six

The after parties at the Oscars are a glitzier version of the high school bashes depicted in a John Hughes film; only the cool, rich kids are invited and even once inside those gilded walls, cliques still abound. The pinnacle of all these parties is, of course, the iconic gala hosted by Vanity Fair. Here the famous, the powerful, and the beautiful (and more often than not, a combination of all three) gather to gossip, celebrate, and network.

Nigel and I pushed our way past the throngs of press parked along Sunset Strip and presented our invitation to the alarmingly large, albeit polite, doorman. After he verified its authenticity, we were granted entry past the barricades and into the privileged sanctum beyond. My years on the force had left me more than a little cynical, but even I found myself starstruck at the scene before me. Here was Hollywood’s elite, encircling me in a heady blur of expensive tuxedos, sequined gowns, false eyelashes, and tanned skin. As a variety of oldies songs played from hidden speakers, they mingled and congratulated one another all while scarfing down a seemingly never-ending supply of cocktails and cheeseburgers. The polite composure on display during the ceremony had been replaced with one far more casual. Shoes were removed; golden statues were employed as microphones, and outbursts of dancing were neither infrequent nor frowned upon.

Orbiting this celestial constellation was a steady stream of glam cigarette girls who cheerfully dispensed candy and e-cigarettes, the later being the only indication that we hadn’t fallen through a wormhole and traveled back in time.

Nigel quickly snagged two flutes of champagne, and we made our way farther into the room. In one corner, I saw Steven Spielberg chatting with Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson. In another, Robert De Niro shared a joke with Ben Stiller. It was hard not to stare.

As Nigel and I helped ourselves to the complimentary cheeseburgers, Mandy approached us with a wide smile. The microphone she held earlier had been replaced with an e-cigarette. In her other hand was a glass of wine.

“Since when did you start smoking?” I asked her as she drew closer.

“About five minutes after the show ended,” she said. “That goddamn juice cleanse was like having a weeklong colonoscopy. I feel like I have to counteract it with a few weeks of really bad habits.”

“I don’t see why people have such a hard time with juice cleanses,” Nigel said. “I think they’re pretty easy.”

“Nigel,” I said with a shake of my head, “for the hundredth time, cranberry juice and vodka do not constitute a juice cleanse.”

Mandy gave a lusty sigh. “God, but wouldn’t it be great if it did?” She took another puff of her cigarette and asked, “So, what did you think of the show?”

“It was a little long,” Nigel and I said in unison.

Mandy rolled her eyes in agreement. “When is it not? That should be its tag line ‘The Oscars—It’s a Little Long.’”

I quickly pressed my finger over Nigel’s mouth and turned to Mandy. “What about you?” I asked as Nigel laughed. “Were you happy with it?”

Mandy nodded and took a deep puff of her cigarette. “I got my interviews, and it ended on time. That’s all I ever really care about. Of course, all anyone can really talk about is Christina’s acceptance speech,” said Mandy. “Speaking of which, what did you make of it?” she asked, her eyes bright.

“Pretty gracious, all things considered,” I said.

Mandy gave an unlady-like snort. “Are you sure you used to be a detective?” she teased. “Because, if you ask me, it was payback tied up in a pretty gold bow. Karma is a bitch, and Christina just gave it John’s address.”

“How so?” Nigel asked.

Mandy took a puff of her cigarette. “Because Christina managed to plant the idea in Jules’s tiny brain that things aren’t over between her and John.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Jules is in a royal snit,” said Mandy. “Not that that is anything new, of course. Jules Dixon has never been one to hide her emotions. Unless,” she added archly, “she’s in front of a camera.” She then tilted her chin toward the back of the room. “The ‘happy couple’ is over there,” she said. “If you look closely, you’ll note that Jules is trying not to appear like she wants to throw her drink in his face, and John is surreptitiously collecting napkins in case she does.”

I glanced to where Mandy indicated. Jules and John were in the far corner of the room. They did not touch one another. They did not speak to one another. Eye contact was apparently also taboo.

“They don’t exactly radiate joy, do they?” I said.

“Nope, they sure don’t,” Mandy responded with a grin.

I glanced at her. “You certainly seem to be getting a kick out of this. Why?”

Mandy shrugged. “No reason, really. I just don’t get the fascination with Jules.”

I made a rude noise. “You don’t get the fascination with a twenty-something-year-old who has the body of a lingerie model and who was once described by an ex as being ‘a sexual ninja in bed’?” I asked. “Seriously?”

“Back up,” Nigel said, holding up his hand. “A sexual ninja? Is that good or bad?”

“Good,” Mandy and I answered in unison.

“Really?” he asked, his expression unconvinced. “I mean, to each his own and all that, but it sounds more risky than risqué. Those nunchucks can be deadly. Especially in the wrong hands.”

“That could be said about a lot of things,” I said.

“You do have a point there,” Nigel said. “In fact, it reminds me of a girl I once heard of who …”

“I just don’t think John should get his happily ever after,” Mandy said interrupting. “Christina is a sweetheart, and she was devoted to John. I hate it when the men in this town think it’s okay to trade in for the newer model. It’s pathetic.” She turned to Nigel for support. “You wouldn’t leave Nic and marry a younger woman, would you?”

“Of course not,” he replied, his tone appalled. Taking a sip of champagne, he added, “Do you have any idea how much weddings cost these days? It’s obscene.”

“Mother always said to marry a man with good financial sense,” I confided happily to Mandy as I linked my arm through Nigel’s.