Hollywood Confessions (6 page)

The guard nodded. “’Morning, Miss Hilton,” he said.

I did a sigh of relief.

“
Go on ahead,” the ancient guy said, waving the driver on and stepping back into his house.

That was almost too easy.

I quickly rolled up my window, instructing the driver to let me out near the production offices to the left.

Sunset Studios was a huge place, laid out like a miniature city. Only the city was a little schizophrenic. We had Boston brownstones down one street, Victorian mansions on the next. Gritty New York graffiti covered the walls of a pizza joint just around the corner from a suburban tree-lined street that could have been home to Wally and the Beave. Near the back of the lot were rows of squat warehouses where sitcoms and movies-of-the-week were filmed. And to the left was a colony of small bungalows that held the production offices of countless companies, all with cute little names from the Hollywood of old.

I’d done a little digging this morning on my cell while I’d waited at Starbucks and ascertained that Real Life productions was housed in the
Gone With the Wind
bungalow, which turned out to look nothing like antebellum Georgia. It was brick, short and had a faux-thatched roof that made it look like it belonged to a quaint English villager and not the biggest name in reality TV.

I shoved my sunglasses up on my head and was just about to knock on the door when a voice hailed me from behind.

“
Excuse me?”

Uh-oh.

I turned to find a tall, dark haired guy standing behind me. He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, untucked in a casual dressy kind of way. His square jaw, honey-colored tan and perfectly gelled hair screamed
movie star
, though his face didn’t look familiar.

“
Yeah?” I asked, doing my best Paris impression—fifty percent valley girl, fifty percent bored to tears.

“
How did you get in here?” he asked.

I cocked a hip and twirled a lock of hair, consciously dropping about 50 IQ points from my voice. “Waddaya mean?”

“
Last I checked, Sunset was closed to reporters.”

I froze, anxiety suddenly swirling in my gut. “Reporter? What do you mean reporter? I’m not a reporter,” I lied, twirling furiously. “I’m Paris Hilton.”

He grinned at me, a pair of dimples creasing his cheeks. “Oh, really?”

“
Um, ya, really.”

“
That’s funny.”

“
And why is that?” I asked, hating the way nerves made my voice about two octaves too high.

“
Because you look a lot more like Allie Quick to me.”

Uh-oh. Busted.

“
Right. Well, see, here’s the thing,” I said, quickly backpedaling. “What I meant was I’m here to see Paris.”

“
Paris is in Milan this week.”

Great. The one day I don’t check up on my celebrity itineraries… “I mean, I’m here to see a producer to talk about Paris.”

“
Uh-huh.” Tall, Dark and Handsome crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his heels. He gave me a hard stare. “And who might that producer be?”

I puffed my chest out defiantly. “Alec Davies.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shook his head at me. “Wow.”

“
What?”

The head kept shaking. “I knew tabloid reporters weren’t the most truthful people on the planet, but you’re kinda pathological aren’t you, Allie?”

My turn to cross my arm over my chest. “I don’t know what you mean.” I paused. “And how do you know my name, anyway?”

That grin flirting with the corners of his mouth took hold in earnest as he answered. “I make it a point to remember the names of all the tabloid reporters who slander me.”

Oh, no.

I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach. “So…that would make you…”

“
Alec Davies.” He stuck a hand out toward me. “Nice to meet you.” Then he gave me a wink.

If the ground could open up and swallow me whole, now would be a very nice time for it to do so.

“
Uh, hi.” I limply shook his hand.

“
Of course, I’m also known now as the ‘shadowy figure’ seen outside Barker’s place,” he said.

“
I take it you read my article.”

“
Every last slanderous word. You here to interrogate your ‘number-one suspect?’” he asked, quoting me again.

“
I prefer the term ‘interview.’”

He grinned widely again. I couldn’t help but notice what a nice smile it was. His teeth were white and straight, dimples dotting both cheeks. It was a lot friendlier than I’d expect from someone using the word “slander”.

