When my car pulled up to the door, I signed off and peered outside. The side of the building was empty so I rushed through the door and down the steps to my car. The man put away his phone and held the car door for me.
I rewarded him with a smile as I slid into the seat. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
He closed the door and leaned forward, speaking in a low intimate voice. “I like to have beautiful women in my debt.”
Delia had been right. Definite tuxedo material. Hell, a possible King!
“Send me the bill anytime.” My laugh rang with flirtation. “You have my number.”
As I started to put the car in gear, something stopped me. I glanced up and realized that Hank stood at his window. Watching.
****
I was still reeling from the King’s warm smile and Hank’s frosty glare as I drove toward the street.
“Hey, Kimberly,” came a shout from my left, setting off a scramble of photographers.
I stepped on the gas and made a hard right onto the street, nearly colliding with a passing car. It honked and jerked around me. My heart thumped as I sped away. Luckily, no one in the media followed. The only car I glimpsed in my rearview mirror was a gray sedan that pulled away from the curb down the block.
I turned onto the wide strip of busy traffic that flowed along Sepulveda Boulevard to drive home. I needed fresh clothes and I wanted to pick up my jewelry, which was locked in my safe. I didn’t like leaving it there, even with Lindy’s presence. At the next red light, I pulled out my phone to let her know I was coming.
“I think there’s someone from Hollywood Happening and one of the cable networks outside,” she cautioned.
The jewelry could wait. I didn’t feel like another game of cat and mouse. No one would stake out the house twenty-four hours a day. I could go by later.
“Brad Singer called,” she continued. “I guess he doesn’t have your new phone number.”
“I’ll call him.” I had gotten a new cell number that morning. Even my mother didn’t have it yet. “No calls from Delia? She’s the only one you can give it to, understand?”
“She hasn’t called. What about the station? Like Mr. Adams?”
I doubted the general manager would call, but I assured her I would call him. I clicked off. Damn, that girl sounded timid.
A sign ahead pointed to an entrance to the 405 freeway. I gunned my car to pull right across two lanes to get to the onramp. Cars behind me honked as tires screeched. One came around me on the left with the driver holding up a middle finger.
Behind me, more cars honked and I heard a crunch. I glanced in my rearview mirror. The gray car that left the police station behind me, or one that looked like it, had attempted the same maneuver. Its front fender was smashed into the back of a car while a third was attached to its hind end.
Had that car been following me?
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday, 12:30 p.m.
“You shouldn’t have to stay much longer.” Reba sank onto a lounge chair at the edge of the Four Seasons pool. “Everyone is camped outside the girlfriend’s house. A gated compound in Bel Air is a better backdrop since her family comes and goes.”
The thought of the Bimbo facing the determined media while I remained anonymous made me smile. I rubbed another layer of suntan lotion over my shoulders. Under a big hat, hidden by sunglasses, I could pass for a tourist relaxing by the pool.
“Thanks for coming by.”
Reba tossed up her hands in a dramatic wave. “I took the afternoon off and told Alan he’s paying for us to go to lunch. How are you doing?”
“Evan, Adrienne, and Oliver are handling everything. I got my car back, but after I had to drive like a maniac to escape the media, I’m keeping the rental for now.”
“How did things go with the cops? They won’t say shit, except they don’t have suspects.”
I made a face. “I’m glad Oliver’s on my side. Southern charm wrapped around a pit bull.”
“That was quite a news conference he held at the police station.” She adopted a soft southern drawl. “‘My client’s only interest is to help police find the killer.’ He’ll make them toe the line.”
I believed her. After I’d told him about Torres’ comment, he promised to send a letter to Hank demanding a formal apology.
“I’ve given up watching TV or getting on the Internet. Everyone makes me sound like a jealous, jilted bitch. Relax. This is like vacation.”
She signaled a poolside waiter and ordered a mimosa before removing her bright blue mules and putting up her feet. “I could handle hanging out a few days in a swanky hotel.”
