by Claire McNab
I could imagine Ariana saying dryly, "The privileges of celebrity status."
It was quite a scene: Perkins frothing at the mouth, a bunch of cops glaring around as if any minute now the guilty party would spring out of the rapidly collecting crowd and confess, fire engines arriving with sirens screaming. Overhead helicopters were buzzing like blowies scenting dead meat.
And there was the indescribable smell of burnt Hummer. The vehicle was a crumpled, once-yellow shell, its fat tires melted into the roadway. Vehicles parked behind and in front had sustained considerable damage. Broken glass littered the area, and across the road a car alarm had been set off by the blast and was he-hawing fit to bust.
I was having a gander when Dave Deer grabbed my arm, saying urgently, "Kylie, you've got a car?"
I pointed. "Down the street."
His fingers tightened until I gave a yelp. "The exit to our parking garage is blocked. I'm relying on you to get Perkins out of here before the media trucks arrive."
"He won't come with me. Take a look at him."
Hard to believe the bloke hadn't run out of steam: He was still spewing curses at the top of his voice.
"I'll handle Perkins. Start your car and get ready to get him out of here."
Dave Deer was as good as his word. Two minutes later he was bundling Perkins into the passenger seat.
"How'd you do that?" I asked, amazed. The director had even shut up.
"Half price on all future therapy." He looked up as a network TV truck roared up, closely followed by a second media vehicle. Cameras, reporters, and support staff spilled out at a run.
Deer slapped the roof of my car. "Get going!"
I set off sedately, even signaled that I was pulling out, not that anyone was looking. Everyone was hurrying to view the corpse of the Hummer, probably hoping there were other corpses too. Everyone except a lone parking cop, who was methodically writing tickets. I had the bizarre thought that when she worked her way up the row she'd give a ticket to the wrecked Hummer for being blown up while parked illegally in a handicapped zone.
"Where do you want to go?" I asked Perkins.
His head was sunk into his puny shoulders, and he was glaring out the windscreen. "Take me home."
"I don't know where home is."
He swung around to look at me for the first time. This close up, the bloke was even less appealing. His gigantic nose made his eyes seem like small black dots placed there as an afterthought. "Who are you?"
"G'day. I'm Kylie Kendall."
"Not your name," he snapped. "Who are you?"
"Dr. Deer's personal assistant. Temporary only."
He grunted, fished in his pocket and took out a mobile phone. Punching in a number, he listened with growing impatience. "Ah, Jesus Christ! Pick up, you bastard."
"If you don't tell me where to go," I said, "I'll drive in circles till you do."
"What?"
"You've got to direct me, Mr. Perkins. I have no idea where your house is."
"Hollywood Hills."
I had a vague idea of the general location, off to the north of Sunset. Ariana lived there. Maybe she and Perkins were neighbors. But wouldn't she have said so before? Perhaps not. Ariana wasn't noted for blabbing personal information.
Perkins had given up on that particular call and was punching another number. "Jill? The fucking Hummer's a total write-off…"
While he continued with his expletive-laced conversation- seemingly to someone in P.R.-I wondered about the possibility that the explosion was somehow linked to the blackmail threat. But why not just ask for money? Why run the risk of planting a bomb? If it was to intimidate, Jarrod Perkins wouldn't make the connection, because he hadn't been told about the missing therapy disks. Of course, maybe the blackmailer didn't realize this.
"Turn left here! Watch out for the fucking bus." When I'd darted through a gap in the traffic and completed the left turn more or less successfully, Perkins went back to his phone. He finished one call and began another. "Sven? Open the gates. I'm five minutes away…I'm on the tube? What are they saying about me? Mention my latest movie?…Yes, of course I'm fucking well all right."
Once we were off the main arteries, the way narrowed so much it seemed there would hardly be room for two cars to pass. The road rose steeply, winding in hairpin bends between houses built right up to the edge. I couldn't imagine how Perkins could negotiate this route in something as wide as a Hummer.
"Turn right! Jesus! This next street!"
Tires squealing, I made the turn. "I'd appreciate it if you gave me more warning."
