KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set

by Gordon Kessler

  Stella fainted.

  My ears were ringing, but I had the gun.

  Immediately smelling gasoline, I was thankful the gas tank hadn't exploded.

  From the small TV, the announcers' comments indicated they too were stunned by the noise.

  "Yes, it looks like that bang came from the next car back — no, wait, steam is pouring out of the car behind it — from under its hood. Probably broke a radiator hose from overheating in the long line of cars. Yes, that's Nicole Kidman's driver getting out and popping the hood."

  I whacked Bruno hard on the forehead with his own gun. "Dumbass!"

  I tossed the big revolver into Stella's purse, and started to fan her. "Pull up, asshole — or, so help me, I'll pull you out in front of all of these people and cameras, and I'll beat the living dog shit out of you."

  He did as told and Stella began to come to. Her eyes popped. "You're on fire!"

  I snuffed out my right sleeve. I'd thought the burning I felt was only from the initial muzzle flash.

  The valet opened her door and helped me in assisting Stella out of the car.

  She stood tentatively on the red carpet holding onto the valet until I could get out and take over.

  Bruno drove off, and the next car behind us pulled up steaming. They'd want to deposit their passengers and move away quickly before the car stalled out and they'd have to call for a tow truck. Most everyone's attention was now on them.

  I took Stella by the arm. "Well, that worked out nicely," I told her.

  She glanced at me woozily, not knowing half of what had just happened.

  But when we got through the red carpet archway, here came the piranha. Greg Cole with EN came at us first.

  * * *

  From his earpiece, Greg listened for instructions from his producer, as well as the off-camera live broadcast chit-chat of the program hostess Amanda and producer Dale Wiggins.

  The producer did a quick Internet records search to get info on Stella Hutchins's escort, E Z Knight.

  Hostess Amanda repeated her producer on live TV, "As we all know, Stella Hutchins was recently divorced from Jason Ryder. She was scheduled to arrive tonight with her agent, Mark Sondheim. But, according to Ms. Hutchins's publicist, Sondheim became ill earlier today, and she is now being escorted by long-time family friend, E Z Knight. He is a former US Force Recon Marine, a veteran, a felon convicted of murdering his wife — oh, my! He's a Federal prison escapee who was later acquitted of the murder charges...but was serving parole for manslaughter involving the deaths of two FBI special agents. And, I'm being told that minutes ago, a Federal warrant was issued for his arrest."

  She and her producer chuckled nervously.

  Amanda asked, "Shouldn't we tell somebody?"

  Dale said, "This has to be some kind of joke. It's got to be a PR stunt. Stella's just doing her usual — she's wanting to get back on the tabloids' front page, instead of buried in the back. She's always thrived on that attention."

  They laughed it off.

  Greg did not. He backed away and moved on to Nicole Kidman who was next in line after leaving her steaming limo at the curb and walking through the archway.

  When the EN producer searched the Internet again to confirm the information he'd just uncovered, he couldn't find E Z's criminal records anywhere. Now, he knew for sure it was a hoax — just another Stella Hutchins PR stunt.

  * * *

  Jada and Mama Lo make a magnificent and formidable technology support team — and they're exceptional hackers.

  CHAPTER 19

  And the Bomb Goes To —

  We breezed past the other network entertainment show hosts and security personnel over another four hundred feet of the red carpet.

  Stella was still a bit less than surefooted, but I guided, pulled and at times nearly dragged her along, not allowing time for her to stop for interviews, answer questions or even one photo op. I was sure it looked very bad for her, PR-wise — but you know what they say; "even bad publicity is better than none at all."

  I didn't bother trying to hide my burned sleeve. In a bit of a movie star traffic jam in front of the Kodak Theatre's main entrance, one network hostess caught me long enough to ask how I burned it. As we hurried to get around some of the other entertainment giant attendees, I shouted back, "Freebasing cocaine!"

  Stella actually laughed. It was almost as if, amid all this craziness and her daughter in danger of losing her life, she was actually enjoying herself. I could never understand this woman.

