Nine

She didn’t even hesitate, just raised her gun, aimed, and got off a quick round. The guy fell, blood spurting out of him in fits and starts. She must’ve not hit any major arteries because within seconds he was back up without a scratch on him, so Emme raised her gun again. “4COL.”

“What is a forcal?” Sienna asked.

“Some new fork?” I guessed, missing the good old days when you could just sound out a word to figure it out.

“Something to do with a snorkel?” Sienna guessed.

“For crying out loud,” Emme said.

At first I thought she was annoyed with our guesses, but then I realized she was telling us what it stood for. “Thanks,” I said.

“NP,” she said.

We’d brought Omari’s phone to Emme’s apartment in Los Feliz that afternoon, in hopes she could enlarge the video. Sienna and I were sprawled on the floor. Emme had no room for a couch. She didn’t have a living room. She had a control room.

A huge desk with three large monitors dominated the room. All the monitors were filled with what could best be described as stuff—the Call to Action 5 game she was playing, a website where she grocery shopped, a few IM sessions, and Omari’s video. She controlled it all from the comfort of a steroid-injected office chair twice her size. Her ever-present headset—complete with a high-tech microphone that would be the envy of switchboard operators everywhere—caressed her right ear. It was amazing to watch.

“Alcohol’s practically a truth serum,” Sienna said.

I threw her some serious side eye. It’d been more than a day since I’d left Omari, and I still felt foolish for misunderstanding his intentions. The convo after his apology had been mercifully short. We’d agreed Emme needed to look at the video. What we didn’t agree on was what to do after she had. I was too embarrassed to see him again, so I figured I could just keep the cell. He insisted the stupid phone be returned. Why? I don’t know. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a new one or anything.

The only good thing was, it had made me even more focused on identifying the car. Video shot on a postage-stamp-sized screen didn’t exactly translate to larger proportions, and Emme was using some computer program to sharpen the images, but it was slow going. I would rather have fixed each pixel myself than keep talking about what had happened. We’d gone over it four times already. “He only did it because he was drunk,” I said.

“And harboring a crush on you.” Sienna played on her cell as she spoke. You have to love twenty-first century interactions. No one looks at each other anymore. “Omari hit on you for a reason.”

“Jack Daniels hit on me, with the help of his friend Coca-Cola.”

“I don’t care what you say, we’re still in Act Three,” she said.

“Yeah, just not of my movie. I’m the clueless best friend.”

I expected Sienna to respond with some more glass-half-full mumbo jumbo. Instead she said, “I’m a hussy!”

Emme glanced back, decided it was too easy, and returned to her screen. Sienna held her cell like it was an Oscar and said, “I’m nominated for Hussy of the Week.”

Whoa.

Every week, Anani Miss nominated two people for Hussy of the Week. It wasn’t exactly something to brag about. It was her code for the week’s biggest idiot. Readers had the weekend to vote and a winner was crowned on Monday. “Congratulations,” I said. I knew that’s what she wanted to hear.

“We need to get out the vote,” Sienna said. “Maybe I can take out an ad on the site? That’s what they do with the Oscars. Take out ads in the Hollywood Reporter. Emme, can’t you, like, create a program that can vote for me a million times?”

As a response, Emme said, “Video’s done. I’ve already jumped forward to the car.”

I smiled at Sienna and then got up to look. Emme had been able to convert the video to a clear, enlarged file. It didn’t look as great as HD, but it beat VHS. When the car crossed in front of us on the screen, Emme hit pause.

It looked like it was either black or, maybe, dark blue. Unfortunately, the tinted windows were too dark to see the driver. I couldn’t see a license plate but was able to make out a dent in the hood. I shuddered to think that Haley had left her mark. The camera followed as the car cut across Vermont. The back license plate was covered with dirt. Not very helpful. But I did make out a decal on the trunk.

It was a BMW. “Am I blind or does that look like a BMW decal?” I asked, just to be sure.

“It’s a BMW,” Emme said.

I decided I wanted a second opinion, so I asked Sienna. “That’s a BMW, right?”

She glanced up from playing with her phone. She was no doubt already voting for herself for Hussy of the Week. “Definitely a BMW.”

I would have done a cartwheel if there was enough room. There wasn’t, so I settled for smiling real big. “We figured out the car,” I said.

“So what now?” Emme asked.

Good question. Maybe part of me hadn’t thought I’d ever figure the car out because I hadn’t planned what to do after I did. “Call the tip line?” Sienna asked, messing with her phone.

