* * *
The first thing I noticed the next morning was the heavenly smell of freshly brewed coffee. If angels had alarm clocks in heaven, they’d be coffee scented.
Unfortunately, the second thing I noticed was that one should never fall asleep sitting up on a sofa. A sharp pain hit my neck as I twisted it to the right. I turned left. Ouch. More pain. I rubbed it as I got up, trying to work out the kinks.
“Morning,” I heard from my kitchen/dining room.
I looked up to find Trace leaning against my Formica counter with a mug of coffee in hand.
“Morning.” I did a little wave, suddenly hit with a bout of self-consciousness. Did I have bed-head? Morning breath? One of those whiteheads that magically appears overnight blooming on my forehead? I ducked my head, letting my potential bed-head hair cover my face just in case of the later.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please. Black.”
He complied, grabbing a mug from my cupboard (yes, singular) and delivering the cup the three paces across the room.
I noticed that he did not have a case of overnight acne, bed-head, or, as he moved closer and handed me the cup, morning breath. If anything, Trace looked even better in the morning than he had last night. Kind of soft and tussled. Like I’d expect him to look after a long night under the sheets.
I ducked my head even lower, sure that last thought had put a bright pink blush into my cheeks.
“Thanks for letting me stay here last night,” he said, thankfully oblivious to my R-rated thoughts.
“Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
“If it’s not too much of an imposition, you think I could use your shower before I go?”
I cocked my head to the side. “And then what?”
“Then I thought I’d get dressed,” he said, grinning as he looked down at his still bare torso.
The heater in my cheeks turned up a notch. Was it wrong that the thought of him putting clothes on kinda bummed me out?
I shook my head. “No, I mean, where are you going to go? Obviously your house isn’t safe.”
He opened his mouth to speak…then shut it with a click, clearly not having thought that far ahead in his plan.
Luckily for him, I had.
“I was thinking last night,” I started. “It’s probably a good idea if you lay low until you can get this drive thing from your agent.”
He glanced down at his bandaged arm. “Yeah, probably,” he agreed.
“And, you probably could use a little help with that.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I could, huh?”
I nodded with conviction. “Yes. I mean, how many reporters do you have following you around town on any given day?”
He shrugged. “Three?”
I raised my eyebrows. Apparently he didn’t look in his rearview mirror very often. “Try half a dozen.”
“Wow.”
“You’re not exactly inconspicuous. I could help you get around unnoticed. Otherwise, how long do you think it will take before the paparazzi is following your every move?”
He gave me a look.
Point taken. “Okay, the paparazzi other than me.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “And you could help me be more inconspicuous?”
“I can. I mean, who knows better than I do how the paparazzi thinks?”
He grinned. “Good point.”
“Thank you. I thought so.”
“And why exactly are you willing to put yourself out like this?”
I’d like to say it was out of the goodness of my heart. But, instead, I told the truth. “For the story.”
“Ah.” Trace put his mug down on the kitchen counter. “No thanks.”
“Oh, come on. This is tabloid gold! The story of the century!”
“I’m pretty sure when they said ‘no cops,’ it went without saying that they meant no front-page stories either.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal then,” I said, getting up and moving to stand right in front of him. “I won’t print anything until it’s over.”
“Over?”
“We find the flash drive, what’s on it, and the identity of these goons who are trying to shake you down.”
His lips quivered into a grin. “’Goons’? ‘Shake down’? Someone’s been watching too much Law & Order.”
I waved him off. “What, you’d rather let them track you down and shoot at you again? You think they’re really gonna miss a second time?”
He winced, glancing down at the mega band-aid gracing his upper arm. I could tell I was wearing him down. I took a step closer.
“Face it, you need me.”
He raised an eyebrow my way. But he didn’t deny it. I took that as a good sign.
“What do you say? Do we have a deal?” I stuck my right hand out in front of me.
Trace looked at it. Then up at me. Back at the hand.
