Hollywood Ending

by Kellye Garrett

  “I know, but why wouldn’t you be fine?”

  “You heard the news? About the woman getting shot? I was there.”

  I almost hit the car in front of me.

  “Well, right before,” he said. “I was getting cash after the party. I actually let her into the lobby of the ATM. Didn’t see anything, though.”

  “But you’re fine.”

  “Yeah. I was already at the corner of Melrose when she was shot. I didn’t even hear about it until Nina called to let me know. It’s scary, though. If I’d gotten there a few minutes later … ”

  I didn’t even want to think about that. “You sound tired. Go back to sleep. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

  We hung up and I made a left at the next street. I needed to see Aubrey. Pronto.

  As I drove, I thought about Lyla Davis. Being dead was horrible, no matter the circumstances. But a case of “wrong place, wrong time” especially freaked me out. Just the idea that you’d done your best in life to avoid marrying any sociopaths, accidentally dropping a radio in the tub, or crossing the street without looking in both directions, and then you happen to head to an ATM at the exact same time as a money-hungry psycho with a gun. It could have been Omari. It could have been my parents. It could have been any of us. But it wasn’t. It was Lyla Davis. Poor thing.

  I used the red lights to google more info on her. Her headshot accompanied every article about the shooting. She was classic ingénue—dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a wide light-brown face that looked like it was created strictly to smile. She even had freckles. At the next red light, I learned that the police had already released video and stills from the incident. I couldn’t look at the video on my phone—there was no time at the red lights—but I did check out the photos of the shooter. The bank hadn’t exactly splurged on surveillance equipment, so the picture was as blurry as my vision before I got Lasik.

  About the only thing I could make out was that he was tall and skinny. His face was covered in every pic, first by his hand and later by a ski mask. Not sure where he’d even got that in LA. Despite the mask, you could still clearly see something dark peeking out from the front collar of his T-shirt. My guess was a tattoo. Of what? I couldn’t tell. As it was, it resembled a big black blob. I screenshot it anyway, then turned on Sunset.

  For once, morning rush hour traffic in Silver Lake moved at a decent pace. But this was still LA. Decent meant ten minutes to go two blocks. When I got closer, I saw why.

  Someone was smack-dab in the middle of the street directing traffic. And unless the mayor had decided to exchange the dark blue LAPD uniforms for bright orange, that someone was definitely not a cop. He was about thirty-five-ish and five foot seven, with a slight but sturdy build that paired nicely with his blond hair and brown eyes. He’d probably play the best guy friend that the female lead ignores to spend ninety-plus minutes arguing with the leading man.

  I got in the turn lane and waited for some indication that it was my turn to go. He let a few cars continue straight, then blew a whistle, gave them the “Talk to the Hand”/“Stop!” gesture, and motioned for me to turn left.

  I pulled into a small store lot, got out of the car, and waited to cross the street. When all was clear, he gestured me toward him like the wannabe crossing guard he obviously was. I got within a foot of him, then stopped. “Aubrey, what did your mother tell you about playing in traffic?”

  He didn’t look at me, too focused on the task at hand. “The city refuses to put a much-needed traffic light at this location, Ms. Anderson. I am doing my best to alleviate the situation.”

  “Of course you are.” A Prius whipped past me. The driver honked and Aubrey gave him a friendly wave. He must come out here a lot. Probably half the neighborhood thought he was homeless.

  “Can you take a quick break so we can chat?” I asked.

  He turned, giving me the full weight of his brown eyes. “It is rush hour, Ms. Anderson.”

  I took that to be a no. “Aubrey, you do realize you’re not a cop anymore, right? And even when you were, I hope you weren’t stuck directing traffic.” I still hadn’t gotten the full story on what had happened there.

  “I may not be a police officer, but they cannot take away my rights as a concerned citizen.”

  It was clear he wasn’t going anywhere. At least not until each and every one of his neighbors was at work safe and sound. That meant I’d have to risk my life to talk to him. Ironic. I got all up in his personal space. “There was a shooting last night.”

