Hollywood Deception Read online

  "Felix Dunn. We have an eight thirty reservation." Felix gave his name to the maître d' at a slick black podium.

  The gentleman flicked his fingers across a tablet and smiled. "Of course, Mr. Dunn," he said in the most fake French accent I'd ever heard. If this guy was an actor, he needed a few more lessons. "The hostess will seat you." He held open a second set of double glass doors and allowed us to enter.

  The inside of Beverly's was absolutely beautiful with all the latest modern touches—chrome and glass décor, big dishes with tiny portions of food that looked like they were plated by Jackson Pollock, and servers-slash-wannabe-actors whose pretentiousness was only rivaled by the patrons.

  After the hostess checked her list and led us to our table, I spotted someone Felix and I both knew seated at the bar. Informer photographer and paparazzo extraordinaire, Cameron Dakota, and her current boy toy, movie star Trace Brody.

  Trace was one of the most drool-worthy action stars on the big screen at the moment, and he and Cam were just a couple more hot dates away from getting their own celebrity nickname—like Tram or Cace. If I didn't know he was Cam's, I'd be sorely tempted to go chat him up myself. Purely for story fodder, of course. But Cam wasn't a slouch in the looks department herself, standing close to six feet tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes of her own, a rocking body, and legs that went on for days. She'd started her career as a model, only stepping behind the camera when she'd had enough of being the "body."

  There were times my petite self envied Cam's supermodel height. I also envied the fact that everyone at the paper liked her and no one ever tried to scoop her stories…the same I could not always say for myself.

  "Is that Cam?" Felix asked, spotting the couple as well.

  I nodded. "And Trace."

  "Trace Brody?" Felix perked up. "Let's go say hello."

  I shot him a look. "Say hello—yes. Nose out something on Trace to print tomorrow—no."

  Felix put a hand over his heart and gave me a look of mock horror. "Who, me? Never."

  I grinned. "Right." But I followed him to the bar anyway.

  "Here comes trouble," Cam said cheerfully and raised her glass toward us in greeting. "What are you two up to tonight?"

  "Just having a little dinner," I answered quickly before Felix could mention Baxter. Hey, if he had to work a story while we were out, it was going to be my story. "How about the two of you?" I asked.

  "The same," Cam said lightly.

  "It's good to see you, Allie. Felix." Trace stood and kissed me on the cheek, shook Felix's hand, then retook his seat next to Cam.

  "You just get here?" Cam asked.

  I nodded.

  "Try the baked ziti. It's to die for tonight." Cam laughed and laid her hand on my arm momentarily. I glanced at her champagne glass. Empty. I wondered if they were celebrating something tonight.

  "Thanks, but I've got my sights set on the lobster." I winked at Felix. He pretended not to notice.

  "You come here often, Trace?" Felix asked casually.

  Too casually.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. What was he up to?

  "Oh, yeah. All the time," Trace replied. "Of course, I still have to deal with the paparazzi buzzing around." He tilted his head toward Cam.

  "Funny, smart guy." Cam whacked him playfully on his arm. "No camera tonight, see?" She held her empty hands up.

  "You didn't happen to be here the other night when Bobby Baxter was arrested, did you?" Felix asked.

  There it was. I barely contained the urge to roll my eyes.

  Luckily for him, Trace shook his head. "No, but from what I understand, it was quite the scene."

  "I imagine it was," I said, shooting Felix a look. Ix-nay on interrogating our iends-fray.

  He must have seen it, as he put on his charming smile again. "Well, we'll let you enjoy your evening. It was good to see you again, Trace."

  "Take it easy you guys," Trace said as we turned to walk away.

  I gave a small wave to Cam and Trace and let Felix lead me back to our table. The comforting heat from his palm seeped into my skin at the small of my back, making me instantly forgive his nosey nature. Let's face it, who was I to judge?

  He pulled out my chair, and I sat. He then took his seat, leaned back in his chair, and raised one eyebrow at me.

  "What?"

  "Like you wouldn't have asked Trace about Baxter?"

  I laughed. "Okay, fine. Yes, I totally would have."

  He grinned. "I know. Which is why I love you so much."

