As soon as I hit the offices, I proofed the copy for typos then sent it through the Informer’s system to Felix’s desk. I glanced down at my watch. 3:49. Was I good or what?
My copy turned in, I focused on hunting down the footage that could possibly condemn or exonerate Mom of Barker’s death. I started by calling my very small network of informants to see if anyone could get me raw footage from the night Barker had been killed. Unfortunately the footage had yet to air, and was, from all I could gather, locked up tight at Sunset Studios, in a holding pattern now that Barker was gone and the future of the show uncertain. I talked to one grip, who knew an extra dating the third camera guy on Don & Deb’s Diva Dozen, who informed me he thought he could get me a copy if I was willing to pay. Ten thousand bucks. Let’s face it, my contacts sucked. And even I wasn’t brave enough to spend that much of Felix’s money.
Which left me with just one more alternative.
I picked up the phone and punched in the main number to Real Life Productions. A young guy with a distinctly San Franciscan accent answered, “RLP, how may I help you?”
“Uh, hi. Can I please speak with Alec Davies?”
“And who may I ask is calling?’
“Allie Quick.”
“And this is regarding?”
I bit my lip. “Paris Hilton.”
There was a pause on the other end, then a, “Please hold.”
I waited a moment, listening to a musak rendition of “Love in an Elevator” before a familiar voice came on the line. “Paris, huh?”
I could hear the grin behind his words and pictured those dimples to go along with. It was a nice image. Nice enough that I felt myself blush a little, glad he couldn’t see me. “I thought you’d enjoy that.”
“So, Miss Quick, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
I pictured him leaning back in his chair, his voice casual, his feet up on his ridiculously expensive desk.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a teeny tiny favor.”
“A teeny tiny one, huh?”
“Miniscule.”
“I tell you what—you can ask. I can’t promise to deliver.”
“Fair enough. Don & Deb’s Diva Dozen. I was wondering if I could have a little peek at the footage from the day Barker died?”
There was a pause. Then, “Why?”
Great question. But I figured I had nothing to lose by being honest this time. “I want to see if the cameras caught Deb’s alibi for the night Barker died.”
I heard leather on leather squeak as Alec shifted in his chair. “Again, I have to ask, why? Do you have some evidence that points to her in his death?”
“Evidence? No.”
“A hunch?”
“You could call it that.” I paused, unsure how much Alec knew about Don’s affairs. “I couldn’t help but notice life has become a lot less public for the family since Barker died.”
“That’s true,” Alec hedged.
“Which could be a godsend when you’re the butt of two out of three late-night monologue jokes.”
“Good point.” I could hear the smile in Alec’s voice.
“Their new contract,” I asked Alec, “what happens now that Barker is dead?”
“Their contract is with RLP, so technically it would still stand.”
“Technically.”
“Right.”
“But in actuality?”
He sighed. “In actuality, the future off all our shows is up in the air. Look, I’m the first to admit, I’m a details guy. I can run a show like clockwork. But Barker was the creative force behind them all. Without him, I’m not sure we want to continue all the shows, let alone can continue.”
“Which might leave those wanting out of their contracts, or out of the spotlight, a nice motive.”
Alec paused. Then, “I’ll see if I can dig up the footage. No promises, but I’ll see what I can find.”
“Perfect!”
“Always glad to help my friendly neighborhood tabloid reporter,” he said. Then hung up.
I was still celebrating my mini-victory when I heard Felix’s voice bellow from across the room.
“Quick!”
I jumped in my seat, spinning around to find him framed in his office doorway, staring at me, eyebrows drawn.
“My office. Now!” he said. Then ducked his head back in the door.
Uh-oh. Not good.
I took a two count to pull myself together (tugged my hemline down, fluffed my hair up) and pushed through the glass doors to find Felix at his desk, eyes intent on his computer screen.
“You got my copy?” I asked.
“Reading it now.”
“Is there a problem?”
His gazed popped up. And immediately I knew there was. His eyes were an angry dark blue, his lips drawn tight, his forehead creased. “With the copy? No. With my credit card? Yes.”
I cleared my throat. “Your credit card?”
“What the hell is a charge for a limo service doing on my account?”
“You got the bill already, huh?”
“Yes, I got the bill already! Tell me what the hell one of my reporters is doing gallivanting around town in a limousine?”
“I was hardly gallivanting,” I protested.
“Allie…” he growled.
“I was investigating. I needed the limo to get into the studios to interview Alec Davies.”
The vein subsided slightly. “What do you mean, you needed it to get in?”
“They weren’t going to let me in, so I pretended to be Paris Hilton. And she wouldn’t very well drive a Bug with broken air conditioning, would she?”
Felix opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it then closed it with a click. “Very clever.”
I did a mental sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“But very expensive.”
“Which is why I used your card.”
And just like that, the storm in his eyes was back. “Yes, I noticed that. Exactly what are you doing with my credit card?”