  Not only did my burnt tux sleeve look bad, it smelled as awful as anything I'd gotten a whiff of in years. The scent of the burned fabric was about the closest thing I'd ever smelled to hog shit. I frowned wondering what the hell the thing I was wearing was made of.

  Stella caught me. "Eel skin," she whispered. "You're smelling fried eel — three thousand dollar, fried eel, and I've got to take it back."

  I raised my eyebrows. Evidently, she still had good credit at the tux rental shop.

  After a little pushing, leaning and prying past the celebrities, we finally made it through the doorway into the large, five-story-tall lobby. I could now say that, over the past five-hundred feet, I'd gotten some of the dirtiest looks from some of the world's biggest stars — my very own fifteen minutes of fame.

  When two security guards approached us, probably wondering what our big hurry was, I said, "You know who this is, don't you? This is Stella Hutchins! She's feeling light headed."

  Stella seemed to think this was an opportunity for her to act a new part and gain some attention. She swooned and wobbled so much, I was afraid she'd flop onto her back and kick her legs up in the air like a fainting goat.

  Finally assisting us, the security ushered Stella to a beautifully appointed leather bench and then brought one of the event managers over. The woman was very polite and after some brief checking over a small microphone and headset, she found us a private room where Stella could rest.

  As soon as we were alone, I took the hog-leg .44 out of Stella's purse.

  "I thought my bag was a little heavy." She ogled the gun as I slipped it under my jacket.

  The thing stuck out like a hard-on in Speedos. I shifted it, making sure the chamber opposite the hammer was empty, this time sticking the long barrel under my belt and reminisced about last night with Zoya. Tonight, this big wheel gun would not make sitting for four hours very comfortable.

  We were able to pass the time, hoping that no one would bother us, and they didn't.

  Still leery of being tracked down by using my own phone, I called Beautiful on Stella's and got an update. Their search for Rabbit had been unproductive. I felt guilty about not being there, but the cops would arrest me if I went back to the marina, and I was sure something big was soon to happen right here at the Kodak Theatre. I hoped whatever might go down would somehow lead to Sophie's safe return. But as I glanced around the small room, I kept getting visions of poor Rabbit floating face down in the bay.

  Concerned about Stella's presentation of Best Actor, an assistant came by and, after a soft knock, checked on her status and asked if she needed anything. By then, Stella was fine.

  Fifteen minutes before the awards show was to begin its live broadcast, we entered the huge ballroom and were ushered past the Parterre. We were shown to our aisle seats, last row in the "golden horseshoe" where the nominees and presenters sat, still a good 50 feet from the stage.

  Not a big celebrity hound, myself — still, I was completely star-struck. Spielberg and Capshaw, Hanks and Wilson, Jolie and Pitt, Ford and Flockhart, they were all there. I caught a peak of Kate Beckinsale — wow, what a knock out. Not far from her, Hugh Jackman was speaking with Zoya, and Jason was whispering with Tom Cruise — the stars were definitely out tonight. I wished I could have heard what Zoya was saying to Jackman — that could have been fun!

  All cell phones were supposed to be set on silent, of course. I still had Stella's, and with ring and vibrate off, I snuck a peak at it regularly.


  The long event started being engrossing, seeing so many movie stars in person. But as the night wore on, I became a bit bored by it all. Finally, about thirty minutes before Stella's presentation of the Best Actor award, an usher stopped by our row and motioned for Stella to follow him. He led her away, and I knew she was going backstage to the Architectural Digest green room to prepare for her presentation.

  The "seat-filler" who took her place was an elderly woman of about eighty-five, who reminded me a bit of Betty White. I smiled at her, and she gave a courteous smile back and nodded but didn't utter a word.

  Wondering about our boy Oscar, I gazed to the side of the stage at one of the huge plastic statue replicas of what is officially known as the Academy Award of Merit. Was he all he appeared to be? Or could there be a bomb inside the little man?

  The little guy himself is actually made of gold-plated britannium and is mounted on a black metal base. At eight and a half pounds and thirteen and a half inches tall, he is the shortest man in Hollywood, but every woman here desires the little Art Deco knight. With a crusader's sword gripped in both hands and standing on a five-spoke reel of film, he looks like he's ready to serve the next king or queen. Each spoke on the reel represents one branch of the original Academy: actors, writers, directors, producers and technicians. Today, they'd need a couple more reels to represent all the branches.

