Purview of Flashbulbs (Alexis Parker Book 15)

by G. K. Parks

  We jogged back to the front gate. By the time Cross and Scar arrived, I had several leads. The flowers in the trailer were Black Bacarra roses. Only a handful of local florists had that variety available, one of which was the florist Lance had used for his orders. They told me they had received several orders in the last day for that particular flower, but not in the quantities needed. After a few more calls, I realized several shops had filled orders for dozens of the roses. The flowers had been paid cash on delivery. The store owners offered to put me in touch with their delivery drivers as soon as they showed up to work. That was a start. Once we had a description of the buyer, we’d know exactly who was behind this. In the meantime, the shop owners gave me the delivery address. Every shop had sent the bouquets to the cemetery, which didn’t exactly arouse suspicion, but didn’t anyone have any sense of etiquette? Weren’t black flowers and death a little too on the nose?

  Shaking it off, I finished checking the list of people who’d left after Dinah or returned sometime during the course of the night or early this morning. Lance left set after Dinah but just returned. Jett, on the other hand, had come and gone several times before finally hooking up with Lance at the club. He could have brought the flowers in bouquet by bouquet. Maybe that’s why they stopped at the cemetery.

  Thirty-two

  “Stick with Dinah for a bit,” Cross insisted. “Let’s see if we can make this bastard nervous. Once they start filming, I’ll have Lancaster keep on him. I’ll make a few calls and have someone get you a keycard to Jett’s hotel room. I want you to head over there and look around. Don’t get caught.”

  “No problem.” Okay, it might have been a problem, but that wasn’t an option.

  “After that, meet with the delivery drivers face to face. I’ll head to the cemetery and see what I can find. Let me know the moment you find something.”

  “Copy that.”

  Cross glanced at Scar. “I can spare a few guys.”

  “We have it covered.”

  “Okay. You should be aware, when we identify this psycho, I’m turning him over to the police. They’re already investigating a homicide. Stalking is a step down, but they’ll be pleased to have a suspect.” Cross focused on me. “If they call you with an update, I want to know about it,” he narrowed his eyes, “but don’t run your mouth to them until I say so. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.” I didn’t like being treated like a toddler, but Cross always liked to micromanage and make his commands known. There was no second-guessing with my boss when it came to six-figure contracts. I focused on Scar. “Where’s Dinah now?”

  “I left her in the makeup trailer with Ty and Raoul. She’s protected.”

  “A little extra firepower can’t hurt.”

  Cross nodded, and I headed across the lot. After acknowledging her security detail, I entered the trailer. The smell of hair products was a welcome relief to the floral hell from earlier. I watched as the makeup artist applied a set of fake lashes that looked real even at this distance. Someone else was working on Dinah’s hair, trimming the split ends and making sure her highlights hadn’t grown out.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I felt the bunch of my jacket at my back, and I put my hands on my hips instead. Normally, I kept my gun in a shoulder holster at my side, but I tucked it at the small of my back so it wouldn’t be as noticeable. I’d been granted access to carry on set, but I didn’t want anyone to know it, particularly since I had no idea what Dinah’s stalker would do next.

  Elodie dashed into the trailer and handed Dinah the script and took a seat in the chair beside her. The two spoke at length about the shooting schedule. Dinah told her what she wanted to eat for lunch and when she planned to take her breaks. After making a few notes, Elodie settled farther into the chair and the two ran lines until Gemma entered.

  “Are you ready for me?” Gemma asked.

  Elodie politely apologized and surrendered the chair. “Miss Parker,” Elodie edged into the back corner of the trailer, hoping to be unobtrusive, “Mr. Scaratilli wanted me to tell you Dinah’s trailer has been cleared. He’d like a word before you leave for the day.”

  “Thanks.”

  She gave me a final glance in case I had any requests. The radio on her hip hissed, and she pushed the button and spoke to another PA as she pulled the door closed behind her. As far as I could tell, flowers or not, it was just another day on set.

  For the next twenty minutes, a stylist covered Dinah’s head in assorted rollers. It looked painful and antiquated, but it didn’t phase Dinah in the least. After she exchanged a few words with Gemma, she closed her eyes and fell asleep while the experts transformed her into an on-screen beauty.

