L.A. Confidential (3 page)

Ken let his gaze wander over the kitchen, not really seeing, as his thoughts drifted back to Lisa. “The thing is…” Ken trailed off, wishing he hadn't even opened his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Tim headed toward the stockroom, looking behind him to make sure Ken was following. “Spill it,” he said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the staff.

“It's just…I don't know. I guess, when I think about her, even after all this time, I'm furious with her…but I also wonder what the hell I did wrong. You know. What I should have done differently.”

“I repeat—you need to move on.”

Ken brushed aside the comment. “I know, I know. But I'm not just talking about her. I'm talking about me. Not just with Lisa, but with my life.” The truth was, she'd left him with a legacy of self-doubt, and it burned.

“Never second-guess yourself because of a woman, my friend. That's the path to an early grave—or at least a psychotic episode.”

Ken chuckled. “Yeah? Well, you may be right about that.”

“And speaking of moving on…I interviewed the cutest pastry chef last week.” Tim kept his expression totally serious as he checked a produce list. “Now there's a cream puff—”

“Knock it off,” Ken said with a grin.

Tim cracked a smile. “Just watching out for my best friend. You should date more.”

“Me? You're the one who hasn't had a date since Melinda left. I've had so many dates I should buy stock in a little black book company.”

“First,” Tim said as they left the stockroom and headed for the break room, “we're not talking about me. Second, you haven't had dates, you've had physical encounters. Hit-and-run dating.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the Formica-topped table, his large, former-NFL-linebacker body looking out of place on the small chair. If his knee hadn't blown out, Tim probably would have made it far in football…and Ken would be out one hell of a chef.

“I mean, have you tried to get to know any of those women?” Tim asked.

Ken cocked his head and tried to look stern. “I can't say I'm comfortable being psychoanalyzed while my head chef sits in the break room right as the lunch rush is wrapping up.”

“No?” Tim took another slug of coffee. “Well, I'm a perfectionist, you know. And I don't think I can work until I'm sure you aren't making a mess out of your life.”

Ken pinched the bridge of his nose, half in irritation and half in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, but my life is fine. I'm not holed up in some dark room pining away for Lisa. I hardly think about her—”

Tim snorted.

“—except for this time of year. And I
am
dating.”

“You're not seeing anyone seriously.”

“Neither are you.”

“We're not—”

“Talking about you. I know. But maybe we should.”

“It's only been a year,” Tim said. “And it's not like I have a ton of free time.”

“Touché.”

Tim sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “All right. You win. But just tell me one thing.” He looked Ken in the eye and waited for his nod. “You doin' okay?”

“Sure,” Ken said, not sure if it was the truth or a lie. “I'm absolutely fine.”

 

A
LICIA
D
UNCAN
hated to fail. Particularly when the failure was known, as was this most recent setback. Now she sat perfectly straight in front of the mirror as her producer poured out his litany of complaints. A ponytailed bimbette fussed near her, supposedly fixing Alicia's makeup, but clearly eavesdropping.

Well, wasn't that just great? The bimbette would probably run to the phone the second Alicia left, and soon enough the gossip would be everywhere—Alicia was on the outs with her producer because she couldn't land a piddly-ass little story about restaurant mogul Ken Harper. What made the defeat even more grating was that she and Ken had actually dated last summer, but he still wouldn't do her this one favor.

She closed her eyes and pressed a finger to her temple. She'd won two Emmys, for crying out loud. She really didn't need this garbage.

“Have you even heard a word I've said?” Gavin's irritated voice filtered through her thoughts, and she looked up, the reflection of her eyes meeting his in the lighted mirror.

“I don't need to hear your every word, sweetie. I got
your point twenty minutes ago when you first opened your mouth.” The bimbette dabbed her forehead with a powder puff, and Alicia jerked forward, glaring. “You. Out. Now.”

The girl backed away, her eyes wide, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

“And if you say a word about this to anyone, it'll be your job.” She flashed her most charming smile, the one that had gotten her an anchor slot on a network affiliate. “Understand?”

The girl nodded, then escaped out the door. Alicia took a deep breath, then spun her chair around to face Gavin.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You certainly have a way with people.”