  I'd kept Stella's phone, still wanting to avoid being found. When I glanced at it, I noticed Booger had texted me. "Jada enhanced image of Sophie. Bomb vest is dummy EOD training type. Also, backdrop sheet has tiny horse pattern."

  So Sophie was wearing a fake bomb, and the sheet used for the backdrop is the same one that was in the hamper in Sophie's room.

  One plus one always makes two.

  I thought again about how Stella had unsuccessfully taken a shot at a singing career, and Jason had built a recording studio for her in their basement. The locked door to a sound-proofed basement — that was where we'd find Sophie, and probably Ramón, as well.

  Then Beautiful texted me about some cops nosing around my boat, and one of them was a Lieutenant Harper Lee Legend.

  I answered, asking him to have Harper let me in on what was happening. I figured texting with her on Stella's phone would take me at least one step farther away from being located.

  I get her text two minutes later. "Just leaving, on way ur loc."

  Uh-oh.

  She added "Bomb dog found explosives & other bomb-making mat. on ur boat. Dog hit on thin sheet mat, about 3 mils, very pliable, like clothing fabric, sealed in clear plastic, exposed mat on cut edges."

  "I'm being setup," I texted her, "framed! Someone planted on boat." Then, I immediately forwarded Harp's text to Booger and to Zoya.

  It wasn't a minute before Booger replied.

  His text read, "Yeah, heard rumors of stuff — haven't seen, myself. New process developed in Turkey — rolling plastic exp. into thin textured sheet. Perforated w/ pinholes gives flex, lighter wt & fabric appear. Coated w/ thin plastic laminate treated w/ odor-cancelling agent dog's nose can't smell through."

  In a following text, Booger also said, "Bomb could have proximity detector. Bomber not have to set off remotely. Possibly backup remote. If proximity detector, bomb will arm when 2nd device comes w/i few feet of bomb sensor. When 2nd device & bomb sensor part, BOOM!" He finished, "N route w/ Beautiful."

  I texted back "No! Stay w/ Smokey & girls."

  I never got a reply.

  Five minutes later, Stella was taking the stage. In the lights, her smile beaming, the form-fitting, but flouncy turquois dress, she was even more gorgeous than ever.

  I took a deep breath. This awards ceremony would soon come to a close, without incident. Only three more awards to go; the Best Actor Stella was presenting, then Best Actress and finally Best Motion Picture.

  I suddenly had an even more worrisome thought, and since Booger hadn't answered, I texted Beautiful. "Ask Harp what color fabric."

  On stage, Stella was carrying on and laughing. It was her reclaimed three minutes of fame. She announced the nominees. They showed clips of the actors in their films.

  Twenty seconds later the reply came back from Harper, "Blue-green — turquoise."

  CHAPTER 20

  Bye-Bye Love

  Stella announces the winner, "And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to..." she opens the envelope and looks at the card. Seeming a little stunned at first, she gazes out at the audience. Then a big grin takes over her face.

  "It's my sexy-exy — Jason Ryder!"

  The crowd erupts.

  "Stop him," I text Zoya, too late.

  Jason stands, leans down and kisses Zoya.

  She gets my text and turns to me from her seat, a questioning look on her face.

  He's moving down the aisle, shaking hands patting backs and hugging as he goes.

  I search the crowd for security. They're doubled up at every exit, including both sides of the stage.

  I stand, unsure of what to do.

  Jason leaps up the steps to claim his award. Proximity detector, I think, as his arms outstretch toward his ex-wife, and she grins back. The watch that Bruno gave him....

  "Shi-it!" I pull out the big, long-barreled .44 and run toward the stage. "Stop! Jason, get back."

  I'm sure handguns are appearing from everywhere. But pistols aren't accurate from much of a distance and with me in the crowd of celebrities, I figure I have a few seconds before any will gun me down.

  I stop in front of the stage. Jason stops as well and stares at me. Stella's mouth drops open.

