Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot Page 3

  “Real mature,” I mumbled.

  Only I hated to admit that unless the twins took off, they had a point. No way was I going to be able to get a clear shot of Trace. The front of the club was packed with paparazzi that had all somehow managed to convince their editors that valet was a necessary expense. Either that or they were chancing the parking tickets in the red zones. Not something I could do unless I wanted to see my Jeep towed. I already had seven outstanding fines. Occupational hazard.

  It was clear if I wanted to get any shot of Trace worth printing in tomorrow’s edition, I needed a new angle.

  I left the gruesome twosome arguing over whether they thought Jamie Lee liked it on top or on bottom (seriously, what were they, fifteen?), and decided to case the rest of the building. If I was lucky, there was a window or balcony that lead to the VIP area. Any place I could get a glimpse of Trace inside.

  I rounded the corner of the building, coming into an alleyway housing a pair of green Dumpsters, a mound of empty Bicardi boxes, and one emaciated cat. I ignored the hissing from the cat, pressing around to the back of the club. The building jutted up against a chain-link fence and parking lot beyond. No windows. No balconies.

  Shit.

  At the rear of the building stood one metal door with a rectangular window atop it, the glass painted out black so that no one uncool enough to be denied entry could spy on the ultra-cool happenings inside the club. It was also pretty good paparazzi repellent, I decided staring up at it. I squinted, trained my lens on it. Couldn’t see a damned thing.

  Okay, I had three options. One - I could go back around to the front and pray for an opening between the blob brothers big enough to fit my Nikon and get a semi-decent shot of Trace. Two - I could concede defeat and call it a night, hoping for a better photo op tomorrow. Or three - I could set up camp here on the off chance that Trace decided to sneak out the back way. I did an einie meenie miney moe. But really, it was no contest. Going back out front meant enduring inane chatter form Mike and Eddie for possibly hours on end. Not my first choice. And going home meant a lecture from Felix in the morning. Again, not high on my list. So, while the alleyway wasn’t the prettiest of places that I’ve spent an evening, waiting for the back door to open finally won out. What can I say? I’m a girl who believes in long shots.

  After surveying the alley for a good place to hunker down, I settled on a wooden staircase snaking up the side of the building next door. It was dark, out of the way, and afforded me a place to sit down. Perfect.

  I climbed up to the second-floor balcony, hiding in the shadows behind a billboard advertising the latest season of Heroes on DVD, and found myself a clean(ish) corner with a clear shot of the back door and sat down on the wooden planks to wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  I waited so long my foot fell asleep. I counted the number of stairs on this side of the building fifteen times. I ran through the names of all fifty states, all forty-four presidents, and all seven dwarves. I made a mental grocery list, composed a thank-you letter to my grandmother for the fifteen-dollar birthday check she sent last month, and made up one dirty limerick involving Mike, Eddie, a goat and a bag of ho-hos.

  Two hours later, the only action I’d seen was a delivery truck pulling into the alley by the dumpsters. I was about to give up and call my night a bust, when the back door of the club finally opened.

  I rocked forward on my toes, put my camera to my eye, and held my breath as the door pushed open…

  …to reveal a waitress in a tiny cocktail dress lighting a joint beneath the billboard.

  Swell.

  I leaned back again. Clearly, my gamble wasn’t paying off tonight. I waited until Smoky was done, crushing the butt beneath her two-inch heels and disappearing back into the club, before standing up and stamping some feeling back into my right foot. I was just working out the pins and needles before descending the stairs, when I heard the back door swing open again. I was about to chalk it up to another smoke break, when a familiar head of golden blond hair emerged.

  Trace.

  My breath caught in my throat, and I did a mental “in your face” to the Entertainment Daily boys. I silently lifted my camera lens to my eye. I popped off three shots of Trace walking into the alleyway and stretching his arms above his head. He leaned leaning against the side of the building, his usually perfect posture slouching. He tilted his head back against the stuccoed wall and closed his eyes.

