CHAPTER THREE

 

Almost an hour later I was standing on a street corner in downtown L.A. in jeans and a hastily thrown on T-shirt, staring at a dead Bobby Baxter.

Crime scene tape sectioned off the sidewalk, and the paparazzi crowded the street, snapping pictures while reporters shouted questions at the police on the scene. I spotted Tina Bender, a fellow reporter at the Informer, jotting down notes on her tiny notepad. Her black clothing and purple streaked hair stood out in the crowd. She looked up and spotted me, narrowed her eyes, and then went back to her notes.

I wanted to kick myself for allowing her to beat me to the scene. Tina and I had been in a kind of competition for the best stories since the day I'd arrived. I'd had something to prove—that Felix hadn't hired me just because I was a D cup—and she'd had something of her own to prove to me—that she was top dog, and I better not think of stealing her bone. Of course, I'd done just that. Hey, what better way to show you could run with the big dogs than to take the big doggie's fave toy? What I hadn't counted on was that Tina wasn't the forgive and forget kind. She was more the we can coexist, but stay off my turf kind.

Only, Bobby was my story and my turf. And now I had to play catch up. Damn. I hated playing catch up. There was no telling what kind of information Tina had gotten before I'd arrived.

I weaved my way through the crowd until I was standing up against the crime scene tape. Thankfully, I'd made it in time to see the body before the police covered it with a tarp. Just seeing the body alone answered many of my questions. Bobby was lying face up, eyes open, with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Cause of death—pretty straightforward. Blood pooled beneath his head and upper body and dripped off the curb into the street.

As much as I was trying to be the cool, unemotional reporter, I felt bile begin to rise in the back of my throat and had to look away. The fact that I'd seen this man so full of life—albeit angry life—just hours ago hit me harder than I thought it would. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, and I took deep breaths to try to keep the scenery from spinning.

Reporters were shouting questions all around me, all of which the police ignored. I scanned the crowd, purposely not looking at Bobby again, and spotted another familiar face. Cam. She was still in the cocktail dress I'd seen her in earlier, though she'd covered it with a trench that felt more appropriate for the gritty scene than sparkly sequins.

I worked my way through the crowd, stepping on toes and dodging elbows until I was by her side.

"Can you believe this?" she asked when I stepped up beside her. Gone was the celebratory smile she'd had earlier. Instead her face looked grim and decidedly sober. "Total madness."

She wasn't lying. The street was full of reporters, and fans were starting to crowd as well, blocking traffic.

"Hey, didn't you interview this guy?" she asked as she raised her camera and fired off a few shots in rapid succession.

"I was supposed to today, but he put it off until tomorrow morning. Have you heard anything?" I almost had to shout for her to hear me as she held her camera up and fired off more shots.

"Just that he was shot, which is pretty obvious." She nodded toward the body with a hole in its head. "I overheard the coroner say he'd been dead about an hour or so when I got here."

I checked the time on my phone. That put the time of death at somewhere near midnight. "Did anyone witness the shooting?" I asked.

"Not that I've heard. This corner of the street isn't usually busy this time of night, so I'm not surprised."

Neither was I. It's not like a killer was going to just walk up and kill someone, especially someone as famous as Bobby Baxter, on a busy street corner. Not if he wanted to get away with it, that was.

"But I'll tell you one thing," Cam said, snapping off more pictures. "If you want to get the lowdown on this story, you better get a move on. Tina's here, and she's determined."

I looked over at my competition again. Tina might not like me, but I'll admit I admired her. She was one hell of a reporter, and she'd proven in the past that she wasn't afraid to take some wild chances to get her story. Even if they were usually at my expense.

"Thanks, Cam. I'll see you at the office in the morning."

"Take it easy," she said and continued to work.

I made my way through the worst of the crowd, listening for anything that I could print. The chatter was all the same. Someone had killed Bobby Baxter. No one had seen anything. The police weren't talking to the press.

I hung around for a few minutes, but the officers on the scene stonewalled all my questions with curt "no comment"s. As the coroner's van showed up to move Bobby, and the crowd began to disperse, I realized I wasn't getting anything else here tonight. I trudged back to my car and headed in the direction of my apartment.