  I felt myself blush and covered it by picking up my menu. His tone was teasing, which left me with a funny feeling of giddiness and self-doubt at the words. I tried to brush it off as I scanned the wine list.

  A few minutes later the waitress came by and took our orders. I decided to take pity on Felix and go for the baked ziti, on Cam's recommendation. Felix went with the chicken parmesan. Both were delicious. I knew because Felix fed me bites of his meal across the candlelit table. Despite being in the middle of one of Hollywood's busiest restaurants, I had to admit it was kind of romantic after all. The romance was only interrupted at brief intervals when Felix pumped the passing waitstaff for info about what they may have seen the night Baxter was arrested. I couldn't blame him, because he was right—I'd have done the same thing if he hadn't done it first. Unfortunately, no one had any new information to add to the bare bones we already knew. Fortunately, the wine was warming, the meal indulgent, and the company witty and hot enough that by the end of the meal, I was really hoping the business part of our evening was over and we could get to the pleasure.

  "That was a lovely meal," I told Felix, snuggling against his arm outside as we waited for our driver.

  "I agree. And the company wasn't bad either." He grinned down at me, and my knees melted a little.

  "And the wine was divine."

  He grinned again. "I noticed you enjoyed it."

  I swatted him playfully on the arm. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing. I just might have liked a taste."

  I swatted him harder this time, and he laughed in response, clearly enjoying the rise he was getting out of me. Okay, so maybe I had drunk a bit more than my fair share of the bottle. I was young, in a hot dress, and with a gorgeous man on my arm. Why not have a little fun?

  "Well, I tell you what," I said, going back in for the snuggle as our car came into view. "I have another bottle at home that's almost as good. I'm happy to share it with you."

  Felix gave me a brief smile but didn't answer as our car pulled up and he helped me in.

  Hmmm…not exactly encouraging. Okay, maybe he hadn't gotten my hint. I tried again as we pulled away from the curb.

  "Or, if you'd rather, we can go to your place?"

  Again with the brief smile. Maybe even briefer this time. "I don't want to keep you out too late."

  Translation: I don't want you to stay over?

  I gave myself a mental shake, telling myself I was reading too much into it. I pulled out what I hoped was my most seductive smile, leaning toward him until the thin strap of my dress fell down my shoulder ever so slightly. "We could just stay in at my place tonight then."

  This time his smile was not only brief, but it held a touch of something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I prayed it wasn't pity.

  "I'd love to, Allie, but I have a long day tomorrow, and you have that interview with Baxter in the morning. How about a rain check?"

  I blinked at him. Was he serious? I was in the hottest dress known to man, he'd just said he'd loved me at dinner (okay, I was pretty sure that had been teasing levity, but still!), and I was practically throwing myself at him after admittedly drinking a bit too much wine. If he was looking for an opening to take me to bed, there wasn't going to be a better one.

  "Sure. Rain check." I tried to sound understanding as I adjusted my shoulder strap, but in all honestly, I didn't understand at all. A horrible thought occurred to me. Was Felix losing interest?

 
; The rest of the car ride back to my place was quiet. Felix held my hand but barely said half a dozen words the entire time. The car pulled up outside my apartment building, we got out, and Felix walked me to my door.

  "I'll see you tomorrow after your interview. Sleep well, Allie."

  Felix leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to my lips. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to the car before I could respond.

  I closed my apartment door and locked it behind me, watching out of the side window as the car pulled away and disappeared out of sight.

  Mr. Fluffykins meowed and wound himself around my legs. I bent down and scooped him up into my arms.

  "I have no idea what his deal is," I confided to my furry pal as I carried him down the hall and sat him on the bed. On a normal day, I might have kicked him out to the living room to sleep on his pink pillow bed. But tonight I needed the extra snuggles, even if they were feline.

  With a sigh, I kicked my shoes off and slid the dress off, letting it pool on the floor. My top dresser drawer was partially open, and my sky blue pajamas with little sheep on them were poking out. I grabbed them, pulled them on, and climbed into bed.

  Could he really be losing interest already? That was fast. But tonight he'd acted like I had cooties and he hadn't had his yearly cooties shot.