Astonishingly, a faint smile appeared on his face. "You'd appreciate it, would you? I must try to do better."
I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm, then whipped the wheel around when he screamed, "Turn right! Now left! Take the driveway on your right."
The gates were open. Apparently Sven, whoever he was, had come through. The drive wound its way ever upward, until we crested the rise and came to a flat parking area. The house perched on the brink of the cliff, hanging on for dear life so it wouldn't slide over. It was an ungainly building, with a roof that looked like a big flat cap pulled down to shade its glass walls.
The view, however, was a bit of all right. My mum would have said it was more a vista, or maybe a panorama. Even with smog blurring the outlines of the tall buildings, I could see a spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles. At night the lights of the city spread out like a blanket would be worth a second look.
A bulky, crew-cut, blond bloke, with thigh muscles so over-developed he was forced to waddle, came out of the house and opened the passenger door. Jarrod Perkins got out. "Did you contact my attorney? Someone's responsible. I'll sue the pants off them, the bastards."
If I'd been holding out for thanks, or even an acknowledgment I'd gone out of my way to chauffeur him here, I would have been one disappointed dame. But I wasn't, and he didn't. Without one word to me, he left Sven holding the door, turned his back on us both, and stalked into the house.
Sven closed the door. I waited until he was my side of the car. Giving him a little farewell wave, I said, "And the pity of it is, I didn't even get an autograph."
He smirked. I drove off.
A few wrong turns later, I was on Hollywood Boulevard. I'd been studying the Thomas Guide, and thought I knew exactly where I was. My confidence was misplaced. Shortly I found myself heading in quite the wrong direction on a street I didn't recognize-which didn't mean much, since I didn't recognize most of them.
Being lost turned out to be a good thing, though, because I noticed a huge bookstore and turned into its parking lot with only a couple of near-collisions on the way. Inside I found the information desk, manned by a pimply boy with the first bad teeth I'd noticed since I hit LA. "Help you?" he asked without much interest. He brightened up at my reply.
"I'm thinking of becoming a private eye," I said. "Is there a book you'd recommend?"
"A private eye?" he sounded almost enthusiastic. "Come right this way."
As soon as I entered the reception area, Melodie latched onto me. "You've got to tell me every detail! Was Jarrod Perkins real upset? Did you see inside his house?"
"Crikey," I said. "How do you know I drove him home? Receptionist hotline?"
"Chantelle called and clued me in. And she said you were real nice to her."
An incoming call interrupted. "Hold, please. I'll see if she's available." Melodie made a face at me. "It's Fran's husband," she confided, "and I just know she won't want to talk to him."
Fran was married!. I contemplated what it must be like living with her thundercloud face. You wouldn't want to be a depressive or you'd slit your throat.
Apparently Fran did want to talk to him, so Melodie put the call through, then got back to business. "Did you hear the bang?"
"The whole place is soundproof, so you can't hear a thing. First anyone knew was when the doorman turned up to give Jarrod Perkins the bad news."
"You didn't hear the explosio
n?" Melodie was clearly disappointed in me.
I shook my head. "No explosion, but I was standing next to Jarrod Perkins when he learned his Hummer had blown up."
"No!" exclaimed Melodie, delighted. "Like, how did he take it?"
I visualized the director's bulging eyes and contorted face. "Not too well."
"They're saying it's a terrorist attack. It's on all the networks. Chantelle says the whole of Deerdoc is in an uproar. And when Dr. Deer called a few minutes ago, he sounded real shook up, know what I mean?"
"I'd better report to Ariana."
Before I'd left the reception area, Melodie was on the phone. "Tiffany? Oh, my God! You'll never guess what's happened…"
Ariana's unruffled persona was soothing, after the excitement I'd just been through. "Wouldn't it rot your socks?" I said, slumping into a chair. "No sooner do I get to Deerdoc, all keen to learn the ropes, when bam! A bomb goes off. It was a bomb, wasn't it?"
"Nothing's confirmed. I'll call a friend on the bomb squad later this afternoon and find out what they know."
