Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot

by Gemma Halliday

  I did an inward groan.

  The second Mike and Eddie caught a whiff of Trace, he’d be plastered all over the ED website in a matter of minutes. Along with his current location. Not good if you were running from two guys with one very big gun.

  I reached into my trunk and pulled out a shiny, green windbreaker.

  I shoved it at Trace.

  “Here, put this on.”

  “It’s ninety degrees out.”

  “There are two photographers hidden behind that azalea bush. Unless you want to be plastered all over the internet in five seconds flat, put on the jacket.”

  He held it up to his chest. Across the back was the logo of a plumbing company, a talking toilet saying, “Clean pipes are happy pipes.”

  He shook his head and muttered a, “Jesus,” under his breath. “You better hope this works. Because if I get caught on camera wearing this…” He trailed off, the implications to his movie-star image understood.

  But he put on the windbreaker.

  Pulling the ball cap low on his head and turning the windbreaker’s collar up high, Trace entered the trendy restaurant, me one step behind. I’d shoved on a matching ball cap as well, stuffing my long hair up under the hat. While Trace would cause Mike and Eddie instant celebrity stalker orgasms, the sight of me would at the very least arouse some interest in my companion. Definitely not something we wanted today. So, while the caps made Trace and me look like a couple of sixth-grade boys, at least no one would mistake us for movie stars.

  After ascertaining that Bert Decker had not yet arrived, Trace slipped the hostess a benjamin to seat us near the front of the patio. Normally, a dark corner in the back would have been the preferred incognito spot. However, there were no dark corners on an open-air patio in California in the summer. And, even if there were, the paparazzi would already be hunkered there, waiting to take Trace’s picture. (Trust me, I often did.) I pulled my hat lower over my forehead as I glanced over my shoulder at the ED brothers.

  They were hunkered down just over the low fence that separated Nico’s from the dry cleaner’s next door. Carefully squatted on public property, but with a prime view of the Nico’s clientele. Eddie had one hand in a bag of Fritos corn chips, the other down his pants. Mike was training camera on a couple sipping Arnold Palmers at a table near the street. I squinted through the crowd, making out a head of dark hair on a mocha skinned woman, a familiar pair of dimples flashing in the guy’s tanned cheeks. I sucked in a breath. J Lo and Mark Anthony. And they looked like they were arguing.

  Shit.

  I resisted the urge to slip my camera from my bag and start firing away. What a primo shot. Felix would give his right arm for a shot like this. Or at least a small bonus.

  “What?” Trace asked, sliding down in his chair. “What are you looking at?”

  I elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s J Lo and Mark Anthony!”

  I leaned over, looking past me. Then shrugged. “I guess it is. So?”

  “Sooooo… I can’t believe I’m missing this shot!”

  “You want a shot of J Lo?”

  I nodded so hard that my cap bobbled on my head. “Uh, yeah!”

  “Great. I’ll invite you both over next weekend.”

  I blinked at him. “You can do that?”

  Again he shrugged. “Why not? They were over twice in June. Mark likes my buffalo wings. You can come help me barbeque.”

  I had officially died and gone to paparazzi heaven.

  A waitress/wannabe actress/model/spokeswoman approached our table and took our order. I did the talking, Trace looking inordinately interested in the sugar packets on the table to avoid eye contact. It seemed to work as the waitress didn’t scream out his name at top volume. In fact, she barely gave us a glance at all, only sparing one slightly dirty look when we both ordered only coffee.

  She brought us our cups and we slowly sipped in silence, both of us scanning the entrance for any sign of Decker. I’d seen enough photos of him at openings and after-parties that I was fairly certain I’d recognize the guy. Graying hair, paunchy belly, tanned skin though nary a wrinkle thanks to the likes of Dr. B and his cohorts. Unfortunately, as the minutes dragged on, no one fitting that description walked through the doors of Nico’s.

  “Cammy?”

