She removed my gag. “If you break that promise, I won’t hesitate to cut you. Got it?”
This time I didn’t delay in answering. “Got it.”
She undid the bracelet that had secured me to the van for so long and threw a jacket over my hands to hide the cuffs on my wrists. Then she pointed the blade at me. “Let’s go.”
Sensation and blood flooded back to my arms, and I would have liked to curl in a ball and whimper, but I stepped out of the van instead. Jennifer had my bag slung over her shoulder and a knife poking into my spine. Reasoning that she’d be on high alert for an escape attempt right now and would be more distracted in the house, I walked meekly across the street and up the stairs to Zac’s loft.
There was yet another gift basket waiting at the door. The man would never have to buy wine again.
After the day I was having, maybe I’d steal this bottle.
“I’ll need the keys in my bag to get in,” I told Jennifer. She was blocking my escape route with her body and that ever-present blade.
She sneered. “Nice try. I’ll get them myself.”
Oh dear.
She kept her knife pointed at me and rummaged one-handed through my bag. The first item she pulled out was the plastic-wrapped toothbrush. “What’s this for? Is that Zac’s? From the trailer?”
Did the fact she recognized it have more disturbing implications for me or for her? “Um.”
The wad of plastic-wrapped hair came next. She examined it suspiciously before her lip curled back in disgust. “You are one sick woman, you know that?”
Great. Now the unhinged stalker thought I was crazy.
I decided it was better to concentrate on how to defend myself physically rather than verbally.
She pulled out my Taser next. “What’s this? A Taser? Are you paranoid or what?”
Considering I was being held at knifepoint by a middle-aged woman I’d been too naive to be distrustful of, I didn’t think so. But it was probably better not to disagree with the person holding the weapon.
Finally she found the keys. I felt a surge of relief, even as an absurd part of me was disappointed I wouldn’t get to witness her reaction to the spare pair of undies I always kept in my bag.
Unhinged though she may be, she did me the courtesy of putting all my belongings back before handing me the keys. “Open it.”
I did as she directed, then she snatched them out of my fingers, dispelling my half-formed plan of racing to my Corvette and using it to escape.
“Mind if I take this in?” I asked, gesturing to the gift basket with my manacled hands.
She glanced impatiently. “Sure. Just hurry up and go in.”
I picked it up as if I had all the time in the world, pretending to fumble a few times to increase her impatience, and then stepped inside.
She followed on my heels like an eager puppy. “Where’s this photo of me?” Her gaze snagged on the photo wall, and she drifted over to it, momentarily forgetting about her captive. The way I’d hoped she would. The problem was, she’d slipped the keys into my bag, which was threaded over her shoulder.
I eased the wine bottle out of the basket, left the rest of it on the counter, and wandered over to her, keeping my movements slow so as not to break her trance. Her eyes were darting over the frames, jumping from one to another. There were a lot of them, but it would still take mere seconds for her to realize hers wasn’t there. I raised my hands with excruciating care to avoid clinking the cuffs against themselves or the glass bottle. Then I bashed her on the head with it.
Instinct stopped me swinging as hard as I should have.
“Ow!” she yelled, stumbling into the photo frames.
I yanked my bag off her shoulder and sprinted for the door. My spine tingled with anticipation of a knife being hurled into it, but when I dared to glance back, she was cradling her head with one hand, looking like she was about to cry. I hesitated.
Her tear-filled eyes latched onto me with intense hatred, and she pushed herself off the wall.
I didn’t hesitate again. I fled to my Corvette, my cuffed hands digging for my keys as I ran, and jumped inside.
11
Driving my Corvette with my wrists still shackled together was a challenge. But it was nothing compared to what I’d gone through in the past harrowing hour and a half. I even managed to call the police while I drove, except I didn’t mention the handcuffed thing in case it could be classed as illegal negligence.
Getting the cuffs removed was another matter. Sure, I had a lot of friends who’d be able to help. Etta could pick the lock, but she’d insist on hearing the full story of how I got handcuffed in the first place and then somehow rope me into tracking down my abductor for Etta’s idea of after-hours recreation. Harper would have bolt cutters that could cut through them, but I didn’t have time to detour all the way out to her automotive repair shop in Silver Lake, and besides, she’d probably laugh at me for being abducted by a middle-aged lady who was missing some important engine parts. And Connor would have an ultraefficient method of getting rid of them, but he might get all protective and not allow me to return to the studio. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, isn’t that what they said? If I missed the announcement and aftermath of Alyssa’s death, I might miss a vital clue to untangling this case.
So I drove back to the film set and resolved to ask the murderer for help.
Maybe it’d give him some sympathy for me and my unscheduled absence. Judging by the three missed calls, he was thirsty.
Of course, I’d have to get through security first. I thought I’d have a better chance if I didn’t have to explain the handcuffs, so I looked around for something to cover them with. Jennifer’s jacket—the one she’d used for the same purpose—had somehow made it into the car with me. Oh goody, a souvenir.
Although if there was a bright side to being kidnapped by a crazy stalker, it was that if anyone found the DNA samples in my bag now, I could claim she put them there.
