. “Angel? Do you need a ride home?”

  Her back stiffened, but she did not turn around. She moved through the Zen garden, where Marty’s friend was talking to three new models, the singing one nowhere in sight. She pushed open the massive door, walked down the driveway. The gate opened for her, and she headed out to the sidewalk. She walked up half a block and plucked her cell phone out of her purse. She started to call 411 to find the number of a cab company, then she realized she had no money; she’d left her credit card at home.

  And she started to cry.

  She collapsed on the sidewalk, deep sobs wracking her body, feeling awful and defeated and completely alone. She heard a car pull up, but she didn’t look up. Why bother? Who knew her around here, in Beverly Hills?

  Then the driver said her name.

  The car was a black Saab. She gasped. “What are you doing here, Walker?”

  “Staking out the party,” he said. “I didn’t trust you to come to my place, so I was going to follow you home and . . . this isn’t really important. Get in.”

  Simone got into the front seat.

  Walker said, “What happened to you?”

  She pulled the top of her shirt together. “Blake Moss sort of attacked me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  She shrugged. “I survived,” she said. “Oh, and Dylan now knows where I work.”

  He stared at her. “How?”

  “I told her.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “I was forced into it but . . . I don’t know. I probably should have done it a long time ago, before . . . She was so hurt, Neil.”

  She started to cry again, and Walker said, “Oh, shit. Please don’t do that.” He put his arms around her and held her tightly and said, “I hate it when women cry.”

  “I’m sorry.” She said the words into his neck, and he pulled her closer.

  “Don’t be sorry. Just . . . cut it out. Please.”

  “I just feel so . . . terrible about . . . everything.”

  “You have nothing to feel terrible about.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Why do you think I’ve been stalking you ever since you started work? Because I find you attractive?”

  She looked at him.

  “Okay, so that’s part of it. But you’re also a really good reporter. You’re sharp, you’re perceptive. You know how to find the right angles. And you earn people’s trust. Your second day on the job, you had Emerald Deegan’s personal assistant crying on your shoulder. I mean . . .”

  “Julie told me I’m disgusting.”

  Walker tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. “Julie is Dylan, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. In your professional opinion—as an observer— does she love Chris Hart?”

  “No.”

  “How about him? Does he have it bad for her? Does he wanna be with her no matter what, let the chips fall where they may?”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “God, no.”

  “So, correct me if I’m wrong about this. Here’s a woman who screws a married guy—a guy she doesn’t love, who’s not even all that into her—just so she can play a bimbo in a Jason Caputo movie.”

  “There might be other reasons,” she said weakly.

  “And you’re disgusting.” He shook his head. “What a stupid world.”

  “I don’t know, Neil. You ever feel like you’ve got so many lies in your head you can’t keep them all straight?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got this great pocket organizer.”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I’m tired of lying. If Nigel doesn’t fire me over this, I might have to quit.”

  “And do what? Find a job at a legitimate paper, print whatever crap the mayor’s publicity department gives you? I’ve done that. That was my first job, and I practically shot myself in the head over it. Believe me, sweetheart, you are better than that.” He gave her a long, serious look. “You’re more truthful than that.”

  “Really?”

  “Not to me. You lie to me, constantly.”

  “You should talk.”

  He held a hand up. “But,” he said, “even though you lie your ass off in everyday conversation, everything you write for the Asteroid is gospel. Why do you think everyone’s so pissed off at Leeds for talking to the tabs? Because the tabs have the truth,” he said. “Not whatever illusion Hart and his handlers were trying to feed them about his perfect, happy marriage. Not that press conference, which was laughable. . . . The whole world has the truth, Simone—including that sister of yours—and it’s all because of you.”

  Simone felt herself smiling. “You’re good,” she said.

  “I mean it. The Asteroid’s lucky to have you.” He moved a little closer, brushed a finger against her cheek, stil
l damp from tears. “Anybody would be lucky to have you.”

  She didn’t look away. She just gazed into his eyes—so serious—as his finger moved from her cheek to the curve of her jaw, to the center of her closed lips, parting them. . . .

  “What the hell am I doing?” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll . . . I’ll drive you home, okay?”

