“How much do you think he makes?”
“Not sure, but probably a couple hundred thousand dollars a year. Plus, he gets hefty bonuses. Last Christmas, he bought himself a brand new Corvette thanks to Brandon.”
“What about Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina Moore?”
The mention of her name makes my stomach churn, and once more the repulsive image of her sucking him off flashes in my mind.
“She’s a piece of work, but again no murderer. I mean, she’s marrying a superstar. The sexiest man in the world. Something every woman in the world dreams of. If that was me, I sure wouldn’t want him dead.”
If that was me. I inwardly sigh. I don’t hold a candle to Katrina. She’s Hollywood royalty. Supermodel beautiful. America’s It Girl. She may be a bitch to me, but she’s the perfect woman for Brandon. Second thoughts bombard me—maybe, I should implicate the bitch. Get rid of her!
My father bites into the other half of his sandwich. “Sure you don’t want some?”
It looks so damn delicious. I’m mentally drooling, but I pass once again. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
My father swallows, but not before getting another mustard stain on his light blue shirt. Smiling with amusement, I hand him a paper napkin.
“Thanks, babycakes.” He swipes at the yellow blotch. “Your mother’s gonna kill me.”
I laugh while he asks me another question.
“Do you know Katrina well?”
I tell my dad just well enough to know she’s a bitch. Like Pops, I’m a straight shooter. I tell it like it is. Although I can’t say the same when it comes to my feelings about my boss.
He chuckles. “Was she involved with Brandon for a long time before getting engaged to him?”
“To be honest, I met her only once—shortly before Brandon’s accident—and then again at the hospital. Except for having me make restaurant and hotel room reservations for his hook-ups, he’s never shared his social life with me. I’ve usually found out about whom he’s seeing from the tabloids and online celebrity gossip sites.”
“Was Katrina one of his hook-ups?”
I shrug, gazing longingly at the sandwich. “I don’t know. People Magazine said it was love at first sight and a whirlwind romance.”
Pops takes another messy bite of his thick sandwich. “You know, you can’t always believe what you read.”
Pops is right, especially when it comes to the tabloids, which survive on blowing up celebrities’ lives even if it means feeding the gossip-hungry public utter bullshit. People Magazine is different. You can believe what you read in it, and I defend the periodical’s honor to my dad, the penultimate detective.
Pops chuckles again. “Your mom swears by People.”
I smile. That’s Auntie Jo for you. Like my brother Jeffrey, she’s a total celebrity hound. Brandon is number one on her list. She almost fainted when she saw that he was named People’s “Sexiest Man Alive.”
Pops wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, missing a crumb of bread on his upper lip. I reach across the desk and flick it off with a finger.
“Thanks, babycakes.” He washes the sandwich down with more of the root beer. “Have you ever watched her show?”
Opening my mouth, I point my index finger at it and feign barfing. “Once was enough. Ugh! It almost made me throw up. The only talent she has is being famous for being famous. Her spoiled rich girl antics make Paris Hilton look like Goldilocks.”
Pops picks up a piece of greasy pastrami that’s fallen onto his desk and stuffs it into his mouth. I wish I’d gotten to it first. My stomach rumbles.
“You know she’s not actually rich,” he says matter-of-factly.
My salivating eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“She’s ten million dollars in debt. Maxed out on all her credit cards.”
“Wow! But aren’t her parents rich?”
“They used to be, but they’ve recently gone through tough times. Her father is serving time in prison for tax evasion and fraud. All his assets were seized by the feds. And his ex-wife Enid recently declared bankruptcy.”
I didn’t know this. “Did you learn anything more about Katrina?”
“Yes. She was sent to a mental institution right after high school.”
I’m surprised and not surprised. She is after all a psycho bitch. “What for?”
The hospital wouldn’t release any information to me. They gave me that damn doctor-patient privilege bullshit.”
“Maybe Chaz can give you some info. He told me Katrina stalked Blake Burns, the television executive, and drugged him.”
