Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot

by Gemma Halliday

  On the outside, a self-made business man.

  Let’s see what was on the inside…

  I set aside the public search portals and rolled my sleeves up to dig in for the real dirt. For that, I turned to my editor’s numerous “mostly legal” databases to ferret out the real Buckner Boogenheim. Hoping against hope that he had some long criminal history of kidnapping, I grabbed a cup of black coffee from the break room and settled in.

  Unfortunately, two hours later, when I finally came up for more caffeine, I was no closer to finding a link between Boogenheim and a gun than I had been last night. The guy was clean. So clean he squeaked. Compared to my parking-violation history, he looked like a virtual saint.

  Which, in itself, was enough to make me suspicious that he was up to something.

  “Cam!”

  I spun around in my chair at the sound of Felix’s voice hailing me from his office.

  I rubbed my eyes, retraining them to focus on 3-D objects again after staring at my screen so long, then grabbed my empty mug and crossed the newsroom.

  “You rang?” I asked as I pushed through his door.

  Felix’s office was a glass walled cage situated centrally in the newsroom where he could keep an eye on all of his reporters. His desk faced the door and was, as usual, piled high with papers that were organized according to his own system of “set it wherever there’s a free space” filing. Total chaos. Which perfectly matched his appearance.

  Felix was a few years older than I was, probably in his late thirties to early forties if I had to guess. He stood about eye level with me, had a head of sandy blond hair that always looked in need of a good haircut, and blue eyes so piercing rumor had it he could pull a baby bump confession out of even the most tight-lipped OB/GYN to the stars with just a look. He was dressed this morning in his usual uniform of a white button-down shirt and khaki pants, both a day overdue for a good press at the dry cleaners. Despite his I-slept-in-my-car appearance, Tina told me that Felix was actually a millionaire several times over, thanks to some obscure British lordship he’d inherited a few years back. The word around the office was that he was even some distant cousin to the queen, though no one had had the resources (or guts) to try to prove or disprove that one yet.

  “Where are we on the wedding watch?” Felix asked. “Jamie Lee settle on a dress yet?”

  I shook my head in the negative. “I have a feeling she’s going to jerk us around to the bitter end.”

  “Fabulous.” He rolled his eyes. “What about Trace?”

  I bit my lip, reluctant to reveal my night’s adventure to him. Even ignoring the fact that I had bupkus to print, Felix had an even more tenuous relationship with the L.A.P.D. than I did. According to the gossip mill, he’d had the hots for some woman who had hauled off and married a member of their boys-in-blue club last year, leaving a less than stellar taste in Felix’s mouth. So I decided glossing over a few minor details might be a good idea.

  “Trace?” I asked, blinking innocently.

  My boss shot me an annoyed look. “Yes, Trace. Where are we with him?”

  “Trace will be wearing a tux to the wedding.”

  Felix looked up from the copy he was editing with a frown. “No one cares what Trace is wearing. Tell me what he’s up to today.”

  “I’m… not 100% sure.”

  “Not sure? You’ve been his shadow the last six weeks. What do you mean you’re not sure?” He narrowed his eyes at me. While Felix’s exterior may be less than spit shined, his intellect was sharp as a tack. And he knew something was up.

  I shifted to my right foot. “I haven’t seen him today,” I hedged.

  “And why not?”

  “I… kinda lost him last night.”

  “He’s a movie star. How lost can he get? Just follow the line of paparazzi down Sunset.”

  “Yeah, see, here’s the thing…” I shifted back to my left foot. “He’s kinda… disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?’

  “Yeah. In the sense that someone sorta helped him disappear.”

  If Felix’s eyes got any narrower, they’d be closed. “What exactly do you mean by ‘helped’?”

  “Um. Technically speaking? I guess you’d sorta say he was kidnapped?”

  “What!” Felix bellowed so loudly the glass walls shook and Tina, two cubicles over, jumped in her chair. “What the hell do you mean he was kidnapped? Why am I just now hearing about this?”

