Dead Ringers

by Camilla Chafer

  "I get it, Shayne," said Hayden. "We're incognito. This is exciting!"

  "She might blow my cover before I even get a chance to approach my top suspect."

  Hayden's eyes widened. "Shayne, you have a cover? And a top suspect?"

  I nodded. "A bigshot producer. I think he might be tied to my story but until I speak to him I don't know for certain. I've been told he's here."

  "In that case, maybe I should stop saying your name. I know. Let's get new names and a back story and…"

  "Stop mocking me," I said, punching his arm lightly and he laughed.

  "Do you want to get out of here?" he asked, more serious now.

  "We only just got here. Besides, I still need to talk to…" I said as I began to turn, smacking my head directly into a man's chest. "I am so sorry. So, so sorry!" I winced as I stepped back and surveyed the man's suit for any damage. Thankfully, I didn't cause him to spill his drink or drop broiled lobster tails down his shirt.

  "Kind of clumsy," he sneered as I looked directly into Ryan Ellison's eyes.

  "I didn't see you."

  His eyes widened in disdain. "Am I invisible?" he asked slowly.

  "No. No, you're not. I'm a great fan of King Studios. You produce amazing films!"

  Ryan sighed and deposited his glass on a passing waiter's tray with barely a glance in his direction or regard for upsetting the balanced load. "Sure you are. Is this where you hit me up for a part ‘cause I gotta say, I don't think you've got leading lady looks," he said, attempting to stare past me.

  "No, I'm not…" I started only for Hayden to cut in as he fixed me with a delighted expression. "I just love your philanthropy work. Shay, right? Wow." He leaned in to air kiss me exuberantly while I stared at him in surprise. "I had no idea someone of your caliber would come to a party like this! I heard you're moving into creative financing and looking for new films to fund? Wonderful news!"

  As Hayden blinked expressively, his head slightly turned from Ryan Ellison, I caught onto his ploy. Be someone a hotshot producer needs and wants, not someone who might want him. Smart! "If only I could find the right project," I said as I tossed my hair like I'd seen so many vacuous socialites do. "I just pulled a few mill’ from that latest fundraiser and I need to put it somewhere but it has to be good."

  "You're looking for something to finance?" asked Ryan. He clicked his fingers, attracting the attention of a server with a full tray. Plucking glasses, he pressed them into our hands.

  "Shay is thinking about moving into production. Have you two met?" asked Hayden.

  "And you are?" asked Ryan, briefly turning his attention to Hayden.

  "Hayden Roth, photographer."

  "The famous portrait photographer," I added. If I got a fake back story, so should Hayden. "You probably saw his recent exhibition? Very exclusive. I managed to get the last piece for only two mill’."

  "Right." Ryan nodded. "Terrific stuff. I was thinking of picking up a piece."

  "Shayne!" The voice calling my name sounded angry. I looked around to see Jessica squeezing through the door. Damn it! I thought we lost her.

  "Let's set up lunch," I said. "I'll get my people to call your people. Gotta go!"

  "Wonderful," agreed Ryan. I plucked a business card from his hand, almost spinning him around as we powered past.

  "Shayne!" called Jessica.

  "What do we do now?" asked Hayden.

  I dumped my glass on the buffet table. "Just run," I said, breaking into the fastest gait my heels would allow. We darted out the front door and sprinted for the gates while Hayden yelled into his phone for the car to be brought around. Checking over my shoulder, Jessica didn't follow us but my heart still thumped as we waited for the car to arrive.

  "You bought one of my photographs for two million?" asked Hayden as we piled onto the backseat.

  "My millions?" I countered as we collapsed, giggling.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know what made me come up with that stuff. You said you were looking for a producer, and then you bumped into him and I recognized him and I kind of threw it all together. Did I make a mess of it?"

  "No! Hayden, it was genius! And," I beamed at him, "I've got an 'in' with Ryan Ellison now. On Monday, millionaire Shay's assistant is going to call and set up a lunch and it's all thanks to you!"

