I scrolled through the photos to see if I could come up with anything more recent, though she seemed to disappear after that last film.
Undaunted, I plugged her real name into my search engine. A few clicks later, I finally found what I was looking for. An obituary for a Rebecca Lubenschwartz. Or, as she was referred to in the article, Mrs. Schlomo Goldenfink nee Lubenschwartz. Talk about a mouthful.
She’d passed away in a nursing home outside Cleveland just last year after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. The obit was short, sweet, and to the point, mentioning that she was survived by two children and a dozen grandchildren. Nothing alluding to her life as Becky Martin. I wondered if this was per her wishes. Had she taken off for Cleveland to outrun Becky Martin? Out of guilt perhaps?
Beside the obituary sat a photo of the late Ms. Lubenschwartz. I stared into the wrinkled face. Age had been kind to Becky, softening the hard look in her eyes, converting the baby fat to a strong jaw line that time had not touched. She wore a network of wrinkles next to her eyes, but they hung more like comfortable laugh lines than unsightly flaws. All in all, she looked like someone’s jovial grandmother. Just as with Carlyle, I had a difficult time picturing her as a killer.
I downloaded the articles I could find and compacted them all into one file, saving the lot of it to my hard drive.
I was just sending the whole file off to Max when I looked up to find an older couple staring at Trace from across the terminal.
Great. More fans.
The guy wore a Hawaiian shirt and khaki trousers above topsiders, while the wife was dressed in capris and a blue hair scrunchie. Clearly out of towners.
The wife nudged her husband. “It’s him,” she whispered, pointing at Trace.
Here we go again.
Only the husband shook his head. “I don’t think so, honey.”
I glanced at Trace. Huh. What do you know, maybe the mustache was working.
“No, no, I’m certain. It’s him. I mean, look at him. He looks just like the guy in that movie.”
“What are the chances it’s really him, darling?”
The wife shook her head. “No. I’m positive.” She left her husband’s side and in two quick steps was beside Trace.
“Excuse me,” she said timidly.
Trace, thus far oblivious to the whole exchange between husband and wife, pulled his eyes from the TV news to face her. “Yes?” he asked.
“I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if I could ask…” her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re him aren’t you? That actor?”
Trace pulled a forced smile. I could tell even he was getting weary of the fan-club routine. “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”
The wife blushed. “Oh, my. See, I told you so, Harold.”
The husband shrugged. “Well when the little lady’s right, she’s right.”
“Oh, we just loved you in You’ve Got Shemale.”
I choked on my Vitamin Water. “You’ve got what?”
The wife blinked. “The adult film. You know, the naughty spoof of that Trace Brody film, You’ve Got Email? I’d recognize that mustache anywhere. You were so good as the actor spoofing Brody.” She glanced down at Trace’s wee-willie-winkie region. “So good.”
Trace opened his mouth to speak. But only a strangled sound in the back of his throat came out.
I swallowed a snicker. Okay, I tried to swallow it, but it came out anyway. “He was good, wasn’t he?” I asked.
“Do you think we could get your autograph?” the wife asked.
Trace coughed into his hand, regaining control of himself, and mumbled, “Sure.”
But not before shooting me a dirty look.
The husband thrust a napkin and Sharpie at the actor. Trace signed an indistinguishable scribble, , all the while turning three deep, lovely shades of red so that by the time they finally walked away he was nearing crimson.
As soon as they rounded the corner, he ripped the mustache off and tossed it a nearby garbage bin.
“That’s it. You do not get to pick out my disguise anymore.”
I nodded. Then snickered again.
I was about to make a wisecrack about his newfound fame, when a voice from the TV news in the corner caught my attention.
“…the body of a prominent Beverly Hills agent.”
Uh oh.
Both Trace and I whipped our heads around to the TV as one.
A female newscaster droned on as a photo of the dead man in question appeared next to her.
“Bert Decker, a top agent in Hollywood, representing such talented actors as Trace Brody, was found dead in his Burbank home today by a neighbor. Sources have confirmed that police are looking at his death as a homicide.”
Double uh oh. I turned to Trace to speak.
Only I didn’t get that far, as the next words from the newscaster’s mouth stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Police say they have a lead on the killer as DNA has been collected from hair fibers at the crime scene from an unknown source. While police have yet to put a name to the DNA profile, they can tell us that the hairs are from a blonde female.”
I looked down at my hair.
Oh. Shit.
Chapter Fifteen
“I’m an unknown assailant!” I yelled.
Trace clamped a hand over my mouth. “Jesus, you want the whole airport to know?” he mumbled.
I looked around. Two businessmen in the seats next to me were staring. Trace gave them his hundred-watt smile, nodding comfortingly, as he unclamped my mouth.
In deference to them, I pseudo-whispered this time. “You made me an unknown assailant! They have my DNA”
“Relax, they need a known sample to compare it to.”
I shot him a look.
“What? I watch CSI, too.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
As if to answer me, the reporter at the news desk piped up again. “Police say the hair fibers were found on the gate leading into Decker’s backyard. They are currently looking into the identity of this unknown female.”