  So much for glossing over. I did another shift from right to left, then reluctantly spilled my guts and told him everything about last night. He listened, his sandy brows pulling together into a tight line until they were almost touching.

  When I finished he just had one thing to say.

  “Publicity stunt.”

  I bit my lip. “That seems to be the consensus…” I trailed off.

  He frowned at me. “But?”

  “But I don’t think so. I think this is for real. Felix, I think Trace may really be in danger.”

  “He was dramatically whisked away at gunpoint right in front of a member of the press. Love, even you can’t be that naïve. This was clearly staged.”

  I ignored the way the naïve comment stung. I may have grown up ten miles past Nowhereville, but I was a fully integrated city mouse now. Very little snuck up on my naïveté these days. “Trace didn’t see me in the alley. He didn’t even know I was there. The scene was not for my benefit.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” Honestly? No. I mean, I didn’t think he saw me. Then again, when he’d first arrived he had lingered outside the Boom Boom Room for an awful long time. He’d made sure a large group of paparazzi had assembled to see him before going in. It wouldn’t have been much of a gamble on his part to assume someone from his crowd of camera toting followers would be watching the alleyway, too.

  But, I shoved my warring doubt aside, sticking to my guns.

  “Trace is out there somewhere, Felix. In trouble. Alone.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. “What do the police think?”

  I repeated their phrase from last night. “They said they’re looking into it.”

  “Case closed, then,” he said.

  “Not cased closed. I know what I saw. It was a genuine kidnapping!”

  Felix thought on this for a beat. Then finally shook his head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter whether it was genuine or a stunt. We can’t run with a story like this either way without some sort of proof. We’d open ourselves up to a whole host of lawsuits. What matters is that I have a shot for tomorrow’s paper, a color photo fabulous enough to tempt every happy housewife standing in line at the grocery to plunk down three-fifty to read more.”

  “But what about Trace?”

  “What about him? If on the off chance you’re right and he’s in some sort of danger, the cops will be looking into it. Let them do their job. We bloody well pay enough in taxes for it,” he mumbled. “You, on the other hand, go do your job. Photos. Jamie Lee. Chop, chop.” Felix looked up from his desk. The made a shooing motions with his hands. “Now! Go!”

  “Right, chief. On it,” I mumbled. Mostly because I couldn’t think of a wining retort on the spot. Instead, I slipped out the door, my proverbial tail between my legs even though I knew Felix was dead wrong about one thing. There was no way the cops were really looking into anything except maybe a box of jelly donuts. If Trace was in danger, I was it as far as the search-and-rescue party went. And if he wasn’t… Well, just call me the laughing stock of the thirty-mile zone. Either way, Felix’s orders had given me an idea. I knew there was one person who would know without a doubt if Trace were sitting at home sipping a beer or tied up in the back of some bad guy’s trunk.

  Jamie Lee Lancaster.

  After a couple well-placed calls, I ascertained that Jamie Lee was “at the doctor’s office” this afternoon. Which was thinly veiled code for getting a little pre-wedding work done. It looked like today was as good a time as any to hit the plastic surger
y beat after all. Who knows, maybe I’d get lucky and get a pic of two of Jamie Lee post-op to appease Felix, too.

  I grabbed my Nikon and turned to go.

  Only I didn’t get far.

  I looked up at the entrance to my cubicle. And blinked. Twice.

  Standing in front of me was a three-hundred-plus-pound woman filling the entire doorway and then some. While some women her size might have tried to minimize their appearance in sliming black or subdued navy blue, she clearly was not of the “less is more” school of thought. She wore a neon pink and green floral muumuu, complete with matching pink flamingo earrings that dangled all the way to her shoulders. Her hair was a flaming Lucille Ball red (most of it… conspicuous gray at the roots suggesting it was a home dye job), and her eyes were rimmed in bright green eyeshadow that was eerily reminiscent of that character on the Drew Carey Show.

