Hollywood Secrets by Gemma Halliday Read Free Book Online Page A

little notebook shut and shoved it back into his pocket with an air of finality. I had a bad feeling that about all he’d written down was my name, the paper I worked for, and a “watch this one” note to self.
    “ So that’s it?” I asked, hearing desperation creep into my voice.
    He shrugged. “We’ll look into it,” he said.
    Though neither of us believed that for a second.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
    After making Allie swear on the life of her Siamese cat, Mr. Fluffykins (gag), that she would not print anything about Trace’s kidnapping until I gave the go-ahead, I headed for home. I took a long, hot shower, ate the remains of some leftover Indian food in the back of my fridge, and watched the late news for any mention of Trace’s disappearance. The forty-something, Hispanic newscaster prattled on about a shooting in La Puente, earthquake retrofitting of an overpass downtown, and a high-speed chase on the 405. Not a word about Trace.
    I flipped off the set and crawled into bed, falling into an uneasy sleep as my subconscious conjured up all kinds of horrible scenarios of where Trace might be spending his night.
     
    * * *
     
     
    The next morning I was up before dawn for my usual run. After putting a good five miles on my Nikes, I did the quick shower thing, letting my hair air-dry as I threw on a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt with a picture of Kermit the Frog on it that read, “Think Green.”
    Twenty minutes later I was at the Informer offices, and this morning I was on mission. Maybe the cops didn’t believe that Trace was in any real danger, but I didn’t buy that his abduction was entirely a fake either.
    And I was going to prove it.
    I flipped on my computer and pulled up my address book. If Trace had been seen anywhere within a hundred mile radius of Hollywood this morning, I was sure there was someone in the paper’s little black book who knew about it.
    I picked up the phone and started at the top, dialing Bert Decker, Trace’s agent. Unfortunately, I got a receptionist who said Mr. Decker was unavailable, but I could leave a message. I did. Even though I was pretty sure that as soon as I gave her the Informer ’s name, it went right into the wastebasket. Tabloids weren’t exactly at the top of every agent’s list of movers and shakers. Go figure.
    Undaunted, I dialed his publicist next, getting much the same response. Though this receptionist was a little icier – I think the words “bloodsucker” and “filthy vulture” might have been used - assuring me that my message was hitting the round file bin. Fabulous.
    Not that I’d expected much help through the official channels, but I was leaving no stone unturned. The unofficial channels, however, I had higher hopes for.
    I scrolled through the entries I had listed under “Trace’s Peeps,” and dialed the number for the Starbucks on Palm and Shoreline. Trace rarely went a morning without his caffeine latte fix. I listened to the phone ring four times, then asked for my favorite barista, Michelle. My favorite because, in addition to brewing a latte to rival any along the entire California coast, she also had a set of loose lips that had garnered me more than one awesome early morning shot of Trace with his vice of choice. Unfortunately, today she wasn’t the well of information I’d hoped. Trace hadn’t been in that morning. Not a good sign.
    I hung up and hit the next guy on my list, the owner of the bookstore along the route of Trace’s usual morning run. Only he hadn’t seen the actor either. Neither had Trace’s dry cleaner, his hair stylist, or the guy at the Ralph’s where he bought his groceries. In short, Trace had been MIA all morning.
    While a part of me felt slightly vindicated (Publicity stunt, my ass! No one misses their morning coffee for any amount of publicity.), the larger emotion slowly building in my gut was worry. It was beginning to look like Trace really was missing.
    Again, that