“Yeah, and if I bring the cops into this, the next one could be mine.”
“Tell the police what happened. Maybe they can help you.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“They can protect you.”
“How?” he asked, letting out a bark of laughter that held zero actual humor. “What are they gonna do, park a cruiser outside my house? These guys broke into my place last night, getting past security gates, alarms, and two full-time bodyguards. I have a feeling a black and white at the curb isn’t going to deter them.”
I refrained from pointing out that, by his own admission, his security team wasn’t exactly the tops.
“Maybe they can put you into protective custody or something,” I offered.
“That’ll work real well. Trace Brody goes into witness protection. No one will notice me, I’m sure.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it,” I mumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Look, these guys are serious,” he said. “And they’re not going to stop here,” he gestured around himself at Decker’s family room.
And that’s when I really looked around the place for the first time. Along the back wall sat an antique roll-top desk, the top open, papers strewn every which way. Next to it a lamp lay on its side, the bulb broken. A small sofa sat in the corner, the cushions upended, the stuffing bulging out of their torn sides. The dead body in the center of the room had, until then, kind of stolen my focus (go figure), but it was clear now as I looked around that whoever had killed Decker had torn the place apart looking for something.
That damned flash drive.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling a chill despite the climbing temperatures outside.
Trace pulled his arm inside the sleeve of his shirt, then walked to the sliding glass door and began wiping the handle.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting rid of my fingerprints.”
“You’re contaminating the crime scene!”
He shot me a look. “Good!”
I bit my lip. Oh boy. I was in way over my head.
“We got to get out of here,” Trace said, moving on to the outside of the door where his nose print was still clearly visible.
I looked back at Decker. He was kind of slumped in his chair, his head lolling to the side, his mouth hanging slack in a perpetual look of surprise.
“So what are we gonna do? Just leave him here?”
Trace paused, cocking his head to the side as he glanced at his former agent. For a moment genuine emotion shone there, and I wondered how close they’d been. But he only indulged in it for a second, shaking his head again. “There’s nothing we can do for him now. Come on.” He grabbed my hand, quickly pulling me back out the door, shutting the slider behind us, and wiping the handle again with his sleeve. Then we carefully backtracked through the yard, Trace covering our footprints as we went. Apparently he watched CSI, too. When we got to the gate, he hoisted me up first, giving me a boost up-and-over, before he climbed it himself, dropping with a quick thud on the other side.
Two minutes later we were racing down Verdugo, as if Decker’s killers might somehow be hot on our trail. Which, of course, they weren’t. If Decker was cold, that meant he had to have been dead for at least an hour. And considering the temp outside today it was likely closer to three or four. (Okay, I watch a lot of CSI.)
Four blocks down, I spied a Coffee Bean and pulled in. I needed some serious caffeine if I was going to approach this whole thing with a clear head.
“What are we doing here?” he asked, his gaze shooting to the rearview mirror as if he, too, were expecting a crazed gunman to appear behind us at any second.
“I need a coffee break.” I held out my right hand. It was still shaking after having touched Decker’s neck. “See?” I said.
Trace nodded. “Yeah. Coffee. That’s a good idea.” And as he got out of the car, I noticed his hands weren’t all that steady either.
The Coffee Bean was L.A.’s answer to Starbucks – the uber trendy chain where people pretending they were too cool for Starbucks went to see and be seen. At any given time of day it is mandatory for all Southern California Coffee Beans to have at least two frustrated screenwriters pounding on their laptops in the corner, four wannabe actresses causally thumbing through scripts in hopes of being noticed, and one washed up sitcom star lurking near the entrance hoping someone will ask for his autograph if only he says his characters’ catch phrase loudly enough.
We ordered our drinks from a barrista with long, red hair and a purple stud in her tongue. I asked for a black coffee and, to my surprise, so did Trace.
“What, no fashionable lattes for you?” I asked as we waited in line behind a blonde wannabe actress with a script sticking conspicuously out the top of her Juicy handbag. (See what I mean?)
He shook his head. “That sweet stuff gives me a headache. Sorry to disappoint you.”
On the contrary. I was actually kinda impressed. Fleetingly I wondered what Jamie Lee drank. Probably something nonfat, nonsugar, nontaste. Not that I blamed her. I knew what it was like to have your ability to pay your rent tied directly to your looks. But that was a long time ago and not a lifetime I wanted to revisit anytime soon.
Our orders came up and we took them to a table near the back of the coffee shop to regroup. Only, no sooner had we sat down than the blonde wannabe noticed us.
“Oh wow. Oh wow.” She immediately descended upon us, her heavily lipsticked mouth hanging open in a perk little, “O”. “Trace Brody?” she asked.
Shit. We’d forgotten the windbreaker in the car.
“Ohmigod, it is you!” Pert Blonde said, rounding our table.
I saw Trace’s “on” face slide reluctantly into place. “Hi there,” he said, giving her his matinee-idol smile.
“Wow, it is so cool to meet you,” she gushed, grabbing onto his hand and shaking like she wanted to detach it and take it with her. “I’ve seen all your films. You are such an inspiration.”