Finally, he grabbed it and shook. “Fine. Deal.” He shook.
I grinned.
He sighed. “Oh, boy. Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?”
Chapter Nine
I grabbed a quick shower, throwing on my usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt, then towel dried my hair and did a quick swipe of lip gloss, my only concession to the makeup industry. I emerged from the bathroom to find Trace on his cell.
“Last night? Yeah, I, um, got kinda busy. Sorry I didn’t call, babe.”
Babe. It had to be Jaime Lee. I fiddled with my shoelaces on my Nikes as I pretended not to listen.
“Cake? Um, sure, any flavor’s good.” Pause. “Well, it’s not like cake can be bad, right?” Pause. “Well, he’s the professional, maybe we should listen to his-“ Pause. “Oh. You already fired him.” Pause. “Sure. Whatever you want. Listen, babe, I’m going to be kinda… busy again today.” Pause. “Oh, you know. Just stuff. Anyway, I’ll call you later, ‘k?”
She must have hung up because he pulled the phone away from his ear a second later, hitting the “end” button.
“I’m gonna grab a shower. Cool?” he asked.
I nodded, keeping my non-eavesdropping eyes glued to my shoes.
“Sure. Mi shower es su shower,” I said.
Then spent the next ten minutes trying not to dwell on the fact that he was naked just feet away from me as I listened to water run down the drain. Note the use of the word, “tried.” It doesn’t entirely imply that I succeeded. In my defense, considering that I knew exactly how easy on the eyes his naked body was, I did as well as any redblooded American woman could. I flipped on the TV, letting the hens from The View drown out the sound of the shower, and hopefully my lustful thoughts along with it, while I rummaged in my closet for something Trace could wear.
If we were going to move around Hollywood unaccosted by Trace’s adoring fans, the first thing we needed was a disguise. I dug through my piles of clothes for anything that might fit him. It was slim pickings. While I was only a few inches shorter than he was, clothes built for my slim frame had no chance against his personal trainer made bod. However, since his shirt was currently caked with blood, not to mention had a bullet hole through it, almost anything would be an improvement. I finally found a T-shirt I’d bought for my brother on the boardwalk last month that read, I ♥ Santa Monica. I coupled it with my Angels baseball cap and a pair of cheap gas-station-quality sunglasses. As soon as he emerged from the bathroom, I thrust the ensemble at him.
He looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“Your disguise.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tourist garb?”
I shrugged. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”
He grinned. But wisely threw the items on anyway.
Fifteen minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of the Informer’s offices. Despite the detour my life had taken into gunfire and wounded movie stars last night, I still had a job to do. If I was lucky, I could sneak in and download the day’s list of photos, leaving Felix none the wiser. While I’m sure he was
going to sing my praises in the highest key once I turned in the finished story, I had a feeling it was going to be harder than stale biscotti to keep my promise to Trace if Felix started grilling me.
And on the upside, tabloid office was probably the last place anyone would be looking for Trace. Two birds, one stone, perfect plan.
I parked in my usual spot by the entrance and scanned the lot. Felix’s dented Dodge Neon was parked two cars over. Damn.
I could see Trace squirming in his seat.
“Trust me, you’re safe here,” I promised.
He nodded. Though he didn’t look all that reassured. Not that I blamed him. A celebrity walking into the offices of a tabloid was like a mouse walking into a cat’s mouth. While holding a bottle of cream.
Trace pulled the cap of his hat down low over his forehead as we rode the elevator to the second floor in silence. I could feel him sticking close to my back as we exited into the newsroom, busy with the hum of clacking keyboards and phone lines buzzing with the latest gossip.
We made our way to my desk – me ducking behind the partitions to keep out of Felix’s eye line and Trace ducking down to keep out of everyone’s eye line. Luckily for me, Felix was on a phone call, chatting into his Bluetooth with his back to my cubicle. Luckily for Trace, everyone else’s eyes were glued to their computer screens, scanning the internet for anything verifiable or printable. (And often just the later.)