“I thought about going to Delia’s since I have her keys, but I won’t do that until I ask permission. Her snooty neighbors probably wouldn’t like having media camped out. I wish I could reach her. I get no answer on her cell and she hasn’t answered my texts or email.”
“Can’t you call her hotel?”
I made a face. “Dummy here forgot to get the name. I think they’re taking a cruise along the Amazon after a couple of days in Rio. This is fine. I’ve got a suite and room service.”
“Suite?” Her face jerked toward me. “Isn’t that pricey? I know Alan agreed to pay your rental car and hotel room, but…”
“It’s only a couple of days.”
The waiter returned with the mimosa, and she lifted her glass. “Here’s to Alan’s checkbook.”
I had no illusions about Alan. The station was getting something from me too. I provided personal pictures of Rick and a video taken inside the wine shop when it opened. That gave TV8 an exclusive until everyone pirated it. Alan would probably expect me to give them an interview eventually. Sometimes I hated my profession.
Reba’s cell rang and she turned to me as she read the caller ID. “It’s Brad. I told him I was coming to see you. Want to talk to him?”
I reached for the phone. I’d forgotten to call him back.
“How are you, Kimberly?” His voice rang with concern. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“I’m here if you need me.” He sent flowers the previous afternoon with a card offering to buy dinner. After my terrible morning, I opted for room service.
“I could use an alibi,” I joked.
Brad didn’t laugh. “If people hadn’t seen me dancing that night, I might lie. You should have joined us.”
“Given how things turned out, I wish I had. But it’ll be okay. Oliver keeps his clients out of jail. I’ve heard the threat of tangling with him can keep the DA from going to court.”
“I have friends in the DA’s office, if you want me to ask around.”
Warmth spread through my insides, much like the sun that glided over my shoulders. I turned away, lowering my voice so that Reba couldn’t hear me. “Brad, you’re being very kind.”
“Just trying to help. Call me if you get bored, since I don’t have your new number.”
I gave it to him and hung up.
“Something going on between you and anchor stud?” Reba asked as I handed back her phone.
“Anchor stud?” I couldn’t restrain a laugh. “No, but tell me about him.”
Reba clapped her hands together like an eager teenager. “You are interested.”
“He’s been nice.” Maybe I didn’t need a man around, but I liked having one available.
“You’re blushing.”
Normally I might have protested, but gossiping about a hunky guy was preferable to thinking about photographers camped outside my house. Or that stranger inside. Was Lindy trying on my clothes and shoes? I hadn’t seen any telltale signs when I picked up my jewelry at midnight, but I noticed she was my size. At least my jewelry was safe. It now rested in a Louis Vuitton train case in a hotel safe. If only I could have a man stashed in a safe somewhere! I could pull him out whenever I needed him.
“Delia says I need to get back into dating, but think about it. That first-time sex thing? At my age?” I shud
dered.
Reba looked me over in my bikini. “I should look so good.”
The compliment didn’t help. Men my age preferred younger women—ask Rick. And while men might want to take me out, I didn’t kid myself about why. Dating the Queen of L.A. TV counted for something in this fame-driven city. Maybe I would hear from the would-be King who helped with my car. In the meantime…
“Do you know if Brad is seeing anyone?”
Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “He and Gwen had a thing for a while, but it’s over. Haven’t you noticed how tense they are on the air?”
This was the reason I didn’t date coworkers—gossip or on-air rivalries. “What did he see in Gwen?”
“May I ask something?” she asked instead of answering. Her tone had grown serious. “Are you really okay? I know we’ve been joking, but, well…Rick was your guy.”
“Ex-guy.” Was I okay? I didn’t know. I said my goodbye at the beach, but part of me still felt raw. I drained my mimosa. “The sun is getting hot. Let me grab a shower and we’ll do lunch in Beverly Hills and go shopping.”
“Didn’t you pick up clothes last night?”
