Fourteen

I attempted to leave the condo undetected early the next morning. I needed to drop off the phone to Omari and catch a killer. What did it say about me that I was equally anxious about both? I waited until Sienna was in the kitchen jabbering away on the phone to make my escape. I was halfway to freedom when she appeared behind me. “You call the police?”

“Yep! They’ll have a patrolman in the area.”

I hated lying, but there was no way I could tell her the truth. A Google Voice account and what was probably a fake name were not enough to find Haley’s killer. These tips would be stuck in a box right next to the details about Montgomery’s car.

“Yeah, Day thinks she got a lead on a number on the robber.” Sienna clearly wasn’t talking to me anymore. “Yeah, another one.”

She motioned to the phone and mouthed, “Montgomery.” They’d been talking a lot. Sienna had fixated on him being the person to guide her to fame, having decided it was fate that she’d literally wound up on his doorstep. I waved and got out of there.

I got into my car, ready to get this Omari exchange over with. He’d texted me an address for some restaurant I’d never been to. The last thing I wanted was to spend an hour eating and having awkward conversation with him. It didn’t look like I’d have much of a choice.

I got there in less than twenty minutes, the LA equivalent of being able to fly. The first clue I wasn’t meeting him for lunch was the four Star Waggons parked across from the restaurant. Star Waggons are fancy trailers studios rent for actors when they’re shooting on location. Minus the blue Star Waggon logo, the outside looks like any other trailer you’d hook to the back of a truck. But depending on how soon the actor’s name appears in the credits, the inside is nicer than 90 percent of our country’s houses.

Omari had invited me to the LAPD 90036 set.

I would have preferred the awkward lunch. I wasn’t expecting this. When I saw him at the movie premiere, I’d been mentally prepared. Not this time. What if someone recognized me and asked what I was up to?

Since I’d already spent the gas, I parked. There were tons of people milling about, some with walkie-talkies. I could separate the extras from the crew by their clothing choices. The crew all wore sensible, closed-toe shoes and jeans. The extras were all female, cloaked in high heels and short skirts.

Even though I didn’t know what her voice sounded like, I pictured Haley telling me to control my peanut butter. It made me feel better.

No one stopped me when I walked to the trailers. The name Jamal Fine, Omari’s character, was listed on the third one. I tentatively knocked, then waited. No one came to the door. After the third knock, I accepted that he wasn’t inside and ventured closer to the set to see if I could find him.

He was in the parking lot, wearing his patrolman’s uniform and holding a gun aimed at some poor hapless “homeless” guy. I stood in the back and watched him work. I had to smile just a little bit. He always knew he would make it, and he had. In his element, he didn’t seem to notice the hundred-plus people on the other side of the camera staring at him. He was the only one talking. No one else dared speak until the director said so.

“It’s time to pay for your crime,” Omari said, which made me giggle and the guy closest to me glare in my direction. I immediately shut up.

The director yelled “cut” and Omari was engulfed in a sea of makeup and hair people. I was so busy watching him, I didn’t notice the woman until she spoke. “May I help you?”

Her voice held authority, which meant she was an AD, or Assistant Director. Judging from her location nowhere near the action, she must have been a second AD. The first AD was the director’s right hand and always within a few feet of him.

“I’m here for Omari. He’s expecting me,” I said, since she obviously thought I was a fan, or worse, a groupie.

“And you are?”

I paused, not sure how to answer. I was still his friend, right? She must’ve took my hesitation as me getting ready to lie because she said, “I know you’re not his girlfriend.”

What exactly did she mean by that? Her tone was completely neutral so I couldn’t tell. Did she think there was no way I could be his girlfriend because of how I looked? Or did she mean she already knew Omari’s girlfriend, which meant Omari had a girlfriend. He’d never been serious with anyone in the five years since I’d moved to LA. Had that changed in the last six weeks, along with everything else in his life?

