Paradise By The Rifle Sights (Greatest Hits romantic mysteries book #5) (Greatest Hits Mysteries)

by Langtry, Leslie

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "She grinned at me. 'You got types?'

  Only you darling—lanky brunettes with wicked jaws."

  ~Dashiell Hammett, The Thin Man

  "This is your front desk wake-up call…" the computer-generated voice sang in my ear, waking me to a sunny and hazy LA morning. After a quick shower, I turned on the news. There was no mention of a body found in a condo in Beverly Hills. I sighed as I suited up for my audition. This was good and bad. Good, because Bombays don't like to attract notice.

  But it was bad because I had no new information on the guy. I had no idea why he tried to kill me, or even if I was the target. I could always call in a tip to the police, but that had an element of risk I wasn't ready to assume.

  Besides, I had to audition for and kill one of the most obnoxious producers in Hollywood. First things first, I thought as I tucked Luther's .45 into my jacket.

  Getting the audition wasn't hard. And I had no intention of passing it. In fact, I was pretty sure that once I killed Plimpton, there wouldn't even be a show, which was a good thing—maybe even a service to the television-viewing public. And then, in a few hours, I'd be jetting back home. Granted, there was this strange attempt on my life, but I'd have more resources and time to deal with it later.

  A Lincoln Town Car was waiting for me outside, complete with a chauffeur holding a sign that said, PARIS BOMBAY. The driver was a woman. She was kind of hot, actually. Short, curly brown hair with light blue eyes and a sad sort of smile. I liked that but didn't welcome the distraction. Was my need for companionship making me look at every woman as a possible soul mate?

  Once I was settled in the sleek, black sedan, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.

  "All set, Mr. Bombay?" She asked.

  I nodded. "Please, call me Paris."

  The driver smiled. "Alright, Paris, you can call me Teri." She started the car and pulled out into traffic.

  "Do you want the privacy screen up, Paris?" she asked.

  "No. I hate those things." And I did. It made me feel like I was entombed. I wanted to see what was going on ahead. An assassin should always be prepared.

  "It should only be about an hour to the studios. Just sit back and relax. There's satellite radio, and the fridge is stocked with sparkling water."

  An hour. Was that all I had? In LA traffic? How was I supposed to come up with something between now and then? It wasn't like I could ask Teri to stop at a hardware store so I could pick up piano wire and duct tape. (I didn't want to just rely on the .45 if I could do it cleaner.) Leave no trace was the idea. Okay, well now I just sounded like the Boy Scouts.

  I was one though. An Eagle Scout. My project was to set up a handgun class for female victims of domestic violence. It worked pretty well too, that is, until one of them gunned down her ex husband at a Tastee Freez in front of a middle school jazz band. But that happened five years after the class, so I still consider it a success.

  The car entered the freeway, and I stared at the miles of concrete barricades under a smog-riddled sky. I never really understood the lure of Los Angeles. Too much pollution, too many cars, and the people all looked like they were molded out of plastic. Especially the women. Why did they do that, anyway? So what if they had a wrinkle here or a frown line there? I liked it. It gave them character. It gave me the creeps when I saw a woman whose face had been "ironed" by Botox.

  I stole a glance at Teri through the rearview mirror. She seemed like a natural beauty to me. And the crease between her eyebrows told me that she had lived—that she'd had emotions and knew how to express them. Her eyes caught mine, and I realized I'd been staring.

  "Are you staring at me?" she asked.

  "Sorry." To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed. Why was I acting so desperate? "It's just that you don't look like most women here."

  Teri laughed. "I don't know if you meant that as a compliment, but that's how I'm taking it."

  "It was a compliment," I insisted. She had a nice laugh. I could appreciate that too.

  "Well good. Then I won't let you off here and make you walk downtown," Teri answered. "I hate those stupid, vapid Barbie dolls."

  "So you aren't from around here, then?"

  Teri shook her head, her eyes returning to the road. "I'm from Chicago. And I'd wear a T-shirt that said that every day, if I had one."

