Hollywood Confessions (26 page)

I took another sip of wine, digesting this information. “So the other shows—they’re all manipulated too?’

He shrugged. “To a greater or lesser extent.”

“
What about Don and Deb?” I asked, watching his expression closely.

“
What about them?” he shot back, his features impassive.

Too impassive.

I felt a sinking weight in my stomach as the truth hit me just how much Alec had been hiding from me. “You knew Don’s affair was a floater story, didn’t you?”

He paused, took a sip from his wineglass, swished the liquid around in his mouth and swallowed before finally answering. “Yes. I did.”

“
You lied to me!”

“
Look, I didn’t
lie
, Allie. You just didn’t ask the right questions.”

“
You knew Barker was sleeping with Deb?” I pressed.

“
Yes.”

“
And you knew the whole reunion was a fake?”

Again he nodded.

“
God, is anything real in your world?”

“
Allie, this is the
entertainment
industry. In the end it’s all about the story, right?” He leaned back in his seat, popped another piece of buttered bread in his mouth and winked at me.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the sharp comment died on my tongue. How many times had I said the same thing? Only now, being on the other end of the philosophy, it sounded almost dirty.

I took a sip from my glass. And I’ll admit, it was a big one this time.

“
Great vintage, huh?” Alec commented, mistaking my silence for agreement.

I nodded stiffly. “It’s great,” I said, though in truth I’d hardly tasted it at all.

“
I brought it in myself from my own collection. I never trust the local shiraz. Not to be a snob or anything, but California is Cabernet country. The French are the only true masters of the shiraz.”

“
Hmm.” I nodded, sipped more wine, tried to mentally get back to moment five minutes ago when my date was a charming and worldly and not making me suddenly question my own integrity.

“
Of course,” he went on, oblivious to my internal struggle, “every vintage is unique. Every year a unique combination of flavors. Even from bottle to bottle, things vary.”

“
You know a lot about wine,” I commented.

He grinned, showing off his dimples at me. “I’m a bit of a collector. Though I’ll admit, I tend to hold onto bottles longer than I should.”

“
Don’t they just get better with age?”

He shrugged. “Up to a point. But every vintage has its peak time to drink. Past that, it starts to disintegrate into vinegar.”

“
When’s the peak time?”

“
Every wine is different. But generally about five to ten years. Barker actually got me started collecting with a great two-thousand four merlot that’s just at its perfect peak this month.”

I froze, wineglass halfway to my lips, feeling a mental light bulb go on.

“
That’s it!” I said.

In hindsight, maybe a little too loudly. The couple at the next table glanced our way, the woman giving me a dirty look.

But I didn’t care. I had finally hit on it.

“
What’s it?” Alec asked, confusion furrowing his brows.

“
The merlot. The one that poisoned Barker. That’s how everyone has an alibi. The poisoner wasn’t actually there when Barker died. They didn’t poison his glass of wine, they poisoned the
whole bottle
. If Barker thought the vintage was peaking, he’d drink it right away, right?”

Alec nodded. “Definitely. Delayed gratification was not his thing.”

“
So, someone poisons a bottle of merlot they know Barker can’t resist drinking now, then gives it to him as a gift. He takes it home, drinks it and the killer has a perfect alibi of being somewhere else at the time of his death.”

“
So, who gave Barker the bottle?”

“
That’s what I need to find out,” I said, popping up from my seat.

“
Now?” Alec asked, eyebrows drawn together. “But the entrees are on their way.”

“
Sorry,” I said. I looked down at his adorable dimples, his perfect smile, his chic clothes and polished style. “But I have to go. Because, in the end, it’s all about the story. You understand, right?” I said, giving him my sweetest smile.

And then I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could, pulling my cell from my purse at the same time.

While the details like the label and vintage of the merlot hadn’t been released to the public, I knew for a fact they’d be included in crime scene report. And I knew just one person who had access to the LAPD’s database and could retrieve such a report. As much as I really wished I didn’t ever have to face him again, I knew that was a pipe dream. And at least now I could face him with a hot lead.

I dialed Felix’s cell number from memory, listening to it ring on the other end once, twice. Five rings in it when to voicemail, and I started to worry he was hitting the ignore button. I dialed again as I pushed out onto Melrose, the cool night air hitting my bare arms in a frigid rush. Voicemail again. I immediately redialed as I jog-walked to my car.

Three more tries later, Felix finally picked up.

“
What?!” he yelled.

“
The merlot!” I shouted back.

“
Allie, I don’t know what this is about, but I’m at dinner right now and—”

“
The merlot that killed Barker was given to him earlier in the day,” I quickly cut him off. “That’s how he was poisoned, and that’s why all our suspects have an alibi. If we can track down where the bottle came from, we can find out who killed him.”

There was a pause. And I wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t hung up on me. I was just about to ask if he was still there when his voice came through the other end: “Meet me at my house in twenty minutes.”

Chapter Seventeen

While it doesn’t get much more urban than Los Angeles, the Hollywood Hills is a natural oasis in the center of smog city. Tucked into the southeastern side of the Santa Monica Mountains, they provide stunning views of the L.A. basin, sometimes reaching as far as the ocean on a clear day. Here trees replaced graffiti, the sounds of birds replaced honking horns and the real estate prices climbed higher the farther you drove toward the summit.

Felix lived at the top.

