Hollywood Secrets (5 page)

If there was one thing our editor-in-chief didn’t skimp on, it was computer databases. The
Informer
’s staff had access to all sorts of websites that tracked phone numbers, credit info, criminal history, and DMV stats – just to name a few. I doubted even the FBI had the kind of resources our tabloid had. Then again, our most-wanted list had a lot more high rollers on it than the FBI’s did.

I’d learned early on in my
Informer
career to enjoy the fruits of his data sharing capabilities and not to ask too many questions about where our info came from and if these channels were 100% legal.

“
Got it,” Allie finally said a beat later. “Plates belong on a white, Ford utility vehicle, 2007 model.”

That sounded consistent with the truck I’d seen spiriting Trace away.

“
Owner?” I asked.

“
Registered to a Buckner Boogenheim of Pacific Storage.” She paused. “Seriously? Boogenheim? What kind of name is that?”

I ignored the commentary. “Got an address?”

“
Um… 715 Halliburton, L.A.”

I plugged the address into the GPS unit on my dash (one splurge I’d cajoled Felix into letting me indulge in), and waited an excruciating sixty seconds while it calculated a route from my current position. While it couldn’t have been more than five minutes tops since I’d lost sight of the delivery van, every second that went by felt like an eternity as I imagined reading about the actor’s demise in the morning paper.

And, unless I caught up to that truck, that paper would not be the
Informer
.

Finally the route calculated, and my GPS lit up with a highlighted map to Pacific Storage.

“
Thanks, Allie,” I shouted into the phone.

“
So what’s the story? Where’d you get the plate number? Is this Boogie guy someone I should know, or-“

But I didn’t let her finish, hanging up midsentence instead. I gunned the engine, pulling back into traffic, and followed the highlighted route on my dash out of Hollywood and south into L.A. proper.

At this time of night, the traffic was sparse past the club district, making for a manageable drive. Though the entire way I had my eyes peeled for any sign of the truck. My only hope was that they were headed to the same place I was.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of a darkened building with a faded blue sign that bore a cartoon picture of a surfing dog next to the name “Pacific Storage.” Behind it were lines of storage units, squat little buildings in neat rows with locked rolling doors every four feet. A chain-link fence surrounded the entire complex, dotted with floodlights along the perimeter. I passed by once, then doubled back and parked my Jeep across the street. I cut the engine and, sticking to the shadows, jogged to the main entrance.

I peeked through the links in the fence for any sign of the delivery van. I’ll admit I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do if I did see it. These guys were armed. I was not. And “hero” was neither something I’d ever been accused of nor aspired to be. But I’d been the only other person in that alley. The only other person who even knew Trace wasn’t still shaking his perfectly sculpted ass on the dance floor of the Boom Boom Room. It was a responsibility that spurred me on despite my lack of plan.

Well, that and the promise of a hell of a story if I really was the sole witness to an A-lister’s kidnapping.

But mostly that altruistic responsibility thing.

I jogged around to the side of the complex, doing an over the shoulder for any passersby and a quick scan for security cameras. None that I could see on this side of the complex. Probably any on site were pointed at the storage lockers themselves. At least, I hoped.

I grabbed onto two of the diamond-shaped links in the fence with my fingers, stuck the toe of my right sneaker in another, and quickly hoisted myself up. Awkwardly, I navigated over the top, just slightly grazing my midriff on the top links, before dropping with a thud onto the pavement on the other side.

I paused, listening for any sound, any signal that my presence had been detected. All I got back was the distant hum of traffic on the nearby 101.

So far so good.

Keeping close to the buildings, I quietly made my way through the complex, straining to catch any signs of people. Specifically ones yelling a muffled cry for help from the back of a delivery truck. However, all I heard was my own footsteps, padding along the outskirts of the buildings.

At the back of the complex the rows of warehouses gave way to a large parking lot. In the first row of slots sat a line of trucks. All white. All unmarked. All exactly like the one that had taken Trace earlier.

Bingo.

Doing another over-the-shoulder for good measure, I sprinted toward them, trying to keep to the shadows. I ducked down as I reached the first one, staying well out of the line of floodlights on the off chance I was not here alone. I circled the truck, then gingerly stood on tip-toe, peaking in the passenger side window. All dark. I could make out a couple seats in the front, a few blankets and bungee cords for securing cargo in the back. No guys with guns. And no captive movie star.

I moved on to the second truck. The interior was almost an exact duplicate of the first, only this one sported an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and gum wrappers. I moved on.

The third and fourth trucks were just as empty. I was just about to give in to the fact that I was on a wild goose chase when I tip-toed up to number five and hit pay dirt. As soon as I touched the hood, I knew I had the right one; heat radiated from the engine. A sure sign that it had recently been driven. I ducked down low, suddenly feeling my heartbeat kick up a notch as I slunk around back and checked the license plate number.

A perfect match.

I lifted my head just high enough to peer over the window frame into the truck. Same two seats, same blankets and bungees in the back. Only these weren’t piled neatly in the corner. They were strewn haphazardly across the floor. Indication of a struggle? I tried not to picture Trace fighting off his crew-cut captor. Because, as cut as Trace was, he was all lean, tight angles. His body was made to show well on camera. Strong, sure, but no match for the beefy-looking guy. Especially since his buddy had a gun.

I wasn’t sure whether I was disappointed or relieved that, as I circled the truck, it became apparent it was empty. At least there wasn’t a dead movie star’s body in the back. On the other hand, that didn’t lead me any closer to finding out where said movie star was now.

