Hollywood Secrets

by Gemma Halliday

  I nodded. “The Informer.”

  “Riiiiiight.” He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the same sexy little half-smile that women the world over paid ten bucks a pop to watch larger than life on the big screen. And in person, it was twice as nice. Worth a twenty at least.

  “Cameron Dakota at the Informer,” he repeated.

  Ohmigod, the star football player said my name.

  “Hi. Nice to meet you.” I stuck my hand out.

  Only Trace didn’t move to shake it, instead raising one eyebrow in a questioning motion.

  “How the hell did a tabloid reporter get into my house? Security slacking out there?” he asked.

  Only he didn’t seem as pissed as I might have imagined at the idea. More… amused. His eyes were still crinkling in the corners, his mouth threatening to crack into a full-fledged smile any second. It was his boyish “romantic comedy” face, and, I had to admit, I was having a hard time not melting under it like his Email co-star.

  I cleared my throat, trying to clear out my hormones’ goofy teenage reaction to him as well. “How I got in isn’t important.”

  “Maybe not to you.”

  Good point.

  But he let it go. “Okay, let’s move on then. Why are you here? From what I’ve seen in your paper, you get plenty of intimate enough shots with your telephoto lens.”

  I bit my lip. “You saw those, huh?”

  “The pool montage in yesterday’s paper? Yeah. I got that.”

  I felt my cheeks warming further.

  “Are you blushing?”

  “No!” I protested. Way too loudly and in way too high a voice to be anywhere near believable.

  His smile cracked, showing off a row of perfectly white teeth. “A paparazzo that blushes. Cute.”

  The movie star called me cute. Jesus, if I didn’t get out of here soon, I was gonna be a gonner.

  I cleared my throat again. “Yeah, sorry about those shots. Just, you know, doing my job.”

  He shrugged, still grinning. “Just give me a little airbrushing next time, okay?”

  Like he needed it. But I nodded anyway.

  “So, Cameron-“

  “Cam,” I said automatically. “My friends call me Cam.”

  “Okay. Cam.” He paused, as if contemplating the aftertaste of that name. Apparently it worked for him as he continued, “Once again I have to ask - why are you here?”

  I hesitated. Okay, standing here seeing him in person – and clearly not kidnapped, shot, missing, or otherwise in any danger – I suddenly felt very silly. A little relieved, yes, but mostly silly. And embarrassed. Reluctant to even admit that his act last night had fooled me. That, apparently, everyone else in Hollywood could spot a publicity stunt from a mile away but Cameron Dakota fell hook, line and sinker.

  On the other hand, unless I did some explaining, and fast, I was likely to be escorted out in handcuffs. Trespassing was something the Malibu police didn’t take lightly. So I took a deep breath and spilled it.

  “I saw you last night.”

  He shrugged. “You and about a hundred other media vultures.”

  Ouch. Did the cute guy just call me a vulture?

  I shook my head. “No, I mean after that. In the alley.” I leaned in, whispering as if we were both in on a secret. “I saw you get kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” He let out a blast of laughter. “That’s a new one.”

  My eyebrows drew together. “In the alley behind the Boom Boom Room. I fell for your publicity stunt, okay. Ha ha, pull one over on the tabloids. You got me good. I totally believed you were kidnapped by those guys.”

  “What guys?”

  “The guys who forced you into the back of the delivery truck. At gunpoint?”

  Trace laughed again, his voice echoing oddly off the marble tiles. “Wow, I knew the tabloids were famous for making shit up, but this takes the cake.”

  “Wait,” I said holding up a hand. “What do you mean making shit up? You’re denying someone forced you into the back of a van last night? That two guys abducted you at gunpoint outside the Boom Boom Room, kidnapping you and driving away?”

  Trace spread his hands out in front of him. “Do I look kidnapped?”

  No. He didn’t.

