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  "Shayne?" The man stood up, skirting around the hostess who attempted to step out of the way, which caused them both to collide. They politely edged apart and my smile faltered. This was Allen, but not the Allen on the website. Those photos must have been at least ten years old. He was chubbier, his blonde hair thinner, but his teeth just as brilliant. What was it with everyone’s teeth? I wondered as we kissed on each cheek.

  "Hi, nice to meet you," I stuttered, feeling momentarily stilted by surprise. How could he think it was okay to have such out-of-date photos on his profile? And if they were so archaic, what about his personal description?

  "Likewise. So you just got to the city. How do you like it so far?"

  "It's..." I stopped. I was searching for the right words. What could I say about the city so far? I was so excited this morning when my SatNav deposited me in front of The Chronicle's building where all my hopes were subsequently dashed, one after another. "It's non-stop," I finished, figuring that was the best non-committal comment I could make, given my depressing day.

  "Absolutely! Especially when you have an awesome career as a reporter. I bet you're already searching out a hot story."

  I brightened. "Yes, I am..."

  "I bet I can help you out with that."

  "You can?"

  "Sure! I can tip you off about all the hot entertainment stories. You know, the latest productions, the dirt and gossip on the actors. Oh, great, the menus."

  I took the menu the hostess offered me and requested a glass of sparkling water. "Shall I bring the wine list?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said, promptly just as Allen said, "No, too many calories" with a shake of his head.

  "Too many calories?" I repeated as I opened the menu.

  Allen nodded enthusiastically. "There's an unbelievable amount of sugar in wine. I never touch the stuff. I try to stick to a very healthy diet. I'm not strict, but I'm trying to get fitter. My trainer has me on a new regime."

  "Trainer?"

  "Personal trainer. Whom do you train with?"

  "No one."

  Allen peered over his menu at me. "Really? You don't have a trainer?"

  "No."

  "You should get one," he said, disappearing behind his menu.

  I frowned at him, then looked down. I thought I looked pretty nice. What did Allen mean by, I should get a trainer? Was he implying I didn't look fit? Or was this some Hollywood thing, like all the shiny, white teeth?

  "So, you're a producer," I started, looking for something positive to discuss. "What are you working on?"

  "Just reading scripts right now," said Allen, dropping his menu onto the table. "Got to find the right project. You know how it is."

  "Actually, I don't."

  "I thought you were an entertainment reporter?"

  "I'm not," I said, trying not to sound upset. Sure, that was my new title, obituaries and entertainment reporter, but I only took it in order to have a job. "That is, I am, but I'm not supposed to be. See, back home, I was the chief reporter; and I expected to take a reporter job here, but..."

  "So do you report entertainment, or not?" Allen interrupted.

  My lungs deflated. "I do."

  "Good evening. I'm Rose and I'll be your waitress this evening. May I take your order?" a waitress asked, an electronic pad in her hand. Her legs ran up to her armpits and her hair shined like gold. Given her tiny, hourglass figure, I assumed she had a trainer. Or didn't eat.

  "I'll take the rib-eye steak with the peppercorn sauce on the side, and the lady will have the grilled chicken salad, no skin, and no dressing," said Allen, folding the menu and handing it to the waitress.

  "Actually," I said, "I'll take the rib-eye too."

  The waitress glanced from me to Allen, who gave a little shake of his head. "Trust me, honey," he said, reaching over and patting my hand, "not a good idea with your figure."

  "A good idea?" I spluttered.

  "Chicken salad is a better idea... and finding a trainer. The lady will take the salad," he repeated to the waitress. She jabbed the keypad while I struggled to find something to say that would effectively convey my outrage. How dare he subtly poke at my figure while ordering a meal for me that I didn't want?! Unfortunately, the waitress plucked the menu from my hands before I could protest. "So what are you working on?" he asked.

  Vaguely mollified that he actually asked me a question, I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt even if he were on strike two in less than ten minutes. I said, "A story about a child actor who died recently."