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sense of guilt at waking up in a safe, warm bed pervaded my consciousness the moment I awoke. Even though it was early, I couldn't fathom spending another minute in bed so I wrapped my bathrobe around me and moved into the kitchen. Equipped with coffee and toast, I flopped onto the couch and stared at my murder board.

  Last night, when we had to leave the party so abruptly, despite the positive meeting with Ryan Ellison and the information I gleaned from Annette's friends, I felt like a failure by the time I got home. Although the models gave me further insight into the seedier side of life in LA, once Jessica Suarez spotted me, I couldn't manage to question Ryan Ellison at all.

  Since it was Sunday and highly unlikely that I could rouse anyone for further interviews, I had no choice but to wait until tomorrow to make further headway. I hoped Ashleigh was having a better time tracking down leads through official channels. The more I thought about it as I ate my toast, the more convinced I was that Ryan Ellison had something to do with Sammy's disappearance. He was a well-known sleaze, he habitually treated women like possessions, and was known to be cold. Did that callous behavior extend to kidnap and murder? I couldn't be sure but as an escalation of terrible behavior, it was certainly possible.

  I sent the photo on my phone to the printer and added Ryan's image to the center of my murder board, sipping my coffee as I added notes. Then I drew big arrows pointing to each woman, adding my evidence of how he was potentially associated with them. They were still tenuous connections, but at least, I had something.

  I was due at Daisy's house mid-afternoon which left me plenty of time to conduct more research. Over the next hour, I gleaned information that Ryan Ellison lived alone in Beverly Hills and his home was recently featured on the cover of a shelter magazine. The two-floor home was built from wood and glass, giving panoramic views over the sun-parched Santa Monica mountains. All the furniture was leather with minimalist touches of chrome and wood. It looked so horribly uncomfortable, I had to wonder if he ever spent any time there. The kitchen had immaculate countertops, without even a coffee pot or a toaster, and the bed looked like it might require him to book regular visits to an osteopath. The only room that showed signs of the owner's life was the small movie room. Well presented with original posters from bygone years and big, velvet seats, it looked like a cozy space. Additionally, someone must have been living in the rest of the house, which had a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a wall of books in the living area. I figured the magazine's stylist was the person who left a couple of books open on the otherwise sparse coffee table. From Ryan's accompanying interview, in which he talked in snappy sound-bites about minimalism and scarcity at home, fueling a contrast between his hypercreative work environment, I couldn't imagine Ryan doing anything so lively.

  Opening a new browser, I searched for more information. There were hundreds of images of Ryan at award shows and paparazzi shots of him leaving expensive restaurants and exclusive parties. When he wasn't alone, he stood with industry names I easily recognized, and sometimes a beautiful woman. From what I could see in the photos, the women were rarely photographed more than once.

  I found an old report about him dating an actress, something that was corroborated in a couple of other articles but that fizzled out more than two years ago, right around the time Danika Jones disappeared. Was that coincidental? Or did he decide that kidnapping women and disposing of them when he got bored was more to his taste? Although I searched for other instances of romantic connections, I couldn't find any.

  Of course there was another theory. Alison said Ryan enjoyed keeping mistresses whom he could control and reject at his pleasure. Perhaps he found that f
inancial arrangement easier than maintaining an actual relationship where he might have to give two hoots about someone else.

  Speaking of which, I checked my phone. There were no missed calls and Ben still hadn't sent any message. With a horrible sinking feeling, I again wondered if his silence was the message. There was nothing clearer in "I'm not interested in you any longer" than ignoring me entirely. It was a cowardly way out. My shoulders slumped further with the realization that whatever happened, we would still have to work together. Would Ben really be so cruel as to ghost me, knowing we would have to see each other every day? I frowned hard. Surely not. I hadn't known Ben for too long but nothing in his character ever indicated a streak of cruelty to me. Perhaps he really was busy with the story he currently pursued, or Gabi.