  “Uh… can I help you?” I asked. Trying my hardest not to stare. Though with her size she was kind everywhere, giving me precious few other places to avert my eyes.

  “Dorothy Rosenblatt.” She stuck one pudgy hand my way.

  I shook it, surprised at how strong her grip was. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rosenblatt.”

  “Max told me you were the picture lady?”

  I nodded. Slowly, as I wasn’t sure exactly where this was going. “I guess so.”

  “I’m working with Max on his piece about the dead movie star. Jennifer Wilson.”

  “Right,” I said, pieces clicking into places. “Tootsie. Did you, uh… know her?” I hedged. With the fake hair, shapeless muumuu, and tri-layered makeup, it was kinda hard to place Mrs. Rosenblatt’s age. I didn’t quite see her in the octogenarian set yet, but then again, with the wonders of Dr. 90210, one never knew.

  “Oh, no. She was way before my time.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

  “I did have a conversation with her last night. But that was the first time I’ve met her.”

  I blinked again.

  “You got something in your eye?” Mrs. Rosenblatt leaned in, squinting at me.

  “No, I’m fine, I just… did you say you had a conversation with her last night?” I peeked over the top of my partition, looking for someone to signal that we might need security soon. I was used to dealing with crazies – this was Hollywood after all – but generally they stuck to the streets and didn’t make into my actual office.

  “That’s right,” the women nodded, her hair moving in one sprayed-on piece. “Oh, wait. Oh, dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t really explained well. You must think I’m crazy!” Mrs. Rosenblatt let out a chuckle.

  I echoed it with one that I hoped didn’t betray the fact that was exactly what I was thinking.

  “Sorry. You see, I’m a psychic. I talk to the dead through my spirit guide, Alfred.”

  I resisted the urge to blink at her again. Was this lady for real? I peaked around her frame, half expecting to find Tina smirking behind her at the practical joke.

  “Max brought me in to see if I could get Alfred to talk to Tootsie,” Mrs. Rosenblatt went on. “You know, to ask her who murdered her.”

  “And did you?” Despite the fact I wasn’t totally buying what this woman was selling, I couldn’t help asking.

  She shook her head, her fleshy cheeks vibrating with aftershocks long after her head stopped moving. “Yes and no. Alfred got a dialogue going all right – in fact once he got Tootsie talking, it was hard to shut her up. You know how these actress types are,” she said, giving me a co-conspirital nudge with her elbow. “Anyway, turns out, Tootsie didn’t see him. Or her. The killer snuck up behind her. Awful, huh?”

  I nodded in agreement “Awful.” I paused. “So… how exactly can I be of help?” I asked. I was hardly the talking to the dead type.

  “Max said you provided him with the picture of her for his article?”

  “Right. From an archives database.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the original, would you?”

  I shook my head. “No. Actually, the archives are all digital. I just downloaded the image online.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell.

  “Um… why?”

  “Well, there’s usually a strong aura surrounding items like that. Photos capture the essence of a moment. A vibration that holds that emotion captive in time.”

  While I wasn’t sure about vibrations, I could almost understand the whole essence thing.

  “Anyway, the photo was taken just the week before she died. I thought maybe if I could get hold of it, I could gleam some clue from the vibrations.”

  I nodded. Again, I wasn’t a total believer in the whole psychic phenomenon thing… but I could see it making an interesting story to our readers nonetheless. Besides, Max appeared to need all the help he could get. The last thing I wanted to see was the old timer cut to a weekly. Weekly columns were one small step from being replaced by diet pill advertisements.

  “Let me see what I can find on the original,” I said, pulling up the database once again on my computer.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt leaned over my shoulder, her hot breath a mixture of tuna fish and Polident. I tried not to inhale too deeply.

  A few clicks later, I found the photo in question again. After pulling up the licensing information, I saw the rights belonged to a Fred Arbuckle in Palm Springs. Quickly pulling up a people finder database, I plugged in the name and got a listing for a Frederick Arbuckle in the Shady Palms retirement village just outside of P.S. I wrote down the address and phone number on a post-it and handed it to the psychic.