  I looked out the window just in time to see a blonde in a convertible pull up next to us. She had oversized sunglasses that were only surpassed by her oversized lips. Her breasts were huge—maybe a quad D, if they made them that large. And she, and the car, were pink. I shuddered and turned my attention back to Teri.

  "I could never live here. I'm partial to real people." I hadn't realized I said that out loud.

  Teri stared at me for a few moments, and I wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she thought I talked too much. Maybe I should close the privacy screen and focus on what I had to do next.

  "What line of work are you in, Paris Bombay?"

  My mind went into the smooth, well-traveled back-story I'd used for years. "Marketing. I'm a consultant."

  "Is that right?" Teri looked back at the road. "And what is a marketing consultant doing auditioning for a reality show?"

  That caught me off guard, and I withdrew automatically. I'd already said too much to make her remember me. The last thing I needed was to have her tell the police all about me because I was stupid enough to stand out.

  "It wasn't my idea…" I said.

  "It wasn't your idea? Unless the process has changed, you have to apply to audition for a show like these." She shook her head. "Maybe you're just as vapid as the idiot women on this show."

  That burned. I'm not vapid. I was nothing like the others auditioning today. I didn't even want to be on this stupid audition. And where does she get off? She's paid by the same company to drive me around.

  I punched the button, and the privacy screen went up between us. And then I sulked the rest of the way to the studio.

  We arrived at the gate faster than I thought we would. After a brief pause at the security shack, the Town Car crept through the lots until pulling up in front of Stage Six. I heard the driver's door open and shut, before Teri opened the door for me. I got out quickly, handing her a tip before spinning on my heel and going into the building. Before the door shut I could swear I heard a chuckle behind me.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I'd made a mistake. Oh, I was in the right place. I just wasted the drive here fuming about my chauffeur, when I should've been working on my plan of action. Now I was here with nothing.

  "Mr. Bombay?" A young, skinny kid with a cheap suit, pimples, and clipboard stood in the hallway ahead of me. I nodded and followed him as he led me to a waiting area and motioned for me to join the other men auditioning. Skinny Kid left the room, presumably to collect more guys like us.

  I was pissed off at myself. There were five other "Bachelors" sitting on nondescript sofas about the room. Each one looked like the other. In fact, they all sort of looked like me. Dark hair, brown eyes, tall and lean…if it wasn't for the clothes, you'd be unable to tell us apart.

  No one had searched me. That was odd, but maybe I expected too much. This was Hollywood, after all. Chuck Plimpton probably thought actors were too stupid to attack him. He just never figured an assassin would be among the mannequins in the waiting room.

  And with all these actors looking just like me, I had another advantage. I was pretty sure Skinny Kid wouldn't be able to pick me out of a lineup with these guys. I'd have to do the job immediately and flee the scene unnoticed…

  My brain was racing as ideas actually came to me. If I could get into that room, behind the two sided glass, I could kill the Vic and his staff and maybe escape before it was even noticed. I was back in business. This gig was looking more like a cakewalk.

  "Paris Bombay?" Skinny Kid's voice squeaked. "You're up!"

  Already? I stood and straightened my silk, Hermes tie. I felt Luther C
oswald's semi-automatic pressing into my ribs. It gave me the confidence I'd lacked since taking on this assignment.

  I opened the door to the room Skinny pointed to and shut the door behind me.

  "Mr. Bombay," a voice said from a speaker on the table in front of me, "please have a seat."

  As I sat down, I took in the whole room. It looked more like a police interview room than a studio audition site. Across the table, facing me was a large, two-way mirror—just as I'd thought. On the right was a door. One of two—including the way I'd just come in. The door didn't look like it had a lock on it. But I couldn't be sure. And there was no way of knowing how many bodyguards were behind it.

  The table was about six feet long, with a white cloth and a red skirt around it. I tried to hold back a grin. I knew just what to do. Planning was so overrated.

  "Mr. Bombay," the disembodied voice said, "tell us a little about yourself that we didn't see in your application."

