Purview of Flashbulbs (Alexis Parker Book 15)

by G. K. Parks

  “Alex,” she greeted, standing and moving toward me.

  “Miss Allen.” I glanced at Scaratilli who was standing a polite two steps away doing his best impersonation of a coat rack, even though he would have been better suited to imitate a redwood.

  She shot me an annoyed look. “Dinah,” she insisted. “I thought after yesterday we were warming up to one another.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  She saw the slightest twinkle in my eyes. “Scar, wait downstairs.” Before he could protest, she turned to face him. “I’m in a building full of private investigators and security personnel. Nothing will happen to me. I don’t see any paparazzi hiding in the wings. Do you?”

  “No, ma’am.” He pressed a button on the radio clipped to his ear and spoke to the driver, ensuring photographers weren’t lurking outside. “I will be waiting in the lobby.” He pushed the button, and we stood in complete silence until he stepped into the already crowded elevator. I was surprised he fit and wondered what the maximum weight capacity was.

  “Cross Security is only three floors,” I said after he was gone.

  She smiled. “In that case, you better show me around.”

  “Sure.” I glanced at the receptionist, wondering what Lucien would think of it, but she just shrugged. We passed the conference rooms, a few of my colleagues’ offices, and the breakroom before we made it to my office. I opened the door and waited for her to enter. “This is where the magic happens.”

  She surveyed the inside from the doorway. “This isn’t what I pictured.”

  “Me neither. Make yourself at home.” I moved to my desk, making certain nothing incriminating or sensitive was out in the open. Thankfully, I was never one to clutter my workspace with personal effects, so there wasn’t much she could dig up by snooping. “Can I get you some coffee, tea, water,” I noticed her attention was on the bar cart in the corner, “a shot of whiskey?”

  “You’re a whiskey girl?”

  “No.”

  Her face scrunched in disbelief. “Really?”

  “That was actually meant as a welcome to the company.”

  “Coffee would be nice.”

  Leaving her alone in my office, I went to the breakroom and filled two mugs. From the morning in the limo, I knew she took her coffee black, so I didn’t bother with creamer or sugar. When I turned around, I almost bumped into Cross who had snuck up behind me. He took a step back, warily eyeing the hot liquid which splashed out of one of the mugs and onto the floor inches from his foot.

  “Do be careful. This is the only spare suit I have in the office.” His voice sounded serious, but I saw a slight playfulness in his eyes. Or I was tired enough to hallucinate it. “Miss Allen is waiting in your office.”

  “I know.” I held up the two mugs.

  “Right. The receptionist informed me she would like a tour of our offices. Take her upstairs to the lab. Show her our equipment, explain the basics of what we do, and the situations we can handle. Do your best to impress her.”

  “What if she wants to know about last night and what we’re doing about it?”

  “Tell her it’s under investigation and put her mind at ease. Alexis, you’ve already been welcomed into her inner circle and have unfettered access to the cast and crew. You’re the only one who can investigate without arousing suspicion or drawing undue attention to the matter. I’ll keep on top of the security teams and see what they discover. The techs will gather and analyze as much intel as possible, but you’re on point. Play this as you see fit. I want to know how we screwed up in order to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Now you give me autonomy, I thought but chose not to voice it. Instead, I blew out a breath and went back to my office. As I expected, Dinah had used my absence as an opportunity to snoop.

  “Find anything interesting?” I put the coffee on the table in front of the couch.

  She ran a hand through her hair and laughed. “Do you have cameras in here?”

  “No.”

  She picked up the cup and took a sip. “But you’ve figured me out, and it’s only been three days.” She swallowed and put the mug down. “And you know how I take my coffee and which blend I prefer. If you decide this private investigator thing isn’t working out, I could really use another assistant. Elodie can barely juggle everything I throw her way.”

  “I’m not particularly subservient.”

