Hollywood Ending

by Kellye Garrett

  Fab kept on like Sienna hadn’t even opened her mouth. “His girlfriend. Thanks to Sienna, the police will have the guy behind bars in no time. Why send the police when you got Ms. Lady of the Red Vine?”

  And with that, the screen went black. It was only eight a.m. and the article already had over 1,000 comments. Like an Ultimate Fails compilation, it’d gone viral.

  Fudge.

  I checked my phone. Fifteen missed calls from numbers I didn’t recognize. Almost the same numbers of texts, all starting with variations of “I’m a reporter with … ” There was also one from Sienna. So sorry! Begged Razzle not to use it. At least TMZ put a question mark at the end of the headline!

  I wrote back telling her not to worry about it. It wasn’t her fault.

  Of course, even though it wasn’t her fault, it was a problem. I needed chocolate. Stat.

  Sienna had an audition that morning, so I was on my own for lunch. I was narrowing down my choices when the phone rang. I assumed it was Daddy until I glanced at the caller ID. Private number.

  When I picked up, the only thing that greeted me was lots of heavy breathing. I thought maybe it was a crank call. Then I remembered no one did that anymore. It was way easier to send an anonymous tweet or Instagram comment.

  I was about to hang up when she spoke. “You obviously ain’t sleeping with him yet or you wouldn’t be contacting me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” Indeed, I had. That didn’t mean it made one iota of sense. “You’re the one all up in my DMs and now you’re acting all shy.”

  I realized I was talking to Regina Jones. And it didn’t sound like she’d checked TMZ that morning.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Mr. Wonderful.”

  “More like Mr. One Minute.” Well, dang. “But you’ll find out soon enough since apparently he can’t wait to see you. Can’t believe him. Leaving me to go and see some skinny-sounding heifer.”

  Skinny-sounding? Not gonna lie. That made me happy. I was about to thank her too when I realized she assumed I was Mr. One Minute’s side chick. In my two months of PI-dom, I quickly realized one thing. There was no one more bitter in life—and “more better” in interviewing—than a woman scorned. They told everything to everyone. See above about his bedroom skills.

  Of course, I also knew one thing a scorned woman hated more than her cheating significant other—the chick he cheated on her with.

  I briefly flirted with going along with it. Best case scenario, Regina would want to meet in some parking lot and I could question her while simultaneously avoiding her trying to beat my butt. It would take some multitasking but perhaps I was up to the challenge. But what if I wasn’t? I tuned back in to find Regina still on her tear. “Taking my car. Leaving me here. After he claimed he was taking me away because he loved me so much. Junior knows I gotta work tonight.”

  I latched on to the word Junior like a teenaged girl on to a boy band member. I had a name. Unfortunately, a very, very, very vague one. One probably not government issued and if it was, it meant he probably had three other names that went in front of it. First, middle and last. Unless I wanted to leave a message on the tip line that Lyla Davis was killed by Junior, who also went by Mr. Wonderful or Mr. One Minute depending on how his girl was feeling about him that day, I needed his full name. I thought quickly. “I’m not his new girlfriend. I just need to confirm that he’s the same person in our records. Can you just spell his full name for me so I can check if it’s right?”

  I smiled then, all proud of myself. Regina was not nearly as impressed. “He owe you money?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You the police?”

  I caved and went with the truth. “A private investigator.”

  But the only thing that answered me was complete silence. Regina Jones had hung up. Blurg.

  Seven

  I replayed the conversation. It was clear Regina was still in Palm Springs and this Junior was not, which meant he was on the run or, more likely, back in Los Angeles. A Los Angeles that covered 503 miles and housed almost four million people.

  If Regina wouldn’t help me, maybe the Celebration Hotel would. I found their number online and called. It took three automated messages and two fulfilled requests to push two before I spoke to someone with a pulse.

  “Welcome to Celebration, this is Janeen. Come celebrate with us!”