  If I didn't hear from him over the weekend, I would confront him. Until then, I had a few hours to kill before I visited Daisy at her apartment. As I stared at my notes on Ryan Ellison's home, I realized there was just enough time to drive over there, stake the place out for a while and see what I could see. If there was nothing suspicious, I could drive directly to Daisy's afterward. If I noticed anything strange at Ryan's abode, I could call Ashleigh and give her the lowdown. If nothing else, at least I would feel active in my investigation.

  My mind made up, I powered down the laptop, changed out of my pajamas and bathrobe into an outfit suitable for hanging out with a world-famous former supermodel, and sighed because Daisy would look great dressed in a trash sack. But I felt good in my white jeans and casual pink t-shirt and that's what mattered. I pulled on white sneakers, snuck a few snacks and a water bottle into my purse and grabbed my denim jacket from the rack. After locking up, I skipped down the steps.

  A shirtless Mike was planting a bright array of blooms into a new planter at the base of the steps.

  "If you had a choice," I said, stopping by him, "would you rather have a girlfriend, keep a mistress, or kidnap a woman and hold her hostage?"

  He looked up in alarm.

  "Which seems most desirable?" I persisted.

  Mike pulled a face. "I feel the answer should be 'have a girlfriend'."

  "But would you if you were rich and powerful and got off on controlling women?"

  "I am neither of those and I don't. Is this because I’m on Tinder? Everyone is on Tinder."

  "Are you?"

  His alarm grew deeper. "You're not?"

  "I don't know why I'm asking you any of this."

  "Me neither," agreed Mike, returning his attention to the planter. "You got home early last night. Party crap? Maced your date?"

  "Neither. The party was weird. Lots of flashy, wealthy old men, and flashy, broke young women in a house that the hosts don't even live in most of the time. But I did get some information so it wasn't a total waste."

  "Good of your date to bring you to the door," said Mike without looking up.

  "How do you know he did that?"

  "My apartment is next to the door."

  "Oh. I thought you waited up for me or something crazy." I paused, suddenly uncomfortable and a little weirded out but also a bit pleased that Mike looked out for me. He might be a menace but he was also a good friend.

  "That would be crazy," scoffed Mike.

  "Absolutely. I'm heading out. The flowers look nice."

  "Glad you like them."

  I started to walk away, then I turned, stooped, and hugged him. "Thanks for waiting up for me," I said.

  "As if," snorted Mike, but as I walked away I was sure I heard him say softly, "You're welcome."

  The short drive to Beverly Hills gave me plenty of time to think. I knew the chances of my seeing anything useful would be remote. If Ryan did kidnap Sammy, he wouldn't put a sign on his gate announcing it and he certainly wouldn't let her wander around the grounds where she could be seen or escape. If I were lucky, I might observe some strange behavior or possibly question his neighbors on their observations.

  Unfortunately, when I arrived on his street, I realized even finding his house was impossible. Every home was set far back behind closed iron gates, tall fences and even taller hedges. The most I could see were long drives winding their way towards houses I couldn't see. Without being able to identify the house, the plan I had about climbing a fence and snooping around was dashed. I couldn't do that for dozens of houses and certainly not when I didn't know what kind of security was being used. Despite wanting to find Sammy, I dared not risk being mauled by guard dogs or arrested. That wouldn't help Sammy or me.

  I pulled over to the side of the road and waited, hoping for inspiration to hit me. As I tried to decide what to do next, several cars passed me, most continuing past the curve in the road and driving out of sight. A sleek black car turned and paused at gates and I caught a flash of short, dark hair. I leaned forward, craning my head to one side to get better a look. The car started again and the driver looked in my direction. I punched the air and exclaimed, "Thank you, universe!" as Ryan Ellison's car pulled through the gateway. I started my car, slowly moving further up the road and passing his gates just as they clunked shut and his car disappeared from view. Now I had the right house but absolutely no view. There wasn't even a trashcan to search through.

