Hollywood Ending

by Kellye Garrett

  It wasn’t the best excuse I’d ever given anyone—that was reserved for Sundays growing up when I didn’t want to go to church and would magically have a “big test” I needed to stay home and study for. For Mama, the only thing that trumped the Bible was my science textbook. As much as she loved Reverend Stewart, he wasn’t personally giving out college scholarships. Not when he had a church building fund.

  After I hung up, I realized I’d once again forgotten to tell Aubrey about the application for the PI license. Fudge. I made a mental note to finally go get it printed out.

  I waited to finish eating before I called the tip line. I told myself it was because I was hungry. In reality, I was avoiding the Voice. The Voice was one of the people who manned the Crime Stoppers toll-free tip line. I’d never seen her in person. If I did, I’d probably cross the street. She was up there with Regina when it came to sunny demeanors. We hadn’t spoken since the Haley Joseph hit-and-run case. I’d only called the tip line on a few occasions since then and had lucked out and gotten someone, well, nice each time.

  But that didn’t stopped the sense of dread I felt every time I had to call the number. It was like the climax of a horror movie, except I was clothed when I called. Usually. Whenever the female lead opened a door, she never knew if the bad guy was waiting behind it. Well, whenever I called the 800 number, I never knew if the Voice would answer.

  I dialed and waited. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Just when I thought I’d have to leave a message, someone picked up. “Tip line.”

  It was her.

  I took in a breath, then dove in. “Yes, I have a tip regarding the murder of Lyla Davis.”

  I waited. She said nothing. Just loudly chewed her gum. So I waited some more. Maybe she’d blow a bubble. Spice things up. Finally, she spoke. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Oh. I thought you had to read me my rights before I gave you any information.” I’d made this mistake with her before.

  “Aren’t you that annoying chick who solved that hit-and-run? The one who kept calling, accusing everyone and their mama of doing it? I recognize your voice.”

  I should have been flattered. For some reason, I wasn’t. “That’s me: 1018. Anyway, I think I’ve been able to identify a suspect in the Davis case. Javon Reid. Goes by Junior. I have a phone number for him.”

  I rattled it off and quickly got off the phone.

  It took the police exactly fourteen hours to confirm my tip and distribute Junior’s most recent baby-faced mug shot to the broadcast stations as a “person of interest,” which was police speak for “he definitely did it but we don’t want to get sued.” The news soon spread over social media, with enterprising Internet snoops even uncovering a long dormant Twitter account. By that afternoon, Junior had gained 20,000 followers. I wasn’t one of them.

  Luckily, no one connected him to Regina and her social media accounts, though I did notice she’d made them private. She also didn’t answer my You okay? text.

  Omari had the day off, so we’d spent the day sleeping together. Literally. We’d both had really long days at work. I was mid-nap number two when my phone rang. It was Sienna. I ignored it. When she immediately called back, I knew it had to be of dire importance. Either there was news about Junior or she needed help picking a new nail color. “They found him?” I asked when I picked up.

  “Nope. Still on the run.” She paused dramatically for ten seconds. I counted. “He’s live-tweeting taunts to the police.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  Beside me, Omari played on his tablet. I practically snatched it to go on Twitter. #NOTSCARED and #COMEGETIT were trending in LA. Once I checked Junior’s feed, I knew why. Popo running up on my grandma. Scaring an old lady like they’re tough. YOU REALLY TOUGH THEN RUN UP ON A GROWN MAN. #NOTSCARED #COMEGETIT

  He followed it up with a second tweet.

  Just know this. No way I’m going back to jail. #NOTSCARED #COME-GETIT

  “It’s not smart to taunt the police,” I said.

  “It gets better,” Sienna said. “There have been sightings. People posting photos on their Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat. Apparently he’s in a gray Honda Accord.”

  “Is he alone?” I thought of Regina. She still hadn’t texted me back.

  “One person claimed he stole his Chihuahua. So maybe not.”

  We went back and forth a bit more, then got off the phone. Omari and I spent the rest of the afternoon glued to our respective social media, alternating between Twitter, Insta, and Snap and calling to each other when we uncovered news.

  But after his initial flurry of tweets, Junior went radio silent for the next few hours. Not that it stopped the online hunt, which had gone from legit possible sightings of gray Accords to someone photoshopping Junior’s mug shot in a white Ford Bronco.

  I texted Regina a couple more times to no avail. I even called her at M&Ms, but the lady who answered said she wasn’t at work. I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when Omari rushed upstairs. “He tweeted.”

  He showed me Junior’s message: Bye Pigs.

  “Crap,” Omari said, and pointed to something on the screen.

  For the first time all day, Junior had turned on his Twitter location.

  He clearly wanted to be found.

  Eight

  They found him at two a.m., despite the location for his tweets being relegated to just longitude and latitude. Luckily the LAPD, all four local news stations, and about a kajillion Twitter users were all more adept at deciphering coordinates than I was. Junior was hiding in a residential neighborhood in Mid-City.

  A couple stations dispensed news crews and helicopters so the world could watch in real time. Based on the social media activity, it did. Omari and I were no exception. The place Junior had picked looked dark and deserted, the only light emanating from a streetlight the next house over. It was soon joined by cadres of flashing cop cars. The overall effect was bad rave party.

