Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  “About what?”

  “This bracelet.”

  “See, now I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years. My psychic powers must be going.”

  Simone looked at Kathy. “Seriously,” she said. “If you were Destiny . . . or even if you weren’t, would you throw a bracelet like this out?”

  “No, but like I said, stars are psychotic.”

  “Destiny isn’t a star,” said Simone. “She’s a kid who takes her clothes off.”

  “But she wants to be a star. She wants to be famous. That’s the psychosis right there.”

  Simone sighed. “I guess.”

  “I mean, come on,” Kathy said. “Look at Nia Lawson. She wasn’t a star anymore. Christ, she was living in Inglewood . Yet she kills herself in that sick way . . . somehow her shoe gets into Emerald Deegan’s trash, and don’t even get me started on all things Deegan. Famous people are nut jobs, I’m telling you—”

  Simone’s heart sped up. “What did you just say?”

  “I said, ‘Famous people are nut—’ ”

  “Not that,” said Simone. Two cut throats, one month apart, the first victim’s shoe in the second victim’s trash. . . .

  And the second victim was missing all her bracelets.

  Simone grabbed her cell phone out of her purse and started tapping in Holly Kashminian’s number.

  “What are you doing?” said Kathy.

  Simone said, “Can you do me a huge favor?”

  Holly lived in a small bungalow at the bottom of Linda Vista. As Kathy pulled up in front of it, Simone understood how tangible it was for Holly—the lack of Emerald. If the street weren’t so prohibitively steep, Holly’s boss’s house would have been within walking distance, less than a minute away from her own.

  “Emerald’s assistant lives here?” said Kathy. “Dollars to donuts Em was paying her rent. A nice little place like that, in the Hollywood Hills?”

  She thought of Wayne Deegan’s castle of a house. “You’re probably right.”

  “Okay, so I’m going to drive around the block and—”

  “It won’t take any longer than that, I promise.”

  Simone hurried up to the bungalow’s door, rang the bell. She could hear Holly moving across the room and regarding her through the peephole before unbolting a series of locks.

  Holly stood in the doorway wearing khaki shorts and a tank top that read “Bebe” in sequined letters. She seemed tired and sad, and her hair looked like she’d slept on it funny, but her pupils weren’t quite as dilated as they’d been before. “What’s up?” she said.

  Simone held out her wrist. “Do you recognize this bracelet?”

  Holly’s face went white, and Simone had her answer.

  “It’s Emerald’s, isn’t it?”

  Holly said, “The ruby closest to the clasp. Turn it over.”

  Simone did. It had a silver backing, an inscription. And when she read the inscription aloud, Holly said it with her:

  “Love, Luck, Long Life.”

  Holly stared at her. “Emerald’s father gave her that. It was her favorite.”

  Kathy’s Audi rounded the bend and pulled up to the curb. “I’ve got to go,” said Simone. “You mind if I keep this a little while? I need to show it to someone.”

  “Okay,” said Holly. “But, wait. Where did you find it?”

  Simone didn’t want to upset Holly, didn’t want her any more involved than she already was. “A friend found it,” she said, “in a Dumpster . . . outside the Kabbalah Center.”

  Holly stared at her. “You have interesting friends.”

  “I know.”

  “If Emerald threw that out,” said Holly, “maybe she really was getting rid of . . .”

  “Worldly possessions.”

  “Yes.” Something stole into Holly’s black eyes, played across her sad features—something calm and sweet.

  Hope, thought Simone, who was not feeling any.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Kathy, as she pulled the Audi into the Asteroid’s parking lot. “Destiny tossed out Emerald’s bracelet, so therefore she’s going to turn up with a cut throat.”

  “I don’t think she threw it out,” Simone said. “I think someone—Emerald and Nia’s killer—might have put it in her trash.”

  “You know what I think?” Kathy said. “I think you’ve been hanging out with that crazy assistant Holly too long. I think Keith swiped Em’s bracelet and gave it to his lover because he’s freakin’ cheap. I think the lover found out, and got so pissed off she threw it in her garbage.”