“I memorized the number. For emergencies,” I confessed. “Which, clearly this was.”
He opened his mouth to speak, paused, shook his head and settled for running a hand through his hair, making it stand up in little tufts. “Just tell me you got it.”
“Got what?”
“The interview with Alec Davies? ‘Paris’ was allowed entry to the studios, I presume?” he asked.
“Yes, she was. And, yes, I did.”
“And?”
“And Davies is not our killer.”
“So he wasn’t outside Barker’s then?”
“Well, yes, he was actually.”
Felix paused. “But he has an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“Um, well, no, not exactly. But he was gone by then.”
“Gone?”
“He had dinner with Barker, went over some scripts then left. While Barker was still alive,” I added.
“And we’re certain he didn’t sneak back in and off the fellow?”
I paused. “Define ‘certain?’”
Felix closed his eyes and rubbed his temple as if a headache was brewing there. “Okay. So, tell me—upon what are we basing his innocence?”
I bit my lip. I was pretty sure the answer he was looking for wasn’t a charming smile and a killer pair of dimples. “It’s just a feeling,” I finally settled on.
“Are you blushing?”
“What?” I ducked my head. “No.”
“Huh.”
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I think Deb has a much more viable motive to want Barker dead.”
Felix glanced at my copy on his computer screen. “Especially if her husband was, in fact, sleeping with the nanny, as you’ve so cleverly insinuated.”
I couldn’t help feeling just a little pride at the word ‘cleverly’.
“Any idea if she has an alibi?” Felix asked.
“I’m working on it.”
“What about Don?” Felix ask
ed. “Any idea how he felt about Barker possibly taking the name of his affair public?”
I shrugged. “I’m guessing not so hot?”
“Don’t guess. Find out,” Felix ordered.
“On it,” I said, making a mental note to track down American’s favorite philanderer tomorrow.
“Good. Someone like you should be able to get him to open up easily enough.
I paused. “Like me?”
He nodded. Then looked at my boobs.
“You mean, a stacked blond?” I clarified, jutting one hip, planting both hands on it.
He sighed. “Look, you know as well as anyone that you’ve got to use what you have to get the story you need.” He glanced down again. “And Don clearly has a thing for what you have.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus, Tina was right. You really do think my asset to this paper ends in a cup size, don’t you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s exactly what you meant. Tina uses her contacts, Cam uses her camera and I use my body. Gee, good thing I went to college.”
“Hey, you’re the one who just impersonated Paris to get into Sunset Studios,” he pointed out. “What do you call that?”
I shook my head. “That’s totally different.”
“How, may I ask?”
“It…it just is!”
“Grand argument.”
I clenched my teeth together. “L.A. Times reporters do not use their boobs to get a story.”
“We are hardly the L.A. Times.”
“Don’t I know it!”
“Wait, are you dissing our paper?”
“Did you just use the word ‘dissing?’”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Trust me, I’m not. I’m totally on the subject of how I’m only a pair of measurements to you.”
“On second thought, a change of subject isn’t altogether uncalled for.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “You know what? Forget it. I will get that interview with Don. I will get him to spill everything. And you know why?”
He bit his lip. “I’m not sure I want to at this point.”
“Because I always get my story. Because I’m a damned good reporter. Too good for this place.”
Felix opened his mouth to shoot back an answer, but I didn’t wait around to hear it, having been insulted enough for one day. Instead, I stormed to my desk. Only that was right outside Felix’s office, and I didn’t quite feel like I’d stormed enough. So I stormed all the way through the newsroom to the stairs, slamming the stairwell door good and loud on my way out. I marched down the entire flight, shoving out into the assaulting sunshine. I got all the way to my car before I realized I’d left my purse in my cube.
Sonofa—
I closed my eyes, leaned against the hood of my car and thought about a million dirty words, most directed at men in general and a few choice ones directed Felix specifically.
I waited until I ran out of creative slams then slunk back up the stairs, mustering up as much dignity as I could, walking back through the newsroom and grabbing my purse from my cube.
I could feel Felix watching me from his office but didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. Instead, I put blinders on as I marched back down the stairs again and out to my car, this time peeling out of the lot with an audible screech for his benefit.
* * *
I drove to the nearest Starbucks and ordered myself a venti Frappuccino with an extra vanilla pump, whipped cream and chocolate shavings. By the time I’d finished I had a hell of a sugar rush, but my anger had almost cooled down.
Almost.
I grabbed my gym bag from my car, slipped into a pair of pink yoga pants, a matching pink tank and running shoes then headed straight for the gym, grabbing the only available Stairmaster. As always, as soon as my body got into the steady rhythm of planting one foot after the other, the tension slowly drained from my limbs.
I loved the gym. I know a lot of women say they love going to the gym, but what they actually mean is that they love being skinny, even if it means they have to endure the torture of being at the gym three times a week. But I actually loved the gym. Being here was my form of meditation. When I was sweating on a Stairmaster, all I had to think about was putting one foot after the other. It was all physical, and my mental hamster could just sit down and snooze for awhile, zone out and let calm settle over my thoughts.