  “Yes, hi, Janeen! Can you please transfer me to Regina Jones’ room, please?” I’d used please twice, but one couldn’t be too polite when one needed information to solve a murder.

  There was a pause. I assumed Janeen was looking up Regina’s name. Apparently, she didn’t find it. “I’m sorry, but there’s no one here listed under that name. Perhaps she’s staying with someone else. Can you give me their name?”

  Funny, I was going to ask Janeen the same exact question. “Sure thing. His name is Junior.”

  Another pause. I let it ride out. Janeen finally spoke first. “Junior what?”

  Again, I wanted to ask her the same thing. “I don’t suppose you can just search for any guest who is a junior and transfer me to one of those rooms. It doesn’t matter which. I’ll just keep calling back until I get the right one!”

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but I’ll need a name.”

  Since I (still) didn’t have one, I said my goodbyes and hung up. It looked like my best bet would be to drive there after all. If I could talk to Regina in person, I might at least get a last name. I didn’t need much more than that.

  Palm Springs was a straight two-hour shot eastbound on the 10. It was in the desert, a fact they share with pride. Being a water girl myself—black girls not wanting to get their hair wet is a myth—I never saw the appeal of it. Judging by the number of visitors each year, others clearly didn’t share my lack of enthusiasm for sand with no water next to it.

  I was tempted to wait for Sienna, especially since I knew she had her heart set on a Palm Springs “stakeout,” but she was still at her audition. I sent off a quick text asking if she was almost done and waited fifteen very long minutes without a reply. As much as I wanted to wait, I couldn’t.

  The longer I waited, the better the chance Regina would leave—or worse, make up with Junior. I could be there and back without Sienna even knowing I’d gone without her.

  I gathered my purse and a snack or five for the road, then ran to my parking space. My car wasn’t there. I started hyperventilating. The building’s parking lot was underground and gated. Not to mention the car that parked next to me was a Porsche Boxster convertible with an owner often too lazy to push the button to put the top back up. Why steal a twelve-year-old bright pink Infiniti when you could steal a Porsche? Everyone, including aspiring car thieves, should aim high in their profession of choice.

  I was about to call the police when I remembered something. My car wasn’t stolen. It was still in the shop. Apparently my car issues were deeper than just a battery. Something about a corroded terminal. The mechanic had promised to have it fixed by five. Great for the long term. Not so great when I needed to get to Palm Springs right then and there. I needed a ride. Sienna was out. Both Omari and Emme would let me borrow their cars but that still meant I needed to get to them. And it could take an hour in LA traffic.

  Luckily, I knew someone who could help. Dante picked up on the second ring.

  “Hi! This is Dayna Anderson, you probably don’t remember me—”

  “The soon-to-be-licensed investigator. Yeah, I don’t remember you at all.”

  “Good, because I’d hate for you to remember me for that.” Talking to him reminded me I needed to print out the application and get it to Aubrey. “Any chance you can give me a ride to Palm Springs? I need to get to the Celebration Hotel. ASAP.”

  “Impromptu vacation?”

  “Work actually. Lyla’s case. Like I said, we really want to help find her
killer.”

  I was more than happy to leave it at that. Dante, however, pressed on. “Glad to hear it, but someone told me you already found the guy.”

  “Just a lead. We don’t have a name yet though know he may be in Palm Springs. His girlfriend definitely is. I tried to talk to her but she hung up before she told me anything more than the guy is called Junior. I want to drive out there to speak to her. At least camp out in the lobby until they show up. How much for you to take me?”

  “I couldn’t charge you. I have a pickup at three, but let me make some calls and see if I can get someone to do it for me.”

  “That’d be great.”

  After we hung up, it was another forty-five minutes before my phone rang again. I spent the gap telling myself not to look at the clock and then glancing at it anyway. It made the time crawl by like the 405 at five p.m. after it’s rained for longer than five minutes.

  When the phone did finally ring, it wasn’t even Dante. “I start work at seven. Meet me at 6:45. M&M’s in Carson.”