  Simone had to admit: “When you say it out loud like that . . .“”

  “It makes more sense than your garbage man-slasher theory?”

  Simone nodded. “But it would put my mind a lot more at ease if we could just find Destiny. Ask her. Has anybody reported her as a missing person yet?”

  “Her boss at Pleasures,” said Kathy. “Elliot swung by there last night, after he hit her cans. But you know what Elliot said?”

  “What?”

  “Her boss wasn’t all that surprised. My guess is, the kid’s in Mexico right now, buying eight thousand dollars’ worth of margaritas.” Kathy turned off the car, unfastened her seat belt. “Forget about Emerald and Destiny, okay? You got us the best story we’ve had in years. Nigel wants to have your babies.” She opened her door and got out. “Do me a favor and bask in your own glory.”

  By the time Kathy and Simone arrived at the office, Elliot, Matthew, Carl, and Nigel had already killed a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Nigel said, “Not to worry, ladies. We saved the Dom for you!”

  After they popped open the champagne and Nigel toasted Simone, Elliot, and the next issue, he brought them into his office, where, as proud as a new father, he presented a completed cover story layout, faxed in from New York. At the center of the layout was a picture of Chris and Lara, split in two by a lightning bolt, and a neon-bright headline that read TROUBLE IN CLARADISE!!

  “Excellent headline, right?” said Elliot.

  “Great font color too,” Kathy added. “Nothing says naughty like hot pink.”

  “We’re getting photos of the home wrecker by tomorrow, ” Nigel said. “And the brilliant part is, we’re getting them cheap because no one knows she’s the home wrecker yet!”

  Simone stared at the layout—at the large gray box, set in the middle of the two columns of type. It was the box where Julie’s picture would go, and there was already a caption underneath: Dirty Dylan!

  In the lower right-hand corner of the page was a larger box reserved for the camera-phone photos with a smaller headline: EXCLUSIVE! THE SECRET TALK THAT ENDED HOLLYWOOD’S HAPPIEST MARRIAGE!

  She had a vision of Julie in high school laughing her head off at a joke Simone had made. “Do . . . do we have to call her Dirty Dylan?”

  “It’s a pun on their conversation, love,” said Nigel. “She told Hart she felt dirty.”

  “Oh. I get it.” The layout glowered up at Simone from Nigel’s desk. She’d get over it, she knew. After all, Chris and Lara were public figures and so was Julie . . . well, so was Dylan Leeds, anyway.

  Nigel said, “I’m taking all of you out to dinner at Tom Cruise’s favorite restaurant.”

  “Get out!” said Kathy.

  “You deserve it.” He looked at Simone. “Especially this one here, with her microcassette. She deserves it all.”

  “Thanks, Nigel,” she said. “But if it’s okay with you, I think I’m going to go home.”

  Simone drove home feeling like she hadn’t done enough, and like she’d done too much. Not enough for Destiny, too much for Julie . . . or against Julie, as the case may be.

  Yes, Dylan Leeds was having an affair with a famous married man. But Julie Curtis was the coolest new girl ever to enroll at Wappingers Falls High. Julie was the future movie star who’d come all the way from California. And for six months—until she hooked up with varsity quarterback Todd McKenna (and who could blame her for that?)—Julie was the
best friend Simone had ever had.

  Dylan Leeds may have been dirty, but Julie Curtis never was.

  The price of fame, Simone thought, which made her remember Destiny—disappearing Destiny and her eight thousand dollars. If Simone could just find Destiny, show her this bracelet. If she could hear her say, Keith gave me that. It was Emerald’s, so I threw it out. If she could hear Keith say, Before she killed herself, Emerald gave me her bracelets. She was getting rid of her worldly possessions, but I didn’t want ’em, so I gave them to Destiny. . . . If she could just hear either one of them say either of those things, she could stop worrying.

  If not, she needed to find Destiny, warn her.

  Simone checked her watch. It was just about ten right now. Blake Moss’s party was starting. Keith would be there, and maybe . . .

  Bringing Dessy? I like her.

  Simone wished she could get into that party—wished that at least she knew where Blake Moss lived. . . . Then, as she crossed Sunset, made her way onto Coldwater Canyon, Simone suddenly remembered what Kathy had said back at the Beverlido.