  "E Z, come on," Jason whispers hoarsely from his damaged throat. "Let's put our personal troubles behind us for tonight. What do you say?"

  "Get back, Jason. Stella's wearing a bomb."

  Jason glances at Stella's body-tight gown.

  "E Z," he says and steps toward me.

  I raise the .44, pointing it toward Stella, hoping it is accurate. I pull back the hammer. Slowly, I squeeze the trigger.

  A loud bang and Oscar's head is gone.

  That got everyone's attention. Women scream, men gasp.

  I tell Jason, "It might be too late, already." They are fifteen feet apart. "You might be too close, Jason." To Stella, I ask, "Stella, where'd you get the dress?"

  "I...I — everyone knows; Jawir Fantini. He's a top fashion designer."

  "No, Stella. Who actually gave it to you."

  Stella's dumbfounded.

  "Was it Ramón? Stella, was it Ramón Peña? Did he insist you wear it?"

  She's horrorstruck. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" She glazes down at the gown.

  "Stella, Peña had that thing made in Turkey. It's a knockoff design. The fabric — it's explosive."

  She smiles affectionately at the headless Oscar, then hugs the statuette, probably realizing this will be the only time she'll ever have him in her arms — the prize she has always reached for, but that has eluded her throughout her career.

  I check over my shoulder, quickly calling out to the awe-struck crowd, "Clear out! Get the hell out of here."

  The mass of stars, movie makers and people who serve them rise as if one body and race in panic toward the exits. I didn't have to say more. "Evacuate, now!"

  They sprint, many tripping over one another for the exits. Human nature at its most basic — its ugliest.

  I avoid a couple of men I think might want to become heroes in real life, sidestepping two of today's biggest stars — I won't name names.

  Zoya steps by me, ducking my aim, and stops twenty feet up the aisle.

  "Jason," I say. "Back away from Stella. Her dress is made of plastic explosives. Back away, slowly."

  Stella begins swaying. She takes a couple of tentative steps.

  "Stella, don't move."

  "But, E Z," she says, "What will I do?"

  "Stand there until the bomb squad can get in and disarm the bomb." The big chrome buckle glimmers in the lights and I scrutinize it. "The controls are probably wired int
o your buckle."

  I wonder what brave security guard would try to pop me in the head. I hope he's a good shot. I don't want to become a vegetable.

  I consider the possibility that Peña could have a wireless remote detonator. "Is he watching, Stella? Is Peña watching the show?"

  She looks at me still stunned, gripping the headless Oscar.

  Anger overwhelmed me. My feelings for this woman were so convoluted, I didn't even understand them. "Come on, Stella," I scolded, "tell the truth. Yesterday, it wasn't that you loved or cared a bit for me when you didn't go through with trying to kill me. It was because you were in on your own daughter's kidnapping plot, and you wouldn't have gotten the big payoff money if you'd killed me early. But you didn't know all of what Peña had in mind, did you?"

  She stares blankly at me.

  I have a change of heart. I don't need to badger her. She is so screwed up, I nearly feel sorry for her. I regain control of my emotions.

  "Listen, Stella," I say. "It's going to be okay. But where's Sophie? Where's Sophie, Stella?"

  Stella is frowning. She's stepped backward into a world where her brain doesn't need to think. "Sophie?"

  "Where's your daughter Sophie? Is she okay Stella?"

  She smiles. "Sophie's okay. She's playing with Ramón. She likes him."

  "You filthy bitch!" Jason squeaks out, and noticeably restrains himself from going at her.

  "Bomb squad!" comes a familiar female voice from behind me.

  They rush in, and I let the hammer back on the old revolver and place it on the floor. Within a couple of seconds, I'm lying next to it, getting my hands zip-tied together.

  Two of the cops in full body armor briskly rush me away as a couple of others are paused by the stage, waiting to help Jason. We pass a fully-suited Explosives Ordinance officer, looking like the Michelin Man in black.

  * * *

  We stopped as Harper raised her hand as we were about to go by. Zoya stood behind her.

  "I'll take charge of him. Need him for an ongoing investigation."

  She pulled me away, and we went to a side exit. Outside, Beautiful and Booger were standing next to the Escalade parked by the door.