  And with that, Regina hung up on me for a second time. Perhaps this was her version of chatty. She had even called from a non-private number. I wasn’t going to question it. Just like I wasn’t going to question why she’d suddenly changed her mind. Instead, I called Aubrey. When I got his voicemail, I left a message giving him a G-rated version of what I’d been up to. One that omitted anything that may inspire a lecture.

  Sienna also hadn’t texted me back. Either the audition had gone longer than she’d expected or she’d gone shopping after. It looked like I’d be meeting Regina on my own. I forced myself to look at the bright side.

  Unlike Palm Springs, Carson was only about twenty miles away. And I’d have my car, with its newly uncorroded terminal. I texted Dante, letting him know I no longer needed a ride. He had that appointment at three and the mechanic was in walking distance. Then I pulled up the M&M’s menu. Since I was going down there anyway, I might as well get dinner.

  I spent the entire forty-five-minute car ride brainstorming ways to get Regina to talk. While driving east on the 10, I came up with idea number one. I’d already asked Regina to confirm Junior’s full name. I could stick with that thread, asking her again while pretending I had it already written on a piece of paper. I dubbed it the “If it ain’t broke, why fix it” option.

  When I merged onto the 110 south, I came up with my “Molly, you in danger, girl” option. Make her think the police were on to her and she needed to let them know about Junior or risk going to jail herself. Could be true for all I knew. After all, we’d found her from nothing more than a bag full of free stuff. Of course, that plan only worked if she really wasn’t in on it. I hoped for my sake that was the case.

  By the time I took the exit for the 91 West, I came up with the “Help a sister out” option. I knew Junior did it. I knew she—fingers crossed—had nothing to do with it, but if I’d found her it was only a matter of time that the police would too. Give me his name and I’d keep her out of it. No one would know she snitched.

  I got to M&Ms fifteen minutes early. The restaurant was nestled in a bland beige and white strip mall so close to the 91 I could smell the exhaust. Its neighbors were a UPS store and a Starbucks. Though the parking lot was sprinkled with cars, I only saw one human and even then it was just a body part—an ample rump bending over as its owner leaned into some pitch black Mercedes with tacky bright gold hubcaps and random etchings in the dark black windows.

  I went inside and placed two to-go orders. When I came back out, the car was gone. The butt’s owner, however, was still there. I recognized the neck ink before the rest of her. I blamed not seeing her through the foggy lens of a dirty mirror like in her endless selfies. I walked over, a smile plastered on my face to show I came in peace.

  “Regina, hi? I’m Dayna Anderson.”

  She said nothing, opting instead for a nod of recognition. I handed her a card. She took it without even glancing at it and I had no doubt it would be in the garbage before I got out of the parking lot.

  “Sorry, I saw you talking to someone so I ran inside.”

  “Yeah, rich folks are always getting lost on the way to the StubHub Center.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.

  I nodded, not because I cared about lost rich people. I was busy reviewing my carefully planned-out investigative options. Now that I’d seen her in person, I decided “Molly, you in danger, girl” would be my best bet. “I know you’re wondering why I wanted to me—”

  “Javon Reid.” Again with the matter-of-factness. It took me a second to realize what she was telling me, the name on Junior’s birth certificate. I wanted to do the time-out sign so I could cartwheel around the parking lot. I didn’t even care that she could have told me the name on the phone. Besides, if she had, I wouldn’t have gotten dinner so …

  “So Junior’s real name is Javon?” I wanted to be 110 percent sure.

  She nodded. “That’s what you wanted, right? When you tried that ‘confirm the spelling’ BS.”

  It was indeed what I wanted. Despite my enthusiasm, I made a note to self to permanently strike “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” from my investigation techniques since apparently it was broke. Very broke at that.

  “You want his number?”

  I did. She rattled it off and I quickly plugged it into my phone. Not that I’d call him. It wasn’t because I hated talking on the phone. I hated talking to possible murderers.

  “We done here?” Regina asked before I could get out as much as a thank you.

