Lowel had a pretty sweet gig going with Stayin’ Alive. If they brought someone new on the show, there went not only his per episode millions, but also his foreign commercials. Was he really willing to go out to pasture so docilely?
“Witnesses say they heard you threatening Barker,” Gary repeated.
Lowel sighed again. “I said a lot of things to Chester I wish I could take back now.”
“You told him to watch his back. And then he got stabbed. In the back,” Gary pointed out.
Lowel shook his head. “Like I said, unfortunate coincidence.”
“Can anyone vouch for where you were when Lowel was stabbed?”
“Well… I…don’t know.”
“So you have no alibi?” Gary pressed.
“What? No! No, I don’t know. I mean, yes, I have an alibi.”
“I thought no one could vouch for you?”
Lowel narrowed his eyes at Gary. I could see his sheep’s clothing slipping a little. Then again, I was beginning to suspect Gary could’ve driven Mother Teresa to kill.
“Look, I did not harm Chester,” Lowel said. “He was friend. We had a business disagreement, but I was sure my lawyers would think of something to keep my contract valid.”
“And did they?” I asked. “Did it get resolved before Barker was killed?”
Lowel paused. Then shook his head. “No.” His eyes took on a sad look, casting downward. Though whether his unhappiness was over his friend’s death or the fact that he hadn’t gotten his contract renewed, I’d be hard pressed to say.
“The night that Barker was killed, where were you?” I asked.
Only this time, the sadness had taken the fight out of him. “At home.”
“Alone?”
He let out a short laugh. “My dear, in case you haven’t noticed, I am never alone. I had security on site with me, who I’m sure can vouch for my movements.”
I narrowed my eyes. Considering their livelihood depended on Lowel not being in jail, I wasn’t sure how reliable an alibi they really were. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Simonson,” I said, rising.
He nodded, though he didn’t get up to show us to the door. Instead, he grabbed a raspberry pastry, shoving it in to his mouth.
“So, do we believe him?” Gary asked once we were back in the assaulting sunshine.
I pulled a pair of sunglasses from my bag and put them on as we walked back to the car. “Hard to say. Confessing he was about to be fired because he’s an old fart seemed pretty honest.”
“Then again, maybe he’s being honest about that to throw us off the fact that he really did kill Barker.”
I nodded. “It’s possible.”
“And don’t forget, he didn’t give us an alibi for the time of the stabbing.”
“Yeah, speaking of which,” I said to him as we got back in the car. “Real suave interviewing technique back there.”
“What? How do you conduct an interrogation?”
“Interview. And I find that if I start an interview calling someone out as a murderer, they’re not real cooperative afterward.”
Gary shrugged. “I prefer the element of surprise.”
“Clearly.”
“So, now what, boss?” he asked as we pulled back onto the PCH heading south.
Luckily I was saved answering by the sound of my cell trilling from my purse. I fished it out, popping my hands-free earbud in before answering. “Hello?”
“Allie? Hi, it’s Alec Davies.”
I have no idea why, but at the sound of his voice I felt a flush hit my cheeks that was warm enough to really make me wish my air conditioner worked. “Hi, Alec. How are you?”
“Great. Listen, I got hold of that footage you were looking for of Don and Deb.”
“You rock.”
I heard him chuckle in response.
“Where can I pick it up?” I asked.
“Well, actually, I was thinking I could deliver it in person to you. Say, tonight over dinner?”
I paused. Dinner? As in, a date?
“Oh. Uh, um, sure. Yeah, I guess.”
“That is, if you’re interested. I mean, tabloid reporters do eat, right?”
“Yes. I mean, yeah, I’d love to.”
“Are you blushing?” Gary asked beside me.
I elbowed him in the temple again.
“Ow! Quit it!”
“What was that?” Alec asked.
“Nothing. Annoying bug. Anyway, yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”
“Great. How do you feel about Italian? There’s a new place on Melrose I’ve been wanting to try? Mangia?”
