Celebrity Sudoku (10 page)

His look became more speculative as they drove along. “I suppose your friend Michelle would be one of those powers.”

“She’s your friend, too.”

Michael shook his head. “She tolerates me—which, I’ll admit, is a step up from where I stood before.”

Before the whole divorce thing started,
Liza realized, but Michael went on.

“What I’m really saying is that the network stretching from her office—all those contacts, connections, and out-and-out spies—that’s a spiderweb to make Fu Manchu go green with envy.

“It’s kind of funny,” Michael continued. “Both Michelle and Don Lowe deal in much the same thing—information and getting it first. Except that most of the time, Michelle is burying it, or trading off it to make something happen.”

“While Lowe wants to smear it all over the Internet or TV,” Liza said. “Maybe I’m getting old and crotchety, but I’ve begun to think that there are things people shouldn’t have to know.”

She paused. “And there’s another difference. Lowe generally gets his information with a checkbook. Michelle spent years building her network, making relationships, bartering favors—”

“And maybe just a little terrorism and extortion.” Now Michael was the one laughing, although that died away pretty quickly.

“Something
has
changed,” he said in a different tone. “Not so long ago, if the tabloids wanted to find out about some celebrity in a hospital, they’d pull a silly stunt like sending a reporter in disguised as a priest. But look at the last election. You had people working in hospitals—people who should know better—leaking the medical records of a candidate.”

“It’s not just them,” Liza said. “People in police departments are leaking information and pictures, too.” She shook her head. “Is everybody out there trying to make a quick buck?”

“Maybe it’s like crime writing,” Michael suggested. “We’re just seeing the worst side of society.”

“God, I hope so.” Liza winced and probed gingerly at her knee. “I think I’ve been up and around on this too much. Better get home, elevate the knee, and ice it.”

“There’s something else you may want to discuss with Michelle.” A sly laugh crept into Michael’s voice.

“What?” Liza asked, bracing herself.

“Should she send you a hot outfit to go clubbing and catch Forty Oz.—or should we send your walker out for detailing? Maybe fire-engine red with a gold flame trim—”

She hit him, but not too hard. After all, they were still on the freeway and had to stay in their lane.

 

 

It was early—very early—the next morning that they tried their plan to hook Forty Oz. Liza stifled a yawn in the back of the limousine. She’d tried to nap in the afternoon after hatching this plot with Michelle, but it hadn’t worked. Her knee still bothered her, and frankly, she wasn’t used to setting off for an evening of partying at two a.m.

She yawned again, stiffening as she saw Michael watching her. “I guess you called it earlier when you said we weren’t in Maiden’s Bay anymore.”

Michael shrugged. “C’mon, Liza, Hollywood is a town where, if you’re really working, you start at six in the morning and hit the hay by nine at night.” He looked a little sheepish. “Hell, I’m trying not to yawn myself.”

He wore a black rough silk shirt and black jeans that, Liza had noticed, fit him very well.

Michelle had sent over some party wear, knowing that Liza’s available wardrobe was limited and probably businesslike. Liza had chosen spandex jeans and a red top cut low enough that she wondered how somebody could dance in it. Just moving around with her walker proved unintentionally provocative.

Up in the front of the limo, the driver was speaking back and forth on his cell phone. “They’re coming up, and we’ll pull in right behind them,” he reported.

He sped up a little, took a corner, and then they were on the block that seemed to center on Café Tabú, the latest hot nightspot catering to celebrities and celebrity-watchers. Certainly, Liza saw plenty of the second category—people stretching in a line from midblock to the far corner. They surged against the velvet ropes as Liza’s driver brought the car to a stop just behind another limo.

The driver opened the door, and Liza, with Michael’s help, worked her way out to a hum of comments and camera flashes.

Although she got out first, the walker slowed Liza down, so she trailed the group of people heading for the club’s entrance. The bouncer who had rushed to open the rope for the young woman in the lead now moved to block Liza and Michael from the promised land.

The young woman’s back was to this scene, but she turned as if on cue. “They’re with me,” she said to the big guy in the silk shirt. “My . . . aunt and uncle.”