  We weren’t. Why was she suddenly being so forthcoming? I was torn between asking her that or just asking her more questions. I went with option B. “So, you know what Javon did?”

  She shook her head. “Junior’s always doing something. Didn’t even bother to ask why he had those marks on him. I’m sick of it. Just like I’m sick of him. You know he never came back, right? He can stay his butt at his grandmother’s house. She lives right on my block, but I can’t come over though because she doesn’t like me. He can take me to Palm Springs. Tell me that he’s got some surprise coming to my house. But he can’t take me to see his grandmother? Who lives right on my block.”

  She laughed, but she sounded as bitter as the runner-up to Miss America.

  “Men,” I said, because really, what else needed to be spoken. Then I got serious. I needed confirmation Javon/Junior was the right guy. “Do you know where Junior was the night of the 9th?”

  “Not with me. Maybe ask his grandma. I don’t wanna know about whatever he’s involved in.”

  I mimed zipping my mouth closed and throwing away the key. She’d learn soon enough anyway.

  “I learned early on not to ask too many questions,” she said. “But I’m not stupid. Trust that. Didn’t expect him to steal my car though.”

  “You call the police?”

  Regina looked at me like I was the one who was stupid. “What if they arrested him?”

  I figured that was the point but I wisely didn’t say that. Instead, I let her keep talking.

  “He’s always said he’d rather die than go back to jail. No way I’m gonna have that on my conscience. He’s ruined my life enough already. Anything else?”

  I was tempted to ask for a picture but realized I might be pressing my luck. It was probably online anyway. Instead I shook my head and she walked away without so much as a high five, which was more than fine. My takeout was probably ready.

  Javon “Junior” Reid’s photo was online all right, but while his girlfriend preferred selfies, he preferred mug shots. I counted five for various counts of robbery and petty theft. He was nothing if not consistent. I definitely wouldn’t have cast him as Thug #5 or anything like that, though. He had a baby face through and through, from the large eyes to the cheeks that looked like an overblown helium balloon. He looked just as high in his most recent mug shot. It did a little, but n
ot much, to lessen the impact of the baby face. I bet when he smiled, he flashed dimples. Made you wonder if the not very threatening face was a factor in the very threatening lifestyle choice.

  The tattoo must’ve been recent because it wasn’t in any mug shots. Maybe it was a “Please baby please” gift from the last time he made Regina mad. A last-ditch effort to apologize.

  Matching tattoos were apparently the twenty-first-century sign of true love. My college boyfriend had wanted us to get each other’s names tatted on our respective chests. The only thing that stopped me was my fear of needles, which was a godsend. Otherwise, my dating pool would be permanently limited to men named Dontrell. It would have made me destined to die alone.

  Junior and Regina obviously felt differently. Of course, I’d never have the chance to confirm it with him because I had no plans to ever talk to him. Confronting a killer was way above my pay grade. Been there. Done that. Passed out in front of a group of tourists immediately afterwards. Definitely something I planned to keep as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Kind of like getting an STD.

  I scanned Junior’s photos once more as I continued my convo with Aubrey. I’d finally gotten him on the phone for an update.

  “So Ms. Jones just volunteered his name without any persuasion?” Aubrey said when I’d finally shut up. “Why?”

  I’d had the same thought myself. It didn’t stop me from being annoyed. “Because I’m a crack investigator?”

  “You are clearly not a modest one, Ms. Anderson.”

  “Honestly? She realizes he’s involved but at the same time doesn’t trust the police. Doesn’t want to snitch. It’s easier to tell me and have me tell the police. It’s like we’re her snitch surrogates. Call it trickle down snitching if you prefer that term instead.”

  “I do not,” he said. “In fact, I do not like any of it.”

  At the moment, I didn’t like him. I was sky-high, floating on my inflated ego, and he was doing his utmost to bring me back down to reality. “Look, we got the name. Maybe only because his girlfriend is mad at him. But who cares? This isn’t the movies. Sometimes people just give you the name.” I took a deep breath. “I need to go and call the tip line.”