Hollywood Headlines 02 - The Perfect Shot Page 6

  “How’d your shots of Trace turn out last night?” Eddie asked.

  “What?” I snapped my head around, suddenly wondering if I’d really been the only one to witness Trace’s abduction.

  “In front of the club. You didn’t exactly have a prime position.” Mike snorted. It reminded me of a pig we’d once had back in Montana.

  We’d killed it and eaten it.

  “Oh. Right. Out front. Yeah. Didn’t see much.” Though, around back, I’d gotten more than an eyeful.

  Eddie did a big self-satisfied grin. “Better luck next time, eh, cupcake. You know what they say? The early bird gets the worm.”

  “They also say pork products are the leading cause of worm infestations among humans.” I stared meaningfully at his bag of rinds.

  Eddie gave me a blank stare that said he clearly didn’t get it. Shocker.

  “Hey, did either of you happen to catch a glimpse of a delivery truck pulling into the alleyway behind the club last night?” I asked.

  Mike and Eddie looked at each other, then shrugged. “Might have. I dunno. Why?” Mike asked.

  I shook my head. “No reason.” Not that it would have made a difference. Mike and Eddie’s word was hardly going to convince the cops – or Felix for that matter – that I was on the up and up. Besides, I was pretty sure that from my vantage point last night I’d been the only one to see Trace and what had transpired once the truck had moved into position.

  “There!” Mike sprung up from his perch on the sofa, pork rind crumbs raining round his feet as the lights above the elevator indicated someone was coming down from the 6 floor – Dr. B’s suite.

  I twisted around in my seat, training my lens on the elevator doors.

  The three of us held our breaths, the only sound in the hushed lobby the crunch of Eddie’s last bite of rind.

  Finally the numbers above the elevator doors counted down, and the “L” lit up. My index finger hovered over the shutter button, ready to pounce.

  The doors slid open and a woman wearing a pair of huge black sunglasses, a raincoat clearly for show (the last time I remembered an actual downpour in L.A. had been sometime during the Clinton years), and a pair of designer boots came waltzing out the elevators, flanked by two burly guys who would have given the NFL’s finest a run for their money.

  Jamie Lee.

  I snapped off shots like crazy, hearing the brothers do the same behind me. Our collective flashes caused the starlet to duck her head and throw one hand up to shield her post-procedure face from inquiring minds.

  “Whatcha have done, sweetheart?” Eddie called after her. “Nose? Thighs? Boobs?”

  “Get lost, asshole!” Jamie Lee shot back as she quickened her pace toward the back doors.

  I popped up from my chair and took off after her, the brothers a mere step behind me as we moved en masse toward the underground parking.

  “Your lips look huge, baby! That the way Trace likes them? Huh?” Mike yelled.

  I could swear I saw Jamie Lee blush, and I felt just the slightest bit sorry for her. Here she was expected to look absolutely perfect all the time, but when she made steps to do so, she was ridiculed almost as badly as if she’d never tried at all.

  Though my sympathy didn’t stop me from shouting out a few questions of my own.

  “Have you seen Trace today? Have you heard from him?”

  She shot me a funny look. We both knew that wasn’t the average paparazzi line of inquiry. One didn’t corner one A-lister like Jamie Lee just to ask them about another.

  Again, she quickened her pace, pushing through the glass doors that led to the underground parking.

  I bit my lip. In a few more strides she’d be at her Hummer with tinted windows, roaring out of the parking garage. I had to act fast.

  “I heard that Trace called you this morning and told you the wedding was off. Is that true?”

  Three heads whipped my direction – two in need of a shower and some Head & Shoulders and one salon-perfectly styled with an expression on her face that might have been read as utter shock had she not just had the emotion Botoxed out of her.

  “Who told you that?” Jamie Lee demanded, suddenly now giving me her full attention.

  “I… I can’t divulge my sources,” I answered. “But is it true?” I persisted.

  “Of course not! It’s total crap!”

