Heart of Glass (17 page)

“If Champagne will do it, so will I,” Anna told Mrs. Vanderleer.

“That’s great. But we’re not done. There’s still the little problem of the male models,” Sam pointed out. “I don’t think we want to troll San Quentin for hot inmates doing ten to twenty-five for armed robbery.” “Don’t need to. I know a whole bunch of hot guys,” Champagne said casually.

“Who are these ‘hot guys’?” Mrs. Vanderleer asked warily.

“Just . . . you know . . . friends.”

“I don’t know. . . . “ Mrs. Vanderleer was starting to sound like she was sorry she’d ever considered anyone other than the professional models in the first place.

“Look, let me give it a try,” Champagne wheedled. There was a twinkle in her eye that Sam had never seen before. “I’ll bring their photographs, Mrs. Vanderleer. I’ll go see them tonight at work. Cammie and Anna can come too.” “Just where do they work, Ms. Jones?” asked Mrs. Vanderleer.

“They’re firemen,” Champagne said. “That’s why they’re so hot.”

Sam had just started up the Big Bird–yellow Hummer in the museum parking structure when her Treo sounded with a cell call. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Sam Sharpe,” she answered.

“Sam? It’s Melanie Mayes. Your detective. I haven’t heard from you since I did the job in Pasadena. Is everything okay?” Melanie Mayes. Whom she’d hired a few weeks ago to track down her mother in North Carolina and whom she’d hired again to pose as an old woman reading a newspaper in the cocktail lounge at the hotel in Pasadena, and take photographs of Poppy and Parker. Melanie was one of the most outstanding private detectives in all of Los Angeles, scrupulously honest and frightfully expensive. She had left a “mission accomplished” message that very same night.

Sam hadn’t called back to acknowledge it. When Sam first had the photo idea she’d been a hundred percent gung-ho. But now a teeny-tiny ten (okay, twenty) percent of her was having second thoughts. If she leaked those photographs to the
Galaxy
. . . what kind of a person would that make her? Besides a typical Hollywoodista, that is?

It was infuriating. Sam had that cheating Poppy Seed in her open palm, ready to be crushed, and she couldn’t bring herself to do the deed.

“Hello, Melanie. I appreciate it. So what do I owe you for this job?” “A buck fifty.” Translation: fifteen hundred dollars. Not bad for an hour’s work.

“You want me to e-mail the pictures to the
Galaxy
from a secure server, or do you want to do it yourself?” “Neither,” Sam instructed. “Kill them.”

“Yeah?” Melanie sounded surprised. “You want me to destroy the photographs?” “Exactly.” Sam sighed. “I can’t do this, Melanie,” she confessed. “I’d like to, but I can’t.” “Are you sure?” the detective asked. “I’m the one who took the photos. Your name will never come up.” “Kill them,” Sam repeated.

“Fair enough. Listen. They’re on a digital media card.” The next thing Sam heard was a loud crunch, like a boot heel coming down on a piece of ceramic underfoot.

“That was the card. I just stepped on it. It’s now in five pieces. Those pictures are gone. In fact, they never existed.” Melanie told her.

“You’ve still got my credit card number?” “I do,” Melanie acknowledged.

“Put the bill through. And thanks, Melanie. I’m sure you did a great job.” Sam’s voice was hollow. She’d either done something kind and noble, or she’d just made the stupidest mistake of her young life. She said goodbye, called Parker, and left him the world’s briefest message, saying that the photos were destroyed, but that he still had her eternal gratitude. When she hung up again, she sat in the Hummer, staring into space.

Kind, noble, or stupid. The worst part of it was, there was absolutely no way to know for sure.

We Call It the Fire Drill

“T
urn left up ahead.” Champagne pointed to the next intersection. Anna was driving her repaired silver Lexus; it was funny to recall how she had met Caine in the first place, when he’d driven to her rescue after a car accident. Plus, the accident had occurred right about where they were at the moment, on Sawtelle near Washington Boulevard. It was a gritty section of town, bisected by the 405 freeway, home to auto body shops, liquor stores, roofing and hardware wholesalers, and the occasional adult entertainment establishment.