I nodded. “Yep. Italian is good.”
“Great. I’ll text you the address, and we can meet there. Say, eight?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
“Looking forward to it,” he said then hung up.
“Who was that?” Gary pressed.
I cleared my throat. “A suspect.”
“Dude, you have a crush on a suspect?”
“I do not have a crush!”
“You’re blushing and grinning like you’re thinking about getting laid.”
“I am not!” I yelled, feeling myself blush even harder. “Look we’re just meeting for dinner tonight so he can give me some alibi footage.”
“Dinner,” Gary repeated. “As in a date.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s a date.”
I opened my mouth to ask him how he’d like to be fired twice in one day, but I didn’t get the chance. Instead, something hit us from behind, launching the car forward and jolting us both roughly against our seats belts.
“What the…?” I looked in the rearview mirror. Behind us was a big, black Escalade, the windows tinted so that I could just barely make out the form of a driver behind the wheel—though whether he was black white, male or female, I had no idea.
All I could tell you was that he was speeding up. Gunning right for the tail end of my Bug again.
Chapter Nine
I felt whiplash jolt through my body as the Escalade rammed my back bumper again. Both Gary and I surged forward, Gary popping up in his seat like a jack-in-the-box.
“Sonofabitch!” he yelled. “What’s that guy doing?”
I didn’t answer. I thought it was pretty clear what he was doing. He was trying to run us off the road.
I looked in the mirror again as he backed off, putting a few feet of distance between us. Then a second later, he surged forward, his grill bearing down on us.
Gary gripped the side of the door, his knuckles going white as he braced for impact. I did the same, holding the steering wheel in a death grip, sincerely hoping my airbags weren’t as worn out as my AC. I quickly swerved to the right as he approached, causing his hit to glance off the right side of my bumper. The car swerved, skidding right. I tugged at the wheel, pulling to the left, just narrowly avoiding the bushes at the side of the road.
The Escalade hung back again, still following us.
“Do something!” Gary yelled.
“And what exactly should I do?” I yelled back. We were on the PCH between Latiago Canyon and Pepperdine U. There were precious few places where we could turn off. To the right sat the Pacific Ocean, to the left the sheer face of a cliff. The guy in Escalade had us cornered. And by the way he was biding his time, I had a feeling he knew it.
“Go faster!” Gary yelled.
For lack of a better idea, I did. I shoved my foot down on the gas, watching the gauge on my dash climb to 70 miles per hour, then 85. Once it hit 90 the car started shaking.
And the Escalade was still hot on our tail. Moving closer, coming in for the kill.
I watched him approach, one eye on the curve in the road ahead of me and the other on his headlights, growing closer and closer in the rearview. If he rammed us here, we were likely to go flying into the ocean. Unfortunately, I had a bad feeling that was exactly his plan.
“Holy shit, we’re going into the ocean,” Gary screamed
beside me.
“Not if I can help it,” I mumbled under my breath.
I watched the Escalade approach, heard the sound of his motor revving, the big black monster barely breaking a sweat to catch up to my little Bug as she gave all she had. I waited until the Escalade’s bumper was inches from mine and gripped the wheel with both hands. I held my breath. Then I swerved left as hard as I could, slamming on the brakes.
The Bug spun sharply into the lane of oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding a Beemer as it zipped past us. The sound of his horn mingled with the screech of my tires. Smoke rose from the asphalt around us. Gary whipped right, his head slamming against the side of the car with a loud thud. I struggled to maintain control of the car, winding up facing completely the opposite direction as the Escalade sped past us, going too fast to stop. Through the mirrors I saw it disappear out of sight around the curve.
Then I didn’t waste any time, stomping down on the gas pedal as hard as I could, tires spinning again. We raced back toward Malibu. Frankly, I didn’t care where we were going, so long as it was away from that SUV.
Gary and I sat in adrenaline-fueled silence, our heavy breath the only sound filling the car. My hands gripped the wheel so tightly I feared it might take the Jaws of Life to pry them free.