I started freaking. Not only was I not controlling my peanut butter, it was spread all over the place. Talk about a giant mess. Geez. I looked up and remembered I wasn’t alone. “No, not his girlfriend,” I said. “A friend. I see he’s busy. I’ll just come back.”

It wasn’t until I got back to my car that I realized I was still holding his cell phone.

I headed straight to Silver Lake and parked on a side street, since I couldn’t afford to pay the meter on Vermont. I pushed thoughts of the set visit aside and focused on my plan on what to do when Jamie Smith showed up. My idea was to covertly take some photos and get a real name, then pass it all on to the tip line. I wanted to solve this thing not just because of my parents, but for Haley.

I hadn’t met her, of course, but based on everything I was hearing, I wished I had. She seemed like a cool chick. A chick who probably smiled at her killer, asked if she could help him, even called to let him know they’d sold a few pieces. And how did he repay her? By mowing her down in cold blood and then driving away like it didn’t happen. It wasn’t fair. Her life shouldn’t have been cut short, especially not so someone could have the latest pair of Jimmy Choos. She deserved better. Much, much better!

I’d managed to work myself into quite a tizzy when 1:00 p.m. finally came around.

I started the car and pulled onto Vermont, finding a metered space more or less across from the store. Jamie Smith needed to be on time. I could only afford twenty minutes on the meter. I was so busy practically foaming at the mouth in anger, I didn’t notice Aubrey until he was inside my car. Again. I really needed to remember to lock my doors.

“Are you following me, Ms. Anderson?”

I was not in the proper mindset to deal with him. Not now. Probably not ever. “You wish.”

“Then why are we both here?”

“Because this is the scene of the crime?” It seemed pretty obvious to me.

“You need to stop with this so-called investigation of yours.”

So-called? Was I not the one who found Montgomery’s car while Aubrey was busy putting on his reflector suit? “And you need to get out of my car.”

He didn’t move. So I did. I got out, walked around the car, and yanked open the passenger-side door. Aubrey just stared at me.

“I will call the police.” It was the second time I’d said this exact same lie in a twenty-four-hour period. “Out!”

“You need to calm down, Ms. Anderson.”

There’s nothing worse than yelling at someone and their response is to tell you to calm down. It only makes you angrier. “I’ll show you how to calm down! Get out!” I yelled.

He still didn’t budge, so I stomped over to his bike, which was tied to a tree a few feet away. I contemplated the best way to use my spiked heel to puncture a tire. He appeared next to me. “Do you not think you are overreacting?”

If he asked me if I was on the rag, I was going to choke him with the tampon in my purse. (So, I was on my period. Sue me.) “Take some deep breaths,” he said.

It was only then I noticed Hollywood’s equivalent of a minivan, a Range Rover, pull up outside Clothes Encounters and double park. The windows were tinted pitch black, so I couldn’t see who was inside. I doubted it was a trophy wife. I was betting it was the robber, Jamie Smith.

I attempted to play it cool. Of course, I failed miserably. My eyes bugged out. It didn’t help that I immediately looked away awkwardly, like one does when caught staring. Aubrey noticed and turned to the street. “Who is that in the car?” he asked. “Is that Ms. Joseph’s alleged killer? Is that why you are here?”

Did he say “alleged” like he was talking to a jury? The killer wasn’t going to leap out the car and threaten to sue for slander.

Aubrey took off across the street toward the car, managing to cross right in the crosswalk. “I am Aubrey S. Adams-Parker. I demand you exit this vehicle right now!”

The driver took off. It had to be Jamie Smith. Most people would have pretended to not see Aubrey while they subtly checked if their doors were locked. That’s what we all did with the homeless. I watched my hard-fought lead disappear down the street.

It took Aubrey ten more feet to realize he was missing the six million in bionic parts needed to catch the car on foot. He ran back in my direction. “Give me your keys!”

He said it with such force, I handed them over. I barely made it into the backseat before he was busting a U-turn and taking off after the Range Rover, who now had a half-mile lead.