  That got his attention. At least briefly. Aubrey threw me a quick look before turning to tell a car to turn left. I pretended his hand motion meant I should continue. “A publicist named Lyla Davis was gunned down at an ATM after she left a party. Omari was there! Well, right before it happened. He’s okay. The police already released a photo of the shooter.”

  I held up my cell, but Aubrey was too busy giving a Honda the right of way to even glance at it. So I moved it closer until it was about two inches from his eyeballs. The Honda would be okay without Aubrey’s careful direction. “There are also witnesses, including her driver,” I said. “The guy shot him and his car before running off when a couple pulled into the lot.”

  “That is very unfortunate.” Aubrey left it at that. He was clearly not as interested as I was. Blurg.

  I thought about how I needed to get him on board. Thought about Omari there right before it happened. Thought about poor Lyla there when it did happen. I ran through my Rolodex of “Reasons Aubrey does things” and came up with “They’ve specifically asked for the public’s help to ID the guy.”

  I could literally see his ears perk up. There was nothing Aubrey liked more than being helpful. It was just that normally the cops weren’t receptive to his assistance.

  “You said she was at an ATM machine?”

  Bingo.

  We went to a nearby donut shop to do a bit more research and divvy up duties. Aubrey would canvass the neighborhood around the bank to see if anyone saw anything. He’d also speak with the two witnesses. I’d recruit my friend Emme and her elite computer skills to sharpen the released ATM footage for any additional clues. I’d also try to find the unnamed driver, which wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world without a name. Even TMZ was having trouble bribing someone to share that. To their credit, they had learned he was at Cedars-Sinai hospital.

  When I got in my car, I emailed the video to Emme, then called her to explain what had popped up in her inbox. Once I shared all the details, she allowed me to come over. Yes, allowed. I’d once stopped by uninvited and spent ten minutes ringing her bell. She only let me in after I’d commented on her latest Facebook status.

  I thought about the case while in the car. If I was being honest with myself, I was scared you-know-what-less to look into another murder. I used the drive to convince myself it would all turn out fine. They already had a picture of the bad guy. We just needed to find a name and hand it over to the police. If handled right, there would be zero interaction with any murderers of any kind. Been there. Done that. Had the emotional and physical scars to prove it.

  Emme’s door was unlocked when I got there, a good thing since she was engrossed as usual in a computer game. Any semi-decent interior decorator will tell you a room needs a focal point. Emme had chosen a huge desk with a computer monitor bigger than the TVs of most sports fanatics. The result was more command center than living room.

  And at the center of it all was my Emme. At five foot seven and a size two with (real) blonde hair and blue eyes, she looked like a leading lady. Literally. Her twin sister Toni—the same one who was allegedly one half of Tomari—had two minutes and four Oscar nominations on her. Luckily, Emme didn’t give a single iota. She’d retired from acting at age six.

  Grownup Emme turned around when I walked in. “Omari’s good?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. He’s even going to work. I
asked him some questions but he didn’t see anything.”

  Emme turned back around to resume playing the life simulation game where you happily run errands that no one wants to in real life. “The story’s been trending on Twitter all morning.” That was how she got her news. There were worse ways. “Video’s almost ready, BTW.”

  I made small talk while we waited. “You given much thought to your birthday?” It was in a few weeks and it was a big one. Twenty-five.

  “TBH”—to be honest—“nope,” she said. Then, eyes never moving from her game, she opened a right desk drawer, grabbed a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

  I took a look. It was a photo of a pair of ugly sunglasses with two yellow circles in each upper corner. She’d copied and pasted some marketing material. The brand name was Focals. The tag line: Let’s get visual!!! Yes, with three exclamation points. Apparently it was some new gadget that let you record POV videos and send them directly to any social media app on your phone.