 

*   *   *

 

I stepped off the elevators the next morning at nine fifteen, just slightly late for work. Already the hum of activity was high. Keyboards clacked as reporters like myself typed out stories and columns. A symphony of voices taking calls from informants and following up on "anonymous" sources collided, creating a dull roar of noise. And various assistants and interns raced between their cubicles and Felix's glass-walled office in the center of the room, with hot tips and tepid coffees. Felix looked up from the copy he was approving as I walked past, giving me a nod. I gave the chief a little salute before settling at my desk in my own cube near the windows.

The first thing I did—after getting my own tepid coffee, that is—was assemble my meager notes from my trip the day before to the set of Bobby Tells All and jot off a quick story on Bobby, his death, and his altercation weeks before. It wasn't much, but I hoped my insider look at the show at least added some extra interest over whatever Tina was cooking up. I quickly emailed it to Felix. It wasn't my best work, but it would have to do until I could get to the heart of the real story—who had killed Bobby Baxter.

The interview that I would now never get was scheduled for ten o'clock, and while I clearly couldn't talk to Bobby, there was a chance I could talk to his personal assistant again. While I wasn't counting on getting lucky enough that Henry would know who killed Bobby, I had a strong hope that he could at least tell me where Bobby had been the night before and who he'd planned to be with. I only hoped that Henry had been too distraught to remember to have my name removed from the studio visitor's list.

Twenty minutes later I pulled up to the gates outside the studio where Bobby Tells All was filmed and stopped at the guard shack.

The same plump, balding man who'd allowed me entrance the day before leaned out of the shack window and smiled.

"Back again today, Ms. Quick?"

"I sure am." I smiled up at him.

He flipped some pages on his clipboard and nodded. "There you are," he said as he scanned the sheets of paper.

I let out a mental sigh of relief.

"Have a nice day." He sent me a small salute and raised the wooden arm barring my car's way. I drove through, made a right, and parked in the visitor parking area. I grabbed a visitor golf cart and steered in the direction of the Bobby Tells All set.

From what I'd seen of Bobby's behavior the day before, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd finally pushed someone he worked with too far and if they'd lost it and knocked him off. The thought wasn't too farfetched. Bobby appeared to be a major pain. I'd read stories of people being killed for a lot less.

I parked outside the giant warehouse that was home to Bobby Tells All and walked inside. The set was quiet, but many of the crew members were still milling about looking unsure what to do. Clearly the memo hadn't gotten to everyone last night that the star of their show was dead. I spotted the director talking quietly to a couple of men in suits—likely from the network—near the side of the stage that was still set up like the lab from yesterday's segment. I spotted the makeup girl and the wardrobe woman sitting near the Craft services table, chatting in low tones. To my surprise, the wardrobe woman was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Either she had a very kind heart, or maybe Bobby hadn't always been a jerk to her. A couple of feet away I spotted Henry, his headset dangling around his neck and a cup of coffee in hand. If possible, he looked more tired and spent than the day before.

My ballet flats—which perfectly paired with my curve-hugging white linen jumpsuit—tapped quietly today as I made my way over to where he was standing.

"Henry?" I asked. "Allie Quick from the L.A. Informer. Remember me?"

"Of course, Ms. Quick." He appeared surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here after…" He trailed off, clearly not sure how to tactfully refer to his boss being found shot in the head.

I nodded and tried to look appropriately sympathetic and understanding.

"I heard about what happened to Bobby. I'm so sorry for your loss."

Henry cleared his throat. "Thanks. But it's not like we were close."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh?"

"Bobby wasn't exactly the type to get personal." Then he frowned as if suddenly realizing what he was saying. "Don't get me wrong. I'm sorry he's gone. No one deserves that." He paused, as if mentally envisioning that.

"I noticed yesterday that Bobby wasn't exactly the warm fuzzy type," I said, hoping to draw a bit more out of him.

Henry shrugged. "Hollywood. What can you do?"

"How long did you work for him?"

"Three years."

"That's a long time. You must have gotten to know each other pretty well."

He shook his head. "Like I said, Bobby wasn't interested in getting personal. He didn't know anything about me except that I did all of his grunt work for him."

While Henry was clearly shaken at the turn of events, he didn't sound all that torn up about Bobby being gone. Then again, who could blame him? From what I'd seen of Bobby, I couldn't say I'd miss him much either if I'd had to do his grunt work.

"Do you know anyone who would've wanted to hurt him?" I said, asking the obvious question.