  Despite my journalist instincts telling me that a full body shot was what readers wanted to see, I zoomed in close on his face. I could see faint lines surrounding his eyes – evidence of fatigue that was usually carefully airbrushed away. His jaw was slack in the dark, his features blissfully unaware of being watched. A rarity. For a brief moment, he wasn’t a movie star, just some guy trying to get a moment’s peace in the whirlwind life of his own creation.

  His long lashes made dark shadows on his cheeks, giving him a boyish look that made me wonder what Trace had been like before he became “the Trace Brody.” Rumor had it he’d grown up in a small town in the Midwest somewhere. I wondered if he didn’t secretly miss small-town life once in a while.

  A sound down the alleyway broke into his respite, and his eyes popped open, his posture suddenly stiffening into a pose again.

  I followed his gaze to the delivery truck parked at the mouth of the alleyway. Two guys emerged, both in nondescript gray coveralls. They were both about average height, one with jet black hair slicked back from his forehead, the other wearing a crew cut. Crew Cut was beefier looking, like he’d spent a fair amount of time either in a boxing ring. Or prison gym, if the litany of tattoos on his arms were any indication. The other guy reminded me a ferret, all slim and slinky in a way that would make me wary of touching him.

  Ferret stuck his hands in his pockets, coming around the front of the truck and looking over both shoulders as if scanning the alleyway for other inhabitants. The cat stuck his head out from behind the Dumpster, but luckily, I had this invisible thing down to a science. Ferret looked convinced they were alone.

  At first I wasn’t sure the two guys even saw Trace leaning back in the shadows. But as they passed the back door to the club it became clear they weren’t here on a beer run. The movie star was their real target.

  I could see the actor’s “on” face sliding effortlessly into place, more of a reflex than a conscious effort at this point. I put my lens to my eye, popping off shots as the delivery men approached, envisioning the caption for tomorrows pics as: Trace signs autographs in alley – what a guy!

  Only, as I watched the two guys approach him, I had to rethink that caption. The skinny guy pulled his hand out of his pocket, but it didn’t emerge with a Sharpie for Trace to sign his John Hancock with.

  It emerged with a gun.

  I sucked in a breath, my body freezing in place. I willed myself to remain silent and inconspicuous on my perch as the guy pointed the gun straight at Trace.

  Holy shit. What was going on here?

  Was I witnessing a mugging? Instinctively I looked left, then right for help. Only the emaciated cat stared back at me.

  So I did the only other thing I could think of. I kept shooting, keeping the telephoto lens to my eye and popping off shot after shot in the dark.

  It took Trace a second longer than me to see the gun, but when he did, his reaction was much the same as mine. I saw his eyes go wide, his shoulders lock up, his gaze shoot from side to side instinctively looking for an escape route.

  But the two guys had any chance of escape blocked off, coming at him from both angles, their truck blocking the alleyway.

  They advanced on him, the skinny guy moving in gun-first. Trace put both hands up in a surrender motion, backing up until he was square against the wall again. He said something to them, his lips moving rapidly.

  After years of watching people through a telephoto lens, I was beginning to learn the fine art of lip reading. I squinted my eyes and tried to follow alon
g. I’m pretty sure Trace said, “My chicken is under the bus.”

  Okay, so I hadn’t perfected my skill yet.

  But whatever Trace really said, it didn’t seem to appease the guys any. The big guy moved in closer, saying something. Which, even though it looked a lot like, “Your mother ate the washing machine,” I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Trace shook his head side to side in the negative to whatever Crew Cut had asked. Only that didn’t seem to be the answer they were looking for as Ferret waved his gun in Trace’s direction in response.

  Trace threw his hands up higher, a frown creasing his forehead as he let out a rapid stream of words, again shaking his head. Ferret stepped forward, shoving the gun into Trace’s ribs. Painfully, if the wince between the actor’s eyebrows was any indication. He held his hands up higher, his gaze pinging between the two men in what, even at this distance, was so clearly marked with fear that I could almost smell it.

