I jumped up from my bed and watched as a stream of water shot through my window, landing on my pink bedsheets.
What the hell?
I pulled aside my plastic renter’s blinds and peered out into the yard.
Between my building and the fourplex next door sat a strip of grass. At current there was more mud than greenery, but a few patch of crabgrass looked hopeful they might become a lawn one day.
Apparently so were my neighbors, as a brand-new, industrial-sized sprinkler head jutted out of the muddy crabgrass, spraying a rotating stream of water at dangerous speeds between the buildings. I jumped back when it turned my way again, narrowly avoiding another power blast as it shot through my window.
Unfortunately Mr. Fluffykins wasn’t so lucky, getting the full force of it on his tail. He yowled and jumped almost as high I as had, running for the safety of the living room.
I quickly shut the window, making a mental note to visit my neighbors tomorrow morning. Then I looked down at my sheets.
Soaked.
Fab.
I grabbed a pillow and shuffled out after Mr. Fluffykins to the sofa.
Three hours and one fat, snoring cat later, I awoke with a crick in my neck, a pain in my side, and cat hair in my mouth.
Ick.
I looked at the clock. Six am.
I grabbed a cup of coffee then went into my room to survey the damage to my sheets in the light of day. It looked like I’d wet my bed. Several times. I stripped them off, trudged to the back of the building and threw them in the coin-operated laundry. I crossed the muddy lawn, now squishing wet beneath my fuzzy pink slippers, and banged on my neighbor’s door.
Two beats later a squat, Russian guy answered. He had a bald head, a paunchy middle barely encased in a bathrobe, and a cigar sticking out the side of his face. “Dah?”
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but your sprinkler is turned up very too high.”
He beamed. “Dah. Is good sprinkler, no?”
I shook my head. “No. Is not good. Is pelting my bedroom window.”
His massive unibrow hunkered down over his beady eyes. “Too loud?”
“Too wet. The window was open, and it soaked my bed.”
He grinned. “Ha! That wake you up, huh?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, yeah. It wake me up.”
He nodded. “Okay, okay. I fix it. Promise. Today, I fix it.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, then trudged back home to take the longest, hottest shower on record. Seriously, if my paycheck didn’t afford an apartment upgrade soon, I might shoot myself. Or my neighbor.
I went with peach-scented body wash today, needing the pick-me-up, then did my hair and make-up, adding an extra layer of mascara to show just how serious I was about this Barker story. I dressed in a white denim skirt, pink tank top with ruffles down the front and a pair of silver roman-style sandals with glittery glass diamonds on the top. Totally cute. Totally hot. Totally going to get me into any place I wanted to go, press pass or no.
Which was good, because Barker’s production company, Real Life Productions, was housed on the Sunset Studios lot. The Sunset Studios were located off the 101, just west of Griffith Park, in the heart of tinseltown. They were the largest studio in town, taking up two full city blocks, and surrounded by a large cement wall topped by massive spiky iron bars. San Quentin was easier to break into than the Sunset Studios. It was the only fortress in Hollywood impenetrable by the average reporter.
Luckily, I wasn’t just average.
I grabbed a knock-off Juicy bag from my closet and matched it with a pair of big, black sunglasses. They looked just like Christian Dior shades, right down to the CD on the sides. I’d actually bought them at a gas station halfway between here and Oxnard, used a sharpie to obliterate the generic brand name, then glued on the sparkly “CD” with a hot glue gun. Not bad, even if I did say so myself.
Then, instead of jumping in my Bug, I dialed a car service and waited while it rang three times on the other end.
“Elite cars, how may I help you?” a woman answered the phone.
“Hi,” I said, giving my voice just the slightest nasally tone to it. “This is Paris Hilton’s assistant. I need a car to pick her up in Glendale at the Starbucks on Brand, and take her to the Sunset Studios in Hollywood.”
“No problem,” the woman on the other end said, and I could hear the sound of a keyboard keys as she typed info into her system. “When you would like it?” she asked.
“ASAP. She’s shooting a commercial there this morning.”
More typing. “Okay, we have a town car limousine that can pick her up in fifteen minutes. Will that be acceptable?”
“Fabulous!” I said.
“I just need a credit card to process the order, and I’ll dispatch him right away.”