Henry shrugged. "Bobby was…let's say, abrupt…with almost everyone. You couldn't throw a rock around here without hitting someone who'd had a run-in with him at some point. But I don't know of anyone who would've actually killed him, if that's what you mean."

"Did he have any arguments with anyone on set lately? Maybe more heated than normal?" I added, fearing the answer could encompass just about everyone.

Henry shook his head. "He might not have been the easiest guy to work for, but he was the reason we all got paychecks, you know?"

He had a point. I glanced around at the shell-shocked crew. Without Bobby, Bobby Tells All was done for, and they were all out of a job. I didn't know anyone who'd throw away their livelihood simply because the guy they worked for was a jerk.

I decided to try another avenue.

"Bobby uncovered a lot of the secrets on his show, didn't he?"

Henry shrugged again. "I guess so. I mean, that was the whole point—uncover the stuff big business doesn't want you to know."

"Did anyone he ever profile on the show retaliate? Maybe file a lawsuit or threaten Bobby himself?"

"Sure. All the time."

Oh boy. Bobby's winning personality was making the suspect pool hard to narrow down. "Any stand out to you?"

Henry shook his head. "Not really. Legal handles all of that. Besides, none of them would have a reason to kill Bobby. The shows have already aired."

"What about shows that haven't aired yet?" I asked. "Do you know what Bobby was currently working on?"

Henry leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "We had a few shows in production that hadn't aired yet. But they're really no big secret. They're posted on the website."

I made a mental note to check out Bobby's site.

"What can you tell me about them?" I smiled, hoping to appeal to his good nature to indulge me.

He sighed. "Well, there were three that he was developing at the moment."

I pulled out my phone, hitting the record function to take notes as Henry began giving me the details.

"The first one just wrapped shooting yesterday—you saw the tail end of it."

I nodded encouragingly.

"It was called 'The Tooth and Nothing but the Tooth.' It was a tell-all about oral hygiene. Like, what your dentist doesn't want you to know. The truth about flossing and mouthwash and all that." He shrugged, seeming unimpressed with the show idea himself. "The one we finished before that was called 'Hair Today Gone Tomorrow.' It was another exposé type of show that was supposed to tell the good, the bad, and the really ugly about laser hair removal."

"And the last show?" I asked.

"The last show that I know about was still in the research phase. It was called 'Takin' Out the Trash.' It was supposed to uncover the truth about what really happens to your garbage and recycling after it reaches the plant. Where it ends up, how recycling really works, if it's actually environmentally friendly with all the chemicals and water used. Stuff like that. It's supposed to air later this spring."

None of these shows sounded like they could lead to a man's murder. Homicidal dentist? Angry estheticians? I mean, how bad could recycling be? I tried not to let my disappointment show. So far, my one in with this story was turning out to be a dud.

"One last thing," I said, feeling I was quickly losing Henry's attention. "Do you know what Bobby's schedule was last night? Where he was going, who he planned to be with?"

Henry shook his head. "Sorry. I had the night off."

Fab. But I pasted on a smile anyway and told him, "Thanks, Henry. You've been a big help."

"Hey, you're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start looking for another job." He gave me a wan smile as he walked away.

I hurried back to the golf cart I'd driven to the set and steered in the direction of the visitor parking lot and my car. Then I hopped into my Bug and pulled past the guard shack and onto the 10 freeway in the direction of the Informer. As I went over what Henry had told me, I couldn't help but worry how Tina was faring. It was clear from her presence at the crime scene last night that she intended to try to scoop me. I wondered if Felix knew Tina was trying to steal my story out from under me. Not that he'd care, really. As much as Felix was a hot date and a protective guy when it came to us as a couple, when we were in the office, it was all business. And Felix was in the business of printing the most salacious, scandalous stories he could get—no matter where they came from. If Tina came in with something juicier than I did, I knew he wouldn't think twice about killing my story and going with hers.

That thought had me pushing the accelerator just a tad harder than I should as I hit the 101 and raced under one of the massive overpasses.

It wasn't until I spotted the telltale black-and-white of a CHP officer's car at the side of the road that I slowed. Luckily for me, he already had a small sports car, with an angry-looking driver behind the wheel, pulled over at the side of the road. The CHP must have been hiding under the overpass and caught the sports car speeding. I thanked my lucky stars it was him who'd been caught in the speed trap and not me. The thought of having to pay a speeding ticket threw a bucket of cold water on my desire to get to the office any quicker than legally possible.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of the Informer.

