Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot Page 4

  I peeked through the links in the fence for any sign of the delivery van. I’ll admit I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do if I it. These guys were armed. I was not. And “hero” was neither something I’d ever been accused of nor aspired to be. But I’d been the only other person in that alley. The only other person who even knew Trace wasn’t still shaking his perfectly sculpted ass on the dance floor of the Boom Boom Room. It was a responsibility that spurred me on despite my lack of plan.

  Well, that and the promise of a hell of a story if I really was the sole witness to an A-lister’s kidnapping.

  Bu mostly that altruistic responsibility thing.

  I jogged around to the side of the complex, doing an over the shoulder for any passersby and a quick scan for security cameras. None that I could see on this side of the complex. Probably any on site were pointed at the storage lockers themselves. At least, I hoped.

  I grabbed onto two of the diamond-shaped links in the fence with my fingers, stuck the toe of my right sneaker in another, and quickly hoisted myself up. Awkwardly, I navigated around the top, just slightly grazing my midriff on the top links, before dropping with a thud onto the pavement on the other side.

  I paused, listening for any sound, any signal that my presence had been detected. All I got back was the distant hum of traffic on the nearby 101.

  So far so good.

  Keeping close to the buildings, I quietly made my way through the complex, straining to catch any signs of people. Specifically ones yelling a muffled cry for help from the back of a delivery truck. However, all I heard was my own footsteps, padding along the outskirts of the buildings.

  At the back of the complex the rows of warehouses gave way to a large parking lot. In the first row of slots sat a line of trucks. All white. All unmarked. All exactly like the one that had taken Trace earlier.

  Bingo.

  Doing another over-the-shoulder for good measure, I sprinted toward them, trying to keep to the shadows. I ducked down as I reached the first one, staying well out of the line of floodlights on the off chance I was not here alone. I circled the truck, then gingerly stood on tip-toe, peaking in the passenger side window. All dark. I could make out a couple seats in the front, a few blankets and bungee cords for securing cargo in the back. No guys with guns. And no captive movie star.

  I moved on to the second truck. The interior was almost an exact duplicate of the first, only this one sported an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and gum wrappers. I moved on.

  The third and fourth trucks were just as empty. I was just about to give in to the fact that I was on a wild goose chase when I tip-toed up to number five and hit pay dirt. As soon as I touched the hood, I knew I had the right one; heat radiated from the engine. A sure sign that it had recently been driven. I ducked down low, suddenly feeling my heartbeat kick up a notch as I slunk around back and checked the license plate number.

  A perfect match.

  I lifted my head just high enough to peer over the window frame into the truck. Same two seats, same blankets and bungees in the back. Only these weren’t piled neatly in the corner. They were strewn haphazardly across the floor. Indication of a struggle? I tried not to picture Trace fighting off his crew-cut captor. Because, as cut as Trace was, he was all lean, tight angles. His body was made to show well on camera. Strong, sure, but not match for the beefy-looking guy. Especially since his buddy had a gun.

  I wasn’t sure whether I was disappointed or relieved that, as I circled the truck, it became apparent it was empty. At least there wasn’t a dead movie star’s body in the back. On the other hand, that didn’t lead me any closer to finding out where said movie star was now.

  I glanced around the complex. If the engine was still warm, they must have just been here. Either they’d transferred Trace into another waiting car, or they were still here, hiding somewhere.

  I scanned the empty lot. Clearly nowhere to hide. I turned back toward the rows of storage lockers. Unfortunately, they looked like an awesome place to hide. I jogged across the empty lot, backtracking the way I’d come, and poked my head around the end of the first row of lockers.

  Just as a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  “Sonofa-” I jumped a full foot in the air, my voice rising two octaves into Minnie Mouse range. I spun around, heart hammering in my chest, to find…

  Allie.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She popped a pink bubble between her lips.

  “Jesus, Allie!” I leaned against the building for support, my legs buckling with relief. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Nothin’. I just thought you might need backup.”

