Celebrity Sudoku (6 page)

She looked over at Michelle, who had information resources the Pentagon might envy.

“That’s as good a description as any,” Michelle said. “Ms. Popovic was found unconscious with a bloody gash on her head several blocks away. Apparently, the facade had slid off one of the buildings there, catching her. As a matter of fact, she’s being treated in this hospital.”

“Where the elite meet to heal.” Buck’s deadpan delivery made it hard for Liza to decide whether he was joking or not.

Shrugging, Michelle went on. “As for the ever-popular Ms. Tarleton, crews are going through the wreckage of the Boots Bungalow. With her appetite for low publicity, she’s probably hiding next door waiting to make a dramatic entrance when the TV cameras arrive.”

“I hope that’s so,” Buck said. “I spotted Hal Quigley in the lobby.”

That drew Liza’s attention to him. Quigley was a guy she had seen on TV. “The head of the LAPD’s so-called celebrity squad?”

Buck nodded, glancing over at Michelle. “Any other celebrity types in trouble?”

Michelle’s normally petulant expression turned downright dangerous. “Not that I know of.” Her tone suggested that if Quigley knew otherwise, heads would roll in her information-gathering organization.

The bedside phone rang, and Liza fumbled it to her ear. She thanked the person on the other end, hung up, then said, “Seems as though Detective Quigley is coming up to see me.”

“Given your somewhat . . . elevated condition, maybe I should stick around,” Buck suggested.

“I’d like to hear whatever he intends to bother you about,” Michelle added.

Buck sighed. “This isn’t some studio flunky, Michelle. We aren’t going to find out much if we antagonize him.”

“And I imagine that by ‘we,’ you mean me.”

Hearing Michelle say that, Liza braced herself for an explosion. Instead, her partner shrugged. “Probably right. You think he’ll let you stay?”

“I’d give it a fifty-fifty chance,” Buck said. “We were colleagues but not friends.”

“Well, we’ll see.” With that, Michelle headed out of the room.

A moment or two later, Hal Quigley entered. He was as tall as Buck, but much less bulky, slimmer even than his TV image. After all, the camera added ten to twenty pounds. Quigley’s dark hair had the kind of careful styling Liza usually saw on network anchors, and his teeth had her wondering,
Implants or whitening?
His faded blue eyes might have seemed kindly—except for the watchful, probing gaze they directed at her face.

“Ms. Kelly?” he asked.

“Present,” Liza replied, “at least physically. Mentally, I’m less sure. They gave me something for the pain in my leg.”

Buck Foreman’s poker face didn’t change, but Liza felt a negative response from him.
Bad move.

She shrugged. Quigley was bound to find out if he spoke with her long enough.

As if in response to the vibes Buck was giving off, Quigley turned to him. “Hello, Foreman. Guess I should have expected you, considering all the work you’ve done for Markson Associates since you left the force.”

Liza was about to point out that both Quigley and Foreman had essentially the same job—rooting around in the seamier aspects of celebrities’ lives. Then she recalled that they were supposed to avoid antagonizing the cop.

“So what brings you to my humble hospital room, Detective?” she asked.

“Ritz Tarleton.” Quigley’s blue eyes seemed to grow more intent as he studied her face. “You were one of the last people to see her.”

“Last people? Before the earthquake hit, you mean? Before it brought down that house—” Liza shook her head. “Wait a minute. Did I miss something? The last I heard, nobody knew where Ritz was. Did they find her in the wreckage of the house? Why would you think something was wrong?”

“She’s still unaccounted for,” Quigley said.

“So you’re apparently investigating a missing person case—or an accident?” Buck spoke up. “I guess things have really changed since I left the force.”

“Based on information received,” Quigley began.

Buck rolled his eyes.

“We heard that Ms. Tarleton might be in danger,” the detective plowed on.

“And I thought I was the one who was medicated,” Liza scoffed. “How many celebrities have used the old ‘I’m in danger’ line to get some publicity?”

“We received the information, and now Ms. Tarleton can’t be found,” Quigley said. “We also heard that there was some friction during the taping of the show you were participating on.”

Liza shrugged. “Ritz made herself obnoxious even before taping began. She showed a lot of attitude to everyone working on the show, crew people, competitors, even the hosts.”

“I understand she even made advances on your husband,” Quigley noted.

“If you know that, why do you need to talk with Liza?” Buck’s voice was suspiciously mild as he asked the question.

