Deadlines Page 3

  "That’s how you came to the conclusion Chucky was murdered?" I asked.

  Jenna forced her shoulders back, sitting bolt upright. Making herself appear more confident that she feels, I thought. "Yes, my brother was murdered. I'm sure of it. And right now, that person is getting away with it."

  ~

  I left Jenna Barnard with my head full of new thoughts. Chucky was at the cusp of his big break and even filming his new show, something that would appeal to a broad range of people that included not only the families who watched his show growing up, but also those children's families. According to Jenna, he already held several press conferences about the show and was starting to re-appear in magazines again. Judging by the cuttings mounted all over his house, I was pretty sure Chucky felt thrilled about that, especially given the big gap in media coverage.

  If I were writing his obituary as a straight-up ode to his life, I would mention all of those things, noting how sad it was that he died before having the opportunity to fully break back into TV again. I gave my SatNav another shake and inputted the address for the Bougainvillea Apartments, but that didn't stop the niggling feel Jenna was onto something. Perhaps, it was a far bigger story than I could have originally hoped.

  If she were right, this wouldn't just be a headline about the death of one of the nation's favorite kids, but a tragic murder. Undoubtedly, once the story broke, it would become nationally syndicated and I would be the reporter who scooped everyone!

  Pushing away the small amount of guilt I felt at profiting from Chucky's death, I concentrated on the real issue. If someone did kill Chucky, right now, they weren't under any suspicion. I needed to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Chucky's death wasn't accidental. To do that, I had to contact the police department. Jenna gave me the details of the police officer handling the case, and right after I moved into my apartment, I planned to pay them a visit.

  By the time I got to the apartment complex, my resolve had all but frizzled away. So much for the sunny, blue skies of LA, I decided thirty minutes after hitting bumper-to-bumper traffic and crawling through rising smog. Now I got it: the reason why Angelenos complained about their traffic. Instead of moaning helplessly, and allowing that sinking feeling to overtake me again, I hit the radio and sang along to Katy Perry until I reached my exit. I traveled the rest of the way at a smooth pace and eventually pulled up outside a squat-looking three-story building with a pair of big, wooden doors. Grabbing my purse, I locked my car and entered through a walkway framed by pretty, but rambling, overgrown flower bushes. I hit the buzzer on the door for the apartment manager.

  "What?" came an angry voice through the speaker after I punched the button three times over the course of three long minutes.

  "Hi, this is..."

  "You'll have to shout! The intercom is crappy!" yelled the disembodied voice.

  "This is Shayne," I shouted as a guy rollerblading past gave me a surprised look. I wanted to explain that I wasn't introducing myself, but he was too fast and I was too embarrassed.

  "We don't buy anything. Move along!"

  "I'm not selling. I'm here about 2B."

  "2B?"

  "The apartment!"

  "Why?"

  "I'm moving in."

  There was quiet, then, "Today?" the voice yelled.

  "Yes!"

  "You were supposed to be here next week."

  "No, it's today. I have the contract. Can you let me in and give me the keys?"

  "Ugh," said the voice, but the door buzzer sounded and I heard a lock click. I pushed open the wooden doors, stepping out of the sun into a cooler, tiled entryway. If I hadn't been so thrown off by the brief conversation, I might have just asked where I should go to collect the keys. I needn't have worried as a moment later, the door closest to me opened and an elderly man stepped out, his shirt untucked and patchy beard several days old. His belt was undone, but thankfully, his pants were fastened.

  "You Shayne?" he asked. "Shayne Winter?"

  "Yes," I said, reaching out my hand. "And you're..."

  "Call me Jacob," he said, ignoring my hand. After a long pause, I dropped my hand as he frowned out at me from under bushy eyebrows. They looked like two elderly caterpillars crawling across papery skin. "You sure you're not supposed to be here next week?"

  I pulled the paperwork Martha forwarded me and flipped through, looking for the date. "Yes, see here?" I said, tapping the date as I showed him the papers. "Today's the day. I started my new job this morning, and my boss's assistant..."