  Since I didn't want to waste my trip to Beverly Hills, I reached into the passenger floorboard for a baseball hat I dropped there a few days ago and pulled it on my head, not only to protect me from the sun but also my identity in case Ryan drove out again. Then I hopped out of the car and walked over to the fence, carefully looking out for security cameras. Seeing a strange woman ambling aimlessly could raise some questions. I strolled over to the gates, looking for a mailbox and found one embedded inside the security console. A keypad was the only way to open it. I briefly wondered if I had anything I could use to dust it for prints. Then I could try and work out which numbers were punched most often. I wasn't planning to steal his mail, just skim through it. A search on my phone revealed that only four digits could yield ten thousand combinations.

  "Useless," I muttered as I returned my phone to my pocket. The security console had a small camera at eye-level, assuming the person was in an average-sized car, so I stepped back. I did not want to set off any kind of alert although I was reasonably sure it didn't operate like a fast food drive-through. No one would bark at me imminently.

  Sticking to the fence, I looked for any holes or cracks through which I could see into the grounds but a thick hedge was in the way, plugging any gaps.

  "Ma'am?"

  I whirled around, my heart thumping. A car with a security logo across the doors had pulled onto the side of the road.

  "Yes?" I plastered on a cheerful smile.

  "We had reports that a vehicle might have broken down. Is that yours?" He jabbed a finger at my car.

  "That's mine, but it's not broken down. Thanks for checking!" I waved politely.

  "Mind if I ask what you're doing?"

  "I… um… am trying to find my… Frisbee?" I stuttered.

  The security guard sucked in a deep, disbelieving breath. "Your Frisbee," he repeated.

  "That's right. I've been driving for a long time and I wanted to stretch my legs so I pulled over and thought I'd toss it a few times and it went over the fence."

  "You're playing Frisbee by yourself?"

  I nodded. I lied and now I had to own it, no matter how implausible. "I'm self-partnered," I said. "It's a thing now. I can't wait around for someone to play Frisbee with me if I want to play Frisbee."

  The guard nodded. "Why don't you get into your vehicle now that you've stretched your legs?"

  "What about my Frisbee?" I asked.

  He scrabbled for something inside his chest pocket, then held out a card. I jogged forwards and took it. "Give the office a call and they'll tell you if the homeowner turns it in," he said.

  "Okay," I agreed. "Thank you."

  "If you thought about asking the owner for it, I can guarantee he's not very friendly," the guard continued. "I don't advise disturbing hi
m. Kind of a bigshot with a hot temper."

  "A hot temper?" I waited, hopefully.

  "You take care on your drive," said the guard as he pointed to my car.

  I took the hint and jogged back to my car, climbing in. Clearly, the security guard wasn't going to comment about Ryan's temper. I pulled a U-turn on the road and set off for Daisy's. The security guard followed behind for a mile until we reached the intersection. It was tempting to find an alternate route and return to Ryan's home but the neighborhood watch was clearly in effect and with no sight line to the house, or any way to get closer, I had to admit defeat. The trip was a waste of time.

  Midway to Daisy's, my stomach started rumbling, and I pulled into a drive-through and ordered a burger, fries and milkshake, eating them in the parking lot with a napkin spread across my knees. I hated wasting time. What was Sammy doing while I was driving around the city like a private detective, stuffing my face with junk food? What was she doing while I went to hang out with my friends in warmth and comfort? I couldn't imagine what she was going through or the loneliness she must be feeling. For the first time in my journalist career, the weight of my case clashed with the inadequacy of my investigation.

  "Sitting here feeling sorry for myself is not going to help anyone," I said out loud after allowing a moment to wallow. Ashleigh wouldn't do that. Ashleigh would turn over every scrap of information she got to find Sammy. I hadn't heard from her in a while so I shot her a text message asking if she was working on the case or due to meet us at Daisy's. Almost immediately I got a reply back: Caught a break. Tell you when I see you.

  With my enthusiasm fired up, I ditched the trash, checked my teeth, and drove over to Daisy's, searching for several minutes to find a parking space. When I got one, I hopped out and looked around, checking the direction I needed to walk.

  I just rounded the corner to Daisy's block when I heard my name called. Turning, I saw Hayden waving from across the street and then pausing for several cars to pass before trotting across to join me. "I thought it was you," he said, smiling. "What brings you to this neighborhood? Hot lead?"