I walked into Nina’s office with the confidence of Tyra Banks on a runway. I paused in front of the Pretty Woman poster, did a quick turn, and gave it my best smize, aka smile-with-my-eyes. Then I remembered to shut the door.
I made a beeline back to the poster. It was a big one, engulfed in a bright silver frame. One could definitely hide something behind it—a USB drive, a DVD, probably Lyla’s entire movie collection.
No way I’d get that entire thing off the wall, much less back on the wall after I was done. I’d have to settle for peeking at each corner and praying Lyla possessed just as little arm strength as I did.
I started with the corner closest to me. Why take extra steps if you didn’t need to? I tried to peek behind it but only succeeded in hitting my head against the wall. So I tried again, this time using my hand. Nothing there but the back of the frame. Undeterred, I walked to the other side and repeated the entire process, head bump and all.
Jackpot.
Something was taped to the back right corner. Although the word “taped” implies someone used one, maybe two, small pieces of Scotch tape. Lyla had tape-overdosed, bypassing Scotch and going straight for packing. And she hadn’t stopped at just a couple of pieces. She’d used ten.
I know because I took every single piece off one-handed while trying to hold the frame with the other. It was like one of those sick jokes where you opened a box only to discover a smaller one inside. I kept taking off one piece just to discover another. And another. And another.
After much prayer and a minimum of almost-cursing, I had all the tape off. It was worth the scabs I’d probably have on my hands, because I found the flash drive.
I left the office, completely forgetting I’d been in there illegally, and ran smack-dab into Kitt and Sienna. “We thought maybe you’d gotten lost,” Kitt said, then glanced inside Nina’s office. “That’s not the bathroom.”
If that had been Sienna talking, it would have been the very definition of throwing shade. But Kitt sounded genuinely confused. I palmed the flash drive and lied as smoothly as a politician up for reelection. “I lost my earring back and thought maybe it was in there. It’s not, though. But if anyone sees one, please let me know. We have to go. Bye.”
The transition was so random and so abrupt that Kitt looked even more confused. I used the opportunity to grab Sienna’s hand and take off toward the lobby. Unfortunately, Kitt caught up. “What about the interview? Sienna’s all set up.”
“Just email me!”
By then we were at the exit. Kitt stopped as if the door were the South Korea/North Korea border.
“See you tonight,” Sienna said as I practically dragged her through the lobby.
“Tonight?” I said as we pushed the button for the elevator.
“I played the ‘we solved Lyla’s murder’ card and convinced her to put us both on the list for the 18th Annual Silver Sphere Awards Official Gift Lounge Presented by the Brand New Toyota Prius!”
Great.
The camera was high, imitating the view if you were a bird, a plane, or just not able to afford floor seats. The footage was clear but not crystal. The camera seemed stuck in a poor corner somewhere, giving us an angle from stage right. Not that there was much to see. The stage didn’t have any of the theatrics normally associated with big-budget concerts.
Though it was bare, it wasn’t empty. Anonymous men sat behind their instrument counterparts. Drums. Bass. Keyboards. All accounted for and at the ready. The camera angle gave us a money shot of a guitar player’s shiny bald head. Their outfits—jeans, T-shirts, sneakers—in combination with the lack of stage decoration or people in seats let me know it was a dress rehearsal of some kind. Of what, I wasn’t quite sure. It could have been for a tour. An awards show. A charity performance. Or something else entirely.
I didn’t recognize the musicians. Just like I didn’t recognize the stage. I took it to mean this wasn’t a band. These guys weren’t the stars of this show. Just another accessory like makeup or glittered stage attire meant to make someone else look—and sound—good. I watched patiently as they tuned instruments and made unintelligible small talk.
After an eon, they began to play.
I knew J. Chris would appear before she actually did. Partly due to my mad investigation skills. Mainly because I recognized the song. “Love Overdose” was one of those sweeping ballads you turn off every time you hear it on the radio yet still manage to know every single word.
