Hollywood Ending

by Kellye Garrett

  I hesitated. “I’m sure Sam Jones from ABC 7 already tried that.”

  “Yeah, but you’re way hotter than Sam Jones.”

  I didn’t know about that. Los Angeles news anchors didn’t look exactly like movie stars, but they did look like their body doubles. All tightened and toned and tanned. Not to mention bleached—hair and teeth. Probably other body parts too. Sienna was right, though. It couldn’t hurt to call.

  I dialed the number listed in Tune-Up’s airport ad, then put the phone on speaker. It went straight to voicemail. I hung up right after the beep.

  “At least we know he is checking his voicemail,” Aubrey said.

  “We do.” I stated it as fact when it was really more of a question. “Because … ”

  “Like you said, Ms. Anderson, chances are he is getting several phone calls. If he was not checking his voicemail, the mailbox would be full.”

  “Checking messages and returning them are two different things, though. What do you want to do?”

  “I suggest we still head to his house and interview a few neighbors. If he is not there, they might know where he is.”

  Worked for me. Sienna had an audition and opted to stay in, so Aubrey and I went downstairs to my car. Once we took our respective seats, I tried to turn on the ignition.

  Nothing.

  The whole car-not-starting thing had become a huge pain in my derriere. Luckily, Aubrey handled the situation better than I did. “Where are your jumper cables, Ms. Anderson?”

  “I don’t have any.” He gave me a look. “It’s on my to-buy list!”

  It wasn’t, but still. The only thing that stopped me from banging my head against the steering wheel was that I’d gotten makeup on the horn the last time I attempted it. It took half a tube of Clorox wipes to clean off and I’d missed the beginning of a new The First 48 episode. “How am I supposed to hunt this guy down if I can’t even get my fudging car to start? It’s not like he’s going to come to me.”

  And then I thought about it. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. It was a long shot, but still. Desperate times called for desperate phone calls. I pulled out my cell and hit the number for Tune-Up Car Service. It went straight to voicemail again. This time I waited for the beep and went into my spiel. “Hi. This is Dayna Anderson. Our company’s CEO is looking for a new driver and someone recommended your company. I was wondering if we could do a tryout. We have a flight out of LAX this evening.”

  Dante Brooks called back within the hour.

  Aubrey and I were already waiting when Dante pulled up at exactly 6:00 in a silver Toyota Camry. The only way I’d gotten Aubrey to agree to my deception was promising we’d reveal ourselves as soon as we hit the 10 West. He told me that I should take the lead. Fine by me. My plan was to question Dante once freeway rush-hour traffic took him hostage. That way he couldn’t kick us out. And if he did, he wouldn’t get very far before we caught up.

  I was surprised that he’d agreed to pick us up, considering the circumstances. You could certainly tell that something had happened to him recently. He didn’t jump out of the car as much as hobble out. And his left arm had been professionally bandaged. Otherwise, though, he looked pretty good to go.

  In person, Dante had brown hair, brown eyes, and coconut-popsicle-hued skin with more hills and valleys than Runyon Canyon. His smile was gorgeous, courtesy of teeth that were straight but not so perfect that they were walking advertisements for his cosmetic dentist. Plastic surgery isn’t some big secret around these parts. You hear about the fake boobs, the fake noses, the fake hair. But you never really hear about the fake teeth. Hollywood probably had more in a one block radius than a seniors’ facility in West Palm Beach.

  But Dante’s? They looked God-given, like he’d never even had a retainer, much less braces or veneers. He flashed them at us when he smiled and then spoke, his voice as deep as the Grand Canyon. “Have to apologize for the car. Unfortunately, my main mode of transportation is currently unavailable.”

  Unavailable because it was currently in police custody, thanks to coming in contact with a few stray bullets. “No problem,” I said, and Aubrey nodded in agreement.

  He looked at me then. I knew the expression. It was coming. “We’re not exactly the same age range, but I swear you look like someone I went to high school with.”

  There it was.