I quickly logged into the system, and, sure enough, there was an email from Felix containing my photo backlog for the day. I forwarded the whole lot to my personal account, hoping I’d get the chance to deal with them later. I was just logging back out when I heard a high-pitched voice scream behind me.
“Oh. Meh. Gawd!” came Allie’s perky alto. “Trace Brody?”
Trace shot me a look. It was the same one I imagined a wild bears would have when the ranger started posting “hunting season” signs.
Before I could attempt any kind of rescue mission, Allie swooped in, the scent of her peachy lotion enveloping us as she flapped her hands in front of her like an overexcited five-year-old.
“Ohmigod, Ohmigod. I totally love your work,” Allie gushed, sidling up to us. Or, more accurately, sideling past me, all but running me over, and up to Trace. “Allie Quick,” she said, sticking one hand out his way.
Like the pro he was, he shook it, despite his misgivings, his meet-and-greet public smile sliding into place seemingly effortlessly.
“Nice to meet you, Allie,” he said. Even though I knew it was anything but.
“Wow, Trace Brody. Huh. I never would have thought your presence would grace our humble offices?” Allie said. I noticed it was phrased as more of a question, sending an inquiring look my way along with the not so subtle hint.
One I elected to ignore.
“Actually, we were just leaving,” I said instead, ushering Trace toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Allie asked. I could see her mental reporter’s notebook already out, notes being taken in sparkle pen, no doubt.
“We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“Someplace.”
“Why?”
“We have stuff to do.”
“What kind of stuff.”
“Just stuff.”
She paused, puckering her pink, glossy lips into a frown at clearly not winning our battle of twenty questions. She turned back to Trace.
“I’d love to do a quick interview with you,” she gushed, standing directly in our path to the elevators.
“Look, Allie, we’re kind of busy,” I pointedly said before Trace had a chance to respond. I shot a look toward Felix’s office. He was still on the phone, but I knew it was only a matter of time before his gaze wandered our direction.
“Busy with what?”
Damn, she was a persistent little bugger.
“Big important movie-star stuff. Now move.”
“This ‘stuff’ would have anything to do with that whole fake abduction thing the other day, would it?”
Trace tensed beside me, and again I got that caged animal vibe from him.
“Look, we really have to go-“ I started.
But I didn’t get to finish as another voice piped up behind me.
“Holy moley, is that Trace Brody?”
I spun around to find Mrs. Rosenblatt’s ample frame bearing down on us.
I closed my eyes and said a silent swear word. A really bad one.
“This disguise sucks,” Trace whispered to me before once again pulling out his “on” smile as Mrs. Rosenblatt bore down on us.
“Wow, you ladies really do get the cream of the crop at this here paper.” She turned to Trace. “Dorothy Rosenblatt,” she said, sticking a pudgy hand out at him.
Reluctantly, he shook it.
“Nice to meet you,” he said again on auto-pilot. I silently wondered if he ever got tired of uttering stupid pleasantries like that.
“I remember you from that suspense movie you did with Jamie Lee where she showed her tatas,” Mrs. Rosenblatt went on. “One hell of a sexy movie. Tell me, were those fake? ‘Cause I know you’ve gotten a handful of ‘em since, huh? Huh?” She elbowed Trace in the ribs, giving him an exaggerated wink.
“Uh…” I think I saw the tips of Trace’s ears go red.
“I also loved you in that Roman flick with all the togas,” Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. “They use a body double for that or was that really your tushie? ‘Cause that was the kind of hiney I’d love to sink my teeth into.”
“Uh… thanks,” he said. Though it sounded more like a question. Or maybe a plea for help.
I turned to politely extricate us from the situation (Felix was hanging up. Any second now he was going to see our growing band of misfits!), but Mrs. Rosenblatt was just that much faster than I was.