  Though I could already see Mike pulling out a notepad and writing said crap down. True or not, it was a great story.

  “So Trace did not call you and break the engagement off today?”

  “No! God, no. He’s madly in love with me.” She tossed her shiny hair over one shoulder as if to say, “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Besides,” she continued. “I haven’t spoken to Trace all day.”

  Bingo.

  “Really?” I asked. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

  “Last night, if you must know. He was calling to invite me to some club. But I couldn’t go because I was busy officiating a charity event,” she said, emphasizing the word, “charity.” I’ll say one thing for her, even under pressure she wasn’t one to let an opportunity for good press pass her by.

  “Which charity?” Mike asked, his pen hovering over his notebook.

  Jamie Lee bit her lip, leaving a little ridge in her lipstick. “Uh…”

  I swallowed a smirk. One clearly close to her heart.

  “Red Dress,” she finally managed. “I think. Or Pink Ribbon. Some sort of colorful clothing one.”

  What a humanitarian.

  “You haven’t seen or spoken to Trace since last night before he went to the club?” I pressed.

  Jamie Lee shook her head, her loose curls bouncing over her shoulder like an Herbal Essences commercial again. “No. Whatever rumor you may have heard is totally false.” She looked pointedly at Mike and Eddie. “Totally false, you got that?”

  The brothers grim grinned. Oh yeah, they got it. But what they actually printed, I couldn’t wait to see.

  Having said her piece, Jamie Lee let one of her linebackers for hire help her into the passenger seat of her Hummer while the other climbed into the driver’s side and roared the engine to life. I popped off one more picture of Jamie Lee’s silhouette through the window as she and her entourage pulled out of the parking garage, leaving the brothers and me in the dust.

  “Nice work, Cam,” Eddie said, as he and Mike rushed off to their Impala. “Thanks for the scoop!” He waved as he hopped into the rusted excuse for a car.

  I waved back. While the brother may have got a great story out of the encounter, I got something even more.

  Confirmation that Trace Brody was officially missing.

  * * *

  When I trudged back to my own car it was to find a bright pink slip of paper stuck underneath my windshield wiper. Mental forehead smack. I peeled it off, and, sure enough, I’d racked up another parking ticket. I wondered just how many one had to accumulate before the cops actually showed up with a warrant in hand. Hopefully more than seven. Or was this eight?

  I shoved the ticket into my glove box and, for lack of a better direction, I drove north up the PCH.

  Half an hour later, I hit Trace’s Malibu estate. If there was any clue as to where he’d gone, why he’d gone there, and who had forced him, this was the best place to begin looking.

  Malibu was a good thirty-five miles from Los Angeles, giving stars who could afford it a nice buffer from the city. Depending on traffic, the drive could vary anywhere from half an hour (if you drove like I did) to well over an hour and forty minutes crawling up the PCH in bumper to bumper style. By three in the afternoon, the bumpers were just starting to come out, which meant my travel time today was closer to the later.

  Trace lived on a long, winding street, filled with lush, mature trees, palms every three feet, and a half dozen other palatial estates all discreetly tucked behind wrought iron gates and hundreds of security cameras.

  I took a long look at the front gate to his p
lace. No sense going that route. As far as I knew, hell hadn’t frozen over, so his security team was not likely to welcome a member of the paparazzi through the front gates with open arms. Instead, I drove around the block, circling Trace’s property to the back, where I was sure there had to be some sort of delivery entrance. Not that security wouldn’t still be present there, but at least I had a shot.

  I circled around the back and parked across the street from the house, under two shady palms that I hoped didn’t shed on my Jeep.

  I grabbed an Angels baseball cap from my backseat and shoved it onto my head, trying to decide my strategy. A wrought-iron fence spanned the property. Easy enough to jump, but I had a feeling cameras would be watching my every move, some guy in a little room with monitors waiting to “release the hounds” a la Mr. Burns the second my feet dropped onto private property. Beyond the fence lay the house itself, just barely visible some thirty yards away. To my right was the service entrance – a large gate giving way to a winding drive that meandered through the property up to the main house. A big black camera was pointed at the gate, a large talk box attached to the side of the iron fence.