“Don't give me any crap. I'm in a bad mood, and you're on my list.” She had better things to do than to sit and listen to Gavin complain about how she hadn't managed to land a story. Especially since this story, about the fifth anniversary of Oxygen, was such an uninteresting fluff piece. Ken had flat-out refused her offer to have him and his chef on the program. A little banter, a little cooking demonstration. Lightweight stuff, and great publicity for him.

“So why'd he say no?”

“How the hell should I know?” His refusal had totally pissed her off, but she wasn't about to admit that to Gavin. Instead, she just squinted toward the mirror then ran her finger under her lip, wiping off a stray bit of lipstick. “He's an idiot?”

“I don't think so. The man clawed his way up from nothing to become the hottest restaurateur in Southern
California. I suspect at least a modicum of savvy, if not downright intelligence.”

She bit back a snarl, not interested in analyzing Ken Harper. “Who cares? He doesn't want to do it. End of story.”

“Is it?”

She twisted around to look him in the eye. “Why are you so intent on going after Ken Harper?”

Gavin shook his head. “I'm not. I'm intent on going after a story. Harper's been the unchallenged king of cuisine for years, yet no one's ever managed to get him to consent to an interview inside his restaurant. We manage that, we get ratings. We get ratings, you get a better slot.” He held his hands out to his side. “I'm only thinking of you, babe.”

“It's only worth pursuing if there's a story, Gavin. The man's as dull as dishwater.” A lie, especially if they were talking about in bed. But she wasn't feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

“Or maybe you didn't want to return to the place of your former defeat.”

That was another reason Gavin drove her nuts—he knew her just a little too well. “Don't be ridiculous. We went out a couple of times, but I dumped him,” she lied. “Believe me, Ken Harper isn't even in my league.”

“So what's stopping you from doing the story?”

“There is no story.”

“Are you sure?”

Irritated, she spun the chair back to face the mirror and saw him watching her in the reflection. She hated admitting it, but maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Ken was hiding something. If he was, it would feel damn
good to be the reporter who aired the remarkable Ken Harper's dirty laundry.

“Or maybe you
do
think it's out of your league?”

“Not hardly,” she said tightly as she made up her mind. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled sweetly. “You want the dirt on Harper? Then that's exactly what you'll get.”

T
HE
M
ANHATTAN OFFICE
of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss's lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.

Lisa grimaced. She wasn't there to criticize Winston Miller's decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn't complain.

Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa's pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I'm Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller's four o'clock.”

Apparently not one for conversation, the receptionist gestured toward one of the torture-chamber chairs, her attention now directed at her fingernails. Lisa checked her watch. Four o'clock on the dot. “Is he—”

“Running late,” the girl said, pulling a nail file from a drawer. “Just have a seat.”

Great.
Lisa moved across the room toward the chairs, glancing at her reflection in the mirrors as she walked. The chin-length bob she wore had the benefit of not only being easy to fix, but of looking professional. The suit was a cheap designer knockoff, and the shoes were leftovers of her more cash-flush days. Still, the outfit was sharp enough that it bolstered the businesswoman look. Overall, not too bad, all things considered.

As much as she hated needing work, she hated even more
looking
like she needed work. So much so that she'd almost splurged and put a new outfit on her one credit card that still had some room. But common sense had won out. She hadn't worked steadily in more than a year, and the money she made from temping didn't justify a new outfit, especially when she might need her credit card to buy food.

Still, the whole dress-for-success concept made a lot of sense, and yesterday after she'd received her best friend Greg's message that he'd landed her an interview with Winston Miller, Lisa'd spent an entire afternoon prowling the garment district for something that would at least make it look as if she wasn't destitute. One thing she'd learned after years of working on the fringes of the entertainment industry, the more someone looked as though they needed the work, the less likely they were to get it.

Smoothing her skirt, she sat on the hideous chair,
her tailbone boring into the hard metal. She pulled her Day-Timer planner out of her purse and tried to look as if she had a schedule to keep. She wished she knew more about what Winston needed, but Greg had only left a note on the refrigerator. Though they shared an apartment, they were hardly ever home at the same time, and since he was in the middle of rehearsing for an off-off-off-off Broadway show, she'd been unable to catch him before the interview.

She shot a glance toward the receptionist, who didn't even look her way. So Lisa spent the next thirty minutes doodling and making anagrams out of her name, until she'd wasted so much time she was beginning to get irritated. Trying for haughty, she stood up, tucked her planner under her arm, and marched toward the anorexic receptionist.

The woman blinked, but didn't say a word.