“
I’m not sure I want to be interviewed by you,” he finally answered. “You don’t exactly play fair.”

“
Are you saying you weren’t outside Barker’s the night he died?” I asked.

“
I’m saying you didn’t give me a chance to respond before printing your fairly unflattering article.”

He had a point.

“
Well,” I countered, “here’s your chance. Respond away.”

“
Touché.” He grinned again, and I hoped he’d take the dare. “Okay, fine. Let’s step inside, shall we?” he said, gesturing to the production office.

He didn’t give me a chance to agree, instead pushing through the door and holding it open behind him for me. I followed, stepping into the small, three-room bungalow. A reception desk took up most of the first room, doors to both the left and right of the desk leading to the private offices. A guy in a plaid sweater vest and Ed Hardy sneakers sat in reception, talking into a headset. He did a little wave to Alec without missing beat in his conversation. Alec waved back then led the way through the door on our right.

This room was bigger, housing a large, modern chrome and wood desk in the center. A leather sofa sat against one wall, the opposite wall filled with built-in bookcases lined with DVDs. Several posters in sleek, black frames served as decoration, featuring TV shows I assumed Alec had worked on. A
Lady Justice
poster hung right above his desk, a girl in a lace teddy winking at me as she held the scales of justice in one hand.

“
Have a seat,” Alec offered, gesturing to the sofa as he took a place in the black, leather chair behind the desk.

I did, perching on the edge, knees together, legs on a diagonal to keep from flashing him a Sharon Stone in my miniskirt.

“
So, shoot. Interview away,” he said, leaning back in his chair, looking way too comfortable to be a killer.

I pulled a pad of paper and a pink gel pen with little hearts on it from my bag.

He raised an eyebrow at my choice of stationary, but said nothing.

“
Someone was seen outside Barker’s house at the time of his death,” I said, pen hovering. “Wearing your ballcap.”

“
What cap would that be?”

“
Black, red snake on the brim. From the
Lady Justice
set,” I said, gesturing to the poster behind him.

“
Ah. That cap.”

“
You admit you own one?”

He nodded. “At the risk of incriminating myself, yes.”

“
So, it was you?”

He paused. Then slowly countered with, “It was me who was at his house in a ballcap? Or me who killed him?”

“
The former,” I clarified.

“
Yes.”

“
And the latter?”

“
No.”

Which, I noted, is exactly what he would say if he had killed Barker. “So what were you doing skulking around then?”

Those dimples made an appearance again. “I wasn’t ‘skulking,’” he said. “I was leaving. Through the front door. Down the front walk. Like a very non-suspicious person might.”

“
Leaving from?” I pressed.

“
Barker and I were working late. We ordered Chinese in, had a couple beers, finalized a script, then I left.”

Which was consistent with the ME report that Mu Shu Pork and Heinekin were among Barker’s stomach contents. Though he’d ingested deadly levels of prescription drugs as well.

“
And before you ask,” Alec said, “no, I did not poison his beer stein. Now, that would be a very Agatha Christie twist, right?” He winked again.

I scrunched my forehead up, concentrating on being probing and not charmed. “What were you and Barker working on?” I pressed.

He shook his head. “Sorry, that’s top secret. New show.”

“
Okay, what time did you leave?”

“
Around ten. And, yes, Chester was alive and well when I left.”

“
Anyone able to verify that?”

He shrugged. “We were alone.”

“
So you were the last person to see Barker alive?”

“
Actually the killer was the last person to see Chester alive,” Alec pointed out. Then flashed that amused grin at me again.

“
Why do I get the feeling you’re not taking this interrogation very seriously?” I asked.

“
I thought it was a interview.” If it was possible, the grin grew wider.

“
How well did you know Barker?” I asked, looking down to avoid his Charmorama.

He shrugged again. “As well as anyone, I guess.”

“
How long had you been partners?”

“
About three years.” He pursed his lips as if trying to remember. “But I worked for him for a few years before that. Chester gave me my first job right out of film school.”