  The trailer door banged open, and Dinah jumped, scaring the hairstylist. My eyes zeroed in on Jett, Lance, and some girl who hung off the celebrity’s arm as if she’d been surgically attached. Lance wore dark sunglasses and smelled of spirits. From the way he and the woman stumbled inside, I wasn’t sure either of them was sober.

  Lance flopped into the empty seat on the other side of Dinah, and I took a protective step closer. The girl on his arm knelt on the ground beside him, never letting go of him. I took another step closer, my eyes on Jett who had been rapidly clicking buttons on his phone ever since they entered. He looked nervous, and I wondered if he knew we were on to him.

  “Mr. Smoke,” I said, my tone hard as nails, “did you have a busy night?”

  The girl giggled. She was wispy and blonde with bubblegum pink lips. From the way she acted, I suspected her bra size far outmatched her IQ. “Busy,” she stage-whispered, bursting into a fit of giggles.

  He slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked at me. “Feeling left out?” he asked. “Ol’ Dinah here just isn’t as much fun, is she? What were you ladies up to last night? Let me guess, you were running around playing cops and robbers.” His gaze flicked to Dinah. “I missed you last night.”

  The blonde tugged impatiently on his arm, growing bored now that his attention was elsewhere. He snapped his fingers at Jett. Jett tucked his phone away and helped the blonde to her feet, dragging her out of the trailer. Now I was the only person who no longer belonged. Unfortunately, I couldn’t run out after Jett without causing a scene.

  “Where were you?” Lance asked Dinah. “I didn’t see you at the hotel.”

  “Did you even go back to the hotel?” I asked, even though his gaze remained fixed on Dinah who was, by all accounts, ignoring him.

  Since she wasn’t speaking to him, he realized he’d have to talk to me instead. “I popped in for a moment before partying ‘til dawn. I picked up Candi at one of the clubs, and we drove around.” He leaned over the arm of the chair, clearly speaking to Dinah. “You should have been there. You would have loved it.”

  Her fingers gripped the arms of her chair. “No, Lance. Seeing you screw around is not something I love.”

  “I’m not the only one who screws around, dear.”

  “Did you have any alone time?” I asked. “Or was Jett with you all night?”

  Lance looked at me, as if he’d forgotten I was in the room. “Why is that any of your business?” His eyes narrowed further. “What exactly are you implying?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering how you could film all day, spend the entire night out, and come back and film. Don’t you need to sleep?”

  He shot me a charming, practiced smile that probably had his female fandom dropping their panties. “Are you impressed by my stamina?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, “so I take it you didn’t need Jett to fill in for you. Is he just your lapdog you drag around for fun?”

  He glared. “He works for me, just like you work for Dinah. He handles my business, so I have time for a life. I don’t care what he does as long as he does his job.” He glanced at Dinah. “Why is she talking to me? They have their place.” My place? I resisted the urge to tell him exactly what I thought of that, but his attention was solely on Dinah. He leaned closer to her. “You promis
ed to stop by so we could talk. When is that going to happen?”

  “Don’t you dare speak to my people like that,” she growled. “You want to abuse someone, go beat up on poor Jett. That boy is a saint or a masochist for putting up with the likes of your shit.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  She glared at him with the ferociousness of a mama bear. “I’ll consider having a conversation with you whenever you decide to stop whoring around and getting drunk off your ass.”

  Gemma coughed. “You know, I can go.”

  “No,” Dinah replied, “it’s fine.” The hairstylist removed the final roller, and Dinah turned in her chair, tucking one foot beneath her as she faced him. “Tell me the truth. Did you look for me at all yesterday?”

  “I said I did.”

  “Why, Lance? Were you looking to hit this?” Dinah rolled her eyes, and her voice grew quiet. “What happened to us? I thought we had something real.”

  “This is the real me.” He shook his head, trying to clear away the buzz. “We need to get back together. I need you. The film needs us. But you won’t talk to me. You have to talk to me. We need to get on the same page.”