  Blake’s fuck palace used to belong to Mary Pickford!

  “Yes!” said Simone.

  She knew that stupid Map of the Dead Stars’ Homes would come in handy.

  Blake Moss’s house—compound, actually—was at the top of Coldwater Canyon, Mulholland Drive West. Mulholland was more view than street. It was both stunning and dangerous, like so many things in this city, and Simone had driven its length once before, to see for herself the panorama found in nearly every movie that takes place in LA.

  That had been in daytime, though. Now it was night, and as she peeled down the winding mountain road, the city lights spread out in front of her like a bath of sequins. And, for a brief moment, Simone was here only to admire.

  Then she found the address. Without rehearsing a way in, she pulled up to the gate and pressed the button. A woman’s voice, older and accented, answered, “Yes.”

  “I’m here for the party.”

  “What is your name?” she said. “Did you receive an invitation?”

  “Listen,” said Simone, “I need to see one of the guests. Her name is Destiny. Dessy. It is very important I see her. It could . . . be a matter of life and death.”

  There was a long pause, during which Simone heard nothing but chatter and, experimental jazz. The woman came back. “There is no one here by that name,” she said.

  “Are you sure? What about Keith Furlong? I think she might be with—”

  “If you do not have an invitation, I will need to ask you to leave.”

  “You don’t understand!” said Simone. “This is urgent. ”

  Silence.

  Great. Simone was just about to roll up her window and drive away when she heard another voice. Younger, Californian. “Simone? Is that you I see through the surveillance camera?”

  “Julie?!”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Um . . . well, I’m looking for . . .”

  “Kidding!”

  “Huh?”

  “You are such the ace reporter, tracking me down!” Julie said. “Now stop talking to that box and get your ass in here.”

  The 1998 Vanity Fair article that exposed Blake Moss’s sexual exploits was called “Secrets of Desire,” and it wasn’t even about Blake Moss. It was an in-depth profile of a high-priced Hollywood hooker named, of course, Desire. In it, she outed several of her A-list clients—two or three rock stars, an action movie hero, an already-fallen televangelist—but Blake Moss. That was the bombshell.

  The star of the family-friendly sitcom Corey Next Door, Moss was considered clean-cut inside and out— the type of actor who would, and did, thank Jesus Christ for his People’s Choice Award.

  When Moss’s fans saw Desire’s revelations, it was as if they’d been told there was no Santa Claus. (Simone could still remember Greta calling her at her college dorm, crying, “Corey Next Door is a pervert! I’ve lost all faith in humanity.”) Before long, Corey had exited the airwaves and the onetime poster boy for family values had become a Hollywood casualty—a victim of his own unyielding image.

  Simone had felt sorry for him—until around three or four years ago, when Jason Caputo had cast him as the villain in his breakthrough film, Bad. Blake Moss was reborn. In the tabloids, the phrase “bad boy” was permanently affixed to his first name, and he became known for his wild, bacchanalian parties. When he thanked Jesus for his Best Supporting Actor Oscar, everyone knew he was being ironic.

  As Blake pointed out in a Playboy interview, he could now do whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted, wherever he wanted, with all the bells, whistles, and ball gags—and it only increased his bankability: I wouldn’t have said so at the time, but Desire was the best thing that ever happened to me.

  Greta was probably the only person in America who had never gotten over the scandal. If Simone were to call her sister right now and tell her she was poolside at a Blake Moss party, watching Blake’s agent doing body shots off a Playboy centerfold, Greta would have hung up on her without so much as a follow-up question. She almost did feel like calling her sister—just to describe this scene out loud.

  Simone felt as if she were trapped on the set of an NC-17 version of South Pacific. There were tiki torches everywhere, strange, prehistoric-looking plants, neon-bright parrots screaming from the trees, scantily clad women and men chatting, drinking, making out . . . some of the more inebriated ones actually going at it atop overly picturesque rock formations. Whether they were famous or not, most everyone here looked it—poreless, close-up-ready creations made for billboards and movie screens.