“It's been almost an hour,” Lisa said, trying to remain polite. “I have other meetings that I really can't—”

“No problem.”

“Great. Thanks.”

The girl poised her pen over the open appointment book. “When would you like to reschedule?”

“Oh, uh,” Lisa stammered. “I guess I'll have to check my schedule.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and waited, and Lisa knew perfectly well that Miller's receptionist wasn't buying it. The question now was, did she keep her pride and walk out, or did she fall to her knees and beg?

“Well?” the girl asked, the end of her pen tapping the appointment book.

“Right.” Lisa started flipping pages. She'd reschedule for tomorrow. That way she'd lose twenty-four hours in
her job hunt, but she'd save a tiny bit of pride. “How about tomorrow?”

“No go.” The girl trailed the tip of the pen down the page, then flipped over a few days. “I can squeeze you in next Tuesday.”

So much for pride. Time for some serious begging. “Um, listen—”

“Miss Neal!”

She spun toward the source of the nasal voice, thrilled to be getting a reprieve from her fib.

“Come in, come in.” Winston Miller practically bounded toward her, shook her hand heartily, then led her back into his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Been on the phone with Los Angeles all morning.”

Lisa stifled a smile. As far as she knew, there were several million people in L.A.; she doubted Miller had been chatting with all of them.

“So, Greg tells me you're the man for this job.” He motioned her toward a cushy chair as he slid behind his desk. “I understand you've got quite a range of experience.”

“That's true,” she said, wondering how much her friend had told him. She'd known Greg for almost five years, ever since he'd had a bit part in a Drake Tyrell film that she'd associate produced. Flamboyant and opinionated, Greg had a wicked sense of humor that got her through some rough times during filming, and they'd spent hours eating bad food at the craft services table. By the time the shoot was over, they'd become fast friends and roommates.

Only Greg knew how scattershot her production experience had been. Certainly, she'd never told her family how bad times had become. From script supervisor to art
director to property master, she'd held all sorts of jobs she'd never expected and didn't want. Hardly what she'd anticipated five years ago when she'd followed Tyrell to New York with delusions of producing award-winning films. Still, the odd jobs paid the bills—at least until recently when work had seemed to dry up. Now, though, she couldn't imagine which aspect of her background Greg thought was worthy of Miller's attention.

Miller leaned back, his leather chair squeaking. “What did Greg tell you about the job?”

“He told me you're producing a sequel to
The Velvet Bed
and that you've got some key positions to fill.” The erotic adventure, set in Manhattan's hot spots, had been a surprise hit, solidifying Avenue F's reputation as the most important independent film company in the business.

“Half right. I am doing the sequel.” He picked a stack of paper up off his desk and riffled the pages. “I want to start production in about nine months.”

“Oh.” Lisa tried to hide her confusion. “Greg thought you might have a position for me. If you're still putting together your team, I've got several associate producer credits—”

“From when you were with Tyrell?”

“Well, yeah.”

He nodded but didn't say anything, and she felt a familiar surge of anger rise to the surface. Never in a million years would she have guessed that simply being associated with Tyrell would have so sullied her reputation. But it was her own damn fault. She'd been a naive little girl from Idaho when she'd left Los Angeles with stars in her eyes, so sure that working for Tyrell would put her on the path to fame and fortune.

She'd thought he admired her talent, and by the time she was settled in Manhattan, she'd thought he genuinely cared for her. But Tyrell didn't care for anyone but himself, and back then she'd just been too starry-eyed to see it. Now she had to live with the backlash from her foolishness, and it drove her nuts that her career was tainted because Tyrell had thrown his life down the toilet.

The whole thing had been a huge scandal. One of the major Hollywood studios had pumped a ton of money into one of Tyrell's films—a picture everyone involved expected to be a blockbuster. About the time they were supposed to start production, Tyrell started snorting the budget up his nose—and then demanding more money from the studio. He shot some footage, but it was garbage, and eventually the studio shut the project down. Tyrell's company filed bankruptcy, and Tyrell fled to London in disgrace.

In the film world it was a debacle of
Heaven's Gate
proportions. And, unfortunately, Lisa had a producer credit. No real power, of course, since Tyrell never let go of control, but by the time she'd learned about Tyrell's drug problem and realized he was sinking fast, she'd been stuck. And now her reputation was just as smeared as his.