  I shot her a look.

  She shrugged. “Okay, that and there might be some sort of story here,” she conceded. While anyone else would have had the decency to at least look a little sheepish, she just twirled a lock of bleached hair around her index finger and popped her bubble gum. Watermelon scented, I noticed.

  “If I’d needed backup, I would have said so.”

  “Oh. My bad. Sorry.”

  Though neither of us believed she meant it.

  “So, why are we here?” Allie asked. “What’s the story with this place?” She scrunched up her nose, looking around at the lack of anything obviously celebrity related.

  As reluctant as I was to drag New Girl into anything, especially considering my promise to keep Tina in the know, the cat was half out of the bag here already. And, considering I wasn’t really sure what the story was myself, I figured I didn’t have much to lose. So I quickly filled Allie in on the weird scene I’d witnessed in the alleyway and Trace’s subsequent abduction.

  “This reeks of publicity stunt to me,” Allie said when I’d finished. She scrunched up her pert little nose. “Isn’t his latest flick about some sort of kidnapping?”

  I paused. She was right. I’d forgotten all about that. And, I hated to admit, she had a point. Stranger things had happened in the name of marketing in this town. “But I think he plays the kidnapper in that movie. Not the kidnapee,” I pointed out.

  Allie shrugged. “Still. This seems a little staged, doncha think? I mean, how would the kidnappers even know Trace was going to go outside at that particular moment?”

  Again, the new girl had a good point. “I don’t know,” I conceded. “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were just following him like I was.”

  “Did you see a truck following him?”

  I thought back to my vigil outside the Sunset Studios that evening and the subsequent ride to the Boom Boom Room. I hadn’t noticed any delivery van. Then again, I hadn’t particularly been looking for it either. It would have been easy for them to blend in with the other half dozen cars following in Trace’s wake. And I had been a little preoccupied with racing Mike and Eddie to the club to notice exactly which other cars had followed our same route.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “But whatever their motive is, their truck is still warm. They could still be here.”

  She contemplated this for a beat. “Okay, tell ya what? You take the rows on the left,” she said, indicating the two lines of units beside me, “and I’ll take the ones on the right. Meet in the middle?”

  I nodded. “Fine.”

  Allie turned, walking purposefully toward the rows on the right. I could tell by the usual swing in her step that she only halfway believed there might be dangerous criminals lurking in the shadows. Me? I’d seen the gun. Granted, Allie’s theory of a publicity stunt was creating a niggle of doubt in my mind. But I’d also seen the very real fear in Trace’s eyes. And, despite the logic behind her theory, the fear was what stuck with me as I turned to scan the first row.

  I slid toward it with m back against the wall. I did a silent “one, two, three” count, then quickly spun around the corner, Charlie’s Angels style.

  Nothing.

  I did a quick survey of the other two rows, with the same negative outcome, before meeting up with Allie
in the middle of the complex.

  “Well?” I asked.

  She shook her head, her blonde shag whipping at her cheeks. “Nada. If anyone was here, they’re gone now.”

  Which was pretty much the same thing I’d concluded. Wherever the guys in the truck had transferred Trace to, he wasn’t here now. I was at a total dead end.

  Maybe this was all a publicity stunt, and maybe it wasn’t. But unless I wanted to be responsible for Trace’s body ending up on the morning news, I was left with no other alternative. I pulled out my cell and dialed the police.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Allie and I had hopped back over the chain-link fence (Allie needing a boost on both sides), and we were sitting on the curb, watching the red and blue glow of lights from a pair of black and white cruisers parked in the drive. A couple of guys in navy blue uniforms circled the perimeter of the complex with flashlights, while another stood in front of us, the creases in his shiny blue pants staring me in the face as he took copious notes in a little booklet that looked suspiciously like the ones those parking tickets came from.

  “You actually got a look at these so-called kidnappers?”

  I nodded. Though I noted his use of the word “so-called”.

  “Can you describe them, please?”