  "Fine. This way," he said, cutting me off as he turned around. He took off at a purposeful pace across the entryway and entered the courtyard beyond. I followed quickly, afraid he would turn a corner and disappear from sight. For an elderly man, he was surprisingly spry and I barely had a moment to take in the pool — the water a sickly shade of green and a few bath ducks being held hostage by what looked like algae on the surface — or the broken sun lounges at the edge, lacking both fabric and bits of the frames. We took the external stairs right up to the second floor. Paint peeled under my hand as I gripped the balustrade. "Pool's getting redone soon," he huffed before I asked. I hurried behind him along the open corridor, nearly colliding when he stopped abruptly. Wordlessly, he stuck a key in the door and pushed it open. The smell of onions rushed out and I recoiled.

  "Get up!" he yelled. "You gotta go. The new tenant is here."

  "Huh?" came a male voice from inside. "What, now?"

  "The new tenant. You gotta go, kid."

  "But Grandpa!"

  I tried to peer over Jacob's shoulders. "Why is someone in my apartment?" I asked.

  "Just a mistake," said Jacob, hurrying inside. I watched him pull back a duvet, revealing an inflatable mattress and a scruffy lout in boxers. "Got my grandkid house-sitting. He's going now. Out! Come on, boy!"

  "Just a... ow!" squeaked the kid as his grandfather clipped him across the ear while he grabbed a pair of jeans. "Okay, okay!" he yelled, grabbing his bag and shuffling out. He was dragging the air mattress and duvet behind him, which forced me to jump out of the way.

  Jacob followed him out and handed me the key. "Rent is on the first of the month. Utilities are included. Don't cause any noise or trouble."

  "It hasn't been cleaned," I said, looking over the grime-embedded surface and peeling one shoe off the sticky tiles as I stepped inside. I stepped out again, wondering if I had the wrong address. No, Jacob called me by name. My paperwork also listed Jacob as the building manager.

  "Previous tenants didn't like cleaning. Not my job. I just do the communal areas."

  "But... but..." I stuttered as I looked over the balustrade at the pool below. It didn't look like anyone had cleaned it in a decade. Something else occurred to me as I looked back into the empty room. "Where's the furniture?"

  "You didn't bring any?" Jacob said.

  "No, I..."

  "Kid!" Jacob yelled. "Give the lady your air mattress."

  The teen had already reached the top of the staircase, and was now wearing jeans although his hair still stuck out every which way. He had an unreasonably good set of abs when he turned around and I had to chastise myself for looking. "But Grandpa!" he protested.

  Jacob marched over, grabbing a corner of the air mattress and lugging it back before shoving it into the apartment. "Who moves into a new place without buying furniture?" he asked, shaking his head. Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and trailed after his grandson, leaving me agape in the doorway.

  I didn't dare take another look at the far-from-blue swimming pool, but instead turned back to the apartment. It vaguely resembled the photos Martha supplied for me, but that recognition ended quickly.

  Sure, the terracotta floor tiles were there, caked with dirt and some unidentified sticky substance that would surely attract ants and every other bug within a mile radius. The walls were pale cream, or would have been if they weren't yellowed with the nicotine of cigarette smoke. I stepped past the air mattress lying forl
ornly against one wall and ducked my head inside the kitchen. The white cabinets and wooden worktops were of decent quality, but hadn't been cleaned in... well, forever. A couple of moldy cups occupied in the sink. Clearly, Jacob's squatter grandson wasn't the cleaning sort. Fortunately, there were an oven and a refrigerator, but I hesitated before I risked opening them. I wasn't sure I could take the horrors that might lie within.

  Stepping out of the kitchen, I moved down the hall, looking into the surprisingly decent-sized bathroom. I stepped in, flushed the toilet without lifting the lid and winced at the sight of mold spreading across the shower curtain before I stepped out. Two paces later, I was in the bedroom. Someone had painted it blood red and pulled the curtains off the track.