“Ms. Kelly was present for an especially violent altercation, and I wanted to hear about it.” Quigley turned back to Liza. “That was directly before Ms. Tarleton disappeared.”

“Ritz made a catty comment about Darrie Brunswick’s wardrobe—which is sort of a national joke,” Liza admitted. “But that wasn’t the only reason why Darrie exploded. Ritz had been sniping at Wish and Darrie since she arrived on the set—among other people.”

She gave him a recital of every miserable bit of business she’d seen Ritz pull during the past day or so. “It’s all the kind of mean-girl stuff you’d expect to see in high school, maybe hyped a little because of her celebrity status. But does any of that really leave her life in danger?”

Quigley’s phone rang.

“I thought visitors were supposed to turn them off,” Buck said in a mild voice.

The cop ignored that as he brought the cell up to his ear. He identified himself, listened, grunted, listened awhile longer, said, “Thank you,” and closed the phone.

“They just found Ritz Tarleton,” he announced. “It seems she survived the collapse of the bungalow. But as the wreckage settled, it pressed in on her—”

He broke off. “So now I have a warning and a death—either accidental or suspicious. And I intend to find out which.”

There didn’t seem much more to talk about after that. Quigley left, and Michelle marched in, demanding to hear what had happened. Buck reported while Liza lay back and closed her eyes.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Michelle warned her. “So, Quigley thinks Ritz was murdered.”

Eyes still shut, Liza sighed. Oh, Michelle might turn up her nose when her partner got involved in murder investigations. But Liza knew that the tough-as-nails publicist was a secret mystery junkie, dead set on getting into a case.

“Okay, Michelle,” she said. “So who do you imagine is the prime suspect for killing Ritz? She died in an earthquake. Do you figure God finally got tired of her nasty ways and smote her, Old Testament-style?”

“Actually, I’m more interested in that report that Ritz was in danger,” Michelle replied.

“Liza called it a cheap way to get publicity,” Buck said.

“More like desperate.” Michelle gave them a smile as mean as any Liza had seen on Ritz Tarleton. “Maybe it would be worthwhile to throw some questions at the agency handling the late Ms. Tarleton—JSP.”

“Jocelyn Squires Publicity?” The words burst from Liza’s lips. The Markson/Squires feud was a legend even when Liza started working for Michelle. Jocelyn Squires had been the top associate at Markson Associates, the one everybody expected Michelle to take on as a partner. Instead, Jocelyn had set up her own agency and tried to poach Michelle’s clients.

If anyone in Hollywood hadn’t known Michelle was ruthless before (that would have to be about three people), the whole Business got the message by the end of this war. JSP never really got up and running. It remained a third-rate operation, trying to drum up coverage for has-beens and folks with more vanity than talent. Using her own connections, browbeating, and probably a little blackmail, Michelle Markson had chased the majority of people off Jocelyn’s client list.

“Wasn’t JSP the outfit that put up a billboard featuring the rear view of that wannabe actress in a thong?” Buck asked.

“Trust you to remember that,” Michelle told him. “Not only was that a desperate idea, but it was recycled. Twenty years ago, another actress took the same billboard—but showing off what she had topside.”

Buck shook his head. “A teeny, tiny thong.”

Michelle blew out a very loud sigh. “To get your head out of that girl’s rear end, I suggest we go over to JSP and ask some questions.” She gave Liza a compassionate look that was totally unconvincing. “We couldn’t expect you to venture from your bed of pain, darling.”

Smiling, Michelle ushered Buck out. A few minutes later, Michael came into the room.

Liza struggled to sit up in her bed. “You’ve got to get me out of here,” she told Michael. “Michelle just announced that she was going to investigate the Tarleton case, and God knows what she’ll get up to.”

Michael frowned, trying to get up to speed. “There’s a Tarleton case?”

“An LAPD detective named Hal Quigley seems to think so.” Liza ran through their conversation—or was that interrogation?—about Ritz Tarleton’s final interactions. Then she went on to describe Michelle’s harebrained idea.

“That could be an interesting interview technique,” Michael commented. “ ‘Tell me what I want to know, or you’ll never eat lunch in this town again.’ ”

“It will be a disaster.” Liza shuddered. “There’s bad blood between Michelle and Jocelyn already. If Michelle goes poking around, we may end up with another dead body to account for.”

Michael agreed to put the case to the doctors. Unfortunately, escape wasn’t as easy as Liza had hoped.

“The bureaucratic machinery will have to grind until at least tomorrow morning,” Michael reported.