It was her first and so far only hit. And it was a duet. Mack would join her after sixteen bars and a lovelorn chorus. But for the time being, J. Chris was alone.
She floated out from the side farthest from the camera, taking slow deliberate steps like she was walking down the aisle. She paused dead center, turned to the seats like they contained thousands of people, put one hand up dramatically like she was about to praise the entire Holy Trinity, and slowly but surely raised her microphone to her mouth. She didn’t quite command the stage but she gave it her best shot. And it was all a ruse to mask that she wasn’t singing live.
The voice’s volume stayed steady no matter where J. Chris melodramatically moved her mic. A dead giveaway she was using a backing track. Someone else’s at that.
She finally hit the chorus and Mack came out exactly on cue, an entrance nowhere near as drama-filled as his wife’s. Not that I paid much attention. My eyes followed J. Chris’s every move, looking for that one screwup that had cost Lyla her life.
J. Chris was clearly not a fan of sharing the stage, not even with the love of her life. Mack sounded as good as ever. As he crooned, J. Chris did everything short of straight up yelling “Look at me! Not him! Me! Me! Me!” She swayed. She placed her hand on Mack’s various body parts. She even managed to covertly pull her shirt down ever so slightly—a move from the same “school of distraction” as Sienna.
Mack didn’t mind the blatant theatrics, even if I did. He married her, after all. He knew what he’d signed up for. It also helped that his eyes were closed through most of the performance, which was his trademark. It was probably number one on the checklist of what not to do while performing in front of a captive audience of thousands. Right up there with stage diving and throwing anything into the crowd that you ever wanted to see again. Yet for him, it worked.
I kept staring at J. Chris but Mack made it hard. His stage presence was apparent even from a cheapo security camera forgotten in some high corner. By the time he got to his climax, I stopped fighting the urge to watch his every move.
Eyes closed. Hand caressing the mic like it was the love of his life. Sweat glistening off a brow that even managed to be sexy as heck. Even in a boring old rehearsal, he was amazing. I held my breath in anticipation of the goose bumps that would appear when he finally hit the highest of his five-octave range. I leaned closer as his voice soared. Higher. Higher. Higher. Just as he was about to hit the note, I held my breath.
And that’s when Mack’s backing track skipped.
Seventeen
Sienna and I weren’t the only ones shocked and appalled by the turn of events. J. Chris also wasn’t a very happy camper. At all. Whereas I was too speechless to speak, Mack’s wife did not share that particular problem.
“You said we fixed this. Why are we even using this stupid track anyway? Tommy was supposed to have that guy record new vocals. People are going to start noticing you sound exactly the same when you’re supposed to be singing live.”
Mack wasn’t as concerned. The band also seemed unbothered. The guitar player tuned his instrument. The drummer yawned. The keyboardist checked his cell. “Tommy’s trying to get him into the studio but he’s holding out like he always does,” Mack said.
“You’ve already paid him out the wazoo. He should sing the dictionary if you asked him to.”
“He’ll come around and it’ll be fine. Tomorrow will be amazing.”
“Yea
h, right.”
It went on like that for a few more minutes before the screen abruptly went black mid-argument. Sienna and I rewatched it a couple more times before turning it off for good. “Piper isn’t a woman,” Sienna said.
He sure wasn’t. We’d assumed, mainly because of the name and “pretty” references. But I thought back over the blind. Lyla had never used “she.” Or “he” for that matter. “That’s obviously what Lyla wanted,” I said. “She knew everyone would guess J. Chris. The clues still fit. Mack is just as much involved in the $3,000 remake as his wife. And he has way more to lose. He’s built his career on his voice. J. Chris treats it like a fun little hobby. Like if this doesn’t work out, she’ll just pick up sewing. She can withstand a scandal. He can’t.”
“So now what?” Sienna asked.