I guess that sounds better than her grandma and grandpa,
Liza thought.
And thank God that Delicia Schlissel owed Michelle Markson a favor.

She stepped past as the bouncer refastened the thin purple velvet line that kept the hoi polloi at bay. Four more heaves of the walker brought Liza to the door of the club, which Michael held open for her. Going through, she found herself surrounded by loud music emerging from a very serious sound system. She knew that from the way bass waves invaded every empty space in her, setting up sympathetic vibrations in her stomach, her lungs, her sinuses . . .

My skull?
she wondered as she scanned the crowd on the dance floor. No Forty Oz., though.

Delicia had already seen that, skirting the dancers to head for the VIP lounge. Liza trailed after, letting Delicia deal with more guardians at the gates.

The VIP area was just a roped-off section of tables right off the dance floor. Apparently, the management of Café Tabú didn’t want anything really taboo going on. Celebrities were like the floor show—mere mortals could look (or was that gawk?), but they couldn’t speak to the favored few.

Liza breezed past an arbiter of exclusivity who seemed to be grinding his teeth.

I guess the walker doesn’t add much to the desired ambience around here,
she thought.

The celebrity turnout seemed kind of sparse. Was Café Tabú starting to lose its cachet? Maybe it was just too early in the late night for the really hearty partiers. Liza spotted an entourage occupying two tables with Forty Oz. at the center. He was trying to impress a pair of giggling young hardbodies who had competed in one of those best-dancing shows.

Spotting Delicia, the singer’s intense face broke into a broad show-biz smile as he rose from his seat with a big hello. Then he fell silent, staring as Liza pulled up beside Delicia.

“Yeah, I know,” Liza said. “You feel you ought to recognize me, but you can’t remember a name.”

That was when the bodyguard rose up from his seat, stepping between Forty Oz. and this apparently deranged stranger. Liza found herself confronting a guy about as wide as a storefront in an imported Italian suit.

She bent around the guy before she was completely eclipsed. “
D-Kodas
—the makeup department—you were in the chair for special skin tones.”

Forty Oz. put his hand on the hulking bodyguard’s shoulder. “Right, you were the one who explained the puzzle for the first round we taped. Lena—”

“Liza Kelly,” Liza told him. “I need to talk to you about Ritz Tarleton.”

The planes of the rapper’s face tightened again. “We’ll sit over there,” he told the bodyguard, pointing to an isolated table. “Keep an eye.”

Liza thumped her way over, noticing about halfway that she was timing her walker’s movement to the bass beat of the dance music.

This time Michael stayed a couple of paces behind her. Forty Oz. shot him a hostile look when Michael joined them at the table. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Just the assistant,” Michael replied. “Also the husband.”

Forty Oz. dismissed him with a look, turning to Liza. “So what’s this about Ritz? I know she died in the quake. Is that where you hurt your leg?”

Liza nodded. “What you haven’t heard is that the cops have begun to think that Ritz didn’t die by accident. They’re gonna start digging into everyone who was at Atotori Studios that day.”

“Did you know her well?” Michael spoke up.

“We met here and there,” Forty Oz. replied. “You know how things are in this town.”

“Me, not so much,” Michael said. “Liza, on the other hand, knows a lot about Hollywood. Before she went into puzzles, she helped run a publicity agency. Maybe you’ve heard of her partner? Michelle Markson?”

Forty Oz. didn’t say anything, but Liza could read the answer in his expression.

So could Michael. “And you know the information sources she has. According to them, the two of you had a much more . . . extensive relationship. I’m surprised you don’t have a video memento of your time together. She made at least one other.”

Go, Michael,
Liza thought. She was so surprised at the way he dove into this interrogation that she almost missed the flicker of reaction behind the rapper’s poker face. But Michael didn’t just catch it, he ran with it.

“So there is a tape. But why would that worry you? It should just be another mark on your belt. Unless it makes you look bad. So what happened? Did she not tell you the camera was rolling? Did it catch you being sweet to her? Yeah, that would kill a lot of your hump-’em-and-dump’em street cred—”

“All right,” the rapper burst out. Four tables away, his giant guard surged to his feet. Forty Oz. waved him off.