“Listen, Cam, I got a hold of that photo from Fred,” she started. Then off my blank look added, “Of Jennifer Wilson? Tootsie?” She turned to Trace. “This murdered movie star from the forties.”
Sensing a story, Allie perked up beside her. “Murdered? Really?”
Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded. “Yeah. I’m trying to find out who killed her for Max.”
“Oh.” Allie’s perk deflated. “Max’s story.”
“I got this photo of her taken the week before she died, and, boy howdy, did that sucker have some strong vibrations. Anyway, I could use your help checking some of this stuff out, Cam.”
“Uh… sure. But listen, now’s not a real good time…” I trailed off, glancing up at Felix’s office again. He was sipping his coffee. Eyes roving the other half of the room.
Unfortunately, neither Allie nor Mrs. Rosenblatt seemed capable of taking a hint to day.
“See, the vibrations were kinda jumbled,” Mrs. Rosenblatt went on, “but I think Albert and I have narrowed down the field to a likely list of suspects in her murder.”
“Albert?” Allie asked, cocking her head to the side.
“My spirit guide,” Mrs. Rosenblatt explained.
Oh boy.
“Anyhoo, you being a pro at this kind of stuff, I though maybe you could if I could help me investigate these characters and get some feeling about which one did her in.”
“I’d love to, but we’re kinda in a hurry-”
“Who are your suspects?” Allie asked, running right over me.
I shot her a look. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but I was looking at one blonde who didn’t have nine lives.
Only too happy to oblige, Mrs. Rosenblatt started rattling off names. “The first guy on our list is Johnny Rupert. He was a bit actor at the time and apparently had a terrible crush on Tootsie. He worked on her last film with her. Unfortunately, he died in the eighties in a car wreck out on highway 15, but that don’t mean he didn’t off Tootsie first.”
“Second character on our list is Becky Martin. She played supporting actress to Tootsie in that last film and, from what I gather, was extremely jealous of her. They were seen fighting the
day before Tootsie died. Unfortunately, she dropped off the Hollywood radar shortly after Tootsie’s death, and no one has seen her since.”
“This is all fascinating,” I said, “but we really have to go-“
“And the third on my list,” Mrs. Rosenblatt went on, totally ignoring me, “is Tootsie’s boyfriend. Ben Carlyle. He was a director in those days, and a good fifteen years Tootsie’s senior. Rumor had it she was going to leave him, but she never got the chance.”
She paused for breath.
“Is that all?”
Luckily her psychic abilities didn’t extend to sarcasm detection.
“For now. Anyway, I was just about to go question the boyfriend.”
“Wait – he’s still alive?” I asked, doing some quick mental math. If he’d been fifteen years older than Tootsie in the forties, he’d have to be at least… “He’s gotta be what, ninety?”
“Ninety-four,” Mrs. Rosenblatt confirmed. “Lives at the MPTF retirement home in Woodland Hills.”
The MPTF was the Motion Picture & Television Fund home, a community of little cottages nestled in the hills that housed the retired members of Hollywood society who hadn’t quite ever made it into Trace Brody territory. While the big stars usually retired to their multi-million dollar mansions, the bit actors and extras often found their golden years leaving them with less than stellar bank accounts. Instead they played out their final roles at the MPTF home, staging readings of Fiddler on the Roof from their wheelchairs.
“So, what do you say? Wanna come help me interrogate Mr. Carlyle?”
While “interrogating” a ninety-four-year-old fell somewhere near kicking puppies on my moral radar, we still had a good two hours before the meeting with Trace’s agent. Of all the places in Hollywood to hide him, a retirement home would be the last one someone would go looking for Trace.
I glanced up to Felix’s office. He was setting down his coffee cup. Seconds away from spotting me.
“Okay,” I quickly said. “As long as we leave now, I’m in.”
“Me too!” Allie piped up behind me.
I refrained from pointing out that no one had actually asked her.
Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot Page 9