  Someone had obviously been thinking about her birthday after all and knew exactly what she wanted. Emme barely left her apartment, so I wasn’t quite sure why she needed sunglasses—even ones with a built-in camera. However, I owned lots of yoga pants even though I never went to actual yoga. Maybe these sunglasses were just as comfy and forgiving after you splurged on extra-large fries. “These will look great on you, Em!”

  Emme had also listed the MSRP and five local stores where one could buy Focals, as well as their hours of operations and one other thing. “What are the links?” I asked.

  “Google Map directions from your place to each location.”

  “Can you email this to me—” My phone buzzed before I could finish my sentence. An alert told me I had a new email from Emme titled Focal Info. “Thanks.”

  “NP.” No problem. There was a beep. “Footage is done.”

  She pulled it up on her mega monitor. It was black and white and from a POV above an indoor ATM machine. A guy stood in front of the machine. With a start, I realized it was Omari. My breath caught. Lyla appeared a few seconds later, a dark bookbag hanging from her erect left arm. Omari left as she came in. They didn’t speak but he held the door. Neither seemed to realize it didn’t close all the way behind them.

  That answered one of my burning questions: Why hadn’t the police used records of the killer’s ATM card to track him down? No way was I telling Omari that he may have helped the shooter get inside.

  Lyla walked straight to the cash machine. ATM cameras are up there with DMV and passport cameras when it comes to making sure you don’t look your best. But I was still able to make out the nails. Long, dark-colored talons, they were the only hint that she had some edge to her. She probably used them to offset the adorable freckles.

  The killer came in a minute later, wearing a white T-shirt and what looked like a beanie on his head. He kept his head down and his hand over his face, making it impossible to identify any marks or features. I honestly couldn’t even tell if he had a nose.

  He made sure to shut the door firmly behind him. As soon as it was closed, he pulled down his beanie, transforming it into the aforementioned ski mask. He followed ATM etiquette by standing a few feet away, which conveniently also kept him away from the security camera. He waited patiently, head always down, as Lyla finished her transaction. It was only when she turned that he made his move, going for her cell phone first. Wrong choice.

  I had to give it to Lyla. She didn’t go down without a fight. It was uncomfortable to watch knowing the final outcome. But she put her mani to work, scratching at his covered face and exposed neck and arms, pulling at his white T-shirt. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the chance to rip off the ski mask.

  The footage stopped right before the really scary part. I was glad. The next clip started with the killer running out the bank’s front door, Lyla’s backpack at his side.

  We replayed it again. And again. On the third viewing, I remembered the blob. In the still images the police had released, it looked like nothing more than a huge patch of dirt. But Emme’s monitor gave a much clearer picture. “Em, can you pause this section and blow it up?”

  During the fight, Lyla pulled at her attacker’s shirt—revealing more of his chest. He definitely had a tattoo. But even with Emme’s magic, we could only make out a few centimeters. It was definitely round and looked like it had cogs. It wasn’t much but it was enough. If I could match the top of the tattoo with the rest of it, then I could be well on my way to finding out who killed Lyla Davis.

  Until then, I needed to talk to Lyla’s driver. He wasn’t anywhere on the security footage, but the front of his car was. We paused it again to get a good look. It was dark and obviously an SUV. The front grill had the Lincoln emblem: the one that looks like a compass has gone on a crash diet and lost twenty pounds more than it should have. There was a white California plate but one that didn’t have the standard collection of numbers and letters. Not a shock there. Los Angeles, the home of vanity, was also the home of the vanity plate.

  I hated them. Mainly because it always took me forever to figure them out. I’d once spent an entire hour stuck in traffic trying to decipher what the guy in front of me meant when he’d chosen BRN 2BWD. It took me looking it up on my phone to realize it was Born to be Wild. More like Born to be Confusing.

  This one read 2N UP.

  “At least the plate’s easy to read,” Emme said.

  “Exactly.” Two and up.

  “Tune up,” she said.

  Oh. That definitely made more sense for a car. But still. I was close. Kind of.