My father’s burly brows shoot up. He grabs a pen and writes himself a note on a yellow pad of paper. “I didn’t know that. I’ll definitely talk to him.”
“I’m sorry, Pops. I should have told you this earlier. I just found it out today.”
He scratches his full head of ebony hair. Lucky Pops, with his Irish ancestry, has not a single gray hair among them and he hasn’t lost a single strand. “So maybe she’s crazy enough to murder someone?”
“Honestly, Pops, I kind of hate her, but she’s definitely not a murderer. She’s totally in love with Brandon Taylor.”
“Do they fight?”
“I suppose they fight. All couples fight. And if you read the tabloids, celebrity couples seem to fight more than others.”
“Has she ever assaulted him?”
Other than groping him with her hands or attacking his cock with her mouth? Bile rises to my throat. I swallow it down before I say no.
With a deep breath, I compose myself. I need to end this line of questioning. I don’t want to think or talk about Katrina anymore. She makes me sick.
“Pops, you must know they’re getting married on national TV. On a special edition of her TV show in May. The wedding is going to make her a bigger household name than she already is. Send her ratings through the roof. And probably make her a shitload of money. And even if it doesn’t, why would she want to kill a man who can take care of her financially? Brandon’s loaded. He can wipe out her credit card debts and enable her extravagant lifestyle. I bet she’s already spending gobs of his money. Seriously, Pops, she’s as much a murderer as I am.” (Though truthfully, we’d both love to kill one another.)
Pops polishes off his sandwich and takes another glug of the root beer. “You’re probably right. I’m barking up the wrong tree.”
I smile. “Pops, has it ever crossed your twisted mind it was just someone driving through the neighborhood who accidentally ran Brandon over and then freaked out and took off? There are a lot of crazy drivers in the Hollywood Hills, and that’s not counting the ones who drink and do drugs all day long.”
Pops rakes his stubby fingers—the ones that have fired a gun—through his thick shiny hair. “You’re probably right. It’s just gonna be hard to find that person. Right after the accident, a city street sweeper came by and erased all tire tracks and footprints. We couldn’t even find a single hair to connect us to the suspect. We only have one clue.”
“Something captured on a surveillance camera?” Or someone.
Pops shakes his head. “I wish, but there are no surveillance cams on Brandon’s private road until you get to his house.”
“What about in the neighborhood?”
A look of frustration washes over his face. His shoulders slouch. “There was a power outage that morning. Some motherfucker moving van took down a power line, and everyone within three miles lost power.”
That happens frequently in The Hills. The outages can sometimes last for hours…until the DWP fixes the problem. Brandon’s house was probably affected that day as well though I wasn’t aware of it. I rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and didn’t get back home till late in the night. The sound of the blaring siren resounds in my head, arousing more vivid memories. Unconscious, with his head bandaged, his face drained of all color, and his breathing labored beneath an oxygen mask, Brandon didn’t look like he’d make it. A lapsed Catholic, I pra
yed for him and hoped God heard my words and witnessed my tears. Losing him was unfathomable.
“Babycakes, I want to show you something.”
Pops’s voice once again jolts me out of the excruciating memory. Just like the day Mama was murdered, it’s unforgettable. I think I’ll relive it forever and ever. Forcing it to the back of my mind, I focus my eyes on my father as he yanks open a creaky desk drawer. He reaches into it and retrieves a small zip lock bag. He slides it open and shakes out what’s inside. I study the heart-shaped green object that’s now sitting in the palm of his wide hand.
“We found this close to the crime scene.”
At the words crime scene, a chill sweeps over me. Pops explains to me that even if Brandon’s accident wasn’t a premeditated murder, his hit and run could be tried as a felony because of the severe nature of his injury—punishable with a big fine and up to five years in prison. Personally, I think that’s too lenient; whoever ran over Brandon should get a much longer term.