  They say when you’re on television, people think they know you. Well, when you were on television for thirty-seconds-a-pop commercials that stopped airing almost two years ago, people think they know you … from their hometown. I didn’t want to get into the whole “I used to be semi-famous” tale of woe, so I just nodded, and then motioned toward his injured arm. “You good to drive?”

  “Looks worse than it is. And I still have all my extremities.” He wiggled all five fingers to prove it.

  “Great! I’d give you a high five but … ”

  He laughed. “Yeah, probably best not to.”

  He opened the back door for us and Aubrey and I settled in. I clicked on my seat belt and addressed Dante in the front seat. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

  He held up his bandaged hand. “It’s clearly been a rough couple of days but driving clears my mind. I was out anyway. Might as well make some money, right? And who doesn’t love a trip to the airport? I know a shortcut that can get us there in fifteen minutes.”

  That would not do. At all. Under normal circumstances, I would love to know every single turn. Not this go-round. When it came to interviewing witnesses, it normally took me fifteen minutes just to think of a suitable question. We needed him trapped as long as possible. “Can you take the highway instead?” I asked. I’d get the shortcut directions another time.

  We made small talk about the weather (it was so nice, we loved it) and Judge Judy (she was so mean, we loved it) until we got to the Robertson Boulevard entrance to the 10. We hit standstill traffic before we even made it to the main highway. Fine by me. “So what do you two do, exactly?” Dante asked.

  I’d planned to ease into that topic one step at a time. Unfortunately, Aubrey dove in so fast I was surprised he didn’t hit his head on a diving board. “We are looking into the murder of Lyla Davis.”

  So much for me taking the lead. If the car had been moving, Dante would have slammed his brakes. Instead, he whipped his head around. “You’re reporters?”

  I was quick to correct him. “Investigators. ASAP Investigations. We solved the Haley Joseph hit-and-run a few months ago. And yes, we’re looking into Lyla Davis’s murder.” Technically, I hadn’t lied about who we were. Aubrey was the CEO of our company.

  Dante said nothing. I sent up a quick prayer that he didn’t kick us out. It would take a Lyft driver at least an hour to get through this traffic to come get us on the side of the road and I surely was not walking the three-and-a-half miles home in four-inch heels. I spoke again. “Look, I’m really sorry for the airport mumbo jumbo, but we want to find out who killed Lyla—and shot you. We were hoping you’d help us get this guy behind bars.”

  Dante stared at us for an entire minute. I know because I counted. Then, thankfully, he finally spoke. “I need to see your license.”

  He didn’t mean driver’s. I’d made that mistake once before, when I’d first met Aubrey. I smiled—he wasn’t kicking us out the car. My feet thanked him. “Sure thing. Aubrey, show him your license.”

  “I do not have it,” Aubrey said.

  I turned to Dante. “He doesn’t have it with him.” No clue why I was acting like a translator. It only felt like Aubrey spoke a different language.

  Aubrey shook his head. “No, Ms. Anderson. I do not have one at all.”

  I looked Aubrey dead in his face. “You don’t have a license? At all?”

  He nodded, nowhere as concerned about this revelation as I was.

  This was not good. In fact, it was bad. And not M
ichael Jackson dancing in an abandoned subway bad. “You never mentioned that.”

  “You never asked, Ms. Anderson.”

  “I didn’t know I had to!”

  I glanced up at Dante watching every moment with an amused look on his face. I gave him a tight smile. “So, no license, but my partner has over a decade of police experience. And we will be getting a license soon. Trust.”

  Aubrey had the nerve to roll his eyes next to me.

  There was another in what had become a conveyor belt of pauses, and then Dante finally spoke. “And here I thought I’d landed a big account.”

  He smiled, and I joined in. “Even though we’re not going to the airport, I can still tip you. Give you a great review on Yelp.”

  “Who would turn down a good Yelp review?” It was clear he was teasing. “What exactly do you wanna know?”

  “Was this your first time meeting Lyla?”

  Dante shook his head. “I drive for Uber when things are slow. I’d picked her up one time a couple years ago maybe and we hit it off. She started calling me directly when she needed a driver.” He stopped to take in a huge breath. “I do want this guy found more than anyone. I’ll do whatever it takes to help.”