  Crew Cut leaned forward once more. All I could see was the back of his head, but I could tell that whatever he was saying wasn’t pleasant as the color drained from Trace’s face. Again, he shook his head, protesting, but whatever he was saying, the two men weren’t buying it. The big guy grabbed Trace by the arm and shoved him toward the delivery truck. Considering guy number two still had a gun on him, Trace didn’t have much choice but to stumble along.

  The skinny guy went back to the driver’s side and hopped in. The second guy walked around back of the truck with Trace in tow and lifted the rolling door, shoving Trace inside. He jumped up himself, then pulled the door after him.

  The truck roared to life. Before I could react, it was backing out of the alley and out onto Sunset.

  I got off three quick shots of the truck’s license plates, then quickly jogged back down the stairs. Well, I intended to jog back down. My foot was still asleep so it was more like an ungraceful stumble, missing the bottom two stairs altogether as I clung to the railing.

  Ignoring the pins and needles shooting up my right leg, I raced through the alley, emerging onto Sunset just as the tail end of the delivery truck made a right at the corner. I bolted across the street, blocking out the curious looks from Eddie and Mike in my peripheral vision, and jumped in my Jeep. My fingers fumbled just a second with the keys as I turned over the engine and peeled out of the gas station’s parking lot, jumping the curb and taking a right at the intersection.

  I scanned the three lanes of traffic, searching for the telltale height of the delivery truck over the roofs of luxury sedans and eco-friendly Priuses. A block later, I spotted it – two lanes over on the right. Quickly navigating though the Hollywood cruisers, I pulled two car lengths behind the truck, keeping an eye on the back doors. Was Trace still in there? Was he okay? Who the hell were these guys? Kidnappers out for ransom? They certainly hadn’t looked like your average celebrity stalkers. Last year I knew that Trace had gotten a restraining order against some woman who kept breaking into his house and digging strands of his hair from his shower drain. She’d claimed she was weaving them into a necklace. Which was super weird and kinda icky, but nowhere in the ballpark of two guys with a gun.

  I followed as the truck passed by the trendy clubs, then farther down the street past the strip of clubs that had seen trendy five years ago, and finally into the neighborhood of dive bars that played host to the majority of the city’s pharmaceutical trade. I got cut off buy an aging El Camino and fell a few cars behind the delivery truck as we passed a twenty-four-hour pawn shop, but managed to cut over into the left and pass him, pulling up again directly behind the truck at the next intersection. Which, unfortunately, is where the truck made a sharp right onto a side street. I moved to do the same, but a seven-foot-tall guy in a spandex miniskirt and platform heels jumped into the street in front of my Jeep.

  I slammed on the breaks, my front bumper kissing the transvestite’s legs.

  “Watch it, chick! I’m walking here!” he/she shouted.

  I raised my hand in a silent apology, willing him/her to get the hell out of the way as I watched the truck make another sharp right a few feet ahead of me.

  I finally navigated around the shemale, and gunned the engine. I pulled the steering wheel to the right, accelerating so fast I swear I almost took the turn on two wheels as I followed the truck’s path.

  Only as I turned the corner, the street in front of me was empty. I drove another three blocks, glancing down each side street I passed for any glimpse of the truck, but came up empty.

  Shit. I’d lost Trace.

  Chapter Four

  I pulled over to the side of the road, illegally idling in a red zone, while I scanned the empty street. Granted, this was L.A. so no street was totally empty. But at the moment I only had eyes for one white delivery truck. Of which there was no sign whatsoever.

  I leaned my head back on my seat, trying to figure out what to do. Call the police came to mind, but just as quickly I dismissed it. The cops and the paparazzi have a tentative relationship as it is. Most of what we do rides that fine line of legality and certainly falls on the shady side of morality. We weren’t exactly on one anothers’ Christmas card lists, if you get my drift.

  Instead, I grabbed my camera and scrolled through the photos I’d just taken. Unfortunately, the only ones I managed to get of the two kidnappers were either too dark or at the wrong angle to clearly make out their features. Fortunately, however, I did manage a couple clear shots of their license plates as the van pulled into the alley.

  I pulled out my cell and hit number one on my speed dial. I heard the phone ring on Tina’s end five times before a perky voice finally picked up. “L.A. Informer, may I help you?”

