Once I got my food, I needed to figure out where to eat it. There was no way I’d last until I got home and I didn’t want to leave my car running unattended for too long. For a brief moment, I was tempted to use the hood as a makeshift table. The weather was definitely nice enough for an impromptu picnic. It was in the low 70 degree range, which put it on par for an average LA day in January. Despite the weather being nice, the condition of my car’s hood wasn’t. I was overdue for a wash.
I ate in my car, passing the time checking the LAPD Crime Stoppers tip line page for new cases. The ATF and something called the National Sports Shooting Foundation were offering $10,000 “for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for the burglary and theft of firearms from a federal firearms licensee.” Though I’d gotten a tad more confident in my investigation skills over the past couple months, I definitely wasn’t ready to locate someone I knew had multiple firearms.
During my first attempt at an investigation last fall, I’d encountered former-cop-turned-investigator-extraordinaire Aubrey S. Adams-Parker. After we’d worked together to solve a hit-and-run, I’d begged him to take me on as his apprentice. In the ensuing two months, we hadn’t looked into anything remotely as exciting as that first case. We’d started investigating an assault outside Dodger Stadium, but the police caught the guy before we could really begin asking questions. Since then we’d mostly dealt with smaller cases, some we’d gotten from the Crime Stoppers site, including the missing grandpa that had brought Trevor, Bix Financial, and $1,000 into my life. But we’d wrapped up our last case weeks ago and there was nothing on the horizon.
Given that we’d found Mr. Scott, the grandpa, safe and sound, I was hoping for a similar type of case. Unfortunately, the rest of the Crime Stoppers page read like November sweeps episodes of Law & Order. Gangbangers. Serial killers. Child molesters. Uh-uh. Nope. And definitely not. None of them were my area of expertise. I wasn’t sure I wanted them to be. Part of me knew that if I was serious about becoming an investigator, I shouldn’t be scared to actually investigate. But still. I figured I could slowly work my way up. Until then, we needed something to look into. Short of stopping random people on the street to ask if they needed someone to follow their cheating husband around, I was out of ideas.
And Aubrey wasn’t much help. He ran a rather informal business. No business cards. No office. Not even a company name. The cases he did accept weren’t dangerous. They also weren’t for money. Thank you, inheritance! I had no such trust fund. I also had no problem doing pro bono—it not only gave me great experience, but it was nice to help people who needed it. But I also knew we’d eventually need to get a steady flow of income.
My half of our just-received reward money was designated for a credit card bill that refused to fall below $1,000 no matter how many times I told myself it was “only” for emergencies. I’d already paid my parents’ mortgage for six months, so I was good there, thanks to some money A-list actress Toni Abrams had given me for returning her grandma’s necklace after her house was burglarized. Of course, there was the recent development of my car not wanting to start. My Infiniti was twelve years old with a cracked windshield and more miles on it than an eighty-five-year-old hooker. Still, I hoped it was a one-time occurrence. And even if it wasn’t, that was a problem for Future Day anyway.
Aubrey didn’t seem to particularly care for his portion, so I told him I would use it for business expenses for our new firm, which I’d cleverly named ASAP Investigations. Among other things, like purchasing a website domain and buying these really freaking cool binoculars, I’d already gotten business cards. Because nothing says legit like a stack of business cards you get online for $5.99 plus free shipping. I was also getting a whiteboard. Not because we needed it. More because I’d always wanted one but never had a good excuse to actually get it.
I X’d out of the Crime Stoppers site to do some comparison dry-erase board shopping online. Forty-seven minutes and seventy-one Amazon reviews later, I’d made my decision on which one to buy. And it was available for in-store pickup at Staples. Score.