I pulled up to the security gate, one hand strategically placed on the bottom of the steering wheel, and the jacket slung over my arms and knees. Cripes. How was I going to open the window? I clumsily used my elbow to hit the button and hoped the guard wouldn’t notice.
“What’s your purpose here, ma’am?”
“I’m Zachariah Hill’s food advisor.”
“Do you have a pass?”
“Yes, but it’s already inside, in Mr. Hill’s car. I left in… a hurry. But don’t you remember seeing me? I’ve come with Zac every day for the past two weeks, except when we were shooting offsite.”
The security guy gave me a blank look.
How could I prove it to him? Preferably without ringing Zac since that would require me to uncover the handcuffs. Gossip traveled faster than light, and I didn’t think Zac or Homeland would appreciate my letting the cat out of the bag on this story. Nope, I was going to have to resort to more drastic measures.
Why was it that events so often conspired to humiliate me?
“I’m the one who sneezed in the middle of Paul’s line this morning,” I said reluctantly. “Any chance you heard about that?”
His recollection was accompanied by a smirk, but at least he waved me through.
I parked the car, repositioned the jacket, and hurried to Zac’s trailer. I knocked, but there was no response. That would’ve made things too easy.
But I hadn’t really expected him to be there. Without Alyssa here, Zac would be in almost every scene they shot today. So he’d be on the set. With the rest of the film crew.
Returning to the warehouse was somewhat surreal. Like the last time I’d been here was days ago rather than mere hours. But it was the same frantic hive of activity I remembered, and no one seemed to have missed me. Except Zac.
“Finally. Where have you been? Wait. Are you okay?”
The last question had me thinking I perhaps should’ve checked myself in the mirror before rushing in here. The wet dog gag couldn’t have done good t
hings for my hair. Or my odor.
“Um. Can we talk in private?” I asked, then pondered whether that meant I should put myself on the list I’d be giving to Homeland.
He glanced uncertainly at my jacketed hands like he might be wondering if I was a threat to him. “Sure.”
We walked to a room of the set no one was using, and I pulled the jacket off. “I was hoping you could help me with these. I uh, ran into a very enthusiastic fan of yours today. She abducted me, but I managed to escape, except I might have left her in your house unattended.” I grimaced, expecting him to be annoyed at that last part.
“Wow. I’m so sorry.” He rubbed his face like it would wake him up from a bad dream. “Are you okay? No, of course you’re not. What am I saying? Let me find someone to get rid of those for you, and we’ll figure out what to do when you’re free.”
He ducked away and came back a minute later with one of the lighting guys.
I didn’t spot any bolt cutters.
“Have you met Fred? Lighting technician by day, escape artist at night.”
I’d seen Fred around but hadn’t taken the time to learn his name, let alone his side gig, and was impressed Zac had. Fred nodded to me, lifted a needle from an embroidery prop Alyssa used in a couple of scenes, and unlocked both cuffs in three seconds flat.
I gaped.
He gave me a second nod, returned the needle, and disappeared.
After I managed to convince Zac I was okay—he sure was kind and attentive for a horrible criminal—he told me to go sit down while he jogged off to have a quiet chat with security. I took up my position in my designated chair. Fred shot me a wink, and I caught a glimpse of the camaraderie that existed despite Torres’s bad temper.
Zac returned, a little out of breath, just as the next scene was ready to go. “I’d love a drink if that’s okay,” he said.
“Would you prefer blood or water?” I joked, wanting to reassure him that he could stop handling me with kid gloves.
He beamed his top-five-sexiest-men-in-America smile and opted for water.
A couple of uneventful hours passed. No sneezing. No stalkers. Lots of cussing. Guess I could’ve swung by Harper’s garage after all.
At one p.m., two police officers strode into the warehouse. If the movie script and the circumstances were different, I might’ve wondered if they were actors rather than actual police officers. In a contemporary romance, they’d probably strip off their uniforms and start gyrating.
They made their way over to Zac, and I knew for sure the gyrating thing wasn’t going to happen. Either they were telling him his home had been destroyed by a certain stalker, or they were informing him of Alyssa’s death before it was blasted across the airwaves.
I scrutinized Zac’s face as they delivered the news.
His eyes widened, then his expression crumpled. A fist went to his mouth in anguish. Unshed tears brimming in his eyes, he strode over to have a word with the director and left to find privacy.
It was perfect.
I vowed then and there never to date an actor.
Unless they were a particularly bad one anyway.
I was torn between going after Zac and waiting for the public announcement so I could witness everyone else’s reactions.
Torres made the decision easy by getting straight to the point. “All right everyone, listen up. We’ve just had news that Alyssa’s dead, which means this movie is too, most likely. What a cluster[bleep]. You might as well [bleep] off home until I talk to the studio bigwigs.”
I scanned faces. Shock was the overwhelming emotion and some relief too since the script was so bad and Torres such a jerk. But I noticed Zac’s friend Paul had a more complex expression. His shoulders slumped, and sadness and worry warred with the shock. He left the way Zac had gone, to comfort, or conspire? Seeing as I’d already had enough dangerous adventure for one day and it wasn’t my job to eavesdrop, just note who Zac spoke to privately, I chose to wait a few minutes before going after them. No point arousing suspicion.
