But it was a horrible way to hold on to a hundred thousand dollar flash drive.
I watched as, as if in slow motion, the flash drive flew from her right hand, sliding across the platform, twisting end over end as it neared the edged, then disappeared into the road.
“No!” Carla yelled.
“No!” I screamed.
“No!” Mrs. Rosenblatt and Allie shouted.
“Oh, God, no!” I heard Trace yell behind me.
But it was useless.
The five of us watched in horror as the approaching bus made its way into the station, the wheels rolling over the asphalt, obliterating the drive beneath them with a slow grind as it came to a halt in front of the platform.
Chapter Nineteen
“You clumsy sonofabitch!” Trace yelled, catching up to us. He hauled Carla up off the ground by the scruff of her neck again.
“Eep!” Carla squirmed like a child.
“Hey, that’s no way to talk to a lady!” Frat Boy shouted.
Geez, how drunk was he?
“It’s not my fault!” Carla protested. “She tackled me!” She pointed an accusing finger at me.
Trace shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “You’re going to pay for this.”
“Let go of the lady, man!” Frat Boy said, advancing on us. Behind him four of his pals formed a solid wall of drunk post-teens.
Trace eyed them, clearly calculating his odds. But, as much as I could tell he wanted to pummel Carla into a pulp, it wasn’t going to get the drive back. And he knew it.
Finally he let go, shoving Carla toward her group of would-be rescuers. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end as he stared at the spot where the drive had met its demise.
“Shit,” he breathed.
“Aw, geez, I’m sorry, kid,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said, huffing as she caught up to us. She put a motherly hand on Trace’s shoulder.
Since there was clearly nothing more we could do there, we left Carla in the care of the drunk frat boys. I couldn’t wait until they sobered up and realize just what kind of damsel in distress they had jumped to the aid of. I had a feeling this was one weekend where they would strictly be adhering to the “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” credo.
“So, now what?” Allie asked as we crammed back into her VW.
“Now we do what I do best,” Trace said. He had a faraway look in his eyes, his jaw set in a grim line.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.
“Fake it.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“These guys are expecting me to give them a flash drive tonight. So I will. I know what it looked like. We can duplicate it. As long as it looks the same, they won’t know that it isn’t the real deal until after we get Jamie Lee back.”
I had to admit, it was worth a try.
I pulled up my GPS, typing in “Wal-Mart” until the nearest one popped up on the screen. We followed the highlighted route to the super center, then trudged inside and surveyed the selection of flash drives. They had five different options, the plain, black, 2-gigabyte variety the closest looking to the one we’d lost. For $29.95, we had a reasonable decoy. I only hoped it worked.
For Jamie Lee’s sake.
While I’d ever been that huge of a fan Jamie Lee personally, I had to admit, she played well on screen. And she sold copies of the Informer like hotcakes. Her classic girl-next-door face coupled with her Playboy bunny–next-door body made her the perfect celebrity. Her appeal to both middle-aged men and tween girls was universally high. It didn’t get better than Jamie Lee when it came to Hollywood personalities. And I couldn’t imagine Hollywood without her.
I glanced at Trace. I had a feeling he couldn’t either, though his reasons were distinctly more personal.
A thought that stirred mixed emotions in me. Clearly Jamie Lee was the kind of girl Trace belonged with. Clearly a tabloid photographer was not. Clearly I was nothing more to him than a means to an end, a way to get that drive, Jamie Lee, and his life back. Okay, maybe we’d forged a sort of tentative friendship in the meantime, but I had no delusions about it continuing once things went back to normal.
I shook the thought off as I used my credit card to buy the drive, then we all squished back in the VW, ready to implement our brilliant plan.
But it was only 5:00 pm.
We hit a drive-thru, grabbing a round of burgers (and a side salad for me), but that only killed about half an hour. We were antsy. Trace was jiggling his knee, Allie twirling her hair, Mrs. Rosenblatt whistling the Mission Impossible theme song nonstop.