“We hooked up when my first song went gold. I thought it was just one of the perks. She was older than I was.”

And at the time, more famous,
Liza thought.

“But Ritz was helpful, showed me the way the whole celebrity thing worked, and I—” Forty Oz. looked down at the tabletop. “I ended up having feelings for her. But you know how they say women are from Venus, men are from Mars? That one, whoa, she was from Pluto or someplace. She got real cold on me. How cold, I didn’t even realize till we bumped up on each other at the show. That’s when she told me about the video.”

“Why?” Liza asked. “Were you trying to get back together with her?”

“Not even,” the rapper replied. “I barely said hello, and she started telling me she had something going on and didn’t want me gettin’ in the way. And she said she could make sure I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“With that embarrassing video,” Michael said. “A real career killer . . . unless you did something.”

“I didn’t do a damn thing.” Forty Oz. turned to Liza. “You saw how I did on that puzzle—I couldn’t figure out any damn thing about it. My people told me it would be easy, but it sure as hell wasn’t. Maybe it’s just as well they put the shows on whatchacallit—hiatus. Gives me a chance to study some before I try this crap again.”

Liza gave him a long, hard look. The celebrity world might be famed for its big egos, but even so, she couldn’t see killing someone to gain time for a crash course in sudoku. Of course, Ritz herself had proven willing to engage in a little strong-arm action to make sure she looked good on the show. And the leverage she had on Forty Oz. could be a career killer.

On the other hand, the rapper had been pretty forthcoming after Michael’s lucky guess. If he’d killed to keep the video a secret, why would Forty Oz. talk to them about it?

“This ‘something’ Ritz had going on,” Liza said. “Did she give you any idea about what it was?”

“Hell, no,” the rapper replied. “She just told me to back off and not get in her way. I didn’t even talk to her after that. And then she got that place off on her own with Lolly Popovic.” His face went tight again. “Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. Wonder how she felt when it fell in on her.”

He fell gloomily silent after that. Liza and Michael exchanged a glance.
I don’t think there’s anything more he can tell us,
Liza thought.

“I wouldn’t want to do too much partying tonight,” she warned Forty Oz. “Chances are, in a few hours you’ll be getting a visit from Hal Quigley and the celebrity squad.”

“We might as well head back to the crib,” Forty Oz. said. “Talking with you pretty much killed the mood.”

He returned to his entourage, declaring the party over—and causing some people to send fairly dirty looks Liza’s way.

Could Forty Oz. have told one of those hangers-on about the video?
Liza wondered.
Could they have tried to do something about it—with fatal consequences?

She looked over the group. Most of the people accompanying Forty Oz. looked interested in spending his money. None of them looked particularly dangerous, except for that brick wall of a bodyguard. And he looked more like a professional than a thug.

We can have Buck Foreman check him out,
she decided,
along with the rest of young Forty’s known associates.

She looked over at Michael to see him closing his cell phone with a snap. “Didn’t want to disturb you while you were thinking, but I called our driver. I figured that since we couldn’t dance, we might as well get out of here.”

By the time Liza got up and moving, Forty Oz. and his people were already heading out the door. But no sooner did Liza escape the insistent thump of the music than she found herself facing camera flashes—a lot more than when they went in.

The paparazzi were out in force.

Guess there’s not much celebrity news, what with the earthquake and all,
Liza thought, grimly thumping along with her walker while photographers converged on Forty Oz., yelling to get his attention.

“Yo, Fawdy!” a young guy with a vaguely familiar face called out, aiming his video camera. “Got any cracks in your walls from the quake?”

Head down, Liza wrestled her walker past him. He glanced away from his viewfinder at her, turned away . . . and then turned back, aiming the camera.

“Haven’t I seen you someplace before?” the guy asked.

Liza suddenly recognized the high cheekbones and snub nose of the idiot who’d made the comment about her on
The Lowdown
.