  Lights flicked on in the house, first in an upstairs window, then on the lower level behind the front door—all providing a visual trail of someone’s movements inside. His or her final stop was the front door, as evidenced by the porch light turning on even though we didn’t need it.

  Standing in a formation that would make a Rockette proud, a row of officers were armed and ready. I’d prefer them to kick, not shoot. I didn’t know if Junior was inside and if he had hostages. I still hadn’t heard from Regina.

  It took a moment for the door to open. A foot peeked out, clad in a fuzzy slipper. It was soon joined by the rest of her. A woman I’d never seen before came out with her hands up. Smart lady. This was clearly not Junior, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t inside. SWAT went to check, leaving one member to drag the woman to safety.

  Within five minutes, one of the SWAT team came back out. There were several discussions, some involving the homeowner. Some not. It was a stark reminder this wasn’t a movie. If it were, we’d have been able to hear every word.

  Suddenly two broke off from the group and headed to the side of the house. As they walked, they were joined by others. It was like some weird flash mob, if flash mobs carried a battering ram and wore protective helmets. They reached their destination.

  The garage.

  Except they didn’t stop. The battering ram reduced the cedar garage door to nothing more than wood chunks. A flash-bang was tossed inside, causing the garage to light up. What followed was lots of movement. Lots of chaos. Lots of questions. And lots of waiting.

  It took another hour for “sources” to confirm to KTLA a body was inside, one they had “reason to believe” was Junior. He’d left the car running and the garage door shut. It wasn’t clear how he’d got inside, but we would probably never know because he was dead.

  Regina was opting to ignore my texts after all. I was relieved. I’d never been so happy to encounter bad
manners.

  After an hour of watching KTLA put the garage door footage on repeat, Omari and I accepted there wasn’t going to be any more news and turned the TV off. That should’ve meant that I went to sleep. I couldn’t.

  I lay there flat on my back in the dark, eyes staring up at nothing. One person had died, which was more than enough. Junior shouldn’t have died as well. I definitely hadn’t intended for him to. I figured he’d be arrested and spend the rest of his life in jail too afraid to bend down for the soap.

  “It was his fault.” Omari spoke from somewhere next to me. I couldn’t see him in the inky blackness. “No one told him to rob that publicist. No one told him to bring a gun. No one told him to shoot two people. No one told him to hide out. No one told him to run from the police.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. So Omari kept going. “And no one told him to kill himself, Day. No one.”

  Then he made the biggest sacrifice he could. He let me snuggle. While I hated PDA, Omari wasn’t a cuddler. Normal protocol was that he stayed on his side of the bed. I was expected to do the same. So this was a big gesture. I took full advantage and we just stayed like that, me draped on him like a cheap curtain until I finally spoke. “How’d you know I was awake?”

  “You weren’t snoring.”

  “Yes, you snore, but just a tiny bit. It’s more like a wheezing, like you were a cat with a really extreme case of asthma. It actually sounds exactly like when you’re walking up a set of stairs.”

  Sienna truly thought she was making me feel better.

  “Good to know,” I said. “Just curious, how long has someone gone without sleeping?”

  “Want me to google it?” Sienna pointed at the store model laptop she was playing with.

  We were at the Staples on Wilshire where I was finally getting all eighteen pages of the Los Angeles PI license application printed. There had been no news about Junior since they’d found his body, and I’d successfully buried my guilt under a pile of Snicker wrappers and empty bags that once held marshmallows.

  My phone rang. It was Aubrey. I took a few steps away so we could chat in private. “Hey! I was just thinking about you.” I’d actually been thinking about how I needed to buy more Snickers and marshmallows, but he didn’t need to know that. No one did. “I have something for you.”

  I knew I was overly perky, but, besides food, it was another way I dealt with bad news. I waited for him to ask what it was. He didn’t. After thirty seconds, I pretended like he had. I waved the folder holding the PI application even though he couldn’t see it over the phone. “Look, I’m gonna be honest here. I know we don’t always see eye to eye. We’ve had our bumps in the road. But I need you. And if you really think about it, you need me too. And I think we need to make things official. A real partnership.”

  I paused then, which was Aubrey’s cue to speak. Once again, he didn’t. So I did. Again. “Yeah, I know it’s a lot to process, and so let’s make a date to discuss it in person. Tonight work?”

  “I am afraid I am busy, Ms. Anderson.”

  Busy? Aubrey had no life outside of investigating. And as I clearly just mentioned, he needed to be including me if he had a case. “Okay … what about tomorrow? We can do dinner.”

  “I have to go, Ms. Anderson.”

  He hung up without even telling me why he’d called in the first place. I walked over to Sienna. “You think Aubrey has a girlfriend?”

  Sienna thought about it. “I mean, he is sexy.”

  I literally gagged. Sienna turned to me excitedly. “That’s exactly how you sound when you snore.”

  I got to Omari’s a little before five to give myself plenty of time to nap. I debated if I should record myself. Part of me wanted to find out if I did indeed sound like an asthmatic kitty cat when I slept and part of me was quite content never, ever having that info confirmed.

