Hummer. 'Happened in a public place,' he mumbled. 'Not my responsibility. Not my responsibility at all.'
Jarrod Perkins was standing by what was left of his vehicle, turning the air blue. One young cop was deadset to shut him up, but I saw an older one say something to him, and he backed off.
I could imagine Ariana saying dryly, 'The privileges of celebrity status.'
It was quite a scene: Perkins frothing at the mouth, a bunch of cops glaring around as if any minute now the guilty party would spring out of the rapidly collecting crowd and confess, fire engines arriving with sirens screaming. Overhead helicopters were buzzing like blowies scenting dead meat.
And there was the indescribable smell of burnt Hummer. The vehicle was a crumpled, once-yellow shell, its fat tires melted into the roadway. Vehicles parked behind and in front had sustained considerable damage. Broken glass littered the area, and across the road a car alarm had been set off by the blast and was he-hawing fit to bust.
I was having a gander when Dave Deer grabbed my arm, saying urgently, 'Kylie, you've got a car?'
I pointed. 'Down the street.'
His fingers tightened until I gave a yelp. 'The exit to our parking garage is blocked. I'm relying on you to get Perkins out of here before the media trucks arrive.'
'He won't come with me. Take a look at him.'
Hard to believe the bloke hadn't run out of steam: He was still spewing curses at the top of his voice.
'I'll handle Perkins. Start your car and get ready to get him out of here.'
Dave Deer was as good as his word. Two minutes later he was bundling Perkins into the passenger seat.
'How'd you do that?' I asked, amazed. The director had even shut up.
'Half price on all future therapy.' He looked up as a network TV truck roared up, closely followed by a second media vehicle. Cameras, reporters, and support staff spilled out at a run.
Deer slapped the roof of my car. 'Get going!'
I set off sedately, even signaled that I was pulling out, not that anyone was looking. Everyone was hurrying to view the corpse of the Hummer, probably hoping there were other corpses too. Everyone except a lone parking cop, who was methodically writing tickets. I had the bizarre thought that when she worked her way up the row she'd give a ticket to the wrecked Hummer for being blown up while parked illegally in a handicapped zone.
'Where do you want to go?' I asked Perkins.
His head was sunk into his puny shoulders, and he was glaring out the windscreen. 'Take me home.'
'I don't know where home is.'
He swung around to look at me for the first time. This close up, the bloke was even less appealing. His gigantic nose made his eyes seem like small black dots placed there as an afterthought. 'Who are you?'
'G'day. I'm Kylie Kendall.'
'Not your name,' he snapped. 'Who are you?'
'Dr. Deer's personal assistant. Temporary only.'
He grunted, fished in his pocket and took out a mobile phone. Punching in a number, he listened with growing impatience. 'Ah, Jesus Christ! Pick up, you bastard.'
'If you don't tell me where to go,' I said, 'I'll drive in circles till you do.'
'What?'
'You've got to direct me, Mr. Perkins. I have no idea where your house is.'
'Hollywood Hills.'
I had a vague idea of the general location, off to the north of Sunset. Ariana lived there. Maybe she and Perkins were neighbors. But wouldn't she have said so before? Perhaps not. Ariana wasn't noted for blabbing personal information.
Perkins had given up on that particular call and was punching another number. 'Jill? The fucking Hummer's a total write-off…'
While he continued with his expletive-laced conversation- seemingly to someone in P.R.-I wondered about the possibility that the explosion was somehow linked to the blackmail threat. But why not just ask for money? Why run the risk of planting a bomb? If it was to intimidate, Jarrod Perkins wouldn't make the connection, because he hadn't been told about the missing therapy disks. Of course, maybe the blackmailer didn't realize this.
'Turn left here! Watch out for the fucking bus.' When I'd darted through a gap in the traffic and completed the left turn more or less successfully, Perkins went back to his phone. He finished one call and began another. 'Sven? Open the gates. I'm five minutes away…I'm on the tube? What are they saying about me? Mention my latest movie?…Yes, of course I'm fucking well all right.'
Once we were off the main arteries, the way narrowed so much it seemed there would hardly be room for two cars to pass. The road rose steeply, winding in hairpin bends between houses built right up to the edge. I couldn't imagine how Perkins could negotiate this route in something as wide as a Hummer.
'Turn right! Jesus! This next street!'
Tires squealing, I made the turn. 'I'd appreciate it if you gave me more warning.'
Astonishingly, a faint smile appeared on his face. 'You'd appreciate it, would you? I must try to do better.'
I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm, then whipped the wheel around when he screamed, 'Turn right! Now left! Take the driveway on your right.'
The gates were open. Apparently Sven, whoever he was, had come through. The drive wound its way ever upward, until we crested the rise and came to a flat parking area. The house perched on the brink of the cliff, hanging on for dear life so it wouldn't slide over. It was an ungainly building, with a roof that looked like a big flat cap pulled down to shade its glass walls.
The view, however, was a bit of all right. My mum would have said it was more a vista, or maybe a panorama. Even with smog blurring the outlines of the tall buildings, I could see a spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles. At night the lights of the city spread out like a blanket would be worth a second look.
A bulky, crew-cut, blond bloke, with thigh muscles so over-developed he was forced to waddle, came out of the house and opened the passenger door. Jarrod Perkins got out. 'Did you contact my attorney? Someone's responsible. I'll sue the pants off them, the bastards.'
If I'd been holding out for thanks, or even an acknowledgment I'd gone out of my way to chauffeur him here, I would have been one disappointed dame. But I wasn't, and he didn't. Without one word to me, he left Sven holding the door, turned his back on us both, and stalked into the house.
Sven closed the door. I waited until he was my side of the car. Giving him a little farewell wave, I said, 'And the pity of it is, I didn't even get an autograph.'
He smirked. I drove off.
A few wrong turns later, I was on Hollywood Boulevard. I'd been studying the Thomas Guide, and thought I knew exactly where I was. My confidence was misplaced. Shortly I found myself heading in quite the wrong direction on a street I didn't recognize-which didn't mean much, since I didn't recognize most of them.
Being lost turned out to be a good thing, though, because I noticed a huge bookstore and turned into its parking lot with only a couple of near-collisions on the way. Inside I found the information desk, manned by a pimply boy with the first bad teeth I'd noticed since I hit LA. 'Help you?' he asked without much interest. He brightened up at my reply.
'I'm thinking of becoming a private eye,' I said. 'Is there a book you'd recommend?'
'A private eye?' he sounded almost enthusiastic. 'Come right this way.'
As soon as I entered the reception area, Melodie latched onto me. 'You've got to tell me every detail! Was Jarrod Perkins real upset? Did you see inside his house?'
'Crikey,' I said. 'How do you know I drove him home? Receptionist hotline?'
'Chantelle called and clued me in. And she said you were real nice to her.'
An incoming call interrupted. 'Hold, please. I'll see if she's available.' Melodie made a face at me. 'It's Fran's husband,' she confided, 'and I just know she won't want to talk to him.'
Fran was
Apparently Fran did want to talk to him, so Melodie put the call through, then got back to business. 'Did you hear the bang?'
'The whole place is soundproof, so you can't hear a thing. First anyone knew was when the doorman turned up