I glanced around the complex. If the engine was still warm, they must have just been here. Either they’d transferred Trace into another waiting car, or they were still here, hiding somewhere.

I scanned the empty lot. Clearly nowhere to hide. I turned back toward the rows of storage lockers. Unfortunately, they looked like an awesome place to hide. I jogged across the empty lot, backtracking the way I’d come, and poked my head around the end of the first row of lockers.

Just as a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“
Sonofa-” I jumped a full foot in the air, my voice rising two octaves into Minnie Mouse range. I spun around, heart hammering in my chest, to find…

Allie.

“
Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She popped a pink bubble between her lips.

“
Jesus, Allie!” I leaned against the building for support, my legs buckling with relief. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?”

“
Nothin’. I just thought you might need backup.”

I shot her a look.

She shrugged. “Okay, that and there might be some sort of story here,” she conceded. While anyone else would have had the decency to at least look a little sheepish, she just twirled a lock of bleached hair around her index finger and popped her bubble gum. Watermelon scented, I noticed.

“
If I’d needed backup, I would have said so.”

“
Oh. My bad. Sorry.”

Though neither of us believed she meant it.

“
So, why are we here?” Allie asked. “What’s the story with this place?” She scrunched up her nose, looking around at the lack of anything obviously celebrity related.

As reluctant as I was to drag New Girl into anything, especially considering my promise to keep Tina in the know, the cat was half out of the bag here already. And, considering I wasn’t really sure what the story was myself, I figured I didn’t have much to lose. So I quickly filled Allie in on the weird scene I’d witnessed in the alleyway and Trace’s subsequent abduction.

“
This reeks of publicity stunt to me,” Allie said when I’d finished. She scrunched up her pert little nose. “Isn’t his latest flick about some sort of kidnapping?”

I paused. She was right. I’d forgotten all about that. And, I hated to admit, she had a point. Stranger things had happened in the name of marketing in this town. “But I think he plays the kidnapper in that movie. Not the kidnapee,” I pointed out.

Allie shrugged. “Still. This seems a little staged, doncha think? I mean, how would the kidnappers even know Trace was going to go outside at that particular moment?”

Again, the new girl had a good point. “I don’t know,” I conceded. “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were just following him like I was.”

“
Did you see a truck following him?”

I thought back to my vigil outside the Sunset Studios that evening and the subsequent ride to the Boom Boom Room. I hadn’t noticed any delivery van. Then again, I hadn’t particularly been looking for it either. It would have been easy for them to blend in with the other half dozen cars following in Trace’s wake. And I had been a little preoccupied with racing Mike and Eddie to the club to notice exactly which other cars had followed our same route.

“
Not really,” I admitted. “But whatever their motive is, their truck is still warm. They could still be here.”

She contemplated this for a beat. “Okay, tell ya what? You take the rows on the left,” she said, indicating the two lines of units beside me, “and I’ll take the ones on the right. Meet in the middle?”

I nodded. “Fine.”

Allie turned, walking purposefully toward the rows on the right. I could tell by the usual swing in her step that she only halfway believed there might be dangerous criminals lurking in the shadows. Me? I’d seen the gun. Granted, Allie’s theory of a publicity stunt was creating a niggle of doubt in my mind. But I’d also seen the very real fear in Trace’s eyes. And, despite the logic behind her theory, the fear was what stuck with me as I turned to scan the first row.

I slid toward it with m back against the wall. I did a silent “one, two, three” count, then quickly spun around the corner,
Charlie’s Angels
style.

Nothing.

I did a quick survey of the other two rows, with the same negative outcome, before meeting up with Allie in the middle of the complex.

“
Well?” I asked.

She shook her head, her blonde shag whipping at her cheeks. “Nada. If anyone was here, they’re gone now.”

Which was pretty much the same thing I’d concluded. Wherever the guys in the truck had transferred Trace to, he wasn’t here now. I was at a total dead end.

Maybe this was all a publicity stunt, and maybe it wasn’t. But unless I wanted to be responsible for Trace’s body ending up on the morning news, I was left with no other alternative. I pulled out my cell and dialed the police.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Allie and I had hopped back over the chain-link fence (Allie needing a boost on both sides), and we were sitting on the curb, watching the red and blue glow of lights from a pair of black and white cruisers parked in the drive. A couple of guys in navy blue uniforms circled the perimeter of the complex with flashlights, while another stood in front of us, the creases in his shiny blue pants staring me in the face as he took copious notes in a little booklet that looked suspiciously like the ones those parking tickets came from.

“
You actually got a look at these so-called kidnappers?”

I nodded. Though I noted his use of the word “so-called”.

“
Can you describe them, please?”

I cleared my throat. Talking to law enforcement always made me a little nervous. Probably because we were usually talking about the large parking fines I’d incurred.

“
Well, the first guy was slim and had black hair. The other guy was heavier. Not fat though. More muscular. Short hair, possibly a former inmate.”

The cop raised one eyebrow that was in desperate need of waxing. “Former inmate?”

I nodded again. “He had a lot of tattoos”

The cop grinned, giving me a placating smile. “Honey, lots of guys have tattoos. Don’t mean they’re felons.”

I tried to ignore the “honey” part. “It was more than that. The way he carried himself, maybe. His back was really straight and strong.”

“
So a guy with short hair, tattoos and good posture?”

I wasn’t explaining this very well, was I?

“
Look, I got a really good look at him. Maybe you should put me with a sketch artist?”

The cop gave me a ‘yeah right’ look, then consulted his notebook again.