Hollywood Secrets (19 page)

On the other side of the lot were the outdoor sets, a half dozen fake cities sectioned off into various neighborhoods. There was a Manhattan street, a row of Boston brownstones, and a New Orlean’s café. A block over was the pristine suburban street where the prime-time soap
Magnolia Lane
filmed their hunky gardeners and gossipy housewives. And in the center of it all was the grassy square where the high school kids on the tween cable hit
Pippi Mississippi
ate their lunches between math class and cheerleading practice. In fact, I caught a glimpse of Pippi’s blonde pigtails bouncing up and down next to the ginormous fountain as Trace whisked us by on his way to studio 4G.

Which, as it turned out, was near the back of the lot among the other leased sets. A couple of white trailers sat by the front of the warehouse doors, along with a rack of costumes and some rolling spotlights. Trace parked behind the trailers and we made our way up to the warehouse doors.

Movie sets are generally chaotic. Extras mixing with crew mixing with wardrobe mixing with the hundred other people needed behind the scenes to make everything work. While security at the gate was tougher than the president’s, once you were on the lot, you could pretty much go anywhere and blend in to the crowd unnoticed.

That is, unless you were Trace Brody.

A tourists tram wound past the set just as we approached the warehouse doors, the helpful guide’s voice booming over the loudspeaker.

“
And just to our right is studio 4G where Katie Briggs is shooting her latest TV movie. And look who’s out front? It’s none other than Trace Brody!”

Three dozen heads turned his way, and we were suddenly assaulted by a cacophony of digital camera flashes.

“
Trace is best known for his work in the action film
Die Tough
, last summer’s blockbuster hit. Smile for the people, Trace!”

Trace did a feeble wave, as he also became the star of several vacationers’ home movies. While wearing a plumbing ad.

Of course by the time the tram made its way past us and on to the next studio neighborhood, every extra, crew member, and production assistant on the movie-of-the-week set had turned our way, too, and were staring at Trace with open curiosity. Not surprising since they most likely knew he was not cast in this particular movie.

“
Uh… hi,” Trace said, waving to the crowd in general. “Anyone know where we can find Carla Constantine?” he asked.

A guy pushing a rolling camera looked up and pointed toward the first white trailer outside. “Cast trailer is over there.”

“
Thanks.” He waved and ducked his head down, leading the way to the trailer.

I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on our backs as we knocked on the white aluminum door. I had to admit, it was kind of unnerving being on the other end of this celebrity watching thing.

Luckily, a beat later our knock was answered by a voice from within. “It’s open!”

Glad to escape the prying eyes, we opened the door and quickly slipped inside.

The interior of the trailer looked strikingly like my apartment. Though I wasn’t entirely sure the trailer wasn’t bigger. A sofa was one side, a small kitchenette in the corner and a pair of recliners off to the other. A metal table held bottles of water and script pages, all marked with highlighter and scribbled notes. A small woman with dark air sat on the sofa, her forehead screwed up in concentration as she memorized her lines from the script in her hand, her mouth moving as she silently read.

“
Carla Constantine?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. Sorry,” she responded without looking up.

“
Oh. Is she here?” I glanced around the trailer for any sign of another inhabitant.

“
I dunno,” came her response. Bored. Annoyed. Still not bothering to look up.

“
We’d really like to speak to her,” Trace added.

The brunette froze. Clearly she knew that voice.

She looked up from her script. “Trace Brody,” she said on a breathless gasp.

“
Hi.” He stuck his hand out.

She shook it, then looked down at it with an “I’ll never wash this hand again” expression on her face.

The only thing better than being famous in Hollywood was knowing someone famous. Or at least having met them so they could shamelessly name-drop at the next cocktail party in the hills.

A notion this girl clearly subscribed to.

“
Wow,
really
nice to meet you too. Wow, I’m so… wow. I mean, I love your work. Wow, it’s just so diverse.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wow”, did she have some vocabulary or what?

“
My name’s Cindi. With an ‘I.’”

Of course.

“
Wow, I am, like, your biggest fan. I mean,
biggest
,” she breathed. She set down her script, showing off a pair of fake breasts that bobbed up and down beneath a too-tight T-shirt as she deeply breathed in the scent of true celebrity.

“
Nice to meet you,” Trace said, still trying to get his hand back from her.

“
Listen, we were looking for Carla,” I prompted again. “Is she here?”

Cindi with an “i” shook her head. “Sorry, they wrapped her already. She’s gone for the day.”

Shit.

“
When did she leave?” I asked, still hoping maybe we could catch her.

“
About an hour ago. Why?” she asked.

“
We wanted to ask her a couple questions about Bert Decker.”

“
Her boyfriend?”

I perked up. “So they
were
dating?”

She nodded. “Sure. He even came to visit her on the set a couple times.”

“
Did she mention him ever giving her something?” I asked. Then off Cindi’s confused expression added, “for safekeeping maybe?”

She shook her head. “No. What sort of something?”

I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure how specific I wanted to get with Miss Co-star. She didn’t exactly look like the type that could keep a secret.

“
Oh, I don’t know, like a bit of information. On a disc? Or flash drive maybe?”

Again she cocked her head at me. “Sorry. She didn’t mention anything like that. But it’s not like we are BFFs or anything, ya know? We kinda run in different circles.”

“
Did she mention when the last time she saw Decker was?” I asked, grasping.

“
Sure. He was here today.”

Trace and I both leaned forward.

“
He was?” I asked. “When?”

