Purview of Flashbulbs (Alexis Parker Book 15)

by G. K. Parks

  I took a seat, resisting the urge to flop onto my back and close my eyes. Instead, I watched her pull two bottles of water from the fridge. She put one on the table next to me and took a seat.

  “I don’t enjoy being the center of attention. I like to blend into the background,” I said.

  She laughed. “We must be polar opposites.”

  A thought crossed my mind, and I wondered how impolite it would be to ask. But given the questions she’d been asking me, it seemed fair. “Did you become an actress because you aged out of the modeling biz?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve practically aged out of the film industry too. This script was one of the only exceptions I’ve seen to the norm.” I raised an eyebrow, silently asking what that was. “You know, playing the mom.” She exaggerated the word. “We live in one incredibly sexist society.” Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t law enforcement a boys’ club?”

  “It can be. Things are changing, but change can be slow. It’s funny. Mr. Cross actually suggested the reason I work as hard as I do and strive to be the best I can is because I have the need to prove myself due to my gender. To be perfectly honest, I never really thought about it. I don’t think that’s been a factor, at least not a conscious one. The insane drive to find answers is just me, probably a side effect from the way I was raised.”

  “Are your parents proud?”

  I scoffed at the notion. “Next question.”

  “Dammit, you really won’t give me anything to work with. Why did you even join the FBI?”

  “When everything goes to hell, someone needs to do something to fix it.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she pulled the damn notepad out of her pocket again. “Something happened to you, didn’t it?”

  “No.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you.”

  She wanted some dramatic answer to incorporate into her character’s backstory, so I decided I could perform a little acting of my own and came up with a reasonable lie. “If you must know, when I was a freshman in college, my dormmate and several of her friends were killed while on spring break. I could have been with them, but I had a paper due the next week. After that happened, several police officers and federal agents questioned me and a number of other people on campus. That’s when I knew what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “You must have been close.”

  I let out a slight chuckle. “Strangely enough, no. She liked to party, and I was determined to keep my head above water. She only asked me to go with them out of pity.” At least my characterization was the truth.

  “But you felt guilty afterward?”

  “Are you my shrink?” I gave her a look.

  She tilted her head to the side. “In case you’re wondering, I’m very curious as to a person’s motivation for choosing your former profession. The incident with your roommate makes sense. Is it like that for everyone?”

  “It depends on the person. A lot of field agents come from military or law enforcement backgrounds, so the jump to the FBI makes sense. Some are recruited because they excel in a specific field. Others just want job security and good benefits. Honestly, it’s like any other job. Why does anyone work anywhere? Some have a passion for it. Others just like to be able to put food on the table.”

  “My professions have been a bit different.”

  “That’s because you’re an artist.”

  She smiled at the compliment and glanced down at her notepad. “So that was it? You finished your education, applied, and was accepted?” I nodded. “Then what happened? What was training like?”

  “Honestly, I loved it. After spending three years with asshole law professors and the Socratic method, I was overjoyed to be handed information. There were a lot of seminars, weapons training, self-defense tactics, investigative procedures, but it only really just brushed the surface. After Quantico, I was placed with another agent and spent two years learning from him.” My mind went to Mark Jablonsky, and I smiled. I owed him a phone call and a dinner. “My mentor was great. Is great. But he’s one stubborn pain in the ass. He hates that I went private sector.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “Nope. You’ve asked that before. Do I need to remind you of the terms of this arrangement?”

  She looked mortified. “Sorry.”

  “So that’s me in a nutshell,” I volunteered, getting us back on track. “Like I said, choosing me as your model for a film is a bad idea. I’m boring as hell.”

  “What about actual investigations? Tell me about a case. Something exciting. The morning I interviewed you, you mentioned you went up against terrorists and serial killers. Tell me about one of them. Isn’t it scary?”

  “Yep.”

  She rolled her eyes and let out an unhappy harrumph. “Alex, come on. I need something I can work with.”

  “Look, when the danger is real, it is scary, but you learn not to think about it. You’ve been trained. Your body functions on autopilot. Someone shoots at you, you shoot back. You radio for back-up. You give chase. You do whatever you have to. In those moments, there’s nothing but the immediate consequences. Maybe you have to save a life or save your own. So you do. Or you at least try. Everything happens in the blink of an eye, but it seems much slower. Decisions have to be made, and you do it in a split second.”

  “What happens after?”

  “You fill out paperwork.”

  “No. Not procedure. Not protocol. What happens when you go home at night?”

  “Some people drink. A few probably use recreationally, which is a very bad idea in general but it’s even worse if you’re in law enforcement. Personally, I run or hit the heavy bag. Maybe both.”

  “And you don’t think about it again?”

  I wondered if she could possibly be that naïve or stupid. “When something happens in your life, do you just put it behind you and never think about it again?”

  “No, I think about it a lot,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, so do I.”