That sounded like a good idea, except for one thing. “Is a dark blue or black BMW too vague?”

“You can give them a screenshot of the roses,” Emme suggested.

“I could, or I could give them more information,” I said. “I might be able to find out the owner.”

They both looked suitably impressed, which was what I was going for. I went to my purse and pulled out the piece of paper I’d gotten from Jay at Platinum Motorsports. It was the hottest auto mechanic shop in LA, and I felt more hopeful than ever that the tint had been done there. I dialed, making sure to put it on speaker so Emme and Sienna could listen. My luck continued, because it was Jay who answered.

“Hey, this is Dayna. I came in the other day … ” I trailed off.

“The one trying to catch your man’s jump-off,” Jay said.

I smiled. “Glad I was memorable. I found out the car for you. It’s a BMW, either black or dark blue. And it has a rose etched in the tint in all the windows.”

“Everyone’s getting those,” Jay said. “Idiots.”

He paused and I figured he was typing on his computer because he then said, “We got twenty-four black or dark blue BMWs with rose-etched tint. Like I said, everyone’s getting them.”

Fudge. No way could I read off a list of twenty-four cars to the tip line.

“The dent in the hood,” Emme whispered.

Right! Unless the driver was still cruising around town with Haley’s indentation on his car, he had to have gotten it fixed. “How many of those twenty-four came back the week after August 18th with car damage?” I asked.

After a brief silence, he spoke. “Montgomery Rose.” He rattled off a few more details about the car and a Miracle Mile addy as Emme, Sienna, and I exchanged excited glances. “Came in on August 22nd to get his grill replaced. Paid $1,322.33. Looks like your boyfriend’s jump-off is also cheating on her boyfriend.”

“I’m not surprised. She looked like a complete and total slut,” I said. “Thank you so much, Jay.”

“Don’t beat the chick up too bad.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

I hung up and did one of the things I hate most in this world: a fist pump. I, Dayna Olivia Anderson, with the help of my trusted allies, had done something the cops failed to do. Something that Aubrey guy failed to do. That everyone else in the entire world failed to do. I’d located the guy who’d killed Haley Joseph. And his name was Montgomery Rose.

We wasted no time looking him up. His website was the first hit on Google. Mr. Rose ran his own talent management firm.

I’d had a manager once. I supposed I technically still had a manager, just one I hadn’t spoken to in over six months. All managers were afraid one day you’d become the next Julia Roberts and wanted to leave the door open in case they needed to leach off you in the future. That meant instead of outwardly rejecting you now, they just stopped returning phone calls.

There was no doubt in my mind that if I hadn’t quit acting and got myself booked as the lead in the next Will Smith movie, my manager would have been calling me before the article about the casting news was fully uploaded to Deadline’s website. I was so glad to be done with the BS.

I clicked on Montgomery Rose’s bio and stared at the accompanying half-body shot. He was standard-issue okay-looking white guy. His teeth were whiter than a Klan rally. His brown hair was close-cropped, but I could tell it probably curled if he ever let it grow longer. He was wearing a suit tailored to cover any body imperfections, though I doubted he had any. He spent too much time on presentation not to go to the gym on a regular basis.

The bio itself was three paragraphs. A tip-off he was nowhere near the top of his field. The longer the bio, the less relevant the person. It was as if the person had to convince you of his importance. The actual important people took for granted that you already knew everything about them and kept their bios to a minimum with statements like “Oprah is human.”

Emme read and I translated. “Montgomery Rose is the Founder, CEO, and Chairman of the Rose Agency,” she said.

“Three titles,” I said. “He has no other employees and works out of his house.”

“Rose has an office in the heart of Beverly Hills.”

“He rents a P.O. box on Wilshire,” I offered.

“At just thirty-five, he has spent half his life learning every aspect of the business.”

“It took him a long time to finally get that position in the mailroom at the Creative Artists Agency.”

“He has worked with some of the biggest names in the business,” Emme continued.

“He once waited on Steven Spielberg.”

It went on from there. After we finished, Emme gave me a copy of Omari’s video and Sienna and I headed home. I drove so Sienna could continue to vote for herself as Hussy of the Week. When we got back to our place, I went into my room and looked at the piece of paper where I’d written down Montgomery Rose’s address and vital information. Haley’s killer, summed up in a couple of lines.

All I needed to do was to share this information with the police. I couldn’t remember the tip line number, so I dialed 311 and kept hitting buttons until I reached the LAPD. The voice was female, but I couldn’t decipher anything else regarding its owner. “Hi!” I said, with a bit more energy than I’d intended. “I’d like to report a tip!”