  But I knew what I saw.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. He was a good actor, but he wasn’t that good. Just beneath his air of levity I could swear another emotion was lurking. He was still doing that sexy half smirk, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes now. His voice was light, but his arms were still crossed over his chest in a protective gesture. And he’d taken a step backward, as if the mere mention of the guys with guns had him on the retreat.

  “Wait a minute… this wasn’t a publicity stunt after all, was it?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re scared.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That was real last night.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “And I saw it all go down.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I have photos.”

  “Tabloids doctor pictures all the time.”

  “Deny it all you want. I know what I saw.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  I clenched my jaw, the rapid back and forth suddenly giving me a headache. “What happened after they transferred you at Pacific Storage?”

  I saw Trace’s leading-man face falter for a second and did a mental, “Ah ha!”

  Only that was about all the victory I was going to get.

  “I think maybe you should leave now,” he said, his amused smile a thing of the past.

  “I think you should tell me about what happened last night!”

  He took a step forward, his expression hard, his eyes dark. It was his action-hero face, the one that he’d worn when he’d beaten the confession out of that guy in the subway bathroom in Die Tough.

  “Time to go, tabloid girl.”

  He grabbed me by the arm and steered me toward the front door. I could have protested, but honestly I was lucky he hadn’t called the cops and had me arrested for trespassing already. Instead, I let him lead me through the front foyer, and out the ornately carved door.

  Apparently his security was not, indeed, slacking, as waiting for me right outside the door were two big bodyguards. They looked like former WWF guys and were both dressed all in black. The first one took over Trace’s grip, clamping down on my arm as he led me down the pathway. The second fell into place beside him, should I try to make a run for it. I could have told him that was highly unlikely.

  I snuck one look over my shoulder at Trace before he shut the door. Action Hero was slipping. And in its place was a part I’d never seen Trace play before.

  The victim.

  I could read the look of fear on his face as plain as day. Of me? Of what he’d find splayed across the Informer’s pages tomorrow? Or of two guys and a gun? I wasn’t sure. But I knew one thing for certain; no way was I going to let this thing go without getting a straight story first.

  Flanked by the two gargantuan goons, I made the walk of shame down the driveway and out the ornate front gate, now standing wide open in anticipation of my eviction. It wasn’t until the iron doors had swung closed behind me (with a clear look of reproach from both big guys), that I remembered my car was around the back of the massive property.

  Great.

  I shoved my hat down low over my eyes and prepared to make the two-mile hike to the other side of the estate.

  * * *

  “Something weird is going on,” I said around a bite of Caesar salad.

  Tina wiped a glob of mayo from the corner of her mouth and put her sub down. “I still think the most likely scenario is publicity stunt.”

  Et tu, Tina?

  “Okay, assuming that you’re right, that I’ve been totally played here, why would Trace deny it altogether now?”

&n
bsp; She munched another big bite. “I dunno.”

  “And why put on the act for an empty alley? I’m pretty sure the skinny little cat behind the Dumpster wasn’t on Twitter.”

  Tina swallowed loudly, washing her sub down with a swig of Diet Coke. “You got me. I have no idea.”

  The first thing I’d done when I’d gotten back to my Jeep was head straight back to the Informer. Okay, the first thing was drink an entire bottle of water. The hike around the property in the sweltering sun had had me sweating off at least five pounds. So, I guess the second thing I’d done was head toward the Informer for reinforcements. I’d snagged Tina out from under a story about Jennifer Aniston’s latest bad breakup, and filled her in on everything that had happened since last night. She’d apologized profusely for not being around, said a few choice swear words when she heard Allie had been picking up her phone, then offered to get us an early dinner while we sat in the break room and figured out what to do next.

  “I hate to say it, Cam, but I really don’t see a story here. I mean, Trace is fine. Whatever happened or didn’t happen last night, he’s clearly not kidnapped now.”

  I nodded. She was right. There was no way I could print any of this without being a laughingstock. Or sued. Or both.

  “Buckner Boogenheim,” I said, ramming my fork into a crouton. “Know anything about him?”