“Thanks.” I watched his eyes do a slow sweep of her frame and sucked down a wave of jealousy as he took in her micro-mini, long legs dedicated to countless hours of daily pilates.
“You know, you are like my idol,” she gushed. “Did you know that we had the same acting coach? Well, okay, a different coach but at the same studio. I send my headshots in to your agent every time I get them updated. His assistant said he was definitely going to call me if a part came up that I’d fit. I’m expecting him to get back to me any day now.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I mumbled.
Trace kicked me under the table.
Luckily, Blondie was so engrossed in Trace I wasn’t even on her radar.
“In fact, I heard that you’re about to start production on that Planet of the Apes remake movie, and I really think I’d make a perfect ape.”
I covered a snort, narrowly avoiding a nasal coffee spew.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a headshot.
I snuck a peek. Wow, someone had done a hell of a lot of retouching. In fact… I squinted up at the actress. I’d say her nose was at least an inch shorter in the photo.
“Here,” she thrust the photo at Trace. “Maybe you could, you know, pass it along to the producers? I hear they’re casting next week.”
“Yeah. Sure. Glad to.” He gave her another winning smile.
One she mirrored back in spades, her lips curling so far out I thought they might crack her face. “Ohmigod, that is so sweet of you. And, you know what, if you ever want to like get together and hone our craft sometime, I’d really love that.”
I snorted. Hone our craft? If that wasn’t code for something dirty, I didn’t know what was.
“Uh… well…” Trace hedged.
“Here, give me your cell and I’ll program my number in.” She held out one manicured hand.
Trace hesitated. But he must have decided that the fastest way to get rid of her was just t
o hand it over, so he did.
If Blondie smiled any bigger, she was gonna break something. She punched her number in, then handed the cell back with a, “Call me,” and flounced away, clearly on cloud nine.
I leaned forward to see the number. She’d filed it under, “Candi”. I had a feeling that if she could have drawn a little heart over the “i”, she would have.
“What a bimbo.”
Trace shrugged.
“You gonna call her?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee.
He shook his head. “Are you kidding?” He picked up the cell, quickly deleting the entry. “If Jamie Lee even saw this, she’d go ballistic.”
“The jealous type, huh?”
He grinned. “That French film I did? When Jamie Lee saw the nude shower scene between me and my co-star she freaked. Didn’t speak to me for a full week. And we weren’t even together when I filmed that movie.”
“Wow. She sounds like a bundle of fun.”
He shrugged. “She’s not so bad.”
“’Not so bad?’ Gee, if you’re so madly in love with her, why don’t you marry her?” I teased.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny, tabloid girl.” But he quickly picked up his coffee cup, sipping to mask some emotion I wasn’t fast enough to read.
Instead, I mirrored him, sipping my coffee as well. We were both silent a beat, but in the face of Blondie’s shameless flirting, I couldn’t help the reporter in me from piping up.
“So, I gotta ask… what’s it like to have beautiful women throwing themselves at you all the time?”
“Please. She was not throwing herself at me.”
“’Hone our craft’? If that wasn’t code for playing the naked mambo, I don’t know what is.”
“Naked mambo?” He grinned. “Cute.”
“Don’t change the subject. Did you ever give Jamie Lee reason to be so jealous?”
He shook his head. “Nice try. But, no, I haven’t.”
“Hm. You know, even if you had, that is exactly the answer you’d give.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
The sound of the ELO trilling “Hold on tight to your dreams” from the phone in his hand broke in, saving him from further questioning.
“Saved by the bell,” he said.
He looked down at the number. Not one he recognized if the frown between his brows meant anything. “If this is that blonde…” he trailed off, hitting the on button.
“Trace Brody.” he answered.
But I could tell immediately from the look on his face that it was not some perky wannabe starlet. He went stark white, the levity we’d been trying to cultivate after seeing his agent disappearing faster than cellulite at Dr. B’s office. His eyes went dark, his jaw clenching, and I knew that whoever was on the other line was no friend.
A fact that was confirmed as he mouthed the words, “It’s them.”
Chapter Twelve
“The killers?” I mouthed back.
He nodded, his jaw tensing. Then he put the phone on speaker and set it on the table between us.
“What do you want?” Trace asked. I had to hand it to him. His voice was a lot steadier than mine would have been if I were talking to the guys that had just shot my agent.
“You know what we want,” came the reply. The voice was male, deep, harboring just the slightest hint of an accent from back east somewhere. Jersey maybe? Or maybe I’d just seen too many Sopranos episodes and was reading into it.
“The flash drive,” Trace answered. “Look, I told you I don’t have it.”
“Neither did your agent.”
Even though I’d been 90% sure that these guys had killed Decker, hearing him refer to the agent in past tense confirmed it. A chill went up my spine as I gripped my coffee cup that much tighter.
“You killed him,” Trace said, voicing my thoughts.
The man ignored the accusation, cutting right to the chase. “Where is it?” he asked.
“I swear I don’t know. Jesus, if I did know, don’t you think I’d tell you guys?”
