Deadlines Page 16

  Mike shrugged. "Love the headline."

  "Former Child Star Turns Hero as He Rescues Mystery Blonde," I read out loud. "That makes it sound like someone tried to assault me. No one tried to hurt me! I merely stumbled."

  "I can see. You look like Bambi on ice."

  "'Child star, turned TV host, Richard Adamson, protected his pretty, mystery blonde date as they left a nightclub last night. ‘I only did what any man would do,’ says Adamson, who is currently filming Remembering the Stars. "I had to get between her and this crazed fan. We both feared for our lives.’ Feared for our lives? The guy just wanted a photo!"

  "I like the next bit," said Mike.

  "'As his date was brutally knocked to the ground in the scuffle, Adamson fought back, ensuring no further harm could come to the pretty lady.' Aww, they called me pretty twice!"

  "Not that bit. The next bit."

  "'Our sources tell us Adamson scooped up the damsel in distress while she sobbed in his arms, and called him her hero.' This is unbelievable!" I gaped at the page, worse than horrified.

  Mike grinned and nodded. "Yeah, that bit."

  "They made all that up!"

  "You didn't look like a sobbing damsel last night. You just looked pissed."

  "I was pissed because I fell over, and my date punched someone for calling him that awful nickname, then he shoved me into the car and didn't speak all the way home."

  "So... you're not happy about this?" Mike said.

  "No! I want to write articles, not be the topic of the story. I have to talk to Richard. Ugh. My phone is in my apartment."

  "Thanks for the drink," Mike called out as I stomped away.

  Upstairs, I tapped Richard's name on the screen and drummed my fingers against the sink until it beeped.

  "Shayne, hey. This is unexpected."

  "Did you see today's Hollywood Daily? Page seven?" I asked.

  "Sure did. Isn't it great?"

  "No!"

  "My PR is thrilled. She's already lined up a couple of interviews."

  "You can't do them! It's not true."

  "It is. Near enough anyway. What's the problem? Is it the photo? We can ask them to take some pro shots of us together for the interviews? Maybe get a hair and makeup team?"

  "I don't want a hair and makeup team! I want this to go away. I'm a serious reporter; and this article makes me look like a blubbering wreck."

  "They called you pretty twice. I look great. What's the problem?"

  “Well, for one, you didn't rescue me from anyone, and that guy wasn't any psycho, or trying to hurt us. He was just a drunken ass."

  "Look, sometimes you have to make lemons out of lemonade. I'm having a lemonade moment and the show and my PR are ecstatic. This is just the kind of promotion we need to push the new show."

  "Please," I pleaded, wincing when it came out like a whine.

  "It'll blow over in a week. They'll find another story. There's nothing I can do about it now. My hands are tied. Don't worry about it," he told me, sounding like he hoped it wouldn't blow over anytime soon. Me? I was flipping the finger at the phone. "I got to go. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring your bikini." He hung up before I told him exactly what I wanted to do with my bikini, which didn't include parading around in it for him. Of all the nerve! Richard knew I was a reporter, and now one of my rivals had a humiliating shot of me, along with a story that got so spun out of proportion, it was less meat and more like cotton candy.

  What, I thought with dread, if Ben saw that? Or Bob? Who would take me seriously as a reporter after this debacle? And what would make Richard think I want to be photographed with him for the follow-up interview?

  Steaming, I turned away from my phone, my eyes catching the murder board. "Chucky, you have no idea how much I need to solve your murder," I told the photos and notes pinned to the wall. A light bulb went off in my mind. I had to see Chucky's body and now I knew just how to get away with it. "And you know what else? Mike is right! Who wants to work on Saturday? Not Detective Smith I bet. It's time you and I met face to face."

  Leaving my paint brushes soaking in water, I showered quickly and changed into a morgue-respectable blouse and pants set. After adding low heels and a smart bag, I hoped I would project more gravitas as a professional woman. How I would get in and see the body, I still didn't know; but I had plenty of time to plan for that as I pointed my car in the direction of the morgue.