  She chuckled. “I picked up on that somewhere between the limo ride and my trailer yesterday.” She sobered slightly and bit her bottom lip. “Do you think someone wants to hurt me?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible you aren’t the target. It could be the production, or it could be a prank. Do you know if that’s common behavior for any of the actors or crew?”

  “I don’t. Lance might know.”

  “What’s the deal with you two?”

  She picked up her cup and stared into it. “We had a spark for about five seconds. He probably thought it wouldn’t hurt to tie his name to a rising star.”

  “And you thought it might help your chances of getting a role in this film.”

  She glared daggers at me. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “He’s an executive producer. He’s also your costar. And he wants to maintain some semblance of a romantic relationship, at least in the magazines and tabloids. Does he want your relationship to continue beyond the purview of flashbulbs?”

  She rolled her shoulders back and sighed. “I have no idea. I’ve never known what he’s thinking. That’s the allure. He’s unpredictable. Adventurous. A little crazy.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “All bad boys are.” She considered my questions. “You can’t honestly believe he’s responsible. Wouldn’t this stunt jeopardize the film?”

  “You’d know the answer to that better than I would.” I gulped down some coffee, burning my throat in the process. “I need to know everything, particularly who you are currently seeing or recently broke up with.”

  “Besides Lance?”

  “Yes.” I picked up a pen. “You mentioned a designer.”

  “I don’t want to do this.” Abruptly, she stood. “You can’t expect me to believe this is the entirety of Cross Security. Show me what’s upstairs. Scar said you had fancy labs and top of the line technology. I want to see something cool.” A thought came to mind that painted a smile on her face. “I want to watch you work an investigation. I want you to take me step by step through the entire process from beginning to end.”

  “I’m not an FBI agent anymore. I don’t have access.”

  “Fuck the FBI. You’re a private investigator. That must require similar qualifications and tactics. This will be my ride-along. And it’s my case, so what could be better? You were far from forthcoming while sitting in my trailer being bored out of your mind. This is more interactive. It’s fun and exciting.” Her eyes held a challenge. “And since Cross Security wasn’t to blame for the breach and is supposed to be one of the best security firms in the country, I’d like to see what one of their investigations entails.”

  “You said the studio wouldn’t insure you for this,” I protested.

  “We won’t tell them.” She looked at me. “Plus, according to Mr. Cross, I should be perfectly safe. He has things under control. Or is that a steaming pile of bullshit?”

  I didn’t like the turn our conversation had taken. Lucien would want me to affirm our firm was completely capable of offering protection and solving problems, but Dinah was asking for trouble. And somehow, I ended up in the middle of it.

  “What do you say, Alex? It’s either this or I recommend the studio finds new security to safeguard the production.”

  “You realize that’s blackmail.”

  “Maybe, but it is incredibly effective.” She clasped her hands together. “It’ll be fun. I won’t get in the way, I promise. And you’ll get what you want too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Since we’ll be focused on a current real-l
ife problem, I won’t have to focus so much on your past, and you’ll get to ask me whatever you want in the scope of the investigation. It’ll be great.”

  Great is not how I would describe it, but I didn’t think I had a choice. I took another swig of coffee, wishing I’d gone for the whiskey instead. “Let me show you the lab. That’s where the real magic happens.”

  Twelve

  Dinah wasn’t impressed. Dozens of computers, monitors, and lab equipment, no matter how shiny, just wasn’t impressive unless you understood how valuable they were to an investigation. I tried to explain it. I even roped Amir into giving her an in-depth analysis on how he obtained, scanned, and searched the databases for the fingerprints and why hers and Elodie’s were not in the system. Then he went into minute detail about epithelial cells, saliva, and hair follicles in regards to obtaining viable DNA samples, but her eyes glazed over.

  When he was finished, she spotted the prop dummy on one of the exam tables. She stepped toward it, and I followed behind. Several techs, whose names I didn’t know, were running various tests in the hopes of finding some kind of trace evidence that might point to the culprit.