  “What about Candi?” Dinah asked.

  “Shit, Dinah, she’s nobody.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. “You’re somebody.”

  “Is that what you told the interviewer?”

  “No, I rescheduled the set tour. I said we were behind on shooting. I can’t give the interview until you and your team get on board. I spoke to Cherise. She was all for it. Why the hell aren’t you signing off on this? Haven’t you spoken to her?”

  Dinah turned in her seat, studying her reflection in the mirror. “We’ll talk,” she finally said. “Maybe around lunchtime, unless you’re too busy.”

  “I’ll be there, and I expect to see you. If not, I’ll send Jett to get you. I’d prefer if we did this in private.” He narrowed his eyes at me, but I could read the words on his face. Stay the hell out of my business.

  I smiled back at him, hoping he could read my expression just as easily. The one thing that didn’t sit right was his threat about Jett. Honestly, if the assistant was happy being Lance’s puppet, he might be acting on Lance’s behalf. The threats, the flowers, the stalking could all be on Lance’s order. I needed to get answers, and I needed them fast. There wasn’t a chance in hell Dinah was walking into Lance’s lair without protection, and I wasn’t talking about a rubber.

  Thirty-three

  Stepping out of the elevator, I looked both ways and headed for Jett’s room. Cross had given me his room key, and I didn’t ask how he’d gotten it, probably the same way he’d gotten copies of the surveillance footage. I slid the card into the slot and waited for the light to turn green. Then I turned the handle and pushed my way inside.

  This was a single room with a double bed. I closed the door and flipped the lock. That would buy me some time in case Jett or housekeeping came knocking. The first thing I did was photograph the entire room. After I tossed the place, I wanted to make sure I was able to put everything back where I found it. Then I started my search.

  The nightstand drawer contained an assortment of pill bottles and supplements. Allergy medicine, sleeping pills, anti-depressants, a plethora of herbal remedies, and tons of energy shots. With this mix, Jett must feel like a yo-yo. I noted the name of the prescribing physician and closed the drawer.

  Beneath the mattress, I found a dime bag of coke and several rolled joints. In the dresser was an entire drawer of magazines. Each one featured Lance or Dinah. Among the collection were several dated tabloids featuring news of the sex tape and the scandal involving the A-list couple. And here I thought most people hid their dirty magazines under the mattress.

  I located Jett’s planner and flipped through the pages. He had a list of important numbers, and I photographed the page. Scar’s number was handwritten, along with numbers for Dinah’s manager, agent, and assistant. I skimmed through the rest of the planner. It was written in some type of shorthand I didn’t understand. It was initials and symbols with times written beside them. If Jett was dumb enough to write anything damning in his calendar, we would find it. It would just take some time to decipher. I’d let the techs at Cross Security handle that. Replacing the planner where I found it, I finished searching the drawers but didn’t find anything else.

  I went into the bathroom and looked around. It was a typical hotel bathroom. Jett had his personal care products on the vanity. I checked beneath the sink, in the shower, behind the toilet, and even in the toilet tank but didn’t find anything. He just looked like some guy who had settled in for an extended stay. I was just about to leave the bathroom when I noticed the robe hanging on the back of the door. I checked the pockets but didn’t find anything. Instead, I noticed something taped to the door behind it. I moved the white terrycloth out of the way and stared at a poster of Dinah from her modeling days in nothing but a bikini bottom, stiletto heels, and strategically holding a small designer handbag against her chest. Obviously, I knew what Jett liked to think about in the shower.

  It wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, but it did register on the skeevy scale. I clicked a quick photo of the poster and replaced the robe on the hook. Before I left, I checked the closet. Jett had most of his clothes hanging up, and I went through the pockets, finding a bracelet for admittance to one of the clubs, several receipts for fast food and liquor, and a copy of his rental car agreement. Jackpot.

  Pocketing the sheet of paper, I gave the room a final glance to make sure it didn’t appear disturbed. Then I headed for the garage. Since I failed to locate Jett’s vehicle at the studio, there was a good chance he might have left it at the hotel. I just needed to find it.