Miller was still looking at her with that expression of distrust she knew well from so many job interviews. Tyrell had screwed her, and good.

She tried to tamp down her anger. “I've worked my tail off, and I'm good. After I left Tyrell, I produced and directed at Cornerstone.” Of course, her films had a shoestring budget, lots of car explosions, and went straight to video, but it was something. Goodness knows,
that was what she'd told her mom every time she'd called. “After Cornerstone went under, I got a crew position on one of the late-night network talk shows. And for the last year, I've been working a variety of jobs in the industry.”

She didn't mention that she'd been laid off from the network job due to budget cuts, that lately “variety” meant temping at video rental stores, and that she was now trying her damnedest to get some work lined up in Los Angeles so that she could move back to the coast and start over with her film career. “I'm perfectly qualified. No matter what—”

“Location scout.”

She blinked, trying to follow the conversation. Was he suggesting she work as his scout? Track down the various locations for his next film and get commitments from the property owners? Except for her thesis film and a music video a friend had produced and directed years ago, she'd never done any scouting. “I'm not sure I'm—”

“If I like your work, I'll set you up as my line producer.”

She snapped her mouth shut, overlooking her irritation at the way he kept interrupting her. The line producer was in charge of the day-to-day operations once filming got under way. Not a bad job, but not her ambition. She wanted to be doing the big-picture stuff. Working with writers and directors. Pulling the project together and getting the financing off the ground. The nitty-grit stuff. The fun stuff.

Still, if he was willing to bargain, maybe she could wrangle a job that would put her back on the map. “I'm
not interested in line producer,” she said slowly, knowing her gamble was risky.

He peered at her, the flesh on his forehead creasing. “I'm not sure we're communicating here. You won't be my
anything
unless you're my scout. And even then, only if you do the quality job I need.”

She shook her head, unable to figure out why he'd be so gung-ho on having her scout his locations. “Why me?”

Miller shrugged. “Greg assured me you're the one I need. He's a good actor, a good friend, and I trust the kid.”

“But…I….” She sat up straighter, trying to regroup. What on earth was Greg thinking?

“He tells me you lived in L.A. Know it like the back of your hand.”

“Los Angeles?” He wasn't making sense. “I haven't lived in Los Angeles in years.” Sad, but true. And Greg knew it. She was missing something, but she didn't know what.

The look of anticipation on his face faded, only to be replaced with a cold, wary expression, as if now he couldn't quite figure out what she was doing there. Too late, Lisa realized her mistake.
The Velvet Bed
had been set in Manhattan's hot spots, combining the fictional erotic journey of the lead characters with the real Manhattan landscape. The combination of the real and the fictitious had sparked nationwide interest and certainly contributed to the film's unexpected success. Miller hadn't said so out loud, but Lisa would bet money that the sequel would follow the same formula—only this time in L.A.

Which meant she'd just blown her chance at getting the job Greg had so carefully lined up for her.
Damn.

“I'm going to set the sequel in either San Francisco or Los Angeles, depending on where I can lock in the more interesting locations. Of course, my preference is Los Angeles, and Greg seemed to think you could help with L.A. But if you don't know the city—”

“Oh, I know it. I lived there for years.”

He looked dubious. “I need someone who knows it today.”

“I know Los Angeles,” she repeated. “I go back all the time.” That was a flat-out lie, and she hoped he didn't call her on it. She appeased her guilt simply because she knew that if she got the job she wouldn't rest until she really did know everything there was to know about the City of Angels.

He nodded, but didn't say a word. Then he slipped a cigar out of a humidor on his desk, cut off the end, and lit up without asking if she minded. She did, but she kept her mouth shut. After a few puffs he aimed the cigar at her. “I'm gonna be straight with you.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, trying to keep her tone even.

“I keep my office in New York, but I know people on the coast.” He leaned over, gesturing with the cigar. “Finding a location scout's not a problem. Finding a scout who can get me access to the places I want to be…that's another story.”

She tried to play it cool as her mind raced ahead at a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out what the devil Greg could have told him. What places in Los Angeles did he think she had special access to? “What locations are you interested in?”

“Any place conducive to the tone of the film. Erotic. Cutting edge. Heavy on the ambience. I don't know. Read the damn script. That's for you to figure out.” He gestured with the cigar again. “Except for one. I've got one location in mind for the bulk of the story, and that's why you're here now.”