  “Anything?” I asked, and one of them looked at me before glancing at Dinah. “You can speak in front of her. Cross gave the okay.”

  The tech just stood there, practically stuttering. It took a moment before I realized the poor bastard was starstruck. Dinah caught on immediately, flashing him what I had dubbed her starlet smile. It was far from sincere, but it was the same smile used in every single one of her photoshoots. It was a million watts of friendliness with just a hint of sex appeal. It was a nice trick, and one that she could turn on and off with the flip of a switch. While he fanboyed out, I scanned the preliminary reports.

  “They’re still working on it,” I said, “but it doesn’t look promising.”

  “Now what do we do?” She moved away from the tech who finally stopped ogling her as if she were a glowing, golden unicorn.

  I looked at my watch. “Don’t you need to return to set?”

  “My scenes aren’t shooting until three. Elodie already texted scanned PDFs of today’s sides. There weren’t any changes. I have my lines memorized, so I have a few hours.”

  “Sides?” I asked, hoping to distract her.

  “Pieces of the script specific to the scenes I’m shooting.”

  “Fascinating,” I deadpanned.

  “No, it isn’t.” She jerked her chin up as we went to the stairwell since she decided she didn’t want to risk a non-Cross Security employee spotting her. It could lead to a tweet or post, and the place would be swarming with fans. “Is sarcasm a requirement for your line of work?”

  “I think so. You basically have three options. Sarcastic, bitchy, or both. Personally, I try to walk the line between sarcastic and bitchy. It keeps people on their toes.”

  She snickered, despite herself. “You’re a laugh a minute,” she shot back with an equal amount of sarcasm.

  “I keep myself pretty entertained, which is all that really matters. Although, you’re a professional, so my standards and yours don’t exactly compare.”

  She stopped outside my office door and crossed her arms over her chest. “When the geeks upstairs can’t provide a solution, how do you solve the case?” Obviously, my wit wasn’t enough to keep her distracted.

  “You pray luck is on your side.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  I stepped around her and into my office. She followed, and I closed the door. “Actually, the secret to doing this job and working for the FBI is simple; it’s better to be lucky than good.”

  As predicted, she reached for her notebook and scribbled it down. She nibbled on the end of her pen and read the words. “Isn’t that true for absolutely everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re really not that good at your job?”

  “No matter how good I may be, other factors are always in play. The only way we ever solve anything is by getting lucky.” She giggled at my word choice. At least she found something amusing. Hell, Martin would have her rolling in the floor with his double entendres and innuendo. “I’m serious.” Opening the nearest filing cabinet, I pulled out a few empty folders. “From here, our next step is to build profiles. Do you want to help?”

  The question actually thrilled her, and she took a seat on the lengthy side of the l-shaped sofa and leaned forward. “Yes.”

  “Great.” I pushed a legal pad and pen in her direction. “Let’s start with the people in your life. Write down everyone you dated in the last two years. That will give us a good starting point.”

  “You can’t be serious.” It was the question she had avoided earlier, and now after our little tour, we were back to where we left off. “What does that have to do with this?”

  “Think like an investigator,” I urged. “We can only work with the facts we possess. Fact number one, someone broke into your trailer and left flowers and a card. Fact number two, someone broke into the wardrobe trailer and stole the sexy little number you wore the other night. Fact number three, someone took your makeup. Fact number four, the missing costume and makeup were both used to paint up a prop dummy, who was wearing a wig eerily similar in color and length to your hair, and stabbed it through the heart. What do those facts say to you?”

  “It wasn’t just my costume and makeup. They took Gemma’s too.”

  “I know, and when a dummy appears on set dressed like Gemma, we’ll have a conversation with her about who she’s been dating,” another thought crossed my mind, “unless the two of you have someone in common.” It was a theory I hadn’t considered until now and blamed it on lack of sleep.

  She looked at me. “Neil. Maybe Lance.”