Aubrey made great progress. We roared down the street, then hit a red light. Aubrey stopped accordingly. We watched the Range Rover get smaller in the distance. “You’re letting it get away!” I yelled.

“Call 911,” he said.

I hesitated. “I’m gonna call the tip line.”

He took his eyes off the road to throw me a shocked look in the rearview mirror. “You don’t call the tip line, you don’t get the credit,” I explained as I took out my phone and dialed the 1-877 number.

The Voice picked up on the second ring, smacking away on her gum. “Tip line.”

“We’re chasing the killer!” I may have sounded a little too excited, but I had a good excuse. I was in an actual high-speed car chase. Well, I would be once the light turned green.

“Oh, it’s you. 1018.”

“Look, we’re in a car chasing him—”

“Or her,” Aubrey interjected. The light turned green and he took off.

“Or her down in a black Range Rover. I can give you the license plate.”

“Or you can give it to 911,” the Voice said.

I paused. “Are you telling me to hang up?”

The only answer I got was a dial tone. I wanted to call her back to curse her out (without using actual curse words) but instead called 911. Thankfully, the woman who answered was a lot nicer. After I explained the situation, she promised patrol cars were on their way and we hung up.

We caught a break in the form of good old Los Angeles traffic. It was barely 2:00 p.m., but rush hour was an all-day thing in LA. I could see the Range Rover about seven cars ahead of us. “Drive on the sidewalk!” I ordered. I’d seen it in a movie once.

Aubrey didn’t move. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither are we!”

Aubrey stayed put. I couldn’t take it anymore. In yet another of my well-thought-out decisions, I grabbed my cell, jumped out the car, and took off down the middle of the street. I always said I could run in four-inch heels. It was good to know I was right on that front.

I maneuvered through the traffic, even getting a few cat-calls and honks of appreciation. Jamie Smith saw me coming, because just when I was about to get to his car, the Range Rover made an abrupt illegal left turn, barely skating past oncoming traffic. It disappeared down a side street.

I glanced back to see if Aubrey noticed, but even if he did, the Infiniti was stuck in the right lane. No way would he be able to get over and make a left. It was up to me.

The Range Rover was already a block away. I could wait for oncoming traffic to subside or dash across the street, hoping drivers got the hint and stopped. I ran, eliciting honks not of the appreciative variety. But they did stop. I made it across just as the Range Rover made an abrupt right down a street about a block away.

I got to the cross street in good time, especially considering the heels. I turned, stopping when I saw the Range Rover parked about half a block down. Was it waiting for me? To do what? I went to redial 911, but when I looked down, I noticed I’d grabbed Omari’s phone by mistake. Great.

I had no clue what to do. I couldn’t help Haley if I was dead myself, yet I would never forgive myself if I was this close to her killer and let him (or her—darn you, Aubrey) get away. I spied a trash can chock full of empty glass beer bottles. Thank God for recycling. I grabbed one and held it out like a knife. “I have a weapon,” I called out.

A weapon that would be much deadlier if it wasn’t intact. I figured I could use a broken bottle’s jagged edges to do serious damage. I’d seen that once on TV. I slammed the bottle against the curb to get it to break. It bounced up off the cement and hit my head. Ouch. So much for that. I slowly made my way closer to the car. “I called the police,” I yelled.

For the first time all day, it wasn’t a lie. My legs took me closer to the car while my brain wondered where the freaking police were. At that point, I would even have welcomed Aubrey showing up.

I got a few feet from the car but didn’t hear any movement. I was cautious, waiting for Jamie Smith to pop up from somewhere. Anywhere. As a kid, I’d hated hide-and-seek. This was taking it to a whole new level. The driver was either hurt or hiding. Neither option was desirable. I tried to figure out the best method of attack. Not being able to do so, I decided to swing first, ask questions later.

I yanked open the door, squeezed my eyes shut in fear, and swung my unbroken beer bottle with all my might.