It wasn’t until we reached the next exit and I pulled off, tucking the Bug in the parking lot behind a roadside gas station, that either of us dared to breathe again.
“Holy hell, I think that guy was trying to kill us!” Gary said, his hand to his forehead where a large, red goose egg was forming.
“You okay?” I asked, my hands still glued to the wheel.
Gary nodded. “Kinda. Man, what an asshole!”
My thoughts exactly.
“Wow, you really must have pissed someone off,” Gary said.
I spun on him. “Me? What makes you think he wasn’t after you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Uh, duh! ‘Cause we’re in a lime-green chick car.”
He had a point.
I leaned back in my seat, slowly prying one finger at a time from my steering wheel, flexing the tension out of them.
It was a pretty uncomfortable feeling, knowing someone out there wanted you dead. Or at least maimed. To be honest, I wasn’t used to having any real enemies. I mean, it’s not like our paper exposed political crimes or hardened criminals. My last assignment was Pippi Mississippi’s hair color, for crying out loud. Occasionally a drunken celebrity would take a swipe at our cameras, but actual planned attempts on our lives were not everyday occurrences.
Which meant it had to have been someone connected with the Barker story. Someone who didn’t like where my line of questioning was going. Which was both exciting (I must be on the right track, right?) and disconcerting (because I was still too far down that track to see the killer’s identity at the end).
Had Lowel sent one of his bodyguards after us? Had Don or Deb gotten wind of my visit and hired a goon to run me down? For that matter, had one of them been in the car? It didn’t take any special skills to ram someone from behind.
“I don’t suppose you got a look at their license plate number?” I asked Gary.
He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Seriously? I’m lucky I didn’t shit my pants.”
Ditto.
I pulled open the car door and stepped outside, stretching the rest of the adrenaline out of my limbs as I walked around back and surveyed the damage to my car. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my back bumper. It was dented in about fifteen different places and hanging askew, as if it might lose its precarious hold any second.
“Poor Daisy,” I sighed.
“Who’s Daisy?” Gary asked, coming out of the car to stand next to me.
“My car.”
Gary blinked. Then shook his head. “You are so girly.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m a girl. I’m supposed to be girly. So I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
He shrugged. “Your prerogative.”
I ignored him, instead topping poor Daisy’s tank off with gas. I went into station and bought a bag of Lays and a Diet Coke. I used the restroom. Checked the air in my tires. Generally wasted time being a big fat chicken about getting back on the road again.
“I’m bored,” Gary whined, leaning against the hood of my car, sucking on an Astro Pop. “And my head hurts. Can we go home now?”
I looked down at my watch. 1 o’clock. In an hour Don would be finishing up his radio interview at KNLA. If I was going to head him off, I had to get on the road.
I took a deep breath, telling my inner coward that Mr. Escalade was long gone by now. “Yeah. Fine. Let’s go.”
We hopped back into my Bug and headed back up the PCH. At a slow crawl. Watching the rearview for any sign of menacing death vehicles. We both let out dual sighs of relief once we merged off onto the 2, back into smog-protected civilization.
I dropped Gary off at my place and watched as a set of steps popped out from the bottom of his truck, allowing him to climb into the Compensationmobile. I waited until he’d pulled away from the curb and turned the corner before popping back into Daisy and gunning it toward the freeway.
The KNLA studios were located north of L.A. proper, in Studio City. Just this side of the hills, Studio City was your first stop on your way into The Valley, a still-chic buffer between the exclusive Hollywood Hills and the bowels of North Hollywood. I took the 134 west until it merged into the 101 then hopped off at Laurel Canyon, heading south until I hit Ventura.
I pulled into a wooden complex with a subdued sign on the front, hidden behind a pair of mature palms. Unlike TV or film, radio was pretty much at the bottom of the entertainment food chain in Hollywood, which meant nary a security guard was present in the parking lot. Just the way I liked it. I parked in a slot near the back and set up camp to wait for Don.