  "That so? Who?" he asked.

  "Chucky Barnard. You might remember him from—"

  "Chucky Barnard? Wow! I knew that guy. What happened?"

  "Early reports suggest he committed suicide."

  "Nah." Allen shook his head vehemently. "Chucky wouldn't do that."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "I knew the guy when we were kids, and he'd never do that. Plus, he told me just last week about this great new gig. He was about to get his break back into the big time."

  "You saw him? You were good friends?"

  "We were back in the day, but our lives went different ways. We ran into each other at the gym."

  "Chucky was a member of your gym?"

  "Not that I know of. He said he was there scouting locations for his new show. We didn't talk much, but he seemed really happy, you know. I was proud of the guy. He even said he might come onboard for my next project."

  "I thought you were only reading scripts? So... for films?" I guessed.

  "Not films exactly, more like short dramas."

  I raised my eyebrows with interest. "Short dramas? Like hour-long HBO specials?"

  "Shorter." Allen moved his thumb and forefinger closer, then a little bit closer. "But, yeah for HBO as well as other networks."

  "Do TV shows run on multiple networks?" I asked, growing more curious.

  "Well, uh, some do, and I'm very successful so... oh, here's our food." Allen clammed up as the plates were set in front of us. His steak looked delicious; perfect grill lines and just the right shade. I looked down at my salad. The grilled chicken was a total of two thin strips nestled on a bed of dry leaves. The dressing was in a teeny, glass jug that the waitress set to one side. It didn't look nearly as appetizing as Allen's ceramic jug of peppercorn sauce, but was better than after Allen's hand shot out and edged the jug away from me.

  "So you're looking for a short drama to run on multiple networks. Do you do mystery, or comedy, or..."

  "More factual," he said, spearing his steak with a fork and sliding his knife through it. He plucked a mouthwatering strip and stuffed it into his mouth.

  I speared a leaf and chewed it, then reached for the dressing. Allen looked at the dressing, looked at me, then back to the dressing, shaking his head. I added it anyway as he sucked in a gasp.

  "Factual short dramatizations," I mused. "Sounds interesting."

  "You know what sounds interesting? Chucky Barnard. How'd you get the idea he killed himself?"

  "Initial police report," I told him, figuring that wouldn't do any harm, especially since he apparently already knew the guy. Perhaps he could redeem our date by adding the kind of flavor to my story that my salad badly missed. "Do you think he was..."

  "Is it going to be a big story?" interrupted Allen.

  "I don't know," I answered. I started calculating the risk for the story to be buried way back on the obituary page unless I could find something juicy enough to convince Bob to run it on the first page.

  "You could quote me, you know. That would add more gravitas to your story. Allen Hemming, Hollywood producer."

  "I guess..."

  "I could probably find you some old photos of us together too, when we were kids."

  "That would be..."

  "You could mention he was attached to my first feature film."

  "Was he?"

  Allen chewed his way through another steak strip. "Does it really matter?"

  "Yes, if
it isn't tr..."

  "You could maybe a run a story on how my film is about to get green-lighted, and say how Chucky was really excited about it and thought it would be a hit at the box office."

  I frowned. This was getting weird. Allen, however, looked pretty animated. "You could mention how hard it will be to cast someone in Chucky's role, maybe say that I'm considering some amazing actors. Maybe Ashton Kutcher, or Channing Tatum."

  "Ashton Kutcher, Channing Tatum and Chucky Barnard were up for the same role in your movie?"

  Allen winked. "Sure."

  "They look nothing like each other!"

  "Does it matter?"

  "You tell me."

  "It doesn't matter."

  I sighed. Then a thought occurred to me. "Hey, you said you hadn't seen Chucky in years until you ran into him by chance at the gym."

  "Listen, sweetheart, don't sweat the small stuff. Chucky was thrilled to have the star treatment again and he'd love knowing all the fuss about his death. Don't think he'll like the suicide angle, since he's always been dead against that, excuse the pun."