"It could have been a fuel leak, or some electrical short."
"Could be, but there's no doubt Perkins has a knack for making enemies."
I slipped off my shoes and wriggled my feet. I couldn't imagine tottering around on really high heels all day, but maybe it was a matter of practice, like ballerinas standing on their toes.
Ariana said, "Dave Deer's just called. You're starting work at Deerdoc tomorrow. Nine sharp."
"Fair go, Noreen hasn't taken me through her duties yet. I wouldn't know what to do."
"It's your opportunity to be creative. Noreen's put in her resignation as of this afternoon. She says she's not going to be a victim of international terrorism."
I had a little smile at that, trying to come up with a scenario that'd have international terrorists blowing up an Aussie director's Hummer in Beverly Hills.
"Don't see how it's terrorism," I said, "unless Perkins is leading a double life as a spy."
"The attack's more likely to be tied to the theft of the therapy disks. If so, it's imperative you find who in the Deerdoc organization took them."
"Isn't 'imperative' a nice word?" I said. "Makes things sound important."
"It is important, Kylie."
Ariana hardly ever used my name, and I was caught unaware when I got a little thrill when she did.
"I've just found out Fran's married." A total change of subject would get my mind off the thrill before it developed into something more.
Ariana sat back in her chair and gave me her patented long, blue stare.
"You do a lot of that," I said.
"A lot of what?"
"Sitting back and giving me the hairy eyeball, like you really don't approve."
Ariana threw back her head and laughed, really laughed.
"What's funny?" I said, not joining in.
Still smiling, she shook her head. "I don't think I can put it into words."
"You could try."
Her face sobered, until she was her usual detached self. "We need to discuss your undercover role in detail. I'll bring Bob in on it too. He's an expert in this sort of thing. I'm booked for the rest of the day. Are you free for dinner?"
"Julia Roberts will be disappointed, but I think I can make it."
"Good. I'll speak to Bob and get back to you."
I beat a dignified retreat from her office. Okay, I'd managed to make her laugh at me. Laughing with me was next on the agenda.
When I went to the kitchen in search of a cuppa, I found Bob Verritt had been cornered by Melodie, who hovered at the door with one ear cocked to catch the phone in reception. Lonnie, grinning, provided an audience.
"Bob," she was saying, "this audition's super important for my career, or I wouldn't ask."
Bob, so much taller than all of us, had his narrow shoulders hunched and was sort of bent over, like a big question mark. "Look at it from my point of view, Melodie. I can't be in front and answer the phone. I've got too much work to do."
"I could switch it so every call rang through to your office…" She batted her eyelashes at him.
"I don't think so." He grinned at me. "Help me here, Kylie. This woman's implacable."
The implacable woman wasn't giving up. "I just can't miss this audition! Did you read The Hollywood Reporter this morning? It says the network's likely to pick up the show for an entire season. My agent says I've got a real good chance of getting the angel sidekick."
"Something like Charlie's Angels7." said Bob.
"No, the sort with feathers. The heavenly ones."
Lonnie said, "Angel shows are 50 yesterday."
"Not Angel Rejects. The concept's a winner," Melodie declared. "It's a blend of a talent quest, a reality show, and angels."
"I've heard enough," said Bob, winking at me.
He left, followed by Lonnie, who said to me on the way out, "She's all yours."
Melodie frowned at his retreating back. "I can't be too hard on Lonnie. I guess he always wanted to be a star himself." She spread her hands. "But he hasn't got it, know what I mean?"
"I'll look after the phone for you."
She wasn't listening. "If I don't get a call-back-though Larry says the part of Angelique is made for me-then I'll do the open call with the bees."
"Bees?"
"That's my name for them. The would-be if you could-be people. Like, everyone from Kansas who thinks they'll find fame and fortune in the big city. Open call means anyone can turn up to try out, but it's not for the main parts."
"Isn't that the phone?"
"Oh, rats!" Melodie sprinted down the corridor.