  I tried not to roll my eyes. Standard, textbook interview crap. I rattled off a generic reply about growing up in the Midwest, wanting to meet a woman I could make a life with, my thoughts on jazz and literature…that kind of thing. There was no way of knowing if my interviewer liked it or not. And I really didn't care what he thought because within minutes, he would be dead, and I'd be out of here.

  "Mr. Bombay," the voice said, "you are at the top of our list even without that empty answer. What I want to hear from you, is whether or not you can sustain a whole season of dating one hot mess after another. I don't really care if you read, rescue puppies from house fires, or like long walks on the beach. You are extremely attractive, and you don't stutter like an idiot who forgot his lines. You fit our standards."

  I leaned forward to respond. "I can…I…" I sat back, my face twisting with pain. "I…" I stammered again, then fell sideways, out of the chair to the floor.

  The sound of a doorknob turning in front of me, not behind me, made me smile as I got into position on the floor, rolling under the table, hidden by the table skirting.

  "Mr. Bombay!" A voice shouted as I saw a pair of shoes come around to where I'd been. The guard got down on his knees and lifted the cloth as I punched him in the temple and pulled him under with me.

  He was a big guy, but I managed to get him under the table as I crawled out the other side, which was directly under the window, where they couldn't see me. I screwed the silencer onto the gun as a voice barked into the speaker.

  "Nils! Nils! How is he? Is he alright?"

  Awww, he was worried about me! How nice. Too bad he didn't worry about the terrified people he trafficked.

  I crept through the now-opened door before they realized what had happened. A lone bodyguard stood just inside the door, staring stupidly at me. I took him out and put a bullet between the eyes of Chuck Plimpton himself. I didn't normally kill the paid help. But "No Witnesses" is our family motto, and it wasn't a reach to think these guys didn't help with his little 'hobby.'

  With them dead, I dragged Nils into the room and shut the door. After making sure there were no cameras and shooting Nils in the head, I began to search for a way out. The only way out was the door I just entered. I was just about to make my exit when the door to the interview room opened and nondescript-Paris-look-alike number two came in and sat down in the chair.

  Well, that sucked. I'd planned to just walk out and let everyone think my interview was over. I figured they might not discover there was a problem until I'd escaped the building at least. But now, there was a guy, sitting where I'd just sat, waiting for his interview to begin. Why did Skinny send him in, knowing I hadn't come out?

  I shoved the body of my Vic out of his chair and pushed the red intercom button in front of me. What was I going to say?

  "Please say your name, age and tell me about any acting experience you've had." I lowered my voice, hoping to match the deep timbre of the dead guy near my feet. I also hoped that this sounded like the kind of question you'd ask someone trying out for a reality show.

  The guy relaxed. "Ted. Ted Rockland." He launched into a litany of non-speaking roles and appearances such as "hobo number five" in Vampire Zombies, IV. I couldn't really tell you what he said, because I was too busy dragging the bodies of three dead men over to the far wall. The room had no exits, windows, or other helpful escape routes. Basically, I was trapped until all the interviews were over.

  "Um," I said as I interrupted Ted, "thanks. We'll be in touch." The sooner I got these clowns out of here, the better.

  Ted nodded as if he was used to this kind of abrupt blow off (And he probably really was.), and left the room. I was just wondering if I could slip out when the next one came in and sat down.

  I gave him the same question and listened vaguely as I tried to focus on a plan. My cell phone was vibrating. It was Liv. I really didn't have time for this, so I ignored her.

  There was no sound coming through the speaker. Apparently, this candidate didn't have much to talk about. He stared expectantly at the window, waiting for me to say something else. My cell started vibrating again. Knowing Liv, she'd keep this up until I answered her.

  I hit the red button again. "What are your thoughts on women?" I asked, hoping he'd go deep and give me some random philosophy.

  "I love women." he said, and stopped to wait for the next question. For some reason, Cindee's face popped into my head. She didn't deserve to have a loser like this asshole, treating her like a plaything he could toss away. I remembered what Teri had said in the car about me being vapid. That's just how I treated Cindee. I felt a little bad about that.