And we had seven hours left.
I pulled a Google screen and located a yellow pages directory for Las Vegas. For lack of another way to kill the time, I typed in the name Ralph Kingsly, the friend Johnny Rupert had been traveling with the day he’d died. I remembered that the article I’d found earlier had said that Kingsly was a Vegas resident at the time of the accident. I knew it was a while ago, but I though it worth a shot to see if he was still around Sin City. I hit pay dirt two pages into the Kingslys. One Ralph P. Kingsly lived on Palm Terrace Boulevard in the nearby suburb of Henderson. What were the chances it was a different guy?
“Feel like taking a side trip?” I asked the collective carload.
“What are you thinking?” Ms. Rosenbaltt asked.
“Ralph Kingsly. Traveling companion of Johnny Rupert’s when he died. He lives about ten minutes from here.”
Allie shrugged. “Sure.”
Trace looked lost in thought. Not surprisingly he didn’t answer. But he didn’t protest either, so Allie headed toward the 15.
* * *
Henderson is a small suburban town nestled at the northern end of Las Vegas. A mere five-minute ride down the freeway from Las Vegas boulevard, it’s a light year away from the flash and decadence Vegas is known for. Henderson was one new, dusty beige housing development after another, punctuated by the occasional strip mall and Home Depot center. The road was dotted with minivans and SUVs full of car seats, and flanked by Little League fields that were an unnatural green for the desert.
Kingsly’s address was in the Sand Hill development, on Desert Sands Drive just off Warm Sands Road.
The front of the house was a nondescript beige (dare I say, sand color?), the yard a rock garden dotted with cacti and succulents. Identical to ever other house on the street, distinguishable as Kingsly’s only by the wooden numbers affixed above the garage. We followed the paved pathway up to the front door and knocked.
A beat later, the door was opened by a small man in a bright red track suit, zippered clear to his throat despite the temperature. His skin was a pale gray color and a tracheostomy tube in his neck indicated this was not a well man. A blast of cool air accompanied him, a welcomed respite from within.
“Ralph Kingsly?” Allie asked.
He nodded. “Yes,” he wheezed, covering the hole in his neck with one hand. “May I help you?” he asked, politely raising only one eyebrow at the odd assemblage on his doorstep.
“We work for the L.A. Informer. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about a story we’re working on.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Sure. But I’m not certain how I would be of any interest to a tabloid.”
“We wanted to ask you about Johnny Rupert and Jennifer Tootsie Wilson’s death.”
He nodded. “Ah. In that case, you better come in.”
He stepped back to allow us entry, the lot of us filing in behind him as he led the way through the foyer to an equally beige living room. He motioned for us to sit on his beige sofa, settling himself in a straight-backed beige chair opposite.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked once we were all seated, his breath wheezing oddly through his throat as he spoke.
I tried not to stare.
Kingsly gave me a smile. “Throat cancer.”
Apparently I was staring anyway. I felt myself blush at my breach of manners. “I’m so
rry,” I said, for lack of a better response.
He shrugged. “Me too. But that’s what comes of a lifetime of being such a chic smoker.” He gave me a wink. “They were almost worth it.”
I smiled back, taking an immediate liking to him.
“Now, what can I tell you about Johnny?” he asked, clasping his hands in front of him.
“We understand he knew Tootsie?” Mrs. Rosenblatt started.
He nodded. “Yes. They were close.”
“How close?” Allie pounced.
He raise and eyebrow. “They were very good friends. Johnny was quite distraught when she passed away.”
“From what we hear, Johnny and Tootsie were more than friends, if you get my drift,” Mrs. Rosenblatt pressed.
Kingsly laughed, the sound rasping out through the hole in his throat. I tried not to grimace.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” he informed us. “Johnny wasn’t into Tootsie.”
“No?” I raised an eyebrow. “He bought her flowers, candy, took her to the theater. Sounds like he was into her to me.”
“Let’s just say that Tootsie wasn’t Johnny’s type.”