“I need something new. Something fun.” And I wanted to make Hank’s officers work if they were following me. The more I thought about the previous day, the more convinced I was that gray car belonged to a police officer. Non-descript sedan equaled police tail. Let them report to Hank that I was shopping again. I should let Brad take me to dinner. Let them tell him that!
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” she grumbled, sliding into her shoes.
“Are you kidding? I take shopping very seriously.”
****
Reba tried to look interested while I wandered from store to store. Since she seldom wore anything besides oversized sweaters and leggings, I knew this was not her idea of fun. I needed Delia. Shopping was our antidote for depression or frustration.
“This is my last stop,” I promised hours later when we entered Genie’s House of Fashion. “What about this?” I picked out a silk wrap around dress and placed it in front of me. “Great for summer and Mom approves of anything green. She’ll love this lime color.”
I pranced in front of a mirror, but a sudden shifting nearby caught my eye. I whirled, fearing a reporter, but saw no one. Had someone been watching? Sensing further movement, I whipped around in time to see the shop’s door closing. Uneasiness swept through me.
“Did you see anyone leave?” I asked, approaching Reba.
Her neck arched as she surveyed the shop. “I haven’t been paying attention.”
A sudden chilliness set off goose bumps on my bare arms. “I felt like someone was watching and took off.”
“News guys?” She scanned the row of windows that faced Rodeo Drive.
“They’d have confronted me. This was someone who didn’t want me to see him.” Discomfort blossomed inside me. Would a police officer follow me into a store?
Reba rolled her eyes. She posed with one hand on her hip. “People watch you all the time. We pay you to be watched. Are you going to try that on?”
I put the dress back. Shopping had lost its appeal.
As we stepped onto the sidewalk, I gave our surroundings extra attention. Weekday shoppers ignored us, but the uneasy sensation crawled along my skin again.
“Shit!” Reba clattered down the sidewalk toward an electronics store. She stopped outside a window filled with TV screens.
I glanced at my watch. Just after five. “Look at all these people, out and about,” I said with a laugh as I joined her. “I’ve discovered in the past couple of days there are thousands who are not concerned with news.”
“Fuck!” was her reply.
I looked at the sets. Peter Murphy stood in front of a stone wall. The other sets carried a picture of a silver-haired man above strips carrying various titles of Wine Merchant Murder.
“Hey!” I waved at the video of my would-be King as he hurried along a sidewalk. “Need an interview? I can…”
My words caught in my throat as his name flashed on the screen.
“Miles S. Brookings, Fiancée’s Father.”
Chapter Twelve
Friday, 2:30 p.m.
My office at TV8 had the look and feel of desertion as I stood in the doorway. I didn’t want to be here, but Alan’s secretary had summoned me for a meeting. I didn’t know why he wanted to see me today. Maybe he wanted to set the ground rules for my return to work on Monday. At least I could pick up my mail and check for messages. My first glance told me I faced a daunting task.
The light on my phone blinked, showing voicemail waiting. A stack of message notes was tacked to my bulletin board where the pictures of Rick had been before I ripped them off in a fit of anger before my last visit to him. A plastic post office bin piled with mail sat on top of my desk along with several unopened newspapers.
I’d been avoiding news for the past week, but I knew the story of Rick’s murder had exploded into gargantuan proportions. Reba and Brad kept me informed, while my mother kept calling, fearing the worst. Police had no suspects so far, but that didn’t stop lots of speculation. People of interest—mainly me ! Tabloids, cable programs, and Internet bloggers turned it into national headlines. A murder triangle involving the “Anchorwoman’s Slain Ex” and “Debutante’s Murdered Beau” begged for coverage.
Evan was earning his ten percent as my agent, turning down interview requests, while Oliver and Adrienne issued statements that there was no reason to suspect me.
Tell that to Torres and Callahan. And Hank. His response to Oliver’s letter had been basically, “Go to hell.” His coolness bothered me. I didn’t expect favoritism, but how could he forget our past so easily?