  I closed my eyes, instantly recognizing the male voice laced with a layer of fast-food grease. I thought a really dirty word, then spun around to find Eddie, mouth full of corn chips, waving at us form over the wall. “Fancy meeting you here, kid,” he said.

  I raised a feeble hand. “Hi.”

  “On a story?” Mike asked, his radar going up, eyes darting around the landscape like a meerkat sensing an approaching jackal.

  “Just having lunch,” I lied.

  “Who’s your friend?” Eddie asked, gesturing to Trace. Who had slunk so low in his seat, he’d shrunk at least a foot and a half.

  “No one.”

  “Eddie Smets,” Eddie said, extending a hand toward Trace.

  Trace shook it, dipping his head to the right, wisely not making eye contact.

  Eddie waited for Trace to introduce himself.

  Trace waited for Eddie to go away.

  “What do you want, Eddie?” I asked.

  “Just being friendly,” Mike answered for his twin.

  Eddie was still staring at Trace. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

  Trace shook his head.

  “You don’t say much, do you?’

  Trace shook his head again.

  “He’s…got laryngitis.” Wow, the lies were getting thinner and thinner. Any more and they’d be a post-Jenny Bertinelli.

  “Huh.”

  And Eddie knew it.

  “You get a load of that argument?” Mike asked, munching down hard on a chip as he gestured to the golden couple.

  I nodded. “That was something, huh? You, uh, didn’t happen to catch what it as about, did you?” I couldn’t help asking.

  Mike nodded. “Yep.”

  “Wanna share?”

  “Nope.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Love ya, too, babe,” he replied, doing a kissy-face at me.

  “You sure I don’t know you?” Eddie asked, ducking down and trying to see under the low brim of Trace’s hat.

  Trace slouched further and shook his head.

  I looked down at my watch. It was a quarter past noon. If we waited around for Decker any longer I had a bad feeling that even a dull bulb like Eddie was going to connect the dots, and Trace would end up on the ED website plugging a plumbing company.

  “Well, it’s been fun,” I said. A lie. “But we have to get going.” Truth. “Hope you have a nice day.” Total lie.

  “See ya, Cammy,” Mike said, shoving another handful into his mouth.

  Eddie was a little cagier, watching as Trace and I stood, Trace unfolding to his full height. I could tell he was second away from recognizing the guy.

  I quickly ushered my movie star out the door, across the street and back to my Jeep.

  I heaved a sigh of relief as we peeled away from the curb without the telltale flash of Eddie’s camera catching up with his pea brain.

  “I can’t believe Decker didn’t show.” Trace pulled off the windbreaker, sweat glistening on his cut arms as he shoved it into the back of the car.

  On any other guy, it might have been “pooling,” but I swear Trace actually glistened.

  I tried not to drool.

  Instead, I pulled out my camera and snapped a candid shot.

  Trace blinked as my flash went off. “What was that? Did you just take my picture?”

  “Hey, I gotta throw my editor a bone. If I don’t turn something in by the end of the day, I’m toast.”

  Trace frowned. “You could have warned me first.”

  I could have. But the moment had been too good to pass up. If I was near drooling, our readers would be salivating like hungry Dobermans.

  “Call Decker,” I said. “Let’s find ou
t why he stood you up.”

  Trace did, putting his cell on speaker as we listened to it ring on the other end. And ring and ring. Finally it went to voicemail.

  Not good.

  “Maybe his flight was delayed?” I said.

  But the way Trace’s jaw was set in a grim line told me he didn’t believe that any more than I did.

  “Maybe we should be sure.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later we pulled up in front of a small, stucco one-story on the outskirts of Burbank. Like most houses in Southern California, this one had an impressive palm tree planted out front, shading the Spanish-style home from the grueling sunshine. Arched windows and clay-colored paint gave it an authentic feeling, mimicked by the hand-painted tiles flanking the walkway. I parked in the empty drive, and Trace and I made our way up the front path.