“She was young, beautiful, a movie star. Whose type wouldn’t she be?”
Kingsly did a patient, fatherly smile. “Someone who wasn’t into beautiful women.”
Suddenly the pieces clicked into place. “Wait, are you saying…”
“Johnny was gay,” Kingsly said.
Mrs. Rosenblatt smacked her palm to her forehead loudly. “No wonder Alfred was getting mixed signals from Johnny.”
Kingsly screwed up his wrinkled forehead. “Alfred?”
“My spirit guide.”
His forehead screwed further, making him look like a shar pei.
“Not important,” I said waving Mrs. Rosenblatt off. “What is important is why Johnny paid so much attention to Tootsie if he wasn’t into her.”
Kingsly sighed and leaned back into his chair. “Johnny needed a cover. In those days people weren’t nearly as tolerant as they are now, even in Hollywood. Sure we suspected certain people of having certain tendencies, but if they ever came right out and said it, they were be ostracized faster than you could say studio system. If he wanted to have a prayer of ever landing a leading role, Johnny had to keep his preferences under wraps.”
“Did Tootsie know?” I asked.
Kingsly nodded. “She got a kick out of it. Said it made her boyfriend crazy jealous.”
I raised an eyebrow. Crazy enough to kill? I wondered.
“How jealous?” I probed.
He shrugged. “Jealous enough to buy her a mint in jewels, or so Johnny said.” He leaned in closer. “One night they went to an opening at the Mann together. The next day Ben shows up with a diamond bracelet. Johnny had a good laugh out of it. Poor guy as going crazy trying to compete with a gay man.” Kingsly laughed again.
“Did Johnny ever mention who he thought might be responsible for Tootsie’s death?” I asked.
He shrugged. “He didn’t talk about it much. Honestly, he was crushed when Tootsie passed. She was like a sister to him. He took a few small roles after her death, but his heart just wasn’t in it anymore. He moved on to teach theater to kids instead. Johnny always had a way with children.”
“Did he ever talk about a Becky Martin?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.
Kingsly starred at a spot just over my head, squinting his eyes as if trying to clearly read an old memory.
“She was one of Tootsie’s friends, right? Blonde girl, big blue eyes?”
I nodded. “That’s her.”
He shrugged. “I honestly didn’t take much notice of her at the time. I’m not sure Johnny did either. She was more like Tootsie’s shadow than a personality of her own. I know she used to tag along now and then when Tootsie and Johnny went out, but he rarely saw her after Tootsie passed.”
A knocked sounded at the door and a woman in nursing scrubs pushed in. “Hello? Mr. Kingsly?”
“Come in, Donna.” He turned to us. “Donna’s my physical therapist. I hate to cut this short, but…” he trailed off, gesturing to his nurse.
We all made our polite goodbyes and left Mr. Kingsly to his attendant.
“Well that was a bust,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said as we got back into the car.
“Not entirely,” I pointed out. “I think we can cross Johnny off our list. If Tootsie was his beard, he had a lot more reason to keep her alive than want her dead.”
“What time is it?” Trace asked.
I could see his jaw tense, the lines in his face pronounced. He could care less who had done in Tootsie in fifty years ago. What he cared about was making sure Jamie Lee didn’t get done in now.
And I couldn’t blame him.
“Seven fifteen,” Allie supplied, looking at her purple and silver watch bracelet. Little pink hearts served as numbers. Way too adorable to be worn by a grown woman.
It was hours until our rendezvous with the bad guys, but I could tell Trace was antsy to do something.
“Let’s go to the MGM.”
* * *
Our plan was simple. I would be watching the drop point, and the second Trace had Jamie Lee safe, I was calling Allie and Mrs. R, who were waiting by the security office. The bad guys would be surrounded faster than you could say “card counter.” And everyone would live happily ever after.
Trace’s role in all this was handing over our blank flash, and hoping like hell he got Jamie Lee to safety before they realized their real data was smashed to smithereens by the 3:15 to Barstow.