By the time I stopped at the bank, picked up the whiteboard, made two-and-a-half random bathroom stops—one was a false alarm—and arrived at Omari’s super-swank loft, it was dark. Omari Grant had been a Harlem boy before moving to Augusta, Georgia, his junior year in high school (and meeting moi!), so when he got his CBS show last summer and was looking for a new place, he wanted to pretend he was back in New York. This meant his options were either downtown or squatting in the Warner Bros New York backlot. LA isn’t brimming with the sky-high buildings you normally equate with big cities, and about the only place you can find anything consistently over twelve floors is downtown.
Personally, I would have preferred the backlot—it would have been easier to park. If someone put a gun to my head and said “Parallel park or I’ll kill this sweet little kitten,” the kitten wouldn’t die. But only because I would accidentally hit its killer-to-be while trying to back into the spot. Omari had taken to letting me park in his space in the building’s underground lot while paying to park his own car at a hotel across the street.
We ordered pizza for dinner. I paid. I’m all for equal opportunity in our relationship. As long as the bill isn’t more than forty bucks—including tip. With Omari’s growing profile, we’d become quite familiar with all the local delivery guys. It was less of a hassle than eating out. I’d experienced it myself in my Chubby’s days. People staring at you, wondering if you were who they thought you were, or taking pics to send to their friends when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You were.
Even the ones who did have the courtesy to ask for the photo presented a quandary: let your food get cold or be rude to someone who meant well? It was easier to just eat in.
Omari’s publicist, Nina Flynn, had convinced him to splurge on an interior decorator because she hoped to pitch a feature in People magazine’s Home section. The results were nothing short of amazing—a mix of different shades of gray interspersed with a few deep dark purples that were most definitely worthy of a pictorial. The first time either of us spilled something, we both gasped and expected Nina to jump out of his walk-in closet to yell. We were still getting used to the idea that Omari lived in a grownup apartment with matching curtains and random vases only there for show, not actual flowers.
We were sitting on his giant purple velour couch, my favorite thing in the apartment. At least, next to him. Probably because it made me feel as comfortable as he did. The giant television was on but it watched us rather than vice versa. I snuggled into the crook of his arm and stared up at him. He looked like an older version of the archetypal jock in a high school film, except one who was black. He had muscles, but also dimples, and used both to his advantage. Not that I minded. “You got three toppings,” I said.
“True.”
“That tells me you were planning on putting out today.”
He considered this. “So, three toppings is like the equivalent of ordering lobster on a first date. I’m basically telling you I’m easy. What if I ordered plain? What would that tell you?”
“That you knew I didn’t shave my legs tonight.”
I was about to say more when someone banged on the door. Omari threw me a look and went to answer it. He returned a few seconds later with my favorite fifth wheel. Nina was already going a mile a minute. “Why aren’t you ready? The Nominee Cocktail Reception starts in a half hour.”
“Because I wasn’t planning on going,” Omari said.
Omari played Jamal Fine on LAPD 90036. He was one of five actors nominated for “Best Actor in Television” at the 18th Annual Silver Sphere Awards, a TV and movie awards show put on by a select group of respected entertainment journalists. It had recently surpassed the Golden Globes when it came to prestige and was nipping at the Oscars for the most coveted honor in Hollywood. Unlike the Academy Awards, it had a more relaxed
vibe. Dubbing itself the “Biggest Party of the Year,” the show plied its guests with alcohol and had a DJ instead of an orchestra. Milking the nomination like a perpetually pregnant cow, Nina had had Omari on a nonstop blitz of TV shows, magazines, blogs, and of course parties. He hated every single one.
“Did you not tell me that you wanted to win?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” he said. And he did. I’d been there when he’d gotten the nomination. He didn’t stop smiling for two straight days. “I told you’d I’d go to the press conference,” he continued. “That’s not enough?”
Nina shook her head. “Not if you want to go from nominee to winner. I worked for Silver Sphere for five years before leaving to start my firm. I know what a big deal this is, especially for a star of a freshman drama that’s a procedural at that. You have to show face and network.”
He looked at me and whispered, “Save me.”