  I stepped up to the door and rang the bell, listening to the chimes inside echo through the house. Only no footsteps approached. I did a repeat, this time cupping my hands over my eyes and peeking in the living room window to the left.

  A pair of overstuffed sofas flanked a fireplace done in more blue Spanish tiles near the end of the room. A chic, distressed wooden coffee table sat between them, the latest copy of Variety spread open on its surface. Beside the paper sat a coffee mug with the slogan “World’s Best Agent” emblazoned on its side.

  But no sign of Decker.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s home,” I said, stating the obvious as our second attempt at the doorbell remained unanswered.

  Trace crowded beside me to look in the windows for himself, a desperation creeping into his blue eyes.

  “Maybe he’s around back,” Trace said, false hope lacing his voice.

  Considering the temp was pushing the upper limits of the thermometer, I doubted he was sunbathing. However, no stone unturned…

  “Sure. Maybe,” I answered.

  He led the way across Decker’s browning lawn to a side gate, covered in vines and bright purple morning glories.

  He tried the gate, pulling it toward us. It didn’t budge. Locked.

  With a quick look over his shoulder, Trace hoisted himself over the gate in one swift movement.

  Show off.

  I bit my lip, looking around for a way to get a foothold. Granted, I was only a few inches shorter than Trace, but I hadn’t done all my own stunts in my last action flick, so I wasn’t exactly as athletic as the guy. Okay, the truth was, I was all limbs. Gangly had been the adjective I’d heard most often throughout my adolescence. While I’d managed to pad my frame out a little in adulthood, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call the graceful type.

  Or the type who could leap garden gates in a single bound.

  “You coming?” I heard Trace call from the other side of the gate.

  “Yep. Sure. Be right there.”

  I spied a brick planter to the right of the fence and tested it. Solid. Moveable. It would do. I dragged it under the gate and gingerly stepped on top of the bricks, adding a full foot to my height. Just enough to get some leverage on the top of the gate. I did a little jump, pushing up with my hands and scrambling my feet up the side of the gate, sending a few innocent morning glories to their death in the process. Oops.

  With a very unladylike grunt, I flipped my torso onto the top of the gate, then slid down the other side, managing to lodge a splinter in my palm in the process.

  “Sonofa-” I put my palm to my lips, sucking on the sore spot.

  “You okay?” Trace asked. Though I noticed his eyes were scanning the backyard for any signs of his agent, not flickering to the injured chick.

  “Sure. Fine,” I said, using my fingernails to dig out the offending splinter as I took in the backyard. It featured an uninspired square of lawn, a patio with a couple of chairs and glass table with an umbrella sticking out, hedges butting up against the fence that separated him on three sides from his neighbors.

  But, again, no Decker.

  Trace moved to the sliding glass door at the back of the house, pressing his face against the surface so that his nose fogged up the glass. “I think I see him!”

  I joined him. “Where?”

  The back door led into a kitchen and family room combo.

  Trace pointed to a La-Z-Boy chair in the corner of the room near the TV. With the back of the chair facing us, we couldn’t see much of the occupant. But a pair of feet clad in black socks sticking out the front gave away his presence.

  “There!” Trace pointed. He knocked on the glass. “Decker!”

  No answer.

  “Hey, Decker! Wake up, man!” Trace shouted, banging on the glass again.

  Again, no answer.

  But Trace was, as I was quickly coming to find out, a man not easily deterred. He jiggled the latch on the sliding glass door. It opened easily. What do you know – not locked.

  I felt a flutter of concern in my gut. No one left their doors unlocked in L.A.

  But apparently Trace didn’t share my misgivings as he charged right into the room. “Hey, Decker,” Trace called again.

  I followed a step behind, feeling just the teensiest bit intrusive invading the man’s home uninvited.

  “Decker, wake up, man. I need to talk to you about-”

  Trace stopped in his tracks, his gaze frozen on the man in the lounge chair. His eyes grew wide, pupils dilating, his jaw going slack as his color simultaneously drained from movie star tan to polar bear white.