“No problem,” I said. Then rattled of the digits of the Informer’s account. Not that I was supposed to have unlimited access to such digits, but if Felix really hadn’t wanted me using it, he shouldn’t have left his card out where anyone could see it and memorize the number. Besides, this was a bona fide business expense. And not one I had the funds to cover, I realized, as the woman on the phone gave me the total.
I thanked her and hung up then wrapped a pink silk scarf over my head, put on my faux designer sunglasses, and hightailed it to Starbucks to wait for my limo.
It arrived exactly fifteen minutes later. The driver got out and opened the back door for me with a, “Good morning, Miss Hilton.”
I gave him an aloof nod, hopped in and promptly closed the partition between us.
Twenty minutes later, the driver pulled up to the front gate of the Sunset Studios. I held my breath in the backseat, thinking heiress-like thoughts.
The driver stopped at the guardhouse and rolled down his window. A guy with a clipboard who didn’t look a day over a hundred hobbled out of the tiny structure and up to the window. His skin was wrinkled and tanned to a crisp, like he’d spent one too many days on duty in the guardhouse without sunscreen. Or he really dug tanning beds.
I cracked the partition to hear the exchange.
“Name?” the guard asked.
“Elite car service. I’ve got Paris Hilton here.”
The guard looked to my tinted window, squinting in. “Can you have her roll her window down, please?” he asked.
I felt butterflies take hold in my stomach as I slowly rolled down my window, praying the guard was a nearsighted as he seemed. I gave him a little wave.
The guard nodded. “’Morning, Miss Hilton,” he said.
I did a sigh of relief.
“Go on ahead,” the ancient guy said, waving the driver on and stepping back into his house.
That was almost too easy.
I quickly rolled up my window, instructing the driver to let me out near the production offices to the left.
Sunset Studios was a huge place, laid out like a miniature city. Only the city was a little schizophrenic. We had Boston brownstones down one street, Victorian mansions on the next. Gritty New York graffiti covered the walls of a pizza joint just around the corner from a suburban tree-lined street that could have been home to Wally and the Beave. Near the back of the lot were rows of squat warehouses where sitcoms and movies-of-the-week were filmed. And to the left was a colony of small bungalows that held the production offices of countless companies, all with cute little names from the Hollywood of old.
I’d done a little digging this morning on my cell while I’d waited at Starbucks and ascertained that Real Life productions was housed in the Gone With the Wind bungalow, which turned out to look nothing like antebellum Georgia. It was brick, short and had a faux-thatched roof that made it look like it belonged to a quaint English villager and not the biggest name in reality TV.
I shoved my sunglasses up on my head and was just about to knock on the door when a voice hailed me from behind.
“Excuse me?”
Uh-oh.
I turned to find a tall, dark h
aired guy standing behind me. He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, untucked in a casual dressy kind of way. His square jaw, honey-colored tan and perfectly gelled hair screamed movie star, though his face didn’t look familiar.
“Yeah?” I asked, doing my best Paris impression—fifty percent valley girl, fifty percent bored to tears.
“How did you get in here?” he asked.
I cocked a hip and twirled a lock of hair, consciously dropping about 50 IQ points from my voice. “Waddaya mean?”
“Last I checked, Sunset was closed to reporters.”
I froze, anxiety suddenly swirling in my gut. “Reporter? What do you mean reporter? I’m not a reporter,” I lied, twirling furiously. “I’m Paris Hilton.”
He grinned at me, a pair of dimples creasing his cheeks. “Oh, really?”
“Um, ya, really.”
“That’s funny.”
“And why is that?” I asked, hating the way nerves made my voice about two octaves too high.
“Because you look a lot more like Allie Quick to me.”
Uh-oh. Busted.
Chapter Four
“Right. Well, see, here’s the thing,” I said, quickly backpedaling. “What I meant was I’m here to see Paris.”
“Paris is in Milan this week.”
Great. The one day I don’t check up on my celebrity itineraries… “I mean, I’m here to see a producer to talk about Paris.”
“Uh-huh.” Tall, Dark and Handsome crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his heels. He gave me a hard stare. “And who might that producer be?”
I puffed my chest out defiantly. “Alec Davies.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shook his head at me. “Wow.”