  Destiny was nowhere in sight, though Julie said, “I’m pretty sure Keith Furlong should be here at some point.”

  So Simone opted to hang out with her old friend, to take in the bizarre scenery, to keep her eyes peeled for Keith Furlong and an AWOL stripper.

  “You know,” Julie was saying now, “except for the hair, you look exactly the same as you did in high school.”

  Simone took a sip of her rum and Coke and looked at Julie’s face—the powder blue eyes, the button nose and full mouth, the tiny capsule-shaped mark on her left cheek—a pencil lead that had been trapped there when she was six and was too dangerous to remove without scarring her. On anyone else the mark would have been a little gross, but on Julie it somehow added to the mystique. It was a deep, sapphire blue, and Simone could remember a college boy, mooning over Julie at some party they were at, telling her the pencil lead brought out the color of her eyes.

  “You look the same too,” Simone told Julie.

  She shook her head. “I’ve aged.” She turned her gaze away from Simone and back to Blake’s agent and the centerfold. They were on a raft in the middle of the pool. She wore nothing but a thong, and he was licking salt off her breast, taking another swig off the tequila bottle. Her body was perfect—so toned and surgically enhanced that she seemed a step higher on the evolutionary ladder, while Blake’s agent had the look of an oversized baby, his baggy white swim trunks only adding to the effect. “How can she stand that?” whispered Simone.

  “Are you kidding?” said Julie. “That’s Lazlo Gant. He’s one of the most powerful agents there is.” She smiled at Gant—a knowing, hungry smile. And Simone thought, You’re right. You have aged.

  A large hand slipped around Simone’s waist, almost making her drop her drink. When she turned, there was Blake Moss. His hair was damp and he had on a terry-cloth robe with, Simone was willing to bet, nothing on underneath.

  “Hi, Blakey,” Julie said.

  “Dyl.” He took Simone’s hand, held it up so the braceletglistened in the torchlight, and brought it to his lips. Then he gazed at the other hand, the one grasping the rum and Coke. “Lucky drink.”

  “Blake,” said Julie, “this is my dear friend Simone.”

  He grinned. “Yes. This is.”

  Simone said, “Do you know if Destiny’s coming tonight? ”

 
He raised an eyebrow at her. “You know Destiny?” He kissed her hand again, and someone shouted, “Put the waitress down, Blake!” It was Caputo, who was standing with Miranda Boothe from the movie, a few supermodels, and a guy who may have been Charlie Sheen. “Get over here—I want to introduce you to somebody.”

  Blake sighed. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  Simone realized he had never answered her question.

  “I think he likes you,” Julie said.

  “I think he likes anything with a pulse.” She remembered the Vanity Fair article, the details . . . “Or without a pulse, as the case may be.”

  “God, you’re as picky as ever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Simone. You had some really nice guys into you back in high school. You wouldn’t give them the time of day.”

  “You mean those football players? The ones you and Todd kept trying to set me up with?”

  Julie flinched at the name. “Todd McKenna. I haven’t thought of him in ages.”

  Simone looked into her eyes. She knew she was lying.

  There was a lull in their conversation. A good, long one that maybe lasted several minutes. Simone welcomed the silence. It eased the tension, kept her from worrying about saying something she shouldn’t, something that might reveal what she really did for a living. Something that might reveal next week’s story. . . .

  Was Julie feeling this way too? Was she thinking about Chris Hart, and guarding secrets of her own?

  Simone took a big swallow of her rum and Coke and surveyed the scene again. A group of men were talking to a large woman in a red silk dress, one of them saying something about Nextel stock—as, less than three feet away, a shipping heir was leaning against a thick palm tree, getting serviced by a wasted female pop star. The shipping heir’s head snapped back in ecstasy and his body began to convulse. Simone couldn’t remember his name, but she’d seen him on some reality show where they sent rich kids to boot camp. The pop star was wearing cutoffs and a bikini top, and she was on her knees. Her name was Lynzee de la Presa, and last year she had won seven Grammy Awards. Simone couldn’t believe she was watching this. Didn’t Moss’s house have rooms in it?