“Do you have any clue what this is?” he asks, glancing down at the evidence. “All we know is that it’s a piece of Venetian glass from Italy.”
“It looks like it could be part of an earring or some kind of pendant. Why is it so chipped and scratched?”
“Probably, it was brushed along the street by the sweeper or it got stepped on before anyone noticed. Does it look at all familiar to you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t recognize it.”
“Is it something Katrina would wear?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Pops, I thought we were done with her. But if you really want to know, I don’t think she’d wear anything that didn’t come from Tiffany’s or one of those other fancy shmancy Beverly Hills jewelry stores.”
Chewing on his bottom lip, he rubs his dimpled chin with the thumb of his other hand. He always does this when he’s thinking or onto something. “I have a hunch that whoever ran over Brandon Taylor was wearing this.”
I play devil’s advocate. “A lot of super rich women jog up and down Brandon’s street. The housewives of Beverly Hills. It could have simply fallen off one of them. And with all their money, they may not have noticed or cared.”
“Yup. That’s a definite possibility.” I sense a tinge of frustration in my father’s voice, but know he’s not going to give up. Even though it’s now considered a cold case, he’s never stopped looking for Mama’s murderer.
I play detective. “Were you able to get any fingerprints off it?”
“No luck. The surface is too scratched.”
“That’s too bad.”
Pinching his lips, Pops puts the evidence back into the plastic bag and after sealing it, returns it to the drawer. He glances down at his watch. A wedding gift from Auntie Jo, he never takes it off. They’ve been married thirty years. The frayed brown leather band shows its age.
He pushes himself away from his desk. “Gotta go. Your mother’s made her famous pot roast and I promised I’d be home by six.”
He shrugs on his signature last century trench coat and rounds his desk as I stand up. He gives me a bear hug.
“Put some meat on those bones, babycakes. Come by one night; your mother will fatten you up.”
I laugh. The last thing former size-twelve me needs is fattening up.
“Give my love to Jo.” I pause. “And tell her I’ll work on getting her onto the set so she can personally meet Brandon Taylor.”
Pops’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh boy, you’re gonna make her night. She’d love that! That woman is totally in love with him.”
Every woman in the world is in love with Brandon Taylor. Except he’s giving his heart to only one. A sharp pang of jealousy stabs me. I hate her.
Brandon
Goddamn LA traffic. What I thought would only take twenty minutes takes me almost an hour. The bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on La Cienega is a nightmare, and there’s a fender bender that slows things down even more. I seriously want to shoot the two bickering idiots who collided. There’s a reason for road rage.
When I get to the Conquest lot, I pull my Lambo into my VIP reserved parking spot and jog over to the building where the focus groups are being held. I forgot how big the lot is—practically the size of a college campus—and it takes me more time than I thought to get there. I’m late for the focus groups. Glancing down at my watch, I come to the conclusion I’ve already missed the first one with men. Dammit!
I fly into the observation room and apologize for my tardiness. Despite my lateness, all the attendees are thrilled to see me and are totally understanding. Thanks to a file Zoey left me, I recognize all their faces and know their names.
Seated on an oversized leather couch with his long legs outstretched on the coffee table and a sandwich on his lap, Blake smiles.
“No problem, man. Grab a sandwich and take a seat. Libby’s about to start the women’s group.” He chomps into his sandwich.
Before I can join him, the others in the room all jump up and successively give me man hugs.
“So good to see you, Brand-O,” says Doug DeMille, the show’s slick Executive Producer.
“You wouldn’t believe how many emails and letters we’ve gotten wanting to know when you’d be coming back,” chimes in Trevor Reeves, the suited-up Blake wannabe VP of Drama.
“It sucked dick having to write you out of the script,” quips Mitch Steiner, the show’s scruffy head writer.
I laugh at his light-hearted gripe and head over to the platter of sandwiches on the credenza. I help myself to a tuna on rye and grab a Coke. Setting the paper plate and soda can down on the coffee table, I take a seat next to Blake.