“Fabulous!” I threw my hands up in the air.
“You’re fine,” Trace said, leaning back in his chair again, taking on that practiced casual pose he did so well. It was his “buddy film” look – smooth, slightly snarky, everyone’s best friend but just a little on the mischievous side, too.
Only this audience wasn’t buying it.
“Fine? Fine! I’m wanted!”
“They have a piece of hair, not a name. Look, if they actually suspected you, they would be marching through the airport to arrest you already.”
I whipped my head right then left, wildly scanning the corridor for any sign of cops with guns drawn.
Thank God, I saw none.
Yet.
“Relax, Cam,” he said.
I sat back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest in an instinctively protective gesture. “Easy for you to say. It’s not your hair fiber!”
“Look, let’s just get that flash drive and everything will be fine.”
He leaned his head back on the rest, closing his eyes, effectively ending the discussion.
Even though I wasn’t so sure it would be that easy. Sure, if we turned the flash drive over to these guys, Trace’s life expectancy would be going up significantly. But what about Decker’s murder? And my DNA at the scene? I wasn’t sure that just getting these guys off Trace’s back was going to solve all my problems. Like it or not, the cops were involved now. And they weren’t exactly on our side.
Exactly how I got myself into these situations, I wasn’t sure.
But I was so asking for a raise when this was all over.
* * *
Twenty minutes later we boarded the plane, Trace pulling his ball cap down low over his eyes as we made our way through the connector tunnel. I saw him cast a longing glance at the first-class seats, but we’d both agreed that he’d be much more incognito traveling in coach. A decision I regretted the minute I
sat down. I was wedged between a French guy who apparently didn’t believe in American deodorant and a woman carrying a Chihuahua in a lap bag. The little dog yipped loudly as I sat down.
A mere hour and a thousand yips later, we landed at McCarren International where we grabbed a cab and made straight for the Victoria Club, which turned out to be a shiny mass of building done in art deco black and gold and trimmed with lots and lots of pink neon lighting. Unfortunately they didn’t open until nine. I looked down at my watch. 7:35.
“Now what?” I asked.
Trace surveyed the street. It was in the older part of town, near the original downtown area. While the place had been cleaned up significantly in recent years, once again making the neon lit Fremont Street a tourist destination, the fringes of the neighborhood still spoke of the hard times the town had suffered. The Victoria Club was nestled between a pawn shop, a quickie wedding chapel that boasted “free buffet voucher with every marriage” and across the street from a hotel/casino sporting a flashing sign that read, “The Cowboy Cabana.” I’d swear the exterior of the place hadn’t been updated since Bugsy Siegel ran the place.
“Let’s grab something to eat,” Trace said, indicating the casino.
For lack of a better idea, I nodded in agreement. In all the commotion, I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Mundane bodily functions like eating and sleeping had fallen to the wayside. But, faced with a little downtime, my stomach was rumbling something fierce.
We crossed the street and made our way through the smoky casino filled with slot machines and peeling blackjack tables. Unlike the rest of the country, Vegas maintained its status as a city of vice by being one of the only metropolises in the country to still allow smoking in public places. Even if those public places were restricted to casinos and brothels.
We made our way through the tobacco haze to the back of the casino to find the registration desk. An Asian guy in a cowboy hat sat behind the desk.
“May I help you?” he asked as we approached.
Trace gave him his hundred-watt smile.
“Great hat. We’d like to get a room, please?”
“Do you have a reservation?” he asked in heavily accented English.
I shook my head. “Do we need one?”
“Today special. No reservation required!” He clapped his hands to indicate just how “special” this was. Then he pulled a keyboard out from under the desk and turned to his monitor. “What size do you want?”
“A double, please,” Trace answered.
“You in luck. We have one double available. Is very nice room.”
“We’ll take it,” Trace said.
“We running special on this room today. You book two nights and get a free helicopter ride over Lake Mead.”
“We’ll just take the room, thanks,” I said.
He shook his head. “Okay, I throw in free tickets to visit Hoover Dam. How about that, huh?”
Trace grinned. “I’ve never been to the Hoover Dam.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “Just the room for the one night, please.”
“Okay, okay. You drive hard bargain. How about this? I give you honeymoon special – you book two nights and I throw in two tickets to see David Copperfield magic at the MGM and a bottle of our finest champagne?”
“I’ve never seen David Copperfield,” Trace said.
I elbowed him again. Harder.
“Ouch!”
“Just the room, please.”
The guy behind the desk put his hand up in a surrender motion. “Okay, okay. Just the room.” He turned to Trace. “She no fun, huh?”
He grinned. “None at all.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Name?” the guy asked.
“Smith.”
He glanced up at the two of us under the brim of his hat. Then snorted. “Ah. Of course. Mr. Smith.” But he punched the name into the system anyway.
“Credit card?” he asked.
Trace bit his lip. Then turned to me with a whisper. “My name’s on my credit card. It might be best if you…”He trailed off, doing a sheepish grin.
Seriously? Jamie Lee got a hundred-thousand-dollar dress and I got the room bill?