“What?”
The head kept shaking. “I knew tabloid reporters weren’t the most truthful people on the planet, but you’re kinda pathological aren’t you, Allie?”
My turn to cross my arm over my chest. “I don’t know what you mean.” I paused. “And how do you know my name, anyway?”
That grin flirting with the corners of his mouth took hold in earnest as he answered. “I make it a point to remember the names of all the tabloid reporters who slander me.”
Oh, no.
I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach. “So…that would make you…”
“Alec Davies.” He stuck a hand out toward me. “Nice to meet you.” Then he gave me a wink.
If the ground could open up and swallow me whole, now would be a very nice time for it to do so.
“Uh, hi.” I limply shook his hand.
“Of course, I’m also known now as the ‘shadowy figure’ seen outside Barker’s place,” he said.
“I take it you read my article.”
“Every last slanderous word. You here to interrogate your ‘number-one suspect?’” he asked, quoting me again.
“I prefer the term ‘interview.’”
He grinned widely again. I couldn’t help but notice what a nice smile it was. His teeth were white and straight, dimples dotting both cheeks. It was a lot friendlier than I’d expect from someone using the word “slander”.
“I’m not sure I want to be interviewed by you,” he finally answered. “You don’t exactly play fair.”
“Are you saying you weren’t outside Barker’s the night he died?” I asked.
“I’m saying you didn’t give me a chance to respond before printing your fairly unflattering article.”
He had a point.
“Well,” I countered, “here’s your chance. Respond away.”
“Touché.” He grinned again, and I hoped he’d take the dare. “Okay, fine. Let’s step inside, shall we?” he said, gesturing to the production office.
He didn’t give me a chance to agree, instead pushing through the door and holding it open behind him for me. I followed, stepping into the small, three-room bungalow. A reception desk took up most of the first room, doors to both the left and right of the desk leading to the private offices. A guy in a plaid sweater vest and Ed Hardy sneakers sat in reception, talking into a headset. He did a little wave to Alec without missing beat in his conversation. Alec waved back then led the way through the door on our right.
This room was bigger, housing a large, modern chrome and wood desk in the center. A leather sofa sat against one wall, the opposite wall filled with built-in bookcases lined with DVDs. Several posters in sleek, black frames served as decoration, featuring TV shows I assumed Alec had worked on. A Lady Justice poster hung right above his desk, a girl in a lace teddy winking at me as she held the scales of justice in one hand.
“Have a seat,” Alec offered, gesturing to the sofa as he took a place in the black, leather chair behind the desk.
I did, perching on the edge, knees together, legs on a diagonal to keep from flashing him a Sharon Stone in my miniskirt.
“So, shoot. Interview away,” he said, leaning back in his chair, looking way too comfortable to be a killer.
I pulled a pad of paper and a pink gel pen with little hearts on it from my bag.
He raised an eyebrow at my choice of stationary, but said nothing.
“Someone was seen outside Barker’s house at the time of his death,” I said, pen hovering. “Wearing your ballcap.”
“What cap would that be?”
“Black, red snake on the brim. From the Lady Justice set,” I said, gesturing to the poster behind him.
“Ah. That cap.”
“You admit you own one?”
He nodded. “At the risk of incriminating myself, yes.”
“So, it was you?”
He paused. Then slowly countered with, “It was me who was at his house in a ballcap? Or me who killed him?”
“The former,” I clarified.
“Yes.”
“And the latter?”
“No.”
Which, I noted, is exactly what he would say if he had killed Barker. “So what were you doing skulking around then?”
Those dimples made an appearance again. “I wasn’t ‘skulking,’” he said. “I was leaving. Through the front door. Down the front walk. Like a very non-suspicious person might.”
“Leaving from?” I pressed.
“Barker and I were working late. We ordered Chinese in, had a couple beers, finalized a script, then I left.”
Which was consistent with the ME report that Mu Shu Pork and Heinekin were among Barker’s stomach contents. Though he’d ingested deadly levels of prescription drugs as well.
“And before you ask,” Alec said, “no, I did not poison his beer stein. Now, that would be a very Agatha Christie twist, right?” He winked again.
Hollywood Confessions Page 4