I flipped on the radio, tuning in to KNLA. Immediately the interior of the car filled with the deep baritone voice of Bryan Crestor, KNLA’s top DJ.
“Once again we’re talking with Don Davenport, of Don & Deb’s Diva Dozen. Don, thanks for being with us today.”
“My pleasure, Bryan,” Don’s voice answered back. It wasn’t quite as deep as the DJ’s, and more nasally.
“So, we were talking about the difficulty of a man attending tiny tot pageants. How has this affected your life?”
I closed my eyes, listening to the DJ ask banal questions and Don answer with just as banal answers, while I mentally calculated a much more interesting set of questions myself. I knew the radio show was on a five-minute delay, so as soon as I heard the DJ say, “Well, we’re almost out of time, but we’ll take one more caller,” I snapped to attention, scanning the front of the building for Don to emerge.
Two minutes later, he did.
Don was average height, growing a little stocky, as people with kids tended to do when existing on a steady diet of Happy Meals and mac-n-cheese. But he was fighting the suburban dad look with all he was worth by wearing an Ed Hardy shirt in a tiger design. In pink. Studded with sequins. He’d paired it with artfully acid-worn blue jeans, sneakers and a porkpie hat. He wore a book bag slung over one shoulder, making him look like an over-the-hill college student.
I bolted from the car, catching up to Don as he fumbled with a key fob at the door of a shiny, new Lexus.
“Don Davenport?” I asked, bearing down on him.
He looked up and tentatively answered, “Yes?”
“Allie Quick,” I said, shoving a hand at him. “L.A. Informer.”
He narrowed his eyes, glared at my proffered hand then took a step back. “Nuh uh. No way. I saw that article you printed about me this morning.”
“I take it you weren’t a fan?”
“Are you kidding?” he sputtered. “You basically accused me of sleeping with my kid’s nanny!”
“Well, technically, I just inferred it might be possible. I’m pretty sure I never accused. Legal wouldn’t have let tha
t run.”
His eyes narrowed again. “Technical or not, she was in tears this morning. What if the kids read that?”
While I could understand his irritation, I highly doubted his kids had a subscription to the Informer. “Would you like to comment on the article?” I asked. “I’d be happy to print your response.”
Don shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No. Comment.”
I sighed. I hated it when they did this. “Look, Don. I’m going to print something about you today, whether you like it or not.” He opened his mouth to speak, but this time I ran right over him. “And we both know you’ve been in every tabloid in town, that the ‘no comment’ thing is bullshit, and that you’re dying to comment and have your picture in our paper again, because if you’re not in the tabloids no one remembers your name, and that’s not the way to high ratings, is it?”
His eyes narrowed so far I wasn’t sure he could still see out of those suckers.
“Now,” I continued, “you can either answer my insinuations, or I can print up a whole new slew of them. I’m very creative.”
He took another step backward. “Like what?”
“Like you stole that outfit from your daughters’ closet.”
He immediately looked down at his outfit. “This is a two-hundred-dollar T-shirt.”
“Which makes it that much more of a tragedy.”
He bit his lip, clearly not sure what to do with this situation.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to print that. I’m not a bad person. I just want an interview, okay?”
Don looked down at his shirt again. Then back up at me. “Fine. You win. But make it quick, I’ve got a thing with my manager to get to.”
I gave myself a mental high-five. “Let’s start with your affair. My story about it being with Nanny McGregor—was I close to the mark?” I asked.
“No!” He shook his head, a frown brewing between his eyebrows. “Absolutely not. God, she’s my kids’ nanny for crying out loud.”
“Yeah, and guys never sleep with their kids’ nannies. Unheard of.”
But he ignored my sarcasm, instead still shaking his porkpie back and forth. “Look, if you knew our nanny at all, you’d know how ridiculous that is. She’s totally focused on the kids. Jesus, sometimes I think she’s a better parent than I am.”
Hollywood Confessions Page 10