  Considering the type of security I was up against, there was no point in trying to be sneaky. Instead, I got out of my Jeep and rummaged through my trunk, looking for anything I could use as a convincing prop. Bike chain, down vest, spare sneakers, water bottle, and an emergency roadside kit. I looked at the roadside kit. It was a red metal box filled with things like a flashlight and screwdriver. I grabbed it and marched right up to the talk box, hitting the intercom button. A few seconds later a static-filled voice responded.

  “May I help you?” some guy asked. He had an East Coast accent and kind of sounded like Sylvester Stallone’s long lost brother.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’m here to fix the Koi pond,” I said, holding my red box up for the security cameras to see. I hoped that through the grainy footage it looked like the sort of toolkit a Koi pond fixer would use.

  I held my breath as the guy in the other end paused.

  “I don’t have you on the list,” he finally responded.

  I bit my lip. “It is Tuesday, right?” I asked, pulling my phone from my pocket and pretending to read the tiny screen. “This place is definitely on my schedule. You do have a Koi pond, right?”

  I knew he did. I’d seen it enough times through my Nikon. And, since Koi ponds generally spent ninety percent of their lives in some state of disrepair, this wasn’t a total shot in the dark.

  Again the guy on the other end paused.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “Lemme check with maintenance first, though.”

  “No problem!” I lied, my voice going just a little too chipper.

  I stood at the gate for what seemed like an eternity, sweat gathering beneath my cap as I prayed maintenance didn’t force me to think up a plan B.

  Finally, five minutes later, the talk box crackled to life again. “Okay, Julio says go ahead and come on up. Someone must have mixed up the schedules, but maintenance is the second building on the left.”

  I said a silent thank you to the gods of disorganized household staff as the heavy gates swung open. I quickly walked through before anyone could change their minds, then hightailed it up the winding drive.

  In hindsight it would have been a lot easier on the legs to have driven into the estate, but for some reason I felt a quick getaway was much more feasible with my car on the outside. So I made the long hike up the hill on foot, past a couple of outbuildings (including the second on the left) and toward the main house. I figured I had at least fifteen minutes before Julio started to wonder where I was. Maybe twenty before he actually checked the Koi pond and realized I was missing.

  I planned to make the most of it.

  I jogged up to the main house, my makeshift tool kit jangling at my side, and peered in the windows of what appeared to be Trace’s dining room. A sparkling chandelier topped a long cherry table big enough to fit the entire cast of Desperate Housewives and then some. Large modern art pieces hung on the bright white walls, and the floor gleamed as perfectly waxed white marble. I resisted the urge to shoot photos. While they would have made Felix drool, I knew the reflective glare off the windows would give me away for sure.

  I tried the handle on the pair of French doors leading inside. It jiggled in my hand, but didn’t turn. Locked. Disappointing, but no big surprise.

  I tip-toed around the corner, looking for another way in.

  I passed what looked like a game room, housing a foosball table, two pinball machines, and framed comic book covers on the walls, and a granite and stainless-steel kitchen that would have made a gourmet chef weep with jealousy. Next to the kitchen sat another par of French doors. They were tall, flanked by thick, burgundy curtains, leading into a sunny sitting room. Doing a slow over the shoulder for Julio or any armed bodyguards, I gingerly tried the door handle. What do you know? It turned easily in my hand. I pushed the door open and crept inside.

  I quietly shut the door behind me, sweeping the room for any signs of life.

  I wasn’t 100% sure what I was looking for here, but I knew if I got caught by a housekeeper or personal assistant, my mission ended there. Luckily, the room was still, an oversized sofa and chairs in deep rich woods my only companions. I silently took stock of the room, but it was as benign as they come. Tastefully decorated with the help of an overpriced designer but void of any real personal touches. Whatever secrets Trace’s home may have held, they clearly weren’t here.