As much as it pained me to even think it, Nina was right. It would mean a lot for Omari’s career to win, plus I knew how much he wanted it. When we were in high school, we’d talk about one of us becoming an “award-winning actor.” Since I clearly wasn’t getting even a Razzie anytime soon, that left it up to him. “You should go,” I told him. “And it’s not just because I’ve always fantasized about being with an award winner.”
“You don’t want to share the rest of the pizza,” he said.
I nodded and we smiled at each other long enough for Nina to clear her throat. “Fine, Nina,” Omari said, though he looked at me. He jokingly rolled his eyes and shook his head like an eternally put-upon 1950s sitcom mom.
Satisfied, Nina practically pushed him toward the stairs to his bedroom. “Please go jump in the shower. You reek of pizza and knockoff Chanel No. 5.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. My perfume wasn’t a knockoff. It was just really, really, really old. I tried to figure out the best way to work that into a conversation as Omari disappeared up the stairs. I came up blank.
Only when she heard the shower running did Nina deem to acknowledge my presence. Blonde, late thirties, skinny with a booty she didn’t get from her mama, and glasses I seriously doubted she actually needed, Nina looked like a grownup version of “last girl standing in horror film.” I had a feeling she randomly stripped down to her bra and panties for no good reason as soon as she stepped inside her house. I also had a feeling she would slash someone with a knife without a moment’s thought. Good or bad guy. She operated a “boutique” agency, which in publicist-speak roughly translates to “I can’t afford any other employees.” Omari was her biggest client, so he got a lot of her attention. Too much.
I can’t say she was happy about me being in his apartment. But then, I wasn’t happy about her being there either.
And it was because of Tomari.
Tomari wasn’t a person. It was a rumor. One that had Omari dating A-list actress Toni Abrams. All the gossip blogs had run with it, but it was Anani Miss who’d given them the nickname Tomari. It was just wrong. The name. The rumor. Everything.
Omari preferred not to give it much attention. Whenever a reporter asked who he was dating, he’d give a curt “I prefer to keep my private life private.” It was fine by me. I didn’t date Omari because he was a TV star. I actually would have kind of preferred if he wasn’t. I’d gotten quite comfortable outside the glare of the spotlight since my Chubby’s contract was canceled.
It helped our relationship that we had two unspoken rules. I wouldn’t complain about the Tomari stuff. He wouldn’t complain about the investigation stuff. It had worked out well. However, I was 99.999999 percent sure Nina was the sole reason the Tomari “relationship” would not die a slow, painful death. I couldn’t avoid her, so I’d settled for boycotting Anani. Call it a silent protest.
“Nina. What’s up? What’s going on with you?” I gave her my best girl talk voice, mainly because I knew how much it annoyed her to have to speak to me.
“What’s supposed to be going on with me, in less than an hour, is the Silver Sphere Award Nominee Cocktail Reception. And instead of being ready, like he told me he would be, he’s sitting here eating pizza. With you.” Her tone made it clear this was my fault.
“He didn’t mention any party to me,” I said. “How was I supposed to know?”
“It’s awards season. There’s always a party!”
Touché. Awards season is all about getting dressed, getting drunk, and getting tiny gold statues that usually mean an extra zero in your paycheck and an extra line in your obituary. The three-month stretch kicks off with the Independent Spirit Award nominations in November and culminates with the grand dame of them all, the Oscars, in February. In between, everyone and their mama gives out awards like candy on Halloween. I went with the positive. “So he’ll make a fashionably late entrance.”
“I need to get him on that red carpet before the movie nominees show up. Once Todd Arrington steps foot out that car, no one’s going to care about Omari. Arrington’s people are getting him there early this year. He needs to be back on a plane to Dubai for a six a.m. call.”
Well, when she put it like that. “Let me check on him.”
I woke up the next morning tired enough to seriously contemplate hibernation. Based on the amount of leftover pizza I’d eaten the night before, I figured I was good until April. At least.