  She shook her head. Gently, she put her hands on either side of his face, and she pulled him to her and kissed him softly, then a little harder as the need grew and she began to melt.

  “Go home,” she whispered. “Take me with you.”

  Walker peeled away from the curb. His apartment was fifteen miles away, but he made it there in just under four minutes.

  Walker’s apartment was on the eighth floor. Somehow, Simone managed to get through the gate, then the front door, through the lobby, into the elevator, up all seven flights, into his apartment and onto the floor in front of his couch without once taking her hands or mouth off of him, even for a second.

  How Walker was able to get keys into doors during all of this, how he was able to see where they both were going—that was one for the ages, though he was nothing if not coordinated. She might ask him about that later, or maybe not. For tonight, at least, she gave up planning questions—gave up thinking altogether—in the elevator, when he lifted her and her legs went around his waist and his hand went from her throat to the remaining buttons of her blouse.

  All she could do was want him.

  She kissed him hard and pressed herself against him, and still she wasn’t close enough, she needed to be closer. Simone had wanted men before, of course, but nothing like this . . . this feeling of being consumed by it from within.

  Not until she heard the apartment door slam shut behind her, not until she felt the smooth planks of the wood floor against her back and the hard weight of Walker’s body on hers did she know that soon, she would be close enough.

  Later, much later, when they were lying side by side on Walker’s floor, holding hands and breathing, he uttered the first sentence to come out of either one of them since they’d entered the building: “I’m relatively sure you just told me the truth.”

  Simone smiled. “Repeatedly.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not that good an actor.”

  He rolled onto his side and kissed her lips. “You have many other talents.”

  Simone’s cell phone chimed. She saw Nigel’s number on the screen and the whole night came flying back at her, the talk in the cabana. . . .

  “Nigel?” Simone said.

  Walker murmured, “Bet you’re glad you don’t have a picture phone.”

  “Right,” Nigel said. “Dylan Leeds knows who you are.”

  Simone grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hart’s assistant phoned, said she was going to file a restraining order against all of us—silly cow.” He actually chuckled.

  “You’re . . . not mad at me?”

  “Of course not. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Always does.”

  “How did Chris find out?”

  “I’ve no idea. The assistant didn’t feel like opening up about it.” He chuckled again. “At any rate, chin up. We’ll restrategize tomorrow. In a way, it’s good news, what with that fuckwit Neil Walker following you about. He’ll get nothing more from you.”

  Simone said it. She couldn’t help herself. “I am so not fired!”

  Walker mimed applause.

  “Get some rest, Simone,” Nigel said. “You sound like a wally.”

  After Simone hit END, she looked at Walker. “He called you a fuckwit.”

  He draped an arm over her waist and looked into her eyes. “At least someone around here is behaving predictably. ”

  It was getting late, and Simone had no desire to put her clothes back on, let alone take a long cab ride home. So Walker took her into his bedroom, where they made love once again on surprisingly lush and comfortable sheets.

  When Simone commented on them afterward, Walker said, “I don’t buy anything with under a three hundred thread count. It’s the one thing I’m a snob about.”

  Simone raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I’m kidding. My mom gave me the sheets as a housewarming gift. The hell I know about thread counts?”

  Simone let her gaze drift to the entertainment center next to the bed and began reading his CD titles.

  “Okay,” he said. “I know where this is going.”

  “Miss Saigon, Wicked, Les Miz . . . Pippin? You even have Pippin?”

  “I happen to enjoy Broadway musicals.”

  Simone rolled over onto her back. “So let’s see,” she said. “We’ve got three-hundred-count sheets. We’ve got show tunes. We’ve got . . . well, of course, we’ve got your job, which is gossip writing. . . .”

  “I’m gay,” he said.

  “I knew it.”

  “Except for the whole wanting-to-have-sex-with-women thing.”

  “Right.”

  “That is where I diverge.”

  Simone moved on top of him, held his gaze. “Walker?”

  “Mmmmm?”

  “What did the maid say, at the Beverlido?”

  He grabbed her around the waist. “Good strategy you got there.”

  “Come on,” she said. “You said you would tell me.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “So?”