  Getting into the building was easy when I flashed my press credentials. Luck was with me as the morgue security door was left unattended so I didn't have to use the fake story I'd created on the way. I slipped through, walking quickly as it shut softly behind me. Another set of double swing doors waited at the end of the corridor. I headed for them as I mentally settled on my ruse, which relied on little more than subterfuge.

  "Hello!" I called cheerily to the young man in the white coat. He sat at an untidy desk, a big monitor concealing most of his body. "Are you new?" I asked when he looked up, startled.

  "Yes?" he mumbled, seemingly uncertain if he were giving an answer, or asking a question.

  "I always remember a face. I know I don't recognize yours. I'm interning with LAPD. They sent me over to get the files on some dead guy. Chuck Barnard? Chucky Barnard? Am I in the right place?" I twirled my hair over one shoulder, bordering on a “little, stupid me” and “won't the big man in the lab coat rescue me?” Sure, it was a trite ploy, but it rarely failed.

  "Yeah, he's one of ours. Have you got the paperwork?"

  "Sure!" I opened my empty purse, pretending to rummage in it before my face fell and I became appalled. By the time I met his eyes, I was sure I'd gone very white. "Ohmygosh! I don't have them! My boss is going to kill me!"

  "I can't release any files without the paperwork, but I could email them to you?" he offered.

  "Oh, no. No, no, no! My boss, he's, well, he's old school. Barely touches a computer. I am so dead," I whined while peering at the man's name tag. "He's going to fire me, Derek. I just know it. Do you know how hard it is to get an internship when your parents aren't intimate friends with the boss already?"

  "Yeah, I do, actually. I had to beat out two hundred applicants for a three-month internship here. Unpaid," he added.

  "So you do understand?" I placed a hand over my heart, maintaining my flustered, but hopeful demeanor. "I need this credit for school, too. What am I going to do? He's going to fire me for sure! He said he needed that report, stat."

  "I guess I could let you read the files?" said Derek, sitting a little taller now. "I just can't let you remove them from the building without the paperwork. I'm really sorry."

  "That would be perfect! I can take a few notes and write down everything he needs to know. Oh, thank you so much. You saved my life, Derek!"

  "No problem." Derek got up, strode around the desk, and disappeared into the room next door. When he returned moments later, he had a slim, brown file in his hand. I took it, gushing my thanks again. "Take this chair," Derek offered, pulling a chair out and positioning it near his desk. "I hope you're not squeamish. There are graphic photos in here."

  "Not at all!" I cranked open the file, scanning it for pertinent information, knowing that Derek could, at any moment, discover my lie and eject me from the building. Everything I already knew was here, and a little bit more. I opened my notepad, noting the type and volume of pills that were listed in the file. The closeup of Chucky's tongue suggested he'd bitten it when he was forced to swallow the pills, along with the bruising over his mouth. More bruising was located on his chest and three of his ribs were fractured, implying he’d been physically held down. Chucky struggled before his death, I realized with growing concern, and the assailant must have been very strong. I skimmed the ME's notes, unsurprised to find the verdict was homicide.

  What I didn't know was the shape of one of the bruises. It formed a distinctive pattern, something the medical examiner found particularly interesting. I flipped past the photos until I saw what I was looking
for. There it was: a small mark with indentations on Chucky's chest. I knew exactly where I saw that mark before; and it proved Jenna wasn't a killer. "I think I got everything," I said, returning the file to him. "I'll bring back the paperwork."

  "I'm here Monday and Tuesday of next week," Derek offered, the glint of hope sparkling in his hooded, brown eyes.

  "Only until Tuesday? I'm stuck on the weekends," I said, pulling a face as I stood up before shaking his hand. "It was so nice of you to help me. I'll make sure my boss knows whom we can rely on in this office."

  I declined his offer to be shown out, sensing my luck couldn't hold out much longer and made a quick exit. I was so busy taking notes in my notepad before I forgot any detail that I didn't notice the body moving into my path, that is, not until we collided.