She scrunched up her button nose. “Just before we broke for lunch? He said he’d just come from the airport. He was only here to see Carla for a couple minutes.”

“
Did Carla mention why he stopped by?”

“
Not really. But you know, she did say that Decker had some big project going. And she was helping him with it.”

I wondered if said project had anything to do with the flash drive.

“
Do you know where we could find her now?” Trace asked. “Did she mention where she was going when she left?”

“
Oh sure,” Cindi replied. “Decker had booked her a stage role. In Vegas.”

Mental forehead smack. “The gig’s today?” This was turning into some great wild goose chase.

“
Yeah. She was heading straight to the airport. Said she had a five o’clock flight.”

I pulled out my cell and looked down at the readout. 4:20. There was a slim chance…

“
She flying out of Burbank?” I asked.

Cindi nodded. “I think so.”

“
Thanks!” I called, grabbing Trace by the arm and making a bee-line for the door.

“
So nice to meet you!” Cindi called after us. Though I was pretty sure it was directed at Trace and not me.

I made only one short stop at the unattended wardrobe rack before we navigated back out of the studio lot, then roared down Hollywood Boulevard toward the Burbank airport.

There are three major airports that service the L.A. area – LAX, Burbank, and Long Beach. While Sunset Studios was technically closer to LAX, the Los Angeles International airport was the major West Coast hub, which meant a nightmare when it came to parking, ticketing security, and getting through the place without being mugged or otherwise accosted. LAX was for international travelers and tourists. Burbank was the locals’ secret, the alternate solution servicing almost as many domestic flights as LAX but with half the hassle.

Though, we realized as we pulled into the main thoroughfare, that still left the other half of the hassle to deal with.

After snaking through marginally moving traffic past the runways, through the arrivals terminal and baggage claim, we finally hit the short-term parking, where, after circling just three times, we found one empty space. Next to a yellow curb. Saying a silent prayer to the parking gods, I took it, beeping my Jeep locked as we ran for the elevator up to departures. After a quick look at the monitors, we found one flight leaving for Vegas that evening at 5:00. Unfortunately, the little status line next to it read “on time.” I looked down at my cell readout. 4:40.

Which meant Carla was probably already at the gate.

Which meant there was no way we were getting to her without a ticket. The gates were past the security check-point where no one ventured without a boarding pass, photo ID, and a thorough inspection for shoe bombs. Not even Trace Brody.

“
Great,” I said, plopping down on a plastic chair beneath the monitors. “She’s probably already boarding.”

Trace squinted at the monitors, his eyes scrolling down the list of departing flights. “Most likely.”

“
Now what do we do?”

His eyes stopped at one entry. Another flight to Vegas. He grinned. Then turned to me.

“
How’s your blackjack?”

Chapter Fourteen

I might have protested that this was a long shot. That we weren’t even totally sure Decker had passed the flash drive off to Carla. That, even if he had passed it to his girlfriend, she might not have it on her now. But Trace must have seen one too many of his own movies, as he was all about the long shot.

“
Got any other bright ideas?” he countered when I gave him a skeptical look.

Sadly, I did not.

So I backtracked to the car and grabbed my laptop and Nikon as Trace booked us two seats on the next flight to Vegas, leaving in an hour and a half. We then made our way through security (where they made me detach all the parts of my camera in case I had hidden weapons in the lenses), then hunkered down in a pair of seats at the terminal to wait for our flight. Luckily our gate was right across the fairway from a souvenir shop where I grabbed a bottle of Vitamin Water. Then I booted up my laptop ad settled in to get a little work done while we waited. I tapped into the airport’s wireless system, and downloaded the photos Felix had sent for the next day’s edition. Most were of stars going to the grocery store, out to eat, running errands, or caught in their pajamas as they picked up their morning papers. I pulled up my photo-editing program and began cropping, lightening, and sharpening the photos as Trace leaned back in the seat next to me, watching the news on the TV monitors mounted in the corner of the terminal’s ceiling.

I was on the last photo (Jennifer Aniston pumping gas at a Chevron on Melrose) when I was interrupted by the sound of music playing from Trace’s pocket. I cocked my head to the side, recognizing the tune. It was that song from the sixties by Jimmy Soul that went, “If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife…” I raised an eyebrow at him, wondering who that particular ringtone was reserved for.

Trace pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the on button, cutting the song short.

“
Hey, Jamie” he said.

I raised the other eyebrow. Iiiiiiinteresting.

I leaned a little closer. This morning I’d been practically peeing my pants with paparazzi excitement at witnessing an honest-to-God phone conversation between the golden couple. And now, while I wasn’t breaking out the Depends, I couldn’t help the newshound in me doing a little squee that I could actually hear the other end of the conversation this time. If I leaned over. And tilted my head toward Trace’s phone. And covered the other ear. Nope, I didn’t look like I was eavesdropping at all.

“
What’s up, babe?” Trace asked, holding the phone to his ear.

“
Ugh, you know I hate it when you call me, ‘babe.’ I’m not some truck-stop waitress.”

Geez, picky, picky, I thought.

But Trace responded with an automatic, “Sorry. What’s up?”

“
What’s up is that I just got back from my dress fitting.”

“
I knew she had a dress!” I said. Apparently out loud, as Trace turned to me raising a questioning eyebrow.

Yeah, totally not eavesdropping. I clamped one hand over my mouth.

Though, from the fact that he didn’t move farther away, he apparently didn’t mind.