In theory, it was simple. In reality, butterflies were doing the jitterbug in my stomach as I drove Trace to the meet point in Allie’s VW.
I pulled into the back parking lot and cut the engine.
He reached for the door handle, then paused, turning back to me. “I owe you an apology,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “For what?”
He grinned. “For calling you ‘tabloid girl.’”
I blushed. “No prob,” I said.
“Look, I feel…” He trailed off.
I held my breath while I waited for him to finish that sentence.
“… really guilty.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what I had hoped he might say, but guilt wasn’t the emotion I aspired to invoke.
“For everything,” he continued. “This whole situation is my fault. I should have just called the cops in the beginning. I should have called them the second these guys showed up.”
“Trust me, they wouldn’t have believed you. Been there, done that.”
Trace shook his head. “If anything were to happen to…” Again he trailed off, as if not able to finish that thought, let alone voice it out loud.
“Don’t worry. It won’t,” I said with false confidence. “Our plan is great.”
That was crap. Our plan sucked. Our plan was kindergartener simple. Our plan depended solely on faking out the guys with guns. Not exactly a certainty. However, if Trace could fake it, so could I.
“Jamie Lee will be fine,” I repeated.
Trace lifted his eyes to meet mine, something unidentifiable burning in their very blue depths.
“I meant if something were to happen to you.”
“Uh… oh.” I think I swallowed my tongue. “To me?”
He nodded. Slowly. “Look, I know we didn’t start out on the right foot, but I’ve sort of become fond of you.”
“Fond.” Like one is fond of their designer cocka-doodle?
“Yeah.” He paused. “No. No, fond isn’t really the word. I’ve… what I mean to say is… I mean…”
I raised an eyebrow. Could it be that the movie star was actually flustered?
He stopped. Took a breath. Opened his mouth to speak again. “Cam, I-“
But the sound of my cell screaming from my pocket interrupted him.
I ignored it, instead focusing on his face. “What? You what?”
“I… I think you should get that.”
Damn!
Okay, not that I knew what I expected him to say. He was probably going to just say he wanted me to be careful. So I wouldn’t get hurt so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty. No biggie. Nothing meaningful. He was engaged to one of Cosmo’s “bikini bodies to die for.” There was nothing so important that he might have to say to the likes of me.
I grabbed my cell and hit the send button.
“Cameron Dakota?”
“We’re all set,” came Allie’s voice. “You guys in place yet?”
“Just about,” I answered.
“K. I’ll be waiting for your call. Break a leg!” she said. I wasn’t entirely sure she was aware we weren’t trying out for the high school glee club here.
I disconnected.
“They’re in place.”
Trace nodded. “Right.” He tightened his jaw, squared his shoulders in a show of confidence I wasn’t convinced he was feeling. “Let’s do this then.”
“Good luck,” I said as he hopped out the door.
“You too.”
I watched as Trace crossed the lot to the drop point specified by the bad guys. Then I pulled out, driving around the lot to a position at the far west side, across the street. I parked under a concrete overhang, keeping to the shadows, and cut the engine. I grabbed my telephoto from the trunk and sat on the back bumper. Across the lot I could see Trace’s silhouette outlined in the moonlight. I crouched low and trained my lens on him. After adjusting the focus I got a clear shot of him at this distance. He was pacing. Hands in his pockets, eyebrows drawn low, lips drawn taught. I zoomed in on his face, unable to keep myself from snapping a few shots. The emotion there was raw, real. This was beyond playing “worried boyfriend” face. This was real. For a moment, I envied Jaime Lee.
I know, ridiculous. Who is jealous of a chick that’s likely bound, gagged, and being held at gunpoint?
But I was. No one had ever cared about me as much as I could see Trace caring right now. I hoped Jamie Lee knew how lucky she was. I hoped she didn’t take him for granted. Because the last few days had confirmed my belief that he deserved better. He deserved someone who would pace over his well being, too.
Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot Page 20