  Looking up at the man blocking my way, I swallowed my apology and simply stared. Apparently I was wrong about no one else working at the weekend. Finally, when he did nothing but stare at me in surprise, I forced out a squeak. "Ben?"

  Chapter Nineteen

  The swim was exactly what I needed to cool off, both mentally and physically. I thought about turning down Richard's invitation before remembering this was part of the lifestyle I was trying to attain. Why put a kink in my plans just because I got upset about Richard’s thrill at getting good PR? He wasn't exactly thriving on my misfortune. It was just an opportunity for him to get ahead. Besides, how different was I in trying to get ahead by scooping the breaking news headline on Chucky's death? I ignored the uncomfortable feeling of being used for a story, and packed my swimsuit. Then I eagerly hopped into the car Richard sent over.

  Now as I rinsed off under the outdoor shower, I knew I made the right decision. This was exactly what I needed to wipe away the stress of my near-miss with Ben at the morgue yesterday. Not to mention, the lingering scent of paint after applying yet another coat to my bedroom walls.

  "Brunch," called Richard, setting a jug on the patio table before turning and walking inside. He opened the floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the delicious aroma of bacon to waft across to me.

  I shut off the shower, winding my hair into a ponytail, and squeezing out the excess water as I looked down at my white swimsuit. I never sat down to brunch in a swimsuit before. However, it seemed to have developed a see-through patch on one side, so I figured today wouldn't be the first time. "Can I grab a dry towel?" I asked Richard, ducking my head through the door. He looked up from the plates he was arranging and nodded. "Grab a robe from the downstairs bathroom," he told me.

  "Thank you." I followed his pointed finger to the downstairs bathroom, which he'd shown me earlier on the house tour, and slipped inside. A pair of plush, white robes hung on wall hooks. I slipped one on, conscious of the drips I was leaving on the floor. Checking my face in the mirror, I was glad I wore the super-strength, waterproof mascara that didn't make a single smudge. Giving my face one last satisfied look, I checked my teeth for anything less than perfect, and exited the bathroom into a corridor that spanned the length of the house. Richard turned it into a mini art gallery and I paused in front of a couple of paintings, searching for interesting details, and admiring the artistry. Below the frames was a wall of half bookcases, neatly stacked with books covering everything from art to travel. The white walls, white, wooden bookcases, and light from the plate glass doors at the front and rear of the house flooded the corridor, imbuing the space with the feel of an airy gallery despite the massive volume of contents. It was both surprising and interesting. I had no idea of what I thought Richard's home would be like, but it was definitely not this.

  Richard was on a phone call when I returned, and his back was turned as I stepped into the kitchen. Seeing the plates already on the table, and the tall juice glasses still on the kitchen island, I guessed he was interrupted. I reached for the glasses, knocking over a small, porcelain dish with my oversized sleeve. I cringed as the contents spilled across the island, but Richard didn't bother to turn around, so I gathered up the loose items — foreign coins, a few nickels, a tube of lip gloss that really wasn't Richard's color, several cufflinks and a pen — and poured them back into the dish. Carrying a glass in each hand, I was relieved at not having to admit breaking his possessions, and I joined Richard outside.

  "Let's keep her a mystery," Richard was saying. "I think that works better. Yes, I agree. Yes, absolutely. Yes, I know her name! No, she won't go public. Why don't you put something together and send it over? And say yes to E! Sorry about that. Shayne?"

  "Hmm?" I looked up from my juice, realizing that Richard hung up. "Was you talking to me?"

  "Yes. I said sorry about that. It was my agent, checking in."

  "Oh? All okay?" My face might have been pointed towards the perimeter of the property as if were looking out over the city, but my ears were firmly tuned to Richard's voice. I had the creeping suspicion they were talking about me.

  "Yes, great. We're just discussing strategy."

  "I don't know what that means," I said, playing dumb. As far as tactics went, that was one I used on numerous occasions because it often gleaned results.

  "It means we're talking about how to capture more publicity for me and the show. I've been booked on E!"