  “He owns the rights. If he doesn’t have the original, he may at last be able to help you track it down.”

  Her face lit up like a Kewpie doll’s, dimples popping out in each fleshy cheek. “Max was right. You are a gem, dear. Thanks a bunch!” And with that she waddled away toward Max’s cube.

  I watched her muumuu sway above a pair of cankles shoved into metallic silver Crocs. Shudder.

  Chapter Six

  Once I’d done my intra-office good deed for the day, I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, hopped in my Jeep, and headed toward Beverly Hills.

  The Beverly Hills Paparazzi Plastic Surgery Beat (or the BHPPSB, to those in the know) consisted of about five buildings situated along the Wilshire corridor in Beverly Hills. All were gleaming metal and glass, never daring to fade even the slightest in the blazing California sun, with elegant palms and vibrant annuals planted along the walkways. While plastic surgeons outnumbered pediatricians ten to one in Beverly Hills, only a handful were considered top dogs in the celebrity circles, making them big red dots on the paparazzi map.

  Jamie Lee was scheduled to see one Dr. Hammond Bashamatari, whose offices were smack in the middle of the BHPPSB.

  Dr. B was an Iranian-born surgeon with a reputation for never saying no, never disclosing names, and always going at least a cup size larger than conventional wisdom would dictate. He had been the subject of a TV reality show a couple of years back which had earned him world-wide fame, a waiting list six months long, and a mansion in the Hollywood Hills rumored to be worth more than the Informer’s entire operation. His office staff consisted of women between the ages of 22 and 29, all blonde, all buxom, all wearing the shortest skirts imaginable. I had a feeling he had a mold somewhere in the back where he just popped them out whenever he needed a new one.

  And the best part about Dr. B’s office was that he had a very gullible receptionist who, thinking she was speaking to Jamie Lee’s driver (no idea where she got that idea… walking away whistling innocently…), informed me that Jamie Lee would be finished being handled by Dr. B’s skillful hands by two.

  I hit the end button on my cell and pulled a U-ey on Wilshire, doubling back to park in the back of Dr. B’s building. Almost legally. Just my luck that every legitimate spot was taken. I glanced down at my watch. 1:49. Definitely not long enough to play the waiting game for a spot. I crossed my fingers and pulled into a tiny piece of unclaimed asphalt between the Dumpster and a
Hummer, praying the Hummer didn’t back out too suddenly. And that this particular garage’s parking-enforcement officers were on their lunch break.

  I grabbed my Nikon and headed for the lobby. Though, as soon as I swung through the glass doors, I realized I wasn’t the only photographer in town hot on Jamie Lee’s trail. Mike and Eddie were already sitting on an overstuffed sofa by the elevator, a pair of digital cameras and a bag of barbequed pork rinds shoved between them.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cammy-Can’t-Catch-a-Break.” Eddie gave me a grin displaying orange crumbs liberally scattered throughout his teeth.

  I looked away, fighting off nausea. “She come out yet?” I asked, gesturing to the elevator doors.

  Mike shook his head. “Not yet. Make yourself comfortable, doll.” He patted the square inch of sofa left next to him. “Rind?” he asked, gesturing to the bag.

  I passed – on both offers - setting up vigil in a chair opposite the twins. I slung a leg over the side of the chair, shifting sideways, ready to spring into action at the first sign of Jamie Lee’s lustrous brunette locks.

  “How long you two been waiting?” I asked.

  “A couple hours,” Eddie said, around a crunchy bite. “Long enough to get before pictures.” He grinned.

  “Seriously?” Crap. Before pics were priceless when doing the plastic surgery stories. I mean, it was one thing to point out that Lindsey Lohan’s lips were expanding, but it was another to have a pic of fish lips next to a formerly paper-thin kisser. I tried to remember if I had any photos of Jamie Lee wrinkling her forehead pre-Botox stored on my computer.