  I cleared my throat. Talking to law enforcement always made me a little nervous. Probably because we were usually talking about the large parking fines I’d incurred.

  “Well, the first guy was slim and had black hair. The other guy was heavier. Not fat though. More muscular. Short hair, possibly a former inmate.”

  The cop raised one eyebrow that was in desperate need of waxing. “Former inmate?”

  I nodded again. “He had a lot of tattoos”

  The cop grinned, giving me a placating smile. “Honey, lots of guys have tattoos. Don’t mean they’re felons.”

  I tried to ignore the “honey” part. “It was more than that. The way he carried himself, maybe. His back was really straight and strong.”

  “So a guy with short hair, tattoos and good posture?”

  I wasn’t explaining this very well, was I?

  “Look, I got a really good look at him. Maybe you should put me with a sketch artist?”

  The cop gave me a ‘yeah right’ look, then consulted his notebook again.

  “And you say these two characters kidnapped Trace Brody? As in, the movie star, Trace Brody?”

  I nodded.

  “Right in front of you?”

  “Look, I know what I saw. These guys had a gun on Trace.”

  “And what did Trace do?”

  “Nothing. What could he do?”

  “Call for help?” the cop offered.

  I clamped my mouth shut. Okay, maybe he could have done that. “They had a gun,” I repeated.

  “Look, honey-“

  “My name is not ‘honey.’”

  But instead of taking me seriously, again I got the placating smile. “Look, chances are this was just some sort of publicity stunt. Doesn’t Trace have a new movie coming out about a kidnapping?”

  I could feel Allie doing a silent “I told you so” beside me.

  “Yes, but-“ I started.

  Only Placating Cop didn’t let me finish. “And aren’t you one of them people that prints celebrity stories?”

  “Well, sort of, yes, but-“

  “Kind of a coincidence him getting ‘kidnapped’,” he said, doing air quotes with his fingers, “right in front of you, isn’t it?”

  I clamped my mouth shut, crossing my arms over my chest. “I know what I saw. Trace was scared.”

  “He’s an actor. Isn’t it possible he was acting scared?”

  I had to admit, the more he pressed the issue the more that niggling doubt was growing into a full fledged tickle.

  On the other hand, I knew Trace. I know, I know. I didn’t know him personally. I mean, I’d never actually spoken to him. But I’d been watching him for weeks. I knew his habits, his style, his personality. And pulling such an elaborate publicity stunt didn’t fit. Trace was a straight shooter. And, as much as I enjoyed watching him strut his stuff on and off the big screen, the truth was, he wasn’t that good of an actor. Trace had been scared. Deadly scared. And I was the only one who knew it.

  One of the other uniforms approached, and our cop stepped away to consult with him. They did a lot of whispering and gesturing first toward me, then the complex. Then back at me again with their eyebrows drawn down in concerned lines. I squinted at the pair, trying to read their lips. The second uniformed guy was either saying, “We didn’t find anything,” or, “We love fly fishing.” Either way, not helpful.

  The first cop finally sauntered back over to us. “Thank you for the report,” he said. Then flipped his little notebook shut and shoved it back into his pocket with an air of finality. I had a bad feeling that about all he’d written down was my name, the paper I worked for, and a “watch this one” note to self.

  “So that’s it?” I asked, hearing desperation creep into my voice.

  He shrugged. “We’ll look into it,” he said.

  Though neither of us believed that for a second.

  Chapter Five

  After making Allie swear on the life of her Siamese cat, Mr. Fluffykins (gag), that she would not print anything about Trace’s kidnapping until I gave the go-ahead, I headed for home. I took a long, hot shower, ate the remains of some leftover Indian food in the back of my fridge, and watched the late news for any mention of Trace’s disappearance. The forty-something, Hispanic newscaster prattled on about a shooting in La Puente, earthquake retrofitting of an overpass downtown, and a high-speed chase on the 405. Not a word about Trace.

  I flipped off the set and crawled into bed, falling into an uneasy sleep as my subconscious conjured up all kinds of horrible scenarios of where Trace might be spending his night.