They’d come directly from the fashion show rehearsal. Anna had on chocolate brown Ralph Lauren cords and a cream-colored sleeveless cotton Chloé shirt her best friend, Cyn, had gotten her for her sixteenth birthday. Cammie wore something she’d picked up at the Beverly Center—a Juicy Couture tube top that exposed about six inches of her perfectly tanned midriff, and a microminiskirt made from the same cherry red silk. Trendy, Anna knew, but cute and comfortable all the same. Champagne sported skinny-legged blue pants of dubious designer origins with a blue Dodgers T-shirt. Anna guessed that she’d had it forever.

She had to admit she was rather looking forward to visiting a firehouse, since she’d never been in one before. She stopped at a red light. “Do they really slide down those poles?” Champagne, who was sitting next to her, looked startled. “How did you know?” “It’s in every movie about firemen.” “Oh, right.” Champagne smiled. “Yep. They definitely use the pole. They use the pole
all the time.
” “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Cammie called out, suddenly alert. “Because this is one scuzzy part of town.” “Definitely,” Champagne confirmed. “Can I ask you guys something? Did you see the photos yet? The ones that Phillip guy took in Pacific Palisades? That was so much fun. I can’t believe that models get to do that for a living.” “Uh-huh,” Cammie replied. “We saw them. You rocked.” Her face lit up. “Really?” “Even Phillip said so,” Anna happily assured her.

“Wow.” Champagne marveled. “And he works with a lot of top models. So now what do I have to do? Or was that it?” “We’re not going to rush anything,” Cammie told her. “A young model needs to be brought along slowly.”

Anna knew that wasn’t exactly the truth. The night after the photo shoot, she and Cammie had gone back to Cammie’s house with the three digital camera media cards that Phillip had given them. It was the first time that she had been in the Sheppard home since she’d come to Los Angeles, and she admired the decorating scheme that had been instituted in a recent renovation by Cammie’s stepmother. Every room was done in shades of a single color, but each room had a different overall theme. The living room was modern white on white. The kitchen was French classic, burgundy on burgundy. The family room was industrial gray on gray, with only slight variations across the board.

Cammie didn’t offer to show Anna her room. Instead she made espresso in a French press, then carried it and two cups downstairs to the lowest level, which not only featured an indoor lap-swimming pool that connected to the larger outdoor pool, a British billiards table, and an array of classic pinball machines, but also a corner office filled with computer equipment. This wasn’t her dad’s actual home office—Cammie explained that her father had one of those up on the main floor. But it did have a high-powered P4 Dell box with endless memory, a forty-inch Samsung plasma monitor, and an HP Photosmart professional photo printer.

Cammie had sat down at the computer and worked for five solid hours, reviewing each and every one of the photographs of Champagne that Phillip had taken, often asking Anna for an honest opinion. Anna was surprised.

Even more than that, she was impressed. Cammie had always seemed to her the personification of indolent rich Beverly Hills youth, for whom determination meant deciding which day spa to visit. But here, she watched her making a huge effort for a girl she barely knew.

“Do you think Champagne will appreciate all this?” Anna had asked, motioning to the monitor.

Cammie shrugged, scrolled over to another photo on the monitor, and opened it up. A stunning extreme close-up of Champagne in profile. “No clue. Grateful would be nice, but not necessary. The girl has a dream. I’m her fairy godmother. Maybe. If it works, she’ll have a new life. If it doesn’t work, she’ll have had some fun. I’d call that a win-win, wouldn’t you?” Maybe this was why Adam was so into Cammie. Maybe be he had fallen for this side of the girl—a side that Anna couldn’t say she had ever seen before.

Finally, they decided on five photos to send to Lizbette back in New York. Two were extreme close-ups of Champagne’s captivating face, one a profile from the neck up, one a full-length picture of her lying back on the rocks in the unzipped evening gown, and the last another filmy full-length portrait, where she looked young, vulnerable, and innocent in the white gauze shirt. Cammie had skipped right past the fur coat and panties thing, saying overt nudity was most likely
not
a look Lizbette would embrace for her cosmetics line for young women.

When they were finally done, Anna had saved all the photographs in a zip file and e-mailed the file to Lizbette’s American headquarters back in New York. That had been two days ago. In the meantime, she hadn’t heard anything. Cammie had wanted to call after twenty-four hours, but Anna knew this was exactly the wrong thing to do. Women like Lizbette never wanted to be pushed. It was Cammie’s job now to wait graciously, and that was exactly what they were going to do. Anna also decreed that they should not mention the cosmetics or the new campaign to Champagne. There was no reason to get Champagne’s hopes up unnecessarily.