The plan had been to wait for Omari to get home. I’d lasted until 2:00 a.m., which is when all the clubs close in LA. If New York is the city that never sleeps, LA is the city that makes sure to get its beauty rest.
When Omari wasn’t home by 2:30, I called it a night and took my butt home. We’d been together for two months, but I still didn’t feel comfortable sleeping over without him.
Home was Sienna’s two-bedroom penthouse off Burton Way in Beverly Hills. Before anyone gets too excited about moving on up, this was LA. It wasn’t quite a deluxe apartment in the sky. More like deluxe fifth floor condo in the smog. Still, it was gorgeous. There were worse places a technically homeless person could wind up.
Six months ago, with my savings at an all-time low and my bills at an all-time high, Sienna had let me move into her spare bedroom-turned-shoe-closet-turned-back-to-spare-bedroom. The remnants of the room’s past life housing Sienna’s shoes still took up three walls. She’d gifted me most of her stiletto collection in the early days of her all-red world record attempt—we wore the same shoe size—and they were still beautifully displayed on individual shelves. I’d nicknamed my room the “bloset.” It was the only room in the house that wasn’t red.
When I did finally will myself out of bed, it was to use the bathroom. I had a bladder the size of a tick. As I padded my way back to bed, I could hear Sienna in the living room watching TV. A newscaster reported on a late-night shooting at a bank off La Brea. Two people were shot, one fatally. I didn’t think much of it.
It was only after I got back in bed that I checked my cell.
Three missed calls. All from Omari. He wasn’t the type to blow my phone up, especially in the middle of the night. I checked my texts. He’d messaged. It was quick and to the point.
Don’t worry. I’m alive.
What. The. Fudge?
Three
Between running red lights and trying to call Omari on my cell, I broke about a kajillion laws getting to his place. I even called Nina. When she didn’t pick up, I turned on the radio. KFI was broadcasting a press conference.
“My name is Nina Flynn and I’ve been called to serve as a spokesperson for the Silver Sphere Organization in the wake of this terrible tragedy. Normally I’d be thrilled to be working with such an esteemed organization again. It’s a shame it’s under such unfortunate circumstances.”
That explained why she wasn’t answering the phone. Sienna had mentioned that something happened after the Silver Sphere event but I hadn’t stopped to find out any details. I was too concerned with r
unning out the door to find Omari.
“Last night at approximately 2:30 a.m., after leaving the Silver Sphere Awards Nominee Cocktail Reception, the organization’s in-house publicist Lyla Davis was shot and killed at an ATM on La Brea Boulevard during what appears to be a botched robbery attempt. The assailant fled with Lyla’s bag and personal cell phone. Her driver was also shot when he attempted to stop the robbery. His injuries are not considered life threatening, and he is currently being held for observation at a local hospital, where he is expected to make a full and complete recovery. We will not be releasing his name at this time, and we ask that you respect his privacy during his recovery process.”
The slowpoke in front of me stopped at a yellow and I was finally forced to hit my brakes.
“I’m going to turn things over to our president, Gus ‘the Gossip’ Ortiz, but I wanted to say one thing,” Nina continued. “Lyla wasn’t just a great publicist. She was also a great friend. I had the pleasure of having her assist me during the last two years of my time with SSO. And when it was finally time to resign, to fulfill my lifelong dream of starting my own boutique publicity firm, I knew that only one person could replace me: Lyla Davis. I can’t tell you how much it saddens me she wasn’t able to use everything I’ve taught her for this year’s awards show.”
Only Nina would use an informal eulogy to talk about herself. I tried calling Omari again.
“Lyla touched everyone’s lives, journalist and actor alike,” Nina continued. “That’s why the Silver Sphere Organization, as well as this year’s best actor and best actress motion picture nominees, are asking for the public’s help in identifying her killer. We are offering a reward—”
Omari picked up just as the light finally turned green. I hit the gas and immediately shut off the radio. “I told you I was fine.” His voice sounded sleepy.
Hollywood Ending Page 2