  Tina paused, searching her mental memory banks. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

  “He owns Pacific Storage, among other holdings. Prominent businessman. Too clean for his own good. It was his truck that took Trace.”

  Tina nodded. “I’ll put out some feelers. See what I can dig up.”

  Tina was famous for her network of confidential informants all over town. If anyone could get the goods on Boogenheim, it was her.

  “All right, I gotta go. I’m late to meet Cal,” Tina said, shoving the last of her sandwich in her mouth and tossing the crumpled wrapper into the trash.

  “What have you two kids got planned tonight?” I asked, feeling just the teeny tiniest bit jealous that Tina always had plans now that Cal was in her life.

  “Shooting range.”

  I raised an eyebrow her way.

  “Cal said if I’m going to carry, I need to know how to handle my weapon.”

  “I take it you did buy a gun the other day, then?”

  “Yep.” Tina grinned. “Pink with purple flames on it. I’m so badass now.”

  The look in her eyes scared me just the slightest – like she almost wanted some guy to mug her so she could show off her new toy. I pitied the guy who tried.

  “Have fun! And good luck,” I offered as she did a little wave and took off for the elevators.

  I finished my salad in silence, trying not to feel too depressed that my evening’s plans consisted of chardonnay for one while Tina was packing heat with a guy who was… well… packing heat, if you know what I mean.

  “Hey, picture lady, what’s shakin’?”

  I looked up to find Mrs. Rosenblatt’s rotund frame filling the doorway.

  “Just finishing dinner,” I said, gesturing to my salad.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt scrunched up her nose. “Rabbit food.” She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a chicken. A whole one. She grabbed a leg and dug in, settling herself on a chair (that all but disappeared beneath her) beside me. “Now this is a meal.”

  I smiled. “For six,” I mumbled.

  “What was that?” she asked, chicken drippings dribbling down her chin.

  “Nothing. You’ve, uh, got a little something right here,” I said, gesturing to her chin.

  She grabbed a napkin and dabbed in a dainty motion that did zilch.

  “So you get a hold of that guy with Tootsie’s photo?” I asked, trying not to stare as she inhaled her poultry.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded. “Yep. Fred says he’ll be in town tomorrow visiting his grandkids. He’ll stop by with it then. I’m hoping to get some really strong vibes off this sucker.”

  I nodded. “Good. I hope it works.”

  “Me too.” She paused, a chicken breast hovering next to her mouth. “Speaking of vibes, I’m getting a few off of you. Everything all right?”

  “Me? Yeah. Sure. Great.” Sort of. Though I couldn’t help asking, “What kind of vibes.”

  “Your aura’s red.”

  Instinctively I glanced down, as if colorful smudges might be staining my t-shirt. “Red?”

  “It means you’re worried about something.” She leaned one pudgy elbow on the table next to me. “What’s on your mind, bubbie?”

  I bit my lip. I was a hair’s breadth from unburdening my troubles onto the woman when Allie walked in, her perky little ears tuned our way.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled instead.

  “Nothing, what?” Allie asked. “Did I interrupt something?”

  Clearly, she had. Clearly, she’d meant to. Clearly, she was nosing around for a story.

  “Oy vey!” Mrs. Rosenblatt shouted out.

  Allie and I both jumped.

  “What?” I asked, expecting her to be choking on a chicken bone or something.

  “Your aura, honey,” she said, pointing at Allie. “It’s streaked with lemon yellow!”

  Allie looked down at her shirt in an exact replica of my first reaction, a look of panic on her face. “Is that bad?”

  Mrs. Rosenblatt clucked her tongue. “Well, it ain’t good, honey. Watch out. Mercury’s in retrograde and with an aura like that… Oy. Let’s just say, watch your back.”

  Allie’s perfectly waxed eyebrows drew together in a look of concern. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for the warning,” she mumbled as she backed out of the room.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt turned and gave me a wink. “I hate eavesdroppers.”

  I snorted. She was an odd duck, but I had to admit there was something very likeable about her. I found myself hoping Max kept her around for a while.

  That is if Felix kept Max.