“How’s it been going?” I ask him after taking a bite of the tasty sandwich.
“Great. The men’s group was really receptive to your story idea.”
I still don’t know what the hell that is, but I don’t ask him. I look through the wall-to-wall one-way mirror and focus my attention on the women’s group in progress. There’s a total of nine respondents, various ages and ethnicities. I’d say the youngest is in her twenties, the oldest in her fifties. From what I’ve learned, Kurt Kussler has widespread appeal, the core viewers being 18-49. At the head of the table sits a bright-eyed woman with a mop of copper curls, likely in her twenties. Addressing the group of women, she must be Libby, the group moderator.
“Remember, there are no right or wrong answers. What matters are your true and honest opinions.”
Her voice is warm but authoritative. While she continues to explain focus group rules and regulations, Blake tells me the group is composed of “heavy” Kurt Kussler viewers.
“What does that mean?” I ask after swallowing a glug of Coke.
“They watch the show three or more times a week.”
My eyes widen with shock. “But it airs only once a week.”
Blake fills me in. “These women record and watch it over and over. They also download old episodes. They can’t get enough of Kurt Kussler.”
Holy shit! I guess they can’t, I muse as Libby segues into the first discussion question.
“Okay, ladies, what do you think of the show Kurt Kussler?”
Despite being told to talk one at a time, the women break out into pandemonium. I hear a cacophonous chorus of “Oh my God! The best show ever! I love it!”
Reminding the women not to shout out all at once, Libby launches into a series of questions about what they like and dislike about the show.
The long and short of it:
Likes: Everything. Especially the lead character Kurt. They love the action-packed stories and all the flashbacks of him and his late wife Alisha. They also adore the secondary characters, especially Kurt’s faithful assistant Mel.
Dislikes: Kurt’s nemesis, The Locust, whom they love to hate. And the fact they have to wait a week for the next episode. A couple of women complain about my recent absence on account of my accident. They’re all relieved to hear that I’m okay and will be in all the new upcom
ing episodes.
After a quick sip of her bottled water, Libby tells the group they’re doing a great job and focuses her questions on the character I play.
“Okay, ladies. Let’s talk a little bit about the character, Kurt Kussler.”
Again, another outburst.
“Oh my God, sex on a stick!”
“I love him!”
An older woman fans herself. “Holy hotness Batman. He’s so amazing!”
“Totally!” gush several respondents in unison.
“What about Brandon Taylor, the actor who plays the part?” asks Libby.
Yet another uncontrollable outburst. A few of the women look like they’re going to swoon.
“Oh my God. I’d kill to meet him!” pants one.
A shiver skittles up my spine. I’m sure she doesn’t mean that literally, but the words of Detective Billings circle in my head. Would some crazy fan actually do that?
Another woman suspiciously stares at the one-way mirror. “Is he sitting behind that mirror watching us?”
Before Libby can respond, the women start shrieking. I swear they sound orgasmic. They wave and blow kisses. One even jumps out of her seat and presses her lips against the glass. She’s practically in my face. I feel myself flushing. On my next breath, they’re all out of their seats and peeking through the window in search of me.
Blake laughs. “Guess they’re infatuated with you.”
Obsessed is more like it. They’re like a pack of wild dogs in heat.
Convincingly denying my presence, Libby tells the ladies to sit back down and brings order to the unruly group. She continues to probe about my character’s appeal and then moves into a discussion about the other characters. After talking about Kurt’s late wife Alisha, she focuses on my assistant, Melanie, who I call Mel.
“I love her,” says one respondent.
“She’s so cute and funny,” says another.
“And she cares so much about Kurt,” adds yet another.
“I feel sorry for her,” comes the voice of the youngest respondent.
“Why is that?” asks Libby, totally poker faced.
“Because she’s madly in love with Kurt.”
THAT MAN: The Wedding Story Page 35