The L.A. Informer offices were housed in a three-story, square, dingy beige stucco building with peeling paint and a rickety fire escape that would probably kill you faster than the fire you were running from. It was located on Hollywood Boulevard, just on the border of where tourist shops selling maps to stars' homes gave way to crack houses selling stuff that could make you see stars.

I locked my car in the lot behind the building and hurried inside. I rode the sketchy elevator up to the second floor. The doors dinged open, which startled me because they hadn't dinged in weeks. Someone must have sprung for a repair finally. I stepped off into the controlled chaos that was my place of employment.

I passed by Cam in her cubicle sorting through her shots of Bobby Baxter's extremely dead body, and Tina in her cubicle talking animatedly on the phone while simultaneously clicking her computer mouse. She looked up, saw me, frowned, and then turned her chair in the opposite direction. Great. She probably had a hot lead, while I had stories about dentists and trash.

Felix glanced up and spotted me as I passed by. I gave him a small smile. He nodded once at me then bent his head back to the work on the desk in front of him. I ignored his cool we're at work demeanor and continued toward my desk.

"Hey, Allie." Max Beacon popped his gray head up from his cubicle as I approached.

"Hey, yourself."

"You heard about Bobby Baxter?"

I nodded.

"Gonna be a hell of an obit," he said. Max was somewhere between 65 and 105, had a balding head of pure white hair, droopy bloodshot eyes, a prickly growth of gray stubble covering the lower half of his face, and a faint aroma of whisky, probably from the flask he kept not-so-hidden in his bottom desk drawer. He wrote the obituary column, and he'd been at the Informer longer than anyone. And he vowed he'd be here until we were ready to print his own obit, which he had prewritten, detailing how he'd died of cirrhosis of the liver.

"I heard you were supposed to interview the guy," Max said, leaning on the outer edge of his cube.

"Today in fact," I told him. "Just my luck."

"Could be worse," Max answered. "You could be Baxter."

"Very good point." I paused. "You have his obit done yet?" While I was pretty sure it wouldn't contain much I didn't already know, no stone unturned, right?

Max grinned as he sat back down behind his computer. An ancient one with an even more ancient monitor. Sometime around 1995 Max had refused to upgrade his equipment any further, which suited Felix's frugal nature just fine. "Funny, Tina just asked me the same thing."

I thought a dirty word. "You give it to her?"

Max shook his head. "I wasn't done yet."

"And are you done now?" I asked, batting my eyelashes at him.

His grin widened. "It just so happens that I am."

Finally the blonde catches a break! "So, can I see it?" I shot him another eyelash-fluttering smile.

He cackled deep in his throat. "It's good for my old heart to have pretty young girls fighting over me." He pulled a sheet of paper from his printer and handed it to me. "But know that if Tina asks, I'm not keeping anything from her either."

I waved him off. That was fine with me. As long as I got it first.

I took the paper and read it over. "Bobby was married?"

"It appears so." Max nodded. "Marilyn Baxter is her name. They're separated now, but they hadn't divorced yet, from what I understand."

That would explain why no one had mentioned a wife to me so far. It also put a whole new spin on who could've killed Bobby. Wasn't the wife always the best suspect?

"Thanks, Max," I said, turning toward my desk. "I owe you one."

He grinned at me. "If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

I hurried to my desk and ran a quick search for Bobby Baxter on a website for public records. As Max had said, no divorce on record. There were, however, two properties in Bobby's name. A large home in the Hollywood Hills purchased two years ago and a condo in Culver City, near the studio that had just been purchased a few months ago. When the happy couple split, perhaps? Putting my money on the Hollywood Hills place as the wife's residence, I jotted down the address, shut down my computer, grabbed my purse, and practically ran to the elevator. As the doors slid shut, I spotted Tina eyeing me. She knew I was up to something.

The fact that Marilyn Baxter was separated from her husband was interesting. Clearly there was trouble in paradise, and clearly if a divorce was imminent, she stood to have her assets cut at least in half—possibly more if Bobby'd had her sign a prenup. But since her husband died before the divorce became final, she stood to inherit everything.

I needed to talk to the wife.

I hopped off of the janky elevator, jogged across the lot, and once inside my Bug, sped off in the direction of the Hollywood Hills.