  "That's fantastic!"

  "I know."

  "It's a great way to reach our audience and play on that nostalgia element. They'll probably run the clip..."

  "Of the show?"

  "Friday night. Then we'll..."

  "Wait. What clip from Friday night?"

  "The video of that incident. Someone took a video on their phone. My agent told me it's gone viral."

  "Oh my gosh!" I choked on the glass of juice, my eyes watering. Wasn't it bad enough to know there was a single photo? Now there was a video too! Where would my humiliation end?"

  "They won't show the whole video, just the bit where I’m defending you."

  "You weren't defending me. I stumbled and fell over."

  "The public won't know that. They just see a childhood hero defending his date."

  "But it's not true! You got annoyed because he called you that nickname."

  "The audio is really bad on the tape, so no one can verify anything that was said," said Richard with a shrug.

  I sucked a breath in through my nose, trying to cool my burgeoning annoyance. Richard knew the real story and preferred to twist it for the publicity rather than telling the truth. Since I was the one being used as the excuse for the thrown punch, it had suddenly become all about my honor, which only incensed me further. So much for keeping me out of the limelight!

  "Why don't you tell them the real story?"

  "What real story?" asked Richard. "Aren't these pancakes great? They're organic. And I bought the fruit at a farmer's market yesterday."

  I hadn't even sampled my breakfast. "The real story about what happened," I pressed, "It could be your chance to say how much that stupid nickname hurts you and apologize for lashing out..."

  "What!? And get slapped with a lawsuit?" Richard laughed as he shook his head. "You have to be kidding. Plus, that wouldn't be cool. This is the story of a hero that everyone wants to know. It's not me, Shayne. It's the public. I'm just giving them what they want."

  I stabbed a piece of pancake and stuffed it into my mouth. It was too dry and I had to force myself to chew it. It wasn't the cooking, I reasoned, but the cook. I doubted I could stomach eating brunch with Richard while I listened to him playing up his own spin. Was that the game in this town? Forget the sunshine lifestyle, just find more spin doctors and put-upon nurses? As a journalist, reporting anything besides the truth didn't make me comfortable. Trying to reason with Richard was like wading through a pool full of maple syrup: very difficult and with a nasty, sticky feeling at the end of it.

  However, there were a few things I could do. The first was to get out of there. I really wanted to believe Richard was one of the good guys, looking for someone just like me, but unfortunately, the number one spot in his life seemed to h
ave already been taken... by him.

  "I have to check my phone quickly," I said, changing the pointless subject. Clearly, he hadn't listened to me earlier. Why would he now? "My building manager mentioned a problem with the electric system when I left earlier."

  "Sure," said Richard as his phone trilled again.

  I grabbed my purse, checking it. "Oh my gosh!" I called out, plastering alarm across my face. "Richard, I have to go."

  "Hold the line," he said, glancing up at me expectantly.

  "Something happened and they think my apartment is the source. They need to get inside and if I'm not home in an hour, they'll break down the door. I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Right now!" I added with urgency, hoping he would buy my lame excuse. I turned away, grabbing my dress from where I folded it over the arm of the chair earlier. I shrugged off the robe and slid the dress over my head, not caring if I got damp spots.

  "The car is waiting..." Richard started.

  "Don't bother seeing me out!" I called, already halfway down the corridor before I lost my nerve. "And thanks for brunch!"

  "Wait! When will I see you again?"

  "Call me!" I slammed the door behind me, almost laughing at my clean escape. I jogged barefoot along the drive, then hopped into my sandals, and slid into the backseat of the car. My unexpected appearance made the driver jump and he abruptly pulled out his ear buds. "Home, please," I requested, resting on the leather seat, relieved that the date was over. As I thought with horror of the E! channel screening the video, I wasn't sure I would ever answer Richard's phone calls again. I wanted a man to date, not to become his prop. Richard made it very clear that I was serving as an excellent prop for his career. Plus, I had to remind myself, where did the sparks go on that last kiss?

  ~