  I briefly wondered if I was just a fling to him. Felix was, admittedly, at least a decade older than I was. I didn't know whether it was my age or not, but there were times when I got the feeling he didn't take me quite seriously.

  I snuggled down into my fluffy linens and closed my eyes. "Maybe he just needs a little more time, Fluffykins," I said as my kitty curled up against me and I cuddled him close. Maybe he was shy. Maybe it was a British thing. Maybe—

  I was just drifting off to sleep, counting my maybes, when my phone rang.

  I grabbed it off of the nightstand. Felix's name appeared on the display. A thrill of excitement shot through me. Maybe he'd changed his mind about that early morning. I grinned as I answered the call.

  "I was hoping you'd change your mind…"

  "Allie, something's happened." Felix's voice came fast and serious, and I was instantly on high alert.

  "What's going on?" I sat up in bed.

  "It's Bobby Baxter…"

  I groaned. "Great. Tell me he didn't cancel our interview again."

  "No." I heard Felix take a deep breath. "He's dead."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Almost an hour later I was standing on a street corner in downtown L.A. in jeans and a hastily thrown on T-shirt, staring at a dead Bobby Baxter.

  Crime scene tape sectioned off the sidewalk, and the paparazzi crowded the street, snapping pictures while reporters shouted questions at the police on the scene. I spotted Tina Bender, a fellow reporter at the Informer, jotting down notes on her tiny notepad. Her black clothing and purple streaked hair stood out in the crowd. She looked up and spotted me, narrowed her eyes, and then went back to her notes.

  I wanted to kick myself for allowing her to beat me to the scene. Tina and I had been in a kind of competition for the best stories since the day I'd arrived. I'd had something to prove—that Felix hadn't hired me just because I was a D cup—and she'd had something of her own to prove to me—that she was top dog, and I better not think of stealing her bone. Of course, I'd done just that. Hey, what better way to show you could run with the big dogs than to take the big doggie's fave toy? What I hadn't counted on was that Tina wasn't the forgive and forget kind. She was more the we can coexist, but stay off my turf kind.

  Only, Bobby was my story and my turf. And now I had to play catch up. Damn. I hated playing catch up. There was no telling what kind of information Tina had gotten before I'd arrived.

  I weaved my way through the crowd until I was standing up against the crime scene tape. Thankfully, I'd made it in time to see the body before the police covered it with a tarp. Just seeing the body alone answered many of my questions. Bobby was lying face up, eyes open, with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Cause of death—pretty straightforward. Blood pooled beneath his head and upper body and dripped off the curb into the street.

  As much as I was trying to be the cool, unemotional reporter, I felt bile begin to rise in the back of my throat and had to look away. The fact that I'd seen this man so full of life—albeit angry life—just hours ago hit me harder than I thought it would. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, and I took deep breaths to try to keep the scenery from spinning.

  Reporters were shouting questions all around me, all of which the police ignored. I scanned the crowd, purposely not looking at Bobby again, and spotted another familiar face. Cam. She was still in the cocktail dress I'd seen her in earlier, though she'd covered it with a trench that felt more appropriate for the gritty scene than sparkly sequins.

  I worked my way through the crowd, stepping on toes and dodging elbows until I was by her side.

  "Can you believe this?" she asked when I stepped up beside her. Gone was the celebratory smile she'd had earlier. Instead her face looked grim and decidedly sober. "Total madness."

  She wasn't lying. The street was full of reporters, and fans were starting to crowd as well, blocking traffic.

  "Hey, didn't you interview this guy?" she asked as she raised her camera and fired off a few shots in rapid succession.

  "I was supposed to today, but he put it off until tomorrow morning. Have you heard anything?" I almost had to shout for her to hear me as she held her camera up and fired off more shots.

  "Just that he was shot, which is pretty obvious." She nodded toward the body with a hole in its head. "I overheard the coroner say he'd been dead about an hour or so when I got here."

  I checked the time on my phone. That put the time of death at somewhere near midnight. "Did anyone witness the shooting?" I asked.