  "You don't think he committed suicide?"

  "Not one bit." Allen finished his steak as I forked another skinny sliver of chicken into my mouth. It tasted like cardboard, even with the salad dressing. "Your police report must be wrong. Chucky would never do that because he knew some kids that overdosed. When you get to writing the story, remember all the stuff I told you. People will take more notice of it then."

  "I don't know if I can run anything. I have to verify it first."

  Allen held his hand up and a waitress approached. He said something to her and handed over his credit card, which she inserted into her card reader. "You do that. Listen, it was great meeting you, but I gotta go." He took his card back and reinserted it into his wallet, which he slipped inside his pocket.

  "What? You're leaving?"

  "Sure. Obviously you're disappointed, and I get that. Dinner was great, but I have another date at nine."

  "Another date? At nine?" I repeated, skeptical of what I was hearing. Was this jerk seriously about to walk out on me? We'd been there less than forty minutes, he was a total jerk and now, he was walking out!

  "Sure. She's a model. Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Sherry. When you quote me, remember: Allen Hemming, Hollywood..."

  "Producer," I finished, but he was already gone, leaving me alone with my paltry salad.

  "Do you want that to go?" asked the hovering waitress.

  I took one last look at my half-eaten dinner. "Hell, no!"

  Chapter Five

  "How was the date?" Mike called out as I crossed the lobby the next morning. After a very uncomfortable night's sleep on his inflatable mattress, which deflated midway through the night and could not be blown back up again, I noticed him from the balcony. I hoped he was asleep in the deck chair he was sprawled in, but apparently, no such luck.

  Worst. Date. Ever, I thought. But instead, I plastered a perky smile on my lips and remembered my brief meltdown yesterday when I moaned about both my job and the apartment. So I said, "Terrific. Great guy. Hollywood producer."

  "What does he produce?"

  "Short, factual, cross-network dramas," I replied smartly to the unemployed bum. Until yesterday, he had been squatting in my apartment, but still seemed to think he was something hot. I added homeless to my description.

  "Infomercials, huh?" he snorted, his stomach convulsing with laughter.

  "Ugh," I groaned as I stomped past him, taking great care to slam the door behind me. Mike asked loudly if the infomercials were for STD creams or pet toothpaste.

  Instead of driving directly to The Chronicle, I plugged the address for the LAPD into my SatNav and followed the directions. Adding to my restless night were thoughts about Chucky Barnard's mysterious suicide; something both his sister and — supposed — old friend insisted defied Chucky's beliefs.

  When I marched up to the desk sergeant, I was determined to find someone who could cast some light between the chasm of the police verdict and what his sister claimed. I could either write his obituary, or blow the story wide open on the front page.

  "I'm here about the Chucky Barnard case," I told the weedy-looking police officer stationed at the desk.

  He glanced up from his log. "Who?"

  "Chucky Barnard. He's dead."

  "Are you a relative?"

  "No."

  He narrowed his eyes. "Lawyer?"

  "No!"

  "If you're from the funeral home, you're in the wrong place for the morgue. That's..."

  "No, no," I cut him off. "I'm a reporter from the..."

  "Great." He dropped his pen and rolled his eyes. "What do you want?"

  "To talk to someone about the Chucky Barnard case. I have a card..." I fished out the card Chucky's sister gave me. "Can I talk to the detective in charge?"

  He took the card and looked at it carefully. Meanwhile, I hoped he wouldn't ask if I was personally given it. "Name?" he asked at last.

  "Shayne Winter, LA..."

  "Wait over there," he cut in, pointing toward the common area and picking up the phone.

  I sat down on a plastic chair between a large woman who kept talking to herself and a man who reeked of something deeply unpleasant. I looked down. He wasn't wearing any shoes and his feet resembled a hobbit's: filthy and incredibly hairy. "I'm an actor," he whispered.

  Looking up toward the ceiling, I silently wished the homicide detective would hurry.

  "Shayne Winter."