I did forty minutes on the Stairmaster then switched to weights, grabbing a fairly light set before settling myself on a giant exercise ball in front of the mirror. I lifted the weights above my head, working my shoulders, back and eventually abs.
By the time I was done my muscles were loose and warm and my mind a blissful blank.
I took a quick shower, towel-dried my hair and reapplied my makeup in the locker room mirrors. I hit the juice bar next door, ordering a salad and a smoothie, then grabbed a table near the back and pulled out my cell.
Despite my fight with Felix, I knew he was right about one thing—I needed to talk to Don. While poisoning was traditionally more of a woman’s weapon, Don did have a pretty good motive to want Barker gone too. Especially if he really was sleeping with the nanny and planned to keep it quiet.
I pulled up my address book and dialed the number of Don’s publicist. Official channels would be, as I knew, futile. I could beg the woman for an interview, but no publicist worth her salt would ever agree to one with a tabloid. Instead, my best bet was to find out where he’d be tomorrow and ambush him. So, when a receptionist came on the line saying, “Pfiffer media, how may I help you?” instead of Allie Quick, I put on my best Nanny McGregor voice, hoping my hours of listening to Felix’s accent would finally work to my benefit.
“Cherrio, this is Nellie McGregor,” I said.
“Yes, Miss McGregor, how can I help you?”
“I’m quite sorry to bother you, but I seem to have misplaced Don’s shed-duel for tomorrow,” I said, drawing out the word the way I’d heard her do that afternoon.
“No problem,” the receptionist told me. “I can email you a copy.”
“Uh…I’m not at home this moment. Would you mind sending to my cell?”
“No problem, happy to.”
I quickly gave her my number then hung up and watched my screen. Two minutes later the text came in, outlining every place I could expect Don to appear tomorrow.
Unfortunately his day was packed tighter than Lindsay Lohan’s court schedule. He had a meeting in the morning with some studio executives, a lunch date with his agent, a dinner date with his manager and an afternoon radio interview sandwiched between.
Considering the meetings were behind Sunset Studio’s walls (and my Paris gig was getting a little old), I figured the best place to ambush him was at the radio show. I wrote the time and station down.
Pretty pleased with my day’s work, I downed the rest of my smoothie and pointed my Bug toward home, glad to put this day to rest.
* * *
I awoke to the sound of pounding on my front door. Loud, insistent pounding. I rolled over and looked at my clock. Seven-fifteen. Ugh.
I dragged myself out of bed as the pounding continued.
“I’m coming!” I yelled, shuffling to the offending object and undoing the locks one by one. I pulled it open.
And looked down.
“About fucking time!” Gary Ellstrum stood on my doorstep, hands on hips, glaring at me. “Jesus, how long does it take a person to answer the door?”
“It’s seven in the morning. What are you doing here?” I asked, ignoring his cheery mood.
“I’ll tell you what I’m not doing today,” he said, pushing past me into my living room.
“Please, come in. Make yourself at home,” I mumbled.
“What I’m not doing,” he continued, “is going to work. Wanna know why?”
“Not particularly.”
“I got fired!”
“That’s a shame.”
“Guess why I was fired?”
“Do I have to?”
“Because of you! My manager heard me swearing at you and said I needed to get a handle on my explosive temperament. Can you fucking believe that?”
“Shocking.” I yawned, muting the TV.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
I looked at Gary, now pacing, his face red, veins bulging. He looked like a shrunken, pink Incredible Hulk.
“Sorry?” I countered. And I was. Very sorry that he was pacing my living room at seven in the morning.
“Sorry don’t pay my bills, blondie. I gotta eat. I have a very high metabolism. You know how much food for a guy with a high metabolism costs?”
I yawned again. “Look, I’m sorry you lost your job, but I’m not really sure what you want me to do about it now.”
“I want you to hire me.”
“Excuse me?”
“As your assistant. I looked you up. You do all kinds of investigating for that tabloid.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m not in the market for an assistant.”
“You need my help.”
“What I need is sleep.”
“I know stuff. Stuff that could be helpful to you.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What kind of stuff?”
He shrugged. “Stuff. I’m very worldly.”
I’ll bet. “Look, in case the size of my apartment hasn’t clued you in, I can’t really afford an assistant.”
He waved me off. “So, convince your boss. Pay me off as an informant. I know that paper of yours has money.”
I bit my lip. It did. It also had a tight-fisted Brit at the helm who cringed when I expensed a three-fifty latte. I was pretty sure that after the limo charges yesterday, he wasn’t going to see an assistant with anger issues as a necessary expense. “I’m not sure my editor will go for that.”
“He will when I tell you who killed Barker.”
I raised an eyebrow his way. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who killed him?”
“Well, did you know that Barker was stabbed last week?”
Hollywood Confessions Page 8