If Delia had been around, we might have plotted his death. I still hadn’t heard from her. How could anyone be so out of touch in this digital age?
I unfolded one of the papers. “No Leads in Wine Shop Murder,” the headline read over a picture of Torres holding a news conference. Another headlined, “Who did it and Why?” below pictures of me and Rick, like I was the only suspect. A tabloid screamed “The Anchorwoman’s Secret,” over a terrible shot of me at the anchor desk. I didn’t normally receive that paper. Someone left it on my desk on purpose. I shoved the papers into the empty wastebasket, though I was tempted to find out what my “secret” was.
My phone buzzed. I’d skirted the newsroom, but I should have known my entrance would be noticed. The caller ID showed Alan’s number. He must have alerted the desk to let him know as soon as I showed up.
“Hey, Kimberly, want to come in?”
“Be there in two minutes.” I hung up as a light knock sounded.
Lindy peeked in, her face lighting up when she saw me. “Someone said you were here.”
I didn’t feel like company, but if I had to see anyone, she was best. She was too shy to ask personal questions. I beckoned her inside. “I have to go see Alan. How’s the house?”
Her mousy hair bounced up and down as she nodded. “Fine. Do you know when you’re coming home?”
I shook my head as I searched her for traces of my makeup or clothes. She wore a thin shell under a white cotton blouse and jeans. I’d never seen her dress up. Maybe I was wrong to worry about her going through my things.
My feelings softened into gratitude. It couldn’t be easy for her staying away from her own home. “I appreciate what you’re doing. Maybe we can have lunch one of these days.”
Her face turned bright red and she nodded so vigorously she resembled a bobble head doll. “That would be awesome. When?”
“Soon.” Maybe I could pump her for info on the Brad-Gwen thing. He was still calling me every night.
Her response was another eager nod.
“I’d better go before Alan has a fit. Do you have time to go through this mail? Toss news releases and open the personal stuff?” I couldn’t imagine anything important in the pile. Who wrote letters these days?
“Sure!” She di
d her bobble head imitation again and I left her at my desk with a letter opener.
Alan’s secretary greeted me with a hug. A plump and middle-aged woman, Susana alternately played watchdog for Alan and mother to the newsroom. “How are you, Kimberly? I’ve been worried.”
“I’m fine.” I wanted to tell her to pass that on, but I knew she would anyway. Susana was a major pipeline for gossip.
“He’s waiting for you.” She gestured toward Alan’s office.
I entered the cramped office, smiling at the mess. It wouldn’t have been cramped, except he had it filled with...well, stuff. Memorabilia, piles of resumes, stacks of reporter tapes and DVD’s. Did reporters looking for work still send tapes? They were probably years old. He hefted his large body from behind his cluttered desk and waved me inside.
Allan filled the room with his bulky presence and when he spoke, his gravelly voice could drown out a fog horn. His acne-scarred, jowly face was made for radio, where he’d earned his journalistic stripes before rising through the TV ranks, and he always seemed to wear part of his last meal on his polyester ties.
“How goes it? Heard anything from police?” he growled.
I settled into a chair across from him. “I gave a statement. They searched my house and car. I can’t imagine what more they need.”
“The sooner we put this shit behind us, the better.” He wasn’t the sort to play Mr. Sensitive, so I expected no sympathy. “Do you know if they have any leads?”
“You probably hear more than I do.” I didn’t want to talk about the murder case. “Listen, Alan, I’m still at the hotel. I’d go home, but if something happens, reporters will be back at my door. Lindy is doing a good job turning people away and keeping the curious from hopping the wall into my yard. Thanks for sending her.”
He waved a hand of dismissal. “No problem. But do you mind doing an interview while you’re here? Maybe a statement about bringing the killer to justice?”
I should have seen that coming. My head began shaking until it was going back and forth like a sideways version of Lindy’s bobble head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Blues at 11 Page 8