  I jumped up, wobbling on legs that had almost fallen asleep. "Me!" I yelled, raising my hand and hurrying forwards like I'd just won a prize. I had, really; and the prize was fresh air. A woman in black pants and a neat, cashmere sweater stood at the doors. She was visibly appraising me. "Hi, I'm Shayne," I said, giving her hand a fast shake that was part relief, part hope.

  "This way," she said, giving me another quick glance-over, just as I did to her. "What's your interest in Chucky Barnard?" she asked as we walked.

  "I'm writing a story on his death and I'm interested in some aspects of his case. I need to ask the detective in charge if..."

  "I'm the detective in charge."

  I stopped. She stopped. "You are?"

  "It's because I'm wearing cashmere, isn't it? No one ever takes me seriously when I wear cashmere, but I can't wear a suit. I hate them. And I'm not undercover, so I can't dress like a hobo either. Even if I were undercover, I'd look more like a soccer mom than a hobo."

  "I think you look very nice. The green makes the green flecks in your eyes pop."

  She blinked. "Oh. Thanks."

  "The heels are cute too. Stuart Weitzman?"

  "Yes!"

  "You don't need a suit. You already own your outfit."

  She brightened, her shoulders inching back as her posture straightened. "I do, don't I?"

  I nodded "Totally. I'm sorry if you thought I wasn't taking you seriously at first. The card I received said Detective Roger something or other."

  "Yeah. He's in homicide too, but he has a seven-body gang shoot-out, which takes priority. He passed the case down to me. I'm Detective Ashleigh Smith. This way." She started off again and I followed her to the end of the corridor before we stepped inside a small room, lit only by narrow windows that overlooked a parking lot. "What aspects of Chucky's case in particular are you interested in?" she asked, dropping a folder onto the table.

  "Let's get right to it," I said, hoping my straightforwardness would endear her to me. "I don't think he committed suicide."

  "The medical examiner concluded he did," Detective Smith countered without looking at the file.

  "I spoke to his sister and an old friend. Both said suicide flies in the face of his beliefs."

  "What else did they say?"

  "That he had everything to live for. He was about to get another big break."

  Detective Smith opened the folder. "He was some kind of child actor?" she asked, perusing the thin pages. I tried to pe
er over, but she angled the papers upwards so I couldn't see.

  "Yes. Huge. Like super-famous until he grew up, took a few bad roles, and hasn't worked much since."

  She didn't look up. "What was this big break he was working on?"

  "A documentary series."

  "Maybe it wasn't panning out and he couldn't handle it. Or perhaps he had other personal issues?"

  "Not that any of the people close to him knew about."

  "Some people are very private. Let me take a look at the case file."

  "You haven't read it already?"

  Detective Smith gave a light shake of her head and her chestnut hair spilled over one shoulder. With her big, green-flecked brown eyes and curvy frame, she was awfully pretty. I wondered what made her join the police force and not become another LA cliché of waitress-slash-actress. I thought about the hostess and waitress from last night's restaurant. I would have bet good money that was exactly what they both were. "I only got it this morning," she told me as she browsed the slim file. "I haven't had a chance to read it before you showed up."

  "But you're on the homicide squad," I said. "That must count for something; especially if it was ruled a suicide?"

  "Not yet, not from what I'm reading. It's pending a final sign-off before we can close the case."

  "So there's a chance he was murdered?" I asked.

  "Let me read more," she said, holding up a hand.

  I waited ten minutes without fidgeting, sighing or asking another, question as she read the thin file to the end, and started again from the beginning. When Detective Smith finally looked up, her face was inscrutable. I briefly wondered if she played poker and might invite me for a game, but I shook that thought away.

  "What do you think?" I asked.

  "The medical examiner didn't find any evidence of foul play, nor did the attending officers and the responding detective. My captain read the initial report and he also doesn't suspect any foul play."

  "What about you?" I asked, noting she hadn't given her opinion.

  Detective Smith took a long minute. "I think it's worth looking into a little more," she said at last.