This only got a grunt of response on the other end. Then, “Twenty-four hours.”
“What?”
“You’ve got twenty-four hours to produce that flash drive.”
Trace’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. He shook his head at the phone. “Look, I gave it to Decker. I don’t know where it is now-”
“Well then you better find it,” the man cut in. “Otherwise you and your agent are gonna have a whole lot more in common.”
Trace and I stared at each other, letting the implication sink in.
“Twenty-four hours,” the man said again. Then he hung up.
Trace stared at the phone. Then looked up at me.
“I think he just threatened to kill me,” he said, stating the obvious.
I looked down at the time readout on his phone. Two thirty-three.
“You sure you don’t want to call the police?” I asked. “I mean, maybe they could trace the call or put a tap on your phone or…” I trailed off. Mostly because I couldn’t think of any other ways the cops really could help. And even those had been thin.
But Trace shook his head. “No. The cops will just slow us down. What we need is to find that flash drive.”
I set my coffee cup down. “Okay. Where do we start?”
He paused, glancing my way. “Look, I appreciate you keeping this whole thing under wraps, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to be involved.”
I blinked at him. “Are you serious? We just found a dead body together. I’m pretty involved at this point.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t you hear that guy?” he asked, gesturing to his phone. “He just threatened to kill me. I don’t think I’m the safest person for you to be hanging out with.”
I paused. His concern was touching. Even though I wasn’t entirely convinced it was out of the goodness of his heart and not an attempt to stave off a front page story about himself.
“Are you really concerned about my safety or just trying to get rid of me?” I asked.
He paused. “Maybe a little of both.”
I narrowed my eyes.
His mouth softened. “But mostly the former.”
“Look, I can take care of myself. Besides, how far do you think you’re going to get without my help? You can barely move two feet in this town without some fan accosting you.”
“Well, maybe if I had a better disguise…”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll work on that. Now let’s go find that flash drive.” I stood, dropping my cup in the trash. “You coming?”
Despite his protestations that he wanted to play lone wolf on this one, he grinned, and I wasn’t totally sure I didn’t see a hint of relief in his face as he said, “Right behind you, Columbo.”
* * *
Since the drive clearly wasn’t at Decker’s home, the next most logical place to look was his office.
Bert Decker worked at the premier talent agency in Los Angeles, a place so big that simply uttering its initials usually got you entrance to any VIP event this side of the San Gabriel Valley. Originally taking up the penthouse floors of one of Wilshire’s finest high rises, it had recently relocated to its own building in Beverly Hills. Or, more accurately, its own block. The place was so massive as to be able to house the housewives of both Orange County and New Jersey without anyone being in chair-throwing distance from one another. Affectionately, it was known to most industry folks as the Death Star. Though, whether that was because of the odd architectural feature of a giant hole in the middle of the building or because it housed the most powerful forces of evil in the galaxy, no one was quite sure. Either way, to say it was a little imposing was like saying Megan Fox was a little popular with teen boys.
I couldn’t help being intimidated as we pulled up in front and let the valet take my Jeep. Trace reluctantly grabbed the windbreaker again and ducked his head as we quickly slipped inside, clearly not that excited about being out in the open. Though whe
ther he was afraid of be shot by a paparazzo’s camera or a thug’s gun, I couldn’t say.
I followed him through the two-story-high glass doors into the massive front lobby, filled with guys in suits with Bluetooths attached to their heads. While the exterior was all black glass and chrome (in true Death Star fashion), the interior was done in white marble floors, white marble walls, and white modern furniture. The Kool Aid man’s nightmare. Mounted on the ceiling was an abstract light installation posing as artwork that threw multicolored beams of light across the room. As we crossed the pink and blue beams to the reception desk, it reminded me of my first middle school dance.
On the opposite side of the chic, underfurnished lobby was a huge marble desk manned by multiple receptionists wearing headsets and fake smiles.
Ones that got measurably bigger at the sight of Trace Brody approaching.
The only reason most people took low-level jobs at the Death Star was to be able to brag to their families back in Iowa about their fleeting contact with the big stars who frequently filtered in and out of the offices. And you didn’t get much bigger than Trace.
“May I help you?” asked a Hispanic brunette with a smile that had seen one too many hours under her dentist’s whitening lasers.
“I’m here to see Decker,” he lied.
“Of course. One moment, please.” She punched a couple buttons on her keyboard, quietly speaking into her headset as she called up to Decker’s assistant. After mumbling discreetly into her mouthpiece, she turned back to us.
“I’m so sorry, but he’s not in the office right now.”
Which, of course, we both knew all too well. We also knew he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. However, if we were going to gain access to his office, we couldn’t tip our hand.
“When will he be back?” I asked, trying to play innocent.
“I’m sorry, I can’t say.”
“Well, shoot,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “We really need to see him. Trace left something in his office the last time he was here. You don’t mind if we just go up and wait for him, do you?” I asked.
She turned her attention to me as if noticing me for the first time. She lowered her mouthpiece, looking up at me through a pair of fake eyelashes.
Hollywood Secrets Page 12