I wanted to transfer a copy of the video to my laptop and put another one on my iCloud. But I remembered it was copy protected. Hopefully Emme could do it. “I don’t know. We definitely need to keep this in a safe place. At least until I can talk to Aubrey.”
Sienna took the flash drive out of her laptop and put it in her cleavage, then did a shimmy to get it in there good. She glanced up in time to see my look. “No one’s been anywhere near these parts in months. This is the safest place in LA.”
“Give it here, please.”
“Fine, but only if you agree to go to the Silver Sphere Gift Lounge with me. Cake and Bake is going to be there. Free crack pie!”
I was too busy calling Aubrey to respond. Truth was, I probably wouldn’t have gone anyway. I avoided all things Hollywood like most actresses avoided gluten. Aubrey picked up with a “Hello, Ms. Anderson.”
“It’s Mack Christie,” I said, all dramatic-like, then quickly updated him on the video. “He’s the one lip-syncing!”
I listened for a reaction. Instead, I got silence. “You don’t know who Mack Christie is, do you?”
“Apparently, he is a murderer.”
Touché. “So what now?”
“We need to get the video to the police as soon as possible. Is it in a safe place?”
I glanced at Sienna’s boobs. “Sure … ”
“I will pick it up and take it to the police,” Aubrey said.
Sounded like a plan. It was only after we hung up that I remembered I needed to call the LAPD tip line first or risk losing the reward. Of course, calling the police meant another possible conversation with the Voice. Maybe it was her day off.
No such luck. I heard the snap, crackle, and pop of her gum before she said a thing. “Tip line.”
“It’s 1018.”
“Haven’t heard from you in a couple weeks. Thought maybe you moved to Alaska.”
Same. “You know I’d still call to say hey. I may have a name in the Lyla Davis murder.”
I waited for reaction. Nothing. “You know what I’m talking about?” I finally asked.
“We have hundreds of open murder cases.” She said it like this was a good thing.
“The Silver Sphere Award publicist gunned down at an ATM,” I said. “We talked about her last time I called … ”
Still nothing. Always the first one to lose a quiet contest, I spoke again. “The police caught the killer a few days ago. He killed himself. It was on the news.”
There was a pause. “They caught the guy?”
“A few days ago. Yes.”
“So that would make the case closed.”
“Yes … but it may be reopened. It should be reopened.” Fingers crossed. “Look, we think we found the guy who hired him. Mack Christie. We have a video.”
“The singer who goes everywhere in a tour bus?” She sounded doubtful. “He confessed to you on camera?”
“Not quite. Just pass the info on to the detective in charge. Tell him we’ll be dropping off a video.”
“Fine, but don’t hold your breath. Chances are slim to none anyone is going to bring some rich white man celebrity in for questioning on a closed case unless you have a confession.”
We hung up. I just hoped she wasn’t right about the police considering it a waste of time. I needed pie. And not just any pie. Crack pie from Cake and Bake. And I needed it pronto.
“Sienna, what time does the gifting suite start?”
The Google Alert appeared at the corner of Beverly and Santa Monica. Sienna drove, which put me shotgun. The radio was on KIIS FM and we were both singing loudly to the latest Kandy Wrapper song when my phone buzzed.
Because I was a glutton for punishment, I’d set up an alert for any mentions of Tomari online a couple weeks after Omari and I officially started dating. All the first few days had shown me was that Omari and Toni’s “relationship” was the stuff that dreams—and fan fiction—are made of. An entire site had immediately popped up dedicated to made-up stories of how they’d met, how they “made their relationship work,” and how they did other things. I hadn’t read any of it but Sienna informed me some wasn’t even half bad. I took her word for it.
After I’d gotten five alerts in a row for a five-part story involving Tomari that inexplicably took place in the same galaxy as Star Wars, I edited my alert to include just news articles and downgraded to one daily digest. It had become a lot more manageable—though way less exciting.