  I’d just started the record feature on my cell when it rang. I checked the ID. DNA. Short for “Do Not Answer.”

  So, of course I did. DNA was usually reserved for exes and I was never one to pass up a chance to curse out an ex. I’d even hunted down Dontrelle’s number just so I could add it to my phone with DNA listed.

  “Good afternoon.” Even from across town, Nina’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Ugh. “Omari mentioned you might be able to help get his mother ready for the awards.”

  I decided to play nice. “Yep. I have a friend who is a makeup artist.”

  “Great! I really appreciate you being so onboard with this. Anyway, I never thanked you for helping solve Lyla’s murder. Of course, the police are dragging their feet on officially closing the investigation.”

  “Yeah, LAPD just doesn’t take your word for it that someone’s guilty. They actually expect twelve other people to agree with you, to the point of offering an actual conviction.” Considering how many people I’d falsely accused during my first case, this was definitely a good thing.

  “He’s dead,” Nina said. “There’s not going to be a trial, so why wait? I figure you can pick up the reward check tomorrow.”

  I’d forgotten that the Silver Sphere Organization was offering a reward. But now that I remembered, I was instantly suspicious. “Why the rush?”

  “It’s like they say, the show must go on. I want to get this unpleasantness out of the way so we can focus on having the best Silver Sphere Awards ever. It is the biggest party of the year, after all.”

  They always talk about PR professionals “spinning” the story. Nina was spinning harder than a Beverly Hills trophy wife in the front row at Wheelhouse.

  “You can just pick up your check at the Silver Sphere Award Nominee Conversation Series,” she added. Her voice was so casual that it took me a second to realize what she was talking about.

  “Oh, the press conference.”

  “No, the Silver Sphere Award Nominee Conversation Series, where our nominees have a chance to sit in front of a rapt audience of journalists and answer their most burning questions.”

  “Like they do at a press conference … ”

  It used to be a luncheon. But some accountant realized that a bunch of actors weren’t going to eat anyway, and so the Silver Sphere Award Nominee Conversation Series was born.

  “I thought it would be quite fitting to present the reward to you and your friends then, so you all can be properly thanked for your contribution to bringing justice for Lyla,” Nina said. “Lyla’s driver has already agreed to come.”

  My eyes narrowed. The whole thing reeked of a publicity stunt, and not even a good one at that. The tip line was supposed to be anonymous, yet Nina wanted to use my tip for promotion. I guess waiting for the LAPD to officially close the case was not helpful to Nielsen ratings. She had a show to promote, and handing over a nice check would be a great photo op.

  “Yeah, that’s going to be a hard pass from me.” I still felt guilty about Junior’s suicide. The last thing I wanted was to be applauded for it.

  “We’ll just do a quick bit about Lyla and then present you with the $500,000 check, take a few pictures, and you can be on your sweet little way. You won’t have to say a word.”

  At least that’s what I think she said. My brain stopped working after it heard $500,000. I knew there was a reward, but I assumed it was along the $15,000 or so the LAPD normally offered.

  My mind flashed to what I could do with the money. After Aubrey, Emme, and Sienna got their portions, I’d still have a good amount. I could help my parents with their house, give some to charity, rebuild my savings, buy a new car, and, most important, give some to Dante and Regina. If she ever responded to my text.

  It was settled. “So what time is this Conversation Series?” I asked.

  It turns out I do snore. However, Sienna was wrong. I do not sound like a cat with breathing issues. I sound like a dog toy being drowned in Jell-O. I wanted to m
ake amends to anyone I’d ever slept in the same room with, starting with my parents, continuing on to Shanna Monroe, whose house I was at every weekend in sixth grade, and not stopping until I personally apologized to Omari. I’d have to sleep naked in hopes of distracting him from the wretched noise emitting from my mouth.

  I brainstormed other distraction methods as I made my way to Aubrey’s place. He was a fourth-generation Angeleno, which made him almost as rare as an actress with all her original parts (body parts, not roles). An elder Adams clan member had purchased a plot of land off a hill in Silver Lake and even had had the wherewithal to build three apartments into the side of it. The apartments were topped off with what was the main house. Aubrey rented the house and two of the apartments out, opting to stay in the studio squished like a bug between them.

  It saved him money, but it also made it hard to avoid visitors. As I knocked on his door, I could see his shadow moving around inside and heard him walk the ten steps to answer it. He was holding his bike helmet and looked surprised to see me. “Ms. Anderson, what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “You owe it to not returning any of my phone calls. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

  He clearly looked on his way somewhere, so I handed him an envelope. I’d shoved the license application inside it, which made the contents bulge like the Rock’s muscles. With the Conversation Series the next day, I wanted to at least be able to say that ASAP Investigations was in the process of being licensed, if anyone asked.

  “What is this, Ms. Anderson?”

  “Open it and see! You got my message about the Silver Sphere press conference?” Aubrey was the only person I knew who actually checked voicemail. “I figured we could go together.”

  “I am going to pass,” he said. “This was really your case, Ms. Anderson. You should be the one at the press conference. Now if you will excuse me, I am running late.”