Hollywood Headlines Mysteries Boxed Set by Gemma Halliday

Author:Gemma Halliday [Halliday, Gemma]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Amazon: B00558UO7Q
Goodreads: 11722918
Publisher: Calibre
Published: 0101-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

According to his files on Carla, the latest job Decker had booked for her was a movie of the week currently filming at Sunset Studios. In fact, she’d been scheduled for a 6:00 am call time just that morning at studio 4G. Which was a good news/bad news situation.

The bad news: the Sunset Studios lot was closed up tight unless you were on the list.

The good news: Trace was on everyone’s list.

Armed with a plan, we made our way back down the elevator and out through the ultra-white lobby, pausing only a few minutes as the valet grabbed my Jeep, before hopping in and heading toward Hollywood.

Sunset Studios was located on Hollywood Boulevard, taking up a full city block. A tall stuccoed wall ran the length of it, a throwback to the studio’s early days when the studio mucky-mucks tried to hide sets from the public. And from prying journalists like myself. These days, however, it was mostly for show, as we journalist types relied on cell phone photos sent by extras and crew members out to earn an extra buck for our sneak peeks of the latest sets. And, thankfully for me, no wall could keep them out.

There were two entrances to the studios: a main gate on Hollywood and a second entrance off a side street. Trace elected the latter, pulling down a palm-lined street and stopping at the iron gate as an older gentleman exited the guardhouse with a clipboard in hand.

“Name?” he asked as I rolled down the window.

“Trace Brody,” I replied. Then gestured to the actor sitting in my passenger seat.

The guard leaned in the window for a better look.

Trace waved.

The guard nodded, a smile wider than the Grand Canyon cracking his wrinkled face. “My word, it is Trace Brody. How you doin’ today, Mr. Brody?”

“Great. Thanks,” Trace responded. He was a good enough actor that it was almost believable.

“You know, my granddaughter is a huge fan of yours. She’s got your poster up in her bedroom and everything. Any chance I could get an autograph for her?”

I rolled my eyes, but somehow Trace managed to keep that genuine-looking smile on his face.

“Sure,” he said.

This caused the old guy to smile even wider. He flipped to a blank page on his clipboard and handed the thing through the window to Trace. “Her name’s Maggie. That’s with an I-E,” he directed as Trace put pen to paper, signing his John Hancock. “Boy, this is real nice of you,” the old guy went on. “Did I mention what fans we are of your work? We are, Mr. Brody. Big fans.”

“Thanks.” Trace scribbled a signature, then handed the clipboard back across me and through the window.

“Thank you, Mr. Brody.”

“Mind of we, uh…” Trace trailed off, pointing at the gate in front of us.

“Right. Yes. Of course, Mr. Brody. Go on through,” he said, waving him toward the open gates.

“Thanks,” Trace repeated.

I glanced at him, shaking my head as we drove in.

“What?” he asked.

“Is there anyone who doesn’t gush like an open wound at the sight of you?”

He turned and gave me a funny sidelong look.

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