  I was about to ask my next question when Aubrey beat me to it. “Did you get a clear view of the assailant when he walked into the bank?”

  Good question. The killer hadn’t pulled his mask down until he was inside. If he’d walked by Dante, he could have seen his face.

  Dante shook his head as the traffic moved in dribs and drabs. “I didn’t even notice the guy. I saw that actor coming out of the lobby and getting in his car, but otherwise I was focused on my phone. My girl was mad at me so she was blowing my phone up. I’m talking texts two inches long.”

  Been there. Sent those.

  I shook my head compassionately as he continued. “I was doing serious damage control. Only looked up when I heard shots. She was still alive. I could see that. I jumped out of the car, got to the door, but you need a freaking card to get inside … ”

  He paused then, and I hated myself for making him relive it all.

  “I was too late,” he finally said. “He shot at me as soon as he came out of the building. I ducked but he still grazed my arm. I played dead. Didn’t move. Kept my eyes closed. Didn’t open them until I heard the sirens.”

  He was beating himself up over what he’d done—or rather, didn’t do. Save Lyla. I could tell it wasn’t the first time, either. If driving helped clear his head, like he said, he’d probably logged hundreds of miles in the hours he’d been out the hospital. I leaned closer as I spoke. “I would have done the same thing because it was the right thing to do. You tried to help her. It was too late. You had to protect yourself. And you’re helping her now.”

  Aubrey was quiet. We sat there as Dante spoke, even though he no longer seemed to be speaking to us. “This guy. He could’ve been anyone on the planet. It all happened in a minute tops. And by the time I realized I should’ve paid him some attention, I was more concerned with the blood coming out of my body. Never knew surface wounds had so much blood.” He laughed then, even though it wasn’t funny, and glanced back at me in his rearview mirror. “Anything else?”

  I shook my head. “You can drop us back off. I have a Yelp review to write.”

  “It better be five stars. Have tips and check-ins and all that.”

  We were near the Overland exit, so Dante doubled back and took us back to my condo. Aubrey got out the car first but I stayed behind to give Dante one of our new business cards. “Please let me know if you remember anything else. My number’s on there.”

  He glanced at it. “ASAP Investigations. LICENSED investigators.”

  Blurg. I’d already pushed the whole licensing debacle out my brain. “Can I have that back for a sec?”

  When he handed it to me, I scribbled a few words on it and then gave it back. He read it aloud again. “ASAP Investigations. Soon-to-be licensed investigators.”

  It was only after Dante had pulled away that I realized I’d forgotten to ask him about the tattoo—and the shortcut to the airport.

  I’d Internet-stalked Aubrey before. Several times, in fact. Left to my own devices, I hadn’t found much. He had no social media—not even a leftover Myspace account he’d forgotten about like the rest of us once we all fully jumped ship to Facebook. So I had Emme do my dirty work as soon as I got back home. She sent over a full report within an hour. That’s when I learned why Aubrey no longer worked in law enforcement.

  Eighteen-year-old Lorna Rodriguez had been brought to the Malibu sheriff’s department around 1:00 a.m. on a Thursday night. She’d been caught shoplifting a pack of gum from an all-night convenience store and “caused a scene” when caught. Cops were called. Lorna caused a bigger scene. She was arrested, causing her biggest scene yet. One worthy of an Oscar, if you believed the cops. The one who brought her in later claimed she was “highly intoxicated.” Her car was impounded—her purse, cell phone, and wallet inside.

  Lorna was booked and soon released on her own recognizance. The cops promised to get her car out of impound but she refused to wait. Instead, she chose to walk. It was her right. It was also barely five in the morning. The last anyone saw Lorna she took off on foot down Agoura Road, disappearing further and further into the inky black abyss with each step.

  Her parents were furious, which was probably still an understatement. They spoke to the cops. And when they weren’t happy with the answers, they spoke to journalists. Lots and lots of journalists. Asking them all to find out what had happened to their little girl. Questioning why the police just let her walk out in the dead of night. Inquiring why no one ever called them.