I’d only been to his place a couple of times in the past, but the architecture one could purchase for seven figures never ceased to amaze me. The front of his home was a modern mix of warm, natural woods and sleek, shiny metals. Straight modern lines were accented in slate and stone, butting up against a lush green lawn that spanned around the sides of the house. But it was the back of the house that was absolutely stunning. The entire length of the home was glass walls, all looking out over the valley in a view that took my breath away every time. It was almost as if you were living outdoors, but with the added bonus of year-round air conditioning.

I parked in the circular drive then made my way up the slate walkway to the front door and rang the bell. No one answered. The front windows were dark. I’d beaten Felix here.

I wrapped my arms around myself, shifting from foot to foot in the dark on his front step. It was cold. I thought I heard a coyote bay in the distance, an eerie sound that put me on edge.

I’d been trying my hardest to put thoughts of my trashed place, the welt on the side of my head, and the Escalade driver who tried to run me off the road out of my head. And most of the time I was doing a pretty bang up job of it. But here in the dark, isolated, alone…fear of the boogey man was getting the better of me.

I grabbed my cell and sent Felix a text.

u almost home?

I waited an agonizing two minutes before my cell buzzed to life with a response.

accident on Highland. stuck in traffic. 15 min.

Not soon enough.

I trekked back to my car, opened the glove box, and pulled out my emergency lock-picking kit. There had been a few lessons Felix insisted I learn when I’d joined the
Informer
staff, and Lock Picking 101 had been at the top of his list. I’d honestly been a bit reluctant at first (I had a hard time picturing Diane Sawyer picking locks), but I’ll admit it had proven a very useful tool to have in my arsenal on more than one occasion.

Such as when I was stranded outside alone in the dark with a killer on the loose.

I zipped open my little black bag and selected a pick with a long, slightly curved shaped that looked like a dentist’s instrument. Then I grabbed a tension wrench in an L-shape. I carefully finessed the pick into the keyhole and felt around. Keyholes are essentially a series of pins that need to have just the right amount of pressure put on each in order to turn the lock. I moved the pick slowly over each pin, testing it with my tension wrench. Most of them moved up and down easily, though one was a little stickier. I focused on that pin first, applying more pressure until I pushed the pin high enough into the cylinder that I heard a click. I slowly let up some of the tension on the wrench and moved on to the next pin, repeating the process.

The first time I’d done this it had taken me half an hour to get all of the pins set. Totally long enough for a curious neighbor to spot me, call the police, and have them cart the tabloid reporter away. I’d done a lot of practicing since then, and I heard the last pin click into place and checked my watch. Two minutes flat. Damn, I was good. I slowly turned the tension wrench and held my breath, hoping I had all the pins set correctly. The knob turned easily in my hand, and the door opened with a silent whoosh of air.

The student becomes the master.

I quickly slipped my wrench and pick back into their case and shoved the whole thing into my pink purse as I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me.

I paused inside the foyer, listening for any sort of alarm system. Nothing. Just the steady hum of computers in the office to my right. I turned on a light, heading toward the sound.

Just off the foyer sat what would have been the family room, though Felix had outfitted it with several computer monitors, scanners, printers and other electronic devices I could only guess the functions of. I took a spot behind the largest monitor, sinking into a well-worn leather chair and jiggling the mouse to life.

The screen asked for a password. I bit my lip, looking down at his keyboard. Unlike Tina’s, no telltale signs of wear stared back at me. I tried typing in “informer”. No luck. I gave “paper”, “story”, and “deadline” a try with the same results. I was moving on to adding numbers into the mix when a voice piped up behind me.

“
How did you get in my house?”

I spun around in the chair, the sudden break in the silence making my heart leap into my throat.

Felix stood in the doorway, head cocked to the side, a frown marring his features.

“
Jesus, you scared me,” I told him, sucking in deep breaths.

“
You didn’t answer my question.” His voice was flat, clipped. Completely void of emotion.

I bit my lip.

I’d had about fifteen mental Morning After conversations in my head since this morning about how it was a mistake, how we were caught up in the moment, how we were adults that should be able to put it behind us and work together anyway. Unfortunately, none of those conversations in my head had gone well and with the dark, unreadable look he was giving me now, I doubted real life would play out better. So, I went with Plan B—total denial. Pretend nothing had happened. We were colleagues. Nothing more.

“
How did you get in my house?” Felix repeated, taking a step into the room.

“
Lock picking set,” I answered truthfully.

He blinked at me. “The one I gave you?”

I nodded.

“
Remind me not to give you any more presents,” he mumbled.

With the terms we were currently on, I didn’t think that was going to be an issue.

Holding on to that denial with all I had, I got up from Felix’s chair and cleared my throat, trying to clear some of the awkward from the room. “Uh, I was going to log in, but I didn’t know your password.”

“
At least there’s one thing you don’t know how to break into,” he said, taking my place behind the monitor and quickly pounding out his secret word. My instinct was to look over his shoulder, but considering the precarious slant to our relationship at the moment I decided against it, instead watching the monitor as he logged in.

“
You said you needed to see the crime scene report?” Felix asked, his tone all business. Apparently two could play at this denial game.

Good. Great. That just made things easier on my end, right?

“
Yes. Please,” I added. “If we can find out what label of wine Barker drank that night, we might be able to trace the bottle to its owner.”

Felix nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen as he pulled up the LAPD’s internal website. How he had access to it, I had no idea. And honestly it was probably better for my own deniable criminal culpability if I didn’t ask. So I watched as he hooked up a black box to his computer then typed in a string of letters. Rows of numbers appeared on the screen, flashing quickly in long columns.