  "Not that I've heard. This corner of the street isn't usually busy this time of night, so I'm not surprised."

  Neither was I. It's not like a killer was going to just walk up and kill someone, especially someone as famous as Bobby Baxter, on a busy street corner. Not if he wanted to get away with it, that was.

  "But I'll tell you one thing," Cam said, snapping off more pictures. "If you want to get the lowdown on this story, you better get a move on. Tina's here, and she's determined."

  I looked over at my competition again. Tina might not like me, but I'll admit I admired her. She was one hell of a reporter, and she'd proven in the past that she wasn't afraid to take some wild chances to get her story. Even if they were usually at my expense.

  "Thanks, Cam. I'll see you at the office in the morning."

  "Take it easy," she said and continued to work.

  I made my way through the worst of the crowd, listening for anything that I could print. The chatter was all the same. Someone had killed Bobby Baxter. No one had seen anything. The police weren't talking to the press.

  I hung around for a few minutes, but the officers on the scene stonewalled all my questions with curt "no comment"s. As the coroner's van showed up to move Bobby, and the crowd began to disperse, I realized I wasn't getting anything else here tonight. I trudged back to my car and headed in the direction of my apartment.

  * * *

  I stepped off the elevators the next morning at nine fifteen, just slightly late for work. Already the hum of activity was high. Keyboards clacked as reporters like myself typed out stories and columns. A symphony of voices taking calls from informants and following up on "anonymous" sources collided, creating a dull roar of noise. And various assistants and interns raced between their cubicles and Felix's glass-walled office in the center of the room, with hot tips and tepid coffees. Felix looked up from the copy he was approving as I walked past, giving me a nod. I gave the chief a little salute before settling at my desk in my own cube near the windows.

  The first thing I did—after getting my own tepid coffee, that is—was assemble my meager notes from my trip the day before to the set of Bobby Tells All and jot
off a quick story on Bobby, his death, and his altercation weeks before. It wasn't much, but I hoped my insider look at the show at least added some extra interest over whatever Tina was cooking up. I quickly emailed it to Felix. It wasn't my best work, but it would have to do until I could get to the heart of the real story—who had killed Bobby Baxter.

  The interview that I would now never get was scheduled for ten o'clock, and while I clearly couldn't talk to Bobby, there was a chance I could talk to his personal assistant again. While I wasn't counting on getting lucky enough that Henry would know who killed Bobby, I had a strong hope that he could at least tell me where Bobby had been the night before and who he'd planned to be with. I only hoped that Henry had been too distraught to remember to have my name removed from the studio visitor's list.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled up to the gates outside the studio where Bobby Tells All was filmed and stopped at the guard shack.

  The same plump, balding man who'd allowed me entrance the day before leaned out of the shack window and smiled.

  "Back again today, Ms. Quick?"

  "I sure am." I smiled up at him.

  He flipped some pages on his clipboard and nodded. "There you are," he said as he scanned the sheets of paper.

  I let out a mental sigh of relief.

  "Have a nice day." He sent me a small salute and raised the wooden arm barring my car's way. I drove through, made a right, and parked in the visitor parking area. I grabbed a visitor golf cart and steered in the direction of the Bobby Tells All set.

  From what I'd seen of Bobby's behavior the day before, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd finally pushed someone he worked with too far and if they'd lost it and knocked him off. The thought wasn't too farfetched. Bobby appeared to be a major pain. I'd read stories of people being killed for a lot less.

  I parked outside the giant warehouse that was home to Bobby Tells All and walked inside. The set was quiet, but many of the crew members were still milling about looking unsure what to do. Clearly the memo hadn't gotten to everyone last night that the star of their show was dead. I spotted the director talking quietly to a couple of men in suits—likely from the network—near the side of the stage that was still set up like the lab from yesterday's segment. I spotted the makeup girl and the wardrobe woman sitting near the Craft services table, chatting in low tones. To my surprise, the wardrobe woman was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Either she had a very kind heart, or maybe Bobby hadn't always been a jerk to her. A couple of feet away I spotted Henry, his headset dangling around his neck and a cup of coffee in hand. If possible, he looked more tired and spent than the day before.