  Unfortunately, running license plates was a luxury reserved only for Los Angeles law enforcement, one of the many ways the state tried to protect celebs from the ever-present lens of paparazzi. Of course, Razzle had a database of five hundred-and-growing celebrity plates while the rest of us jumped through hoops to look up drivers who hit our car and took off.

  “Tune up could be a company name,” Emme said.

  I nodded. “The SUV makes me think he’s a professional driver. Not some Joe Blow doing it for extra money.”

  Emme opened a new browser tab and typed in “Tune-Up Car Service.” Bingo.

  The first hit was a site for a local car service. From the looks of it, a one-man shop run by a guy named Dante Brooks. The site had no pictures of him, but Emme took care of that in a few seconds by googling his name and the word “Instagram.” His 2NUPCarzzz Insta account had lots of casual shots of Dante smiling in front of a very familiar Lincoln SUV. I pegged him for mid-thirties standard-issue white guy. He’d probably be an extra hired to blend into the background of a movie scene and pretend to have conversations. Basically, a guy you never notice.

  Still wanting confirmation that Dante was our driver, I picked up the phone and called Cedars-Sinai. After a few minutes, I got connected to an actual human. “Yes, hi, I’m looking for the room number for Dante Brooks.”

  There was a pause. Finally, the person spoke. “We’re only allowed to give information on Mr. Brooks to family members. Not to members of the press.”

  We’d found our driver. I just needed to figure out a way to sneak into the hospital and get him to talk to me.

  Four

  I didn’t have to worry about going all Mission: Impossible at the hospital. While I tried to come up with a plan to get into Cedars-Sinai, someone else came up with a plan to get Dante out of it. They’d released him in the middle of the night. Emme and I hadn’t been the only ones finally able to suss out his identity. News crews had even done us one better and found his home address.

  Omari got off set early, so I spent the afternoon with him but didn’t spend the night. I was home with Sienna and Aubrey when TMZ broke the news. Aubrey had come over to share that he’d gotten nothing new from talking to the witnesses. He argued with me about going to the hospital right up until we realized we no longer needed to. Instead,
we all watched a reporter stationed mere inches from Dante’s front lawn. She was far from alone.

  “Well, at least I know how to find him,” I said. “Just look for the helicopters hovering above his place.”

  “Can you imagine having all those cameras outside your house?” Sienna asked.

  It’d be horrible.

  “It’d be amazing,” she said.

  “He probably is not there anyway,” Aubrey said. “He might be residing at a friend’s house until things quiet down.”

  He had a point. I thought about Dante’s social media accounts, which I’d stalked like a sixth grader with her first crush. “He didn’t seem the type to share every meal on the Internet but maybe he once tagged a friend we can look up.”

  I pulled up Dante’s Instagram on my phone and narrated my findings. “Photo of a car. Photo of a car. Photo of him … washing a car. Photo of a car. Photo of him waxing a car. Photo of a car. Looks like he has a round-trip airport deal if any of you are planning on taking a trip.”

  Aubrey piped in. “No thank you. I refuse to ride in airplanes.”

  For the 1,763,766,868th time, my sarcasm went right over Aubrey’s head. You’d think I’d stop trying, but nope. I’d added make Aubrey laugh to my bucket list. Right after sky diving and before chicken out of sky diving and tell everyone I did it anyway.

  “He’s got a lot of comments.” I looked at Dante’s latest Instagram post. “All news reporters asking him to check his DMs to discuss an interview request.” Not for the first time, I felt a bit out of my league. I forced myself to snap out of it.

  “Guess they figured liking all his photos would entice him to give them an exclusive,” Sienna said. “Living. The. Dream.”

  “Really?” I asked. “You’d want to get shot for said dream?”

  She paused just long enough to make me think she might. “Depends on the number of comments.”

  “Over 1,000.”

  She peered over my shoulder. “Nope. I’d have to get at least a million.” She pointed toward the screen. “His number is listed. We should give him a call.”