Someone switched the widescreen they used to view the camera angles on over to the news. A grave-looking reporter announced the horrifying news of Alyssa Hill’s body found this morning by a hiker after being dug up by coyotes. The hiker was not available for comment, and the police were opening an investigation but had no leads at this time.
Meanwhile, a group of female crew members had gathered together and were preparing to offer condolences. I trailed out behind them, sighting Paul and Zac deep in conversation before the swarm of sympathy descended. I hung back and took notes, trying not to feel like a stalker.
* * *
Condolences lasted a long time when you were a celebrity, and it was probably just his superb acting, but Zac looked exhausted by the end of it. Thankfully, his loft was still standing when we returned. In fact, nothing even appeared to be missing. Huh. Not what I expected.
There were three new gift baskets waiting for him however. The sorry-for-your-loss variety had a slightly different flavor than the sorry-to-hear-about-your-breakup-but-you-should-marry-me kind. More flowers, less wine.
The object of Jennifer’s unrequited love opened a cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Silver Oak Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon that had been waiting on his doorstep two nights ago. I’d never seen him drink at home before unless he had guests over, and I’d been wondering whether he’d need help getting through all his gifts.
“Alyssa didn’t like red wine,” he murmured. “But when we were dating, she found out this was my favorite and bought a case of it for me, so it feels fitting somehow. Do you want some?”
I thought fast. On one hand, despite the ridiculous day I’d had, I needed to keep my wits about me. On the other, sharing alcohol had a way of lowering people’s defenses and making them more chatty. Plus it was two hundred bucks a bottle.
“Sure.” I’d have to taste his anyway.
Wine was excellent for Shades since the whole sniffing and swishing ritual of wine connoisseurs made it easy to test in public without drawing attention. He handed me a glass, and I took a whiff, swirling it like a pro.
Huh. I took another sniff. More carefully this time. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but this has been spiked.”
Zac’s eyes widened, and I resisted pointing out that it shouldn’t come to a surprise to him that people aren’t always nice—seeing as he’d murdered his wife and all.
“What with?” he asked.
I could’ve tasted it to make sure, but I’d prefer to avoid having a doctor called out to monitor me for obvious reasons. Besides, a Taste Society investigator would confirm the identification and try to work out who sent it. “Have you heard of the street drug, flakka? Or gravel I think it’s sometimes known as.”
Zac winced. “Is that the one behind that murder in Florida where the uni student killed two people and gnawed on one of their faces?”
“That’s the one.” It was a chemical called alpha-PVP, and an overdose triggered an extreme flight-or-fight response, often leading to severe aggression and adrenaline-fueled superhuman strength. It was cheap, easy to obtain, and some budding chemist had made two variations to sell to the celebrity crowd—one that would induce the paranoia and flight reaction and the other that would trigger violence and aggression. In controlled doses, you could ruin a celebrity’s career or, with just a little more, end their life instead.
Zac rubbed his face. “In that case, I’m going to need a stronger drink.”
He returned to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Don Julio 1942 tequila and two glass tumblers.
I reported the attempt while he poured, then took the proffered glass. I sniffed this one too but couldn’t detect anything through the heady fumes, so I took a sip. A sip I regretted as the alcohol burned the taste buds off my tongue, scorched the back of my throat, and left my eyes watering. “Lovely,” I choked.
Zac laughed and took the glass from me.
I picked up my own drink but didn’t take anoth
er sip right away. “Do you want to talk about it? About her?”
He stared into the tumbler, swirling its pale gold contents. Then closed his eyes for a long moment before answering. “I know we were separated, but I really did love her.”
His eyes were hooded, haunted, and I questioned how it was that love could be the driving force behind so many murders. Sure, there’d been times I would’ve liked to get revenge on my ex-husband, but I didn’t love him by then.
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Zac’s eyes were wet and not from the alcohol. Against my will, I felt sorry for him. It was so hard to believe the same guy, who cared enough to learn the name and passions of each member of his film crew and ran around to look after the Shade he barely knew, would murder his wife in cold blood and destroy the lives of the girls he claimed to save. Then again, I’d seen his utterly convincing act this afternoon.
Connor was right. I was a sucker.
Maybe if I’d witnessed him burying Alyssa, I’d be less easily swayed.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He drank some more of his tequila and then scrutinized me. “You’re bound by the Taste Society confidentiality agreement, aren’t you?”
Was he about to admit he murdered her?
“Yes.” It wasn’t a flat-out lie. I was bound by it when I wasn’t on suspension. Well, I was bound by it for eternity, but it didn’t apply to anything I learned when I wasn’t working, and since I wasn’t getting paid, I wasn’t technically working.
“It would be disrespectful to Alyssa if the media got wind of this, and I wouldn’t want that.” He leveled a stare at me, checking to see whether I’d gotten the message.
Okay, probably not a murder confession then.
“As you might have noticed on the red carpet, I’m not big on media attention,” I said.
“Ever been married?”
“Divorced.”
Poison and Prejudice Page 10