Of late, Tomari news had been slim pickings since a stripper-turned-reality star had been spotted courtside at a Lakers game wearing a jersey that just so happened to belong to the team’s latest star. Most of my Tomari daily digests now consisted of “rumored beau” mentions in articles about what Toni wore and posts about Omari’s Silver Sphere nomination. Apparently there was a Vegas pool to see if he’d take her as his date. Knowing the answer, I was tempted to bet.
The story was from Gus the Gossip’s site and it was hot-off-the-press—or rather the Internet equivalent, hot-off-hitting-the-send-button.
His headline was a doozy: Search and Frisk-y: Hollywood Lovers Tomari Caught in Steamy Embrace in a Gus the Gossip Exclusive!!!!!
Overdramatic much?
Not worried in the least, I clicked the link. Someone had probably caught Emme and Omari when we were all together at some point. It wouldn’t be the first time a paparazzi sold misleading pics.
The photos were blurry but still clear enough to make out Omari. I’d recognize that dome anywhere. Just like I could recognize the back of Emme’s head. That was definitely not Emme. Either there was a triplet I didn’t know about or Omari was indeed with Toni.
I leaned in as the air rushed out of my body.
They looked ready to kiss.
Eighteen
I blamed the angle for it looking like their lips were about to touch. Both leaning into each other, heads tilted at opposing angles, Omari’s one visible hand placed comfortably around her black leather and lace mini-dress. Toni’s mouth was open just a touch and the tip of Omari’s tongue peaked out.
It looked like a movie poster.
Except it wasn’t. There was no question who it was. Who they were. There was a question of why they were together and why my boyfriend had neglected to bring it up.
That’s what concerned me. Not the actual kissing or at least the appearance of the act. I’d taken enough selfies and mirror shots to know angles could be more deceiving than a two-hour David Copperfield performance. They weren’t kissing any more than they were about to pull a rabbit out of a hat or cut someone in half. But Omari should have mentioned the meeting. He knew people were always watching, always gossiping, always taking covert cell phone pics.
Call me old-fashioned, but you should tell your real girlfriend when you run into your imaginary girlfriend somewhere. It was common courtesy.
I immediately texted him the link, waited an obligatory two minutes to give him a chance to click on it, and called him. When he picked up on the second ring, I didn’t give him a chance to say hello.
“Y
ou got the text?”
The tone of my voice made Sienna throw me a 99-mile-per-hour glance, but she knew better than to say anything. I’d forgotten she was even in the car.
“Someone caught a millisecond of a ten-second hug.”
“I know. But you could have told me you ran into her.”
“I did.” He sounded so confident that for a second I thought maybe he had. But I was mildly obsessed with Tomari. I would have remembered.
“I don’t think so,” I finally said.
“Hey Day, I ran into Toni at an event the other night. I hugged her, said hi. She asked me how you were doing. She told me to tell you hey. So, hey. From Toni.”
“This doesn’t bother you at all? That people think you’re dating someone you’re not?”
“Why would it? It’s not true. Just like you know it’s not true. Addressing it will only bring more attention to a conversation that lasted one minute before her publicist dragged her away to talk to someone else and Nina tried to corner Will Smith so we could get a quick pic.”
Ugh. Omari and his male logic that managed to be clueless and make perfect sense at the exact same time. I was tempted to say something but decided it wasn’t worth an argument. It was probably what Nina wanted anyway.
Nina who had probably engineered the entire thing. I immediately flashed to her asking Gus about some exclusive. Was this what she was talking about?
Omari’s voice slashed through my thoughts. “Look, my trainer is giving me the death stare. Can we discuss this later?”
“Fine.”
We hung up but I kept talking about it. To her credit, Sienna listened obediently as I whined and moaned. It was the epitome of “first-world, hot-actor-boyfriend” problems. But still. Talking about things normally made me feel better. Yet by the time Sienna pulled up to the W hotel, my mood still hadn’t improved. “I’m not feeling up to this. Maybe I should just go home.”
Hollywood Ending Page 16