  I wanted to love my new apartment, but right then, mostly I wanted to cry. I thought about sinking to the floor and doing just that but, honestly, I feared very literally getting stuck to the floor. Days from now, someone would stumble upon my sticky, ant-eaten corpse. Worse still, I would be nothing but a dead obituary columnist, all prepared for burial under the real news.

  Chapter Four

  "So, that's pretty much it, Gran," I said into the phone, trying to hold it between my chin and shoulder so my rubber gloved-hands wouldn’t touch it. "The apartment is in a nice neighborhood, but definitely needs a little work; and my job isn't what I thought it would be, but I'm sure I can make that work too." I paused, wishing my grandma would pick up the phone, although it didn’t stop me from imagining her advice.

  She would say to “buck up and get on with it! Life is what you make it,” and she was right.

  "At least, I have a few leads to follow for this story. I could snag that reporter job if it comes off as well as I expect, and that'll show them! Thing is, Gran, there is nothing wrong with writing obituary columns, but I want to write headlines not deadlines! Okay, well, I'll call you again soon. Love you, Gran." I hung up, stuffing my cell phone into my jacket pocket while trying not to inhale the strong scent of bleach.

  Two hours of scrubbing on my hands and knees, with the windows wide open to allow a light breeze to evict the stuffy air, resulted in a sparkling kitchen. I no longer had to peel my shoes from the apartment floor with a sticky squelch. But there was still a lot of work to be done, I decided as I looked around. The walls needed painting; and I had yet to tackle the bathroom. Just to make matters worse, I expected to sleep on the floor, wrapped up in my duvet like a nest. So much for renting an apartment furnished with the basics! At least I had the foresight to pack up my boxes of glassware and plates as well as some soft furnishings. If all went according to plan, my kitchen would be furnished by the evening. The thought of my boxes reminded me I had virtually packed my entire life into my car and I still had to lug all those boxes upstairs.

  Peeling off my rubber gloves, I tossed them next to the bucket of filthy water and walked onto the end of the external corridor that led to my apartment, the area the brochure referred to as my “own private, small balcony.” Resting my arms on the balustrade, I looked around. I had a good view of the other eleven apartments in the building, but not Jacob's, which I figured was through the door he exited in the covered entryway. Did I mention a terrific view of the filthy pool? For me, that was the selling point of the complex. I didn’t mind sacrificing a little apartment space in return for a great courtyard where I could sunbathe beside the pool and relax after a hard day spent chasing stories. Now, that was gone too.

  Holding back more frustrated tears, I steadfastly reminded myself that just because my bubble was popped right now, it didn't mean I couldn't blow it right back up again, only bigger and better than before. I glanced over my shoulder through the open door and made my resolutions: I could make the apartment look nice; I could make friends with the other residents; I could follow the Chucky Barnard story and put it on the front page. And to start, I could grab my keys, go downstairs and begin furnishing my new apartment with my boxed-up former life.

  I glanced at my watch and winced. Three hours until my first hot LA date and I had so much to do! Leaving the apartment door open - what was there to steal? - I grabbed my keys and jogged downstairs, nearly colliding with Jacob's squatting grandson.

  "Whoa there," he said, pushing a heap of blonde hair from his eyes. "What's the hurry?"

  "Some of us have things to do," I told him smartly, still recalling the vision of him sprawled on my apartment floor no matter how hard I tried to shake it.

  "Like what? Knocking over other people?" he asked, just as smartly.

  "Like getting back to my apartment before other people start squatting in it again." On second thought, perhaps I shouldn't have left the door open?

  "It was empty when I stayed inside it. It wasn't like I moved in while you were already there!"

  "What were you doing in there anyway?" I asked.

  "Sleeping."

  "Why?"

  He frowned, and little lines crinkled at his eyes. That's when I looked at him a little closer and realized he wasn't a teenager, but at least in his mid-twenties. The combination of messy hair, Grandpa yelling, and the shock of the apartment’s condition really must’ve thrown me. His bicep twitched and I looked down to see him rolling an orange in his hand. "It's what I do when I'm tired," he said.