  They currently had a lawsuit pending.

  In contrast, the sheriff’s department had stayed relatively mum on the topic, except to announce that the desk sergeant on duty that night had been reprimanded—and again to share that he had tendered his resignation. They never mentioned his name, but I knew who it was.

  Aubrey had never outright told me his version of events, instead offering snippets here and there. It was clear he blamed himself. I, in turn, didn’t blame him for not wanting to talk about it. I wouldn’t have wanted to either. I figured he’d rather focus on the next phase of his life as a private investigator. Of course, I also figured he’d taken the steps to be licensed.

  I hadn’t read up on licensing procedures in California. There could be a chance that ASAP Investigations didn’t need one. Maybe it was more of a suggestion, like when a waiter offers a wine that would pair great with your veal parmesan. (Apparently, you should order Merlot.)

  I googled “unlicensed private investigator in California.” First thing that popped up was an article about a guy charged with one count of false representation and one count of illegally working as a private investigator. It was only a misdemeanor, but still.

  Licensing clearly was not a suggestion, like I’d hoped. It was a requirement.

  It was weird Aubrey didn’t have one. He tended to operate by the book. He hated when I checked my phone at a red light. He had to know what he was doing was illegal. Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to it. Luckily, he had me to rectify the situation.

  I looked up license requirements. They were strict: complete an application, undergo a criminal history background check, and have at least three years paid investigative work experience. You also had to pass a two-hour multiple-choice exam and pay a crapload of random fees for things like “licensing” and “fingerprint processing.”

  If I was going at this alone, I’d be in deep you-know-what. I didn’t fit the requirements by a long shot. But for Aubrey, it would be a piece of cake. Chocolate ice cream cake, preferably with those chocolate crunchies in the middle if you wanted to get specific. Aubrey could meet all those requirements and more. The license was just a mere formality. He’d get one and we
could continue our plan of me serving as his apprentice.

  I just needed to get to a Staples and print out the application. Preferably before either of us got arrested.

  Five

  I definitely needed a new battery. Probably needed a new car. Quite possibly needed a new life. But until I got all that stuff, I needed a ride. I’d dropped my car off at a mechanic the next day and was swapping life stories with my Lyft driver when Mama called. Or should I say, FaceTimed. I’d gotten both my parents new iPhones. In typical fashion, Daddy hadn’t even opened his while Mama had taken to it just like I knew she would. She Facebooked. She Instagrammed. She took quizzes telling her when she should get married based on her choice of a fast food lunch. She even posted the results.

  Her texting game was even better than mine. Bitmojis. Ebrojis. Other types of ojis I hadn’t even heard of. And based on the call, she was now finally FaceTiming.

  I answered and saw a blurry white blob that had to be the ceiling. Her FaceTime skills were clearly a work in progress. “Boop.” She used my nickname. “You there? We can’t see you.”

  “You gotta turn the phone so it’s facing you. It’s like when you do your selfies.”

  The screen jerked a few more times before I finally saw my parents sitting cheek-to-cheek. They weren’t being romantic. We didn’t do that in our family. They were trying to make sure they were both in the screen. “Hey baby girl,” Daddy said. “You look beautiful today.”

  I didn’t but I’d take it. “Thanks!”

  “What are you up to today?”

  “Aubrey and I have a new case we’re looking into, so I spent the morning doing research.”

  When I wasn’t Yelping mechanics, I’d devoted a fair amount of time that day to looking up tattoos. The hope was to find one that matched what little we could see of the shooter’s tat, then flash it around the neighborhood where Lyla was murdered.

  But apparently he hadn’t plucked the design from Tattoo Designs for Dummies. When I didn’t find anything that remotely looked like it, I printed out what I could make of the tat from the still pics from the ATM. I wanted to talk to some tattoo artists to see if they’d ever seen something similar, with cogs on top. But of course my car was out of commission. I hoped Sienna would let me borrow hers so I could stop by any tattoo parlors near the crime scene. The killer could have been local.