  The garage was nearly full. A few parking attendants were near the exit, taking a break. They paid me no heed, but they might not have been aware of my presence. I scanned the rows of cars, looking for a rental with front-end damage. I had the make, model, color, and license plate number. It shouldn’t be that hard to find. What I found instead was Chaz Relper’s car wedged into a corner spot at the far end.

  Did Reaper leave his car here? Or did the killer park it here to avoid detection? Frankly, how it came to be in this parking garage was unimportant. Glancing around, I tugged on the door handle, but it was locked. I tried the other three doors, just in case, but they didn’t budge. After carefully considering my options, I went back to my car and opened the trunk. Returning with a slimjim, I slipped the thin metal between the window and waterproof sealant. After some maneuvering, the lock popped. I opened the driver’s side door and crouched down to examine the interior.

  I had no doubts the vehicle contained evidence. I avoided touching the steering wheel, gearshift, and adjustment knobs. If the killer drove the car here, he might have left a print or hair. It would just be a pain in the ass to find. The car was a mess. It was in worse shape than Reaper’s apartment. The paparazzo must have eaten his fair share of meals in the car and never cleaned up after himself.

  I dug through the piles of crap, finding a random sock, a half-filled bottle of what looked like pale apple juice, and an instruction manual for the drone. Slipping around to the other side of the car, I searched underneath the seats, finding a lens cap, some empty plastic memory card holders, a detachable camera flash, and lots of loose change. No cameras. No memory cards. No sign of the stalker.

  Flipping down the visors, I found the vehicle registration, insurance information, and some parking stubs. Deciding those might be useful, I wrote down the timestamp and locations. Then I opened the glove box. Inside, I found a pair of fingerless gloves, regular winter gloves, earmuffs, and registration for a gun and a carry permit. The only thing I didn’t find was the gun. Since it wasn’t found with the body, I had to assume the stalker took it. Whoever had it out for Dinah was armed and clearly deranged.

  I put everything back where I found it, locked the doors, and called a tip into the police. When I finished my search of the garage,
failing to locate Jett Trevino’s rental, I pondered my next move. Jett’s SUV wasn’t here, and it wasn’t at the studio. Where the hell did he leave his car?

  While I waited, I phoned several body shops in the area. A lot of SUVs had recently been brought in for repair, but none of them were rentals. The police would have checked this avenue, but they probably gave up the search as soon as they found the owner of the green SUV. Like Cross always said, we were on our own. I placed a call to the office, hoping someone could find out if the rental had an anti-theft system or GPS. If it did, we could track it. Finally, the cops arrived which was my cue to leave.

  When I stopped at the first of the flower shops, I took a moment to slip into a light vest. Cross outfitted his personnel with whatever equipment he thought we’d need, and while I would have preferred something more tactical, this was better than nothing. I put it on beneath my shirt, checked my appearance in the side mirror, and went to speak to the delivery driver and the shop owner.

  By my fifth stop, I expected to hear the same story again. The flowers were delivered to the mausoleum at the cemetery. A woman from the funeral home paid in cash. From the description, the woman in question was tall and thin with long blonde hair. One of the guys had seen her business card on the table. Gwendolyn Moore. I relayed that information to Lucien, who was currently at the cemetery, speaking to the caretaker. He would check into Mrs. Moore. Her name had never surfaced during the course of my investigation, so I wasn’t sure how she fit into any of this. Perhaps the stalker happened across a funeral and decided to steal the flowers. It made about as much sense as anything else.

  I stepped into the last flower shop, the one that linked back to the orders Lance Smoke had placed, prepared to hear another rendition of what I’d already been told, but I was wrong.

  “Black Bacarra roses,” the owner said, “we sell a few every once in a while. They make elegant accents to mixed bouquets, but it’s rare to get an order for just those, unless it’s a wedding. It’s weird. I’ve had several orders in the last week and a half.” She clicked through her order log. “They were all internet orders.” She laughed at the name. “The most recent was made by Lance Smoke.” She snorted. “I had no idea a celebrity was interested in my flower shop.” She rolled her eyes. “Probably someone wanted to keep his identity secret.”