  "No, I mean why were you squatting?"

  "I broke up with my girlfriend and she kicked me out; so Grandpa said I could sleep there until the new tenant arrived. Here you are. Yay," he said, not sounding at all yay.

  "So, where are you sleeping now?"

  He grinned, his face lighting up into something annoyingly attractive. "Why? Are you offering?"

  "No!" I squeaked, stepping past him, wondering if I should appear offended. There was no way I would trade a date with a hot producer for a homeless guy. "No! Just... no!"

  "So... no?" he teased.

  "I have to get my things." I edged past him and made for the door.

  "From that black car parked out front?" he called after me.

  I paused, placing my hand on the handle to the front door. "Yeah."

  "It got towed an hour ago."

  "It what?" I screeched, wrenching the door open and flying out to the sidewalk. My car was parked exactly where I left it. Behind me, I heard his raucous laughter.

  "Gotcha," he said, arriving on the sidewalk beside me, the orange in his hand now half-peeled.

  I did the only thing I could think of and snatched the orange from his hand before hurling it into the garden. It landed near the big pink bougainvillea vine and rolled underneath.

  "Hey! I wanted to eat that! There is nothing you can do now to redeem yourself."

  "That was a mean trick! I've had a horrible day. My fantastic new job sucks. My apartment had a squatter and is still covered in weird, sticky stuff—"

  "Wasn't me," he interjected.

  —and I have a date in three hours. Also, gross!" I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

  "With a man?"

  "Yes, with a man!"

  "Hmm, who knew? So... I take it you're single?"

  "Ugh!" I groaned as I beeped my car trunk open. I couldn't tolerate another moment with this jerk after his mean trick. It took all my strength to hold back the tears of frustration as I reached for the first box, dragging it out and hefting it awkwardly into my arms. Lucky me, I picked the heaviest one.

  The box was instantly lifted from my arms as though it weighed nothing. "Let me take that," he said, sounding kind at last. Perhaps he realized how bad my day really was. "Between the two of us, we can get all of your stuff into your apartment in no time."

  The urge to demand that he hand the heavy box back to me did cross my mind, but he was right. Unpacking the car would be faster between the two of us, and then I could decontaminate the bathroom, take a shower, and slip into something sexy for my date. Perhaps then, the day wouldn't be a total bust. His biceps flexed under the weight of the box. I wrenched my eyes up from them to his face. On my third look, he was tanned, handsome, muscled, and will
ing to help. Also undeniably attractive. Maybe I could tolerate him for a few more minutes.

  "Okay then," he said, taking my silence as tacit agreement. "You grab the pillows and that duvet with your weak, little arms. Let's go."

  I narrowed my eyes at his retreating back. "Jerk," I muttered as I reached for a pillow and thought about throwing it at him.

  "Heard that!"

  ~

  I arrived at the restaurant with moments to spare and handed my keys to the valet. My date suggested the steak restaurant, which appeared quite popular as I walked past several waiting parties to the hostess station. As the smell of grilled meat drifted towards me, I was looking forward to sinking my teeth into a juicy steak, almost as much as I looked forward to meeting my date. Surely one thing had to go right today, and please, please, let it be my date, I pleaded to the mercy of the universe.

  Allen was a thirty-five-year-old producer. From his photo on the dating website, he had all his own hair and teeth, both of which I considered a bonus. Plus, as my first date in LA, he could very possibly set the bar rather high for all subsequent dates. Even better, I could strike it lucky on my first try, and find myself loved up by a successful Hollywood producer. My stomach flipped with excitement as the hostess ran her finger down her bookings sheet. "The other party is already here," she told me, flashing a megawatt smile. "Follow me, please."

  I smoothed the skirt of my little, black dress as I followed her through the potted palms into the furthest reaches of the restaurant. A handsome blonde man looked up, flashing a perfect set of white teeth as we approached the table. I opened my mouth to greet him, but the hostess walked right on past him, and I could do nothing except trot after her until she halted at another table.