There was a pause. If it weren’t for the incessant chomping of her gum, I would have thought the call had dropped. I thought maybe she was blowing a bubble, but I didn’t hear the telltale pop. The voice finally spoke. “Congrats.”

Not exactly what I’d expected from LA’s finest. “The billboard said I should call if I have information, so here I am.”

“Oh, you’re trying to get a reward,” she said. Snap.

She didn’t have to be so judgmental about it. “I guess.”

“You need to call the tip line,” she said. Crackle.

“Can’t I tell you and you pass it on?”

“Not if you want your money.” Pop. “And I know you want your money.”

I did indeed want my money.

“If you went to our website, you would have seen that in order to be eligible for a reward, you have to use the tip line,” she said.

“Budget cuts that bad?”

She didn’t laugh. “I don’t make the rules, ma’am. Call the tip line if you want to be compensated.”

I was impressed how she could make a good deed sound so rude. “What’s the tip line’s nu—”

But I was talking to a dial tone.

I googled the LAPD Tip Line and clicked the link to make sure I didn’t miss any other fine print like having to sacrifice my first child if my tip turned out to be wrong. I read: “Crime prevention cannot be achieved by the police alone. Together professional law enforcement officers must work hand-in-hand with the public to fight crime and neighborhood disorder throughout our communities. As such, we depend heavily on your assistance in reporting crimes to the police.”

After that reassuring introduction, it explained the process. All tips were submitted anonymously, and prospective tipsters should not fear being pressured to provide their names or contact information. Each tipster was given a code number. If the information resulted in the arrest and subsequent filing of criminal charges, the tipster would receive his or her reward in cash, using his or her assigned code number to make arrangements to receive it.

Sounded good to me. Information in hand, I called again. “Tip line.” The voice sounded familiar.

“Hi, I want to report a tip.”

A smacking of gum, followed by a pause and then, “Congrats.”

“Did I just talk to you?”

“Ma’am, this is a busy office. Do you expect me to remember everyone’s voice?”

All righty. I decided to ignore that. “I have information on—”

“I need to ensure that you are aware of your rights before you provide any information.”

“Um, okay,” I said.

“‘Crime prevention cannot be achieved by the police alone. Together professional law enforcement officers … ’”

I realized she was reciting the information I’d just read on the website. What’s more, she didn’t even bother to pretend like she wasn’t reading. I interrupted. “Ma’am, I’m aware of my rights.”

More gum smacking. “I need to ensure that you are aware of your rights before you provide any information.”

“I read them on the website.”

“I need to ensure that you are aware of your rights before you provide any information.”

Realizing this was a lost battle, I surrendered. It was almost five, quitting time. Maybe she was just ready to go home. I reminded myself the woman was my key to keeping my parents off the street. I needed to play nice. “Ensure away.”

“Where was I?”

Having read the website, I could have told her, but I kept my mouth shut. I heard her clicking her mouse, trying to find where she had stopped. Smack. Click. Smack. Click. Smack. Click. She finally spoke. “‘Crime prevention cannot be achieved by the police alone. Together professional law enforcement officers … ’”

Geez. I admired Sienna’s shoe collection as I half-listened to her recite the website copy. I didn’t fully tune back in until I heard her say, “Now what is your tip regarding?”

“The hit-and-run murder of Haley Joseph.”

I waited, prepared for her to type something or ask another question or smack her gum some more or something. I got nothing. She finally spoke. “I don’t have all day, ma’am.” She made “ma’am” sound like a very specific word for a female dog.

“I have reason to believe the driver of the car was one Montgomery Rose. He drives a year-old black BMW. It was fixed at Platinum Motorsports four days after Haley was killed.”

I spelled out his name and gave her his contact information. She didn’t ask any more questions, nor did she thank me for the information. She didn’t say anything at all, in fact. “If you need to reach me, my name is—”

“Ma’am, this is an anonymous tip line. Anonymous.”

Right. “Don’t I get a secret identification number? I’m hoping it’s 007.”

I waited for her to at least laugh. She did not. Maybe she’d heard that one before. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I continued on. “That one’s already taken, right?”

Again, no laughter. Instead, she said, “1018.”

“Not as sexy as 007, but I’ll take it,” I said, then laughed for her.

“If this information leads to an arrest and conviction, please call this number back and provide your code number,” the voice said.

“Just call and say ‘1018’?”

But she’d hung up on me. Again.