  “What?” I asked, coming around to stand beside him. I looked down at the chair.

  And heard a piercing scream.

  It took me a moment to realize it was coming from me.

  The man in the chair was Decker, all right. I recognized his soft frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and tanning-bed complexion from the numerous photos I’d printed in the Informer throughout the years.

  However one thing was different about the agent today.

  A neat little round bullet hole in the center of his forehead, which led me to believe that Decker wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  Living on a ranch, it wasn’t totally uncommon to run across a dead animal. Coyotes would often pounce on smaller animals, sick livestock sometimes passed away in the night, and our cat, Tigger, was under the impression that anything lower on the food chain than he was would make a nice gift for his human owners.

  But this was the first time I’d seen a dead human body. And, let me tell you, the fact we were the same species brought about a whole new host of sensations, none of them pleasant. They rolled around in my gut, threatening a repeat appearance of my morning Corn Flakes.

  I doubled over in the middle, putting my head between my knees like I’d seen them do on TV, and took deep breaths. They smelled like the fabric softener I used on my clothes and a stale scent wafting from the body that I didn’t want to examine too closely.

  “Holy shit!” From the corner of my eye I saw Trace jump back a full two feet, his gaze shooting around the room as if looking for what might have made that neat little hole.

  Me? I kinda didn’t want to know.

  I straightened up, finding my voice again. “He’s dead, right? I mean, he kinda looks dead. Not that I’ve seen a dead guy before, but he looks like what a dead guy seems like it should look like.” Yes, I was babbling. Again. Apparently both hot movies stars and dead bodies make me nervous. Go figure.

  “He… he looks dead.” Trace cocked his head to the side, his throat bobbing up and down. “Ah, geez, Bert.”

  “Maybe we should check for a pulse. They always check for a pulse on CSI,” I offered. Yes, all of my experience with the dead came from prime time TV shows.

  “Right. Yeah. A pulse. Good idea.”

  Neither of us moved.

  “You first,” he said.

  I spun around. “Me? Nuh-uhn. You check. He’s your agent.”

  “But you have all that first-aid knowledge,” he said, pointing to his arm.

  “I can put on a
Band-Aid. That doesn’t make me an EMT,” I shot back.

  We both stared at the dead guy. His eyes were open wide, staring at a point on the ceiling, unblinking. Which was a pretty big clue that a pulse would be nonexistent. Still…

  I squinted one eye shut, bit my lip, and reached two trembling fingers toward Decker’s neck. I cringed as they made contact, his skin cold and rubbery to the touch. It felt more like an uncooked chicken breast than human skin. My breakfast bubbled up into my throat again, but predictably nothing fluttered beneath my fingers.

  I jerked my hand back like it was on fire, instinctively wiping it on the seat of my jeans as if I could wipe away the creepy sensation of his lifeless skin.

  “Oh yeah. That sucker’s 100% deceased.”

  “Holy shit.” Trace ran a hand through his hair, his skin paling even further until it almost matched that of Decker. “How long do you think he’s been…” He gulped, as if not able to actually say the word, “dead.”

  “Like that,” he finally finished.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. He’s cold.”

  Trace just shook his head again, as if he couldn’t believe we were staring at his dead agent.

  “I’m sorry, Decker,” he said quietly. “Jesus, this is all my fault.” He gulped. “When I told those guys Decker had the flash drive I never thought they’d actually…” He trailed off, running his hand through his hair again.

  “You think they did this?” I asked. “Your flash-drive guys?”

  “It would be a hell of a coincidence if not, wouldn’t it?”

  Good point.

  I stepped away from the body, as if putting a little distance between us would somehow mitigate the fact that I was standing in a room with a dead guy. I took a couple deep breaths, then pulled my cell from my pocket. My fingers trembled as I dialed. But I only got a nine and the first one typed in before Trace’s hand shot out and grabbed the phone from me.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes wide, his brows hunkering down tightly over them.

  “I’m calling the police.”