  Which reminded me… I had some photos to turn in if I wanted Felix to keep me.

  I quickly finished up my salad and headed out to my cube, downloading the photos I’d taken of Jamie Lee leaving Dr. B’s earlier onto my computer. After a couple of minutes scrolling through my archives, I found a perfect pic of Jamie Lee’s wrinkled “before” forehead contemplating her choices on Mori Sushi’s menu last month. I pasted it next to the incredibly smooth one of her leaving the good doctor’s office today and dropped them both into proper formatting for print before sending them off to Tina’s inbox to provide a snarky headline to accompany them.

  Then I set to my daily ritual of going through shots on my camera, deleting the useless ones and filing the keepers in appropriate places on my hard drive for future use. I deleted half a dozen blurry shots as I’d jogged toward the club last night. Another handful of Eddie’s elbow with the slightest glimpse of Trace’s features behind.

  Then I got to the ones in the ally.

  Trace leaning against the brick building, moonlight and neon creating soft shadows on features. I moved that one to my personal file.

  The next two were similar, the third showing Trace’s expression as he heard the guys in the truck.

  If I’d had any doubts before, this picture nixed them. The fear on Trace’s face here was plain as day. Whatever I’d been witnessing, Trace had been genuinely freaked by these guys.

  I squinted down at the picture. I would have given my right arm to know what they’d really said to him. Instead, I created a new file and archived the photos. Both guys had stood with their backs to me, so I never had the opportunity for a good shot of their faces. Though I had caught a profile image as one had ushered Trace into the van. Nothing particularly notable about him, but I decided to keep it anyway. One never knew.

  By the time I was finished, I looked up to find most of the office empty, everyone else having called it a night already.

  I shut my computer down, following their lead.

  But, for some reason, when I h
it Venice, I didn’t make the left toward my place. Instead, my car jagged right. Onto the PCH. Up past the Santa Monica pier. Toward Malibu, where a big fat question mark was still dominating my thoughts.

  It was fully dark by the time I arrived outside Trace’s house for the second time that day. I parked again across the street from the back gate, staring up the hill at the scattered lights illuminating the windows of his estate. From what I knew of the layout from earlier, I could tell someone was in the kitchen. Another light blinked on in the room next door – maybe a living room? And three upstairs lights were brightly lit behind half-closed shutters. Bedrooms? Offices? Maybe a combo of both.

  I watched a shadow cross in front of the middle window, the outline of a man’s shape coming into view. Trace? Was I watching Trace in his bedroom?

  I closed my eyes, trying to envision what Trace’s bedroom might look like. It was clear from my earlier visit that he enjoyed the help of a decorator. No big surprise there. Even if he had time to do the place himself, I had a feeling Trace’s style was more utilitarian bachelor than Hollywood chic.

  I pictured navy blues for his room, maybe some dark chocolate browns. Deep, masculine colors. Lots of wood, maybe some shiny chrome to bring in a modern touch. Painted walls, no frou-frou wallpaper or faux finishes for this guy. I vaguely wondered what plans Jamie Lee had for the place once she got her hands on it. Rumor was she’d already sold her Hollywood Hills place in favor of moving into Trace’s estate after the wedding.

  I was just envisioning Jamie Lee’s pink and frills attitude toward life clashing with Trace’s masculine furniture when a noise jarred me from my thoughts.

  It was loud, sharp, echoing through the still night. Like a car backfiring.

  Or a gunshot.

  My eyes shot open. The house looked exactly the same, standing like a silent sentinel upon the hill. In fact it looked so still and serene that I might have chalked it up to hearing things… might have. If the sound hadn’t rung out again. Clearly a gunshot. And clearly coming from Trace’s place.

  My heart leapt into my throat, my hands fumbling in my bag for my cell phone. My fingers were shaking as they finally grasped around my cell and tried to dial 9-1-1. All the while my gaze pinging back and forth between my Motorola and Trace’s back door. Three tries into it, I finally managed to hit the right buttons.