  “She said she understands English, even though she doesn’t speak it. I told her Furlong’s room number, and she said she was cleaning in there once, and apparently he was talking to another guy. I’m guessing his lawyer. The guy was telling him to get rid of some videotapes. And Furlong said, ‘No. We’re screwed if I get rid of those.’ Something about the cops. And the other guy said, ‘I don’t care. I want them destroyed.’ ”

  “That’s weird,” said Simone.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, I mean it is, but . . . I was there, and I didn’t hear her mention the name Keith Furlong.”

  “Right,” he said. “I guess she knows him by the name he checked in under, Cole Whitney.”

  Simone had a different thought, but something kept her from bringing it up. I’ll tell him later. But for now . . . “What do you say we explore that divergence?”

  He grinned. “Only if we can listen to Pippin afterward.”

  Simone fell asleep in Walker’s arms, thinking, How can I ever leave this place? It was his fault, all of it—him, and those sheets. The mattress wasn’t bad either. . . .

  She sunk into a deep, sated sleep, calm and dreamless and safe. At around three in the morning, Simone slipped out of REM and saw a brief, fevered image of Julie sobbing in front of a mirror. She jolted a little, and Walker held her tighter, and then the vision slipped away as quickly as it had come, replaced once again by velvety black.

  The first pink rays of sunrise were pressing through Walker’s bedroom window. Simone’s eyelids fluttered and opened, and she reached out to touch him, but she felt only the pillow. When she rolled over, she found herself alone in the bed. She heard his voice, low and muffled, in the other room. “When are they bringing him in? Robbery-Homicide, right? Okay. . . . In the front or the back of the building?”

  Quietly, Simone got up out of bed, went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

  Minutes later, Walker was back in the room. “Up already? ”

  “Yeah,” she called out over the running water. “I thought I’d get an early start.”

  “Not too early, I hope. I was just gonna run out and get us some coffee and bagels. Be here when I get back, okay? I’ll, uh, make it worth your while.”

  “How can I refuse?” Simone said.

  She listened, heard Walker hurry out of the apartment. Then she turned off the water, left the bathroom fully dressed, rushed outside and across the street to the Four Seasons hotel. There, she got money out of the ATM and paid the bellman to
call her the world’s fastest taxi.

  Forty miles away, Holly Kashminian was freshly showered and dressed and her mind was clear. She had taken no pills in more than twelve hours and for the first time in days she was anticipating something other than sleep. Answers. That was what she wanted, that was what she would get. And then, maybe then she could put Emerald to rest; maybe then she could move on. She heard a knock on her door and sprung up from the couch, thinking, She’s early.

  Holly didn’t mind. She appreciated early people. She was one herself. She unlatched the bolts. “Randi?” she said. And without waiting for a reply, she opened the door.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Simone arrived at the Robbery-Homicide division in downtown LA at seven thirty a.m. She had the cab drop her off in front, where Ed Sandiford was waiting next to Neil Walker. When Simone got out of the cab Sandiford said, “Hi, there. Neil’s friend, right?” while Walker looked at Simone as if she were holding a two-foot-long machete to his neck, then uttered a sentence that was unintelligible to humans.

  “No,” said Simone. “He is not my friend.”

  Sandiford shot Walker a look. “Blew it, didn’t you?”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  “Detective Sandiford,” said Simone, “who are we waiting for?”

  As she said it, a squad car pulled up to the curb. Simone peered into the back—and saw Keith Furlong. “We’re questioning him,” Sandiford said. “Man fitting his description was seen leaving the Starbright near Destiny’s estimated time of death.”

  Simone nodded. She stared at Walker. He would not look back. An officer got out of the front seat of the car, opened the back door, and Furlong stepped out. He was wearing the same wife-beater and shorts he’d worn at the Beverlido. His hair stuck to the side of his face. He was working on a five-o’clock shadow that crept down his neck, and his skin looked pale and blotchy. If Simone didn’t know Keith Furlong, she might have even felt sorry for him. He looked that broken, that pathetic.

  Walker held out a cassette recorder: “Do you have a comment for the Interloper?” He glanced at Simone, then added, “And the Asteroid?”