  "Could you expand on that, please?" I asked with my low voice. I ignored the buzzing in my pocket. It was like I could feel my sister seething with rage because I wasn't answering.

  The jerk flashed a toothy grin, making me think of a shark. "What more is there to say? I love the idea of being spoiled by a bunch of hot chicks."

  My blood began to boil. "You can go," I snarled, "and you should think about how you treat women."

  The dude shrugged and left. My cell was actually vibrating harder and louder. I wondered how Liv was able to do that.

  "What?!" I shouted into the phone.

  Liv really was pissed. "What's going on there? Dak says I have to leave town and keep a low profile?"

  The third candidate came in and sat down. I froze as he ran his hands through his hair and then smiled at the window.

  "Look, Liv, I don't have time for this right now," I whispered. Without depressing the red button, this guy couldn't hear me, but I still felt the need to keep my voice low.

  "I'm not hanging up without answers," Liv said steadily.

  "Please give me your name, age and acting experience," I said quickly into the speaker, forgetting to lower my voice.

  "My name is Ted Rockmand."

  My antenna went up. "Weren't you just in here?" I asked before thinking about it.

  Ted the Second looked confused. "No, this is my first time in here." He cocked his head to one side as if he needed to do that to think.

  "Paris! Who are you talking to?" Liv hissed in my ear.

  I shook my head. There was no way Ted could see me, but it felt necessary. "No, you were just here! Ted Rock…something." It irritated me that he thought he could come in here again. Maybe that was his thing—a sort of do-over. Hell, in this town, maybe no one's ever noticed before. Well, not on my watch, baby.

  "Dammit Paris! Pay attention to me!" Liv screamed this time.

  Ted's eyes rolled up to the right hand corner. "I don't get it. People say that to me all the time. But this is my first time in here! I swear!" He looked confused and upset.

  I pushed the button, "The second guy in here had the same name. Are you telling me you're not him?" Did he really think I'd fall for that?

  "PARIS BOMBAY ANSWER ME!" Liv shouted.

  "Dammit Liv! I'm in the middle of the hit!" I snarled into the cell, then hit the red button. "Honestly, do you think I was born yesterday?"


  Ted looked stunned. It was hard to imagine anyone being more confused than he looked at that moment. Maybe he was right?

  "THAT'S IT!" Liv barked, "I'M GONNA…"

  I hung up on her and turned the cell off, wondering why I hadn't thought of that earlier. Multitasking was not my thing.

  "Okay," I said into the speaker, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." Maybe I was just too mixed up to know how many Teds had been through here. I gave him the same question I'd given the others. Once he answered them, I told him "we'd" be in touch.

  No one else came in, and after fifteen minutes passed, I thought I'd make my break for it. Slipping into the waiting room, I was surprised and relieved that no one was there. Turning left into the hallway would mean the possibility of running into Teri, so I went right. After finding an exit into another generic parking lot, I relaxed and tried to find my way out of the studios.

  Hailing a cab a few blocks away, I was back at my hotel in no time. It was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and my flight didn't leave until morning. I changed out of my clothes and wiped down the gun and silencer.

  This job sucked. And once I was brave enough to turn my cell on again, I'd tell my sister that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Hollywood is like Picasso's bathroom."

  ~Candice Bergen

  I was having this dream. Teri was driving Cindee and me to dinner at an Ethiopian Fusion restaurant in Wisconsin. Halfway there, Teri pulled over to the side of the road, and she and Cin got out of the limo and went off together, leaving me alone. I guess I kind of deserved that. I'd treated Cindee like a bimbo and had completely abandoned Teri in the studio lot.

  A phone was ringing nearby. I must've turned my cell back on at some point. Sitting up, I shook off the haze of sleep and realized it was, in fact, my in-room hotel phone.

  "Yes?" I answered. Not a man of many words in the morning.

  "Paris Bombay?" a familiar, squeaky voice asked.