“Fine.” I fished my wallet out of my bag and handed it to the man.
He glanced at the name on the card, raised one eyebrow, but, considering I wasn’t a mega-movie star, he didn’t mention the discrepancy. My guess was the place saw a number of “Mr. & Mrs. Smiths” filter through their doors each day.
After running my card and having me sign a slip saying I was liable for any extensive damages to the room, he handed Trace the room key.
“Four fifteen. Take the elevator on the right. You need help with your bags?” he asked, scanning behind us for nonexistent luggage.
“Nope. Got it. Thanks!” I said, steering Trace away from the desk.
“Enjoy your stay!” I heard him yell as we made our way to the elevator near the restrooms.
“What was that all about?” I asked once the elevator doors had closed.
“What?”
“’I’ve never seen the Hoover Dam.’”
He shrugged. “You don’t exactly get to do touristy things when you’re ‘Trace Brody,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers.
I shot him a look.
He grinned. “Relax. I wasn’t actually going to take him up on it. If was just kinda nice to imagine for a minute.”
Again, I felt like I was getting a small peek at the man behind the celebrity. I felt privileged… and unnerved all at the same time. Since me and my kind were the prime reason Trace didn’t get to do touristy things. For the first time in my life, I felt kinda guilty. It wasn’t a fun feeling. I swallowed it down as we exited the elevator, instead immediately pouncing on the room service menu as we hit the room. Unfortunately, this was not the billion-dollar a year Vegas Strip… and the menu reflected that. Cheeseburgers, ribs, and steak sandwiches dominated. I wrinkled my nose, finally settling on a side salad and a fruit plate.
“I thought you were hungry,” Trace teased after putting in our order. (He, I noticed, went with the steak sandwich and the cheeseburger. How he kept his movie-star figure eating like that, I’d never know.)
“Hungry? Yes. Willing to put crap in my body just to fill my stomach? No.”
He grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those health nuts?”
“I prefer the term health conscious to health nut.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jamie Lee’s like that, too. Fat-free everything. If it has more than fifty calories in it, she can’t have it in her refrigerator.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not a calorie counter.” Anymore. “I just… okay, take that burger you just ordered for instance. Do you know where that comes from?”
“A cow?” He grinned again, clearly humoring me.
“Right. A cow. And where did the cow come from?”
“His mama cow?”
“Smartass.”
He winked at me.
I ignored him with no small effort. God, he had a sexy wink. “The cow likely came from some overcrowded farm where he spent the bulk of his life in a pen not even big enough turn around in to keep him from growing muscles. Muscles produce less tender beef. Fatter cows give the good stuff. So he’s fed a steady diet of fattening foods and hormones designed to make him grow faster, thus maximizing profits. Hormones that are stored in his fat cells go into the meat you eat.”
“Yuck.”
“No kidding. But it doesn’t stop there. Now, because he’s cooped up in the pen next to a bazillion other cows all cooped up in their pens, diseases run rampant through these farms. So, Mr. Future Cheeseburger is pumped full of antibiotics to keep him from getting sick. All of which are stored in the fatty tissues which then end up in your burger.”
Trace cocked his head at me, seeming to take all this in. Then he finally grinned. “But cheeseburgers are yummy.”
My turn to roll my eyes. “Then chow
down. But I think I’ll stick to my salad, thank you.”
“Really? I mean, do you know where that lettuce comes from?”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.”
“No, I’m serious,” he said. Even though his eyes were still laughing at me. “Unless that stuff’s organic, which, considering the venue here, I highly doubt, it comes from a farm that was sprayed with pesticides to keep the bugs from eating crops. Lettuce grows in layers. Each layer was sprayed with pesticides before the next layer formed around the head, effectively sealing the poison in. Not to mention the ground the roots are anchored in is soaked in pesticides as well, meaning that not only is your food coated in it, it’s in the very cells of the plant. It’s like one big poison ball by the time it gets to your plate.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he didn’t let me finish.
“Oh, and it doesn’t stop there,” he went on, mocking me word for word. “Let’s talk about the dressing for a minute, shall we? Hydrogenated vegetable oils, high-fructose corn syrup, preservatives, artificial flavors. That stuff is like injecting plastic right into your veins. Those oils will clog you faster than five cheeseburgers would. But if you want to go ahead and eat your poison-and-plastic salad, be my guest.”
He finished with a self-satisfied smirk and plopped down onto the opposite bed, lacing his hands behind his head.
I waited a beat. Then couldn’t help it. I broke out into laughter. Damned it if he hadn’t beaten me at my own game. I grabbed a pillow and swatted him with it.
“You suck!”
“Hey, you started it,” he said, putting his arms up to fend off my attack.
“Fine. We’re even, health boy.”
“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go take a shower while I wait for my death on a plate to arrive.”
I watched Trace cross the room into the little attached bathroom and listened as he turned the water on. I had to admit, I was impressed at his knowledge of food health. Even if he had used it against me. Not that it was news to me. I’d just read an article in Vegetarian Today on that very thing the other day. Apparently Trace had read it, too.
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