Liza nodded. She’d kind of expected that. “I spoke to the
D-Kodas
people. They’re still not quite sure what they’re going to do, but they said that if I needed it, I could keep my room at the hotel.”

Michael gently caught his lower lip between his teeth. He usually did that when he was rehearsing something important to say. “You could stay at the house.”

“What house?”

“Our house.” He took a deep breath and rushed on. “With that leg, you’ll need some help—more, I think, than you’ll get from a hotel staff.”

“Yeah, all they have is—what? Three stars? What have you got?”

Michael shrugged and managed a nervous smile. “The personal touch?”

Liza shook her head. “I hope this isn’t the meds talking, but all right.”

 

 

The next morning, Liza had a session with the hospital physical therapist, learning how to handle a walker.

“We’re giving you a walker with a solid frame,” the therapist told her. “It’s not as convenient as a folding frame, but it makes up for that in stability.”

“It certainly feels solid,” Liza said as she worked her way down the hallway.

Michael appeared, Liza signed various papers, and then they headed downstairs. Liza declined the idea of riding in a wheelchair. “I might as well get some more practice in on old Bessie here,” she told him.

“Okay,” Michael said. “I’ll go get the car.”

Liza labored toward the entrance while Michael sped on ahead.

Operating this thing is more exercise than I expected,
she thought. She was feeling strain not just in her knee, which was unhappy to be moved, but also in her shoulders at the unaccustomed effort of raising the walker and setting it down ahead of her.

Well, older folks humping along on these things didn’t make it look like a walk in the park—even when they were walking in the park,
Liza told herself.

“Liza!” A voice nearly hissed her name, and Liza laboriously turned around to find Lolly Popovic lurking in the vestibule.

“I heard you were in here,” Liza said, looking at the bandage that stretched from Lolly’s temple to the side of her forehead. It was about as discreet as a covering for a head wound could be.

Looks as if they didn’t have to chop any hair away while patching her up,
Liza thought.

But Lolly looked as self-conscious as if the doctors had shaved her head and painted it purple, slouching her shoulders, trying to hide in a lightweight hoodie and sunglasses. “I know they’re out there,” the girl muttered.

“Who?”

“Paparazzi.” Lolly spat it out like a curse word. “I saw the sunlight glinting off one of those monster lenses. Mom’s bringing a car, but how am I going to go out there and deal with those—those—”

“Photographers,” Liza finished for her. “Well, it’s not a stroll down the red carpet. Think of it as an acting job. You’ve got a prop if you take down that hood. Use the bandage; let them see you in pain. Paparazzi may not have much in the way of human feelings, but you might generate a little sympathy.”

Lolly threw back the hood and leaned down to kiss Liza on the cheek. “Thanks, Liza. I really owe you.”

“You can work that off right now if you’ll just open the damned door.” Liza rattled her walker. “It’s a little tough handling the logistics with this thing.”

“Sure.” Lolly pushed the door open, then said, “Oh, here’s my ride.”

“And here’s mine, too.” Liza stumped forward as she saw Michael’s Honda pulling up behind a hired Town Car. She kept her head down, concentrating on piloting the walker rather than watching Lolly’s performance.

And it was a performance, because as soon as the girl stepped outside the door, cameramen seemed to appear out of the woodwork.

“Lolly!” they cried. “How ya doin’?”

“How’s the head?”

“Have they given you meds?”

“Lolly!”

“Lolly!”

“Lollylollylolly!”

Liza had to dodge a couple of morons with cameras, but at last she reached the car. Michael already had the back door open, and Liza sank back into the seat, wincing at a sudden lance of pain from her knee. She carefully used both hands to help move her hurt leg inside, and Michael shut the door, tossing the walker onto the front passenger seat and getting behind the wheel. By the nervous glances he shot over his shoulder, Liza saw he wanted to get away as quickly as possible from the mob of paparazzi crowding around the Town Car. Liza clicked her seat belt, sighing with relief as Michael edged the car around the photographers and cameramen, pulled into traffic, and made their escape. She rested back in her seat and shut her eyes for the trip to Westwood, wondering if she was doing the right thing—not just going back to her home, but leaving the hospital. Liza felt surprisingly tired, not just from the up-and-down nonsense with the walker, but also from the fragile way she felt as those photographers heedlessly darted around her. She really, really hadn’t wanted one of them to crash into her, terrified of how her knee would feel if she took another tumble.