The light changed, and Anna made the right turn. They passed more warehouses and low-rent business storefronts. “Whatever you say, Cammie. Okay, just ahead is the firehouse,” Champagne instructed. “Turn in there.” There was no sign. Just a small nondescript warehouse and a jammed parking lot.

“This is the firehouse?” It didn’t look like any firehouse Anna had ever seen.

“Definitely,” Champagne assured them.

Anna was lucky to find a single unoccupied spot at the far end next to a Dumpster. When she got out of the Lexus, she heard pounding music coming from the warehouse. There was also a flashing neon sign that she noticed for the first time: THE FIREHOUSE: EAT, DRINK,

AND BE RESCUED!

Cammie was grinning as she pushed the curls off her face. “Okay, what the hell is up with this?”

Champagne went wide-eyed and hitched a thumb toward the sign.

“Firemen,” she replied innocently.

“So, let me make sure I’m following,” Anna observed, as she dropped her key ring into her ancient dove gray Chanel leather purse. “Your friends are
strippers
?”

“Nah. Not
strippers
,” Champagne said with a smile. “I wouldn’t call them that.”

Cammie winked. “Anna is disappointed. Right, Anna?”

“Not really.”

Anna saw Cammie link her arm though Champagne’s. “Good. So, let’s head on in and see if these guys can put out some fires. And . . . whether any of them are model material.”

Champagne grinned. “Fires, I don’t know about. Model material? Just wait.”

Anna was thrilled that her worst expectations were dashed.

Far from being a seedy strip joint, the Firehouse was much closer to a cross between the famous New York City bar Coyote Ugly and the original Hard Rock Café. Done in a firefighting theme, the walls featured bright murals and posters from firehouses and fire crews the world over, in a score of different languages. One end of the enormous room was dominated by an actual turn-of-the century horse-drawn fire engine that had been gutted so that diners could sit at tables inside. The main bar had bar stools shaped like firemen’s hats, and the menu featured only spicy foods ranging in hotness from “hot” to “radioactive.”

As for the help, Champagne had been right. There was plenty of model material. The waiters and bartenders wore jeans, red suspenders, and firemen’s boots. That was it. All of them were bare-chested, all of them had chests well chiseled either by months in the gym or the Almighty, and all of them were—as advertised—exceptionally good-looking. In the parlance of the Firehouse, definitely hot. Loud rock and roll played over the sound system, and the firemen-waiters boogied to the music as they delivered food and drink orders. That wasn’t such an easy thing to do, because the tables were filled with rowdy cocktailers and patrons, nearly all of them female, nearly all of them dressed like they’d just come from work.

As the three girls were led to an empty table by the fireman-host, the rock music stopped, a fire bell clanged, and red lights whirled. Four firemen-waiters came sliding down a floor-to-ceiling fire pole, all of them holding shot glasses full of red alcohol. Not a drop was spilled. They jogged in a conga line over to the table that had ordered the shots and presented them to the delighted women with chivalrous bows.

“Been here before?” the host asked Anna jovially, as he seated them. He was a little older than the other firemen, with dark brown hair, a chiseled jawline, and a set of deep dimples when he smiled. His hat indicated that he was the “chief.”

Anna shook her head.

“Order shots all around, you get that treatment,” he advised. “We call it the Fire Drill. Have fun—your waiter will be here in a minute.” It didn’t take Anna long to get into the carefree and energetic mood of the club. Everyone was having fun, judging from the laughter, clapping, and raucous cheering whenever the firemen did their Fire Drill, which seemed to happen every five minutes or so. There was an obvious bachelorette party three tables away, complete with a blond and silicone-buxom bride-to-be in a veil. Yes, her mind did ponder what it meant to objectify people—male or female—which this club definitely was doing. Yes, she did wonder what kind of guy would choose to work here. But honestly? She was having—Champagne stood abruptly and cupped her hands. “Hey, Bryson! Come wait on us!” A shaggy-haired blond waiter who couldn’t have been older than twenty cut through the crowd toward them. He wore the same jeans-and-suspenders getup as all the other staff. When he got to the table, Champagne flung her arms around him for an enormous hug and introduced him to Anna and Cammie.

“You guys know each other, I take it,” Cammie observed, smirking.

“We definitely do. What’s up, doll?” He kissed Champagne on the cheek and then looked back at the table. “So, how do you guys know my cousin?”