  “Neil Larson, the director?”

  She set her jaw. “Do I need to remind you that you signed an NDA, and Lucien did as well?”

  “There is one other thing you should know about me,” I said. “Unlike the gossipy twits that rule your world, I don’t give a shit who you bang. That isn’t my business. What is my business is determining who might want to hurt you, so I’ll ask again. Neil Larson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Recently?”

  She did her best to look indignant. “Do I need to draft a timeline?”

  “Yes. Y’see, men tend to have problems sharing. Women too, but men mostly. They like to keep their playthings to themselves.”

  She actually laughed. “That’s so simple. Trust me, Alex, it’s different in my industry. We jump in and out of beds faster than most people change clothes. We live on a constant high of praise and success. We drink too much. Smoke too much. Screw too much. We work hard. The shifts are long and the conditions oftentimes unpleasant. So we play harder.” She stared at me. “I won’t apologize for any of it.”

  “I don’t want an apology. I just want some names and dates.”

  “Fine.”

  By the time she was finished, I couldn’t tell if she was the most enlightened woman I’d ever met or the most deluded. There was a reason for the recent shift concerning sexual harassment in the workplace, especially in the entertainment industry. Historically, women were objectified, hired or fired based on how far they were willing to go for a role and that didn’t just mean shaving their heads or gaining fifty pounds. Several were forced to prostitute themselves to become stars. It was a tradeoff to reach their dreams, but sex should never be the price, even when sex and sex appeal is what sold tickets, filled seats, and took Dinah Allen from behind-the-scenes fashion lackey to runway model and movie star. No wonder I couldn’t figure out her motivation. It was tangled up in one giant knot that society shat out.

  “Do you know if Gemma has received any threats or mysterious gifts?” I asked, and Dinah shook her head, “Okay.” I glanced down at the names on the list. Considering her insistence that celebrities changed partners the way normal people changed clothes, her list wasn’t that extensive. “Last two years?”

  “Yeah. Lan
ce was,” she sighed, “is the only relationship out of the bunch. The rest were weekend trips or one night stands. Nothing really lasted until Lance.” I read through the twenty names and approximate dates. “No one since?”

  She laughed. “No, Alex, I haven’t been seeing anyone, just the occasional text message.”

  “And Neil?”

  “After I was cast, he invited me out to dinner. We celebrated. Then we celebrated a bit more. That was it.”

  We needed access to her phone records, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to ask. It had been hard enough to get her cooperation on the names. Truthfully, we probably could have surmised as much by reading the entertainment gossip sites. I took the list and moved to the computer. She followed and watched as I typed. The first thing I did was determine where these people were at the present. Since every name on the list was in the entertainment industry, it wasn’t hard to figure out their current locations. We lived in an age in which social media was king.

  Neil Larson and Lance Smoke were the only two people close enough to pull it off. And while I was aware money and affluence could lend itself to a quick flyover, I knew if any one of the names on the list had been on set, someone would have taken note, even if it was just some starstruck member of the crew.

  I needed to speak to Gemma Kramer, preferably in private, or Cross needed to contact her people. If Gemma was also targeted, as Dinah had attempted to insist earlier, that would change things. The prankster’s motive would be stopping production or causing the two main female leads to abandon the production. Whereas, if Dinah was the only target, that spelled out jilted lover or possible stalker. Rubbing my eyes, I wasn’t sure what to do since Dinah was overseeing every move I made.

  “Has Mr. Scaratilli mentioned any possible threats?” I asked.

  “Scar?” She thought for a moment. “Nothing out of the ordinary. At Cannes, he insisted on additional guards. Then in Maui, after some paparazzi filmed Lance and me on the beach, he insisted on securing the hotel and grounds, but things have been back to normal since we returned home. The incident at my estate was a misunderstanding.” The words came out without any type of conviction behind them. “Honestly, he’s probably been even laxer since we came here to shoot.”