After making my tea, I collected my shoulder bag and, mug in hand, followed Melodie to the reception area. In my bag my bookstore purchase was safely concealed. I'd been planning to study it tonight, but if I was going to be discussing my undercover role over dinner, I needed a quick squiz at it now. It was important to be on top of things.
I found Melodie seated behind the desk, trying her persuasive techniques on the phone. "Oh, come on, Tiffany. You can take some time off. No one will know. I'm only asking for a couple of hours. This is my big chance!"
Clearly Tiffany was not cooperating, as after a few more entreaties Melodie sighed, said goodbye, and put down the phone.
"It's not as if she's got the kind of job that keeps her chained to a desk," she said to me.
"What's Tiffany do?" I asked.
Melodie pouted. "She's a professional gift buyer. Like, she could take time off easily"
"What's a professional gift buyer?"
"Tiffany works for Superior Gifts Plus. She shops for stars but never meets them. Like, the movie studios, the producers, and the talent agencies all give gifts to their actors on special occasions like the start of a new movie, or an Oscar nomination, or signing a big contract."
"She gets paid for buying presents for people?"
Melodie nodded. "The sky's the limit. Tiffany can spend what she likes. The studios spend millions of dollars on gifts for talent throughout the year. Someone's got to buy them. That's where Tiffany and Superior Gifts Plus comes in."
"I'd never do that job," I said. "I'm not all that keen on shopping."
Melodie's eyes widened. "You're not?" She considered my failure in this area for a moment, then, recalling her situation, said mournfully, "Tiffany was my last hope."
"I'll answer the phone for you this arvo." When she looked puzzled, I translated. "Afternoon. The phone. I'll answer it."
Transformed, she leapt to her feet. "You will! Oh, Kylie, I owe you one!" Apparently fearful I might change my mind, she grabbed her things and galloped for the front door.
"You're leaving already?" I called, but she was gone.
I settled down with my book, keeping a Hollywood Reporter handy to conceal it should anyone come along. I'd be red-faced if people-well, Ariana mainly-thought I needed extra help, but it couldn't hurt to do some studying on the side.
Several
calls came through, but the phone set-up was chickenfeed compared to the pub, so I aced it without any prob. I put a call through to Bob, and he chuckled when he heard my voice. "Melodie won out, did she? Watch out, Kylie, this won't be the last time she asks you."
I was really into a chapter on industrial espionage when a voice said, "Whatcha reading?"
I closed my book and covered the title with my hand. "Nothing."
"Looks like something to me." It was a delivery bloke in a daggy outfit of brown shorts and shirt. He slapped the package he was carrying down on the desk and gave me an overly familiar smile. "Where's Melodie? Auditioning again?"
"That's right."
He was one of those mega-annoying friendly types who can't mind their own business. "Good book?" he asked. "I'm a reader myself. Spy stuff. Techno-thrillers. Tom Clancy. Read him?"
"Not lately."
"You should." Before I could react, the twerp had reached over and grabbed my book. "Well, well," he said, grinning. He read the title in a loud voice. "Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook."
"Give me that!" I snatched it back from him.
Too late. Fran was on the scene. And she was smiling.
TWELVE
"I'm throwing myself on your mercy," I said, shoving the book into my bag.
"Oh, yeah?" Fran was still smirking.
I looked around. The coast was clear. The delivery bloke had left, whistling cheerfully, not giving a thought to the fact he'd given Fran a weapon to king-hit me with.
"You know how you've aced this gofering thing…" I began.
Fran's smile vanished as though it had never existed. "What? What thing?"
"Ariana said you were a gofer, so I suppose when you're doing it, you're gofering."
It was impossible, but her hair seemed to suddenly flame a deeper red. "I'm not a gofer," she ground out. "I'm the office manager."
"Good-oh. Well, you know how you've aced this office managering thing?"
Fran narrowed her eyes to slits. "Yes?" she said, drawing the word out.
I was going to have to be a real bullshit artist to pull this one off, but I'd give it a go. "It's sort of like you're an inspiration to me. I want to ace private-eyeing the way you ace your job. That's why I'm studying on the sly. Don't want anyone to think I'm not a natural at this P.I. stuff."