Hollywood Secrets (6 page)

“
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 barista, 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 that 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.

On the outside, a self-made business man.

Let’s see what was on the inside…

I set aside the public search portals and rolled my sleeves up to dig in for the real dirt. For that, I turned to my editor’s numerous “mostly legal” databases to ferret out the real Buckner Boogenheim. Hoping against hope that he had some long criminal history of kidnapping, I grabbed a cup of black coffee from the break room and settled in.

Unfortunately, two hours later, when I finally came up for more caffeine, I was no closer to finding a link between Boogenheim and a gun than I had been last night. The guy was clean. So clean he squeaked. Compared to my parking-violation history, he looked like a virtual saint.

Which, in itself, was enough to make me suspicious that he was up to something.

“
Cam!”

I spun around in my chair at the sound of Felix’s voice hailing me from his office.

I rubbed my eyes, retraining them to focus on 3-D objects again after staring at my screen so long, then grabbed my empty mug and crossed the newsroom.

“
You rang?” I asked as I pushed through his door.

Felix’s office was a glass walled cage situated centrally in the newsroom where he could keep an eye on all of his reporters. His desk faced the door and was, as usual, piled high with papers that were organized according to his own system of “set it wherever there’s a free space” filing. Total chaos. Which perfectly matched his appearance.

Felix was a few years older than I was, probably in his late thirties to early forties if I had to guess. He stood about eye level with me, had a head of sandy blond hair that always looked in need of a good haircut, and blue eyes so piercing rumor had it he could pull a baby bump confession out of even the most tight-lipped OB/GYN to the stars with just a look. He was dressed this morning in his usual uniform of a white button-down shirt and khaki pants, both a day overdue for a good press at the dry cleaners. Despite his I-slept-in-my-car appearance, Tina told me that Felix was actually a millionaire several times over, thanks to some obscure British lordship he’d inherited a few years back. The word around the office was that he was even some distant cousin to the queen, though no one had had the resources (or guts) to try to prove or disprove that one yet.

“
Where are we on the wedding watch?” Felix asked. “Jamie Lee settle on a dress yet?”

I shook my head in the negative. “I have a feeling she’s going to jerk us around to the bitter end.”

“
Fabulous.” He rolled his eyes. “What about Trace?”

I bit my lip, reluctant to reveal my night’s adventure to him. Even ignoring the fact that I had bupkus to print, Felix had an even more tenuous relationship with the L.A.P.D. than I did. According to the gossip mill, he’d had the hots for some woman who had hauled off and married a member of their boys-in-blue club last year, leaving a less than stellar taste in Felix’s mouth. So I decided glossing over a few minor details might be a good idea.

“
Trace?” I asked, blinking innocently.

My boss shot me an annoyed look. “Yes, Trace. Where are we with him?”

“
Trace will be wearing a tux to the wedding.”

Felix looked up from the copy he was editing with a frown. “No one cares what Trace is wearing. Tell me what he’s up to today.”

“
I’m… not 100% sure.”

“
Not sure? You’ve been his shadow the last six weeks. What do you mean you’re not sure?” He narrowed his eyes at me. While Felix’s exterior may be less than spit shined, his intellect was sharp as a tack. And he knew something was up.

I shifted to my right foot. “I haven’t seen him today,” I hedged.

“
And why not?”

“
I… kinda lost him last night.”

“
He’s a movie star. How lost can he get? Just follow the line of paparazzi down Sunset.”

“
Yeah, see, here’s the thing…” I shifted back to my left foot. “He’s kinda… disappeared.”

“
Disappeared?’

“
Yeah. In the sense that someone sorta helped him disappear.”

If Felix’s eyes got any narrower, they’d be closed. “What exactly do you mean by ‘helped’?”

“
Um. Technically speaking? I guess you’d sorta say he was kidnapped?”

“
What!” Felix bellowed so loudly the glass walls shook and Tina, two cubicles over, jumped in her chair. “What the hell do you mean he was kidnapped? Why am I just now hearing about this?”

So much for glossing over. I did another shift from right to left, then reluctantly spilled my guts and told him everything about last night. He listened, his sandy brows pulling together into a tight line until they were almost touching.

When I finished he just had one thing to say.

“
Publicity stunt.”

I bit my lip. “That seems to be the consensus…” I trailed off.

He frowned at me. “But?”