  * * *

  The next morning I was up before dawn for my usual run. After putting a good five miles on my Nikes, I did the quick shower thing, letting my hair air-dry as I threw on a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt with a picture of Kermit the Frog on it that read, “Think Green.”

  Twenty minutes later I was at the Informer offices, and this morning I was on mission. Maybe the cops didn’t believe that Trace was in any real danger, but I didn’t buy that his abduction was entirely a fake either.

  And I was going to prove it.

  I flipped on my computer and pulled up my address book. If Trace had been seen anywhere within a hundred mile radius of Hollywood this morning, I was sure there was someone in the paper’s little black book who knew about it.

  I picked up the phone and started at the top, dialing Bert Decker, Trace’s agent. Unfortunately, I got a receptionist who said Mr. Decker was unavailable, but I could leave a message. I did. Even though I was pretty sure that as soon as I gave her the Informer’s name, it went right into the wastebasket. Tabloids weren’t exactly at the top of every agent’s list of movers and shakers. Go figure.

  Undaunted, I dialed his publicist next, getting much the same response. Though this receptionist was a little icier – I think the words “bloodsucker” and “filthy vulture” might have been used - assuring me that my message was hitting the round file bin. Fabulous.

  Not that I’d expected much help through the official channels, but I was leaving no stone unturned. The unofficial channels, however, I had higher hopes for.

  I scrolled through the entries I had listed under “Trace’s Peeps,” and dialed the number for the Starbucks on Palm and Shoreline. Trace rarely went a morning without his caffeine latte fix. I listened to the phone ring four times, then asked for my favorite barrista, Michelle. My favorite because, in addition to brewing a latte to rival any along the entire California coast, she also had a set of loose lips that had garnered me more than one awesome early morning shot of Trace with his vice of choice. Unfortunately, today she wasn’t the well of information I’d hoped. Trace hadn’t been in th
at morning. Not a good sign.

  I hung up and hit the next guy on my list, the owner of the bookstore along the route of Trace’s usual morning run. Only he hadn’t seen the actor either. Neither had Trace’s dry cleaner, his hair stylist, or the guy at the Ralph’s where he bought his groceries. In short, Trace had been MIA all morning.

  While a part of me felt slightly vindicated (Publicity stunt, my ass! No one misses their morning coffee for any amount of publicity.), the larger emotion slowly building in my gut was worry. It was beginning to look like Trace really was missing.

  Again, that feeling of responsibility hit me. If I was the only one who believed he was missing, did that mean I was his only hope of rescue?

  I stuck the capped end of a ballpoint pen in my mouth, chewing as I contemplated this thought.

  I decided to change tactics, focusing instead on what I did know for sure: who the delivery truck that had spirited Trace away was registered to. Buckner Boogenheim, owner of Pacific Storage.

  I set the pen down and turned to my computer again. I started by running the basic searches on this Buckner guy: Google, Yahoo, Ask. Which gave me an overview of the public Mr. Boogenheim.

  The guy owned a few businesses, including Pacific Storage, a car wash in Northridge, a deli downtown, and what appeared to be a failed chocolate factory in Nevada. Though I had to admit the few pictures I could find of him didn’t really scream “dapper entrepreneur.” More like “dapper mafia don.” Or at least a great imitation of De Niro playing a mafia don. He was short, a full head shorter than the congressman he was pictured shaking hands with in the L.A. Times. He had a squat build, broad in the shoulders, broader in the belly, and was standing on a pair of legs that looked like thick tree stumps. His hair was thinning and beginning to show salt and pepper signs at the temples, though he still had enough to slick back from his forehead in a greasy kind of look. A scar cut through his left eyebrow. He may run with politicians now, but he’d lived a rough life at some point in the past. His tailored clothes spoke to the fact that, while the chocolate business might not have taken off, his other ventures appeared to be doing quite well. That and the fact that he’d contributed several zeroes to the congressman’s campaign.