Read Hollywood Confessions Online
Authors: Gemma Halliday
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Cozy, #Women Sleuths, #Romance, #Romantic Comedy, #Suspense
Hollywood Confessions (31 page)
Real Life Productions, on the other hand, did not do all right. Three months after Barker’s death they closed their doors, marking the end of all the shows Barker had created. On the one hand, I was kinda sad to see it go, as
Stayin’ Alive
really had become an American staple. On the other, Barker’s legacy had already spurred on a whole new generation of reality TV. Just last month Tandy, Mandy and Candy from
Little Love
had all signed on to do a show for FOX where they would compete to win plastic surgery procedures, called
Little People, Big Boobs
. Gary, of course, already had a running list of ways to sneak onto the set.
“
Hey, Quick.” Felix called me from his office, diverting my attention from the article I was typing up on the latest nightclub break-in.
I popped up from my chair, sticking my head in his office a second later. “Yeah, boss?”
“
Where are we on the break-ins?”
“
Five in the last month,” I said, counting off on my fingers as I approached his desk. “Three-hundred thousand stolen in cash, and hundreds of credit card receipts.”
“
Any leads?”
I shrugged. “The cops are baffled. No fingerprints, no fibers, nothing left behind.”
“
Pros,” Felix concluded.
I nodded. “Looks that way. Thing is, they must have someone on the inside because they bypass every security system.”
Felix raised an eyebrow. “All use the same company?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“
Then it’s got to be someone working the clubs. Get a name of all the bouncers that moonlight the area and start working through them, one by one. Get Tina to help.”
I nodded. “On it.”
“
And Allie?” he added as I turned to go.
“
Yeah?”
“
That was a pretty long lunch you took.”
I grinned. “Sorry. I was at the mall.”
“
The mall?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “We have a story there?”
I shook my head in the negative. “No. There was a sale.”
“
A sale?” Felix repeated.
I grinned again. “Uh-huh. At Victoria’s Secret.”
Felix’s other eyebrow headed north. “Really. Purchase anything nice?”
“
Be good,” I said, giving him a wink, “And maybe I’ll show you.”
* * * * *
About the author:
Gemma Halliday is the author of the
High Heels Mysteries
, the
Hollywood Headlines
Mysteries,
and the
Deadly Cool
series of young adult books
. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects.
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at
http://www.gemmahalliday.com
Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gemma-Halliday/285144192552
* * * * *
OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY
High Heels Mysteries:
Christmas in High Heels
(short story)
Sweetheart in High Heels
(short story)
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers:
Young Adult Books:
Other Works:
Haunted
(novella)
Watching You
(short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit
(short story)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first
High Heels Mystery
by Gemma Halliday:
SPYING IN HIGH HEELS
* * * * *
Chapter One
I was late.
And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and was now stuck in traffic. I mean I was
late
late. The kind of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side of condom boxes flashed before my eyes as I white knuckled my way down the 405, silently screaming, why me? Why, oh why me? I’m a new millennium girl. I took copious notes in 6
th
grade Sex Ed. I carry just-in-case condoms in the zippered section of my purse. And, after that first singularly awkward experience in the back of Todd Hanson’s ‘82 Chevy after junior prom, I have been meticulously careful. Me. I was late. And I was not taking it well.
“
Dana?” Silence. “Dana, I need to talk to you.” Silence. “I swear to God if you are screening me I am never speaking to you again.”
I switched my cell phone to the other hand as I changed lanes, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pick-up that had “wash me” carved in opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.
“
Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing. “All right, I guess you really aren’t there. But please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this message. I mean pronto. This is a serious code red, 911 emergency. I need to talk to you
now!”
I punctuated this last word by laying on my horn as a bald guy in a convertible cut me off then had the audacity to give
me
the finger. Welcome to L.A.
I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process, and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month. Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I was beginning to hyperventilate.
I merged onto the 10 freeway, glancing down at the digital readout on my dashboard clock, and realized with a twist of irony that I was now not only late, but late. As in not on time to meet my boyfriend, Richard Howe, for lunch. He’d made one o’clock reservations at Giani’s and it was now twelve fifty-eight. I eased my suede ankle boot (which had maxed out my Macy’s card, but was so worth it!) down just a little harder on the accelerator, after checking the rearview mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that I was speeding. Much. But considering the day I’d had so far, an encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.
As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss and applied a thin swipe across my lips, ignoring the obscene gestures from the guy behind me. Hey, if a girl in a crisis doesn’t have her lipstick, what does she have?
I’m proud to say I only got flipped off two more times before pulling my little red Jeep (top up today as a concession to my hair) into the parking garage on the corner of 7
th
and Grand. I fastened The Club securely on my steering wheel and prepared to hoof it the two blocks to my boyfriend’s firm where I was supposed to meet him… I looked down at my watch… damn. Twelve minutes ago. Well, on the up side, as soon as I told him about being
late,
I had a feeling he’d forget all about my being late.
A conversation I was seriously dreading. In my mind it went something like this: Hi Richard, sorry I’m late, by the way I may be having your child. Insert cartoon sound of Richard hitting the door at roadrunner-like speeds. Ugh. There was just no good way to ease into information like that. We’d only been dating for a few months. We hadn’t even made it to the shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond stage yet, and suddenly we had to have
this
conversation? I adjusted my bra strap as I walked, tucking it back under my tank top, trying like anything to present the appearance of a woman with it all together. And not a woman trying to remember which pregnancy test commercial touted early results with digital readouts.
Exactly fourteen minutes behind schedule I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. In reality the firm was called Donaldson, Chesterton, and Howe. But I couldn’t resist the nickname. Considering the type of clientele they represented (the Chanel and Rolex crowd) it fit like an imported, calfskin glove.
Beyond the frosted front doors maroon carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. The large oval of dark woods stretched along the back wall of the spacious room, flanked on either side by more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at three hundred dollars an hour filled the background.
“
May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. Or as I liked to call her, Miss PP. As in plastic parts. Jasmine spent two thirds of her salary every month on cosmetic procedures. This week her lips were collagen swollen to Angelina Jolie standards. Last month it was new boobs, double D of course. As usual, her bleached blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of 5’6”. I’m what could be referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive 5’1 ½” on a good day. I was lucky if I made the height requirement on half the rides at Six Flags.
“
I’m here to see Richard,” I informed Miss PP.
“
Do you have an appointment with Mr. Howe?” Her blue eyes blinked (with difficulty due to the brow lift two months ago) in an innocent gesture that I knew was anything but. Jasmine’s sole entertainment here at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was wielding the power of entry to the sacred offices beyond the frosted doors.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Yes. As a matter of fact I do.”
“
And you are?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d met Richard here for lunch every Friday afternoon for the past five months. She knew who I was and by the tiny smile at the corner of her Angelina lips, she was enjoying this all too much.
“
Maddie Springer. His
girlfriend
. I’m here for a lunch date.”
“
I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but you’ll have to wait. He’s with someone in the conference room right now.”
“
Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area. Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look busy. I picked up a copy of
Cosmo
from the end table and began flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could never afford. Or fit into if I was actually pregnant. Oh God. What a depressing thought.
After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception area. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle. He was a religious runner, doing 10k’s for all the charities in his spare time. Muscular dystrophy, autism, even the breast cancer run last April. When we first started dating he tried to get me to run with him once. Just once. My idea of a cardio workout was elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-yearly super sale. Running was something I didn’t do. Besides, I figured if the heels were high enough, walking the two blocks from my apartment to the corner Starbucks burned almost as many calories as running, right?