  I silently glided across the white carpet, making footprints in its freshly vacuumed tracks, and peeked through the doorway. A large, marble-tiled hall greeted me, the massive wood front door visible to the right, the locked dining room to the left. I took a small step out into the open area, which I’m sure had some very fancy French name, and cringed as my sneakers squeaked on the polished floor.

  An ornate, iron staircase wound upward to my left while three doors stood directly across the hall from me – all closed. I walked across the floor, my footsteps echoing with each squeaky step. I tried the first, peeking my head in the door. A study. Furnished in more dark woods, a wall of tastefully displayed books, and an oriental rug in deep burgundy hues. Unoccupied. Perfect.

  I was just about to push into the room and start rummaging through the drawers of that huge desk when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I froze. My heart suddenly leaping into my chest.

  While I might have been able to bluff a member of Trace’s household staff, I knew that voice. And I knew there was no chance of sweet talking my way out of this one.

  I slowly turned around…

  …to find myself face to face with Trace Brody.

  Chapter Seven

  I blinked, my brain trying to process what my eyes were telling me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted out.

  Trace cocked his head to the side, a strand of hair slipping off his forehead in exactly the same way it had in his last movie, You’ve Got Email. Sexy.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied.

  I felt my cheeks redden. Right. I suppose I was the one trespassing.

  “No, I meant… well… you’re gone. I mean, clearly you’re not gone because, duh, here you are. But you weren’t here. Last night. At the club. Okay, well, if you were at the club then you weren’t here, but you weren’t at the club either. Or the storage place. Or at the Starbucks or dry cleaners or anywhere! Which isn’t surprising, considering you were kidnapped!”

  I stopped to take a breath, painfully aware that I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. As I may have mentioned, on a good day I’m not necessarily the most suave when it comes to talking to guys. But faced with a real live movie star, one I’d been basically stalking for the last six weeks, my tongue had suddenly turned to rubber, spewing out babble every which direction. I bit down on it. Hard. Willing myself to shut up as I took a deep, cl
eansing breath.

  God, he was just as good looking in person. No. Scratch that. He was better. Airbrushing didn’t do him justice. His tanned skin wasn’t quite as picture perfect IRL, hinting at stubble along his jaw line. But instead of flawed, it made him look more real, like a true man’s man. Faint laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, speaking to the fact that, unlike his fiancée, he wasn’t a devotee of Dr B’s. His hair was a little mussed, but not the perfectly gelled into a fake bed-head look that was currently all the rage, but an actual I-just-came-out-of-the-wind muss that made him look rugged and vulnerable all at the same time. And he had a pair of sandy eyebrows that were perfectly plucked to still look masculine yet avoid the unibrow look. A pair that were, I noticed, currently furrowing into a look of concern as they studied my face.

  “Who let you in here?” he asked, his gaze shifting behind me.

  “Uh…”

  “And who exactly are you?”

  I cleared my throat, getting over my initial surprised at finding him here (and hotter than hell) instead of in some guy’s trunk. “Cameron,” I answered.

  “Cameron what?”

  “Dakota.”

  “Great. Nice to meet you. Now what the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “Your Koi pond is broken.”

  “My Koi pond is outside. You are in my foyer.”

  Is that what they called it?

  “Right. Well, I… uh… took a wrong turn.”

  Trace crossed his arms over his chest, a motion that showed off biceps to make his personal trainer proud. I wondered whether the move was deliberate preening or just a lucky break for me.

  “I’m not quite buying that,” he said. “Wanna try again or should I just call security?”

  “Okay. You’re right. I’m totally lying. The truth is I’m a…” I racked my brain for a better lie. But as Trace’s clear blue eyes stared me down, I found the truth inconveniently falling from my lips instead. “I’m a photographer.”

  Trace’s eyes narrowed. They did a slow sweep of my frame. So slow and lingering that I felt my cheeks heating again and shifted nervously under his gaze.