  “How do you cope with killing someone?”

  My eye twitched. “You just eventually move on.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  I climbed off the couch, feeling antsy and trapped. “It’s the only one I have.”

  “What about the people you lost? You said–”

  “I know what I said,” I snapped. I waited a beat, my heart racing, probably from the espresso. “You spend every waking moment wishing it had been you instead.”

  She fell silent and tucked her pen inside her notepad. I opened the bottle and took a sip. Then I excused myself, went into her bathroom, and threw up. Too much coffee on an empty stomach is never a good idea.

  When I came out, she was flipping through a memoir written by a retired FBI agent. Since she had the book, I didn’t see what she needed me for, but before I could voice my opinion, someone knocked on the door. She put her book down and went to answer it.

  “Di,” Lance’s voice boomed in the enclosed space, “you left your water bottle on set.” He handed it to her. “You’re always forgetting things.”

  “You didn’t have to return it. Elodie would have picked it up.”

  “Well, I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget we were going to talk. Can we do that now? You’ve got me in this weird headspace, and I have to get over to makeup soon so I can start shooting the prison scene. I need to be in character and not thinking about us.”

  “Then stop thinking about us. There is no us.”

  “Don’t say that.” He pushed into the trailer, taken aback when he found out they weren’t alone. “We need some privacy,” he said to me.

  A million thoughts entered my mind, but I held my tongue. Instead, my gaze shifted to Dinah who looked desperate to keep me there. “We’re waiting for a few more members of the security team to meet with us. That really is time-sensitive, but I guess we can reschedule. What do you want me to tell them, Dinah?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, Lance,” she said.


  “Di,” he purred, switching from being controlling to pleading, “it won’t take long. I just need you to get on board with this. We can be Hollywood’s new power couple. A reporter is going to be on set to conduct interviews in two days. I want to go public. Our vacation photos are all over the internet. If we deny it, it’ll just make the paparazzi even crazier.”

  “I’ll discuss it with my publicist, but I’m not agreeing to anything.”

  “Fine.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a level I could barely hear. “You know I’m crazy about you.”

  “Yeah,” she said, but her tone didn’t fit her answer.

  “Are you crazy about me?”

  She sighed.

  “Say it, Di,” he insisted.

  “Lance,” she pushed gently against his chest, “we’ll talk about this later.”

  He kissed her and threw another look in my direction. It was one of smug satisfaction, as if he won. That was the moment I decided I didn’t like Lance Smoke. My opinion on Dinah was still up in the air. But I didn’t like the way he treated her, and something told me it spelled trouble.

  She closed the trailer door and flipped the lock. “I’m sorry about that. Thanks for the excuse.”

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing, just some personal stuff that got mixed up with our business stuff.”

  “You wanted to know what me conducting an investigation looks like, so let me give you some perspective. Clues are key to any investigation. Yesterday, you were distraught someone entered your trailer without permission. You weren’t happy about the flowers and even less enthused about the attached card. You said it was from a fan. Today, Lance seems pretty smitten. Dangerously so. Is there any chance the two could be connected?”

  “You think he left the flowers?”

  “I don’t know.” Something told me not to mention I read the card and ran it for prints, so I kept that information to myself. “It just seems like a strange coincidence.”

  Something flashed across her face. “He probably saw Elodie bring them to set last night. He must think I’ve moved on, so he wants to make sure it doesn’t hurt the buzz around the film or whatever potential buzz his publicist is hoping to create about us.”

  I narrowed my eyes. She believed it. It sounded plausible, but it was also possible Lance left the flowers as a warning and didn’t want anyone to trace them back to him. He probably had his assistant deliver them. Or one of Dinah’s fans really did convince a PA to leave them in her trailer. Didn’t Elodie mention that wasn’t the first time someone left flowers?

  Dinah snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Alex, you still with me? You zoned out.”

  “Just thinking.” I bit my lip and looked at her. “What about your designer friend? Do you think he could have sent them?”

  She laughed. “Secrecy isn’t his style. If he sent flowers, it’d be a beautiful, elegant bouquet, and he would sign the card.” She gave me a funny look. “Why the interest? Is your own love life on the fritz? Because you are more than welcome to my drama.”

  “I’m not a fan of drama.”

  Her cell phone buzzed, and she reached for it. After a few quick uh-huhs, she hung up. “Elodie says they need me in makeup. Another screw-up. I swear someone cursed this production. It’s been one thing after another since we arrived.” She looked at me. “Maybe we can talk some more when I get back, but in the meantime, make yourself comfortable. If someone needs you, I’ll send Elodie to get you.”

  “I thought you didn’t want anyone inside your trailer.”

  “You don’t count.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I looked at her for a moment. “You’re hoping if someone stops by, I’ll be here to catch him.”

  A friendly smile dotted her face. “Maybe.”