  If there was one thing I knew about Tina it was that she didn’t do perky. Clearly someone else was answering her phone.

  I took a stab in the dark.

  “Allie?”

  “Uh… who’s asking?” the new girl hedged.

  “Cameron. Where’s Tina?”

  “Oh, hey, Cam,” she said, relief mixing with the perk in her voice. “Tina cut out early again today. Some self-defense class she’s taking with Cal.”

  “And you’re answering her phone why?”

  “Uh, well, you know. Just in case anything important came in.”

  “Uh huh.” No wonder she’d been scooping Tina. I made a mental note to give my friend the heads-up. Forwarding her calls to her cell might be a wise idea in the future.

  “So, what’s up?” Allie asked. I thought I heard her pop a wad of gum between her teeth and pictured her twirling a lock of blonde hair to go with the audio.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to share the bizarre turn of events my evening had taken with the new kid. She’d yet to prove herself trustworthy in my book. However, if it was between her and the cops, there was a clear winner.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need you to run a license plate number for me.”

  “Like from a car?”

  Again I had those second thoughts. Rumor had it Felix had hired Allie more for her double-D chest than her investigative savvy. And she wasn’t exactly disproving that idea with her genius at current. “Yeah. From a car.”

  “Okay. Sure thing. Just gimme a sec.” I heard the phone click over to the Informer’s Muzak system as Allie disappeared. Then a moment later her voice popped back on the line again. “’K, I’m at my own desk now. What’s the number?”

  I looked down at my camera screen and rattled off the number to Allie.

  “Checking now…” she said, and I heard her keyboard clacking in the background to confirm.

  If there was one thing our editor-in-chief didn’t skimp on, it was computer databases. The Informer’s staff had access to all sorts of websites that tracked phone numbers, credit info, criminal history, and DMV stats – just to name a few. I doubted even the FBI had the kind of resources our tabloid had. Then again, our most-wanted list had a lot more high rollers on it than the FBI’s did.
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br />   I’d learned early on in my Informer career to enjoy the fruits of his data sharing capabilities and not to ask too many questions about where our info came from and if these channels were 100% legal.

  “Got it,” Allie finally said a beat later. “Plates belong on a white, Ford utility vehicle, 2007 model.”

  That sounded consistent with the truck I’d seen spiriting Trace away.

  “Owner?” I asked.

  “Registered to a Buckner Boogenheim of Pacific Storage.” She paused. “Seriously? Boogenheim? What kind of name is that?”

  I ignored the commentary. “Got an address?”

  “Um… 715 Halliburton, L.A.”

  I plugged the address into the GPS unit on my dash (one splurge I’d cajoled Felix into letting me indulge in), and waited an excruciating sixty seconds while it calculated a route from my current position. While it couldn’t have been more than five minutes tops since I’d lost sight of the delivery van, every second that went by felt like an eternity as I imagined reading about the actor’s demise in the morning paper.

  And, unless I caught up to that truck, that paper would not be the Informer.

  Finally the route calculated, and my GPS lit up with a highlighted map to Pacific Storage.

  “Thanks, Allie,” I shouted into the phone.

  “So what’s the story? Where’d you get the plate number? Is this Boogie guy someone I should know, or-“

  But I didn’t let her finish, hanging up midsentence instead. I gunned the engine, pulling back into traffic, and followed the highlighted route on my dash out of Hollywood and south into L.A. proper.

  At this time of night, the traffic was sparse past the club district, making for a manageable drive. Though the entire way I had my eyes peeled for any sign of the truck. My only hope was that they were headed to the same place I was.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of a darkened building with a faded blue sign that bore a cartoon picture of a surfing dog next to the name “Pacific Storage.” Behind it were lines of storage units, squat little buildings in neat rows with locked rolling doors every four feet. A chain-link fence surrounded the entire complex, dotted with floodlights along the perimeter. I passed by once, then doubled back and parked my Jeep across the street. I cut the engine and, sticking to the shadows, jogged to the main entrance.