Hollywood Secrets by Gemma Halliday Read Free Book Online Page B

feeling of responsibility hit me. If I was the only one who believed he was missing, did that mean I was his only hope of rescue?
    I stuck the capped end of a ballpoint pen in my mouth, chewing as I contemplated this thought.
    I decided to change tactics, focusing instead on what I did know for sure: who the delivery truck that had spirited Trace away was registered to. Buckner Boogenheim, owner of Pacific Storage.
    I set the pen down and turned to my computer again. I started by running the basic searches on this Buckner guy: Google, Yahoo, Ask. Which gave me an overview of the public Mr. Boogenheim.
    The guy owned a few businesses, including Pacific Storage, a car wash in Northridge, a deli downtown, and what appeared to be a failed chocolate factory in Nevada. Though I had to admit the few pictures I could find of him didn’t really scream “dapper entrepreneur.” More like “dapper mafia don.” Or at least a great imitation of De Niro playing a mafia don. He was short, a full head shorter than the congressman he was pictured shaking hands with in the L.A. Times. He had a squat build, broad in the shoulders, broader in the belly, and was standing on a pair of legs that looked like thick tree stumps. His hair was thinning and beginning to show salt and pepper signs at the temples, though he still had enough to slick back from his forehead in a greasy kind of look. A scar cut through his left eyebrow. He may run with politicians now, but he’d lived a rough life at some point in the past. His tailored clothes spoke to the fact that, while the chocolate business might not have taken off, his other ventures appeared to be doing quite well. That and the fact that he’d contributed several zeroes to the congressman’s campaign.
    On the outside, a self-made business man.
    Let’s see what was on the inside…
    I set aside the public search portals and rolled my sleeves up to dig in for the real dirt. For that, I turned to my editor’s numerous “mostly legal” databases to ferret out the real Buckner Boogenheim. Hoping against hope that he had some long criminal history of kidnapping, I grabbed a cup of black coffee from the break room and settled in.
    Unfortunately, two hours later, when I finally came up for more caffeine, I was no closer to finding a link between Boogenheim and a gun than I had been last night. The guy was clean. So clean he squeaked. Compared to my parking-violation history, he looked like a virtual saint.
    Which, in itself, was enough to make me suspicious that he was up to something.
    “ Cam!”
    I spun around in my chair at the sound of Felix’s voice hailing me from his office.
    I rubbed my eyes, retraining them to focus on 3-D objects again after staring at my screen so long, then grabbed my empty mug and crossed the newsroom.
    “ You rang?” I asked as I pushed through his door.
    Felix’s office was a glass walled cage situated centrally in the newsroom where he could keep an eye on all of his reporters. His desk faced the door and was, as usual, piled high with papers that were organized according to his own system of “set it wherever there’s a free space” filing. Total chaos. Which perfectly matched his appearance.
    Felix was a few years older than I was, probably in his late thirties to early forties if I had to guess. He stood about eye level with me, had a head of sandy blond hair that always looked in need of a good haircut, and blue eyes so piercing rumor had it he could pull a baby bump confession out of even the most tight-lipped OB/GYN to the stars with just a look. He was dressed this morning in his usual uniform of a white button-down shirt and khaki pants, both a day overdue for a good press at the dry cleaners. Despite his I-slept-in-my-car appearance, Tina told me that Felix was actually a millionaire several times over, thanks to some obscure British lordship he’d inherited a few years back. The word around the office was that he was even some distant cousin to the