  “Fine, but as of this moment, you should consider me another part of the security team and not your personal information center.”

  “But you’re under contract.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Seven

  Alone with my thoughts, I needed to find something to focus on before my mind could go to dark places. The first thing I did was snoop through Dinah’s trailer. I didn’t find any recording devices, so whoever left the flowers hadn’t bugged the place. That was a good sign. After that, I opened my messenger bag, which I’d been lugging around, and took out my laptop and connected it to the portable modem. Since I had some time to kill, I wanted to discover what the story was between Dinah and Lance.

  The internet was a cornucopia of information. The first few pages were speculation about the new film, the characters the actors would be portraying, and whether this would turn into a franchise. It had been loosely based on a collection of short thrillers. The more official news sources spoke at length about contract agreements, studio budget, projected release dates, and theoretical earning potential. This film could be a gold mine or a mega flop. It was too soon to say, but respected critics and entertainment gurus came down on both sides of the fence, which blew my mind since they only started shooting yesterday.

  After that, I moved on to the celebrity gossip sites. Are they together? Did they split? Was he unfaithful? Were they even in a relationship? He wants a family, but she said no. And the list went on from there. I didn’t care what the talking heads had to say on the subject. But pictures do speak a thousand words, and even though I knew things could be taken out of context, there were plenty of photos from their Maui vacation three months ago to prove Dinah and Lance had a relationship, even if it had been nothing more than a fling.

  One hyperlink boasted about a sex tape, so I clicked. Thankfully, it had been shot using a long lens from somewhere down the beach. The Hollywood heartthrob at least had the decency to keep them mostly covered inside their canopy on what I could only assume was a private beach. The video didn’t show much, but it was obvious what was going on beneath the beach towels.

  I scanned the comments. The perverts complained about the quality of the footage and the distance. The shippers hoped this was a good sign and wanted to know when the news would officially break on the couple’s relationship. The rest were either jealous fans or haters. Most women and a few men were extremely catty, calling Dinah all kinds of nasty names and complaining she wasn’t pretty, young, or good enough for Lance. On the other side, Dinah’s fans, most of whom seemed to have followed her from her modeling days, thought he was just a player and she deserved better. Frankly, I wondered why total strangers thought they should have a say in the matter, but everyone wants to feel important, I suppose.

  After another thirty minutes of scouring the internet for details about Lance and Dinah, I found more photographs of the couple. They went to clubs, five-star restaurants, premieres, and parties. The coverage spanned the last six months. Prior to that, the two were never seen together. According to the reports, they met at Cannes when her indie film debuted. That would explain the six month timeline.

  Mixed into the photos of the two together were several images of Lance with random women. A few were recognizable actresses, models, and singers, but some looked like ladies he met at clubs and parties. At least I understood Dinah’s comment a little better. Maybe she was a woman scorned, but I didn’t get the impression she cared deeply enough about Lance to be scorned.

  For the briefest moment, I wondered if I was also a woman scorned. My mind went to Martin. In all the time I had known him, he never acted the way he did last night, not even when we were fighting or broken up. His behavior wasn’t bad, just peculiar. The issue wasn’t actually with him; it was the evidence of something sordid coupled with his desperation. The smell of a woman’s perfume on his body, her makeup on his collar and sleeve, his late night shower, and his desire to show his affection all added up to trouble. Or maybe he was feeling randy and the rest happened to be coincidental, even if I’d been programmed to believe coincidences didn’t happen.

  Regardless, I did my best to shake it
off. He wouldn’t jeopardize us, not now. We’d been through so much. If he wanted to walk away, he would. Still, the tiny voice of doubt in the back of my head reminded me he was human, and humans make mistakes. I’d be a fool to turn a blind eye to the possibility. I hated that voice and decided to silence it by starting a new search centered solely on Dinah.

  “Jesus.” Dinah Allen had quite the following. A decade spent as one of the most sought after fashion models would do that to a person. It probably didn’t hurt that she had dated a number of Hollywood A-listers and several names off the Top 40 Billboard charts. Now with her indie film debut and being cast in what everyone hoped would be next summer’s biggest blockbuster, her stardom exploded.

  Honestly, it was amazing she seemed as grounded as she did. Nothing about her career was simple. But if the last two days had taught me anything, her profession probably wasn’t as glamourous as it appeared. Several entertainment sites had articles, and I scanned the comments. Quite a few seemed like fanatics, completely obsessed with the model turned actress.

  It would take a deep dive to determine if any of these fans had the potential to turn into stalkers, and that wasn’t exactly in my job description. What did Dinah Allen’s personal security detail look like? Did she have adequate protection? “Dammit, Alex, you’re losing it,” I said to the empty trailer. There was no threat or danger. The damage was a bouquet of flowers with a creepy note. Hell, they could have come from the director, Lance, the fashion designer she was texting, or just some overzealous fan who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe I needed sleep.